This story appears in ESPN The Magazine's June 27 Muhammad Ali Issue. Subscribe today!
IN ORDER TO recognize a great person, we must have an understanding of what greatness is. There was a time not too long ago when people walked hand in hand in pursuit of a dream; they walked in peace, united by a vision that they could change the world. A great man has a deep spiritual forbearance, regardless of his chosen religion. A great man has something open in his heart that can communicate a feeling without employing words. He has gentleness in his touch that sets his apart from that of the common man. A great man enables average people to recognize the greatness within them. We all admire our own great person, and each of us has our own understanding of him or her. My great person is my father, Muhammad Ali.
He had an inner light that transcended his physical body and enabled him to reach the farthest corners of the world. His true legacy lies beyond his victories in the ring and the number of trophies and championship belts he accumulated. It encompasses the spirit and sense of possibility that he inspired in others. The genuineness of his heart, the warmth of his smile, the very gift of himself -- expressed through the countless moments he shared with family, friends and strangers -- have all made so many people feel special.
Even though he's gone now, he still stands as a beacon of light and hope. He shines through troubled times. Bearing a message of peace and tolerance, the voice of his silence reached further than his infamous ringside shouts ever did. He was a composite of all the great qualities that can be found in the human spirit. "I've lived the life of a thousand men," he once told me, wide-eyed. "And you've loved a thousand times stronger!" I said back to him. On the following pages, I offer you this gift: my eyes, as well as those of other members of our family, of friends and former opponents and even his own, so that you may be able to see deep into Muhammad Ali's heart.
EVERY GREAT PERSON has a story of how they came to be. A place, a reason, a moment when their purpose became crystal-clear and the journey began. For Muhammad Ali, born on Jan. 17, 1942, as Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr., it happened at the age of 12. Like most great champions, his road to glory was paved with humble beginnings. One October afternoon, the young Cassius and his friend Ronnie were tasting free food samples at a fair in their hometown of Louisville, Kentucky. The day was full with the promise of adventure. Cassius had just received a brand-new red Schwinn. But when the boys were full from their afternoon delights and ready to head home, Cassius was devastated to discover that his bicycle had been stolen.
"I was so upset," my father told me once. "I walked up and down the street shouting how I was going to find the person who took my bike and give him a good whupping. A policeman named Joe Martin [who also trained boxers at a local gym] overheard my rambling. He told me that I better learn how to box before I went challenging anyone to a fight."
So he did. Every day after school and on weekends, Cassius was the first to enter the gym and the last to leave. "They never did find my bike or the person who took it," he said. With widening eyes and a raised brow, he gave that old sharp look: "Sometimes I think it might have been an angel." We all know about the 18-year-old Olympic gold medalist who went on to become the world's greatest champion, winning the heavyweight title for the first time at the age of 22. With his quick wit, remarkable confidence and dazzling speed, he danced rings around his opponents while rhyming and predicting the rounds in which they would fall.
We all know about his religious conversion when he changed his name to Muhammad Ali. We know about his refusing to fight in the Vietnam War on religious and moral grounds. Before entering the induction room on the morning of April 28, 1967, he was offered deals -- told that he could perform boxing exhibitions and never see the battlefield -- but he refused to compromise his principles. When the hour of truth arrived and the name Cassius Marcellus Clay was called at the induction center, Muhammad Ali stood perfectly still. He knew in advance there would be consequences, and he was ready to pay the price of freedom. Never wavering in his resolve, he would be unjustly stripped of his heavyweight title, banned from boxing, fined thousands of dollars and sentenced to five years in prison, and he had his passport revoked. On June 28, 1971, the Supreme Court unanimously overturned his conviction. And we all know about his return to glory and the legendary fights that followed. "Ali was a man's man mentally and physically," said boxer Ken Norton, who went the distance with him three times in the 1970s, winning once. "He never backed down from what he believed in. Young people today know him as a great fighter, but he was more than that. He was a great individual respected by the world and his peers."
