That Voice

On the day after of the passing of the Reverend Jesse Jackson Sr, I found myself driving to work after a treatment at the University of Chicago Hospital, just a stone's throw from Rainbow/PUSH headquarters, the organization that Jackson founded in 1971. It dawned on me that morning that we had just lost the last significant figure in American history that has remained a constant, relevant presence on the scene since my childhood.

Rev. Jackson first appeared on my radar in 1968, in the terrible days following the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. I was not quite ten years old at the time.

Like a figure out of central casting with his athletic 6'4" frame, his charisma, his endless supply of self-confidence, his movie star good looks soon to feature feature an impressive afro, and his preference for casual attire, Jesse Jackson cast a stark contrast to the more conservative, buttoned-down image of Dr. King and most of his other associates who would try to fill the void after the great Civil Rights icon's death. 

In a word, the rough-around-the-edges Jesse Jackson was the personification of cool.

On top of that, while he may have lacked some of his mentor's gravitas, Jackson was an equally gifted orator, whose delivery and rhetoric had the power to move people to tears, to anger and most important, to action.

All of that in time contributed to Jesse Jackson's inheriting the role as the de facto leader of the American Civil Rights movement.

Of course, he wasn't Dr. King, something he no doubt was reminded of endlessly since April 4, 1968. The one thing he happily lacked in abundance was MLK's most distinctive trait, the role of martyr.

That 's clear even in our day as folks you know damned sure would have excoriated Martin Luther King when he was alive, trip over themselves to praise the dead icon today. 

They don't trip over themselves like that for Jesse Jackson and his own successors.

That said, I've had plenty of occasions over the past 58 years to roll my own eyes over some of the antics of Jesse Jackson, especially the tendency he had to never to shy away from attention. I wasn't alone, in a 1972 article in the Chicago Sun Times, columnist Mike Royko dubbed him "Jetstream Jesse." 

Lest you think those are the opinions of two old white guys grumbling about black people "who don't know their place", no less a figure than Martin Luther King himself was skeptical about the effects Jackson's over-the-top personal ambition and arrogance would have on the movement he led.

Was Jackson a self-serving, attention seeking prima donna? Of course he was. And I might add, we are all the better for it.   

Now it's time for you to roll your eyes at me. Reverend Jackson happened to pass away as I was in the middle of writing my last post, looking for insights from William Shakespeare on the political situation we find ourselves in today.

Wouldn't you know it, the Bard has some insight on Jesse Jackson's ambition as well. 

In Act II Scene 1 of the play Julius Caesar, one of the plotters in the plan to assassinate the great Caesar says this: 

I have not known when his affections swayed
More than his reason. But 'tis a common proof,
That lowliness is young ambition's ladder,
Whereto the climber-upward turns his face;
But when he once attains the upmost round
He then unto the ladder turns his back,
Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees
By which he did ascend.

Shakespeare uses the word "ambition" sparingly in his plays but when he does, it is always as a negative trait, much like we would use the term "power hungry" today. Here Brutus is expressing his fear that Caesar has the ambition to become king, something the people of Rome during the time of the Republic stood steadfast against. He is offering no evidence of this, but rather points to examples of aspiring tyrants cultivating the trust of the lower classes, in Roman terms the plebeians, only to turn their backs on them once they ascend that ladder of ambition.

After Brutus and his fellow conspirators assassinate Caesar, the crowd at first is drawn to their side when Brutus makes their case. Then Mark Antony, a strong supporter of Caesar's is allowed by Brutus to speak to the crowd. At first he seems to take the conspirators' side:

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar.

But he goes on to brilliantly dismantle their argument piece by piece until by the end of his speech, the crowd demands the heads of the conspirators. First, Antony points out Caesar's commitment to Rome and its people:

He hath brought many captives home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill.
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?

In other words, Caesar could have pocketed all of the spoils of war for himself, but he didn't.  

One of the most substantial differences between Jesse Jackson and Martin Luther King, contrary to their relative appearances, is that Dr. King was highly skeptical of capitalism and advocated for the complete redistribution of wealth. Were he alive today he would be branded a radical socialist. 

On the other hand, Jesse Jackson believed that the most practical way to lift people out of poverty, was to reform capitalism, opening it up to provide opportunities for the disadvantaged. In that vein he successfully challenged both Wall Street and Silicon Valley which helped many people of color and women become financially successful. Had he played his cards right, through those connections he made with big business, he could easily have made himself a very wealthy man, but he didn't.

Next in Mark Antony's speech, he testified to Caesar's commitment to the poor: 

When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:

I don't think I need to add anything here regarding Jesse Jackson's commitment to the poor. That is self evident, especially after he made it to the top of that ladder of ambition. He was fond of saying: "Don't look down on anyone, unless you're trying to lift them up." His commitment extended to the downtrodden, the dispossessed, and the disenfranchised of all colors, including the LGBT community, back when it was not popular to do so.

Finally Marc Antony addressed the chief concern of the conspirators, Caesar's kingly ambitions:

You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?

Jesse Jackson indeed had lofty ambitions, which in our time we don't necessarily see as a bad thing. He ran twice for the nomination of the Democratic Party to be their candidate for president, in 1984 and 1988. The odds against him winning the presidency however, especially in 1984 against an extremely popular incumbent, Ronald Reagan were enormous. The man who won the Democratic nod that year, former vice president Walter Mondale, lost the general election in a landslide. 

I have little doubt that in his heart of hearts, Jesse Jackson knew he didn't stand a chance to win the presidency those years. And yet, his were two of the most significant presidential campaigns in modern American history as they created a seismic shift in national politics, opening doors for people who before never would have stood a chance for success in American politics. Jackson never got to that promised land, but many successful lawmakers, governors, one Speaker of the House, one Vice President and one President of the United States did, all while standing upon Jesse Jackson's broad shoulders. 

Here is the closing of Jackson's 1988 Keynote Address to the Democratic National Convention in Atlanta, not far from Ebenezer Baptist Church where Dr. King began his career and where his final resting place is. In this clip you'll find a full display of Jackson's compassion, his empathy, his powerful oratory, his self-confidence, his desire to bring people of all races together..... and yes his audacity and his self-importance, with perhaps a little blarney thrown in for good measure. 

It's all there. 

But I dare you to watch this and not be moved to tears. 

Without Jesse Jackson's passion, his insight, and especially his chutzpah, what would we have left? Most likely the guy who ended up winning the Democratic nomination that year and went on to be trounced in the general election in November, Michael Dukakis.

With all due respect of course.

The tag phrase that comes out at the end of the clip, "Keep hope alive" will more than likely be Jesse Jackson's epitaph. But there is another phrase of his that I will forever associate with him: 

"I am somebody"

Like another truism that was coined much later, in a perfect world, "I am somebody" should never have had to have been said. But our world is far from perfect and for far too long, black people were treated like nobodies in a country where black lives didn't matter.

I don't remember the first time I heard Jesse Jackson deliver that line in call-and-response fashion that is so common in the black church, but it couldn't have been long after I first became aware of him. I realized immediately that he wasn't only speaking to his audience in the room, he was also speaking to me, a white kid who had just moved with his family to a new neighborhood, and to a new school where my new classmates made me feel like an outsider, a nobody.

At a very young age, it was from that moment on I knew that despite all the baggage he may have carried with him, Jesse Jackson was the real deal.

Today, the day of Jesse Jackson's public going home ceremony on the far South Side of Chicago, back at the hospital about a mile from where he will be laid to rest tomorrow, I had the opportunity to ring a bell signifying my completing twenty sessions of radiation therapy. At that moment, Jesse Jackson's voice saying  "Keep Hope Alive" took on an entirely new meaning to me. 

That voice, the voice of my generation and several to follow, is the voice of the conscience of our nation. It is a voice that death will not silence, not as long as people are willing to listen.

A Cautionary Tale...

I just learned that a terrific ballplayer, Bill Buckner has died. In his 21 year MLB career, Buckner racked up some impressive, if not Hall of Fame stats. But in a twist of fate, he will forever be remembered for one unfortunate play. Many people including me remember exactly where they were when they witnessed the event live on October 25, 1986. The following cautionary tale whose motto, be careful what you wish for, was written in his honor a few years ago:

Bill Buckner 1949-2019

On October 26, 1986 I heard the following joke:

First Person: Someone told me that Bill Buckner attempted suicide last night.
Second Person: Really? That´s terrible.
First Person: Yeah, but he let the train roll through his legs.

