The Last Punch
Ali S. Muhammad
Copyright 2011 by General Publishing Company
Smashwords Edition
O
riginally
published as “Drama in Bahamas” Copyright
©1985 by James Cornelius. All rights reserved, including the right
to reproduction,
in whole or part, in whatever form. This work published by the
General Publishing
Co., Inc., Atlanta, Georgia, USA. Published in the USA.
NOTE: Although certain well-known people have roles in this story, their portrayals and their actions beyond the public record are fictional.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to Muhammad Ali, one of the greatest athletes known to mankind, and whose superior athletic abilities are unmatched. But Ali is more than an athlete. He has successfully championed many moral causes that demonstrate his humaneness and his humanness.
This book is also dedicated to Almighty God because He plans and designs everything in the universe.
My sincere thanks to the people of the Bahamas and especially the people in Nassau for all of their prayers, confidence and hard work which made a "Drama in the Bahamas" dream a reality. I also dedicate this work to my many friends, who throughout the years have always lent a helping hand.
Special thanks to Larry "Shorty" Henderson for allowing me to use his cubicle to write significant portions of this story.
A special commendation to my wife for the many hours of labor put into this project, her support over the years and her understanding while I experienced many changes.
Finally, a special dedication to a dear and anonymous friend, without whose encouragement, assistance, and general counseling this book could not have been completed.
FORWARD
This book is written with sincere appreciation of the American economic system and with the fervent hope that America will recognize the need for and require a National Boxing Commissioner with complete authority to promulgate and enforce regulations in the boxing industry.
It is time that the American public recognized that boxing is a sport that especially lends itself to crime, corruption and criminal influence.
Americans have an inate love of boxing from the days of Jack Johnson and John L. Sullivan to Sugar Ray Leonard and the likes of Thomas Hearns, but how can this great tradition continue with the cloak and dagger tactics used by unregulated promoters and boxing commissions? The boxing fans, boxers and general public all suffer; tremendously from the reckless acts of promoters and boxing commissions.
PREFACE
I first heard of Cassius Clay, who later became Muhammad Ali, while a senior at Atlanta's Henry McNeal Turner High School. June 16, 1964 began like any other day with school, after which I trekked to the Riviera Motel to bus dishes. Many of my high school buddies had fun working there while earning a few dollars to supplement what little income their parents could provide.
I can remember all of the workers perusing the evening newspaper that headlined Cassius Clay's defeat of Sonny Liston, the heavyweight champion of the world. The victory elicited a moment of great pride since most of the waiters were Muslims and thus followers of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The Cornelius Family
Honorable Jay Foonberg
Honorable David Gardner
Dr. Otis Smith, MD
Mrs. Gwendolyn Smith
Honorable F. Carter Tate
Honorable Chandler P. Sharma
Honorable Steven Sadow
Honorable A. Kristina Connelly
Lynn H. Chamlee
Sherry Herzoff
Dr. Michael Luther
Richard Chavez
"Earlene"
Arthur Ballard
Willie Moton
Anne Bennett
Paul Pullen & Family
Emma & King Jones
"Bud"
Dr. Roy Moore of Atlanta's Georgia State University, edited the work, and without his editorial assistance completion of this work would have been extremely difficult.
Attorney Edward Bob Brooks, a Morehouse College graduate, was at my side day and night to interpret my thoughts over the years of preparation of this material and without his assistance this work would not have been possible.
A special thanks to my dear friend and personal attorney, the Honorable Bobby Lee Cook, without whose help this book could not have been printed.
CHAPTER ONE
DRAMA IN THE BAHAMAS
"ALI PAID ON MONDAY AND 'FIGHT IS ON' " proclaimed the headlines in The Tribune, Nassau and Bahama Islands' leading newspaper on Tuesday, November 24, 1981. According to the Associated Press article, datelined New York:
"It will take 'an act of God' to stop Muhammad Ali's comeback fight in the Bahamas next month from taking place", according to the head of the company promoting the bout.
