I Get Close to Muhammad Ali - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

I Get Close to Muhammad Ali - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

Some years ago, we were invited to the Kentucky Derby, a marvelous, once-in-a-lifetime, near indescribable opportunity.

So many things popped that day: the anticipatory hum of the massive crowd, the loyalty of the Kentuckians, the pageantry, the grandeur of Churchill Downs, the socializing, mint juleps, the women’s hats, the majesty of the horses, the bravery and skill of the jockeys, the colors and, oh yes, the trumpeter. I can understand why people are dazzled and inspired. This day was even more wonderful because we were there as spectators.

The races before the Derby brought even more thrills. Why, I even won three hundred dollars betting on a preliminary race (and of course, I lost it on subsequent races). But though the Derby is high on my list of memorable events, that memory has been blunted a bit by something else, something unexpected, something I found sad.

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During the week, we were invited to several events, one of which was a guest celebrity dinner. I was excited, and surprised, to see that one of those celebrities, the featured guest, was Muhammad Ali sitting nearby. He was one of my boxing favorites, a man who epitomized the beauty and skill of the sport; especially exciting to me in those days when I was an ardent fan. And he combined those skills with extraordinary courage and lack of fear.

The combination of his big body, his speed, his fluidity, and his reflexes was groundbreaking and made his boxing style more an art rather than a slugfest (well...most of the time). Some writers called it a ballet in the ring. A world champion three times, he introduced new techniques and a level of elegance that changed heavyweight boxing. He was tough, and his toughness proved his eventual downfall.

Few boxers have withstood the kind of firepower Ali took. Too many direct hits. Too many knockdowns. Ken Norton broke his jaw. And the Frazier fights were devastating, pummeling battles. Unfortunately, he could take a punch, and he took too many.

What I saw that evening was that Ali was a shell of the man he was, now with an uncontrollable tremor, a shuffling gait, needing help to be escorted on the arm of another, now barely able to raise his head once he sat. Notwithstanding the ravages of his Parkinson’s Disease, aggravated, if not caused by, all those blows to the head, he flashed a perpetual smile.

Ali was so kind as to pose for his fans, and there were many. They filed to his table where he sat athetotic and raised a wobbly closed fist, approximated it to someone’s jaw, and flash, the picture.

Diane encouraged me. “Go to his table. Take a picture with him. You have been a fan of his for so many years.”

“I have. I have. But I simply cannot take a picture with him. It is not Muhammad Ali in that chair. At least not the Ali I knew.”