by Hana Ali
Dedication
For my ineffable father, the love of my life.
“If tears could build a stairway and memories
were a lane, I would walk right up to heaven
and bring you back again . . .”
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
Prologue
Domestic Affairs
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
New Beginnings
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Muhammad Ali, aka Daddy
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
My Father’s Childhood
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Farewells
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Appendix
Index
About the Author
Also by Hana Ali
Copyright
About the Publisher
© Michael Gaffney
Introduction
Nothing inspires like love: love for life, love for our family and friends, love for our husbands or wives, and love for our parents and our children. It is love that makes the pain worth bearing, the heart worth chancing, and love that saves us after we’ve risen and fallen, only to rise and fall again. As the great romances of our time—A Farewell to Arms, Doctor Zhivago, The Notebook, The Great Gatsby, The Bridges of Madison County—eternally express, love is all-consuming.
It’s been said that my father is one of the most written-about people in the world. As the chronicles continue to grow, the deepest, and most essential, essence of his spirit is still largely unknown.
My father once said: “I’ve been an actor my entire life. I wrote my own lines. I directed my own scenes. I starred in my own plays. I sold my own legend!” Have you ever wondered what happened after the curtain fell, the final song, and the last bow? Have you ever wondered what went on behind the scenes, in the everyday private life of, arguably, the world’s most famous man? What dreams he planned, what fears he endured, or the kind of parent he was to his nine children?
This is a love story. About a husband and the wife he lost, a father and the children he adored, and a man and the world that admires him. It is also the tale of a little girl and her adventures with her beloved father—the joy and laughter, the pain and sorrow—and the memories of her childhood home. Brought together here, through a confluence of audio recordings, love letters, diaries, and family photos, this memoir paints a candid portrait of Muhammad Ali’s untold family legacy.
We all know about the eighteen-year-old Olympic gold medalist who went on to become the world’s greatest champion, winning the heavyweight title for the first time at the age of twenty-two. With his quick wit, remarkable confidence and dazzling speed, he danced rings around his opponents while rhyming and predicting the rounds in which they would fall.
You’ve probably read about his religious conversion, when he changed his name to Muhammad Ali, and the stand he took refusing to fight in the Vietnam War on religious and moral grounds. Before entering the induction room on the morning of April 28, 1967, he was offered deals—told that he could perform boxing exhibitions and never see the battlefield—but he refused to compromise his principles. When the hour of truth arrived, and the name Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr. was called at the induction center, Muhammad Ali stood perfectly still. He knew in advance there would be consequences, and he was ready to pay the price of freedom.
Never wavering in his resolve, he would be unjustly stripped of his heavyweight title, banned from boxing, fined thousands of dollars, sentenced to five years in prison, and have his passport revoked. He lost three and a half of his prime fighting years, then on June 28, 1971, the Supreme Court unanimously overturned his conviction. And we all know about his return to glory and the legendary fights that followed.
In the late 1970s my father began making a series of audiotapes, mostly in our Los Angeles home. He chronicled nearly a hundred hours of memories and conversations on various topics and issues. My father always had his own way of doing things. His audio diaries are his unique efforts at recording his own legacy.
“If anyone is wondering why I, Muhammad Ali, am making these tapes, it’s because history is so beautiful. And, at the time we’re living, we don’t always realize it . . .”
Someone once told me my father is like an impressionist painting—a beautiful, complex work of art. Up close, you can see the brushstrokes, the fine details, but you need to step back to see the whole canvas.
In these pages, which link the golden and sometimes shadowy barriers between the past and present, I offer you this unique gift: a glimpse deep into my father’s heart. When observing him closely, you may find that sometimes his colors clash and contradict one another, but they never overshadow his natural light—his true nature.
To know the spirit of the Man, Muhammad Ali, and understand his heart and mind, you must walk the path he traveled and experience the overwhelming responsibilities he felt. While no book can recapture the magic, nor the inspiration, of his entire life, I hope At Home with Muhammad Ali will personify and extend his spirit—and show my father as he truly was: a remarkable human being with extraordinary qualities and human flaws. More importantly, a gentle father, patient and caring, with a heart purer than most will ever know.
Many athletes, and men in general, have reputations for being absent fathers. They have children they’ve never seen or taken financial responsibility for. It’s important to my father’s legacy that the world knows how much his children meant to him and how hard he worked to keep us united. How he remained friendly with all his ex-wives and was exceptionally generous when the relationships ended. You learn a lot about a person’s character by observing the way they handle their mistakes. My father wasn’t perfect, nobody is, but he owned up to his responsibilities. He never pointed fingers or made excuses for himself. He always provided for his children and our mothers. He is a father who adored his kids. Everything he did was for the livelihood of his family.
