memoir

Muhammad Ali (1932 – 2016)

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I spent the day thinking about what Muhammad Ali meant to me and I couldn’t put it into words. He was there as long as I followed news and sports and civil rights and everything. He was always a part of my life. I remember that my father liked him, which is probably how I was introduced to him and I spent a couple of years as a real boxing fan, watching every match I could. I know that will surprise some people. The idea that he had Parkinson’s was a shock to me – Ali was invincible. He was The Greatest.

Well, he was still The Greatest.

His athleticism, his confidence, his faith. They didn’t define him as much as he defined them. They were a part of him.

My deepest condolences to his family; may he rest in peace in G-d’s embrace and may his pain be stilled.

Simply,

Float like a butterfly,
Sting like a bee,
Muhammad Ali is The Greatest,
and He inspired me.

That is his famous challenge mixed with my insignificant words; these are his:

How I Would Like To Be Remembered

“I would like to be remembered as a man who won the heavyweight title three times, who was humorous, and who treated everyone right. As a man who never looked down on those who looked up to him, and who helped as many people as he could. As a man who stood up for his beliefs no matter what. As a man who tried to unite all humankind through faith and love. And if all that’s too much, then I guess I’d settle for being remembered only as a great boxer who became a leader and a champion of his people. And I wouldn’t even mind if folks forgot how pretty I was.”

Hope

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I hope I can get home tonight in time for our television show. I hope the toilet doesn’t overflow before we get paid and call a plumber. I hope Glenn is alive on The Walking Dead. I hope and pray that I will, but today I am still just a bill.

Hope is the pleading in a child’s eyes when the ice cream truck goes by.

Hope is waiting outside the surgery or for the tests to come back.

Hope is the light at the end of a tunnel, and coming over the mountain top.

Hope is the line in the sand between destiny and despair.

Hope is the potential in a baby’s tiny fingers and wiggling toes.

Hope is getting on the right train, but being okay if it’s the wrong one. Nothing wrong with riding it for a couple of stops and taking in the newness of someone else’s something.

Hope is not reading ahead even if it kills you.

Hope is knowing the end of the story, but still thinking it might be different the second time.

Hope (no one’s watching) is licking the barbeque sauce off your fingers.

Hope is a rainbow at Niagara and a pink sheep defying gravity.

Hope is the smell of rain on stone and the tinkling sound of rain on water.

Hope is mist and a thin layer of fog.

Hope is an empty gas tank close enough to the gas station to not run out.

Hope is this close to the finish line and that far from the meadow.

Hope is a waterfall and a stream and a rock all apart and not.

Hope is communion and community and the sun coming up every morning.

Hope is a compass rose and a triquetra.

Hope is a butterfly wing and an endless supply of pen and paper.

Hope is the missing puzzle piece.

Life is hope.