So you want to be a big league baseball player? Well first you have to be good. Then you have to have parents or some kind of mentor willing to support your dream who will go the extra mile to play catch with you every day, teach you how to hit and throw the ball, pay for little league, then the traveling team, and be willing to get you to all the games, even if they´re two or three states over.

Maybe if you´re lucky, you´ll make the high school team and if you´re good enough, you could be the star of the team. If you´re exceptional, you might be able to get a scholarship to go to college and play ball, or if you´re phenomenal, you might even get noticed by a professional scout who just might sign you up for a tryout. 

Beware though, there are lots of ballplayers out there who´d love to be in your position and make one slip up, they will be in your position. But you´re really good, have a terrific attitude and luck´s been on your side up until now. You´ve worked your butt off for years, suffering through some real asshole coaches and you´ve finally made it into the minor leagues. Slowly you work your way up through the ranks, schlepping yourself and your gear onto buses for endless rides to podunk towns. 

Eventually you´re lucky enough and good enough to get your chance at the Big Show. It certainly doesn´t get any easier up there, the only exception being someone else gets to carry your gear and you travel from town to town by plane. And oh yes, there´s the money. Now, not only are lots of people hungry for your job, there are lots of others who are after your scratch as well. Somehow, by hook or by crook, despite the numerous injuries and the nagging pain you´ve been playing through for years, you built yourself a respectable career at the highest level attainable in your profession. Before you know it, you have more games behind you than in front of you and the twilight of your career is fast approaching. 

But you end up on a team with a shot at the Series and this might be your last chance to get a ring, the dream of every kid who ever picks up a bat and a ball. That ring is so close you can almost taste it, you´re two runs up, only three outs away. Then things start to unravel; they tie it up but no problem, you have plenty of time to get back into the game. Next thing you know, the ball is hit to you, an easy roller to first, all you have to do is move a little to your left, pick up the ball and make an easy toss to the pitcher covering the bag, inning over. It hurts like hell but your gimpy legs get you there OK, you bend down and get into proper fielding position, glove square on the ground. Somehow the ball just seems to skip past the glove, you don´t know, it all happened so fast. The ball goes between your legs and into right field, runner scores, game over.

Never mind that your pitchers gave up two runs after two men were out in the inning. Never mind the wild pitch allowing the tying run to score that your catcher could have but didn´t stop. Never mind that the batter was running so hard down the line you might not have had a chance to get him anyway. Never mind the team you were playing didn´t win 108 games that year for nothing. Never mind that your team had the chance to pick you up in the next game but didn´t. Never mind that your team probably wouldn´t have gotten there in the first place without you. It doesn´t matter, you will go down in history as the guy who lost the game and the World Series for your team.

In the end, despite having had a terrific career, you will go to your grave being remembered as the guy who let the ball go through his legs in the sixth game of the ´86 Series.

Remember son, for every one Bill Mazeroski or Joe Carter, there are dozens and dozens of Bill Buckners.

RIP

Aretha Franklin

They called her "The Queen of Soul", an apt title to be sure. But at the same time it's woefully inadequate, kind of like calling the land formation in northern Arizona, The Grand Canyon. It is a canyon to be sure, and it's grand, there's no denying that, but it's so much more.

Consider this: in 1965 Otis Redding, the man called "The King of Soul" by many, wrote and recorded a song called Respect. In his hands it was a straight-ahead playful little number about a man asking his woman for a little respect when he comes home after a hard day's work, He didn't care what she did during the day, heck, she could even "do him wrong", as long as she gave him his due when he got home. The hook in Redding's version is his cheerful "hey hey hey" playing off a nine note riff from the horn section in the refrain. Granted it's not Redding's best work, for him it's almost a throw-away song, although it did become a hit.

When Aretha Franklin got her hands on the song a couple years later, she turned it on its head. She didn't ask her partner for respect, she demanded it.

The new hook was the call and and respnse between the lead and the backup vocals provided by Franklin's sisters Carolyn and Erma. All my years in the darkroom listening to oldies music provided me the opportunity to learn the backup vocals (I'd never dare sing the lead) to a point where I was convinced that I could have filled in for Carolyn or Erma should the need have ever arisen during one of Aretha's tours.

If you'll just indulge me for a moment:

Aretha: all I'm askin' is for a little respect when you get home: 

Carolyn, Erma & me:  just a little bit 

Aretha: Hey Baby,
Carolyn, Erma & me:  just a little bit,

Aretha: when you get home 

Carolyn, Erma and me:  just a little bit,

Aretha: Mister 

Carolyn, Erma and me:  just a little bit, 

etc...

Of course the poor schmo the song is addressed to doesn't get the point so Franklin, her sisters and I have to spell it out for him:

Aretha: R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me.R-E-S-P-E-C-T,take care, TCB, oh

Carolyn, Erma and me: sock-it-to-me sock-it-to-me sock-it-to-me sock-it-to-me sock-it-to-me 

Aretha: A little respect 

Carolyn, Erma and me: sock-it-to-me sock-it-to-me sock-it-to-me sock-it-to-me sock-it-to-me  

Aretha: Whoa, babe 

Carolyn, Erma and me:  just a little bit, 

Aretha: A little respect 

Carolyn, Erma and me:  just a little bit,

Aretha: And I ain't lyin' 

Carolyn, Erma and me:  just a little bit, 

Carolyn, Erma and me: Re, re, re, re 

Aretha: Start when you come home 

Carolyn, Erma and me: Re, re, re, respect 

Aretha:  Or you might walk in 

Carolyn, Erma and me:  just a little bit,

Aretha:  And find out I'm gone  

Carolyn, Erma and me:  just a little bit, 

etc...

Like every song Aretha Franklin ever performed, she made this one entirely her own. In interviews she insisted Respect was nothing more than one half of a dialog between a woman and her man, but her fans knew better. In her hands, Respect instantly became an anthem both for the women's movement as well as the Civil Rights movment.

I'm not aware if Aretha Franklin ever sang an overtly political song, (although she did cover Sam Cooke's great lament A Change is Gonna Come). She didn't have to. Just like Respect, people got the message when she repeatedly cried out the word "Freedom" in a song she wrote titled simply, Think.

As we've been celebrating her life that we lost this week, listening to songs she recorded during her amazing career, so many of them bring back memories and could easily be considered my essential Aretha Franklin song. It was hard to pick out one to feature on this post but I came up with a song that turned out to be her breakout number from 1967. Hard to believe but by that time, still only 25, Franklin had already recorded nine albums for Columbia Records, none of them commercially successful. The impressrio at that label, John Hammond, who was largely responsible for making the careers of folks like Count Basie, Billie Holiday, and Bob Dylan to name a few, just couldn't quite get it right with Franklin, perhaps trying and failing to make her fit into a mold that worked so well for him before. When Franklin's Columbia contract expired, she signed with Jerry Wexler of Atlantic Records who made the wise decision of letting her be herself and exploit the solid Gospel music background that formed the backbone of her prodidgious talent.

She brought this song, written by Ronnie Shannon to her first session at Atlantic which took place at the storied FAME recording studio in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. The story goes that Franklin sat down at the grand piano and the session pianist Spooner Oldham was so taken by her playing that he moved over to the electric keyboard. You can hear him in the opening bars of the tune. Among the other session players who played with Franklin on her first album for Atlantic (also named I Never Loved a Man the Way that I Love You) was the great King Curtis on tenor sax.




Like any great performer of popular music no matter what the genre, Franklin is able to directly touch the heart of her listener. This song in particular, she lays bare just about every conceivable emotion from pain, agner and sadness, to joy and exultation. Anybody who has ever been in love with someone in a difficult relationship (and aren't they all?) can instanntly relate. There are other versions of this song but I have no interest in hearing them as I can't imagine anyone bringing more to it than Aretha Franklin did.

My first memory of Aretha Franklin was alomst fifty years ago to the day, August 26, 1968 to be exact. My family was in the process of moving and during one of our numerous trips between Humboldt Park in the city to our new digs in the suburb of Oak Park, her voice came over the radio as she sang the Star Spangled Banner to officially open the Chicago Democratic National Convention, yes that one. Like every song she ever sang, she made it her own, much to the consternation of several in the hall and elsewhere who were not used to a soulful rendition of that song, including my dad who was mildly appalled. Strangely enough, as we were so engrossed in our move, it is my only direct memory of that turbulent time in my city's history.

