During summer parole from being incarcerated at a Jesuit boarding high school on the threshold of nowhere along the banks of the Mississippi River, a fellow inmate and I worked on LaSalle Street in Chicago. Jim worked for his father in the basement of the Board of Trade building and I worked at a brokerage firm up the street. Whenever possible we got together for lunch. Just before one o’clock on an afternoon in mid-July we were standing in front of the LaSalle National Bank.  A black limousine pulled up in front of us, a tall black man wearing a black tuxedo decanted himself from the back seat and headed for the bank. I’m sure it’s not true but, just for the hell of it, let’s imagine the sky was overcast with lots of black rain clouds. We immediately recognized who the fellow was and Jim called out, “Hey, champ!” Ali diverted his stride and strolled right up to us with his hand extended. “Hi fellas, how you doin’,” he said while shaking our hands. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” (OK, forget about the black rain clouds.) We only spoke for a few minutes about what I can’t remember. Then he politely excused himself saying he had business to tend to. I wish I could remember what he spoke to us about but, the point is that he spoke to us and that I will always remember. He could have simply waved and carried on into the bank. Or, not waved at all.

Like many people, I had followed his career from the beginning and been a big fan. It never particularly concerned me when he converted to Islam and I shared his opposition to the Vietnam War. However, when Islamic terror attacks started to proliferate around the world I felt Ali should have publicly condemned them...especially, given his professed aversion to warfare. I resented the fact that he didn’t. When Ali died recently, I expressed that opinion to a fellow American and boxing aficionado. He pointed out that by the time Islamic terrorism was perpetrating its evil deeds Ali was seriously impaired by Parkinson’s disease and deserved a bit of magnanimity. I agreed. As for dodging the draft...well, so did a number of war-mongering Republicans in the George W. Bush administration. At least Ali was forthright about it and accepted the consequences.

The accolades that followed his death bore tribute to his greatness…as a boxer and, more importantly, as a man. So many people testified to the wonderful acts of compassion that were, hitherto, not the hallmarks of his notoriety because Ali never sought any fanfare about them. I have the highest respect for people like that…people who do what’s right because it’s the right thing to do. He sought to elevate the lives of others; not their opinions of himself. His acts of compassion were unrelated to race or creed. They sprung from within the man himself…the black man in the black tuxedo who sprung out of a black limousine and graciously embraced my white hand oh so many years ago.

I honestly believe he sought peace on Earth and fervently hope that peace has now found him.