At Home with Muhammad Ali Read online

  The sound of an engine wakes me. I had fallen asleep on the patio steps waiting for Daddy.

  “Three tomorrows,” he’d promised. “I’ll be home in three tomorrows.” My father had a way of explaining things. He could speak the secret language of children.

  “You’ll be home tomorrow?” I questioned, wide-eyed, as he prepared to leave.

  “Not tomorrow. I’ll be home in three days.”

  Dad and me at home in 1979.

  USA Today Sports

  “When I go to bed and wake up again, then you’ll be back?”

  “After you go to bed and wake up THREE TIMES, then I’ll be back. I’ll be home in three tomorrows.”

  I rush down the steps as his brown Rolls purrs up the driveway. Daddy is HOME! I know what that means . . .

  3

  I grew up inside a fairy tale. A family of four, living in a beautiful mansion, complete with a trellis and floral vine balcony. My father was the most famous man in the world, and my mother one of the most beautiful women in the world. Celebrities visited often: Michael Jackson, John Travolta, Sylvester Stallone, Clint Eastwood, Tom Jones, Cary Grant, Mr. T, Kris Kristofferson, Lionel Richie, etc.

  The house was always full of people. There was Marge, the executive secretary; Edith, the cook; Howard, the photographer; Abdel, the assistant; friends; fans and hangers-on; housekeepers; babysitters; governesses; grandparents; aunts and uncles. Life at Fremont Place was an endless adventure, and everyone wanted my father’s time and attention.

  There were pool parties and magic shows. Birthday celebrations with dancing clowns sculpting animals out of red and yellow balloons, children laughing on the lawn, riding rented ponies, eating cotton candy, sipping lemonade from peppermint straws. Life was good. And the feeling I remember most as a child is love.

  Then, one day when I was ten years old, the fairy tale ended. The climbing plants growing slowly up the walls, beautiful and steadfast as they were, threatened the façade. The leafy vine began twining up roof shingles, pushing little rootlets into the sheathing and creeping into tiny cracks and crevices, fracturing the mortar and destroying the picture-perfect image of my childhood.

  I blamed my mother. Laila was neutral. All my sister knew was that we were moving to a new house and Daddy wasn’t coming. As long as she was with our mother, her world was intact. It was my life that turned upside down—my heart that shattered into a trillion pieces.

  As far as I was concerned, it was all my mother’s fault. In my eyes, my father could do no wrong. He was the reason the sun rose in the morning: the first thing on my mind when I woke up and my last thought before going to sleep. He was and always would be the most wonderful thing in the world to me. So I appointed my mother the villain. After all, she was the one who left him, the one who destroyed our happy home . . . wasn’t she?

  * * *

  We all think we know our parents. Some of us may, but in most cases only half of what we think we know is true. If we’re lucky, a fragment of the remaining portion is revealed to us later in life. In my case, through lost love letters, old audio recordings, and forgotten interviews.

  But where do I begin? It’s impossible to recount all my childhood memories, everything seen and said at the house I grew up in at 55 Fremont Place. So much happened in the ten years we lived together as a family. I will share, then, the memories and stories that are most vivid, and those events that my father chose to immortalize for his children, himself, and posterity. Things he planned, concerns he fretted over, the decisions that brought him immeasurable joy and sometimes immense sorrow. The daily events of which the world never knew, and of course the special moments we shared that will never fade from my memory.

  But first, I’ll tell you a little about my mother and the letters.

  I always thought my mother was impervious to tears. Love stories, family photos, happy and sad memories never made her weep like my father would. But that’s not saying much—Dad teared up at the sight of Laila and me coming home from our first day of school. He was rather disposed to tears, and all things concerning the heart. My mother wasn’t, or so I thought.

  But that wasn’t true. She wept in private. I know because I used to hear her crying at night, after the divorce. Her desolate sobs muffled in the dim light, creeping through the cracks of the bathroom door. And I was there when she discovered the letters—thirty years later during the summer of 2012. I saw her reaction to them, and it was more than overwhelming.

  “I always thought he never fought for me,” she said, her eyes damp. But after all these years, it turns out she was wrong.

  July of 2012

  It was a warm afternoon in mid-July, the sun was blinding, and the flowers were in full bloom, which meant my allergies were at full throttle. I stopped at a corner drugstore, grabbed a bottle of Benadryl and a box of tissues, and went to the counter to pay. I was meeting my mother at her storage in downtown Los Angeles, and I knew the dust and pollen would only make my allergies worse. I was looking forward to another afternoon of helping Mom sort through the old containers and files from my childhood home on Fremont Place.

  When I walked into the storage unit, I could see Mom had already started. Three dozen or so boxes were stacked against the walls with their lists of contents written on the lids and sides—thirty years of memories, still housed in their original packaging. I love digging through her aged belongings. To the average person, they might smell of dust and mildew, but for me, they carry a nostalgic aroma of brewed coffee and Chanel perfume.

  “Hey, Mom,” I said as I walked into the storage unit. “I’m here.”

  “Hi,” she called from the back of the room. “Be careful. I broke a glass in the front corner.”

  “Okay.”