The prevailing questions asked of my siblings and me over the years are “How does it feel having Muhammad Ali as a father?” and “What was he like at home?”
I was born on August 6, 1976, the eldest of two daughters from my father’s third marriage to Veronica Porche. It’s been an incredible and adventurous experience, but as you will see, growing up Muhammad Ali’s child wasn’t always pain-free.
Like any family, we’ve had ups and downs, sorrows and regrets, happy and unpleasant memories. The difference is we had to share our dad with one another, and the world.
My father had Maryum (May May), Rasheda, Jamillah, and Muhammad Jr. with his second wife, Belinda Boyd. He had Laila and me with his third wife, Veronica Porche, and two children, Miya and K
haliah, with women he was never married to, Pat and Aaisha. In 1989, he and his widow, Lonnie, adopted a son. Asaad was born long after my father made his recordings, so he isn’t mentioned often in this book, but Asaad is an important part of his heart and legacy.
Dad never had children with his first wife, Sonji Roi, who once said to his eldest daughter, Maryum, “You should have been mine.”
Although, as his children, our stories differ, and each of our experiences is unique, we share this in common: throughout our lives, our father showered us with unconditional love and affection. I often told my dad he was the eighth wonder of the world. He was complicated in so many ways, yet simple in others. In his ability to show both compassion and forgiveness, he stood uniquely alone. As writer Steven Leckart once said to me, he witnessed the worst in people and still somehow retained the best in himself. In my eyes, he will always be the measure of greatness.
He was an Olympic gold medalist, a three-time World Heavyweight Champion, a conscientious objector, an Ambassador of Peace, and a hostage negotiator. He has ignited the Olympic cauldron and received the Presidential Medal of Freedom; now loved and admired for the same reasons he was once despised and scorned, he’s lived the life of a hundred men. Yet the role he cherished most was being a father.
“Khaliah,” he said to my sister when she was six years old, “when you were a little girl you would never talk to me, you would just hang up the phone . . . How old are you now, Khaliah?”
“I’m in the first grade . . . Daddy, I saw your picture in the store window.”
“What kind of picture was it?”
“You were smiling . . .”
When people achieve great success, something in their lives has to suffer. For Dad, it was him and his children. The demands of his career often kept him away from home. He missed out on a lot of the special little moments, like first steps, first words, and first days of school. With eight children from four different relationships, living in four different states, he could not be physically present for us all. Some of my siblings saw him more often on television than in person and spoke to him mostly over the telephone.
“Daddy, guess what?” continued Khaliah. “There was a boy at school and he said you were ugly, and I said, ‘My daddy’s BEAUTIFUL!’ And he said he can beat you up, and I said, ‘No, you can’t!’ And guess what? I did.”
“What did you do?”
She paused, as if considering. “Nah, I can’t tell.”
“Did you slap him?”
“How did you know?!”
“I was just guessing—you didn’t slap that boy?”
“Yes, I did!”
“No, you didn’t!”
“Yes, I did!”
“Then what did you say to him?”
“I told him my daddy’s ‘The Greatest’!”
We each had a unique relationship with our dad—though we all felt the sting of missing him when he was away, and the ache of having to say goodbye when our parents separated. The happy memories outweigh the unpleasant by far, and we’re left only with an incredible feeling of gratitude and appreciation for our remarkable father.
I’ve edited the recordings in this book for readability, not content. And I have changed some names for anonymity. I hope people will enjoy and recognize this document for what it is: an honest and intimate glimpse into the daily life of an imperfect, yet remarkable, human being. It reveals the life of a man who loved using his fame for good and making people smile. A man who lived his life openly, welcoming and friendly to everyone. A man who had the foresight to know his invaluable tape recordings would be cherished. And a man who, as his voice began to diminish, recorded every word for his family and posterity. As with all great portraits, to fully appreciate its depth and beauty both the light and shade are necessary.
When I started this book, my father was living, but he is no longer of this world. To hear his old, familiar voice, to experience him in his everyday home life, is an invaluable gift I wish to share, in written word, with the world to which he has always partly belonged.
In life, we all have parts to play. As this book will show, my father had many roles. The legend of his love will carry on for generations without end, and his voice will become a living memory. Like the enduring words of the world’s greatest writer William Shakespeare, “So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”
© Howard Bingham
Time is somewhat of a mystery; we often get caught up in its history.
—Muhammad Ali, letter to Veronica, 1985
Prologue
There are love stories that get lost in the sphere of time, that can be seen through the looking glass of a thousand stars. This is one of them. It began with a gift, a gift that was safely tucked away in an old weathered briefcase, collecting dust in the corner of a basement. In the company of old trophies, awards, and boxing memorabilia, its golden messages whispered in the dark, waiting patiently for the years to pass so they may fulfill their purpose. Then, one quiet evening, a trembling yet steady hand reached for the case, dusted it off, and carried it upstairs. Beneath a soft light, Muhammad Ali carefully opened it. He took out an old audio recording and put it into the tape player. Then he closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and listened to his old, familiar voice and the sound of his children’s laughter . . .
