Ali

by Jonathan Eig

  When it was over, the crowd booed Ali. Everyone but the judges thought Ali had lost. Young had outlanded the champion by a margin of almost two to one. But there’s an old unwritten rule in boxing that a challenger has to take a title away from the champion, winning by a knockout or at least by overwhelming violence; the judges shouldn’t do the job for him. But then why have judges at all? Ali did nothing to earn the decision against Young; he was awarded the victory because he was Muhammad Ali. It was a gift from his admirers.

  When Cosell found him in the ring, Ali stated the obvious: he should have taken Young more seriously.

  “I’m getting old, Howard,” he said. “That’s why I’m quittin’ this year.”

  Ali’s ring doctor, Ferdie Pacheco, said it wasn’t just age and lazy work habits slowing Ali down, however. “He was more than just overweight,” Pacheco said. “This repetitive fighting saps him of his desire to get into proper shape. This was the worst he’s ever taken an opponent . . . He was getting tired a lot sooner than usual. His reflexes were only 25 to 30 percent of what they should be.”

  Angelo Dundee noticed a difference in Ali, too. For years, Dundee would tell Ali about watching old fighters come in to the gym, how he could tell even when they loosened up, even when they jumped rope, that they were losing their agility. “The bounce wasn’t the same,” he said, “the fluidness wasn’t the same.” He called it stuttering, referring not to the fighters’ speech but to the way their bodies moved.

  “Hey, man,” Dundee told Ali one day. “You’re starting to stutter.”

  But Ali didn’t listen.

  “You don’t want to take the message,” Dundee said, “I can’t help it.”

  Dundee also noticed a worrisome change in Ali’s voice. He became concerned, he said, “because I couldn’t . . . hear him talk. I would sort of get on Muhammad . . . don’t bend your throat, talk.”

  A reporter asked Ali if, given his poor performance against Young, he would consider taking a break before fighting Ken Norton, a match that was expected to take place in September at Yankee Stadium or Madison Square Garden. Would he at least consider canceling his bout against the Japanese wrestler in Tokyo?

  No, Ali said. He wasn’t going to cancel it.

  The reporter asked, Why not?

  “Six million dollars,” he answered.

  46

  “They May Not Let Me Quit”

  By 1976, Muhammad Ali was everywhere. A name that had once sounded so foreign as to be incomprehensible was now an instantly recognizable brand. There were Muhammad Ali books, Muhammad Ali movies, Muhammad Ali toys, Muhammad Ali posters, even another fledgling hamburger chain, this one called Ali’s Trolley. And, of course, there were still Muhammad Ali boxing matches, too. But it was clear that Ali’s boxing fame had outlasted his boxing skills.

  To help fill the arena in Munich for his fight with Richard Dunn, Ali gave free tickets to American servicemen stationed in Germany. When reporter Mike Katz of the New York Times asked Ali if he saw irony in a conscientious objector inviting soldiers to see him fight, Ali replied with one of his favorite lines: “You’re not as dumb as you look.” Then, Ali added, “I was against the war. I wasn’t against the soldiers.”

  Ali lost ten pounds in three weeks to prepare for Dunn. He beat Dunn soundly, but there was nothing impressive about the performance. In five rounds, only twelve Ali jabs found their mark. The jab had always provided offense and defense for Ali. He had jabbed so quickly and so well that opponents didn’t have time to fight back. The jab had allowed Ali to control the fight, keeping his opponent at a safe distance but within striking range. But Dunn, as a left-handed fighter, was not as vulnerable to Ali’s jab. Without his best punch and without his speedy footwork, Ali had little protection. When he threw big, looping punches, Dunn did the same. At least twice, Dunn staggered Ali. Finally, Ali took over, knocking down Dunn four times in the fourth before ending the fight with another knockdown in the fifth. But it was clear even to casual fans that Ali was an entirely different fighter now. Even against no-name boxers, he no longer escaped unharmed. Shots to the head were the price he would pay to continue his career.

  In his televised interview from the ring after the fight, Ali thanked Allah; his spiritual leader, Wallace D. Muhammad; President Gerald Ford; Dick Gregory, who was running across America to call attention to hunger; and the karate masters who were getting the boxer ready for his fight against Antonio Inoki. He sent greetings to “all my family at home” without mentioning any names.

