Muhammad Ali suffered from Parkinson's syndrome, was hospitalized for a respiratory issue.
When the most recognized and universally admired man in the world showed up for lunch at my house, he turned out to be exuberant, warm and less the elevated international icon we so often hear about than a down-to-earth guy making the best of a declining body that had catapulted him to global fame and helped him win a closet full of heavyweight championship belts.
I cherish the memory -- but when it started, we didn't know Muhammad Ali was coming.
My father and I hadn't actually invited Ali to lunch. He turned up unannounced with a flamboyant member of the Saudi royal family who was trying to fix his own public image. That day I learned that true royalty is about humility, not displays of grandeur.
As mayor of Evanston, Illinois, in 1982, my dad got an unsolicited offer of $15,000, to be used for job training and municipal beautification, from Sheik Mohammad al-Fassi. At the time, Fassi, brother-in-law of a Saudi prince, had earned an unflattering reputation for allegedly skipping out on a $1 million-plus hotel tab in South Florida and irking his neighbors by painting genitalia on the statues at his Beverly Hills mansion. He eventually set out on a goodwill publicity tour, entourage in tow, to hand out contributions to various cities.
After days of negotiations with Fassi's handlers, Dad agreed to accept the gift and arranged a news conference and lunch at our house. When my father met Fassi's party at Chicago's O'Hare airport, he was stunned: The greatest of all time, Ali, stepped off the private jet as well.
Fassi thought he was the star, but the real dignitary was the graceful man who bore no formal title and came from modest Kentucky roots.
In the limo from Chicago to Evanston, Ali delighted in performing card tricks. And he was even more pleased with himself when he could use his internationally famous mug to mischievous end. As the motorcade raced down the highway alongside other cars, Ali rolled down the window to stick his face out and shadow box for the kids in the back seat of a passing station wagon. He'd fought in Manila and Zaire, delivered food to the hungry around the world and often graced the cover of Sports Illustrated -- even at 60 mph, his face was unmistakable.
Eight months after his last fight, Ali no longer needed to keep up the tough-guy facade. When the motorcade pulled up on our suburban street, it attracted neighborhood children who came out to greet him, and Ali couldn't have been more patient and approachable, shaking hands and signing autographs. The bluster of his fighting days was gone -- robbed by his incipient Parkinson's disease, which would be diagnosed two years later. When I offered him something to drink, he told me he'd like tea with "shugaaaaaa, lots of shugaaaaaa." Once master of the clever sports sound-bite, Ali could barely get the word "sugar" out.
But Parkinson's also was a beginning of sorts for the champ. He used his fame to raise money for Phoenix's Muhammad Ali Parkinson Center at Barrow Neurological Institute.
He was dedicated to youth programs at the Muhammad Ali Center in his hometown of Louisville. He flew to Iraq at the start of the Gulf War and talked Saddam Hussein into releasing 15 American hostages captured in Kuwait.
At 18, Ali won an Olympic gold medal; at 22 he became a heavyweight champion and soon began a spiritual awakening that caused him to change his name from Cassius Clay. In the Vietnam War era, he was found guilty of draft evasion after refusing induction into the Army -- a conviction eventually overturned by the Supreme Court but not before Ali lost five years of his pro career in which he would ultimately post a 56-5 win-loss record.
At 54, he lit the Olympic flame in Atlanta, surprising the world and touching millions of hearts. At 63, as an ambassador for his religion and for peace, Ali was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom, our nation's highest civilian honor.
It struck me then, and now, that on the day he came to Evanston, Ali was technically part of the entourage of a man who'd accomplished nothing.
Fassi was a profligate spender. In the 1990s, he fell out of favor with the Saudi government for criticizing its role in the Gulf War. After house arrest and banishment, he left behind a legal mess for an estranged wife. He died in Cairo, at 50, from an infected hernia.
Fassi paraded around with unearned millions -- so much money that he gave me his autograph on a $10 bill. I was 21 and working a summer job to save for college -- $10 certainly meant something to me -- but he used that money as scrap paper. He turned to the champ and had him sign it, too. I still have that bill. It's one keepsake I'll never sell on eBay.
But I don't keep it as a trophy, and definitely not to remember Fassi. I keep it because Ali signed it, too. And I always want to remember the sweet, generous man who was just along for the ride, but who was really our guest of honor.
- Tamara Lytle, a freelance writer and editor in Northern Virginia, was Washington bureau chief for the Orlando Sentinel and is past president of the National Press Club.
