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By Root 529 0

old days were wary of Veronica, a statuesque beauty who seemed to them to be in hot pursuit of celebrity and an acting career rather than providing strength to a husband who needed it badly. They also writhed at her excess of spending; odd this, coming from followers who, on the old Ali tab, went through his money like fire ants. Word was Jimmy Jacobs, the film archivist, became so suspicious of the grabby atmosphere that surrounded Ali at his Hancock Park estate that he stopped sending contractual checks in the mail. Ali stood by the open door to his bare bedroom and glanced inside at a cot with an institutional cover. While Ali always had been frugal when it came to pampering himself with worldly possessions—and had a deeply held commitment to the ascetic—he suddenly found himself obliged to reassure that he had gotten out of boxing in one piece financially. He cupped a trembling hand over his mouth and said, “I got three million in CDs in the bank. Nobody knows. Shhhh!”

With that, the doorbell rang downstairs. “Must be some kids,” he said, “wanna see some magic tricks again.” Ali eased down the steps, then came upon Abdel standing by the door with an uninvited visitor, a young fighter who announced he had come from New Orleans by bus just to see him. Ali motioned him in, then went back to his desk. The kid stood there twisting his cap in his hand, his eyes turning over the ceiling and around the room, then quickly turned back to Ali, who studied him with the disinterest of a man who has picked up an ordinary shell on the beach and was now wondering why. Maybe eighteen, the kid had a small, shaven head, looked like he could fill out to a solid middleweight if he could survive the ignorance and dispassion found every day in the life of young fighters. Ali was always gracious with the species, but knew better than anyone that merely being good would never be good enough.

Ali saw that the kid was staring at him. “Why you lookin’ at me like that?” he asked.

“You look different, I mean…,” the kid said, his eyes turning over the room again.

“You keep lookin’ around my room. You a robber? You gonna come here at night, steal somethin’.” He gave a smile to Abdel.

The kid squirmed, said, “I never do that, champ.”

“I ain’t no champ anymore,” Ali said.

“I seen you fight Spinks in Nawwlins.”

“Then you didn’t see anything.”

“I send you a lotta letters.”

“I get nothin’ but letters. People wantin’ all kinds of things. Even pieces of my nappy hair. What your name?”

“Kid Hershey,” he said, “like, ya know, in the candy bar. I’m gonna be a champ, and…”

Ali looked on blankly. Was his memory being jogged to how he himself had once been? Never one to give the possibility of rejection an even break, the young Clay revved up early for the marketplace. Unlike the old poet Alexander Pope, he did not believe that those who lacked expectations were blessed. He popped up on the phone to trainer Angelo Dundee, who was in his hotel room with his noted light heavy Willie Pastrano. “Willie,” Dundee said, “I got a real case here. Some young kid says he’s won the Pan American Games, the Golden Gloves, and he’s going to go and win the Olympics. He wants to come up.” Willie nodded: “Why not? Bein’ with you all day, I could use a laugh.”

In the presence of enlightenment, the green Clay showed no reverential silence .

“You eat a lot, Willie? How much you eat? You eat good? Gotta watch the diet, a fighter.

“How much roadwork you do, Willie? I can run forever. Spot a horse five lengths.

“You good with cuts, Mr. Dundee? I bet you are. No matter. I don’t let nobody cut me. Sorry, I’m talkin’ so much. Just need all the information I can get.

“Tell me about Madison Square Garden. What’s the color of them seats? Oooooo…I bet they gold. And that ring bell. That ring bell give me goose pimples on the radio. And pretty women all over. You don’t fool with women, do you, Willie? Can’t fool with women, a fighter. Fighter gotta stay pure.

“Sugar Ray Robinson, nobody like him. Oooooo…my idol, he somethin’. No disrespect, Willie. And Marciano, what a killer