  “I got most of it up, but there still might be a few broken pieces.”

  “Mom, I’m going to look through some of these boxes along the wall.”

  “All right—the ones on the right are mostly from the Malibu and Venice houses, but I saw a few boxes marked Fremont.”

  “Okay.”

  Malibu and Venice represented her two marriages after my father. She knew I was only concerned with boxes and items from Fremont Place. Most of them were stored in my grandmother’s garage, but occasionally Mom would call me after she stumbled upon an old box from my childhood home in one of her storage units.

  “Watch out for the spiders,” she warned.

  “I will.” I put my purse down on a portable chair, next to my mother’s, and started reading the labels. When I found the first box marked Fremont Place, I couldn’t resist ripping it open. Inside lay a host of forgotten items. Strange, how the contents in an old tattered box—French lace, crystal cologne bottles, books, my mother’s diaries, newspaper clippings, old clothes—contents seemingly insignificant to anyone else, were so priceless to me, conjuring my happiest childhood memories.

  “Time for our singing lessons, Hana, ready?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “This is dedicated to the one I love . . .”

  Each box triggered a wave of sneezes.

  “Put your mask on, Hana!” my mother shouted from the opposite end of the storage.

  She does that often these days—raises her voice. In my formative years, she spoke in gentle whispers, mostly. Her voice, light and airy, like a floating feather. But lately it sounds slightly elevated—and rather heavy. I’m not sure why, really. Maybe she metamorphosed when she left my father. Or maybe it was the strain of her second marriage or the death of her third husband that changed her.

  “Hana . . . your mask!”

  I was too enthralled to respond. I stood there sniffling and coughing, fumbling through my father’s trophies and awards, old photo albums, and enchanting gifts he and Mom had received from princes, queens, and heads of state from around the world. I leaned against the storage room wall and let my mind travel back to my majestic childhood home. To a time when my father was still healthy, before the letters and the divorce. A time w
hen I was a happy little girl running barefoot in my pajamas around my father’s office—wild, innocent, and free. Blissfully unaware of what would become of us.

  * * *

  It’s Christmas morning, 1979. I’m in my father’s office, playing on the floor in my pajamas. Daddy is sitting at his desk, flipping through the crisp ivory pages of his phone book, contemplating who to call first: Johnny Carson, Joe Frazier, Mayor Bradley, John Travolta, Clint Eastwood, Sidney Poitier, Richard Pryor, Kris Kristofferson, Tom Jones, Michael Jackson . . . He decides on Mike Douglas, a popular television talk-show personality who ruled afternoon TV for twenty-one years as the singing host of The Mike Douglas Show.

  “Hello . . .”

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. Douglas!”

  “Who is this?”

  “The Greatest of All Times!”

  “Oh, Muhammad Ali! How are you doin’, Champ?”

  “I had to surprise you.”

  “I thought you were overseas.”

  “No, I just got back from Peking.”

  “Yeah, I saw your picture in the paper. You were in China.”

  “They made me their official coach for the ’84 Olympics. They want me to train their boys.”

  “That’s great.”

  “So, I’m looking through my phone book and saw your name and I said, let me call and wish you a Happy Holidays.”

  “Well, aren’t you a nice man. Thank you. That’s awfully nice, Champ.”

  “Don’t cost nothin’. Know something I do . . . I pick up the phone and dial whatever number comes to mind, and the people come on and say, ‘Hello,’ and I say, ‘Merry Christmas! How are you doing? What’s going on?’ And they ask, ‘Who is this?’ I say, ‘I don’t want to tell you who it is because if I tell you right away, you’ll think I’m lying, but I want you to guess who it is . . .’ They say, ‘This sounds like Ali.’ I say, ‘It’s Muhammad Ali! Merry Christmas!’ They say, ‘I can’t believe it! Why are you calling me? How did you get my phone number?’ I say, ‘I just picked up the phone and I just dialed . . .’ So, I’ve been doing this for the last hour.”

  “Isn’t that wonderful,” says Mike.

  “Yeah, I have a lot of fun out of people.”

  “That’s wonderful, Champ. Listen, let me ask you something. On January 7th I’m having a show for my eighteenth year on television . . .”

  “I’m in the White House on the 7th.”

  “You’re where?”

  “The White House. President Carter wants to be briefed on my trip to Peking, China.”

  “Oh, shoot! I was looking forward to having you.”

  Dad at the White House with Jimmy Carter.

  © Howard Bingham

  “Louis Martin, the black guy in the White House, called me today—we just arranged it. As a matter of fact, I’m in the White House at 12:30 noon.”

  “Isn’t that wild . . . Well, I think that’s great anyway.”

  “I wish I could have been on your show.”

  “Poor kid from Louisville, Kentucky, at the White House talking about being in China.”

  “It’s a big nigga!” my father says, jokingly.

  “The head man!” Mike shoots back.

  They both laugh.

  “That’s a good one,” says Dad. “Poor kid from Louisville, Kentucky, at the White House talking about being in China. That’s a good one, Mike . . .” He laughs again. “So just take your time and be good. I just called to say hello.”

  “Champ, you’re wonderful. Thank you very much. The best to you and your family . . .”

