THE HUMBLE EGOMANIAC

A near knockout at O’Hare

It had to be 1977. Winter. When the big grey lid is nailed tight over Chicago. My family had landed at O’Hare from points sunny and west. I went with my father for the luggage while the others headed out to the long-term lot for the car. We stood at the belt, waiting; my father had that 1,000-yard stare. You could not interact with him at such times. He was hunting. I wandered away.

Near the Avis counter, I ran into Ali. He was just standing there, or so it seemed to me. I said, “Hey, Champ.” He got on one knee and goofed with me, calling me “Pretty Boy” and throwing a few fake haymakers. It was all just joking around, but it showed he had a generous spirit and was willing to play with his celebrity.

I went back and told my father, still at the belt, that I’d met The Champ. He said, “Yeah, yeah — there’s our suitcase!” I went away again, sadly. Ali saw me. “Hey, Pretty Boy, what’s wrong?”

“My father doesn’t believe I met you.” Ali picked me up, held me against his chest, and carried me across the terminal. He had battled injustice all the way to the Supreme Court, but he was also taking this slight against a nine-year-old boy seriously. “Where is he?” Ali asked. I pointed to my father. Ali went over and tapped him on the shoulder.

When my father turned around, there was Muhammad Ali with a fist in his face, saying, “My friend says you don’t believe in me.”