Muhammad Ali In Fighter’s Heaven

THE ART OF

PERSONALITY

I WONDERED HOW he managed to train on three hours sleep: ‘Do you often stay up that late?’ ‘Sometimes I do. What happens is, when I’m in the city and I’m eating cheeseburgers and drinking sodas and I’m up all night, I can’t think. See, I wrote a thing once:

Those living close to nature

In solitude as peasants in the country,

Have a greater intuition

Than educated people living the city life.

Why?’ He sat forward, taking a deep breath. ‘I’m breathing fresh air, my mind is clear. You’re not, in New York City. I’m drinking fresh water from the ground, rain water; there’s nothing in it. You can taste that water when you drink it. The food that I eat, the vegetables are not frozen or sprayed. There’s a farm down the road. The tomatoes I eat, the lady picks them out of her garden. So I’m nourishing in my soul and my thoughts real water and real food, which is the nature for the body. So I seem better than the man who’s eating artificial food, breathing artificial air. This is one of the things that gives me the incentive to keep going, having this place. You know, if I was still in a hotel or in somebody’s gym, I’d be bored. And now this, this is like real life. Fresh air, fresh water, peace, looking at the view: can’t beat it. I didn’t know it would be this nice. I’m predicting there’s not a camp in the world like this one for boxing. I mean, you talk about training and going to camp, you think about chopping wood and walking up hills and sledding. And that’s just what this is, horses and …’

‘You ride the horses?’ I broke in.

‘Yeah! I ride em, man. I can ride like Roy Rogers! Can I ride? You stick around a little while, you gonna see me ride!

“I’m breathing fresh air, my mind is clear.
You’re not, in New York City. I’m drinking fresh water from the ground, rain water; there’s nothing in it. You can taste that water when you drink it.
The food that I eat, the vegetables are not frozen or sprayed.”

‘They say wise men go off and meditate on top of a mountain, and fast and think. They just eat honey and no vegetables and no meat, and things just come to them. I wrote something the other day:

The world is a field,

And we are born to cultivate the field.

Once we learn to cultivate the field,

We can produce anything.

‘So you see, I can sit down and figure out a problem. I know the nature of different races. I know what to say and what not to say. I put it all together, and I can use it.

The man who has no imagination

Stands on the earth.

He has no wings,

He cannot fly.’

Ali begins to sound like a preacher, his voice turning soft, melodious and emphatic with measured breath as he speaks in a mixture of rhyme and reason. He repeats the last poem, one of his most frequent central statements, slowly, making it clear and strong:

The man who has no imagination

Stands on the earth.

Looking up, almost in a whisper:

He has no wings,

He cannot fly.

“Joe Frazier has no imagination! George Foreman has no imagination! They just pugnosed boxers! Left hook here, right hook there, and that don’t attract the women who like ice skaters.”

He begins parodying himself, letting his eyes bug out, large and round: ‘Joe Frazier has no imagination! George Foreman has no imagination!’ He lifts his finger to the end of his nose and squashes it against his face. ‘They just pugnosed boxers! Left hook here, right hook there, and that don’t attract the women who like ice skaters. That don’t attract the fan who likes to play bridge. That don’t attract the man in Africa or England. But my image and my imagination does. But boxers – they just draw the boxing fans.’

“You talk jive, you’ll fall in five. That won’t do, you go in two. I’m the greatest! Hiya, haha! I’ll get them there.”

He pauses, slouching into his chair, the perfect ham actor. With little gestures of hand and face, he becomes an old man with a hat and a cigar: ‘There’s an old fellow sitting there with his head down and a cigar.’ Ali’s voice becomes thick and monotonous: ‘Joe! Come on yum hum hum yaha!’ He sits straight up in his chair, slamming the top of the table. ‘That ain’t colorful! But I come on in my pretty white robe, do my shuffle!’ His feet dance under the table as he turns from side to side. ‘And my predictions!’ He starts to wave his arms around again, rolls his eyes and sounds a little hysterical as he acts out the part of Muhammad Ali, boxer: ‘You talk jive, you’ll fall in five. That won’t do, you go in two. I’m the greatest! Hiya, haha! I’ll get them there.’