“This is Muhammad Ali at 55 Fremont Place, January 5, 1980. The time is 11 a.m., in Los Angeles. I’m chasing Hana and Laila . . .”
At eleven o’clock in the morning, around the corner from a guarded entrance to an exclusive residential enclave stood a beautiful white, rococo mansion. A tan-and-brown Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible sat in the driveway. To the left was a furnished patio, to the right a flight of steps leading to the swimming pool. Butterflies fluttered in the back garden as two regal Doberman pinschers, Sheba and Samson, paced the tailored lawn.
Within the ornate stone walls of this thirty-room house, my father, wrapped in a brown terry bathrobe, worked eagerly in his first-floor mahogany-paneled den, as if in a race against time. His feet stuck out from under his gold-trimmed Louis XVI desk. Collections of exotic birds, the passion of my mother, Veronica, screeched from the adjoining conservatory.
Upstairs, our antique-filled home swarmed with young life. As two little girls, my sister Laila and I, ran downstairs, love and laughter echoed through the halls. When he heard us, our father put down his pen. Contemplating our fleeting youth, he grabbed the tape recorder from his desk drawer and rushed after us . . .
“This is Muhammad Ali at the house on Fremont Place . . .” His breathing heavy. His voice shaky from running. “I’m chasing Hana and Laila . . . I’m Bigfoot!” He growled, stomping down the hall behind us. “I’m the Incredible Hulk!” Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!
We ran into his office, screaming with unbridled laughter. “Aaaaaahh!”
“Now they’re on the couch, cuddling up together. I’m coming after them! Hana’s four, Laila’s three . . . I’m coming!”
“Aaaaaahh!” we screamed, then jumped off the sofa and ran out of the room.
“Chase me again, Daddy . . .” I called, running up the stairs into my mother’s room.
“Me too!” said Laila, following behind me.
“Now they’re grabbing their mother’s coattail, trying to hide—I’m coming for them!”
I jumped out from behind my mother: “I’m The Big Bad Wolf! Roooaarr!”
“Hana’s making a scary face,” he whispered into the recorder. “Aaaaaahh!” He mock-screamed.
“Roooaarrr!” I roared again, waving my arms above my head, as I ran toward him. “I’m Dracula!” I shouted as Laila mimicked me.
“Aaaaaahh! Now they’re both coming after me!” he hollered as we chased him back down the hall. Our voices trailed off with the sound of love and laughter . . .
After the noise settled, my father spoke into the recorder again, addressing posterity and our future selves: “Now we’re going to l
isten to this tape, so Hana and Laila can hear how they sound. I wish that I had tapes of myself when I was this small—I’m sure most people do. I’m thankful to almighty God that I appreciate life and realize how great life is. Once we get old, we’ll never be back at this age again, and I know it’s nice to have a record of all these things. This is Muhammad Ali at 55 Fremont Place, January 5, 1980. The time is 11:05 a.m. in Los Angeles. This is for you, Hana and Laila and Veronica, to hear years from now. You will thank me for this one day.”
Me on the right, Laila on the left, at Dad’s training camp in 1980.
Eighteen years later, 1998
One fated afternoon in Los Angeles, my father and I were watching a classic Clint Eastwood film in his hotel room when, without warning, he pulled an old briefcase from behind his chair and dumped its contents on the rug in front of me. I was nineteen by then and had already received so many gifts from him—monetary gifts, boxing memorabilia, priceless manuscripts by the scholar and teacher Hazrat Inayat Khan, about love, life, and the human condition, which he referred to as “the wisest books in the world.” I’m grateful for everything, but nothing prepared me for what I was about to receive in that room, and nothing would ever compare.
I stared curiously at a pile of micro tape cassettes. I didn’t know yet that soon my life would change forever, that I’d discover things about my dad I never knew. All that would come later.
When I was in junior high, my father had casually mentioned the recordings he’d made when I was a little girl. He said, “One day, when you’re a big lady, I’m going to play them for you, so you can hear how you used to sound.” But the moments he’d captured would remain elusive—a phantom I’d heard of but had yet to see. And over the years their existence faded into the shadows of my distant memories.
I wondered again why he’d never mentioned the recordings of love, his plans, fears, and adventures, waiting to share their secrets with his children and the world. If he had told me, if I had known what was on the tapes, waiting to be discovered, there’s no way I would have forgotten them—not a chance. But like their enduring messages, frozen in time, he waited patiently for the years to pass.