Ali was paid Monday as scheduled for his December 11 bout against Trevor Berbick, said James Cornelius, President of Sports Internationale, Ltd., the promoters.
There have been rumors that the fight would not be held. "It's been in a rocky position from day one", Cornelius acknowledged in a telephone interview from Nassau. "But we stood firm, and Ali's standing firmly behind us ... and at this point in time it would take an act of God if the fight didn't go on."
"Ali got a payment Monday", Cornelius continued. "He has received money in a total of three payments. The rest comes in a letter of credit, which he gets after the fight."
Cornelius would not say how much Ali has received or what his total purse would be. The figure is rumored to be at least $1 million.
The money to stage the fight, Cornelius said, has come from private businessmen and the promoter does not expect to make or lose a great deal.
"We're looking for one thing to give Muhammad Ali a chance to show he just had a bad night when he lost to Larry Holmes on October 2, 1980", Cornelius said. "Our problems from the very beginning were astronomical. There was a credibility problem."
There has been media opposition to Ali, who will be 40 on January 17, fighting again since the former three-time heavyweight champion did not answer the bell for the 11th round against Holmes.
There have been questions about All's physical condition, but he has checked out to the satisfaction of the Boxing Commission in the Bahamas and has received a license.
Other major problems that needed to be solved were financial arrangements and television coverage.
Television will be subscription, pay cable and limited closed-circuit only, and will be available to 3 million homes in the United States with a gross revenue potential of $10 million-Si 5 million, according to Lionel Schaen, President of SelecTV, in charge of worldwide sales and distribution.
Cornelius said ticket sales are going very well and he expects a sellout at the 17,000-seat Queen Elizabeth Sports Center for the show that also will feature the former World Boxing Association welterweight champion Thomas Hearns and unbeaten heavyweight contender Greg Page."
In May, 1980 Muhammad Ali announced plans to go into the ring again against Mike Weaver the WBA heavyweight champion. Jim Glennie, a California entrepreneur, had called a press conference in New York City for the July 11 date in Brazil. Some money was on deposit and, of course, the "shit was on." After massive media publicity Ali's camp filled with trainers, cooks, masseurs, and cornermen.
The Administration had a problem—the initial deposit by Glennie of Prime Sports was not acceptable to manager Herbert Muhammad. The problems had begun. Don King soon emerged from Las Vegas with a deal and Prime Sports was out of the game.
Ali's momentum is now broken as the former champion faces a new opponent, WBC heavyweight champion, Larry Holmes. I had gone to the Champ's training camp that summer and found that 38-year-old Ali was in great shape. He could not claim the lightning speed of 10 years ago, but he was in good shape. This ring giant had fought many wars, and knowledge of the ring alone would get him by Weaver, but the uncertainty of the fight interrupted training, bring on a mental strain that is more than the agile body can handle.
Things finally fall into place, on October 2, 1980, at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas.
Ali now sets his sights on a new opponent with a different style that promises a different fight. Herbert Muhammad, Ali's manager for 20 years makes one giant mistake in this important fight—two doctors are needed, but Mr. Muhammad relies on one.
Ali is treated for a thyroid problem, medicine is administered, and the Champ begins to lose weight extremely fast.
On October 2, the morning of the fight, I am in the room with the Champ and Abdul Rahman. It's psyche time.
We discuss what Ali has done for Islam and how Elijah Muhammad fought while among us to establish this religion. . Even though these points apparently register with the Champ, I still have a tense feeling in my stomach.
Excitement fills the air in Las Vegas as America's show place fills with her dignitaries, such as Joe Louis (for his last view of the Champ in action), Frank Sinatra, Redd Roxx, Natalie Cole, Wayne Newton, Bobby Womack, Warren Beatty, and many other actors, singers, oil barons, and oil sheiks.
It's showtime!
