Tribute: Muhammad Ali up close and personal from inside the boxing fraternity

He lorded it in the ring in a career that provided bittersweet memories for many who faced him inside the ropes and inspiration for others in the fight game
The rugged Canadian George Chuvalo was the first boxer to take Ali 15 rounds, after which Ali called him “the toughest man I ever fought”. In his autobiography Chuvalo: A Fighter’s Life he remembers the contest:

“My plan for the fight was simple: as the shorter guy, I wanted to stay close to Ali, nullify his speed and prevent him from using the whole ring. I also wanted to make it rough. The rougher, the better. But it took all of about 30 seconds for me to realise he was the fastest fighter I’d ever seen. It’s one thing to expect it; it’s another thing to feel it, live it.
When I say Ali’s speed was amazing, I’m not just referring to his hands. When he moved his legs and hands at the same time, when he synchronised them, he was really something. What surprised me the most was that he threw so accurately when he was in full motion. He’d be out of punching range, but, as he moved back in, he would already be starting to throw his punch, right on target. If I waited until he was back in range, it was already too late. I know I hurt him to the body and I should have followed up by punching to his head, but he was just too damn quick.
A few of my punches did land south of the border, but in most cases it only looked like they were low because Ali was wearing his cup about six inches higher than normal. [His trainer Angelo] Dundee knew I was a body puncher, so he had a special cup made. In order to disguise it, they had to get custom-made trunks. I knew it as soon as I saw Ali in the ring. When I saw the top of his bright red jock a couple of inches above his belt line, I felt like Elmer Fudd when he fought Bugs Bunny. In the cartoon, Bugs wore his trunks up around his ears in order to avoid getting hit.
Ali’s left hand was like greased lightning, but there wasn’t a lot behind it. His jab had more zing than sting. Once in a while he tried to turn the jab into a power punch by putting all his weight behind it, but it wasn’t a whole lot harder. To this day, people say to me, ‘He really hit you, he really pounded on you.’ Maybe it looks that way, but I wasn’t taking any real hard shots. I got hit a lot harder by Mel Turnbow and George Foreman in later fights.
When people meet me and say, ‘George, you went the distance with Muhammad Ali!’ I say, ‘No, you’ve got it wrong. He went the distance with me.’ When it was all over, he was the guy who went to the hospital because he was pissing blood. Me? I got to go dancing with my wife. No question I got the best of that deal.”
In his autobiography The Big Fight Sugar Ray Leonard, the five-weight world champion, remembers his first meetings with Ali when he was thinking about turning professional:
“I could never be Ali outside the ropes. Nobody could. As unpredictable as he was in public, that was nothing compared to the Ali I observed in private. I got to see that side of him during our first meeting in early 1976, when I was invited by the Touchdown Club in DC to present him with an award. I was never as self-conscious of my poor upbringing. When I pulled up in a little blue Chevy Nova and saw a parking lot filled with one limousine after another, I made a U-turn and parked on the street a few blocks away.
At the dinner table, Ali sat on my left. Leave it to him to ease any tension. ‘How long do you stop having pussy before a fight?’ he said, with the same delivery as if he were asking me to pass the mash potatoes.
I almost choked on my food. ‘About two days,’ I answered, once I composed myself. ‘Two days,’ he said without looking up. ‘You a baaaad nigger.’
…I was invited, along with the other [Montreal 76] gold medallists, by the well-known boxing promoter Don King, to Yankee Stadium to attend the heavyweight title fight in late September between my hero, Ali, and one of his rivals, Ken Norton. I couldn’t accept quickly enough. Not only would I see Ali fight in person for the first time, I would be introduced to the crowd as the Olympic light-welterweight champion. In the end, Ali was very fortunate to exit the ring with his belt. But that’s not what I remember most. It’s what took place before the bell rang.
We got off on the wrong floor on the way back to our seats and wound up in the stadium’s basement. For a second I thought we might not see the fight. Thank goodness, the guard realised who I was, smiled, and politely asked if I might want to see ‘Muhammad’.
Was he kidding? Of course I did, though I wondered: Why would Ali spend a second with me this close to the start of a Championship fight. Didn’t he need to focus his attention on the task at hand. Apparently not. ‘Are you turning pro?’ Ali said. ‘I’m thinking about it. I haven’t made my final decision,’ I said.
Ali stared at me, his quiet eyes like giant saucers. ‘Well, if you do turn pro,’ he said, ‘just make sure that you don’t do what I did. Don’t let anyone own you. Ali’s handlers were getting a little anxious. ‘Hurry up champ,’ one said. ‘It’s time to go.’
‘I’ll be there in a few minutes,’ he said. ‘I’m talking to my friends.’ My friend. Muhammad Ali was referring to me as one of his friends!