  Ali’s frenzied fight schedule in 1976 reflected the frenzied nature of his life. His nine-year marriage had become an echo of a marriage, a trace of what it had been, and was nearing its end.

  Belinda had recently changed her name to Khalilah, saying the name had been given to her by the Nation of Islam’s Supreme Minister Wallace D. Muhammad. In an interview with People magazine, Belinda said, “There isn’t any marriage. It’s past me now.”

  Khalilah, Veronica, and Muhammad now kept separate apartments in Chicago, and Veronica was pregnant with Ali’s child.

  Ali’s parents were separated. Odessa stayed home in Louisville, ensconced in a new house paid for by her son, while Cash jetted around the world, lapping up the pleasures that came with being the father of the champ — pleasures that included a lot of free drinks and attention from women who did not ordinarily look twice at a man twice their age.

  Ali’s financial affairs were in chaos, too. Gene Kilroy paid the bills and tried to scare off vultures. Herbert Muhammad negotiated the deals. Bob Arum and Don King made the fights. But, often, Herbert, Arum, and King wound up competing to make deals. If Ali had served as chief executive officer, setting the strategy, defining the long-term goals, and making a plan to ensure his long-term financial health, he might have been well prepared for retirement. But he didn’t. Instead, in the fall of 1976, he named Spiros Anthony, a lawyer from Fairfax, Virginia, as his trustee. Anthony opened an office and hired a small staff to cull through Ali’s business offers. “He was literally the most sought-after celebrity in the world,” Anthony said. “You can imagine what people were trying to throw at him, to get him to buy or endorse. Watches, prayer rugs. It was an unbelievable deluge of proposals.” Anthony invested Ali’s money in real estate — mostly office buildings and condominiums. But Ali soon accused Anthony of siphoning off his money and using it to cover gambling debts, a charge Anthony denied. Ali sued. Although he continued to claim his innocence — and, in fact, claimed that the real-estate investments he’d made had earned Ali millions of dollars — Anthony agreed to settle the suit and paid Ali $390,000.

  Anthony made several good investments for Ali, and he brought in a respected accountant in an attempt to reduce Ali’s tax liability. But after examining Ali’s limited business records, the accountant, Richard W. Skillman of Caplin & Drysdale, found it all but impossible to distinguish Ali’s legitimate business expenses from his seemingly endless list of loans and investments to Ali’s friends. “I think he knew he was throwing the money away,” Skillman said.

  The boxer’s money troubles continued.

  “I really want to quit,” he said. “But if someone offers you ten million, it ain’t easy.” He said he wanted to go out on top, with his health, but he also wanted to go out with $10 million in U.S. Treasury bonds, “so I can have a check that says $85,000, tax free, in my mailbox every month.” If Ali’s business affairs had been properly managed from the beginning, if he’d employed tax shelters and invested his income wisely, he could have received a monthly check for much more than $85,000 a month in retirement. But, now, as he neared the end of his career, that wasn’t the case. Now, he needed to make as much money as he could while he was still capable of fighting in an attempt to make up for lost time, poor decisions, expensive marriages, and wasted opportunities. Many of the men around him — including Ali’s father, his brother, Bundini, and others — also counted on Ali to continue earning for as long as possible.

  “Th
ey may not let me quit until I can’t fight no more,” he said.

  The Inoki fight — if it could even be called a fight — was Herbert’s idea. Promoters in Japan had promised Ali $6 million to see what would happen when a boxing champion and a wrestling champion met in the ring. But as the fight approached, no one seemed to know if the contest was to be scripted, a gentle exhibition, or a true competition with a set of rules that blended the sports of boxing and wrestling.

  The fourteen-thousand-seat Budokan arena in Tokyo was sold out for the June 26 bout. In the United States, nearly 33,000 paid $10 each to attend a closed-circuit telecast at Shea Stadium in New York. At Shea, fans would also see a live match between the boxer Chuck Wepner and professional wrestler André the Giant. Ali, always the master of self-promotion, told interviewers that this fight would draw more viewers than any of his others. He promised the action would be real and probably bloody.

  As the fight neared, and as it became clear that Inoki wanted to fight and win legitimately, Ali’s team came up with a set of rules that pretty much prevented the wrestler from doing anything that would physically harm his opponent. Ali would wear flimsy four-ounce gloves while Inoki would fight barehanded. No kneeing or hitting below the belt was allowed. No punching was permitted when the fighters were on the canvas. Kicking was allowed, but only if the fighter doing the kicking kept one knee on the ground. The rules were not announced to the public before the fight. If they had been, it’s a fair bet that no one would have paid to see a competition that sounded more like a game of Twister than martial arts.

