Now, I don’t know if I’m alone on this, but I was under the impression that this very event had already occurred sometime in our nation’s past and we had grieved and moved on from it; a feeling of déjà vu, as many people say, washed over me on the afternoon of June 5th when I discovered this news – because I don’t keep up-to-date in a vigorous fashion. ‘Huh,’ I thought. But I nevertheless conformed to the collective shock and pain of our country’s many generations that Ali’s legacy has spanned.
I’m not the biggest boxing fan in the world but I was 87 percent certain that Mr. Ali had perished years prior to June 3rd, 2016. For one reason or another, the date March 12th, 2004, comes to mind. But researching that date left me empty handed. I remain befuddled by this hysteria surrounding the passing of a man who, to me, had already shadowboxed his way through the gates of heaven and into the history books as a mere fading memory for us to idealize, mythologize, and lie about.
Ever since I was a small child I was under the impression that boxers died young and tragically – usually from boxing-related afflictions like alcoholism and mafia-fixes-gone-awry. But perhaps that rule only applies to the breed of dog. ‘Huh,’ I thought again. But I ignored the thought and instead focused my attention on talking extensively with the millions of other hardcore boxing fans around this great nation – who knew there were so many? – about the formerly living legend that was Muhammad Ali. He was a great man and now he joins Mike Tyson and other sports icons on the fluffy, pillowy cloud furniture of the heavenly fortress in our blue American sky.
