I’m an unapologetic bandwagoner. I love winners, I root for champions, always have. My favorite sports teams are the Terry Bradshaw Steelers, Joe Montana 49’rs, Tom Brady Patriots, Dr. J 76’rs, Magic Johnson Lakers, MJ Bulls. People who are part of dynasty building, larger than life, confident, cocky, defiant, relishing the big stage and the bigger moments, these are the people I cheer for. My youthful infatuation with Muhammed Ali was no different. From the basement of my WASP childhood home I turned on the 19″ B&W television, adjusted the tin foil on the rabbit ears until the reception was adequate, and watched with fascination as this upstart African American lit up the screen. As if I was trying to learn the latest dance craze, I memorized and imitated the choreography of Ali’s dance around the ring while flicking the jab relentlessly to helpless opponents, culminating with the Ali shuffle.
My middle brother Mark is 4 years older than I, and it was he who turned me on to Ali. On fight nights, he and I would stay up listening to the radio call, wild with anticipation, hanging on to every word from Howard Cosell, villainizing every opponent, dancing with joy with each victory, sitting in stunned disbelief at the rare defeat. When the big fights were not played live over the radio, we would have to wait for the morning paper to give us the fight news. Mark would cut out the story and put the clipping in an old shoebox. Eventually, Mark gifted those clippings to me when we were still kids, and I reverently taped each story to my scrapbook for safe keeping.
Today I went up into the attic and pulled down the dusty storage container that holds my childhood memories – old record albums, school trophies, one framed picture, and a faded scrapbook. I hadn’t opened the book in years and many of the pages were worn and stuck together. I flipped through the pages with the care of a wide-eyed scholar opening an ancient manuscript. Below is a sampling of the classics.
I closed the scrapbook and pulled out that vintage picture frame… It had been displayed proudly in my bedroom until I moved out of my parent’s house and got married.
I stare at the picture and wonder what it was about this man, this picture, that so captured my imagination. What made me frame and hold on to this moment in history? It didn’t take me long to figure out that this is who I have always wanted to be – confident, outspoken, fearless, big dreamer, man of conviction, heart of a champion, soul of a servant, maybe misunderstood and even hated for political and religious stances, but nonetheless loved and admired worldwide.
It may be an esoteric reach, but in a moment of clarity I see myself as the champ in this picture… and I see myself as the helplessly vulnerable man on the mat. There are glimpses of who I was created to be, and then what I allow myself to become. Flashes of courage met by self doubt, instances of bravery that succumb to unintended cowardice. Prophetically I see a time when I too look down on that lesser me and with the same look of defiance, dare that person to ever get up again.
The framed picture and the scrapbook are safely tucked away on the attic shelf now, but my thoughts linger. Once again Ali has emerged to challenge me, inspire me, provoke me, to be the very best me.
“Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they’ve been given than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is not a fact. It’s an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It’s a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing.”
phillipamory 