Muhammad Ali’s Impact On Boxing

Courtesy www.frankmaloney.com

There he was, the dancing master, shuffling up the steps as though battling through an invisible blizzard, his clasp on the flickering torch heartbreakingly compromised by hands that shook uncontrollably. For over two decades, from his professional debut in 1960 as a scrawny teenager to that profoundly sad wintry night in 1981 when he made his ill-fated comeback against Trevor Berbick, Muhammad Ali lit up the sporting world’s colourless landscape like a metropolis of scorching stars.

The immensely poignant image of him setting light to the Olympic flame some 15 years after his retirement still resonates in my memory and was perhaps the moment when the most famous fighter of all, a man who partook in some of the most brutal encounters in ring history, became a worldwide symbol of love, hope and peace; a walking paradox who transcended sport, nationality, race and religion like no other.

However, discussing the ins and outs of his enormous social and political impact is not my intention on this occasion. Nor is it on my agenda to explore his numerous post-boxing humanitarian endeavours, inspiring and uplifting though they may be. Rather, I would like to focus on the monumental role he played in changing the eternally maligned sport that gave him prominence. The barriers he tore down. The moulds he shattered. The void he left.

When as Cassius Clay he exploded onto the scene, the world of professional boxing was viewed as something of a red light district, a guilty pleasure that was both impious and barbaric. While baseball and other such sports were considered wholesome pastimes, mobsters, grizzly promoters and flat-nosed pugs gave boxing an unsavoury reputation and shaped its image.

To the average sports fan, all prize-fighters were one and the same. Punchy, uncultured ruffians with cauliflower ears, no front teeth and jumbled, inaudible speech. Although the stereotype was undeniably unfair – refined champions such as Archie Moore and Sugar Ray Robinson were intelligent, classy and flamboyant – it was a long-lived and widely shared perception.

So when a handsome, articulate, infectiously charismatic young boxer showed up spouting poetry and predicting the round in which his opponents would hit the deck, people immediately took notice. Straight away, he made a flagrant mockery of the notion that anyone who swapped punches for a living was some sort of dim-witted bruiser and thus opened the gate for other personalities within the sport to shine through.

Although none would ever blaze as bright as his, the likes of Sugar Ray Leonard and Oscar De La Hoya would go on to garner phenomenal mainstream popularity in the 80’s and 90’s respectively, the kind that simply would not have been graspable before Ali.

He also reminded people that boxing itself, despite its vicious nature, could be a graceful, even beautiful sport. Gliding round the ring like a 200-pound ballerina, he punched with astonishing speed and slicing accuracy, his cat-like reflexes permitting him to dodge and dance away from the first hint of return fire mustered by his flailing pursuers. In a division of lumbering giants, possessing such unnatural agility and quickness gave the loudmouth from Louisville great appeal.

But, more than anything, it was his audacious boasts and frank outspokenness at a time when black athletes were expected to conduct themselves in a humble and reserved manner, almost to the point of being apologetic, that caused heads to swivel in his direction.

“As Cassius Clay, he entered the world of professional boxing at a time when the expectation was that a black fighter would behave himself with absolute deference to white sensibilities, that he would play the noble and grateful warrior in the world of southern Jim Crow and northern hypocrisy.”

Following the hate-inspiring reign of Jack Johnson, black fighters were subsequently compelled to tread extremely carefully if they hoped to avoid similar persecution and damnation. Johnson, the first black heavyweight champion, had incensed the white establishment with his stubborn refusal to acknowledge ‘his place.’ Not only was he arrogant and outrageously defiant, he had a penchant for extravagant attire, drove around in expensive cars and gleefully flaunted a string of affairs with white women and prostitutes.

Suffice to say he was driven out of the country and forced to defend his title overseas, eventually losing to Jess Willard in 1915. It wasn’t until 1937, when Joe Louis subsequently dethroned Jim Braddock, that another black man was allowed to fight for the heavyweight crown.

