The Day I Met Muhammad Ali
I cherished the memory, book, and autograph until it was gone
“I’ve made my share of mistakes along the way, but if I have changed even one life for the better, I haven’t lived in vain.” — Muhammad Ali
The events of Friday, Nov. 19, 1993, are engraved in my mind (and surely the minds of thousands of others) as I met, albeit all too briefly, the man known simply as “The Greatest.”
Muhammad was born into the segregated south and witnessed first-hand racial prejudice and discrimination, yet despite this had become the most iconic of sportsmen.
And here he was in a cold, wet and windy Glasgow, Scotland in a city bookstore to sign copies of Howard L. Bingham’s “Muhammad Ali: A Thirty-Year Journey.”
Bingham was a photographer who had travelled extensively with Ali throughout his career, photographing in the most artistic of fashions — the highs, the lows, the private and the public moments of the great man’s life and career.
Three things stick in my mind.
Apparently, Ali was only six feet and three inches tall, but he looked so much bigger. In fact, he appeared to be the biggest man I had ever seen.
When he clenched his fist at the adoring masses for fun through the window of the shop, I was gobsmacked by the size of it, and thanked God that I hadn’t been born George Foreman.
The second unforgettable memory of the moment was seeing Scottish soccer legend, Ally “Super Ally” McCoist posing with Ali for photographs.
On one side stood super Ali, the only three-time lineal heavyweight boxing champion of the world. And on the other, the super-confident, super-ebullient, Super Ally, European soccer’s top goal scorer in 1992 and 1993.
Both sporting greats stood with fists placed on each other’s chins. The aforesaid mitt of Ali looked as big as Super Ally’s head. For those of you who remember Ally McCoist’s confident and charismatic character, you might wonder if such a thing were actually possible.
Finally — and me it was worth all those hours of waiting in the cold, damp grey, Glasgow November — I got up to the desk where he was seated. Ali, the world’s greatest sportsman, the most recognisable face on the planet, pushed a signed copy of the book towards me, looked in my eyes and he mumbled “Thank you.”
“No. Thank you, Champ,” stumbled and tumbled out of my mouth.
A burly security guard asked me to move along to let the next awe-struck fan in and that was it.
My moment with Ali had gone.
It mattered not that the book had been autographed earlier.
It mattered not that the inscription did not say “To Gordon with regards” or some other trivial line.
It mattered not that the great man’s physical health was now in decline. All that mattered was that it had been him. The Greatest. And he had looked me in the eye and spoke.
I kept that book in pride for many years and would thumb through it regularly, admiring the exquisite photography and tell anyone who visited of the day when Gordy met Ali and Ally.
Sadly, many years later my house was burgled and, along with the medals my father had won for fighting in the Second World War, the book was taken.
Of course, I was upset that someone had purloined my personal possessions, but I hope that whoever stole the book took a good look through it and was motivated by the images to rise above their situation and become “The Greatest” version of themselves.
To paraphrase the great man, they may have made a mistake along their way, but if that book can help them live better, its loss won’t have been in vain.
Thank you for reading my story.
