Happy birthday, Muhammad!

<- Jacob and the angel, by Rembrandt


Yesterday it was Muhammad Ali’s 65th birthday. The TV paid attention to it and of course we saw pictures of how he looks like nowadays, and his appearance in his glory times. At that time, I remember, I hated boxing because it is the only popular kind of sport that purposely intends to injure the opponent. You can’t see it otherwise, and still see it that way. I found Cassius Clay an arrogant bundle of muscles with a big mouth, and avoided reading about him or watching pictures or movies in which he threatened theatrically his opponents. “I am the greatest”. Yesterday I watched an interview with the European champion of that time, I can’t remember his name, and also the “fight” in which he got beaten up by Muhammad on his way to world championship. It was not a fight, one could only see how our European champion got a few blows and fell down. In the interview he told that from the first second on, he felt that he had not the slightest chance against this “phenomenon”, his only useful function was to serve him because Muhammad had to beat him to become a registered world champion. After the fight one could see how Muhammad put his mighty arm around the shoulders of his victim in a comforting gesture, as if he would say: “It’s not your fault, you did your best, I’m sorry”: the absolute summit of humiliation. He remembered (and it was proven by an old interview fragment) that Ali had said before the match that he would make him a pussycat, because he was Flemish and the lion is the symbol of Flanders, the Northern half of Belgium. So he would turn the lion into a pussycat. Now he says that he was, and still is a big admirer of Muhammad Ali. At that time he found it an honour to get beaten by his idol, and his big hobby now is making pastel drawings portraying Muhammad Ali in all kinds of situations and postures. I must say that this news item now fascinated me. What I saw was a perfect, mighty man, dancing seemingly casually around his “victim”, and before I could notice his fist, also seemingly casually and without noticeable effort, had hit, and again, and again, without interruption of the dancing movements. I found it beautiful, while at the time this actually took place I despised it. I also got aware that these pictures were very rare, normally boxing fights are ugly, showing sweating and hard-working men bumping each other’s faces, or trying to. But this was something different. And I realized the tragedy it involved: Muhammad Ali is now plagued by a cruel disease that gradually takes away his control over his body, and this former European champion was still able to make nice pastel drawings. Also I realised that Muhammad meant a lot for deprived black people in the world, in giving them self-confidence and I understood that his boasting and arrogant language was intended for them. He felt he had to be their role model and wanted to be their mouth by saying “I am the greatest. (and look what I (you) can achieve)”. I heard that Muhammad celebrated his birthday privately with only his family, because of his illness. I find it, although I fully respect his wish, regretful because his illness must not be a cause of shame, if that’s the reason. Our late Prince Claus, husband of our queen, had the same disease and was loved and admired by the Dutch people.