Dad, Muhammad Ali, and the month of January

Smokin Joe, Big George, and The Greatest.

I was fortunate to see a lot of their ring exploits.

All were born in January.

The month is also a personal one for me. My dad passed away on January 17, the same day Muhammad Ali was born in 1942.

The connection is undeniable. Dad, who introduced me to The Sweet Science, discussed Ali a lot, even though his favorite fighter was Joe Louis.

Dad was born in Chicago. The Brown Bomber made his professional debut in the Windy City in 1934. Louis fought nine times at a couple of venues in downtown Chicago. One was only a few miles from where Dad and his family of five brothers and sisters lived in a tiny apartment.

Seven-year-old dad reads the sports page every day. He noticed Louis and started following his career – something not very popular in his Italian neighborhood. Dad wasn’t shy about his affection for Louis.

Louis dominated – winning his first 24 bouts until he ran into former champ Max Schmeling in 1936. Schmeling knocked out Louis in round 12. Dad hadn’t even bothered to listen to the fight on the radio – he was that confident. Louis had already dispatched former titleholders Primo Carnera and Max Baer. The loss stunned him.

A year later, Dad, with the help of a kind Chicago cop, witnessed Louis winning the heavyweight crown at Comisky Park in Chicago.

The Brown Bomber was the heavyweight champion of the world.

Some 30 years later, Dad, Mom, and my sister live in Oklahoma. Dad brought the Ring Magazine home one day for me. I’m six years old. I already knew who Cassius Clay was. His mouth did the trick. I heard Clay  on TV. He bellowed and bragged. Who was this young guy – loaded with charisma? I loved him immediately.

Why?

I didn’t take him seriously. I sensed he was joking around.

Many didn’t agree with me.

Especially in Oklahoma in 1964.

Like my dad in Chicago and Louis, I wasn’t shy about supporting Clay. He (Clay) had recently captured the heavyweight title by stopping the unbeatable Sonny Liston.

A year later, he changed his name to Muhammad Ai. Now he was scary.  He was already loud and brash. He’d predict the rounds his fights would end.

The hate grew.

Dad and I went fishing in Broken Arrow, Ok, most Saturdays. On the drive there one morning, I remember seeing a sign that said “White Only” above a public water fountain.

Ali was controversial in many ways. So-called boxing experts said he didn’t box correctly. Ali, they said, “Never threw a body shot.”

They were right about that. Ali’s style was his own. He didn’t care what the experts said – a rebel in the boxing ring. Ali was all about speed. His legs and hands were his strengths. He’d move to music only he heard.

Ali would dance, while Joe Louis would destroy.

Dad and I talked about this a lot. Most boxing fans discussed and argued about Ali. A block party brought out the ugliness. (described in more detail in A Few More Rounds by Jerry Fitch and myself)

It was the first time I heard the word lynch.

Dad’s timely interruption saved the day.

I thought about that day recently.

Dad passed his love of boxing to me. Even more impressive was his sense of fairness. It wasn’t easy to stand up to something unpopular in the neighborhood in the 1930s.

Or the South in the 1960s.

But Dad did it, and so did I.

Rest easy Dad and Muhammad Ali. Hopefully, you’re up there discussing the big fights. Say hi to Joe Frazier.

Has Joe Louis joined you?