Ali's dressing room is filled with cameras and journalists of every shape, size and description. I stood outside and watched the excitement.
It is a scene out of Rocky as people—old and young, famous and not-so famous, ugly and beautiful, well-dressed and shabby—clamor to get even a fleeting glimpse of the Champ. The noise, in fact, is almost unbearable, and a claustrophobic would almost certainly die from shock as push becomes shove and melee grows routine. In spite of (or ironically, perhaps, because of) the chaos, the massive crowd seems happy. It has all the aura of war, except no one is suffering or dying, and there are no real enemies. In a real sense, we are all friends with a myriad of reasons for being ensconced in this massive edifice.
Security is tight, but then Las Vegas has always been entranced with security, a status akin to priesthood. In Las Vegas, without security, there is no status.
There is also no status without media attention. Without the bright lights and long-stemmed mikes and screaming reporters, Ali would not be Ali, or at least not the mythical Ali. In fact, it is hard to imagine Ali not facing the cameras and the accompanying electronic equipment and journalists that follow his every move. Interestingly, the media mob appears to form an outer protective shield around Ali with his security personnel and usual entourage comprising a crucial inner circle.
We push toward the front and see a crowd that is the largest ever to witness this type of event. A voice from the back says, "Pick it up Slim!" It's Blood telling me to move faster. The excitement and the crowd momentarily hypnotize me. We move toward the ring as Muhammad slowly takes his last steps toward a face-to-face confrontation with his former sparing partner and now WBC champ.
It will be an event that will mark not only the last confrontation between the two figures, but also the end of an era marred by the worst in man. It is a moment in history that can be best described as a shooting star that is gone as quickly as it appears but is never forgotten in the minds of the witnesses.
For eleven rounds Ali passively held on as Larry took careful aim, but the Champ rarely returned the punch. The agony was too much for Drew Brown and Angelo Dundee and the towel was thrown in. It was over—Muhammad would never fight again. The press had brought its shovels and was now pouring dirt over their unsung gladiator of many wars.
On that fateful October 3 Ali received visitors as any king or royalty would. I found Howard Cosell desperately trying to see Muhammad, but could not get through. With my assistance in the form of a shout at security, "Let this man through!", Cosell was successful. After the excitement had died, Ali and his bus headed back to Los Angeles.
I deliberately chose to stay around Las Vegas for a few days after the fight.
I wanted an opportunity to see this city of glamour, wealth and bright lights firsthand. My stereotyped notions of Las Vegas were strongly confirmed. It is a community that never closes its doors for fear that a chance to squeeze one more dollar out of one more gambler may be missed. Surprisingly, this mini metropolis seemed to have been only lightly touched by the Ali-Holmes fight. Events of this nature are routine in Las Vegas and are accorded little more than the usual two minutes on the local evening news and an in-depth story and accompanying photograph on the front sports page. Big-time gamblers have been known to win as much as$l million on one bet and just as quickly lose it. Ali was merely another star to arrive in town and depart, once he no longer had any use for the city.
Las Vegas is, above all, a city of lights. It is neon heaven as bountiful signs hawk the wares of the Merchants of Venice. One comes here to dispose of money as though it had been won in a contest that required participants to spend their winnings in the shortest time possible. Las Vegas is a way of life that is enticing and addictive as any pleasure drug. Like a mythical Greek Siren, Las Vegas is charming, alluring and even attractive but just as quickly destroying those who eventually succumb to its singing.
The Ali-Holmes bout was merely another sideshow for the city whose more than 165,000 residents are generally outnumbered by the tourists who flock to its wares at any given time.