  The Ali-Inoki fight began with Inoki running across the ring and throwing himself feet first in Ali’s direction, trying to use his legs to make a tackle. He missed, tried again, and missed again. Instead of getting up, though, Inoki stayed on the mat, scooting like a crab, swinging out at Ali with his legs from time to time, trying to clip Ali behind the knees and bring him down. Inoki knew Ali had only one way to fight: with his fists. But Ali couldn’t throw a punch so long as Inoki stayed on the ground. As Inoki scooted and kicked, Ali hopped around like a man trying to stomp a snake.

  Round after round, Inoki stayed on his back, trying to kick Ali in the calves and thighs. In the fourth, Ali hopped onto the ropes to escape, shouting in horror. In the sixth, Ali tried to grab Inoki’s leg, but Inoki got the better of it, wrapping his other leg around Ali’s calf and flipping Ali on to the canvas for the first takedown of the night. Inoki climbed quickly atop Ali’s chest and squatted on his face.

  How much indignity will a man suffer for $6 million? Ali had provided his answer.

  That would turn out to be the best action of the fight.

  Ali mocked Inoki, telling him to get up and fight. “One punch! I want one punch!” he shouted. Inoki, preferring not to be punched, stayed down. Soon, Ali’s legs were swollen and bleeding. Angelo Dundee insisted that Inoki tape his shoes so they wouldn’t cut Ali’s legs any further.

  A pillow fight would have offered more drama. When it was over, Ali had thrown six ineffectual punches. “One million dollars a punch,” he later bragged. In fact, his payday was better than that. Only two of Ali’s punches landed, which means he was paid $3 million a punch. Or would have made $3 million a punch, if the fight had generated as much income as expected.

  Fans booed and threw garbage in the ring. Judges declared the bout a draw; paying customers used more profane language.

  For Ali, the fight proved more than an embarrassment. After examining Ali’s swollen leg, Ferdie Pacheco urged the fighter to stay in bed for a few days. Ali instead flew the next day to Seoul, South Korea, where he boxed in a four-round exhibition for U.S. servicemen. By the time he flew back the United States, Ali had developed blood clots in his legs and had to be hospitalized for several weeks.

  If that were not bad enough, Inoki later sued Ali, claiming that last-minute rule changes left him unable to fight and resulted in lost ticket sales.

  About a month after Ali’s return from Japan, Veronica Porche gave birth to a girl named Hana. Three weeks after the baby’s arrival, on September 2, 1976, Khalilah filed for divorce, citing adultery and “extreme and repeated mental cruelty.” The case was settled quickly, with Ali agreeing to pay his wife $670,000 over five years. He also gave her a home in Chicago, an apartment building, and other property. And he promised to place $1 million in a trust fund for their four children.

  Now Ali had a new child to support and a new ex-wife to compensate. That meant he had greater incentive to continue boxing. At the same time, however, his discipline was flagging. When he felt invigorated, he would wake up at 5:30 in the morning, drive his Stutz Blackhawk one mile from his home on Woodlawn Avenue to Washington Park, and then run around the perimeter for about an hour. But he was not feeling as invigorated as he used to, and on many mornings he skipped his workouts entirely. Since Veronica didn’t cook often, Ali would eat fried chicken and French fries coated in spicy orange sauce from Harold’s Chicken Shack.

  As he prepared to fight Ken Norton at Yankee Stadium, Ali no longer spoke of retirement. He also began looking for more business opportunities. He signed a contract to promote “Ali African Feelings” bed sheets, with a photo of Ali in a tuxedo on every package. “We’ve got bedspreads and towels, comforters, too / Sheets made for blacks, for whites, and for you,” Ali rhymed at a press conference announcing his deal.

  The fight game gets harder for an old man like me

  Selling sheets is easy as drinking iced tea

  The patterns are pretty, the idea’s a honey

  And would you believe, they are paying me money?

