Muhammad and Larry, then and now
A
Review from Martin Wade at 12 and 41 years old
1980
That was a pivotal year for me, the year I turned 12 years
old, the year a lot of us succumb to the pull of our bodies
and our friends. My chosen friends were a crew of athletic
roughnecks bent on terrorizing that slither of Midwestern
non-ghetto we were subscribed to. I was a muscular little
bundle of emotional nerve endings, sensitive to a fault and a
newborn child of divorce. Expressing ourselves physically was
normal, but to a kid like me it was a survival, defense
mechanism #1. If I could outrun or outfight you, then, maybe
you wouldn’t see crying inside.
Back then, hot summer days
were much like the ones that produced the great multi-sport
athletes of the early 90’s (Sanders and Jackson). We played
everything, from “strikeout” to “kill the guy.” Specialization
didn’t dawn on us; we loved sports so much that we simply
played whatever was in season. Exhausted and full of
braggadocio we’d trash talk one another until somebody, then
called an “instigator,” (now known as skilled promoter) would
goad two of us into slap boxing.
Through osmosis we all talked trash and danced around our
opponents while focusing on quick strikes from a distance. A
generation of “little Ali’s,” we could not recall that only a
generation before, Black men could not openly display such
vanity.
When Jerry Izenberg asked an elderly Black custodian -after
Larry Holmes pummeled Ali in October 1980- why he wagered his
meager earnings, the custodian could only muster...“He gave me
my dignity.”
At 12 years old, on my dinky little locker at Jefferson
Middle school, before video killed the radio star, one image
hung alone as a sign of my allegiance. That photo, carefully
clipped from Sports Illustrated was Sugar Ray Leonard's hands
raised in victory before putting the final touches on a
dazed Tommy Hearn’s. It was the dawn of the 80’s and although
I wanted to “be” Sugar Ray I understood Ali was something
hierarchal, a cross between civil rights leaders and comic
book heroes. By the late 70’s Ali graced a DC comic actually
battling Superman- at even odds!
The myth-making of my
father’s generation was carefully targeted to impact the next
generation of boxing fans like me. At 12 I didn’t really
understand that a reigning champion had no business losing to
a 7 fight novice (gold medal be damned). As slap boxing
champion of Jefferson Middle School I couldn’t wrap my mind
around what 37 years old “felt” like. Like any child raised on
“the champ” I just assumed if he wanted to come back and beat
up this Holmes guy he could.
I had no concept of pain; when I watched his fights I had no
idea that Ali was breaking down in ways that no man should
ever have to, I was 12. When my dad let me stay up late and
watch Ali beat some baldheaded dude (Ernie Shavers) I knew
nothing about velocity. I just knew I was hanging out with my dad. At 41, I now know that he
wasn’t my “real” father, and that Ali was implementing a
morbid quest to defeat some of the hardest punching men God
ever created.
Shavers milled chips from a monument dented by Frazier and
Foreman before him.
When Albert Maysles revealed the stunning footage and
recollections of Ali’s tragic fight against Larry Holmes I
was no longer 12. At 41 I saw what looked to be an array of
victims in all shapes, shades and denominations, all victims
of a brutal reality in boxing. Eight million spread pretty
nicely in 1980, so much so that few had the character to
distance themselves from what was surely pugilistic suicide.
Poor Angelo Dundee defended never asking any fighter to
“hang 'em up” because he “isn’t God.” What he didn’t say was
it's harder to play God with a fighter who had come the
closest to “being” God.
<1971 - While Ali was landing blistering combinations off the
side of Joe Frazier’s head: “Don’t you know I am God?!!!”>
Ali has slurred the basic truth that people (like you and me)
“like to be puzzled.” A slither into his magic and his ruin.