By that time, still only 26, Aretha Franklin had already been proclaimed the Queen of Soul, and that performance, admittedly not her best as she flubbed some of the lyrics, didn't slow down her career one bit. In fact her status as American royalty, or as close to it as you can get, meant that she was asked to perform the national anthem dozens of times for significant occasions during her illustirous career. The last time was on November 24, 2016 in her hometown, during the tradional Detroit Lions  nationally televised Thanksgiving Day football game. Despite being advanced in age and already diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, Franklin's voice was hardly diminished as she performed perhaps the longest and most soulful rendition of that song ever. Again she had her detractors but I think the general mood of the country by that time was that Aretha Franklin represented this country and what it stands for better than the first verse of an an overwrought ballad with racist tones set to an English drinking song.

Taking a very basic survey asking two people, one of a generation older, my mother, and the other, a generation younger, a colleague at work, I came to the conclusion that Aretha Franklin's is not a timeless voice in the way that say Ella Fitzgerald is or perhaps the Beatles are. Hers is the voice of a particular time and place. Picking a song to represent her may have been a challenge, but it's no challenge to pick the essential voice of my generation. In an era filled with notable candidates, a pantheon of performing artists whose work could easily be chosen to fill the role as the voice of a generation, and will gladly tell you so themselves, one voice stands above the rest. Aretha Franklin's powerful, unrelenting voice was the heart, the soul and the consciousness of  my generation who came of age during the sixties and early seventies.

No mere pantheon of music's greatest stars could ever contain Aretha Franklin, she was that good.

My Cousin Bob

This month, my family said goodbye to the finest human being I have ever known, my first cousin Bob Hoggatt. Bob was the eldest child of my mother's only sibling, her late brother Robert. In that role, my Uncle Bob's namesake son was the patriarch of our family. He wore that distinction well.

Bob Hoggatt
1943-2018

I've known Bob all my life, but fifteen years his junior, my early memories of him are sketchy as during our family get togethers, I was more inclined to hang out with his youngest siblings who were closer to my age, my cousins Bill and Betty. I hardly have any recollections of Bob at all without Bridget, who married him when I was ten years old. While it is quite impossible to think of Bob without Bridget, the two were far from being attached at the hip, The couple consisted of two strong minded, strong willed, distinct individuals who perfectly complimented the other. I remember a conversation Bob and I had a long time ago about relationships and the pride he showed when he spoke of how he and his wife were perfect equals, that neither one of them could ever claim to be the dominant partner of the two. Being the wisest person I ever knew however, Bob was quick to point out that in even the most egalitarian of relationships, there are times when one partner is more equal than the other. We had a great laugh over that one.

Bob and I became close around the time I was a teenager, when I began to look for role models who weren't my parents. As I was raised an only child, he was the big brother I never had. Perhaps the greatest of his many qualities was his ability to be attentive to other people. Despite being older and much wiser, he never talked down or offered me unsolicited advice. That is something my children, who were both devastated by his death, picked up upon as well. It didn't matter if you were the Archbishop of Chicago, or the hospital attendant cleaning bedpans, in every encounter with Bob, you came away feeling that you were the most important person in the world. The important thing to note here is the fact that when you were with Bob, you were the most important person in the world to him, it was not an act.

That's not to say Bob didn't have what our grandmonther would have called "a little bit of the divil (sic) in him." Our closest time together was during my father's final days, as he lay in a semi-conscious state in a pallative care facility in Arizona. During that six week ordeal, Bob who was still working at the time and living in Chicago, visited my mother and me at least two or three times.. He provided us immeasurable compassion, comfort and companionship during that difficult time. He also provided a few much needed laughs.

My father's primary care physician at the facility was a man who obviously had a very high opinion of himself. His deep tan and long locks, along with a perfectly pressed western shirt, tight jeans and snakeskin boots gave him an almost movie star-like presence. The only thing that contradicted the effect was the voice. To compare that man's voice to Mickey Mouse would be a gross understatement. It was as if he walked around connected to a tank of helium. Bob first met this doctor at a meeting with my mother and me, where he spelled out all his great plans to prolong (not the word he used) my father's at the time miserable existance. As the doctor went on and on trying to give us what we all understood to be false hope, Bob listened intently, giving the conversation all the gravitas it deserved.

After the doctor departed, my mother asked Bob what he thought. Surprizing us both, Bob, never once breaking from his serious expression replied: "Well the first thing I have to say is what's up with that doctor's voice?" I have to say that I can't remember laughing harder in my entire life. As a devout man, Bob probably wouldn't like to be remembered as someone who got a laugh off of someone else's expense. But the truth is Bob deeply understood where his priorities were; the tremendous gift of laughter he provided my mother and me in our time of darkness, more than outweighed the transgression of poking a little fun of someone's affliction.

Bob in his natural state, yukking it up with family
members this past Christmas

That was how Bob lived his life. He lived the Gospel every day, but was not dogmatic about it. He understood what was important, that the most fundamental gifts spelled out by his faith are love, compassion and generosity. Despite his passionate love of the English language and his remarkable facility with it, he knew the most effective way he could communicate his faith was through example rather than words. 

We've spoken ad nauseam lately over the importance of following reason rather than blind faith. But I strongly believe that faith has a very powerful purpose in our lives, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. On the day he died I got a call on my phone at work. I didn't recognoze the number and as I typically do, considered ignoring it as nine times out of ten, these are recorded sales calls. But something told me to to answer the phone. For a moment my original suspicions were confirmed as there was a long delay at the other end which is always the case with recorded calls. Yet still I hung on the line. After about five seconds a halting, barely audible voice came over the phone. It was my cousin Bill delievering the news. While Bob had numerous health issues over the past five years, his death was unexpected and a complete shock. In fact we had plans to celebrate his 75th birthday the following week, and his health was at the time, the farthest thing from my mind. Think whatever you will but I am convinced it was Bob who told me to pick up the phone, as no one else in the family could bear to break the news to my mother who loved Bob as if he were her own son.

There have been other unusual moments in the days since his death that we are all convinced were influnced by Bob. I know scads of people who would take pains to point out that these events all had  perfectly rational explanations. Well those folks can believe whatever they want.

No matter what you believe, the truth is that our loved ones live on in those of us they leave behind. I'll know Bob is with me everytime I hug my children and God willing, someday my grandchildren, as his family was the greatest joy of his life. I'll know he's with me whenever I listen to those in pain, building up their self-esteem by letting them know what good and impostant people they truly are, as Bob often did. I'll know he's alive whever I treat a stranger like my oldest friend.

Bob, Bridget and their six grandchidren

On the other hand, I realize that neither I nor anyone could ever replace Bob. I doubt I'll ever make a point of visiting the gravesites of my family on their birthdays like he did. It's highly unlikely that I will keep a list of the sick and downhearted, and every night before I go to bed, remember each and every one of them in my prayers as he did. And I'll never have the boundess love and compassion for others that he did.

In her beautiful eulogy for her brother, my cousin Betty, herself no slouch when it comes to boundless love and compassion, reflected upon just that, recalling a particularly difficult chapter in their family's history:

For many reasons, every day was challenging and hard. At one point, I gave up. Most of us had nothing left in us to give. But Bob, just when you thought he had nothing left...he would dig deeper and keep going.

In short, it would take an entire extended family and then some to come close to fill the void of one Bob Hoggatt. His was a life well lived, one that despite our incalculable loss, my family will celebrate for as long as we are on this planet.

It is customary when someone dies to wish them a peacful rest. That will never happen with my cousin Bob. While he is no longer in need of our prayers, we deperately need his. It is my firm belief that wherever Bob is, he is at this moment working tirelessly on our behalf and as always, will never let us down.

And it is my fervent belief that one day Bob and I will see each other again and have a good laugh over this crazy and beautiful world.

Until that day comes, I'll miss you Bob.

The Greatest Show on Earth

I was taken aback but hardly surprised when my favorite restaurant in the world, Karl Ratszch's in Milwaukee, closed its doors for good last month. This month marked the end of an age old Chicago institution, Shallers Pump in Bridgeport, founded 136 years ago making it the longest continuously operating bar in town. I was saddened when I heard the news, but not shocked. In fact, part of me was amazed that both institutions survived as long as they did. It took lots of love and commitment to keep these moribund business on life support, as the average age of their patrons increased by one year, every time the calendar turned.

