Stewardess, crisply: "Fasten your seat belt, Mr. Ali."
Muhammad Ali, eyes twinkling: "Superman don't need no seat belt."
Stewardess, sweetly: "Superman don't need no airplane, either."
He just turned 70.
And what were the odds of that?
All those punches, those cruel left hooks, those sledgehammer rights, the awful toll taken by rope-a-dope, that thunderous trilogy with Joe Frazier, and then Parkinson's syndrome to boot. Hadn't we all agreed he wouldn't see 40?
The memories remain: At his peak, up on his toes, circling, flicking jabs so fast you'd lose count, he was a sight to behold.
It was true, what they said, that he really could dance between the raindrops.
But what is left now is a brittle shell, a frail husk, wracked by uncontrollable tremors. The legs that once danced across the seven seas no longer work and leave him land-bound and struggling to stand. And the voice that once loosed a thousand poems is imprisoned in a slurring, rasping whisper. He has become a virtual mime.
He was a Pied Piper, who needed to do nothing more than sit on a park bench and instantly be surrounded. They claimed there was a time when he was better known than the pope. In fact, the pope once asked for his autograph.
In a rollicking, tumultuous lifetime he has undergone an extraordinary transformation. He is now applauded by those who used to revile him, and in the process has become a symbol of what the poet urged: Do not go gentle into that good night, rather rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Each time you see him, you feel a stab of pity but also a lightning bolt of admiration. For he resists . . . he resists.
And he does so without complaint, despite all the infirmities and the indignities that age and illness bring on. He still, laboring, works to muster a smile and a wave, and the crowds still chant, as if on cue: Ali, Ali, Ali . . .
He is in the midst now of six birthday celebrations, each tied to his charities, each RSVP and each with perfect attendance, and no surprise there, for who would dare turn down Ali, Ali, Ali?
"Old age," he said once, "makes you ugly, that's all."
No, no it doesn't. Not if you do it right.
Not if you understand the bargain, and make your peace with the trade-off, which is, as has been noted, great men have to die twice. First when they're great, and then as a man.
