At Home with Muhammad Ali

by Hana Ali

  I pulled my license out of my wallet, thanked the man again and drove past the gates onto Fremont Place. When I crossed the threshold, I felt like I was in a dream. The very air seemed to alter. I felt like I had traveled back in time, like I had stepped into one of my father’s recordings.

  “I’m at 55 Fremont Place, at home with Hana and Laila, and they’re eating popsicles. Veronica and me just got in from Las Vegas . . . Lou Rawls was having a concert.”

  “Daddy, I want to talk to you on that thing.”

  “Okay, Hana, come talk to Daddy. Say ‘I like popsicles.’”

  “I like popsicles . . .”

  “Say ‘One day I’ll listen to these tapes.’”

  “One day I’ll listen to the tapes . . .”

  I drove slowly around the corner, past the side lawn, driveway, and iron gates, where I used to stand on my tiptoes waiting for my father to come home. I parked across the street, facing the front entrance of the house. I got out of the car and walked over to the curb, to the endless row of steps leading up to the mahogany door. I fantasized about walking up to it, knocking on it. I imagined my father answering it. It was as improbable as the hope of his fans—complete strangers who had climbed the steps years ago, hoping and dreaming that he just might answer it, like they had read in so many newspaper articles and magazines about people’s dreams being answered when he opened the door.

  “We drove all the way from Atlanta,” they told reporters. “We drove up from Washington, Texas, Ohio . . . We got his address and just walked up and he answered the door, let us in, fed us and showed us magic tricks. It was unbelievable,” they said. “There’s no one like him.”

  I imagined their eyes widening in disbelief as the door opened and his face appeared.

  For those fans, the impossible happened. For me, it could not, and as I stood there remembering I felt the heart-aching nostalgia of never being able to go back again. I was so close, yet so far away. He was gone now—to his forever home.

  “We’re all going to die one day.” His words came back to me. “I will die; your mother will die; and you and your sister will die . . . no one lives forever. What we do for God is all that matters. It’s all that will last.”

  When I miss my father, when I want to hear his voice and the sound of our play and laughter, I put on a recording, close my eyes, and travel back to this place—Fremont Place.

  “Again, this is October 24, 1979, in the Los Angeles home. I’m taping Hana and Laila for the future. Hana’s three years old and Laila will be two in December . . . Hana, I’m playing this for you when you get big so you can hear Daddy doing this.”

  “That’s my tape?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “When I get big that won’t be yours anymore?”

  “No, when you get big this will be yours . . . Say ‘I’m going to hear this when I get big.’”

  “I’m going to hear it when I get big.”

  “And ‘I will be glad Daddy did it.’”

  “I’m gonna be glad that Daddy did it . . .”

  In this house, somewhere in time, I will always be a carefree little girl singing with her father in the morning before school, watching him light the fireplace in his den, begging to sip his coffee . . . Eating popsicles for breakfast . . . Running through the halls . . . Watching his magic shows . . . Riding with my father up Wilshire Boulevard with the top down, my hair blowing in the wind.

  These are my favorite memories. They’re frozen in time, in a place where age will never change them, Parkinson’s will never shake them, and death will never take them.

  “Okay, Hana, now we’re going to sign off. Say ‘I’m a big girl now.’”

  “I’m a BIG girl now!”

  “Say ‘I hope you like the tapes.’”

  “I hope you like the tapes.”

  “Say bye, Hana.”

  “Bye, Hana . . .”

  “Signing off . . .”

  The hair on the back of my neck prickled as I stood there, and some small voice inside me gave a warning. I wasn’t supposed to be here. I was an unwelcome visitor trying to relive something long past. Something that belonged to another place in time.

  It was time to let go and say goodbye.

  A black BMW sedan was in front of the house where Dad used to park his Rolls when my mother’s Mercedes was too low in the driveway. I wondered if the car belonged to the new owners, the family of four who lived there now, making their own memories. I looked up at the guest bedroom window, the one my father used to sleep in. The sun was out, but the light was on. I thought about the songs we used to sing in that room, the bedtime stories he told me. How I used to wake him in the night asking for popsicles and pickles.