However I was blown away when I heard the news of the impending demise of the Greatest Show on Earth. By the time you read this, the flood lights of the Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Circus, will have been extinguished for good. I guess I just took the circus for granted; the thought never occurred to me that an institution founded the same year as the first professional baseball league, 1871, and one just as intimately connected to this country, would close its doors for good.

Truth be told, to the best of my knowledge, I've never been to a Ringling Brothers show. I've been to other circuses; my parents took me as a small child to the Shrine Circus at the former Medinah Temple in Chicago. I've been to a couple honest to goodness three ring circuses held as they were in the old days, in a tent. I was lucky enough to have attended a taping of Bozo's Circus, the iconic daily TV show intimately known by every person who spent time in Chicago as a child in the sixties and seventies  Most recently, when our children were younger, my wife and I regularly patronized Circus World in Baraboo, Wisconsin, on the site of the former summer home of the Ringling Bros. Circus, and the wonderful one ring Circus Zoppe, which bills itself as "A European family tradition since 1842."

Needless to say, The Ringling Bros. Barnum & Bailey Circus was the big time, the major leagues as far as circuses were concerned. They became even more big time in 1957 when they gave up traveling with their portable tents, and performed all their shows in permanent venues such as theaters and sports arenas. Until someone pointed it out, it hadn't occurred to Chicago Bulls star Joakim Noah that his team's annual "Circus Tour", where the Bulls and their stadium-mates, the Chicago Blackhawks had an extended road trip every November, was necessary literally because the circus came to town, performing at their home venue, the United Center, and before that, the Chicago Stadium.

You didn't have to buy a ticket to participate in the circus as the traveling show, animals and all, would disembark from their train in the railyards in the west Loop and march down Washington Street to the United Center.

The stars of the circus as well as that parade, if you could call it that, were the elephants. Dozens of them, or at least so it seems in my recollection, marched single file down the street, at normal elephant gate, which is to say about twice the speed of a normal human gate. One of the death knells of the RBB&B Circus was the decision to retire the elephants in the light of concerns for their welfare in an era of growing concern for animal rights. From what I understand, the animals of the RBB&B Circus were well cared for, at least as far as it is possible to care for domesticated animals. I believe that the concern for the animals is more philosophical than humanitarian, questioning the ethics of putting animals to work, especially in the frivolous world of the entertainment industry. Personally I don't have a problem with circus animals but that could be a reflection of the values of my generation. When I mentioned the closing of the circus to a co-worker, thirty years my junior, she had an emphatic one word response: "Good!"

I suppose the Ringling Brothers Circus without elephants is a little like big league baseball without the home run; the game is still exciting, but something special is missing. You can only go so far with stupid human tricks alone, unless you're the Cirque du Soleil who seem to have cornered the market in them.

Then there are the clowns. Clowns have always existed on the fringes of society, according to Professor Andrew Stott of the University of Buffalo. Here is a quote and commentary, published in a 2015 article in Time Magazine:

"Clowns got a boost from the popularity of the traveling big-top circus during the "golden age of the railroad," which linked successful clowns to the perception of 20th century America at the height of its industrial strength. But, as traveling circuses lost their pride of place as a form of entertainment, many clowns lost their platforms. That created an image of "clowns being associated with exhaustion or faded glory," says Stott, who points to Krusty on The Simpsons as an example of a clown "past his prime" and "morally, financially bankrupt.

Incidentally, that character of Krusty the Clown was supposedly inspired by Chicago's own Bozo the Clown, as portrayed by the late Bob Bell. The image of clowns certainly wasn't helped when it was revealed that serial killer John Wayne Gacy spent much of his free time, when he wasn't molesting then killing young men that is, as a clown. Sinister clowns have over the past generation, made appearances in many works of fiction, most notably horror films, and recently a number of well publicized but dubious "sightings" of people dressed as clowns have allegedly taken place, luring children into the woods.

Sadly, many people today think that clowns are scary; this is just not a good time to be a good clown.

Given the aversion to clowns and performing animals, not to mention the vast array of  entertainment options made available through technology, it seems logical that the demise of the great American institution of The Greatest Show on Earth was inevitable.

 It's a sad day.

2016, The Reaper's Bumper Crop

As I walked into work yesterday morning, I wished a friend a happy new year. He said 2017 had to be better than this year which began with the death of David Bowie and ended with the election of Donald Trump.

It's only natural this time of year to reflect upon the past 365 days. For my family and me, 2016 was actually a pretty good year, my boy and I traveled to New York, and all four of us had a lovely summer vacation which included the cities of Cleveland and Pittsburgh, as well as a memorable visit to Frank Lloyd Wright's magnificent Fallingwater, the home he built on top of a stream for the Kaufmann family in Southwestern Pennsylvania. We even managed to sneak into West Virginia, a first for all four of us.

Both kids have been doing well in school, despite not necessarily liking it one hundred percent of the time, and have been involved in other activities that give them great pleasure and keep them out of trouble. My wife and I both managed to devote time to our artistic endeavors, not an easy thing when combined with the responsibilities of working for a living and raising a family. Knock on wood, while there have been health issues here and there, nothing earth shattering thank God, and a double knock on wood, we didn't lose any loved ones this year.

And yes the Chicago Cubs won the World Series which was great news for everyone except for fans of the Cleveland Indians and the Chicago White Sox, well actually only a handful of disgruntled ones that is.

In short I'd say my family has much to be grateful for at the close of this year.

Yet many people will recall this as a year that particularly sucked.

Another New Years tradition is the reading of the passing year's necrology, the list of notable people who died. Sadly, 2016 proved to be a bumper crop for the Grim Reaper at least as far as famous people were concerned, especially musicians. In some circles, particularly at home, I'm known for my morbid fascination with the obituary pages, but this year even I couldn't keep up.

Every year has its Abe Vigodas, and Zsa Zsa Gabors, those celebrities whose death inspires the inevitable remark, "Really? I didn't know he or she was still alive."

But this year seemed to have a disproportionate number of unexpected celebrity deaths. I learned that David Bowie was seriously ill at the beginning of the year. He was not a young man, but coming through his creative spirit there was still an eternal, timeless youth about him and I was blown away at the news of his passing, coming as it did on his birthday, January 8th. Like mostpeople, I was blindsided by the death of Prince. It's disconcerting when I hear of someone who is exactly my age, as Prince was, suddenly dropping dead. I'm not proud to say I breathed a sigh of relief when I learned that his death was attributed to the pain killers he used to alleviate the agony resulting from the many years of unbelievably athletic dance moves he used in his performances. He literally gave his life for his art. Poetic and romantic as it may be, I simply can't relate.

Both men were extraordinarily talented and had they lived, they would have continued to produce remarkable music. But those two only scratched the surface of losses that the world of music suffered in 2016. Here's a woefully incomplete list in no particular order, of musicians we lost in 2016: Ralph Stanley, Buckwheat Zydeco, Pierre Boulez, Paul Kantner, Keith Emerson, Greg Lake. Glenn Frey, Sharon Jones, Neville Marriner, Dan Hicks, Leon Russell, Leonard Cohen, Scotty Moore, Guy Clark, Mose Allison, Vanity, Billy Paul, Nikolaus Harnoncourt, Gato Barbieri, and Merle Haggard.

Although he was less known as a musician than as perhaps the most famous music producer the world has ever known, in 2016 we also lost George Martin.

Indeed, heaven's chorus added greatly to its ranks this year but it will have to wait at least a while longer for Keith Richards who remains at this writing, probably to the surprise of no one more than himself, not only merely, but really and most sincerely alive.

The sports world lost at least four remarkable legends this year: Arnold Palmer, Gordie Howe, Pat Summitt, the winningest coach in NCAA basketball history, and of course, Muhammad Ali.

They say that deaths come in threes but this year proved there is no limit to the number of celebrity deaths that can occur over a short period of time. As I remarked when Vaclav Havel and Kim Jung Il died, one right after the other a few years ago, death makes for strange bedfellows, in that case, two national leaders who were the polar opposites in everything else. The most absurd celebrity death matching I can recall was the quintessentially elegant and proper Katherine Hepburn, and the crude actor/comedian Buddy Hackett who died within a day of each other in 2003. I can only imagine the conversation that took place when the two of them marched up the steps to St. Peter at the Pearly Gates.

