Those of you who know me well know I’m not crazy about boxing. None of the brutal contact sports, such as boxing, fake wrestling and cage fighting, do anything for me.
In fact, they make my stomach turn and if I get stuck in a captive situation where one of these sports is on the television, I tend to look away. Or leave.
That said, I have to admit I was hit hard by the death of Muhammad Ali. There’s no denying he was a superb athlete. And if you didn’t believe that, all you had to do was ask him.
I detest that kind of bravado and braggadocio about as much as I detest boxing, but even I have to admit the former Cassius Clay was one of a kind.
He was good, he knew he was good and he made no apologies for being the greatest of his day.
But my memories of the man are more personal. I was fortunate to be at the Opening Ceremony of the centennial Olympics of 1996 in Atlanta.
While there was a general heightened level of excitement about the Games in general, there was even greater anticipation and speculation about who would be the final person to actually light the Olympic cauldron.
I was beside myself for the duration of the ceremony, spending a good deal of it in tears (again, those who know me well will understand this). A friend of mine and I arrived at our seats to find a green quilted portfolio bag of goodies draped over the back of the seat and a huge sunflower laying across the seat.
We settled in and started taking pictures and taking in all the sights of Olympic Stadium, the venue that would host the opening and closing ceremonies and all track and field events.
Our section host, one of thousands of volunteers, led her section of spectators through a rehearsal of the events that called for spectator participation. In our goodie bag was a flashlight, a colored handkerchief (my section got yellow ones) and a variety of other things, including an opening ceremony pin made only for ticket-holders) and a transistor radio that translated the French/English announcements into many different languages at the flip of a dial.
The lighting of the Olympic cauldron is the climax of the ceremony and excitement grew and grew as the moment drew near.
Four-time gold medalist discus thrower Al Oerter delivered the flame to the stadium and handed it off to boxer Evander Holyfield. He passed it off to swimmer Janet Evans and it looked like she would be the one to get the ultimate honor.
As I recall, Evans ran a lap around the track and then proceeded up a ramp leading to the skeletal structure that led up to the cauldron (which, by the way, eerily resembled a large McDonald’s french fry box). The crowd was going nuts in anticipation of Evans lighting whatever apparatus would feed the flame to the cauldron when another athlete appeared out of nowhere.
As more and more people became aware the new athlete was Ali, 85,000 people (give or take) exploded into cheers, whistles and applause. The flame was transferred from Evans’ commemorative torch to Ali’s and he acknowledged the crowd and waved the torch around before holding the flame to the shoot that would ignite the international symbol of peace and competition for the next three weeks.
I have lots of fond memories of those games — 20 years ago this summer, as hard as that is to believe — including meeting people from all over the world, seeing performers like Stevie Wonder and Gloria Estefan, trading pins with Jamie Lee Curtis, seeing Michael Johnson win gold, and standing in line every day for the Coca Cola Pin of the Day.
But the image of a shaky, fragile Muhammad Ali —still “The Greatest,” as far as many were concerned — lighting that cauldron still brings a tear to my eyes.
May he rest in peace.
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