  I wiped a lone tear, gave one last look at 55 Fremont Place—the steps, the front door, that bedroom window—and as I got back into my car and drove away a poem by William Wordsworth came to mind.

  Though nothing can bring back the hour

  Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;

  We will grieve not, rather find

  Strength in what remains behind.

  “Thank you,” I said as the guard handed me back my license.

  “Did you get what you came for?” he asked.

  “Yes, I did,” I said. “It was even more beautiful than I remembered.”

  Epilogue

  55 Fremont Place, Los Angeles

  I’m standing in front of my childhood home. The sun is shining. My father is calling my name. This is a dream, I tell myself. I know this because his voice is loud and clear, the way it sounded when I was a little girl.

  “Hana,” he calls again. I see him standing at the top of the steps. His face is glowing. He looks strong and healthy—almost ethereal. He calls my name once more.

  “I’m coming, Daddy,” I shout, but when I run toward him, he disappears. “Daddy!” I call out. But he’s no longer there. As I stand alone on the steps of Fremont Place, a warm breeze brushes against my cheek, as if to kiss me, and whispers in my ear: I’m still here. I wake up in a cold sweat.

  The ghosts still stir occasionally. I’d be disappointed if they didn’t.

  © John Stewart

  Acknowledgments

  For my father, who has given me the greatest gifts of all. In the words of one of his favorite sayings: If all the oceans were ink and all of the trees were pens, it would still not be enough to write his story of love.

  For my beautiful mother, who has always let me express myself freely without judgment. Thank you for teaching me how to be a lady and always setting the highest example of what a lady is: never speaking badly of those who spoke badly of you, always seeing the good, even in those who only sought out the faults in you. And most importantly, for always forgiving those who caused you your greatest pain. It’s no wonder Daddy loved you so deeply.

  For my husband, Kevin Casey. Thank you for having the utmost patience with me through this long, emotional, and liberating process. Your love and support helped me reach my goal.

  For Laila’s daughter, my six-year-old niece Sydney Conway, who gave me the greatest advice of all. When I told her how hard I had been working on this book, she looked up at me and said, “Auntie Hana, just give it to God.”

  A very special thank you for my editor, Brenda Kimber, at Penguin Random House. Thank you for giving me creative freedom and letting me make so many decisions, from the book cover and the page count to the number of photographs. If this book does not do well, it is certainly not your fault. Thank you for all of your hard work and patience, and for helping me make this book what it is: my own. And for Debs Warner, my copy editor. Thank you for all your hard work and patience. You and Brenda have both gone above and beyond! You have both been absolutely amazing. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

  For my agent, Jill Marr. I appreciate all of the work that you do. As always, you have been wonderful. Thank you.

  For George Foreman, who has been like a second father to me. Thank you for always offering
your support in my time of need. You are truly wonderful, and I will always be grateful for your presence in my life and that of your beautiful daughter Georgetta. May God bless you and your beautiful family and grant you endless blessings.

  To family friends and photographers who generously let me use some of the photographs in this book. It is such a blessing to have the same generosity that my father bestowed upon the world come full circle to be shared with me.

  For Dustin Bingham, who is like a brother to me, and the son of my father’s friend, the late Howard Bingham. Thank you for letting me use those wonderful photographs taken by your father over the years. I am forever grateful!

  For my father’s friend Tim Shanahan, author of Running with the Champ: My Forty-Year Friendship with Muhammad Ali. Thank you for always offering to help me in any way that you can. And for Gene Kilroy, Dad’s friend and business manager, the pictures you took of my father and me at Fighter’s Heaven are among my favorites of us together. Thank you for always looking after Dad’s brother, Uncle Rock, aka Rudy.

  For Michael Gaffney, author of The Champ: My Year with Muhammad Ali. Thank you for always being so willing to help me. Your photographs have captured so many wonderful memories.

  For Bob Rosato, chief operating officer at USA Today Sports Images. Thank you for letting me use one of my all-time favorite photos—me and Dad eating popsicles together in his home office.

  For my new friend and very talented poet-writer Derek McFadden, author of Prose from a Grandson to a Senior Fellow. Thank you for all of the long hours you spent proofreading my manuscript and offering your invaluable advice. I hope I can return the favor some day.