Trouble was soon brewing in Atlanta and it was now time for me to ascertain what was going on. Carl Christianson, an FBI agent whom I'd met while testifying in an unrelated bank case, was investigating me. When I called him to see if there were a warrant for my arrest, he answered no, but said I was being investigated and should come immediately to Atlanta. I returned and on October 10, 1980 contacted the United States Department of Justice. I was not arrested but was told the Department was looking into some matters. I was now under great pressure from the Justice Department to tell all I knew about the case they were building against me. I informed the FBI agent and the Federal Assistant District Attorney that all records relating to the loans in question were in storage in California. I began to realize that as long as I could be tracked through my social security number so that if someone checked me through the National Crime Information Center (NCIC) computer, he or she would not find me listed. I approached a friend at the Georgia State Patrol and enlisted his assistance in getting a new driver's license with a new social security number. I was not going to vanish into thin air, but at least I had a chance for a new beginning. I knew I would be a person without a criminal history in Los Angeles. Although my problems were monumental, maybe a new town, a change of scenery, would help. By Christmas Eve 1980 I had packed all my clothes, put my wife and sons in the car and struck out for Los Angeles where we found a nice secluded hotel. We stayed there for 11 days until we found a house to lease.
My personal problems with drugs mounted but somehow things moved along. We had looked at several houses for rent or lease and finally set our sights on one at 616 South Arden Boulevard, only seconds from where Ali lived. Many days passed, and I eventually went to see the Champ. One morning when I was sitting in his den the Champ looked up and asked me why I had moved to California, but I couldn't tell him the truth—that I was a fugitive from federal and state officials. Instead, I reminded Ali that since he had decided to retire, (I dared not mention that I had heard rumours of his planned comeback), I was ready to begin work on the golf tournament contract he had given me. This struck a bell with him and just as he started to relax, Howard Bing-ham came in excited and out of breath. Howard hurriedly explained that a young Viet Nam veteran was threatening to jump several stories from a Wilshire Boulevard building, just minutes away from Ali's home. Howard had convinced the police that Ali might be able to talk the man down. Ali, Howard and a few other individuals jumped into Howard's car and sped down Wilshire Boulevard to the building. Norman Thrasher (one of the original Midnighters, rock and roll stars of the '50's) and I followed closely behind in my car. Ali jumped from the car and indicated his presence. The Sergeant used his walkie-talkie to get immediate clearance for Ali and company to enter the building to try to talk the young man down. We climbed six or eight flights of stairs and found a frightened young man about to senselessly end his life. I noticed a priest, members of the Los Angeles SWAT team and a group of well-trained crisis specialists. The specialists were trying desperately to coax the young man down. Ali asked and was granted permission to try his hand. He walked to the window which opened onto the ledge where the young man was standing. Ali shouted, "This is Muhammad Ali and ain't nobody gonna hurt you Joe; just let me come out and see you." My heart pounded with fear and apprehension and I watched Ali climb through the window to the ledge. I prayed and wondered if this weak, misguided kid would jump to his death carrying Ali with him. Then I heard Ali say, "I'm coming for you Joe; take my hand, ain't nothing gonna happen to you." Ali gingerly stepped along the ledge and extended his hand. Joe grasped the Champ's hand and followed him into the building. Thank God everyone was safe. I chuckled and thought: "And they say this man, Ali, has brain damage."
I know nothing of whatever happened to Joe. I often wonder, though, if he's still alive or if he eventually managed to take his own life. I do know that he was one damned lucky kid. I firmly believe that Joe had every intention of ending his life then and there. More importantly, he appeared to have the necessary will to carry out his intentions. Even now I am still awed by how Ali was able to quickly and effectively gain the confidence of that young man. I had read stories and seen pictures of people being coaxed not to take their own lives, but even in the movies the task is wrenching and time-consuming.
But for the Champ, plucking Joe back to reality seemed effortless. The irony is that Ali took no credit for saving a life. He approached the task with the same air and confidence with which he faced his opponents in the ring. Ali knew he had to save Joe, even if he risked his own life.
I really wonder if Joe ever realized how fate played a role in preserving his life—how the Champ just happened to be so close by and so willing to go the extra mile to help. I just pray that this kid eventually pulled himself together since God must have truly been watching over him that day.
