In the late summer of 1996 I had a short, private conversation with Muhammad Ali.
What he said to me has drifted in and out of my thoughts for the past twenty years. And while my interpretation of his words and intention in saying them has evolved over time, I will always be equal parts enchanted and perplexed by the encounter.
With his passing yesterday, I feel compelled to document that evening.
My surreal experience began when a co-worker invited me to attend a reception for Ali hosted by Hugh OāBrian, a former actor from the 1950s, mostly remembered as the star of the long-running television series The Life & Legend of Wyatt Earp. I was not familiar with him or the program, but his HOBY Foundation was in the midst of a fundraising push in the run-up to its annual New York City event at which Ali would be honored. My firm was providing pro bono publicity support.
With the Summer Games recently completed in Atlanta, OāBrian enlisted the assistance of some of the American Olympians, fresh off their newfound fame, to go on television with him. Their participation provided a news hook to talk about his foundation and its work developing the leadership skills of high school students through community service and volunteering.
This was all a very worthwhile cause and my colleague was responsible for booking several television appearances in the weeks leading up to the gala event. It was a smashing success from a PR standpoint, of which I literally had no involvement.
But an invitation is an invitation, and attending an event honoring Muhammad Ali sounded like something I shouldnāt pass up. So off I went to the Waldorf Astoria expecting a free meal, open bar and chance to see the most famous person on the planet, fresh off his iconic lighting of the Olympic flame a few weeks prior.
Upon arriving at the hotel 30 minutes before the scheduled time it became apparent that this was not going to be that sort of experience. My colleague informed me that this was not the gala event, but a āwelcome receptionā for Ali. It was being held in the Waldorf Towers, not the main hotel. We needed to take the private elevator up to Room 31A. It didnāt sound like a ballroom and it most certainly wasnāt. Neither of us expected to be attending something so intimate. Me especially.
***
When the doors of the lift opened we stepped out. Looking down the long narrow corridor, we saw Ali. He was with his wife entering one of the rooms. The door closed behind them.
We stood frozen in that empty hallway and only with great trepidation did we advance, periodically stopping to regain our collective courage. Should we go in now? Should we come back? How weird is this? Should we even be here? These were all questions we whispered to each other as we slowly made our way down the corridor.
Having finally arriving at 31A, and following another long pause, we rang the bell.
The door swung open and there was the smiling Hugh OāBrian, a tall and impossibly handsome 70-year-old man with the bounding energy of someone a fraction his age. He welcomed us inside.
The foyer was the size of a Manhattan studio apartment and opened up to several other rooms of much greater consequence. As we began chatting he ushered us into the dining room, where he enthusiastically showed us some of the coverage his foundation received earlier that day. While the publicity was certainly nice, I was distracted by the sudden realization I was standing in a hotel room that had an exquisitely furnished dining room and a fully functional kitchen behind it.
At this point in time, there were a grand total of six or seven people in the suite. We were very early, but we were going to go with it.
OāBrian led us from the dining room to the living room where we began talking to some of the directors of the foundation. Hugh split off from the small group and moved to the couch where Ali was seated, alone and with his back to us. Transfixed on their conversation and not the one I was presently involved with, OāBrian caught my gaze and waved me over. As I approached he said, āDo you want to meet the Champ?ā
Before I could nod or utter a response, OāBrian with an imperceptible fluidity took my arm and spun me around the edge of the sofa, physically seating me next to, or more accurately, conjoining me with, Muhammad Ali. Positioned to his right, I distinctly remember how I sunk into the cushions and awkwardly pressured my left hindquarter in a desperate attempt to balance myself and avoid falling in his lap.
As I found seated equilibrium, OāBrian introduced me, turned and as quickly as he spun me down, walked away.
Within the span of 15 minutes I had gone from standing in a subway car, to sitting uncomfortably close to Muhammad Ali.
So there we were. Alone. Together. What do I say?