  For Marnie Summerfield Smith. Although I met you when the book was almost finished, you were a breath of fresh air, who helped me dig deep and bring the suppressed memories to the surface in a couple of the most difficult chapters I had to write. Thank you, Marnie, for all of your efforts and the proofreading and time that you set aside to help me make my deadline.

  For Stan Wilson, with PBS, who said to me one day, “You need to write this story in a way that will keep people interested.” This inspired me to read a dozen “how to write a memoir” books. Thank you, Stan! Without that simple advice, this book might not have been what it is today.

  For Cal Fussman, bestselling author and journalist. Thank you for always being there to give me great advice and offer your insights. Like you said to me long ago in my father’s living room in Michigan, I tried to find the little nuggets of gold.

  A very special thank-you to my friend and the director of I Am Ali, Clare Lewins. Thank you for all your words of encouragement as you read the early versions of this book.

  For my friends who read every version as the book metamorphosed over the years.

  For my friend Tina Gharavi, a talented screenwriter and director, and my favorite shopping partner. Thank you for all your help and late-night table-reading sessions. Your love, patience, and kindness is greatly appreciated.

  For my friend Shana Mangatal, author of Michael and Me, and her lovely mother, Janice. Thank you both for reading various chapters again and again, and always encouraging me with your positive feedback and fresh enthusiasm. You both read more chapters and versions of this book than anyone else.

  For my friend Lauren Ellington. Thank you for always making my father smile and eagerly reading random parts of the manuscript with endless enthusiasm.

  For my friend Elizabeth Trumbach. You were there from the very start six years ago when the book was just a pile of transcribed recordings. Thank you for all of your help organizing them.

  For my sweet friend Daisy Villa and her husband, Alex. Thank you for always encouraging and uplifting me with your spiritual and loving support. And thank you, Alex, for always being so willing to help me with the book in any way that you could.

  For my friend and world-class massage therapist Lama Amin and her friend Darren. Thank you both for always reading the chapters I emailed you. And thank you, Lama, for those magical massages. They helped me relax, opened my mind, and freed my creativity.

  For my cousin-in-law Brandy. Thank you for taking the time to read my rough drafts and encourage me.

  For my friend Nikki and her father, Neal Kleiner. Thank you both for reading and encouraging me.

  For my friends Cia Parker and Kenisha Norton. Thank you for all of your thoughtful input. And a special thank you to Cia, for all the nights you spent reading various chapters.

  For my friend Valerie Ivette. Thank you for all of the time you put in reading my rough drafts and listening to my ideas.

  For my friend Ovais Naqvi, prater at Rise Capital and Co-Editor of, GOAT—A Tribute to Muhammad Ali, along with other celebrated books. Thank you for all the time you spent fact checking my manuscript.

  I’d also like to express my gratitude for the US editorial team at Amistad, HarperCollins for all of their patience and hard word, with a special thank you for my US copyeditor, Dianna Stirpe.

  And last but certainly not least. For my friend Tracy Sherrod, editorial director at Amistad, HarperCollins, who was also the editor of my very first book, More Than a Hero. Thank you for always being there to advise me and help me over the years. And most importantly, thank you for coming up with the name of this book: At Home with Muhammad Ali. Tracy, you have been the wind beneath my literary wings. Thank you for always believing in me. In one way or another, you and everyone mentioned here has helped make this book what it is.

  I thank you all from the depths of my heart and soul. May God grant you all, endless blessings.

  Appendix

  The following are my father’s original handwritten notes, letters, and drawings revealed in this book, along with other keepsakes shown herein.

  Index

  The pagination of this digital edition does not match the print edition from which the index was created. To locate a specific entry, please use your ebook reader’s search tools.