In January the Champ was called back to Las Vegas for a round in court with the Nevada State Boxing Commission. On another matter, Ray Volpe, the Commissioner of the LPGA, was to meet me in Las Vegas to discuss plans for a golf tournament to be hosted by the Champ. I checked into my room at Caesars and the phone rang. Ray was calling from the Desert Inn to confirm our meeting. The phone rang again. Howard Bingham called to tell me that the Champ was back and ready for our meeting.
The bad news was that the judge ruled for the Nevada State Boxing Commission and Ali would have to surrender his boxing license to the State. Ray and I met for a few minutes to discuss plans for the meeting. We left my room and headed for the Champ's suite. I had hoped for a private meeting, but the ususal crowd was there. Thus Ray and I had to discuss our plans openly. After three interruptions, I introduced Mr. Volpe to the Champ. Mr. Volpe, who believed that I had a contract with the Champ, was primarily concerned that the Champ had retired from boxing and would not enter the ring again. Just as I was about to answer his concerns, Harold Smith entered the Champ's suite. He carried a large attache case in his right hand and documents for the Champ's attorney to look over in his other hand. Harold was preparing to promote a boxing event called "This is it." He opened the case filled with hundred dollar bills and asked the Champ if he needed anything. My eyes bulged with excitement. Harold had tried to get Ali a license to return to the ring. The word was out that Las Vegas had revoked Ali's license. Ten minutes later, after more interruptions, we called it quits. Ray and I decided we were in a madhouse, but with the Champ traveling all the time, we could expect nothing else. The events of the day would not convince me that Ali had given up the sport that made him the most recognized individual in the world and the "retired" athlete who earned the most money in his career. I think Ray also shared my concern.
We flew back to Los Angeles. I drove my car to Los Angeles Airport and took the Champ back home. Ali seemed concerned about his court appearance, and I wondered about his next step. I was new to Los Angeles and quickly got lost. I eventually pulled over and Ali drove the Mercedes so fast my nerves were shattered when I arrived home.
It was January and little seemed to be happening in my life except that the FBI began to press its investigation. At 6:00 a.m. one day I called the Atlanta FBI office since I was concerned about whether they were going to arrest me. No one would tell me anything, and I really worried. Later that day at Ali's house, the Champ sat staring at the television. "I want to rumble," Ali said.
Ali had gone to Chicago for a hospital visit for what newspapers reported was a minor cold.
The media attention afforded Ali during this time was minimal, in sharp contrast to the continual, intense publicity of the past. Almost any statement, whether newsworthy or not, that the Champ had uttered in the presence of the press until now was almost immediately big news— not just on the sports pages and in the evening sportscasts, but also on the front page and in the regular newscasts. Ali was always big news prior to and during his downfall, and thus I was shocked to see how the Champ was no longer the focus of media attention even when he was admitted to the hospital. When the Champ was at his peak, there was always a barrage of cameras and journalists to follow his every move. Now, however, Ali was worth little more than a minor, back page story or a one sentence item on the local and national news.
I am not privy to how reporters and editors think, but their new attitude toward the "fallen Champ" may have simply been that since Ali would no longer be able to box (thanks to the fact that no one would issue him a license and that no State boxing commissioner would sanction another Ali match), he no longer deserved a forum for his views. The idea that "when you're hot, you're hot but when you're cold, you're out" apparently carries considerable weight with the press.
Whatever the reasons, Ali was cold and out, not only physically but also in the eyes of the agenda-setters and ultimately the public they serve.
Ali needed a fight, and I was determined to help him. I called one of Ali's long time advisors, Jeremiah Shabazz. He felt the best approach was to get an agreement from Ali's manager Herbert Muhammad.
Was I getting into an arena too big for me? Had I watched from the sidelines long enough to carry out this type of event? Was the Prime Sports deal enough experience? Should I stay with the small ventures with which I started?