With the press still casually referring to black people, among other things, as “darkies,” “animals” and “jambos,” it was astutely judged by Louis’ handlers that if he was to be accepted by white America he would have to be the antithesis of Johnson in every way. Ordered to say as little as possible in public, he was given a strict set of rules to follow.

He was never to have his picture taken alongside a white woman.
He was never to go to a nightclub alone.
There would be no soft fights.
There would be no fixed fights.
He was never to gloat over a fallen opponent.
He was to keep a deadpan in front of the cameras.
He was to live and fight clean.

“Louis, in other words, was designed to be the anti-Jack Johnson. His talent was so undeniable and his behaviour so deferential that in time he won over even the Southern press, which designed to call him a “good nigger” and an “ex-pickaninny.” Unlike Johnson, Louis seemed to know his place. He offended no one.”

And neither did Floyd Patterson, another black heavyweight champion. He, like Louis, took great pains to portray himself as a ‘good negro.’ With the humbleness of a shoeshine boy, he wore the crown as though it were a gift he barely deserved. A devout Christian, he was courteous and amiable in a meek, almost fearful way, and never boasted or attempted to overstep his boundaries.

Ali, however, refused to grovel for acceptance. “I grew to love Jack Johnson’s image,” he once said. “I wanted to be a rough, tough, arrogant nigger white folks didn’t like.”

He was a pioneer in other ways, too. The first boxer of any colour to understand the importance of self-promotion, he sought out the press like a one-eyed pirate in search of treasure. With a sense of the theatrical, he proclaimed himself to be “the greatest,” concocted rhymes, recited poetry, did everything humanly possible to gain the maximum amount of exposure.

His tongue was a tool, a one off, flawlessly designed instrument which he used masterfully to generate interest in his career. And knowing full well that people would pay to see someone shut his mouth, his cockiness, bravado and showmanship knew no limits. He was a consummate entertainer inside and outside of the ring.

But what gave him such astronomical mainstream appeal, especially in the second phase of his legendary career, was an ability to connect with non-sports fans. He spoke candidly about race, religion and social issues, subjects that as an athlete he was expected to remain aloof from. Fight fans loved him for his brilliance in the ring, while those who may not have been particularly keen on boxing loved him just as much for an entirely separate set of reasons.

Whether it was the fearless way in which he spoke up against racial inequality, his courageous stance on the Vietnam War, or simply the allure of the man himself, people from all walks of life responded to him. He drew in fans from all over the world, his face eventually becoming the most recognized on the planet.

It is fair to say that boxing has never fully recovered from the body blow of losing Muhammad Ali. Having carried the sport on his shoulders for so many years, single-handedly taking it to its zenith, a gaping hole was unquestionably left when he faded from the scene. Without an Ali-like personality to gravitate towards, interest in boxing began to wane at an alarming rate. Suddenly, at least in the heavyweight division, there was no one to pull in the casual fan. Twenty-five years on, the problem still persists.

Although the lower weight classes have always brimmed with talent and excitement, it is the knockout laden heavyweight division that continues to selfishly command the spotlight. People look to the big boys for their entertainment, expecting, of course, to see re-runs of the Rumble in the Jungle and the Thriller in Manila each time they do. They crave the colourful personalities and explosive rivalries of that golden era, but are left continually disappointed by the comparative dullness of what has been on offer since Ali’s fateful departure.

The highly forgettable seven and a half year reign of Larry Holmes, from 1978 to 1985, had fans switching off in their drones, as did the uninspiring succession of faceless champions who followed him. Mike Tyson, for a fleeting few years, managed to inject a morsel of excitement back into the sport, but he never came close to capturing the public’s imagination the way Ali did.

In truth, it is unlikely that anyone ever will again.

Boxing is desperate for someone to step into his gargantuan shoes, but the inescapable question persists: can the irreplaceable ever be replaced? I tend to think that the void he left will never be completely filled, for truly he was a one off.