Veronica Porche, my mother and his third wife, recalled, "During the 1970s, Muhammad and I visited Bangladesh as guests of the president, who hosted an elaborate dinner in our honor. Halfway through, Muhammad disappeared. Do you know where we found him? In the kitchen, performing magic tricks for the staff. Muhammad loved to amuse people and do the unexpected. But the rhymes and predictions during his career were much more than entertainment. He used them to set goals and make himself accountable. He affirmed what he would do and lived into his future."
One of the things people frequently ask me and my sisters is what he was like as a father. The Muhammad Ali we knew really wasn't so different from the one the public saw. As my sister Laila once said, "He was a humble man -- all of the bragging and boasting was mostly to promote fights and inspire people. He was always amazed by the adulation and excitement he received from his fans. His eyes would light up, and he would get a burst of energy, like in the old times.
"I can remember Hana and me playing every evening in his office when we were kids. He would be sitting at his desk, talking on the phone or entertaining guests. No matter what he was doing or who was visiting, he would let us roll around on the floor in front of the fireplace making all the noise we wanted. Sometimes he would sneak out a tape recorder and tape our conversations. He would play them back to us later, explaining how, one day when we were all grown up, we would be happy he thought to do this. My dad was a worldly man, but he enjoyed the simple pleasures of life and knew how to make ordinary moments feel extraordinary. It was just another of his many gifts."
My sister Miya remembered, "My father was never married to my mother. So I didn't grow up living under the same roof with him. But he called me regularly and flew me into his Los Angeles home, where he brought all of my sisters and brothers together for the summers.
"Since we lived in different states, he didn't spend a lot of time in my neighborhood or take me to school. After a while, the kids started teasing me, saying that they didn't believe that he was really my dad because I didn't look like him and they never saw him around. Being fair-skinned didn't help matters much. One day, when I was 8 years old, I called my dad in tears about the teasing. The next day, he flew into town and walked me up and down the street so everyone could see us together. He took me to school the next morning, and they called an assembly. When all the students were in the auditorium, he had me point out the kids who had been teasing me. One at a time they walked up to the stage. He shook their hands and told each of them that he was my daddy. That meant more to me than words can explain."
The times I asked my father which fight meant the most to him, he always answered the Rumble in the Jungle: "Nobody believed I could do it. George Foreman, they told me, is too strong. He's too big. He's got youth on his side. He beat Frazier and Norton. I didn't know how, but somehow, I just knew in my heart that I could do it. I had to. You see, the fight was always for something bigger than just me. If I had walked into that ring only for myself, then he would have seemed scary. Then he might have got me. But when I thought of all the good winning the title could do, when I thought of all the people I could help ... George seemed small by comparison."
As Foreman fell to the ground in an eighth-round knockout, the crowd burst into a thunderous roar -- as did the heavens. Rain poured from the sky, drenching the people of Kinshasa as they danced in the street chanting, "Ali bomaye! Ali bomaye!" He had done it; he had achieved the impossible. "That night I showed myself and the world how great I really was," he said.
The moment he had stepped onto African soil, he felt a kinship with the people there. After the fight, he saw a group of kids playing barefoot near the Congo River. He told them he would use his title for good, that he would use it to bring awareness to their country and that he would never do anything to disgrace them. My father was one of the most beloved human beings in the universe for the same reasons that he made and kept his promise to those kids. He used his influence time and again as an ambassador of peace, hope and goodwill. Muhammad Ali was called to greatness many times in his life, and every time he rose to the occasion. He proved over and over, in and out of the ring, that he wasn't afraid of a challenge. "When most of the world is going in one direction," my father said, "it takes courage to walk against the crowd. A man who is not courageous enough to take risks in life will accomplish nothing. I've accomplished a lot because I took big gambles."
Close family friend Tim Shanahan understands better than most just how much Muhammad was willing to risk for others. He has this story to tell: "It was November 1979, and the press was reporting that Iranian college students had taken 66 Americans hostage at the U.S. Embassy in Tehran. When Muhammad heard the news, he went on national television and offered to go over and speak to the students personally. As you can imagine, the telephone was ringing nonstop at the Ali household. The State Department, the cultural office at the Iranian Embassy, newspaper reporters and even the White House were calling.