Just this week we learned of a trio of deaths with an unusually strong connection. revolving around the passing of the actress Carrie Fisher, best known known for her recurring role as Princess Leia in the Star Wars film series. Much was written a few days ago about that role and her portrayal of it, unique for its time, as being a female hero and role model "in a male-dominated genre."

Well it so happened that real life female hero-role model in a male dominated profession that also dealt with intergalactic space, died this week. Her name was Vera Rubin, and she was the astrophysicist who proved the existence of dark matter.

Of course the other, more tragic connection to Carrie Fisher was her own mother, singer and actress Debbie Reynolds, who passed from this world one day after her daughter.

I could go on and on listing the famous people, the pioneers, politicians, playwrights and poets, the authors, artists, athletes, actors and astronauts, who died this year, but the time remaining in this year is short, so I'll just take the easy way out by linking to the New York Times list of the Notable Deaths of 2016.

Whether we heard of them or not, they all touched our lives and shaped our world in one way or other, some of them in good ways, some of them in splendid ways, some of them in inspirational ways, and some of them, quite the opposite.

But the world would be a much different place without them and tonight at the stroke of midnight, let us all raise a glass to the lives that were lived by the people we lost in 2016.

Happy 2017.

Stay healthy my friends!

Ali, Round Two

Why should they ask me to put on a uniform and go 10,000 miles from home and drop bombs and bullets on Brown people in Vietnam while so-called Negro people in Louisville are treated like dogs and denied simple human rights? No I’m not going 10,000 miles from home to help murder and burn another poor nation simply to continue the domination of white slave masters of the darker people the world over. This is the day when such evils must come to an end. I have been warned that to take such a stand would cost me millions of dollars. But I have said it once and I will say it again. The real enemy of my people is here. I will not disgrace my religion, my people or myself by becoming a tool to enslave those who are fighting for their own justice, freedom and equality. If I thought the war was going to bring freedom and equality to 22 million of my people they wouldn’t have to draft me, I’d join tomorrow. I have nothing to lose by standing up for my beliefs. So I’ll go to jail, so what? We’ve been in jail for 400 years.

-Muhammad Ali 

Like the iconic Neil Lifer photograph of Muhammad Ali standing above Sonny Liston after the infamous phantom punch that knocked down the former champ, (seen in my previous post), there's more to Ali than meets the eye.

News of his death this month caused a world wide outpouring of love and adulation for Ali who in all likelihood, was the most recognized person in the world. Appreciations of the man came from people of all races, creeds and political affiliations, not a little amazing given how polarizing and controversial he was during the first half of his life.

Yet even in death, Ali remains controversial. "I never liked Muhammad Ali" said a friend of mine, whose response I admittedly goaded out of him.  "He was a clown with a big mouth, arrogant and disrespectful to his opponents and to his many wives. He broke the law when he resisted the draft, never went to jail for it like he should have, and they forgave him as if nothing happened. Then he got to fight again, became the champion and everybody thought he was the greatest thing in the world." My friend then went on to list all the fighters he thought were better.

Unlike most of the country, my friend never got past the hard feelings many Americans had toward Ali in the sixties. Between the incessant show-boating, his association with the Nation of Islam, and his highly visible role in the Black Power movement, Ali was already a tremendously unpopular personality by 1966 among a significant number of Americans, not all of them white. The last straw for Ali detractors was his refusal to serve the country after being drafted.

Muhammad Ali knew that had he chosen to comply with the United States government and gone into the army when Uncle Sam called, as heavyweight champion of the world and a celebrity of the first magnitude around the world, he would have served miles and miles away from the front line, far out of harm's way. Had he gone into the army and accepted his cushy assignment, he would not have been stripped of his title, denied of his livelihood, prohibited from traveling abroad, arrested, convicted, threatened with imprisonment, and drawn the ire of the vast majority of Americans. Had he complied with the government, he would have been able to return to boxing when his stint in the army was over, barely missing a step, still in the prime of his career. Had Muhammad Ali gone into the army when he was drafted, no one would have thought the lesser of him.

The fact that he defied the government in such a public manner, openly declaring his preference for jail over violating his moral principles, made him a counter-culture hero.

His actions were a watershed moment in the anti-war movement. Shortly after Ali's indictment, massive public demonstrations of the burning of draft cards took place. Ali 's defying the draft and accepting prison if legal efforts failed, sent shock waves through the government who understood that while they could prosecute one man for refusing the draft, there was no way to prosecute tens of thousands of potential draft resisters.

In no time the mood of the nation soured on the Vietnam War when the very symbol of mainstream white America, Walter Cronkite declared to the world on February 27th, 1968:

...it is increasingly clear to this reporter that the only rational way out then will be to negotiate, not as victors, but as an honorable people who lived up to their pledge to defend democracy, and did the best they could.

In other words, let's cut our losses and get the hell out of Vietnam as quickly as possible, "the most respected man in America" told us.

Shortly after that, President Johnson, knowing if he lost Walter Cronkite, he lost the American people as well, announced he would not seek a second full term in office. 

Then, a little over one month after Cronkite's assessment of the war, Martin Luther King was assassinated in Memphis. 

And with that, Muhammad Ali's words found at the top of this post, eloquent as they are powerful, became prophetic. His words and actions transformed him from being merely Ali the sports hero, to Ali the instrument of social change, and ultimately, Ali the social hero.

My friend is not alone in his dissent.

In his critique of the insipid 2001 bio-pic Ali (which starred Will Smith in the title role) Michael Shelden writes:

The transformation of Ali from a great fighter to a celebrated man of conscience and social purpose has succeeded so well because the actual history of his career has been altered to reflect the kinder, gentler man of today. Unpleasant remarks or facts from the past have been swept away or excused. … 

Shelden's article was published in the January, 2002 issue of The Telegraph and is titled:  Let's not Pretend Ali was Gandhi, The writer is especially critical of Ali's association in the 1960s with Nation of Islam and its leader Elijah Muhammad whom he claims put all sorts of nasty thoughts into the boxer's head.

A more historically accurate appraisal of Ali would conclude that he was far from heroic outside the ring and was pitifully misused by his masters in the Nation of Islam. For his purposes, Elijah hijacked the impressionable young man's career and filled his head with racist nonsense. 

Under the influence of Elijah Mohammad — who preached that blacks should refuse to integrate with "white devils" — Ali made a point of dating only black women and lashed out at men and women who engaged in interracial sex. In an interview with Playboy, he declared: "A black man should be killed if he's messing with a white woman." When the interviewer asked about black women crossing the colour barrier, Ali responded: "Then she dies. Kill her, too." 

He continues:

It's unlikely that a white athlete who made such remarks would receive the praise that (Director of the film "Ali") Michael Mann heaps on Ali. He says that the fighter "personified racial pride and self-knowledge". The Playboy journalist, who interviewed the boxer, was closer to the mark when he observed of his subject: "You're beginning to sound like a carbon copy of a white racist." …

Shelden also blames the Black Muslim organization for using Ali to the point that:

By the time he finally broke free of the old Nation of Islam, in the 1970s, his career was in its last stages. He continued to fight long past his prime, in part to recover the money and time he had lost in his misadventures with the Black Muslims.

You can read into that Sheden's belief that the Black Muslims were directly responsible for Ali's descent into Parkinson's Disease, likely caused by too many blows to the head, especially in his later fights.

Shelden is right in saying that today, most of us have all but forgotten the messy details of Muhammad Ali's life. Years of sympathy toward his battle with Parkinson's and the heroic way he unabashedly displayed the toll it took on his body, have turned us soft on the man.

What Shelden fails to take into account is that the public's opinion of Ali had already taken a 180 degree turn way back in the 1970s, when every controversial detail of his life was common public knowledge. Unlike George Foreman, Ali didn't have to reinvent himself to pull off that change, it was America who changed, not Ali.

Here is an excerpt from a 1968 interview with William F. Buckley on his program Firing Line. This clip comes at the end of the show where Ali takes questions from the audience:




Buckley would later admit being moved by Ali's very persuasive argument for his efforts in support of freedom, justice and equality for his people, (if not his adherence to the teachings of Elijah Muhammad). If the arch-conservative William F. Buckley could be so moved, it's not surprising that much of America could be as well. It was a different time than the one in which we live today; a time when public discourse mattered, and free, open and honest debate respecting all points of view was not only encouraged, but considered essential to a healthy society.

