Still Confounding to This Day

I recently was channel surfing and caught up to an Oscar-winning documentary from about fifteen years ago.  A look at the 1974 "Rumble in the Jungle" boxing match between George Foreman and "the Greatest."  And it raised again for me one of the greatest mysteries of my life.

Why was Cassius Clay so revered in our lifetime?

You'll notice that I refer to him by his birth name as opposed to Muhammad Ali, the name he suddenly adopted to get his ass out of the Viet Nam military draft.  Yeah, he's about as much of a religious leader as I am.  And, frankly, since I have subbed for my own pastor perhaps forty times over the past ten years, I probably have more spiritual experience than this lunatic ever had.

But, then again, I don't go around making a living out of punching folks in the head.

And, oh, yeah, I'm not Black.

While this documentary is informational and clearly well made, I came away with this nagging aftertaste.  Sort of like the heartburn you got from eating those donuts a week ago last Sunday.  It never goes away.  You watch how Cassius Clay is fawned over, idolized, and virtually canonized by otherwise seemingly intelligent folks like George Plimpton and Norman Mailer.  Both, I might add, are now dead so a lot of good that adoration did for them in the great scheme of things.  And why?

Because Clay's main talent was punching folks in the head.

And, oh, yeah, he was Black.

Now, don't get me wrong.  I'll salute an icon when I see one, regardless of skin tint or blood type.  Heck, I'm at Jackie Robinson Night every year at Dodger Stadium.  Now there's someone who really met a challenge every day and in every way.  And worked diligently after his baseball days were done to advance the world for others.

Where's the benchmark for the role model status accorded Cassius Clay?

Let's see, besides punching people in the head, he was a loud mouth.

He broke the law several times. 

He defied the Federal Government, despite making millions of dollars in this country.

Of his seven children, at least two of them were with women he never married.

And he used religion for his own personal benefit and gain.

Hmmmm. 

Oh, but, wait.  He's Black.  That cancels out all of the above.  Trust me, if some older boxer like Chuck Wepner had that personal resume, nobody would be calling him "The Greatest."  Except maybe his fellow prison inmates.

In the film, thousands of Africans scream his name and taunt the boxer to "kill" George Foreman.  Thank God he didn't since his grill is a godsend in my kitchen.  But, I digress.  What is/was the message there?  Especially since Cassius Clay was the one leading that cry.

Did anybody see anything wrong with this back in 1974? 

Well, now that Clay is a blithering mess and probably hasn't been able to aim his pee directly into the toilet bowl for about ten years, his hero status is now magnified beyond belief.    We are supposed to be enveloped by the tragedy of his condition.  As if too many shots to his own head didn't cause his affliction.  Is there such a thing as mental stigmata?

"When We Were Kings" is a decent documentary because it did raise some questions for me.  That's exactly what a documentary is supposed to do.  Except it brought back the same damn questions I had for the past forty years.

My own grandmother said it best.  When Cassius Clay first went on his whirlwind victory streak, I remember she was unimpressed.

"That guy is no preacher.  I wish somebody would knock his block off."

Agreed.  And now it's simply a tall pedestal on which he stands.  And will never be removed from.

Dinner last night:  Black forest ham sandwich.