Meeting the Champ

Neil Offen told me his Muhammad Ali story years ago and it remains one of the best things I've ever read about him. For my part, I met the Champ twice, years apart, and each encounter had a striking effect on me.

          The first time was around 1980 in the U.S. Capitol Building. I was on the hill covering who knows what when someone in the Senate Press Gallery hollered “The Champ’s in the building!”

          Ali had been named by then-President Carter as a roving international goodwill ambassador and was making the rounds. You literally could hear pens drop in the Press Gallery as we all forgot what we were doing and raced downstairs to see the Champ.

          I came upon Ali from behind. He seemed very tall and wore a light blue polyester suit, but what I recall most was how his wide, wide shoulders tapered down to such a narrow waist. When I shook his hand I was struck by how mine was totally engulfed in his.

          “A pleasure to meet you, Champ,” I said to the man who then was the most well-known and beloved person on the planet.

          It was a much quieter and poignant time more than two decades later when I met Ali for the second and last time.

          I had retired as a Washington reporter for the New York Daily News and was working with my wife Judy in commercial and documentary photography. We were at the Willard Hotel in downtown D.C. covering a corporate event and afterward we stopped for a late supper in one of the hotel’s dining rooms.

          It was probably around ten when we emerged from the restaurant and headed down the Willard’s long, chandeliered corridor to the front lobby so we could retrieve our car. As we walked we noticed behind us a couple walking slowly in the same direction, dressed in evening clothes.

          It was Muhammad Ali, walking unsteadily on the arm of his daughter Laila, herself a champion boxer. Presumably they had just come from a private event at the hotel.

          The Parkinson’s that would ultimately contribute to Ali’s death was sadly obvious: the Champ’s grey head was shaking and his gaze was distant. He seemed much smaller. We gave them their space, but not before I did one thing, taking his hand.

         “It’s an honor to shake your hand again, Champ,” I said, my voice thickening.