Michael Shelden's 2002 deconstruction of Muhammad Ali, speaks volumes about the writer and his times, but little about Ali and his. His piece is a perfect example of the way we demand the press today scrutinize every detail of a celebrity's life to find tidbits of evidence proving they are not worthy. Fortunately for all of us, Ali came of age in a time when the public was not willing and eager to tear down a public figure's character at the slightest hint of an inconvenient thought, word or deed.

As a result, America, torn in pieces in the sixties, perhaps even more than it is today, was able to heal the wounds caused by the racial divide and the Vietnam War, at least for a while. And it was Muhammad Ali whose strong, articulate and persuasive voice, along with the power of his huge personality that helped lead the charge.

After his battles with the government were settled, (the U.S. Supreme Court overturned all charges against him in 1971). it was that larger than life persona, the charm along with the bravado, that attracted the public to Ali. When he finally got a shot to regain his title against the great Joe Frazier in 1971, that fight would be appropriately dubbed, The Fight of the Century. Public sentiment was split between the champ Frazier, and the challenger Ali, although it's likely that more whites supported Frazier, and more blacks supported Ali. As was his nature, Ali stirred the pot to boiling over when he called Frazier, who was also black, "the white people's champion."  Naturally much of the hyperbole out of his mouth was intended to promote interest in the fight as well as to trap his opponent into a tempest of fury which would ultimately destroy him in the ring as it did Sonny Liston. Unlike Liston, Ali found his match in Frazier. The fight lived up to all the hype, fifteen rounds of back and forth, Frazier's intensity versus Ali's athleticism. In the end it was Frazier's devastating left hook that settled the bout, giving Ali his first professional loss, but putting him back at the center of his profession, and back in the public's eye, where he would remain for the rest of his life. Ali would later fight Joe Frazier two more times, winning both contests, one by decision, the other by a technical knockout.

Recalling those days, I'd say Muhammad Ali truly became the people's champion in 1974 when he regained the championship in Kinshasa, Zaire, (today's Democratic Republic of Congo) by beating George Foreman in the fight that bore the name, "the Rumble in the Jungle". The spontaneous love and support shown by the people of that country toward Ali was infectious. One of the most enduring images of Muhammad Ali is being mobbed everywhere he went in that central African nation by people chanting "Ali bumaye" (Ali kill him).

 Like the first Liston fight ten years before, Ali was a huge underdog to the intimidating Foreman who had absolutely destroyed Joe Frazier in 1973 to become champ. Unlike Liston, Foreman didn't give away any size advantage to Ali, he was actually one inch taller,  had a 3" reach advantage. and was seven years Ali's junior. Once again people thought Ali wouldn't last more than a few rounds with the champ but Ali still had a few tricks up his sleeve. Not able to dance his way out of trouble anymore, Ali early on engaged Foreman in the center of the ring. Knowing he could never outlast the champ in a slugfest, Ali retreated to the ropes where he absorbed all of Foreman's fury while letting the ropes, which had been loosened exactly for that purpose, absorb some of the beating. When he wasn't protecting himself in that fashion, he was grabbing Foreman by the neck (an infraction the referee let him get away with), forcing Foreman to expend energy pushing away to free himself. After letting Foreman tire himself out in this pushing and punching frenzy for several rounds, the still relatively fresh Ali went on the offensive, knocking Foreman out in the eighth round. In doing so Ali became the first heavyweight boxer to regain the championship.

In his prime during a period known as the greatest era in boxing's heavyweight division, Ali beat all of the best boxers of that era, Sonny Liston twice, Joe Frazier twice, and George Foreman once. All three of those men make practically every list of top ten heavyweights of all time. Not surprisingly, Muhammad Ali's name is at the top of those lists.

The score had finally been settled. All the talk, all the bombast, all the preening and bragging had been fulfilled. The great pitcher Dizzy Dean was famous for saying, "It ain't braggin' if you can back it up."  In beating George Foreman, Ali could finally back up everything he said about himself.

But it came at a tremendous cost. One of the saddest things in the world of sports is watching a great champion who does not know when to quit. Ali beat Foreman because of his tremendous ability to take a punch. By using his patented "rope-a-dope" style, the abuse he willingly took from Foreman, from Frazier especially in the classic "Thrilla in Manilla" and perhaps most emphatically from Larry Holmes in 1980, no doubt contributed to the Parkinson's Disease that ravaged his body and would ultimately take his life. He could have and probably should have quit after each of those fights, but didn't. Holmes, Ali's former sparring partner, claimed to have held back in his fight with Ali. Nevertheless, the beating he inflicted upon his hero caused that world champion to break down in tears after the fight that should never have taken place. Medical records released much later revealed that Ali was already in the early stages of Parkinson's at the time of the fight. What's more, Ali had one more fight before he hung up the gloves for good, against Canadian Boxer Trevor Berbick which ended for him in defeat by unanimous decision. That made Ali's final professional record, 56 wins, 37 of them by knockout, and 5 losses.

By the time he retired, Ali exhibited very obvious slurring of the speech and other, less obvious physical symptoms. Public appearances diminished but he never entirely disappeared from the public eye even as his condition worsened, lending his support to numerous causes around the world and sent on diplomatic missions on behalf of the US government, some of which resulted in the release of hostages.

Photograph by Vince Caligiuri

Ali's most famous public appearance in his post-boxing life took place in Atlanta, 1996 during the opening ceremony of the Summer Olympic Games. Great secrecy surrounded the name of the person who would be given the honor of lighting the Olympic Torch, and Ali brought down the house when he stepped onto the stage to do the deed. There was hardly a dry eye around the world among those watching the ceremony on TV when they saw the former champ, well into the throes of Parkinson's bravely hold the torch up high despite the severe trembling of his arm. Of all the heroic performances in the great man's life, this certainly has to rate among the best of them.

As we've seen, great champions are judged by the quality of their adversaries. In boxing. Muhammad Ali faced some of the greatest champions in history. Equal in adversarial quality to Sonny Liston, Joe Frazier and George Foreman all put together was the United States government who attempted to crush the man for doing what he believed was right. His resounding victory in that battle ultimately gave him the respect and credibility to transcend the sporting world which originally brought him to our attention. The scourge of racism was another adversary that he battled first through the influence of Elijah Muhammad and the Nation of Islam, before he discovered he could do it all on his own simply by telling people about his experiences being the champion of the world yet still occasionally barred from using a public bathroom in his own country.  The greatest adversary of all proved to be the illness that consumed him for the last half of his life. Despite that, Muhammad Ali made the most out of the years given to him and the limitations his physical condition placed upon him. He could have easily retreated out of the limelight, leaving  people with the memories of the young, handsome, articulate champion, rather than a victim of a debilitating disease. By allowing himself to be seen in his compromised state, he made it perfectly clear that living with diminished capabilities did not mean living a diminished life.

Finally, the latest controversy to the best of my knowledge, surfaced for the first time after Ali's death. Many tributes made the claim that Muhammad Ali "transcended both race and religion." I have to plead ignorance on this one as frankly I don't know what it means to "transcend race or religion." Sportscaster Chris Myers cast some light on that phrase this way in a tweet:

When you saw #Ali you didn't see color you didn't see religion you saw a gentle man who was a strong fighter, a Champion you could believe in.

Having lived through the sixties and seventies and knowing a thing or two about Ali, the thing that strikes me about that comment is that the writer is either too young to remember him, wasn't paying attention, or has a severe case of historical amnesia. In his day, Muhammad Ali was the very embodiment of the African American Muslim. It's true that he mellowed as he got older, and expanded his sphere of concerns, but race and religion never took a back seat. The headline of an article by Kara Brown for the online magazine Jezebel tells it like it is: "If You Don't See Blackness, You Didn't See Muhammad Ali."

If by chance you are too young, weren't paying attention, or are suffering from amnesia, and you still believe that Ali transcended race and religion, by all means watch the Buckley/Ali interview. in its entirety.

Here is how Kara Brown concludes her article:

There is no deep and true respect for Muhammad Ali that does not also come with a deep and true respect for his blackness. And to love Muhammad Ali, you must also love his love for his people. Those who attempt to draw attention away from Ali’s blackness—whether deliberately, carelessly, or by delicate omission—do so because they either cannot or choose not to love black people. They can’t understand that Ali’s blackness was integral to what made him great. A white Ali would not have been possible, nor would he have meant nearly as much to the world.

