ALI AND ME
ROSEN, JAMES
ALI AND ME by James Rosen It's nine o'clock Wednesday night. I'm leaving work, a couple hundred yards from Union Station.A solitary figure is walking ten yards ahead of me, a tall black man in an...
...the .. . CHAMP...
...And now you've met me...
...I realize immediately that two fans might discuss the Holmes fight, but it's not something to raise with Ali himself...
...I shout...
...I studied you, man...
...I can turn out the lights and be in bed before it gets da-a-a-ark...
...I demand, as I perform the Ali shuffle for its creator...
...C'mon," Ali interrupts, beckoning with his hand, using the same motion that once beckoned Frazier and Foreman back for more Rope-a-Dope...
...I don't believe it...
...You look good, Champ...
...I'm so fast...
...that...
...Is...
...James Rosen is a correspondent for the Fox News Channel in Washington, D.C...
...Ali's lone companion walks impatiently, keeping five feet ahead of us the whole time...
...The photographer...
...The hands give him away...
...The next moment, I am prancing backwards, circling him, showboating, shaking a finger at him, and bellowing, in my imitation of Ali's voice: "I'm so pretty...
...Hurrying across those last three lanes, Ali leans close and deadpans, "Now I'm just another nigger trying to cross the street...
...The Greatest points and smiles his approval...
...For a second, Ali seems as amazed to meet me as I am to meet him...
...Again with suddenness, he contorts his face, feigning nastiness, and puts up his fists...
...Now DON'T WALK flashes...
...We approach the final six lanes of traffic between us and Union Station...
...Check out the footwork...
...The sign flashes WALK...
...He raises a hand to cover his grin, using his other hand to point urgently at my feet...
...We leisurely cross three lanes...
...I keep pace, and think: He can still move...
...C'mon...
...The champ smiles again...
...Howard Bingham," the man replies...
...And then Ali's: "How-wud, ah'm gonna tell everybody . . . that pony . . . you wear on your head...
...More smiles from Ali...
...All you have to do is be you...
...Indeed, Ali looks much better in person than on tele-| vision these days: His face appears smoother and more | colorful, his demeanor looser, more engaging...
...Thank you so much for leading the life you led, the way you chose"—Ali leans towards me—"to live it"—and then hugs me warmly...
...We amble toward Union Station together, under the nighttime sky, Bingham walking ahead...
...I love you," I blurt out...
...I've got to get your autograph," I say, unashamedly...
...I produce a ten-dollar bill...
...Ali knows his speech is not easily understood, so I do most of the talking...
...Seconds later, Ali and I are face to face...
...I used to daydream out my parents' car window that we'd see you jogging alongside us," I confide...
...No one's hitting you...
...Leaning the bill on my wallet-size electronic Rolodex, Ali perseveres mightily with one of those pens that discharges no ink the first few tries...
...Ali snaps into a slight jog...
...And as the cars rev their engines, I imagine myself Muhammad Ali's protector...
...I cried the night of the Holmes fight...
...Then I shoot a look at those trembling hands...
...is a pho-o-o-ny...
...I loved When We Were Kings," I say, and conjure Howard Cosell's voice: "I fear it's time to say goodbye to Mah-hah-mid Ah-lee . . . after George Faw-min gets through with him...
...I call out.Muhammad Ali turns around, grinning, his eyes flickering with mischief...
...I observe...
...I change the subject...
...I introduce myself...
...I chuckle and reply, "Oh, no you're not...
...I slap my forehead, staggering in shock...
...I struggle to find a pen, then realize I have nothing appropriate for Ali to sign...
...Ali's eyes open wide...
...Suddenly, Ali squares his shoulders, puts up his trembling dukes, and contorts his face in a mock threat...
...Mention of that dark night in Ali's history brings tension to his face...
...Ali rumbles with a smile...
...My mind reels, flashing back to a suburban childhood spent worshipping Muhammad Ali: watching his fights and comedy bits over and over, dissecting every mannerism of The Greatest...
...You know what," I offer lamely, "I won't force the autograph thing on you...
...Bingham, revealing the annoyance we sometimes show to people who can't keep up, yells sternly to Ali, "C'mon...
...See...
...Ali strains to face the waiting headlights, clearly hoping drivers will swallow their tongues in recognition...
...It's the ultimate invitation for a fan like me...
...Then I remember a book I read as a kid called Free to be Muhammad Ali...
...And I I know exactly how good you look," I add, recalling his £ birthday, "January 17th, 1942...
...In a low but rumbling voice, he says, "You're a good fan...
...I'm leaving work, a couple hundred yards from Union Station.A solitary figure is walking ten yards ahead of me, a tall black man in an Italian suit . . . big frame, familiar walk . . . and trembling hands...
...Ali looks wistful and mumbles, "He died...
...Despite all that, and the constant trembling, Ali signs his full name—neatly, as if to prove a point—to the left of Alexander Hamilton...
...Yes, I say sadly...
...I exclaim, sincerely...
Vol. 4 • May 1999 • No. 34