  The phone dials as my father speaks into the recorder. “Now I’m calling Joe Frazier . . .” The one fighter in history he said brought out the best in him.

  “Hello . . .” A young woman answers.

  Disguising his voice, “Hello, may I speak to Mr. Joe Frazier . . .”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “I want to surprise him.”

  “Okay, hold on . . .”

  After a moment, she comes back to the phone. “He’s not here. May I ask who’s calling, please?”

  “This is a good friend of his. He will be very shocked if he doesn’t get this call.”

  “Oh, well—he’s not here.”

  In his own voice now. “Tell him Muhammad Ali called!”

  “Are you serious?”

  “That’s me. How ya doin’? Who am I talking to?”

  “You’re talking to one of his daughters. I don’t believe this.”

  “Yeah, this is me. I’m in California. You don’t recognize my voice?”

  “Now I do—I’m flattered!”

  “Good! Is this the big one?”

  “No, I’m the next one down.”

  “Okay, let me talk to the big one.”

  “Okay, hold on . . . [in the background] Muhammad Ali is on the phone!”

  “What’s up, Muhammad?”

  “Hey, girl, what’s happenin’?”

  “Not much. Merry Christmas!”

  “Same to you. I was just calling to wish Joe a Merry Christmas. I’m in Los Angeles.”

  “Oh, you sound so good. Do you remember me?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I asked to speak to you. You’re getting so big and fine. How old are you now?”

  “I just turned eighteen on December 2nd. You can send me a birthday present if you want and be one of . . .”

  “One of your secret men?” my father jokes.

  “Yeah!” She laughs. “What are you doing these days?”

  “I just came back from Peking, China.”

  “Oh, really!”

  “Yeah, I was over there. They want me to teach their boys how to box.”

  “Check you out! I’m quite sure you can do that . . . Okay, well, he should be back pretty soon.”

  “Tell Joe when he comes home he can just call back.”

  “Okay, bye-bye.”

  “Take care . . .”

  Dad speaks into the recorder: “I’m calling Mayor Tom Bradley in Los Angeles . . .”

  “Hello, Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas! This is Muhammad Ali calling for the mayor!”

  “All right, just a moment, hold on.”

  “Hello . . .? Hello, great mayor. Muhammad Ali!”

  “Hey! How are you doing?”

  “Oh, calling to wish you Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.”

  “How was your trip to China?”

  “Oh man, I’d like to tell you about that. We got over there and I was surprised most of the people recognized me. And Deng Xiaoping, one of the leaders, he made me their official trainer for boxing.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Yeah, they want me to bring over boxing gloves and all kinds of equipment. They’ll send a plane for it. They want me to train their boys for the ’84 Olympics.”

  “That’s great!”

  “So, I was just wondering—accepting a little task like that, can you consider that bettering relationships between the two nations?”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  “So, they can’t call me a traitor for training the Chinese?”

  “No, that would really go over well in Washington. When I spoke to the vice premier of China, when he was over here asking about your trip, he said, ‘Oh yeah, they know Muhammad Ali over there.’”

  “So, are you still working hard?” Dad asks. “Got a lot on your mind?”

  “I don’t worry about it. You know, take it day by day.”

  “When your term is over, would you like to do it again?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind. I’m going to really think about it really hard and decide whether I’m going to run for reelection, or run for governor, or run for US senator.”

  “Senator is a bigger job. What would we have to do to make a pitch to get a black president?”

  “Well, I think that’s some time off, Muhammad, but if you’re ready to run, then it’s four years from now.”

  Laughing, “No, I’m trying to say, a
man like you, if you seriously wanted to, what would your first step be?”

  “Well, you have to get a lot of financial backing because it’s really expensive, and you have to get them in all of the states.”

  “So that’s what you mean when you say it’s hard for a black to come in, it might be hard to find people to back him.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So even if the people would vote for you,” says Dad, “if you got the position, it would be tough getting the money together.”

  “Right, you have to get the money together first.”

  “Do you know roughly how much money it would take? Would ten million do it?”

  “That would probably do it in the primary, then if you win the primary you have to get financing from the federal government. Some people can do it for less than ten million. I think Connally is shooting for ten million.”

  “Right. I want to ask you something, then I’ll let you go. Of all the people that we have in office that are qualified, if any of the black politicians tried, including yourself, who do you think would have the best chance?”

  “Brooke was in a good position to get on ticket—as vice presidential candidate—but now that he’s out of the Senate, I really don’t know anybody now who can get that kind of financial support all over the country.”

  “If you could get the support, do you think you would have a better chance? The reason I’m asking you all this is I think it would be you. I was talking to General Gaddafi of Libya and Sheikh Zayed of Abu Dhabi and King Khalid of Saudi Arabia, and they mentioned that they would back a worthy cause and that was one of the causes.”

  “Is that right, Muhammad?”

  “If I got somebody like you, somebody that would make a play for it, and if you need fifty million, they talk like they will do it. So, if not yourself, who will take a chance, if they did get the money?”

  Mayor Bradley considers it.

  “Well . . .” says Dad, “when you’re ready, let me know. I’ll walk with you.”