“Confidence. Confidence. Every man wants to be determined. Every man wants to believe in himself, every man wants to be fearless.”

Then he becomes the fight fan, a young man in bow tie and madras jacket, with a blonde on his arm: ‘“Hey! Let’s get a ticket, go and see this!” You gotta laugh it up, make it colorful.’

Suddenly Ali sits back in his chair, looks up calmly, and says, conclusively: ‘Imagination. See, I fly. They stand still. See, I got this lecture, The Power of Suggestion. I suggest to myself that I’m going to do this and do that, and I do it. I believe I’m gonna get him in this round; I practise it. And I believe I can do this, and do it. Confidence. Confidence. Every man wants to be determined. Every man wants to believe in himself, every man wants to be fearless. And when I display this, it attracts people; they come to see if I can do it.

“I’m beautiful! I’m too pretty to be a fighter! Look at me! I’m the prettiest fighter! There ain’t never been a fighter so beautiful! And they just say, ‘He’s crazy!’”

Many of them envy you, because they want to do it, and they can’t. Many of them like it; many of them don’t like it. Many like you for it. See?’

‘Do you have any other lectures?’ I ask.

‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘I studied a few things, putting topics together. I just spoke to Cornell College, spoke on the topic of friendship. I’m getting lectures together before I even know where I’m speaking. Lectures on different subjects. I carry a briefcase of them, and when I go to a lot of places, a lot of times I don’t know what type of college it is. After sitting down and weighing out the situation, I pull out a lecture to fit the occasion.

‘I have another lecture called “The Art of Personality.” And the lecture says: personality’s not something you’re born with; we’re born as individuals. My wife’s got four children and all of them have got different individualities. So what I’m saying is, personality is the development of individuality.

“Then I attract the black militants that don’t like the whites: “Yeah! Tell ‘em brother. Tell them honkies, brother!”

‘Take me for example. I attract people. Pretty girls from all over the country charter planes to my fights because I say things that attract them: “I’m beautiful! I’m too pretty to be a fighter! Look at me! I’m the prettiest fighter! There ain’t never been a fighter so beautiful! And they just say “He’s crazy!” They know I’m pretty.’ Ali is beginning to enjoy himself. Grinning broadly, he acts out the role of each person.

‘Then I attract the redneck white folks that don’t like black people: “I’m the greatest!’” he yells, rolling his eyes with his fist in front of his face. ‘“That nigger’s too arrogant; he talks too much!’” Ali says in a tight, angry, dull voice.

‘I’m pretty! I can’t lose! I’m the greatest!’ he yells again.

‘The nigger needs a whoppin’!’

‘Then I attract the black militants that don’t like the whites: “Yeah! Tell ‘em brother. Tell them honkies, brother!”

‘Then I got all the long-haired hippies, because I don’t go to war. I ain’t goin’ to no Vietnam. I say:

Clean out my cell

And take my tail

On the trail

For the jail

Without bail

Because it’s better in jail

Watchin’ television fed

Than in Vietnam somewhere dead.

‘Then I attract the Muslims, because of the name Muhammad Ali. Then the Israeli, who don’t get along with the Muslims, might come to see me get whupped, because I’m a Muslim. And the Muslim’s gonna root for me, because he don’t want the Israeli to get his wishes. So you add it all up, I got a helluva crowd. Personality.’ He sits back, looking confident and amused.

‘So is that why you’re successful?’ I ask. He shoots me one of those Muhammad Ali fierce looks.

‘Why are you successful?’ I ask, still laughing.

“Many things could be accomplished if we only believed. I was determined that I would be successful. I thought about it, I dreamed about it, I slept it, I ate it … and I believed.”

Ali grows serious again, speaking softly and evenly.

