Losing your hero’s hero

I never met Muhammad Ali. I knew him though.

Everyone did.

We did because Muhammad Ali was the most famous person on the planet.

I did, because I was brought up on his legend.

My Dad idolised him. Fair to say, Muhammad Ali was big in my house when I was growing up.

Because I idolised my Dad, who idolised Muhammad Ali, the news about Ali is a painful loss, because a big piece of my Dad’s life passes with him.

It seems selfish and self-indulgent to portray someone’s death in such a way. Why make it about me? But I think we process the death of celebrities in precisely this manner — we reflect on the impact they had on our own lives.

God knows 2016 has given us enough time to realise that’s the way we react.

Prince, David Bowie, Ronnie Corbett, Victoria Wood … my goodness the list goes on and on. For all of us, the loss of some public figures will affect us personally more than others.

I never listened to much of Bowie’s stuff and didn’t realise (to my shame) how much incredible music he made until after he passed.

Prince’s loss was a shock, mostly because my emotions were about the way his music filled my teenage years.

When the broadcaster Sir Terry Wogan died, my thoughts immediately turned to a car journey I made with my Mum every Monday morning for many months in the mid-90s, before I got my own car, when we would listen to his show together. I called my Mum that day and we reminisced about those long, happy drives.

You pay tribute to the loss of someone and you respect the sadness of those who knew and loved them, but the poignancy is often about the ways that celebrity touched your own life.

In this case, whilst the appreciation of, say, Prince, was one I discovered all on my own, Muhammad Ali’s legacy was one I was bequeathed.

My Dad and Muhammad Ali were born 19 months apart, in cities 4,000 miles from each other.

In February 1964 when my Dad was 20, and Ali 22, Ali (then called Cassius Clay) shocked the sporting world by beating Sonny Liston, a ferocious champion previously thought unbeatable. By his own admission, Ali “shook up the world”.

He certainly made a deep impact on a man slightly his junior, watching in London.

My Dad never took his eyes off Ali for the rest of Ali’s career.

The legendary fights against Frazier and Foreman, the TV appearances. Pre-internet, any time Ali was scheduled to appear on UK screens was an appointment to view.

We had Ali books in our house, Ali videos. My Dad told Ali stories.

When I would submit my own sporting heroes for his consideration, he’d compare them unfavourably to Ali.

“They’re not like Ali,” he’d (always) reply. “Ali had humour, class.”

I am not a boxing expert and this is not the place to reflect on Muhammad Ali’s career. Others will much better describe his impact as an athlete, celebrity, humanitarian.

I know he was The Greatest, because my Dad told me so and who was I to doubt it. And in 2016 I think we’re learning how celebrity deaths affect us when we never personally knew that person.

My Dad died in 2000, from a horrible tumour the type of which we as a human race are going to beat, but that’s another story.

I was blessed to have the best and most loving parents and me and my Mum and sisters still miss my Dad every day. He was my best friend in the world.

It sounds stupid to say it, but all the while his heroes are still around, there’s a living connection.

My Dad grew up in the 60s. His heroes and roles models were the legends of that shimmering, swaggering decade, from the UK and, as television made the world smaller, from the US.

He loved Denis Law, Dave Mackay, Danny Blanchflower, The Beatles, The Stones, The Kinks, Diana Ross, Marvin Gaye, Bobby Moore, and many others from football, pop music and TV.

But none came close to Ali for him.

And actually, if you’re going to have a hero, who has a hero, Ali was the best hero’s hero I could have.

I found an autobiography of Ali’s one day, in a dusty bookcase in our house, encased in a sun-faded yellow sleeve. It’s a book you can see Ali holding up a little over three minutes into this amazing film.

I don’t remember what made me start to read that book, but it awakened me to the life of a man who was more than just an athlete.

It jolted me awake to the impact of racism and racial segregration and the heroism of those who challenged and overcame it.

Muhammad Ali’s words, thoughts and principles transcended sport, and transcended generations.

He was, as he reminded us often, The Greatest.

But for me, maybe the second Greatest after my Dad.

And even though he was a man used to coming first, Muhammad Ali wouldn’t have minded that at all, I reckon.