With that I agree ninety nine percent. However playing the devil's advocate, I'm not convinced that all the white folks who claim Ali transcended race do not love him for his blackness, or understand that his blackness is what made him great. Brown herself brings up the African American poet Maya Angelou who in 2001 wrote that Muhammad Ali "belonged to everyone." She says:

...his impact recognizes no continent, no language, no colour, no ocean. It belongs to us all just as Muhammad Ali belongs to us all.

Muhammad Ali is, or at least should be loved and respected by anyone who values equality, justice, and the dignity of all human beings. The same can be said of people such as Lech Wałęsa, Mother Theresa or Aung San Suu Kyi. On the other hand, I've never heard anyone say Wałęsa transcended his race, Mother Theresa her religion, or Aung San Suu Kyi her gender.

Clearly, saying that Muhammad Ali transcended race and religion, is a poor choice of words. What can be said of him is that he is a beloved hero who fought many valiant battles in the name of justice. Through his magnetic personality, his biting sense of humor, his unrelenting self-confidence, his unmatched courage in fighting all the battles he encountered, his dedication to telling the truth, and perhaps above all, his blackness, his religion and the love of his people, Muhammad Ali brought people all over the world together like no one else could.

If I had to sum up the man in a limited number of words, tweet style, I'd use the words I used to sum up the life of another great hero of mine, Vaclav Havel, who was never accused of transcending the Czech blood that ran through his veins.

Like Havel, Ali was not a saint by a long shot, nonetheless he is a man for all seasons.


Click here to return to Round One.

Ali

Quick, can you name the current world heavyweight boxing champion? I looked it up a couple days ago and still can't remember his name. When Muhammad Ali died earlier this month, I heard a radio report, probably on NPR who doesn't have a clue about these things, that said the sport of boxing was not very popular before Ali came on the scene, and returned to that state after he retired. That of course is nonsense. To some people, the NPR reporter included. Ali WAS boxing. However prize fighting as it used to be called, was second only to baseball in popularity in the US, up until the early sixties when the NFL began its meteoric rise to the top of the charts. Post-Ali, the heavyweight division of the sport continued to produce household names such as Larry Holmes, Evander Holyfield, and everyone's favorite (said with a wink and a nudge), Mike Tyson. And let us not forget the reincarnation of George Foreman who transformed himself from a sullen, brutal, one man wrecking crew, into happy-go-lucky Uncle George the Grill Man. Despite looking like a tan version of the Michelin Man whenever he stepped into the ring and despite his advanced age, Foreman could still pack enough of a wallop to become at 45, the oldest heavyweight champion of all time.

Perhaps it was that image of slow, old Uncle George plodding around the ring sending the likes of boxing immortals Terry Anderson and Ken Lakusta to the canvas, punching their one way tickets to Palookaville, that turned people away from the of battleships of boxing, the heavyweights, in favor of the swifter destroyer class of the sport's lighter weight divisions. The hype surrounding, attention given to and money generated from last year's Floyd Mayweather-Manny Pacquiao welterweight bout is evidence that the sweet science is still a major attraction around the world.

I'm old enough to remember when Muhammad Ali was still Cassius Clay, aka "the Louisville Lip", notorious for his incessant posturing and braggadocio. His trademark slogan "float like a butterfly, sting like a bee" was coined well before either Ali or Clay became household names. He called himself "The Greatest" long before he could back it up.

We forget today that people hated him for it.

Muhammad Ali standing over Sonny Liston during their re-match,   Lewistown, Maine, May 25, 1965
Photograph by Neil Leifer

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. That has to be an average number because all the pictures I've taken that have been worth only a groan or at best a "that's interesting" must certainly balance out the millions of words this Neil Leifer photograph evokes.

It is perhaps the most famous sports photograph ever made. The story behind it as well as the life and times of the two individuals in it, and the sport they excelled at, are so twisted and complex, it would take hundreds of thousands of words just to scratch the surface. 

Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr. (named after his father who was named after a 19th Century Kentucky abolitionist), was already well known before the fight that made him a legend. That fight to be exact, took place in Miami Beach on February 25, 1964. By that time, Clay was an Olympic gold medal winner with a 19-0 professional record and considered the top contender for the heavyweight crown. But with several less than stellar fights up to that point, nobody gave him much of a chance to beat the formidable current champ Sonny Liston whose biographer, Paul Gallender called the most gifted heavyweight in the history of boxing. Liston was so feared that seasoned professional boxers trembled at the mention of his name.

Liston, whose style and persona were emulated by George Foreman in his first go-around. was the antithesis of Clay, especially when it came to PR. Mistrustful of anyone not in his inner circle, Liston came off as surly and belligerent with the press. They repaid him in kind by portraying him as a brutal thug, emphasizing his prison record and mob connections. The picture the white press painted of Liston was that of the stereotype ferocious Negro whom you'd cross the street in order to avoid crossing paths with him. The truth is, black folks didn't care much for him either. Liston's reputation was so bad even the NAACP got into the act recommending that previous champ Floyd Patterson not fight him because they feared a possible Liston championship would set the cause of civil rights back decades.

Patterson should have listened to them. Liston annihilated the champ, knocking him out barely two minutes into the first round. When the new champ Sonny Liston returned to his home in Philadelphia after the fight, instead of the grateful throngs he expected to greet him at the airport, he was met by only a handful of press, one of whom publicly suggested a huge ticker tape parade up Broad Street was in order, using torn up arrest warrants for confetti. Liston soon left the City of Brotherly Love for Denver saying he'd rather be a lamp post in that city than mayor of Philadelphia.

The rage that cursed through Liston's veins did not escape the attention of 22 year old Cassius Clay who signed to fight the champ in late 1963. From the get go, Clay mercilessly ragged on Liston, in public and in person. He went so far as rent a bus and displayed on it a sign that read "Liston must go in eight" (rounds). Then in the middle of the night, Clay and his friends parked the bus in front of Liston's Denver home, honking the horn and casting aspersions at the temperamental champion as he tried to sleep.

Liston dismissed Cassius Clay as a second rate fighter and a madman. He barely trained for the fight and was probably in the worst shape of his career. It is rumored that he was up all night before the fight on a drunken bender. Unbeknownst to the general public, Clay's training regime by contrast was scientific and brutally intense. He studied every inch of the champ and understood his every weakness, few of them as there were.

Also unknown to the public was a previous shoulder injury to Liston which should have been grounds to postpone the fight. That injury put him at a disadvantage as did the fact that he was far older than anyone suspected, perhaps as old as George Foreman was when he won his second championship. If that's true, and we still don't know for sure, it would have made Liston twice as old as Clay at the time of their fight. 

The young Cassius was at his most outrageous at the weigh-in the morning of the fight, acting so crazed that people thought he was trying to get out of the fight on a count of insanity. It turned out he was crazy, just like a fox. Cassius Clay knew that Sonny Liston had not fought a fight in quite a while that lasted more than a couple of rounds because of his habit of knocking out opponents before most in attendance had a chance to settle into their seats. Clay also knew that Liston more than likely would not train for a long fight. If he could make the champ angry and impatient enough, then Clay's superior foot speed and agility would enable him to evade Liston's devastating punches and tire out the champ in a long fight. He'd later say: "If Liston wasn't thinking nothing but killing me, he wasn't thinking fighting. You got to think to fight."

At the first bell it was apparent that Clay did mange to get under Liston's skin as the champ came after the challenger with a vengeance. By doing so, Liston fell right into Cassius Clay's trap.

No sport inspires more brilliant poetry and prose than boxing. This account of the first Sonny Liston-Cassius Clay fight, written by Robert Lipsyte, is an except from an article which appeared in the New York Times the day after the fight:

The fight was Clay’s from the start. The tall, swift youngster, his hands carelessly low, backed away from Liston’s jabs, circled around Liston’s dangerous left hook and opened a nasty gash under Liston’s left eye. 

He never let Liston tie him up for short, brutal body punches, and although he faltered several times, he refused to allow himself to be cornered. His long left jab kept bouncing off Liston’s face. From the beginning, it was hard to believe. 

The men had moved briskly into combat, Liston stalking, moving flat-footedly forward. He fell short with two jabs, brushed Clay back with a grazing right to the stomach and landed a solid right to the stomach. The crowd leaned forward for the imminent destruction of the young poet. 

But he hadn’t lied. All those interminable refrains of “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee” had been more than foolish songs. The kid was floating. He leaned back from Liston’s jabs and hooks, backed into the ropes, then spun out and away. He moved clockwise around Liston, taunting that terrible left hook, his hands still low. 

