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He seemed driven not by impulse or rage but by a need to disrupt and embarrass. Arrogance is not toxic; it is just brilliance + a vendetta. "Arrogance" is a word used by people who've had their own smallness magnified by the presence of something large. It is hypnotizing to watch a man who has acknowledged your rules, your steadfast obedience to them, and who then tells those rules he does not care about them. The only Ali I saw growing up was silent, fragile, a figure to wince at, thick sunglasses, someone next to him holding his arm. I only saw Real Ali when he was being used as montage fodder, a signifier of either defiance, playfulness, resilience, or victory, depending on whether I was being sold a sports drinks, life insurance, or a new ESPN network. His life was sanded down until all that remained were the theatrics and slow-motion. Biography, though, is always more complicated than montage. His religious and political views fluctuated from radical to pragmatic to sympathetic to diplomatic.
Muhammad Ali stands over Sonny Liston, who he had just knocked out in the first round of their 1965 title fight in Lewiston, Maine. (AP Photo/File) Muhammad Ali is dead, and all I can think about are the violent men he told the world he wasn't afraid of. I'm watching When We Were Kings, the 1996 documentary about the famous Don King–promoted battle between Ali and George Foreman in Zaire, an African warlord, and America's obsession with old men fighting young men. It's 1974. George Foreman is 25 years old. He's training at the presidential palace in Zaire, and the heavy bag he's hitting sounds like it's not going to make it. Foreman smashes the bag again and again—smooth, identical swings, the same spot each time, the bag starting to cave in. Foreman's face never changes. Fifteen minutes of this. When he's done, next to him, skinny men in sunglasses fold their arms and laugh, watching the bag sway, looking like a piece of fruit with a chunk bitten out of it. I think about Ali, and I think of that moment, Foreman and the piles of pulverized human beings he left behind him, Ali knowing all this, deciding on a strategy where he'll stand in front of Foreman and get beat to ruins just like the bag, waiting, waiting.
You too ugly to represent us colored folks. " Foreman hit 32-year-old Muhammad Ali for eight rounds, and then Ali leaned on Foreman and whispered in Foreman's ear, "George, is that all you got? " Then Ali punched him in the face, and it was done. Ali, to quote Mike Tyson, "was the meanest fighter of all time. " He could be beaten, but when he beat you, he left you existentially devastated, like Foreman lived after Zaire, a man left to wander the earth. You could argue that there were better fighters, but none with a better sense of their powers, none who seemed to get more diabolical satisfaction from using them. Look at Tyson, coming unraveled like he was permanently alive in the middle of a fever dream. Or Floyd Mayweather, whose methods are so joylessly calculated you could imagine him laminating copies of his ATM receipts and passing them out like prayer cards. Ali always seemed like a menace and a monk simultaneously. Here's a moment, from some time around 1974. Ali is in a studio, on a stool in the middle of a pretend boxing ring.
He leaned against the ropes until Foreman went mad, and then Ali turned it on him. In all contexts, this was his philosophy: behind podiums, or wading through mobs with microphones stuffed against his cheeks, or outdoors, before corrupt dictators, everywhere, he wanted to provoke until he exposed you as weak-willed, fraudulent, insecure, and reckless. Ali knew a certain irrefutable truth about masculinity: Make a man look agitated, make him look in the mirror and contemplate his worthiness? You already have him. He once told Roger Ebert, "A good trainer knows a good fighter can't stand to have people talk about him bad on television. " A few days before Ali fights Foreman, Ali is hopping and shadowboxing in the middle of a long, straight road in Africa. The sun is starting to set, two cars are stopped behind him with their lights on, a dozen people are watching, standing still. Ali is breathing heavy, wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt but not a drop of sweat on his face. He's talking into the camera, but he's talking to Foreman: "Sucker you ain't nothing.
I'm free to be who I want. " This, for all his contradictions, all his defects, was a truth. This is why some men get only memes and others get their faces on the walls of freshman dorms. Ali was impenetrable. He was unshakable. He could hit us, he could move us, but we could never get our hands on him. Follow John Saward on Twitter.