Later that evening, we were alone in his office. The house was unusually quiet. The kids were asleep and everyone had gone home. Muhammad was sitting in his long armchair in front of a crackling fire, staring pensively at the flames. I was sitting on the couch across from him. He had asked the State Department for clearance for two friends, Howard Bingham and me. If everything went according to plan, the three of us soon would be headed to Iran.
"Suddenly, Ali broke the silence: 'You know there's a chance we might not come back?' I told him I was aware of the risks and that I was honored to accompany him. 'How do you think they would kill us?' he asked bluntly. I told him it would probably be a gunshot to the head.
"Then he asked with wide eyes, 'How would it feel? Do you think it would hurt?'
"I walked over to his chair and stood behind him, and then I took my index finger and poked him in the temple real quick. 'That's it, Champ. You wouldn't feel much more than that.'
"'Good!' he said. 'Let's go!' We watched the news for a while, and I asked him if he was sure. Without hesitation, he turned to face me and answered, 'They're holding 66 people hostage, and each one of them has worried family members and friends who love and miss them. So for every one person I help, I'm really helping hundreds. If you add them all up -- all the mothers, all the fathers, all the sisters and brothers, all the aunts and uncles and all the friends and co-workers -- you see, I'm not just going for 66 ... I'm going for thousands!'
"In the end, the State Department couldn't guarantee our safety, so they canceled the trip. But Ali had been willing to risk his life to help bring total strangers home safely. In 1985, he flew to Lebanon in an attempt to secure the release of four hostages. Then in 1990, he flew to Iraq and successfully negotiated the release of 15 American hostages. I think he was like a golden key that could unlock any door in any nation around the world."
Sometimes the doors he unlocked were closer to home, but no less unlikely. For nearly two decades starting in 1987, Harlan J. Werner handled the marketing and licensing for Muhammad Ali and his family. "I spent years trying to get Ted Williams to attend one of my sports collectors conventions," Harlan told me, "but had little luck until 1989, when I mentioned that Muhammad was coming to a convention at the Disneyland Hotel in Anaheim. At the time, Ted hadn't been on the West Coast in almost 15 years. The moment he saw Ali, he rushed over to him, gave him a big bear hug and started to cry. Ted Williams -- American war hero, baseball legend, carbon copy of John Wayne -- was overcome with emotion the moment he saw Muhammad. Ted looked at him and said, 'I'm honored and proud to be here with you. I was looking forward to meeting you. I watched you fight many times, and I am a huge fan.' Muhammad moved people from all ranks of life to tears of joy and appreciation."
In the words of his fourth wife and widow, Lonnie: "I have known Muhammad since I was a young girl growing up in Louisville. In November 2011, we celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary, so it is safe to say that I knew him longer than most. Over the course of those years, I came to admire many wonderful things about him. Perhaps the most striking was his ability to connect with the common person. From kings to presidents to the guy next door, Muhammad is happiest making the average person on the street smile. When his health permitted, he would take walks in whatever city we happened to be in, stop and talk, shake hands, take pictures, kiss babies and sign autographs. As he got older and his Parkinson's progressed, he still found joy in the simple act of making people smile."
IN THE LAST years of his life, my father, Muhammad Ali, was as beautiful a man with a mission as he had ever been. He glided across the ring of life as though he were a Messenger of Spirit. No obstacle could bring his majesty down. His step, though slower in pace, was both a testimony and a prayer that he lived in trust and not fear. No illness could take away his brightness. It was ever-present in his gleaming eyes and will carry on through the compassion and generosity that flowed like a stream throughout his life.
If you could have borrowed my eyes and seen my father in the calm of his later life, you would not have mourned what he lost. When we observe the source of true strength, we find that the power of a hand is best measured not by its weight but by the amount it can lift. Muhammad Ali's vitality came from a place deep within. It came from his courage to fall and his will to rise. It came from his awareness that every moment under the sun has a purpose and a time. If you could borrow his heart, you would not question what he sacrificed but rather pray for the peace of his gentle soul.
Hana Ali, author of More Than a Hero and co-author with her father of The Soul of a Butterfly, wrote this story for ESPN in 2011. This is the first time it has appeared in print.