© 2016 The Washington Post
(This story has not been edited by NDTV staff and is auto-generated from a syndicated feed.)
I cherish the memory -- but when it started, we didn't know Muhammad Ali was coming.
My father and I hadn't actually invited Ali to lunch. He turned up unannounced with a flamboyant member of the Saudi royal family who was trying to fix his own public image. That day I learned that true royalty is about humility, not displays of grandeur.
As mayor of Evanston, Illinois, in 1982, my dad got an unsolicited offer of $15,000, to be used for job training and municipal beautification, from Sheik Mohammad al-Fassi. At the time, Fassi, brother-in-law of a Saudi prince, had earned an unflattering reputation for allegedly skipping out on a $1 million-plus hotel tab in South Florida and irking his neighbors by painting genitalia on the statues at his Beverly Hills mansion. He eventually set out on a goodwill publicity tour, entourage in tow, to hand out contributions to various cities.
After days of negotiations with Fassi's handlers, Dad agreed to accept the gift and arranged a news conference and lunch at our house. When my father met Fassi's party at Chicago's O'Hare airport, he was stunned: The greatest of all time, Ali, stepped off the private jet as well.
Fassi thought he was the star, but the real dignitary was the graceful man who bore no formal title and came from modest Kentucky roots.
In the limo from Chicago to Evanston, Ali delighted in performing card tricks. And he was even more pleased with himself when he could use his internationally famous mug to mischievous end. As the motorcade raced down the highway alongside other cars, Ali rolled down the window to stick his face out and shadow box for the kids in the back seat of a passing station wagon. He'd fought in Manila and Zaire, delivered food to the hungry around the world and often graced the cover of Sports Illustrated -- even at 60 mph, his face was unmistakable.
Eight months after his last fight, Ali no longer needed to keep up the tough-guy facade. When the motorcade pulled up on our suburban street, it attracted neighborhood children who came out to greet him, and Ali couldn't have been more patient and approachable, shaking hands and signing autographs. The bluster of his fighting days was gone -- robbed by his incipient Parkinson's disease, which would be diagnosed two years later. When I offered him something to drink, he told me he'd like tea with "shugaaaaaa, lots of shugaaaaaa." Once master of the clever sports sound-bite, Ali could barely get the word "sugar" out.
But Parkinson's also was a beginning of sorts for the champ. He used his fame to raise money for Phoenix's Muhammad Ali Parkinson Center at Barrow Neurological Institute.
He was dedicated to youth programs at the Muhammad Ali Center in his hometown of Louisville. He flew to Iraq at the start of the Gulf War and talked Saddam Hussein into releasing 15 American hostages captured in Kuwait.
At 18, Ali won an Olympic gold medal; at 22 he became a heavyweight champion and soon began a spiritual awakening that caused him to change his name from Cassius Clay. In the Vietnam War era, he was found guilty of draft evasion after refusing induction into the Army -- a conviction eventually overturned by the Supreme Court but not before Ali lost five years of his pro career in which he would ultimately post a 56-5 win-loss record.
At 54, he lit the Olympic flame in Atlanta, surprising the world and touching millions of hearts. At 63, as an ambassador for his religion and for peace, Ali was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom, our nation's highest civilian honor.
It struck me then, and now, that on the day he came to Evanston, Ali was technically part of the entourage of a man who'd accomplished nothing.
Fassi was a profligate spender. In the 1990s, he fell out of favor with the Saudi government for criticizing its role in the Gulf War. After house arrest and banishment, he left behind a legal mess for an estranged wife. He died in Cairo, at 50, from an infected hernia.
Fassi paraded around with unearned millions -- so much money that he gave me his autograph on a $10 bill. I was 21 and working a summer job to save for college -- $10 certainly meant something to me -- but he used that money as scrap paper. He turned to the champ and had him sign it, too. I still have that bill. It's one keepsake I'll never sell on eBay.
But I don't keep it as a trophy, and definitely not to remember Fassi. I keep it because Ali signed it, too. And I always want to remember the sweet, generous man who was just along for the ride, but who was really our guest of honor.
- Tamara Lytle, a freelance writer and editor in Northern Virginia, was Washington bureau chief for the Orlando Sentinel and is past president of the National Press Club.
© 2016 The Washington Post
(This story has not been edited by NDTV staff and is auto-generated from a syndicated feed.)
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