Only twice in my life did I believe I was at the center of the universe. The second time was Sunday night, January 18th, 2009, two days before the inauguration of America’s first President of African-American descent. I was playing my usual Sunday night gig at U-topia, a club on U Street in the nation’s capital. Folks had come from all over the country to celebrate this huge milestone, and it felt like every one of them was out partying in our neighborhood. Our gig usually ended at 1:30 AM, but this night we went until after 3:00 AM because people were still streaming into the club past our usual closing time. To say that the atmosphere was electric would be a huge understatement. The streets were packed, and believe me it was cold as HELL. It didn’t matter, you knew that THIS was the place to be.

Yet that electricity would be just a tiny spark of the energy I felt the other time I found myself at the center of the universe. That happened 50 years ago today, when I was at Madison Square Garden in NYC to see the “Fight of the Century”.

I grew up a sports fan in a sports fan family. We had close connections on both sides to both of New York’s NFL teams. Baseball, basketball and boxing were the three B’s I knew before I was aware of Bach, Beethoven and Brahms. And to many boys of my generation, Muhammad Ali had become both an athletic and political star. We were staring down the barrel of a gun named Vietnam, and here was a man who beat people up for a living, but who called himself a pacifist.

Ali represented the anti-war movement in a way that none of our musical idols could. He was a sports figure who appealed to our parents’ generation. Our parents did not get Hendrix, Country Joe, Richie Havens, Dylan, Baez and the other makers of protest music, but they were fans of Cassius Clay with his undeniable skills as a boxer and his sense of humor and personality. This all changed when Ali became a Conscientious Objector. He immediately became a hero to us, and a coward to our parents. 

We were right, they were wrong. He sacrificed the absolute peak of his career fighting the charges of draft evasion, was stripped of his title, and denied the chance to regain it for 4 years. The magnitude of that sacrifice is incalculable, and it encouraged all of us who opposed the war to continue with our protests. 

When Ali’s comeback culminated in a title fight with the Champion of the time, Joe Frazier, it was immediately dubbed “The Fight of the Century “. It was the first time two undefeated fighters faced off for the Heavyweight Championship. Ali was definitely not the same fighter he had been before his suspension. His punches were still lightning fast, but his footwork and reflexes were not. Frazier was an aggressive, hard punching Marciano type fighter, so their styles couldn’t be more different. Frazier was not political at all, but because of who Ali was and what he represented, the people who supported our presence in Vietnam rallied behind him. This now elevated the fight to a super-event. The entire nation would be tuned in. 

My 16th birthday was March 2nd, 1971, 6 days before the fight. My step-father, a well-known restaurateur named Kenny, somehow got me two tickets to the fight for my birthday present. He also hired a limo to take me and my close friend Mick, who was the other huge Ali fan in my circle. When we arrived at the Garden, the noise I heard  and energy I felt was on a different level than anything I have experienced before or since. I remember us streaming into the venue, and hearing chanting for both fighters, “Ali, Ali, Ali”, or “Smokin’ Joe, Smokin’ Joe”. When we got to our seats, we were at the very top rows...we could literally pound the ceiling of the Garden with our fists! There was a jumbo screen set up, 4 screens, actually, 1 for each quadrant of the arena. It was difficult to see all of the famous people, but I do remember seeing Sinatra in one camera cutaway. From up there, the actual ring was minuscule, so the Jumbotron was essential to seeing the action.

Those of us who’d seen Ali struggle with Oscar Bonavena knew he was not the Ali of old, but a slower and less agile fighter. But none of us were prepared for “Rope-a-Dope”, Ali’s strategy to wear out Frazier by having him punch himself into exhaustion. 4 rounds in, with Ali dominating to that point, and we all thought, “He’s back!”. But then he began to lay against the ropes while Frazier pummeled his body. It was disheartening to say the least. Frazier began to win round after round while Ali delivered the occasional counter jab to these attacks. Mick and I were aghast....we started to believe that the only way out of this for Ali was to knock out Frazier, or a TKO. In the 11th, the unthinkable happened, Ali went down! The referee ruled that he slipped, so no knockdown was scored. Going into the 15th, we were all hoarse, but we also knew a knockout had to happen for Ali or he would lose by unanimous decision. When Frazier connected with a mighty left hook and put Ali on his back, it was clearly over. Ali sprung right back up, but it was obvious that “Rope-a-Dope” had been unsuccessful and Frazier was not going to run out of gas. 

The air seemed to leave the arena when Frazier was announced the winner by unanimous decision.  Certainly the air of excitement inside me had dissipated, along with our hopes for Ali’s retribution. 

The irony of the next day,  March 9th, was that despite the loss, Ali’s 15 rounds of courage helped to grow his reputation, and his fans really understood the sacrifice he had made to oppose the war. Frazier was pretty much abandoned by those who supported him thanks to their hatred of Ali. He lost defending his crown to George Foreman, and really never regained that fame. When Ali and Frazier finally had a rematch in 1974, the politics had changed. The draft was ended, the war was winding down. Without the political context, boxing had lost that hold on the country’s attention. Yet those of us lucky enough to not get drafted knew the debt we owed to Muhammad Ali. 

Mick and I will still talk of that night once in a while, and I’m sure we will do it again today. We knew at the time that it was something historic, but when you are 16, you think you are going to live through many moments like this. Now we understand just how rare an experience we had. 

Thanks, Kenny. Thanks, Muhammad.