Leon Gast
Quando Eravamo Re

For My Childhood Heroes

Bruno, Ali, and the Che

My parents were involved in one of the first divorces in Reggio, probably the first in Cavriago.

And considering that, for various reasons, they were known in the area, there was a lot of talk about it (of course, I realized this much later).

I remember practically nothing of myself as a child, of the years before the divorce, of the three of us together (luckily, I have some photos where we even appear happy).

Or rather, I have some flashes: them screaming at each other like furious madmen, me running into the garage covering my ears and crying, my mom going out in the evenings alluding to political meetings and similar... I probably already understood she had someone else, I already sensed...

The early days after the separation were even worse with dad shouting under the house every night and mom waiting for the other guy to arrive; dramatic and grotesque scenes all together, with my dad, almost always tipsy (to use the classic euphemism), the arrival of the police and the classic "come on Bruno, let it go." Terrible to see my hero reduced to this, even though after a few hours he would come and pick me up and take me to school on his bike. I don't recall any kids teasing me, but I was a bit of a bully, so maybe they did it when I didn't hear, cowards, hahaha. Dad also had demons and would go through phases; he either felt he could conquer the world or was a fragile, insecure, and fearful person (damn/blessed genetics), Mom was determined and resolute. No use saying "who I cared for."

Through the various specialists of my demons (all poor, hopelessly defeated souls), I later understood that eight years old is the worst age to "suffer" your parents' divorce; you're young but old enough to understand, but not old enough to properly comprehend (and what studies were needed to conclude this obvious fact!)

However, one thing I remember well because it was a ritual that will forever remain inside me. My dad telling me that he would wake up at night to watch Muhammad Ali. Besides football, Brazil, and Inter Milan, he had already talked about him... so I "cared" for Ali without knowing who he was, no doubt about it.

I can’t remember the first time, what fight it was, it wasn’t broadcast live on Rai, probably the devastating and brutal “Thrilla in Manila” with Frazier or one of those with Spinks. Certainly, the last two—disastrous ones with Holmes and Berbick—, we watched together (I can’t imagine my suffering). One thing I am sure of: as soon as I focused on Mr. Muhammad Ali, he became my other hero! His dancing, the natural ease of his left jab, the speed and beauty of his combinations, talking his opponent down to destroy them first psychologically and then physically, class and pride, arrogance and sheer talent: all this fascinated and electrified me.

“He was the greatest, unique, and not just as a boxer,” Bruno proudly told me as if Ali were him (but Che and Ali were not to be disputed, it was so).

It’s debated if he is the greatest boxer of all time or not... let me just say: Ali is the greatest sports figure of all time full stop; I don't know if the greatest boxer (certainly in the top 3 with Louis and Robinson) but unique and, probably, unrepeatable for what he did.

In that regard, those sixties were unique and unrepeatable also for boxing and particularly for the heavyweight division: Ali, Frazier, Liston, Foreman, Patterson, Cooper, Bonavena, Chuvalo, Folley, Williams, Ellis, Young, Terrel, Lyle, Quarry, and I am surely forgetting some. Probably, in other periods, they all or almost all would have been champions of the category.

Meanwhile, information was spreading and technology advancing, and with my dad’s help, over the years, I got as much material as possible on the boy from Louisville, the first VHS tapes my old man somehow got his hands on.

Kinshasa, October 30, 1974 - The Fight of the Century "Rumble In The Jungle"

This splendid documentary film tells us about possibly the most famous boxing match ever, fought by Muhammad Ali and George Foreman.

But calling it a boxing match would be ridiculous because from the very start of its organization, one understood it was bound to be a unique and unrepeatable event.

It was organized by Don King, perhaps the most infamous and controversial figure in the field (many got to know him with Tyson, but he had already been dabbling for a long time in the industry).

First time in Africa, even in Zaire where Mobutu had come to power a few years earlier with a coup and associated massacres; on the subject, the testimony of Norman Mailer, sent by Esquire (but he wasn’t the only one), tells us that the stadium's ground smelled of blood, something not improbable considering the dictator had locked up hundreds of opponents in the basements.

King convinced Mobutu to fork over a purse for the two of 10 million dollars (an unthinkable sum even for the rich and capitalist United States) by playing on the dictator's ego.

The match was held at 4 in the morning to allow Americans to watch it live, comfortably, at 10 in the evening.

Don King managed to create a monumental sporting and media event even in the periphery by convincing the top black musical artists to play in Kinshasa in the days leading up to the match: James Brown, BB King, Miriam Makeba, Bill Withers, Celia Cyrus, The Spinbers, Manou Dibango, Big Black, and the young Sister Sledge.

Ali came to the encounter (widely) as the underdog for obvious reasons: Foreman was 7 years younger, a devastating puncher (he had dismantled Frazier and Norton, who had beaten Ali), entered as an undefeated reigning champion with almost all matches won by demolishing opponents in the first rounds; Ali had failed to reclaim the title, had taken many hits (as well as delivering them) from Frazier and had been four years without fighting.

"I am the king of the world, I am pretty, I am bad. I shook the world, I shook the world, I shook the world!"