It didn’t take long for Don to make his pitch. ‘Ray I can make you a fortune,’ he said, ‘and you’ll be world champion.’ The numbers would have set me up for a long time. There was only one problem. I kept hearing a voice in my head: ‘Don’t let anyone own you.’ Which is precisely what would have happened if I had signed with Don.”
Joe Frazier had three memorable fights with Ali, the first – in Madison Square Garden in 1971 – he won on points after putting Ali on his pants in the 15th round. In his autobiography, Smokin’ Joe recalls his early meetings with Ali – and their first fight:
“In the early days, we were on a friendly basis— that was mostly when there were no crowds, microphones, or cameras. Once Clay had an audience, he was like the comedian who opened the refrigerator and, seeing the light go on, had to do 10 minutes of his best material. The sucker had 57 varieties of bullshit – and he needed it all. I’m not much of a talker. But that doesn’t make me ignorant, or a goddamn Uncle Tom. Or a disgrace to my race. But repeat the lie often enough, and people begin to think it’s so. Particularly when you’re a favourite of the press, like Clay was.
With that trash mouth of his, the scamboogah had made this personal. As he babbled on, I looked at him and told him: ‘I’m gonna kill you.’ My strategy was to stay in close, taking his head apart with hooks and straight right hands. But even as I pounded him, he was acting like he was still in command, talking his stuff while blood trickled from his nose. ‘Don’t you know I’m God?’ Clay yelled out after I landed a few good shots on him, pinning him against the ropes.
All the while, he kept jabbering away, ignoring the referee’s warning to keep it buttoned. ‘I’m gonna kill you, nigger,’ he said. I worked his body, beating it like a tomtom. I was enjoying it and having a ball getting the job done. But the guy surprised me: He stood and traded with me. And what he was throwing wasn’t pittypat.
But my adrenaline made me feel no pain. In the 15th round I kept pushing him off, looking for a chance to land the big one. As he stepped toward me, I dipped down and let fly another left, leaving my feet to throw a looping shot that sent Clay on to the seat of his trunks. Boom, and there it was — Mr Him on his butt, his legs kicking up into the air—the very picture of a beaten man. The roar it set off was like from the belly of a beast.
Afterwards I raised my hands in victory, thanked the Lord, and with a bloody mouth told Clay, ‘I kicked your ass.’ The fight was over. The fight was history. I had to stay for a few days in my hotel room and wait for my body to recover. It didn’t. I couldn’t urinate. I couldn’t stand up and walk. I couldn’t eat or drink. My eyes were puffed and sensitive to light. It helped to stick my head in a sink filled with ice water. It seemed like my body had shut down from exhaustion. I sat in the room and prayed I’d get back to my old self.”
Larry Holmes was one of Ali’s sparring partners before becoming world champion. In 1980 Ali came out of retirement to face him at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas, – and suffered a horrible beating. In his autobiography Larry Holmes: Against the Odds he relates his experiences:
“When I first met Ali I was an amateur and he had me raise my dukes and react to moves he made. ‘I’m gonna show you how fast I am,’ he told me. He held up his hands. ‘Want to see it again?’ he said, with an impish smile. He hadn’t moved, only pretended to. I laughed. We sparred three rounds. He hit me with some good shots and gave me a black eye. In the dressing room he told me: ‘You’re gonna be pretty good.’ Eventually, I could anticipate almost every move he made.
Ali was my friend. I loved the guy. I kept hearing the rumours he would fight again, but I didn’t really believe he would get himself back in shape. I’d noticed even before he retired he was beginning to slur his words and I figured he’d noticed too. But then again, Ali was a sucker for that spotlight. A fame junkie.
Even though I had anticipated Ali being nowhere near the fighter I’d sparred with, I was startled by how far back he had gone. The man was slower than Heinz ketchup. I couldn’t miss him. As for Ali, his jab –once a stinging dart – was a push, like a bear pawing the air. It was nothing.
From almost my first punch, Ali began cursing me. ‘You dumb motherfucker … asshole … fuckhead. You ain’t shit as a fighter, never were.’ The harder I hit him, the worse the language. Toward the end of the fourth round, I hit Ali with a big right hook to the kidney – probably the best punch to the body I ever threw in a fight. I heard Ali moan. He started to fall. That’s it, I figured. Then, all of a sudden, I saw him jerk himself upright. His damn pride wouldn’t let him fall.
That was when I realised what I was up against. Ali was not going to quit. He was there to take a beating, a beating I was not eager to deliver. In between rounds, I sat on the stool and prayed I wouldn’t have to hurt him. When I realised the fight was over, I felt relief and then a certain sadness. I told Ali: ‘I respect you, man. And I love you. I hope we’re always friends.’
The Guardian