Flashback

The writer Davis Miller remembers Muhammad Ali at home in Michigan

Ali knew the way he affected people; it was always conscious. I don’t think there’s ever been anyone like him and I can’t imagine there ever will be again

This photo was taken in September 1992, at what may have been the height of my relationship with Muhammad Ali. I was writing a feature on him and was at his home with photographer Len Irish from Rolling Stone. Muhammad and I sat side by side on a sandstone wall beside his driveway when he turned to me and said, ‘I don’t talk much no more, that’s not my way, but you make me think and talk. You’re wise, seriously.’ Ali was humouring me – he could beautifully take the piss out of you when he wanted to.

In the shot, Ali playfully mimed kissing me on the cheek and if you look at our hands, we’ve both unintentionally got fists. His left hand was always the one that trembled from the Parkinson’s and he would tuck it in to stop it. Completely unrelated, I had balled my hand up into a fist because it was cold – I’m even wearing a sweatshirt that he had given me. Later, I asked him to sign the photo of the two of us for my children, and he did: ‘To Johanna and Isaac, love, Muhammad Ali.’

Just a few months earlier, on our joint birthday, January 17 (my 40th and his 50th), I had taken six-year-old Isaac to meet him. We were there for three days, and Ali had chased Isaac around, tickling him, pretending to be Frankenstein. When we were getting ready to leave, Ali insisted on walking us to the car. There was a video camera on the back seat and he pointed to it. So I reached back to get the camera. ‘Is it on?’ he asked.

When I told him it was, he picked up Isaac, who was giggling and said, ‘This man will be the next champion. He will win the crown in 2020 and I will be the manager. I will be 93 and we will be the greatest of all time.’

Isaac is 31 now but he still remembers every moment of that tape. Ali lowered Isaac back into his seat and said to us both: ‘You’ll remember this when you’re old men.’ Ali knew the way he affected people; it was always conscious. I don’t think there’s ever been anyone like him and I can’t imagine there ever will be again.

On his 74th birthday (my 64th), I was in the shower when my mobile rang. I pulled the curtain back to see that the area code was Arizona, where he was living. I jumped out, hitting my knee on the way and when I answered, he said exactly two words, ‘My man.’ Then his son-in-law, Mike Joyce, came on and said, ‘I thought you’d want to hear from him, on you guys’ birthday.’ That was the last time we spoke.

Approaching Ali, by Davis Miller (£16.99, W. W. Norton, Ltd), is out now