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The healing of Muhammad Ali
Insight
Essay The healing of Muhammad Ali The four-minute mile and the cross-Channel swim might be better known; but my favourite sporting record was set by Tom Reece in 1907. Towards the beginning of a billiards match against Joe Chapman, Reece nudged his opponent’s white ball, and the red ball, to the cushions, either side of a corner pocket. He struck his own white ball so that it hit the other white and glanced off the red. Two points. The balls on the cushions stayed where they were, and Reece’s white ball returned to its starting point, so Reece repeated the shot. 5 weeks later, when the billiard hall needed to be prepared for another match, Reece was on a break of 499 135 (unfinished). He had played the same shot more than 200 000 times. Having been asked what kind of chalk he used, and how the table was playing, Chapman left before the break was completed, leaving Reece and the referee, and an audience that drifted in and out, to contemplate this astonishing feat of endurance and nerve. Reece’s feat is unlikely ever to be repeated, not least because the rules of billiards were changed to prevent such an event ever happening again. He was even denied official certification of the record, on the grounds that the press and public had not been present throughout the break. Despite his magnificent touch and insight, Reece never won the world championship. His nemeses were the First World War and his rival Melbourne Inman, not necessarily in that order. If Tom Reece is remembered today, it is largely for his quip to Lord Alverston, a hanging-judge who was presenting Inman with the world championship trophy: “Excuse me, my Lord. But if you knew as much as I do about Inman, you would have given [the murderer Dr] Crippen the cup, and sentenced Inman to death.” Billiards is not always a gentle game; but sometimes, excellence at billiards resists old age. Clark McConachy, a supremely athletic New Zealander, won the world title in 1951, at the age of 55. By the time he was asked to defend the title, he was 73 years old and had Parkinson’s disease, with a tremor he attempted to quell by using a massive cue. His determination and experience took him to the brink of retaining the title. In 1980, Fred Davis, a World War 2 veteran and survivor of two heart attacks, retained the world title at the age of 67; astonishingly, that season he was also England’s top-ranked snooker player. In general, however, sport is accelerated life. The star aged 20 years is mature by the age of 30; a 40-year-old is a has-been, and a 60-year-old a fading memory. Professional sport can damage your health, as any number www.thelancet.com/psychiatry Vol 3 September 2016
of footballers with knee and head injuries, or cricketers with mental health problems, can testify. A sportsperson’s afterlife often begins long before death. One of the cruellest sports is boxing, in which each blow, no matter how brilliant, physically damages the opponent. There is—or rather, ought to be—no fascination in watching people hit each other. If boxing survives as a sport, as opposed to a disturbing exhibition, it is because of the wit and depth of some of the contenders: personality is revealed, albeit under brutal circumstances. The wittiest, deepest boxer, by popular acclaim, was Muhammad Ali. He did not look like a fighter, but more like an artist with an interest in poetry and spirituality; which, in fact, he was. His fights presented the absurd spectacle of a boy-faced man dancing, clowning, and refusing to hold his hands up as tough men gave the impression of wishing to dismember him. And, of course, he nearly always won, with the absurd certainty of myth, but with a tragic depth and decency that myth often fails to provide. Ali is widely regarded as the best boxer ever, at any weight. He loved the craft of boxing (he called it a science): the ability to understand his opponent’s mind and techniques, and to use that insight to win without getting hurt or causing serious damage, all in the knowledge that failure, or a moment’s inattention, could mean humiliation or disability. He also loved the fame. Even after he retired, he was said to have the most recognised face in the history of the world. Other charismatic sports stars tend to appeal to a particular nationality, or age group; Ali was worshipped worldwide. After regaining his world title in Zaire, in the early hours of the morning, Ali did not go to sleep, but quietly spent hours doing magic tricks for children on the street. Ali lived like a fairytale king. He kept an open house: anyone could visit him, at more or less any time. He gave vast sums of money to people who asked, and those who did not ask. He spent much time visiting strangers in hospital. He persuaded a man to step back from jumping from a high window, when emergency services had failed, by calling out, “I’m your brother. I want to help you.” Ali grew up amid racial segregation, where black men were still called “boy”. But he insisted on being a man. In his early twenties, he abandoned what he called his “slave name”, Cassius Clay, to become Muhammad Ali. That name was given to him by the religious leader Elijah Muhammad, who taught that heaven and hell were on earth, and that white people were devils, created by the mad scientist Dr Yacub on the island of Patmos. Ali continued to treat people of all colours with love 815
Judith Haeusler/Science Photo Library
Insight
Further reading Ali M, Ali HY. The soul of a butterfly: reflections on life’s journey. London: Bantam Press, 2004. Everton C. Snooker: the records. Enfield: Guinness Superlatives, 1985. Hauser T. Muhammad Ali: his life and times. London: Pan Books, 1992. Marable M. Malcolm X: a life of reinvention. London: Allen Lane, 2011. McLellan MF. Literature in medicine: the patient, the physician, and the poem. Lancet 1996; 348: 1640–41.
