The hero I was never able to meet

I was among the millions – no billions – in the world who was saddened Saturday morning to awaken to the news that Muhammad Ali’s hospitalization for a minor respiratory infection had become much worse than first thought and Friday night, the former heavyweight boxing champion had died.

A couple of years ago, my wife, Janie, bought me a simple gray t-shirt with “Muhammad Ali” across the front, and his famous moniker “Float Like A Butterfly, Sting Like A Bee” on the back. For whatever reason, when I left the house Thursday afternoon for a weekend on the lake, I grabbed that shirt and put it on.

During the weekend of working out in the yard, I tossed that shirt in the washing machine along with some other clothes that had become yard dirty and on Friday afternoon, looking for another outdoor work shirt, I grabbed it again, finished my day and then grabbed it up again Saturday morning (it didn’t stink too bad). I was wearing my Ali shirt when I heard the report on the Saturday morning news.

Like many, Muhammad Ali was a hero, and has been a hero of mine since my youth. Unfortunately, he was a hero I was never able to have the chance to meet.

I stood inches away from Jack Nicklaus several years ago, never getting an introduction or handshake, but we did exchange eye contact and exchanged nods. That satisfied that hero meeting, but the chance to meet Ali never surfaced, and for that, I am a little sad.

It was Ali who drew me to be a boxing fan. It was 1971 when my parents bought me a subscription of Sports Illustrated for my 13th birthday that year, and the first one that arrived in the mail had the iconic photo of Joe Frazier landing the punch that sent Ali to the mat and cost him the heavyweight title.

The headline declared it to be the “end of the Ali Legend”. Of course, it wasn’t – far from it.

Despite that first read about Ali getting a loss in the ring, the fascination continued and like many others, that fascination became a life-long thing for that then young boy. Through the years, it was cover after cover – and there were many SI covers, and fight after fight that I watched as his career continued back and forth to the top and finally to retirement and then, sadly, through his final years of dealing with and suffering from Parkinson’s Disease.

No one could punch like Ali. No one could work the entire ring like Ali. No one could dance like Ali. No one could talk and brag like Ali. In fact, if you look up the definition of “trash talking” that is so common in this day and age of sports, a photo of Muhammad Ali should be right there next to the definition as the inventor.

It was my fascination with Ali that drew me to become a fan of the sport of boxing, and when my dear friend Jeff Fryman, embarked on an amateur, then a pro career in boxing, it was an easy task for me to follow him all over covering his fights – most of which were wins, during the early 1980s.

Years later, in 2004, when Ali’s daughter, Laila, began a boxing career, I followed her in the ring and then the announcement came that she would be fighting on a Mike Tyson under card in Freedom Hall, I thought I would surely have the opportunity to at least be in the same room as the champ – at least my best chance so far.

It couldn’t get much better. His daughter would be in the ring in his hometown of Louisville. Surely the champ would sneak in at the last minute and take a ringside seat.

Well, of course Laila defeated Monica Nunez with a TKO that night, and Mike Tyson went down in the fourth round, suffering a KO from Danny Williams. But, there was no Muhammad Ali appearance. A good night of boxing, but no chance to meet, or even be in the same room with, my childhood hero.

Still, my love for The Greatest continued well into my adult years. A few years ago, my best friend for the last half-century, Allen Smith, earned the cherished title that year at Christmas of “Ultimate Gift Giver” when he scored me, complete with a certificate of authenticity and a display case, an autographed Everlast boxing glove. Later, I purchased a copy of the iconic print of Ali standing over a decked Sonny Liston, and together, those items take up a cherished place in my sports “man-room” collection.

Saturday morning, when he heard the news of Ali’s passing, Smith said to me “Well, your glove just became more valuable” and I quickly replied, “Not really, because I’m not going to sell it anyway.”

Actually, that glove, although priceless to me, is one of millions of items the Champ signed down through the years. Before he became so afflicted with Parkinson’s, he would reportedly spend hours signing items that had been sent to his home. That was just the kind of man he was, and he lived his life wanting to be the people’s champ.

He signed gloves. He shook hands. He posed for photos. He kissed babies. He wanted to be the people’s champion. He was just that, to millions of fans just like me.

Later that same Saturday afternoon, while visiting with another close friend, Mike Noto, at Dale Hollow Lake, and we were swapping Ali stories, he made the comment that although none of us around that circle of story swapping had ever met the man, we were all talking about him like we knew him.

Mike was right, but that was just the kind of figure – hero – Ali was to most of the world, and especially to me and millions of others like me.

We all have heros of one kind or another, and when we lose them, it’s always a tough experience.

Still, I’ll always cherish my memories of Muhammad Ali – both those in the ring and out of the ring. The fact that he was a Kentuckian, makes those memories even better.

Rest In Peace – to the biggest hero I was never able to meet.