Mohammed Ali

This evening I was listening to NPR on a trip to North Upson County for a closing. During the broadcast, the hostess interviewed the wife of Mohammed Ali, who was speaking about her part in a charity dealing with Parkinson's Disease, which has victimized her husband. She was speaking about her husband and his struggle with the disease. She was also talking about the care-givers across the world who minister to their loved ones. It reminded me of my interest in Ali since I was a child.

I was only three years old when Ali, then known as Cassius Clay, won gold in the Rome Olympics. He was a light heavyweight, who had started boxing in Louisville as a boy under the tutelage of a Louisville policeman, when his bike was stolen. He was speed and quickness personified and he had a bubbly charm to his personality which was unusual in most athletes. He was on his way.

By the time I was old enough to really know who he was, he had become the Heavyweight Champion of the World by knocking out Sonny Liston. I was a small boy, living in Indianapolis, with a Kentucky sized chip on my shoulders. Everybody who paid attention knew that I was from south of the Ohio River. I was so proud to be from the state that gave us Cassius Clay, the Heavyweight Champion of the World.

Later, when he changed his name to Mohammed Ali and pledged allegiance to the Muslims, it was a small blip on my radar. For a lot of people this was a problem. This was an American icon becoming part of the cultural struggle that civil rights and racial struggles became in the 60's.

Then, of course, came the refusal to participate in the draft or to serve, like so many young men, in the war in Southeast Asia. Again, he became a lightening rod for Americans on which to focus the debate. They stripped his title in his prime and prevented him from practicing his craft.

Meanwhile, I was getting older too. I would wonder about the seeming hypocrisy of someone who would fight for a living but would not fight for his country. I would wonder about the allegiance to a faith which was strange to me and seemed threatening. Like the changes and losses going on in the time, I wondered about the events going on in Mohammed Ali's life.

Still, I was so excited, living in Atlanta, Georgia, when the boxing powers that were allowed him to come out of banishment to fight a comeback fight in Atlanta. I liked Jerry Quarry, the Irish-American heavyweight. I suppose I might have had more in common with his genetic background. However, he wasn't from Kentucky.

The geographical kinship between us was too strong. I haven't had a tie to a boxer like that other than Evander Holifield, who lives in the adjoining county. I have always appreciated the fact that Ali came from the same little state just south of the Ohio River. I know there is very little similarity between the two of us. However, I have never let it stand in the way of my admiration of the man and the boxer.

I have often wondered if Mohammed Ali would mind if I prayed for him. I confess that I have often prayed for him and his soul. I don't mean this as a slur against his faith. I mean it as a sincere offering to God on his behalf. I will continue to pray for his salvation from time to time, as I pray for others I care for. I would love to meet him and find out if he would object to my continued prayers. I think he would respect my desires and my faith, just as I would his.

I also pray for his ability to deal with his illness and I pray for his family that they would be able to continue to care for him in his illness. I also pray for others who are inflicted with this illness.