  Abdel (assistant), 29, 124

  Afghanistan, 192

  Afro-Caribbean Post (newspaper), 77

  Agony Hill, 42, 93, 364

  Ali (movie), 229, 306, 358

  Ali, Aaisha (Wanda Bolton), 5, 87, 176

  Ali, Asaad, 5, 39, 404

  Ali, Belinda Boyd, 3, 86, 87, 137, 144–52, 162, 163, 169–72, 235, 279, 306, 332

  Ali, Hana, 12, 14

  Ali, Jamillah, 3, 134, 139, 163–65, 166, 176–78, 179, 182, 218, 255, 419

  Ali, Khaliah, 5–6, 87, 137, 164–65, 176, 179–80, 182

  Ali, Laila, 3, 12, 14, 29, 43, 44–45, 47, 51, 60–61, 72, 99, 108, 115–16, 120, 125, 127, 165, 175, 179, 187–89, 200, 211, 214, 215, 218, 223, 253, 255–56, 265, 277, 287, 306, 308, 332, 343, 359, 363, 367, 377, 381, 383, 395, 402, 418, 424

  Ali, Maryum (May May), 3, 139, 163–65, 167, 176–77, 180–81, 182, 255, 356–57, 401, 418

  Ali, Miya, 5, 73, 164–65, 176, 179–80, 182, 187

  Ali, Muhammad

  Apollo Creed character based on, 232, 235–37

  arguments, 59–60

  The Art of Friendship, 83

  The Art of Personality, 83

  bike stolen, 311

  birth of, 319

  bittersweet recording with Veronica Porche, 161–63

  as celebrity of decade, 18–20

  childhood, 317, 319–33

  coming out of retirement, 85–96

  death of, 417–21

  divorce from Veronica Porche, 30, 32, 135, 297–98, 382, 392–93

  draft refusal, 2, 155, 273

  dreaming of starting a world organization, 69–70, 78, 269, 271

  driving around Los Angeles, 173, 176, 182–84, 211–12, 377–78, 403

  faith of, 59, 75, 111, 139, 213, 241–42, 255–58

  fan mail, 372

  fear of flying, 351–53, 352

  financial difficulties, 86–90

  Freedom Road, 40, 62, 63–67, 119, 180, 227, 279

  funeral, 175, 421

  generosity of, 59, 141
, 248

  Golden Gloves tournament, 40, 324, 329, 352, 371

  The Greatest, 40, 63, 106, 107, 178, 225, 358, 403

  The Heart, 83, 137

  heavyweight title, 2, 40, 56, 82, 155, 187, 239, 247

  historical marker on childhood home, 343

  Hollywood Walk of Fame star, 307–8

  homeless man hits face of, 74–75

  The Intoxication of Life, 83

  introduction to boxing, 311–12

  Iran hostage crisis, 5, 17, 90, 190, 192, 196, 253, 261–65, 272–73

  Laila as boxer and, 44–45

  on life and death, 257–58

  love letters to Veronica Porche, 23, 51–56, 161, 298, 308, 378–81, 383, 388, 414

  magic tricks, 183–84, 210, 377

  marriage to Yolanda “Lonnie” Williams, 373

  Muhammad Ali Day Proclamation, 40–41

  Olympic Games Gold Medal, 2, 5, 40, 352, 371, 378

  Parkinson’s disease, 38–39, 44, 91, 111, 191, 297, 360, 364, 369–74, 388, 393

  phone call from Jack Elliot, 267–72, 273

  phone call from Marlon Jackson, 221–23

  phone call from Stevie Wonder, 204–6

  phone calls from Harold Smith, 347–54

  phone call to George Foreman, 241–48

  phone call to Jeremiah Shabazz, 272–73

  phone call to Joe Frazier, 35–36

  phone call to Mike Douglas, 32–34

  phone call to Tom Bradley, 36–38

  The Purpose of Life, 83

  The Real Cause of Man’s Distress, 83

  saves suicidal man, 73–74

  separation from Veronica Porche, 29–30, 50–54

  The Soul of a Butterfly, 15, 403

  speeches at colleges, 82–83, 137

  stripped of heavyweight title, 2, 155

  on The Tonight Show, 106–7

  trips to China, 33–34, 36, 189–92, 256

  trip to Russia, 77

  visiting other nations, 192–96

  visits to White House, 33–34, 65, 192

  visit with Michael Jackson, 214–17

  wedding ceremonies with Veronica Porche, 56, 139, 155–58, 392