Muhammad Ali — My tryst with the Greatest

It was the winter of 1980 and we were scrawny amateurs learning the ropes of boxing in New Delhi’s Dhyan Chand National Stadium. Dusk falls quickly in the northern plains, more so in January. Our coach Surender Sharma called it a day after couple of hours of grueling work-out. As he de-briefed in the failing light, he mentioned that Muhammad Ali, yes the man whom we worshipped, would come visiting right here, at this stadium the following week.

The news exploded in our ears and, although it was tough to comprehend, I went home in as if a bolt of lightning had hit me. The next day, the coach asked for volunteers among us to be with the ‘’Greatest’’ during his time in the stadium, my hand shot up like an arrow and I was among the chosen few!

The day arrived and I was in a room with him — just me, him and Jimmy Ellis, his long-time sparring partner. Ali wore a dark track bottom and an exposed torso, a far cry from the strapping physique of his prime but with an almost pinkish colored skin. I was in a trance, speechless, wonderstruck and almost transformed into a stone by the sheer enormity of my situation. There was no paper around for asking for an autograph, no camera for a shot with the icon, no pen. It was just a mad dream.

When the trance loosened its tentacles I quickly ripped off my volunteer badge on my shirt — those times it was made in paper — with Apeejay written on it (Lord Swaraj Paul was one of the sponsors I believe). I spotted a ballpoint lying around and thrust both of it upon the most celebrated athlete the world head ever produced. Yes, I got his autograph and took Ellis too. Ali’s penchant for sweets was also on display. He pointed out to me to fetch him some desi sweets placed in boxes for him in the room at the stadium where we were. I gave him a box and he started munching the sugary creations with a certain relish.

My day was more than made. Later friends and relatives poked me for not getting a snap with him and many other things but I was guilt free, I was happy with what I got, the rest of the stuff I just did not have enough pluck to do it, rather I was mesmerized and stoned by the aura of Ali.

Yes, it was also in the 1980s that Ali took off (which probably would be his final phase of his career) to fight his juniors –the likes of Larry Holmes, Trevor Berbick. It was the beginning of a sad end to a larger than life boxing career spanning the time when he was the Golden Gloves champion, to being the Rome Olympic gold medalist and a spectacular pro-boxer who had dispatched with a surgical beauty almost everyone in the pantheon of heavyweight boxing until Parkinson’s syndrome crept in –attacking one of his feet which began to drag just like his speech.

For many youngsters, growing up later, I mean post 1990s Ali may just mean a retired fighter, a sick old man whose speech and gait was affected by the palsy. But for those who watched him grow into a phenomenon where Beatles, Jesus Christ and Muhammad Ali all vied for popularity, the Black Superman” was part of our daily life or bread whatever comes first. Also Johnny Wakelin’s song by that name many aspiring boxers the world over danced to that catchy number as they wanted to move like him, box like him, talk like him and most of all be like him.

He had an unorthodox style to say the least in boxing and out of the ring too. MMA great Anderson Silva admits he had adapted his style to confuse his opponents. It was Ali’s sparkling brilliance that he thrust his chin, kept his hands down and jeered while his feet were almost levitating, frustrating and bewildering his rivals and the referee alike.

In that life of 74 years, he had two names but we all know it was one man an artist, a magician who always broke new grounds wherever he went and paradoxically kept intact that almost childlike innocence and a sense of wonder.