I concur with the champ, we all like to be puzzled, but
rarely can we figure it out when the mystery is how to deal
with change. Dundee, in the documentary, said that the mirror
told Ali he had a chance to beat Holmes, and that same mirror
still afflicts us today. At 12 I probably didn’t have as much
respect for age; I certainly couldn’t imagine “it” happening
to me. That mirror now fuels a multi-billion dollar industry,
catering to a generation of people that don’t want to age. In
retrospect, Ali was a natural test pilot, as poster child for
the 60’s generation it was easy to understand why he pushed
the notion of physical immortality.
“He’s not like the rest of us, he’s physically 28,” Bundini
lied, and now at 41 I know a lot of people (myself included)
that want to believe this about themselves. As the Dorian Gray
syndrome becomes more commonplace, the “normalization” of
immortality is everywhere you turn.
Larry Holmes, by comparison, seemed the dutiful son, balanced in
his view on life and in a lot of ways wise by learning from
Ali's mistakes. At 12 I felt infringed upon by Holmes, I
had no sense of time and evolution; didn't realize how boxing would change
season like all things. At 41 I’m watching a young man
conflicted, wanting to further his name yet wanting to remain
respectful. This version of Holmes was hardened by sparring
and disappointment, yet nowhere near the bitter man who was
crucified for saying something Ali would utter often- “I am
superior!”
In this documentary I witnessed the root of
resentment toward Holmes and just how badly people, even as
young as 12, “needed” the myth of Ali. Sparring partners
embellished and reports from the Mayo clinic were ignored,
and at 12 I didn’t know what the hell Thyrolar**
was. At 41 I
now know how hard it is to lose 2 pounds, and I saw Roy Jones
essentially (at 35) barter the last of his gifts on a scale.
Though Holmes struggled with poetry, through it all he
fashioned a life rooted in keeping it close to home and very
real. When Ali introduced himself as employer to Holmes in
1971 giving him a “shiner,” the Easton kid savored it as a
token from his idol. “I didn’t want any ice, I wanted to show
this black eye to my buddies”, he said. How real can a young man's
adoration for a hero get? His love affair with one woman
(wife Diane) in that one town (Easton, Pennsylvania) is in stark
contrast to the global icon/prolific sire Ali had become.
Holmes’s relation to “our” Ali was closer than any of us who
claim to love him will ever know, so much so that from this
love real resentment is justifiably sowed. Larry illustrated
frankly the Ali love/power configuration, which is, Ali can
be more than generous to those who know their place, which is
beneath him. Larry’s love for “the champ” was no less valid,
he simply loved himself (and his) more. The Qu’ran teaches
that a proud man wants everyone to be humbled before him; he
can’t tolerate dealing with any man on equal terms. At 41 I
now know that even if Ali were in his prime he would have had
to deal with Larry Holmes on equal terms.
Larry knew the situation; he had seen his idol slow down years
before, yet he trained with more fire than ever to prevent
being the great magician’s last illusion. He also knew it was
a dirty business, the Nevada that cleared Ali would later rob
him of his title, and the Don King that “made” him would
later serve him up to a lion named Tyson. When Larry Holmes
let his hands go in round one he knew Ali had nothing,
nothing but courage. And that is where the trouble started,
even Bert Sugar copped to what we all (more importantly
Richard Green) had a problem absorbing because...it was Ali!
Holmes knew better than us all, even sagacious Dundee stood
frozen, waiting on something illogical to happen. The rounds
went by, each one more brutal than the last, and at 12 my eyes
filled with tears of confusion and hatred for Holmes. At 35, I
watched it one night at 3am and felt nothing. Desensitized? Or wizened by my own hardships and cynical
enough to say “that’s boxing.” At 41 I’ve seen more than my
share of ill-fated returns and I’m mature enough to know the
fighter is always complicit in such tragedies. At 12 I
would have applauded Ferdie Pacheco’s relegation of Holmes as
“just the next guy.” At 41 I feel sorry for anyone still
blind enough to feel that way. When I was 12 I was too caught
up in my own tears to know that Holmes was crying too, I was
just a child. At 41 I’d like to apologize to Larry Holmes for
letting my love for Muhammad Ali allow me to stand by and
watch his great career devalued.
I am no longer 12, I am a
man.