Then he stung late in the first round, sticking his left in Liston’s face and following with a quick barrage to Liston’s head. They continued for long seconds after the bell, unable to hear the inadequate ring above the roar of the crowd...

Liston strained forward with overeager hooks that struck only air. For a moment, in the second round, Liston pummeled Clay against the ropes, but again, Cassius spun out and away.

Then the young man began to rumble as he had promised. His quick left jabs penetrated Liston’s defenses, and he followed with right hands. He leaned forward as he fired rights and lefts at Liston’s expressionless face. Liston began to bleed from a crescent-shaped cut high on the left cheekbone.

Like a bull hurt and maddened by the picadors’ lances, Liston charged forward. The heavy muscles worked under his smooth, broad back as he virtually hurled his 218 pounds at the dodging, bobbing, dancing Clay.

His heavy arms swiped forward and he threw illegal backhand punches in his bearlike lunges. Once, Clay leaned the wrong way and Liston tagged him with a long left. Cassius was staggered, but Liston was hurt and tired. He could not move in to press his advantage.

And now, a strange murmur began to ripple through the half-empty arena and people on blue metal chairs began to look at one another. Something like human electricity danced and flowed as the spectators suddenly realized that even if Cassius lost, he was no fraud. His style was unorthodox, but …

Both fighters were sluggish in the fifth round, breathing heavily. Liston’s face was still impassive, but the grooves along his forehead seemed deeper, and the snorting breaths through his nose harsher.

He seemed even more tired in the sixth as Clay’s eyes cleared and the younger man bore in, then leapt away, jabbing and hooking and landing a solid right to Liston’s jaw. Clay’s jabs were slipping through at will now, bouncing off that rocklike face, opening the cut under the left eye. 

Liston walked heavily back to his corner at the end of the sixth. He did not sit down immediately. Then as Liston did sit down, Clay came dancing out to the center of the ring, waving his arms, all alone. It seemed like a long time before Drew (Bundini) Brown, his assistant trainer, was hugging him and Dundee was dancing up and down, and Jack Nilan, Liston’s adviser, was wrapping yards of tape around the former champion’s left shoulder...

Sonny Liston never answered the bell to the seventh round. The fight was over and the man who would announce to the world the next day that he was a follower of the Nation of Islam and soon change his name to Muhammad Ali, was the champion of the world. Few thought he could go more than a few rounds with Liston, let alone the distance, but his insane prediction that he would knock Liston out in eight rounds proved to be an understatement.

People called that fight the greatest upset in history but not everyone was convinced. Up until the end of the contest which was ruled a technical knockout for Clay, the fight had been even, at least according to the judges and referee's scorecards. Everyone knew that Liston was tied to the mob so surely he must have thrown the fight. Maybe someone from up above told him: "Champ, tonight's not your night." What else could he do?

To this day, no one knows exactly what happened to Liston that night, but it seems likely that his trainer stopped the fight because of the shoulder injury. It's very unlikely that he threw the fight, at least for the sake of gamblers, as the overwhelming odds in favor of him would have plummeted if the fix was in. They didn't. The score would have to be settled in a re-match.

If the first Liston/Clay match was a confusing mess. the Ali/Liston rematch was nothing less than a fiasco.

Clay's announcement that he was affiliated with the Black Muslims and a follower of their leader Elijah Muhammad, went over like a lead balloon among many Americans, black and white. The latter found the group's portrayal of themselves as "blue eyed Devils" not a little disconcerting, while many black Americans, including Martin Luther King, disapproved of their support of segregation. People of both colors considered the group racist. Floyd Patterson, who refused to call him by his new name, went so far as saying that Ali could just as well have joined the KKK.

Liston's popularity didn't exactly soar either as between fights he had a couple of run ins with the law and spent some more time in the pokey.

However to many whites, while they wouldn't want to meet up with Liston on a dark street late at night, Ali was by far the greater threat because of his quick wit, his intelligence, his mouth, and his willingness to use it to speak what was on his mind. He was a double threat because of his allegiance to an organization that had no intention of capitulating to white American values and its expectations of who black people should be and how they should act. "God knows...", you could hear whites in the sixties say in horror, "...a Negro might even one day become president." White America's anxieties were only strengthened when Ali said:

I am America. I am the part you won't recognize. But get used to me. Black, confident, cocky; my name, not yours; my religion, not yours; my goals, my own; get used to me.

Surely the world was changing and many white Americans were not ready. Some of course are still not.

By 1965, neither man was riding a crest of popularity and finding a venue to host the rematch proved difficult. The promoters ended up settling for a 4,000 seat hockey arena in the small town of Lewiston, Maine, the smallest venue for a championship fight that anybody could remember. Complicating matters was the company Ali was keeping. During the first fight, Ali's close friend Malcolm X hung out with the contender as he was training. This brought on the consternation of the fight promoters who insisted Ali, at the time still Cassius Clay, renounce any ties he might have had with the Nation of Islam. Clay refused, however Malcolm X did agree to leave the training facility as a concession. After a falling out between Malcolm and Elijah Muhammad, Ali sided with Muhammad. Nearly a year to the date after the first Liston/Clay fight, Malcolm X was assassinated in Harlem, allegedly upon the orders of Elijah Muhammad. Word on the street was out that followers of Malcolm had a hit out on Ali as they felt he betrayed his friend and his cause. Not to be outdone, Liston allegedly received threats from Elijah's people. Both men were accompanied by armed guards during their stay in Maine.

Liston trained hard for the second fight and appeared to be ready. Ali was the same old Ali, only the name had changed. You wouldn't know that from listening to the fight announcers who continued to call him by his old name. The fight's tiny venue was only half full. If the pulse of the nation could be taken from the 2,000 souls in the arena that night, the cheers that Liston received was an indication that he was the public's favorite over Ali, who was resoundingly booed when he entered the arena.

Of the fight itself, there is not much to say. Halfway through the first round, Ali followed a Liston jab with an uppercut that may or may not have made contact. With that punch Liston went down. Former heavyweight champ Jersey Joe Walcott the referee that night, had trouble getting Ali to his corner to begin the count. That is the moment captured by Neil Leifer in the photo above. To the uninitiated, it appears that Muhammad Ali is preening and gloating over knocking Liston down. In reality, Ali who knew quite well that the punch he threw could never have brought the great Liston down, was admonishing the former champ to get back up and start fighting. Walcott never got his count off and after Liston got to his feet, the fight resumed briefly, until the official timer told Walcott that he had made a ten count and Liston was down for the entire time. That was good enough for Walcott (although it shouldn't have been), and he stopped the fight. Not only had viewers, either in the small arena in Maine, or all over the world in theaters via closed circuit TV, not settled into their seats, many had not even entered the building.

Ali's punch that may or may not have connected with Liston has gone down in history as the phantom punch. Boxing people have been debating that punch ever since, some insisting that contrary to appearance, it was a deceptively powerful punch. Most however are convinced that Liston took a very obvious dive.

Here's the entire fight, all two minutes and fifteen seconds of it, so you can judge for yourself.

To this day, no one knows exactly what happened, why Liston went down the way he did and if he indeed took a dive, why. Once again there was no indication of any betting irregularity that would imply the fight was fixed. Paul Gallender who spent thirty years gathering information on Liston which resulted in his book Sonny Liston - The Real Story Behind the Ali-Liston Fights, tells the far fetched story that members of the Nation of Islam kidnapped Liston's wife and child and told the fighter he'd never see them again if he won the fight. As far as I know, his is the only account of this story so I'd take it with a huge grain of salt.

Needless to say, this fight was the end of Liston's credibility. He left the country and continued to fight unranked boxers in Europe, never getting a chance at another title. Liston did continue to be a celebrity of sorts, making several cameo appearances on TV and in movies. He died under mysterious circumstances in 1970.

The sport of boxing took a hit as people all over the world rolled their eyes at what they considered obvious deception and fraud in the sport. 

And Ali didn't get his due as champion as Liston's performance in the second fight only increased suspicions that the first fight was rigged as well. The new champ went on to defend his title against eight opponents including former champ Floyd Patterson, whom Ali viewed with contempt after Patterson's remarks about him and his religion. Boxing analysts claim that Ali could have put Patterson away early in the fight, but toyed with him until the fight was stopped in the 12th round.

Then came the defining moment of Muhammad Ali's life, he got drafted.

But that's a story for another day.

Click here for Ali, Round Two.