IT’S NINE O’CLOCK WEDNESDAY NIGHT. I’m leaving work, a couple hundred yards from Union Station. A solitary figure is walking ten yards ahead of me, a tall black man in an Italian suit . . . big frame, familiar walk . . . and trembling hands. The hands give him away.
“Is . . . that . . . the . . . CHAMP?” I call out.
Muhammad Ali turns around, grinning, his eyes flickering with mischief.
My mind reels, flashing back to a suburban childhood spent worshipping Muhammad Ali: watching his fights and comedy bits over and over, dissecting every mannerism of The Greatest.
“I don’t believe it!” I slap my forehead, staggering in shock.
Seconds later, Ali and I are face to face. “I love you,” I blurt out. “Thank you so much for leading the life you led, the way you chose”-Ali leans towards me-“to live it”-and then hugs me warmly. In a low but rumbling voice, he says, “You’re a good fan.”
Suddenly, Ali squares his shoulders, puts up his trembling dukes, and contorts his face in a mock threat. It’s the ultimate invitation for a fan like me. The next moment, I am prancing backwards, circling him, showboating, shaking a finger at him, and bellowing, in my imitation of Ali’s voice: “I’m so pretty! I’m so fast! I can turn out the lights and be in bed before it gets da-a-a-ark!”
Ali’s eyes open wide. He raises a hand to cover his grin, using his other hand to point urgently at my feet. For a second, Ali seems as amazed to meet me as I am to meet him.
Ali’s lone companion walks impatiently, keeping five feet ahead of us the whole time. I introduce myself. “Howard Bingham,” the man replies. “The photographer!” I shout.
The champ smiles again. “I’ve got to get your autograph,” I say, unashamedly. Then I shoot a look at those trembling hands. “You know what,” I offer lamely, “I won’t force the autograph thing on you.” “C’mon,” Ali interrupts, beckoning with his hand, using the same motion that once beckoned Frazier and Foreman back for more Rope-a-Dope.
I struggle to find a pen, then realize I have nothing appropriate for Ali to sign. I produce a ten-dollar bill. Leaning the bill on my wallet-size electronic Rolodex, Ali perseveres mightily with one of those pens that discharges no ink the first few tries. Despite all that, and the constant trembling, Ali signs his full name-neatly, as if to prove a point-to the left of Alexander Hamilton.
We amble toward Union Station together, under the nighttime sky, Bingham walking ahead. Ali knows his speech is not easily understood, so I do most of the talking.
“I cried the night of the Holmes fight.” Mention of that dark night in Ali’s history brings tension to his face. I realize immediately that two fans might discuss the Holmes fight, but it’s not something to raise with Ali himself. I change the subject. “I used to daydream out my parents’ car window that we’d see you jogging alongside us,” I confide. “And now you’ve met me!” Ali rumbles with a smile.
“You look good, Champ!” I exclaim, sincerely. Indeed, Ali looks much better in person than on television these days: His face appears smoother and more colorful, his demeanor looser, more engaging. “And I know exactly how good you look,” I add, recalling his birthday, “January 17th, 1942!” More smiles from Ali.
Again with suddenness, he contorts his face, feigning nastiness, and puts up his fists. “I studied you, man! Check out the footwork!” I demand, as I perform the Ali shuffle for its creator. “See?” The Greatest points and smiles his approval.
“I loved When We Were Kings,” I say, and conjure Howard Cosell’s voice: “I fear it’s time to say goodbye to Mah-hah-mid Ah-lee . . . after George Faw-min gets through with him!” And then Ali’s: “How-wud, ah’m gonna tell everybody . . . that pony . . . you wear on your head . . . is a pho-o-o-ny!” Ali looks wistful and mumbles, “He died.” Yes, I say sadly.
We approach the final six lanes of traffic between us and Union Station. The sign flashes WALK. We leisurely cross three lanes. Ali strains to face the waiting headlights, clearly hoping drivers will swallow their tongues in recognition. “All you have to do is be you!” I observe. Then I remember a book I read as a kid called Free to be Muhammad Ali.
Now DON’T WALK flashes. Bingham, revealing the annoyance we sometimes show to people who can’t keep up, yells sternly to Ali, “C’mon! C’mon!”
Ali snaps into a slight jog. I keep pace, and think: He can still move. Hurrying across those last three lanes, Ali leans close and deadpans, “Now I’m just another nigger trying to cross the street!” I chuckle and reply, “Oh, no you’re not! No one’s hitting you!” And as the cars rev their engines, I imagine myself Muhammad Ali’s protector.
James Rosen is a correspondent for the Fox News Channel in Washington, D.C.
