Ali Bomaye, RIP

I have pictures of three athletes on my walls. One is of the most unselfish American athlete who ever lived, Jackie Robinson. Robinson sacrificed his own career and life to make the path for his millions of heirs a little smoother. The second photo is of Ted Williams, who pursued perfection even though he knew it was impossible to achieve.

The third photo is of Muhammad Ali. The other two men are shown in uniform, which is fitting since they are defined by their sport. The photo of Ali is from the shoulders up. He’s obviously at work, glistening with sweat, his face a silhouette of concentration. But a boxer was just a part of who Ali was.

When he called himself “The Greatest” he was not merely referring to his status as a prizefighter, though he indeed ranks as one of the best who ever laced up the gloves.

No, Ali was talking about his wish to be considered among the greatest men whoever walked the earth. Ali was the heavyweight champion when being the heavyweight champion was the most desirable sports title on the planet. The holder of the title was guaranteed a media platform in a time before cable television and the competition of infinite entertainment options. Ali understood this. He toured the world to promote his fights, but what he really was promoting his world view and, ironically for a professional boxer, the spaciousness of his heart. By the end of the 1960s Ali could not walk down a street in Norway or Nepal without being mobbed.

The only athletes who can legitimately claim to have been as globally known as Ali are Pele and Michael Jordan, and both of them were known only within the context of their sports. Ali appeared on talk shows and with the Beatles. If social media had existed in Ali’s era, he would have always been a trending topic.

Which is not to suggest Ali was derelict in the way he honed his craft, only perking up when the red light from the TV cameras came on. He was an exquisite boxer and a powerful puncher. To the detriment of his longevity, he could also take a punch, and ended up taking too many. Before knocking out George Foreman in their epic 1974 bout in Zaire, Ali was pummeled by his opponent. The following year, in the “Thrilla in Manilla,” he said Joe Frazier almost killed him in the ring. It was that heart and the courage it contained that made Ali The Greatest.

Born Cassius Clay in Louisville, he won a gold medal in the 1960 Olympics and with his career on the rise, decided to change his name to more closely adhere to his Muslim faith. Clay, he said, was his slave name. For an upstart athlete to make such a decision, in the height of the Civil Rights Era, was unthinkable. Ali instantly became a polarizing figure in America. But he wasn’t done.

Try to imagine LeBron James got a letter in the mail today that reminded him to register for the military draft. Few would criticize him if he asked for a deferment to pursue the profession that made him rich and famous.

Yet, that’s what Ali did and went even further. In 1967, while 25 and at the peak of his athletic prowess, Ali was informed he needed to register for the military draft and possibly be sent to Vietnam War. He refused. Not on financial grounds but on moral ones. He had no conflict with the Vietnamese, famously saying that none of them ever had called him a n*****.

Ali was summarily stripped of his title by boxing officials, who also banned him from fighting virtually anywhere in the US.

Eventually Ali regained both his eligibility and his title. After he retired, critics softened on Ali as Parkinson’s Disease ravaged his once pristine body and made it difficult for him to even talk.

By the 1990s Ali became a frail if beloved figure, a shadow of his former self. With his passing, we can now return to the image of the man in his prime. One is heartened by the thought of Ali reclining on a cloud, floating…like a butterfly.