"Cassius Clay is a slave name. I did not choose it and I do not want it. I am Muhammad Ali, a free name. It means beloved by God. I want people to use it when talking to or about me"

Four years without boxing, as I was saying. After the sensational victory over Liston, winning, at a young age, the world heavyweight crown (let's not forget that Ali "started" as a light heavyweight, in that category winning the Olympics in Rome at eighteen), Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr first vented his celebrated arrogance and beautiful sports presumption and then, more importantly, took a radical stance against white power and a racist and conservative society, announcing his conversion to Islam and the "change" of name live.

White America was not expecting such a character, wasn’t ready... Ali was more than ready, his big mouth had something for everyone. After defending the title for three years dominating the division and boxing like no one else before, with unique elegance and speed, he was called to arms, with Vietnam looming.

"I have nothing against the Vietcong. None of them ever called me a nigger."

Indeed...

It’s incomparable, but imagine a recent past American sports icon refusing to go to Iran or Afghanistan, alluding to the atrocities and futility of such wars, risking jail time, being suspended from their activities, and thereby giving up enormous earnings, in the name of "ridiculous" and "useless" moral values in which they firmly believe.

Yeeeah ... "you have watched too many sci-fi movies,"... Ali did it at 25, in his prime, giving up what would have been his best years. Screw the money, screw the heavyweight crown, screw you who want to buy us all and move us at your pleasure like puppets... screw you all, "I will fight for my people, in what I believe right, and for rightful rights".

Unique, one-of-a-kind, demolished and shattered more with his stances than with his fists. And moved the future consciences of other black athletes I won’t list now; everything started from Ali.

The Event of the Century quickly became the black man fighting for his African brothers against the black servant of the whites.

Ali immediately succeeded, and Foreman contributed a lot: "I was ignorant; I didn’t know it was the ex-Belgian Congo, that the city was once named Leopoldville, nor that Mobutu took power in '65. I was unaware of famines, that 65% of the population was illiterate, and I wasn’t a nice guy, always grumpy, threatening, and angry,” George Foreman.

An injury to Big George delayed the match by six weeks and Ali managed to create a unique atmosphere:

"That man is in trouble, he is scared!"

"First of all, he is on my land!"

"Ali, boma ye! Can you imagine 100 thousand people shouting like that?!"

When I hear my brothers cheering me like that, my heart lifts, my soul is uplifted!"

A genius, the environmental atmosphere was set, everything was perfect... outside.

This time, though, Ali knew he was facing someone stronger than him, younger than him, more powerful than him, and thus a real miracle had to happen inside the ring to overturn the outcome of a logical and predictable finish.

Think about it. There were only two situations in which Foreman's qualities could be doubted; he never needed to throw many punches because he quickly knocked everyone out and never took - "serious" punches - so his chin durability was unknown. These were the (only) two points on which Ali could try to have such a big influence as to overturn everything.

"I will dance, I will dance, I will dance,” he repeated to everyone like a mantra “he will never catch me, I will annihilate him" –

Balls, balls, balls; Ali had no intention of dancing, couldn’t do it for more than two/three rounds, didn’t have the energy and cardio of his golden years. While lying to everyone and provoking Big George, Ali with his sparring partners (among them a young and already phenomenal Larry Holmes) had already long been training to take punches!

“Let’s see how many he can give me before tiring out that ignorant beast,” I imagine Ali thinking... “then if I manage to hit him, let’s see how he reacts...”

"What is genius?! Imagination, intuition, precision, and speed of execution!"

(Perozzi/Noiret)

Needless to say, everything went as Ali thought and planned. But saying it now is simple, watching the match until the last moment, you don’t believe it. Or rather from the fourth round on you start to think it's possible.

Useless and ridiculous to try to explain a boxing match, especially this one; it is impossible to describe the emotions and actions of this match.

Nevertheless, Foreman started with his head down hitting like a madman, punches that would have floored a bull: Ali leaned against the ropes, much looser than usual due to the crazy humidity of the African night (and probably some dark force), taking everything while telling Foreman he thought he hit harder, to try hitting harder! Gradually, Foreman’s punches became less powerful, the action slower and less relentless, and Ali started hitting him with his famous precise and swift combinations.

The climax: eighth round. Foreman keeps advancing like a bull but doesn’t hurt anymore, seems exhausted.

At 30 seconds of the round Ali lands one of his most beautiful combinations, right, left and then six or seven consecutive right hooks. The last one makes Foreman stagger who seems to fall, Ali looks at him, thinks for a split second about placing the last punch while he is falling like everyone else would have; but he has the clarity and class not to do it... that KO, that dramatic and beautiful together ballet of Foreman falling couldn’t be ruined.

Not even the best tragedian and comedian together could have written a more perfect and astonishing scenic play at once: only Ali, genius, class, and talent.

Foreman would come out of it destroyed, will go through a period of depression and debauchery, and after a tremendous defeat with Young in the locker room, he had a near-death experience with God calling him, telling him to completely change his life. He became a minister and returned to fight almost at the age of forty, reclaiming the title at 45 years old... talk about class.

"A part of me leaves" - "He was the greatest," said a shaken George Foreman after Ali's death, with whom he had built a wonderful friendship.

However, the day Ali played the most important and beautiful round of his life was in Atlanta 1996. I still get emotional seeing that man, who had the world in his fist, having the courage to show his illness. That dramatic tremor still makes me scream "come on Ali, hold on, come on, just for a moment please"; the subsequent lighting of the Olympic torch, even defeating Parkinson's for the necessary time. Such class, only he could.