The one and only king of the world

The first time I heard of Muhammad Ali was when I watched a black-and-white clip of him celebrating his 1964 heavyweight title after upsetting Sonny Liston.

“I’m king of the world!” he yelled repeatedly, ignoring the interviewer’s questions. “I’m king of the world! I’m a bad man.”

The first thought that popped into my head was why this man thought he had the right to be this arrogant. But as I grew older, I slowly learned the full context and placed that clip in perspective with his life as not only the greatest boxer who ever lived, but as one of the greatest human beings who ever lived. Ali was one of those rare athletes who transcended sports and became a global icon, instantly recognizable and idolized even by those who did not care for boxing.

Unfortunately, I was far too young to witness his prime years firsthand. The Ali I grew up with was the one riddled with Parkinsonism, his body shaking uncontrollably, a shell of its former self. But the Ali that will live forever lies in old YouTube videos, in documentaries and in stories passed down by those who knew him. And in the days following his death, watching and reading many of these accounts makes it easy to comprehend the giant imprint this man left on the world.

It started with his charisma. Ali was a skilled, up-and-coming fighter in the early ‘60s, but he was more than that. He was a black star athlete, and one of the rare few — white or black— to speak his mind. He taunted his opponents. He was extremely articulate. He was a trash-talker before the term “trash-talking” was even invented.

Before his bout with Liston, Ali went on a talk show and called Liston a “big ugly bear.”

“That fella’s too ugly to be the world champ,” he said. “ The world champ should be pretty, like me.”

He then predicted he would beat Liston in eight rounds. It only took him seven, by a technical knockout.

“He wanted to go to heaven, so I took him in seven,” Ali said after the fight.

His boxing record backed up his words. He won 56 fights and lost just five. The way he danced and pranced around the ring — a way of sizing up and intimidating his opponents — became known as the “Ali shuffle.” Two of his bouts — the “Rumble in the Jungle” against George Foreman in 1974 and the “Thrilla in Manila” against Joe Frazier in 1975 — will be glorified and remembered forever for their hype and intensity. The “Rope-a-Dope” strategy that he employed against Foreman to take back the heavyweight title was the stuff of legend, intentionally leaning back against the ropes, allowing Foreman to tire himself out with harmless punches and finally knocking out an exhausted Foreman in the eighth round.

The documentary “When We Were Kings” tells the story of that fight beautifully, with behind-the-scenes footage of Ali mocking and taunting Foreman in the weeks leading up to the fight so incisively that you’d think it was an actor playing Ali. But it was him — so authentic, so raw and so distinctive.

Many athletes, especially today, show a certain personality on the field and are completely different off of it. What made Ali stand out as more than just a boxer was that he never wavered from his true self. He converted to Islam shortly after defeating Liston, and changed his name from Cassius Clay — which he called a “slave name” — to Muhammad Ali, in additional to joining the radical group Nation of Islam under much criticism and condemnation. When an opponent named Ernie Terrell refused to refer to Ali by his new name prior to a fight in 1967, Ali responded in the ring, punching Terrell repeatedly while yelling, “What’s my name?”

Shortly afterwards, when he was drafted to fight in the Vietnam War, Ali refused.

“I ain’t got no quarrel with them Viet Cong,” he said, those words now immortalized. He believed so adamantly that he shouldn’t have to fight for Uncle Sam while people of color in the United States were still “treated like dogs” that he gave up three years of his prime boxing career while his titles were stripped and his boxing licenses taken away.

At the time, his decisions outside the ring were highly reprimanded. Many in mainstream America hated it and considered him a traitor. He was too radical even for Martin Luther King Jr.

“Cassius should spend more time proving his boxing skill and do less talking,” the reverend said.

Today, Ali has gone from being universally loathed to universally loved, and we look back and wish he could have talked even more. The height of his career coincided with both the civil rights era and the Vietnam War, and as a black superstar, his actions — standing up for his religion and beliefs, not backing down from any fight, even with the government — transformed him from an athlete to an icon.

Ali won’t be remembered as a traitor or a victim of Parkinsonism; rather, he will be remembered as the right man at the right time to come along and shake up the world for the better.

So, to the well deserved “king of the world,” keep floating, keep stinging and keep rumblin’.

 

Eric He is a rising sophomore majoring in print and digital journalism. His column,  “Grinding Gears,” runs Wednesdays.