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Wandering about after dinner, as former champions circulated around the venue, known as the Rusty Rail, I didn’t expect to come upon a former heavyweight champion sitting alone at one of the many serving spots. Older and thicker, he was still recognizably Leon Spinks, especially when he flashed that unmistakable grin—a grin now fully capped with teeth, not the gap-filled mouth that became iconic during 1978, when Spinks took a ride on the American Dream rollercoaster, jumped off when he reached bottom, and was rarely heard from again.
“Champ,” I said, and he turned toward me at the word, “I was eleven years old, up past my bedtime, the night you beat Muhammad Ali; I saw every round.”
He grinned again, took a long drink, and said, “Sheeeeiiiiit.”
I remembered something else. “When they announced the decision, I felt a little sorry for Ali. Did you feel sorry, too?” Spinks had idolized him.
“Hell, no, man—I beat his ass!”
Wandering about after dinner, as former champions circulated around the venue, known as the Rusty Rail, I didn’t expect to come upon a former heavyweight champion sitting alone at one of the many serving spots. Older and thicker, he was still recognizably Leon Spinks, especially when he flashed that unmistakable grin—a grin now fully capped with teeth, not the gap-filled mouth that became iconic during 1978, when Spinks took a ride on the American Dream rollercoaster, jumped off when he reached bottom, and was rarely heard from again.
“Champ,” I said, and he turned toward me at the word, “I was eleven years old, up past my bedtime, the night you beat Muhammad Ali; I saw every round.”
He grinned again, took a long drink, and said, “Sheeeeiiiiit.”
I remembered something else. “When they announced the decision, I felt a little sorry for Ali. Did you feel sorry, too?” Spinks had idolized him.
“Hell, no, man—I beat his ass!”
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