Muhammad Ali In Fighter’s Heaven

NO WHITE MAN’S GOING TO TREAT ME LIKE A NIGGER NO MORE

A DARK BLUE Cadillac limousine turns down the drive, gliding to a stop beside the gym, and a fair-haired balding man in light gray trousers and a blue blazer climbs out, followed by a group of long-haired white men carrying camera equipment in black leather cases. Taking the keys from the chauffeur, one of the young men opens the trunk and quickly begins to unload more cameras and lighting equipment, calling out to the others, who stand by nervously, helpless: ‘Percy, pass me that lens … Terry, get the stuff from the back seat … Robin, here, grab this will you? … Larry, hold this now …’

I step up cautiously and stand just behind the young man identified as Percy: ‘Excuse me, what is going on?’

‘We’re B.B.C.,’ Percy explains. ‘Excuse me …’ and he pushes past me through the door. I follow him in.

‘So what are you gonna do?’ I ask, stopping beside him as he stoops to open a large black case.

‘We are filming a documentary on Arthur Ashe for the B.B.C., the British Broadcasting Corporation …’ he begins, struggling with the lock. ‘Mr. Ashe will be here soon, and then we shall interview him and Mr. Ali together.’

Around me the crew has begun to set up their lights. The balding man has removed his blue blazer and is now rushing about in a transparent cotton shirt, giving orders to the young men, pointing this way and that with a small wooden baton: ‘Swing that over here, Terry … Perfect! Perfect! Just like that … very good. Robin, can you manage that light? … That’s fine … Oh yes … Super! Just there …’

Behind us, the door swings open and Angelo darts in with his right hand outstretched, looking for the man in charge. The director turns: ‘Ah!’ he exclaims. ‘You are Mr….?’

‘Dundee,’ Angelo says, stepping over to the director’s outstretched hand. ‘Ali’s manager.’

‘Why certainly, yes …’ The men drift off along the wall, avoiding the cameras, talking politely in subdued voices. I back off slowly and sit down outside the door.

Fifteen minutes pass, and a second blue Cadillac arrives and glides to a stop behind the first. The rear door opens slowly and Arthur Ashe emerges dressed in Ivy collegiate style – thin, handsome, with long graceful hands and a manicured smile. He glances down at me briefly then steps past me into the spotlit gym. I get up and follow him in.

‘Arthur!’ the B.B.C. director shouts, hurrying along the wall to greet Ashe. ‘Where have you been?’

‘We got lost,’ Ashe explains.

‘Oh dear! No! Where?’

Ashe shrugs. ‘I don’t know. We kept asking people, and they all said, “Just down the road.”’

The director smiles: ‘Well, here you are.’ He takes Ashe by the arm, guiding him back along the wall towards Angelo, who is again standing with his right hand outstretched. ‘Arthur, this is Mr. Dunday. Mr. Dunday, Arthur Ashe.’

‘Dundee,’ Angelo says, nodding three times.

‘Hello,’ says Ashe. The three move across the ring and stand facing out toward the camera, talking quietly. Ashe is totally cool.

‘I’m always available! I’m always available!’ Ali shouts. ‘Just call me up and I’ll find time for you! I’m nice to people! He who makes room in his heart will find accommodation everywhere, that’s what I say. That’s me. You come up here, I got time for you!’

Suddenly the side door swings open quickly, and Ali strides in, beaming. Bundini fans out to his left, Blood to his right, and they move quickly to the center of the room. The B.B.C. crew looks up, startled.

Angelo leads Ashe and the director over to where Ali stands. Everyone crowds around as they shake hands. ‘I didn’t think we’d be able to see you,’ Ashe begins, striking a cocktail party pose. ‘We were filming down in the Bahamas when somebody suggested it would be good to do something with you and me together, but I didn’t even think we should bother to try. Thought you’d be much too busy training …’

Ashe has recently been in the headlines for refusing to play before a segregated audience in South Africa. This tenuous political thread is about all that spans the vast gap between Ashe and Ali, but the B.B.C. director has decided it will hold up well under the spotlights, and he quickly moves the two men into place, posing them side by side on a wooden table next to the ring. He draws up a chair to one side of the table and sits down quickly to begin. After a final check, the cameras roll.

Doubling as an interviewer, the director reads an introduction from file cards concealed in his lap, telling the audience that these two men are similar in that they are both black, athletes, and controversial. Then he drops his notes and turns to Ashe: ‘Arthur Ashe, you were recently invited to play in South Africa. Would you tell us a little about your visit?’

‘Yes,’ Ashe says, leaning toward the camera, speaking clearly, sounding young. He is sitting on his hands. ‘They invited me, but I said I wouldn’t play in front of a segregated audience. They wrote and said they’d arrange for me to visit black leaders in Johannesburg, and they’d let me go around with them and inspect the conditions freely. So, as an official visitor from the United States, but in the care of some black leaders, I did finally make the visit. I’m sorry my stay was so short, but it was interesting to go around, and I met some very nice people with whom I’m still in touch…’

Muhammad Ali, if you were asked to fight in South Africa, would you go?’…No whitey! No white man’s gonna treat me like a nigger no more!’ He wraps his right hand around the director’s throat. The director blanches and pulls back nervously.

Ashe goes on like this for a few minutes while Ali stares stonily at the ground, his hands folded loosely in his lap. Finally the director, hoping to involve Ali in this quiet discussion of the South African situation, turns to him and says jovially: ‘Muhammad Ali, if you were asked to fight in South Africa, would you go?’

Ali snaps into action as if an electric shock has run through his body. His feet hit the ground and in one stride he crosses the space between the table and the director’s chair with his left hand raised above his head, his right hand swooping in toward the man’s jugular, screaming: ‘No whitey! No white man’s gonna treat me like a nigger no more!’ He wraps his right hand around the director’s throat. The director blanches and pulls back nervously. Ali holds him for a second then steps back, grins down at him, and, as the cameras zero in for closeups on his face, launches into a shortened version of the Bluebirds speech he made to me before. For a moment, the director stares up at Ali in horror, but gradually he understands, gasping, ‘Do that some more!’ He sits up and straightens his tie.

When he has finished his monologue, Ali sits back beside Ashe, who nods at him with a vague, embarrassed smile. As if it were the end of a cricket match, the B.B.C. crew applauds lightly; their director edges back up in his chair to ask Ashe a few more polite questions.

The interview never quite gets off the ground again. Ali returns to his former stony silence, and Ashe, in an attempt to re-establish his shattered link with Ali, becomes non-commital, even terse, as if he feels his own black power again. After a few short observations on the magnitude of the event, the director raises his baton and the session draws to a close.

As the cameras stop, Ali stands up, smiling and friendly. ‘Bundini!’ he calls out.

Bundini comes over. ‘Let me get some pictures of you now, okay?’ he says. His arm on Ashe’s shoulder, Ali poses, smiling, while Bundini snaps away. Then, with a big wave, followed by his entourage, Ali turns and walks slowly out of the gym.