By Matthew Hurley
We used to shadowbox on the lawn of the schoolyard playground. Me and my best friend Michael. One day I would be Muhammad Ali and he would be Joe Frazier and then the next day we would switch. When I was Ali I would taunt “Smoking” Joe and Michael, who had trained at the Petronelli’s Gym in Brockton, Massachusetts alongside Marvin Hagler, would barrel forward and say, “Is that all you got champ?” The two of us loved Joe Frazier but both of us wanted to be Muhammad Ali.
That was the difference. We wanted to be Muhammad Ali.
The first time I saw Muhammad Ali fight was in his rematch against Leon Spinks on television. I was with my father and between rounds I would get up, in a feverish excitement, and throw punches at a jacket that was draped over the stairway banister. Ali was mythical to me. I had just started to make that adolescent transition into idealizing people I didn’t know. Photographs and voices on record albums were starting to influence the way I looked at things.
Beforehand, Elvis Presley became my deified god. His voice instantly struck me. He died right when I was discovering him and at that young age it pissed me off. I don’t think I’ve ever completely forgiven him. Disregard the fact that I was only seven years old. That first idol sticks with you no matter who or what it is. It stabs an indelible hole in your heart. When it’s suddenly taken away, all you’re left with is an empty confusion.
But I still had Ali.
Michael was dancing on his tip toes, flicking out jabs and sticking out his chin. He was always a little bit faster than me and a little bit better at playing the role of Muhammad Ali. I was always better in the Joe Frazier role. I would swarm after him, winging left hooks – my primary weapon in later year drunken brawls (I could never properly throw a right cross for some reason). Unfortunately for me I was one of those kids who shot up in height in the fourth grade and completely lost my sense of balance. That height, at such a young age, seemed to piss off guys that were older than me so there were near constant confrontations.
But it didn’t matter to me. I still had Ali.
When I got picked on I never backed down. Well, there were a few times when I simply knew that I was going to get killed so I walked away. But I had the “Ali” in me. I didn’t know that much about Ali’s personal history at the time. I just knew he was a man who stood up for himself. Every time I saw him on television he mesmerized me with the resolute conviction of his words. He inspired me with his absolute belief in himself. Even when I was getting the shit kicked out of me by several guys who I knew I could take one on one, it was Ali I thought of. Every kick in the ribs, every punch in the face, every epithet thrown my way was greeted with deaf ears because I kept thinking, ‘I can take this. Ali would take it and he would come back. So I’ll get them. I’ll get them.’
I haven’t written much about Muhammad Ali because like Elvis Presley or the Beatles, he’s been written about too much. Just go to your local book store and try to find a book on boxing. Chances are the boxing shelf will be littered with tomes on Ali and nothing else. He’s become such an iconic figure that what he accomplished in the ring is starting to become overshadowed by his image. Ali the fighter is losing his identity. He encompasses almost too many aspects of the human condition. In a way Muhammad Ali, the one I used to imitate, is lost to us because he became human. He didn’t die young and in misery like Presley, he lingered and became frail. In the end he came full circle. This mythical figure, with an ego as big and bright as his smile, became one of us. For me, that makes this man even more beautiful.
I remember those lunch breaks with Michael in the playground so vividly. Eventually the principal of the school took us into his office and told us, in no uncertain terms, to knock it off. He didn’t care that we were just play acting. He was an adult after all, so he had to ruin our fun.
I remember the nights years later when boxing reached an apex with Sugar Ray Leonard, Thomas Hearns, Marvin Hagler and all the others when Michael and I truly began to appreciate fighters and their struggle. That was when I became obsessed with the boxing world. That was when I began to hurt when my favorite fighter lost.
I remember that last night I left Michael in the hospital when his struggle with cancer crippled him into death at the age of twenty nine. That was the worst night of my life. And I thought, for some reason, of Muhammad Ali. I played my Elvis and Beatles records and watched videos of Ali’s fights to kill away the hours in my grief. I didn’t know what else to do.
Now I think of Ali, as he suffers through his most trying times, and all that he has meant to me. All the fun he has provided for me. Oh sure, now that I’m an adult I can appreciate the serious stuff too, but mostly I think of the fun. He has brought joy into my life and every time I watch him or read about him I smile because I feel as though I’m back in touch with a friend.
As long as I’m still alive and dealing with the day to day ups and downs of life there’s one thing I’m sure of – I’ll always have Ali.