  A company called Mego International was making Muhammad Ali dolls (as well as dolls resembling Cher, Farrah Fawcett-Majors, and The Fonz from TV’s hit show Happy Days). Ali had his own animated cartoon television show called The Adventures of Muhammad Ali, in which he wrestled alligators, fought off poachers in the African jungle, and battled space warriors. There was even a song about Ali called “Black Superman,” with lyrics that rhymed the words “scar” and “king of the ring by far,” which became a hit outside the United States. Soon there would be endorsements for Muhammad Ali Sportswear, Saudi Arabian Toyota dealerships, Muhammad Ali Champion brand shoe polish, Gino’s fast-food restaurants, Bulova watches, Muhammad Ali rope-a-dope-soap-on-a-rope, the Muhammad Ali Peanut Butter Crisp Crunch Candy Bar, Birds Eye Quarterpounders (launched in England with Ali saying, “It takes a big mouth to eat a big burger”), Ore-Ida Hash Browns, Pizza Hut, and Brut cologne (“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, the smell of Brut, and the punch of Ali”). Ali partnered with a Saudi Arabian company that planned to sell “Mr. Champ’s” soft drinks, paint, and other products to underdeveloped nations. He also approved a Superman versus Muhammad Ali comic book, and signed on to do television and magazine ads for d-CON brand cockroach traps and cockroach sprays. The d-CON products would come with Ali’s picture on every box.

  Was this a sign? A preview of how the next chapter in the boxer’s life would unfold? Already, Ali had stopped picking fights over race, religion, and politics. Soon, he would stop punching people, too. When that happened, he would become the pitchman for products, not the product itself. But would that be all? Would that be enough? Ali wasn’t saying, and he seemed to be in no hurry to find out.

  In their first fight, Norton had broken Ali’s jaw. In their second fight, Ali had escaped with a close and controversial decision. Norton didn’t pummel opponents the way Frazier did, and he didn’t clobber with the power of Foreman, but he was a strong, smart, defensive fighter, and Ali knew he had to be at his best to win. The question remained, however: was his best good enough?

  Ali trained for the contest not in Deer Lake but at the Concord Resort Hotel in the Catskills region of New York. He sparred only about one hundred rounds — roughly half his usual workload for a fight — and generally left reporters unimpressed with his work ethic. One quipped that “the only thing he does with the same ferocity . . . as in the past is look
in the mirrors.” Between workouts one day, he drove Veronica around in a golf cart and tried — but mostly failed — to hit a few golf balls. On another day, he welcomed a group of army sergeants who asked Ali if he would pose for pictures to help promote recruiting for the military, which by now had done away with the draft. Ali, wearing a white robe over boxing trunks, happily agreed. If he commented on the irony of it all, reporters didn’t mention it. On another day, he drove to Port Jervis to see a piece of property he claimed to have recently purchased, but he got lost on the trip and couldn’t find it.

  He slimmed down for the contest, but he still looked a little soft. His chest lacked definition and traces of fat hung around his waist. He had the physique of a man who had been working to lose weight, not a man trying to get strong. Still, he bragged that he was a more powerful fighter than ever, that his new fighting style required neither speed nor subtlety. “I’m almost twice as better as the first Norton fight,” he said. “Frazier and Foreman do nothing to stop me. How Norton gonna do it?”

  Ticket sales were sluggish. Demand for seats at the closed-circuit venues was far from overwhelming. Ali-Norton promised to be a good fight. It was the rubber match. But it lacked the excitement of Ali-Frazier or Ali-Foreman. Ali didn’t even bother to taunt his opponent. “I wanna leave him be,” he said. “He don’t arouse me.”

  He tried to get aroused at the weigh-in, barking, “I want you, nigger!” and “Be at that fight, nigger!” But Norton seemed uninterested.

  The fight took place on a cool, rainy night before a crowd of about twenty thousand at Yankee Stadium. A pun-loving headline writer for one of the city’s tabloids called it “Yankee Afraidium,” while Sports Illustrated went with “Junkie Stadium.” New York City was in crisis, with crime rates soaring, the government flirting with bankruptcy. The rest of the country was only slightly better off. The world’s greatest superpower had become heavily dependent on foreign oil, and now there was a desperate shortage of fuel. Gasoline and heating oil prices rose sharply. Many Americans traded their gas-guzzling Cadillacs and Oldsmobiles for fuel-efficient, Japanese-built cars, but they weren’t necessarily happy about it. It felt like an admission of weakness. For the first time in decades, America looked like a country in decline. Inflation roared and the economy sputtered. Stories of fear and frustration filled the nightly news.