I called Herbert Muhammad and his blunt reception convinced me I faced a difficult task ahead. I always avoided contacting Mr. Muhammad because I knew he was a shrewd businessman, but we exchanged telexes and we soon reached an agreement.
As the weeks passed, the word quickly spread—Ali was trying to fight again, but who would give him a license?
Ali had offered his services to the big promoters, Don King and Bob Arum, but they turned him down. ABC Sports had also turned him down. Would anyone take another chance with Ali?
I met Donald "Nine" Rolle in Chicago almost a decade ago. His mission at that time was to sell fish, one of his government's great untapped resources, to the Nation of Islam. Donald or "Pro", as I called him, was one of the world's greatest golfers. His distaste for the "PGA" was obvious. He had played with greats like Charlie Sifford and Lee Elder who had broken the racial barriers to the game. Donald and I often discussed a possible fight when I reached him at his "Blue Hill Road" office, the Southerners Lounge.
I had called "Nine" early for two reasons: he knew Bahamian politics and he personally knew fugitive financier Robert Vesco.
In late April I flew to Nassau. I believed that securing a license for the former Champ would be a breeze. My finances were very limited, and I desperately needed to get the license. After all, I had told the Champ that I could get him licensed. I checked into the Atlantis Hotel, not Nassau's finest, but a moderately priced place that would house me until I finished my business.
There were no room telephones which made privacy difficult, but after all, resort spots are designed for getaways. Unfortunately, after I had been in Nassau for more than a week, the people I needed to contact still seemed elusive. I had been casually introduced by a Los Angeles travel agent to a Mr. Bethel, a hotel manager who was quite familiar with the natives. I had worked with a local attorney who was quite helpful in steering me in the right direction, but as the days went by, I found it increasingly difficult to contact the person in charge of issuing the license.
One day I stopped in the bar of the hotel to play records on the jukebox before going to bed. The manager, Mr. Bethel, introduced me to a friend. I shook hands with a short, chubby gentleman with the air of an African prince. After I had given him a brief rundown on my situation, he indicated he could be of some help with the licensing if I came to his office tomorrow. Earlier I had visited a bar to see my old buddies and long-time friends, "Nine", Bo and Francis. I hailed a cab as one of the locals, Myrt, asked where we were going. Luckily we were going to the same place and Myrt knew the location. I soon arrived in the office of Laventhol-Horwrath, local CPA's, who were talking to AH in Los Angeles. Mr. Ijeoma, a Biafrican by birth, had been in the Caribbean for many years and was very familiar with the local surroundings. After he made his call, I finally met officials with the Ministry of Youth, Sports, and Community Affairs.
The officials were cordial but business-like in their communication with me. Like all politicians, they were shrewd and tough negotiators. A half dozen or so well-dressed men, who were apparently mid-level personnel who had direct access to the Minister himself. While I never met the Minister, I knew that his assistants would be communicating with him in person or by phone as soon as I had left.
Our discussions resulted in no final agreements, but I felt very optimistic at the end of the meeting, which lasted more than an hour. I knew the license would be granted within a matter of time. I believed I had made some strong, positive and lasting impressions on these individuals that were sure to have a major impact on the decision.
Our conversations began with the usual polite introductions and handshakes, followed by several minutes of small talk regarding my visit. I was careful to make only complimentary comments about the country and my stay, for fear of alienating these governmental administrators. In fact, I had enjoyed the visit, including what little leisure time 1 had and the marvelous weather and cuisine, but the anticipation and worry were taking their toll. What would it take to get the license for AH? What did these officials really want? I knew time can often be an enemy, but I was determined to hold fast.