As I began, I fumbled my words, āChamp, I.. Iā¦ Iā¦ just want to tell you thatā¦ seeing you during the opening ceremonyā¦ lighting the flameā¦ it was a true inspirationā¦.ā
I was genuinely moved watching that moment. His courage was on full display for the world to see as he defiantly held that torch skyward, heroically fighting his physical affliction. I told him all this in jumbled, rapid-fire non-eloquence.
When I finished my heartfelt, panicked babble, Ali moved his right hand over my left. I could feel the Parkinsonās induced tremor as he clasped my hand. But then he began to move it with purpose, as if to express his appreciation.
Ali then leaned in closer. With his hand still holding mine, he slowly purred in that unmistakable baritone, āWhat a lot a people saw up thereā¦. Was just another nigger.ā
Now as shocking as it might be to read those words, I assure you that it was far more jarring to hear them said to you by Muhammad Ali while he holds your hand.
So now just 17 minutes since I left the subway, I find myself holding hands with Muhammad Ali on a love seat after he just dropped an N-word non sequitur in response to the first thing I said to him.
Stunned like Foreman in Zaire, I tried to gather a response. I blurted something to the effect that anyone who did think that didnāt matter. That the only thing that mattered was the act and those it inspired. I thought the response was pretty good given the circumstances. At any rate, it was the best I could do.
After a pause, Ali gripped my left hand tighter and started to nod his head in agreement. It was an enormous relief. The room stopped spinning.
We continued to speak for another 5 minutes or so. He talked about his family and his life at home ā he then lived in Michigan. It was basic small talk, mostly forgettable, but nonetheless welcomed. Eventually OāBrian returned with another guest who wanted to meet the Champ.
My private conversation with Muhammad Ali was over.
***
The room began to fill and as more people arrived it seemed to awaken an insuppressible energy in Ali. Although there were never more than 40 people in the suite during the course of the evening, I witnessed a metamorphosis as the party numbers swelled. In the aftermath of Aliās death, I have heard a number of people speak about how he ātook over the roomā and was always the center of attention. I have to say such descriptions fail to fully describe Aliās presence in close quarters.
That evening I witnessed an ambient chemical reaction. Muhammad Ali was a catalyst that created a palpable flow of energy that captivated every person in proximity. I have never before or since experienced anything remotely close to that power of persona. And he turned it on as if he just had to simply push a button.
It was something to behold. It was true greatness.
As the hours passed, Ali conducted the magic tricks he often performed, played with the piano, charmed and entertained. At some point a disposable camera materialized and I was lucky enough to have this picture taken. Having spent the evening with Ali I was emboldened enough to pose in a fighting stance to which he was more than eager to reciprocate. Iām not sure how the print found its way to me, but I thank whomever it was that sent me the copy. I have carried it with me for the last 20 years, following me from cubicle to office, from job to job. Itās a wonderful reminder of a magical evening.
***
But whenever I do look at the photo, I always ponder those first words he said to me hours before it was taken.
Muhammad Ali, the most confident and most recognized man of the 20th century; adored by millions the world over; why would he say that to a 24-year-old white kid who just praised him?
After it happened I thought he might have been bored and figured heād either test me, mess with me, or perhaps it was a combination of those two things. Meaning no harm, even entertainers need to entertain themselves. Perhaps I was the entertainment. I was ok with that explanation.
Or maybe it just happened to be the first thing that occurred to him, for whatever reason. He usually said whatever crossed his mind ā it was in his nature. It was one of the attributes I most admired in him. I can relate to and appreciate that attitude. It was a throw away comment. I should get over it.
But perhaps there was a deeper meaning. Maybe Ali wanted to plant a seed, one that would always make me think about the otherās perspective. No matter who or what you perceive in this life, endeavor to jolt yourself out of your own cognitive bias and force yourself to see another point-of-view. No matter how foreign, unfamiliar or inconceivable a perspective may seem to you, it is very real to someone else. The world would be a much better place if people stepped out of the comfortable reinforced views and had the courage to relate to someone elseās journey.
I think I very much prefer that last interpretation. And intended or not, I think that is the one Iām going to believe whenever I look at this picture.
Thank you Muhammad Ali. May you rest in peace.
jp
June 4, 2016