 © Yuki Inoue
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The Greatest Click to read Click to |
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© Yuki Inoue
|
The Greatest Click to read Click to |
The Greatest
I met Muhammad Ali on the street the other day. I saw him as the Fifty-Seventh
Street bus inched its way across Manhattan. He was signing autographs for a small crowd of
passersby in front of the Meridian Hotel. A swarm of cab drivers, double-parked, was
blocking traffic so they could shake his hand. He looked jovial as he sparred with men
half his size and listened to their stories. They reached up to pat him on the back before
they sauntered to their cabs, proudly waving their autographed copies of the Daily News.
Seeing him jarred a cherished memory, a reminder of strength and youth. Ali was my father’s hero. He was my link with greatness and love. "I too must touch the legend," I thought.
"Getting out!" I demanded of the bus driver. The doors opened, and I jumped to the curb, narrowly missing a speeding bicycle courier. "Ali. Ali. Ali." I had to tell him that my father said he was the greatest fighter that had ever lived. My dad cried the day the boxing commission took Ali’s title away. I was too young to understand. Still, my father cried and his crying frightened me. "The man is a champion," Daddy said. "They cut him down. The fight game isn’t what it used to be."
I had to tell Ali that my father was a heavyweight champion, the "Buckeye Bomber." Dad fought the pro circuit: Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland—tough-guy towns—once on the same fight card as Joe Lewis. He won the Cleveland Golden Gloves and retired victorious. Dad got out of the fight game because he "didn’t want to get hit no more."
I New-Yorkered my way through the crowd, elbowing and pushing with finesse, now arm’s length from the greatest fighter that had ever lived. His face was pudgy, eyes sunken. He was no longer a killer. "Ali! Ali! Ali!" Daddy said it was all in the footwork, "Mark your spot, stay low." The crowd was multiplying behind me, but I held my ground.
When I was twelve Dad taught me to shoot craps, pick horses, count cards, and throw a punch. "You gotta stay in training," he said.
He warmed up by jumping rope, magically twisting and weaving it into precise patterns. The rope made hissing and shooshing sounds as it cut through the air—my dad jumping an inch, his leather shoes gently tapping the concrete. We worked out on the body bag in the basement. He bandaged my hands in yards of white gauze to protect my fingers from being bent or smashed. When they were safely cushioned, he brought down his boxing gloves from the shelf. He put them on me, making sure that they were well-laced and that my hands would not shift or twist inside them. I felt powerful. "Hit clean! Cover! Cover! The punch starts from your foot. Spring off your heel, let it go through you." The speed bag took more time. He told me to find my rhythm, "Let the bag come back to you. Wait for the punch. Don’t think about it so much. Breath."
Dad was a southpaw. I knew that I should have been too, but the nuns in boarding school insisted that writing left-handed was unladylike. They confused me. Dad said my timing was wrong, that I had forgotten my natural inclinations. His teachings were simple, a legacy to his only child, life lessons for a blossoming daughter. "Don’t be afraid to get hit. You have to believe that you can win. Don’t take no bullshit! Fight clean!" Mom ignored us. She refused to let Dad sit in the living room after he put his smelly liniment on. Her home would not become a locker room.
Ali was getting tired. The crowd had trapped him in their frantic circle.
He was alone in the ring and going down. He looked for his handlers. His brow furrowed, his vacant eyes begging to find a friend. I could see his staff standing in the hotel lobby door, flirting with an ebony woman in a white fur coat. Ali started to sway. He needed me. I had to reach him so that he could lean on me. The crowd pressed hard against my back. I pushed back. "Ali! Ali! Ali! They all must fall in the round I call."
When Dad was dying, the nurses bound his hands so he couldn’t pull out the life supports. I stood by his hospital bed staring at the white gloves; pristine bandages protected him from himself. His hands were crossed, the right one defending his face, the left hand ready to punch. The boxer’s hands were no longer lethal weapons. The final round was over. He lay on the white canvas sheets, an ashen hero, down for the count. No crowds cheered him on. The only sounds were the beeping machines and my sobs.
"I must touch Ali, he is my talisman," I thought. I teetered on my three-inch heels, caught myself, and adjusted my designer coat and bag. I crouched low and jammed my stiletto heel into the foot of the man behind me. I could feel my spike penetrating leather. The man bellowed in pain, stumbled, and fell back into the crowd. People behind him screamed. I could feel the crowd going down around me, like dominos in a row.
I sprang forward, leading with my left, and I hooked my arm under Ali’s. I looked into the eyes of The Greatest but could not speak. I studied his hands and knew the stories they told. His crooked fingers, huge knuckles, stone wrists, had fought the pro-circuit tough-guy towns, dried a sweaty brow, held trophies, and greeted fans. The man’s life was in those hands. I kissed his crooked fingers and looked squarely into his eyes. Raising my manicured, bejeweled hand, Ali studied it. "Southpaw," he said. "Sometimes," I murmured. "Hits clean," he said. In a moment Ali was gone.
Three huge men appeared at Ali’s side, dwarfing him by their presence. "Thank you all for comin’," they said. "Ali loves New York!" The sidewalk erupted into applause and cheers. Encircled by his bodyguards, Ali was ushered safely inside the posh hotel.
"Hey lady, I was standin’ here." I turned to face my challenger from Brooklyn. He stood eye-level to my chest, wearing an old navy pea coat. He hobbled on one foot, looking like a lame elf. "I do apologize. I hope I didn’t hurt you. It’s just that I lost my balance and—"
"Youse got to touch the greatest fighter that ever lived," he said. "The man was a champion, they cut him down. I cried the day they took away his title." He spoke my father’s words. We cherished the same memory, our link with The Greatest.
"I remember that day," I said. "It was very sad. The fight game isn’t what it used to be, is it?"
He snorted through his broken nose and peered at me from sunken eyes. He turned and crossed the street against the light, defying the traffic. The taxis screeched to a halt to avoid hitting him.
I walked to Fifth Avenue and ducked into Bergdorf’s in time for my hair appointment. My timing was right; my natural inclinations were keen. I too had fought the pro-circuit, tough-guy towns. I believed that I could win, didn’t take no bullshit, hit clean, cover, cover.
Profile
"It reminds me of a remote Greek fishing village where I once lived." Sure. I choke on my taco. Across the pier, an Asian woman in multi-layered flannel hauls in a striped bass. A guitar-toting guy in a serape is talking intensely with a navel-ringed girl in black shorts. They do a quick two-step to avoid being hit in the face with a fish.
"It’s also a lot like New York City." Oh, right. I’m tempted to heave my salsa at Claire, even though she’s the best writer I know. She’s calling Californians a bunch of mall-driven, casual-chic strivers, desiring only to merge into the sun culture. "But I love Ocean Beach," she says, just in time. "Like New York, people here are tolerant of diversity. And you can walk to the grocery store, do your errands, and get to know your eclectic neighbors." OK. It fits. May she finish her book of short stories, her TV scripts, and live happily forever in OB.
—Carol Bowers
Bio
Claire Simons
Place of residence: San Diego.
Birthplace: Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
Day jobs: Public relations. Freelance writer. Office and closet organizer.
Education: B.A., Penn State University.
Dramatic production: Television series.
Current projects: Book of short stories. PR Chair, League of Women Voters.
Favorite book: The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck.
Belief: The Wheel of Fortune Philosophy of Life: if you stay in the game long
enough, your number will come up.
Cravings: The love of my life. An Emmy Award. Peonies.
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