I returned to my hotel for another night of anticipation. The next day I rode the slendor elevators to the fourth floor, entered and asked to see Ed Carey. Mr. Carey looked over photographs that I had brought from Los Angeles. I had obtained the photographs for the U.S. Attor ney of the Northern District of Georgia and Carl Christianson of the FBI, but I hurriedly scratched out their names and had the Champ to insert new ones for these dignitaries.
During the previous day we had run out of photos. I phoned Ali a second time, and by now the momentum seemed to be building toward this planned "come back". Eventually a bearded individual emerged from his office, and I was given an appointment with the Minister responsible for sports. I would finally be able to make my proposal. I familiarized myself with Centerville, but left early enough that morning to tell my attorney the good news. He was shocked that I had an appointment, although I had been confident all along that a deal could be struck. In the Minister's conference room I was seated at the head of the table with the bearded man seated near the door.
When the door opened everyone stood in apparent relief.
We were now down to business. After a polite introduction and a few bits of small talk with this five-foot titan, I was ready for business.
"I am a nobody from Georgia,"I confided. "I have come from Los Angeles to help Muhammad Ali get into the ring again. I have partners in Las Vegas who will be putting the funds together if I can obtain the license."
Although I maintained my composure, I was rather awed by the proceedings. 1 had been under pressure before, including during the earlier preliminary meeting, but the tension was almost unbearable. Although the conference room was somewhat breezy and balmy, I was nervous and hot. I knew that the events that transpired here could have a tremendous impact, not only on my future but on Ali and the boxing world. In fact, this fight had the potential to alter the course of history— the Champ would have one last chance to return!
The conference would compare favorably to a nuclear disarmament meeting in terms of the give-and-take. We all knew that some important matters were at stake, but we wanted to avoid any head-to-head confrontations that would lead nowhere.
More than anything else, I wanted to avoid any real slipups such as promising more than I could deliver or inadvertently insulting someone such as the Minister. I managed to pull myself through by focusing my thoughts on the tremendously positive impact this last hurrah would have not only on Ali but on me. While I did not have visions of sudden fame and wealth, I knew that my career would be on a much more positive track if the deal were exacted and the fight took place as scheduled. The Champ deserved this forum, and I was proud to be a major element in the process. These officials had the means to provide this opportunity, while reaping considerable benefits for themselves and their country.
By the next day I had a signed document that would allow Muhammad All to climb in the ring again, provided certain conditions were met. I was overjoyed, and paid a special visit the next day to Mr. Bethel to offer my sincere thanks and to get him to direct bill my overdue hotel bill.
With the first miracle accomplished, it was time to finalize the plans. John Gardner, the European heavyweight champ, would be an easy foe for Muhammad or any of the top ten heavyweights. Why not match Gardner and Ali and make a fortune?
I had previously met Mingo, an Italian with the compassion of a dove. We had attended the Las Vegas funeral for Joe Louis at the Caesar's Sports Pavilion. Louis'pallbearers included Muhammad AH, Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis, Jr., Larry Holmes and Don King. Jesse Jackson eulogized the "Brown Bomber" as he was affectionately known. I noticed that Muhammad wiped tears from his eyes as the Rev. Jesse Jackson spoke of the battles of "Po-Joe" and how he fought some 54 exhibitions for the Navy and Army relief when black soldiers could be promoted no higher than mere petty officer in these units. Jesse also described how Louis' generous contributions to these causes never brought him any recognition from his country, with the IRS haunting him to his grave. According to the Reverend, "Po-Joe" inspired black children to gather around the radio as he cut his opponents down like the lumberjack of the great north woods cut down trees. "No, 'Po-Joe'—it was you who sent black Americans back to their jobs the next day with pride bursting inside but not the least showing on their faces because of the deep attitude of racial hatred displayed by their bosses," Jackson declared.
As the ceremony closed, Mingo and 1 openly wept. Many of the participants walked out relieved for America's black hero, but many realizing that the road to civil rights was still rocky. Muhammad appeared angry as he viewed his old sparring partner. I knew then that the Champ really wanted to "rumble".