‘I would say determination to be successful in whatever field you endeavor. Then hope, in whatever field you determine to be successful. Hope comes from the determination to achieve something. So therefore, this determination in itself can be a very great power. The goal which a person determines to reach is small in comparison to the power that he gains in the process of determination. And in itself, belief is another thing which a lot of men don’t have, belief. Many things could be accomplished if we only believed. I was determined that I would be successful. I thought about it, I dreamed about it, I slept it, I ate it … and I believed. Number One is Allah, A-L-L-A-H, God is the number one reason to whom I give credit for my success. Allah, the strong belief in Allah. I have a poem:

Life is a fair trade where all adjusts itself in time.

For all that you take from it, you must pay the price sooner or later.

For some things, you must pay in advance.

For some things, you must pay on delivery.

And for others, later on, when the bill is presented.’

He read some other poems, commenting on them as he went along:

Where is a man’s wealth? His wealth is in his knowledge.

If his wealth is in the bank, and not in his knowledge,

Then he doesn’t possess it, because it’s in the bank.

‘Ain’t that beautiful? A man with no money can get it. They had me broke at one time. I was fighting and thinking and writing, and I came back. A lot of people lose their money; but with no mind they don’t get it again.’ Ali read the poem a second time, putting a gentle emphasis on ‘because it’s in the bank.’

Do not weep with the sad, but console them.

If not, by your tears,

You will only water the plant of their sorrow.

‘The lady’s crying,’ Ali screws his face into a tight knot of tears and wails in a high-pitched voice: ‘Oh mah son is dead! Ohhh hoo hoo oh I’m so sorry! Ooooh oooh they gonna bury him tomorrow! They gonna bury him! Oh they are! Ooooh ooh ooh ooh.’ He is rocking back and forth in his chair. Then suddenly he stops, straightening up and smiling: ‘See, that’s not helping her,’ he says. ‘Do not weep with the sad, but console them. If not, by your tears, you only water the plant of their sorrow.’

“I’m visiting a prison tomorrow; Rubin Hurricane Carter, a great fighter, is in prison. Many people say he’s innocent; from what I heard, he’s innocent.”

He pauses for a moment, then looks down at his handwritten manuscripts for the next poem.

Life is a continuing battle,

And he alone is victorious who conquers himself.

‘What moved me to write that?’ he asks. ‘See, when I’m up here in training and I have to dodge women, I have to dodge certain types of food, it’s a constant battle. But if I can fight myself, defeat myself, I’ll go right through it. And I don’t care what race you are, what religion or what country. This is true facts of everybody’s nature,’ he adds.

‘I’m visiting a prison tomorrow; Rubin Hurricane Carter, a great fighter, is in prison. Many people say he’s innocent; from what I heard, he’s innocent.’

‘What’s he in jail for?’ I interrupt, remembering something about Carter’s case.

‘I don’t know,’ Ali says. ‘Manslaughter or something. They don’t know who did it, and he was in the car.’

‘Yeah. He’s been in for a long time, hasn’t he?’

‘Yeah. So I’m supposed to go – somebody invited me – and there are a couple of hard wardens on him there, so I wrote this:

The warden of the prison is in worse condition than the prisoner himself.

While the body of the prisoner is in captivity,

The mind of the warden is in prison.’

‘Better not read that in prison,’ I tell him, but Ali is already looking down at his next poem.

Since he refused his induction to Vietnam and changed his name from Cassius Clay to Muhammad Ali, declaring support for Elijah Muhammad and the Black Muslim movement, Ali has emerged as a man with a message. And it is not about boxing; he really didn’t want to talk about that any more. Whenever I brought it up, he steered the conversation back to what he now considers his major tasks: writing, running the camp, thinking. Boxing was a metaphor, a chest of tools into which he could reach for illustrations, something in which he was expert, but disinterested.

I asked him if he believed in inspiration. ‘Yeah. Inspiration is just somebody who inspires you, like our religious leader in America, Elijah Muhammad. He’s been here forty-two years trying to unite black people, clean ‘em up, give ‘em work, teach ‘em to do for themselves, quit begging white people, get out and work, respect your woman. And he’s running a whole nation from his living room. And one man doing all that inspires me to say: “Well, he runs a whole nation of people, so I can watch this camp, I can make sure they clean that bunkhouse.” ‘If this man seventy-five years old can handle a whole nation with all those black people, then I can handle my little world, from my house to my camp to my office.’