816
and grace; by the late 1970s, he had left behind Elijah’s theology, to the extent that he ever believed in it, to become a Sunni Muslim. But in Elijah’s message of self-determination and pride, Ali found inspiration. He became a champion of human rights for refusing to fight in Vietnam, on the grounds that killing innocent people was unjust. He was stripped of the heavyweight championship and risked jail. He defended himself eloquently, giving lectures in leading universities, lacing his arguments with comedy, parody, and poetry. He even starred in a Broadway musical, Buck White. On his return to the ring, he reclaimed and defended his title against an exceptional generation of boxers. Throughout his years of victory, Ali can be seen as fighting the battles of adolescence: where we find out who we are, work out what we stand for, and stand up for it. Many of us, although adult, have not yet completed this journey: and few do it with as much courage and skill as Ali. But Ali’s strength was also his weakness. He was renowned for his kindness to opponents: he wanted to beat them, but not to hurt them. But he did hurt Ernie Terrell, and humiliated Floyd Patterson, both of whom refused to call him Muhammad Ali. He was a loyal and generous friend even to people who stole from him and cheated him; but he turned his back on one of his closest friends, Malcolm X, when Malcolm broke away from Elijah Muhammad. Through trying to find himself, Ali lost part of himself along the way. This was brutally illustrated in his final fights. In Larry Holmes, in 1980, Ali faced an outstanding champion when, in boxing terms, Ali was elderly. He worked hard to get fit for the fight, but was bizarrely medicated with an amphetamine and a high dose of thyroxine. By the time
he entered the ring, he could hardly move. He fought, if that is the word, with heatstroke and stupor. In addition, astonishingly, Ali had parkinsonism. Recently, after his death, I saw highlights (if that is the word) of two of his successful title defences: the monstrous “Thrilla in Manila” in 1975, in which he and Joe Frazier exchanged enough blows to disable a hundred men, but refused to go down; and his 1976 battle against Ken Norton. Against Norton, to my inexpert eye, he already showed signs of parkinsonism. Friends around that time noticed that his speech was slurred. He was medically cleared to fight against Holmes despite not doing well on finger-nose testing. 34 years or so is a ridiculously young age to have Parkinson’s disease. For a long time, Ali’s impairment was thought to be caused by head injury. A controversial Yugoslavian doctor diagnosed pesticide poisoning, and gave Ali plasmapheresis. But Ali just kept deteriorating. In his final years, the man who had been the world’s most celebrated athlete often needed a wheelchair. He had wanted, after retiring from boxing, to be a preacher: but now he spoke with difficulty, and in whispers. Severe chronic illness takes from us who we think we are. It often has a certain remorseless poetry: Beethoven going deaf, Monet developing cataracts, Muhammad Ali having Parkinson’s disease. If the journey of adolescence is finding out who we think we are, the journey of old age is finding out who we are not, as everything is taken from us and only our soul remains. And Ali kept travelling. Bitter as his Parkinson’s was, he used it as a catalyst to become more contemplative, more inward. He spoke less but remarked that when he did speak, people listened more. He became a Sufi, following an understanding of Islam based on universal love, and wrote on ethics and spirituality. And still, as much as he could, he gave time and support to people who were ill and impoverished. He lit the Olympic flame in 1996, shaking furiously, but unbowed. As doctors, we often have little to say to, or about, degenerative illness. We talk of palliation and of prognoses, but tinker on the edge of the mast while the patient sails into a long night. We are trained to mend machines, but what can you do when the machine can no longer be mended? Muhammad Ali showed that old age and illness can be the beginning, not the end, of life: when all pretences are taken away, and only love and truth remain. I thank him for dancing his way to victory with his feet and with his words, showing that courage and kindness can overcome all kinds of opposition. I thank him even more for shuffling his way to victory in life, showing that a loving heart remains unbeaten.
Athar Yawar www.thelancet.com/psychiatry Vol 3 September 2016
Essay The healing of Muhammad Ali The four-minute mile and the cross-Channel swim might be better known; but my favourite sporting record was set by Tom Reece in 1907. Towards the beginning of a billiards match against Joe Chapman, Reece nudged his opponent’s white ball, and the red ball, to the cushions, either side of a corner pocket. He struck his own white ball so that it hit the other white and glanced off the red. Two points. The balls on the cushions stayed where they were, and Reece’s white ball returned to its starting point, so Reece repeated the shot. 5 weeks later, when the billiard hall needed to be prepared for another match, Reece was on a break of 499 135 (unfinished). He had played the same shot more than 200 000 times. Having been asked what kind of chalk he used, and how the table was playing, Chapman left before the break was completed, leaving Reece and the referee, and an audience that drifted in and out, to contemplate this astonishing feat of endurance and nerve. Reece’s feat is unlikely ever to be repeated, not least because the rules of billiards were changed to prevent such an event ever happening again. He was even denied official certification of the record, on the grounds that the press and public had not been present throughout the break. Despite his magnificent touch and insight, Reece never won the world championship. His nemeses were the First World War and his rival Melbourne Inman, not necessarily in that order. If Tom Reece is remembered today, it is largely for his quip to Lord Alverston, a hanging-judge who was presenting Inman with the world championship trophy: “Excuse me, my Lord. But if you knew as much as I do about Inman, you would have given [the murderer Dr] Crippen the cup, and sentenced Inman to death.” Billiards is not always a gentle game; but sometimes, excellence at billiards resists old age. Clark McConachy, a supremely athletic New Zealander, won the world title in 1951, at the age of 55. By the time he was asked to defend the title, he was 73 years old and had Parkinson’s disease, with a tremor he attempted to quell by using a massive cue. His determination and experience took him to the brink of retaining the title. In 1980, Fred Davis, a World War 2 veteran and survivor of two heart attacks, retained the world title at the age of 67; astonishingly, that season he was also England’s top-ranked snooker player. In general, however, sport is accelerated life. The star aged 20 years is mature by the age of 30; a 40-year-old is a has-been, and a 60-year-old a fading memory. Professional sport can damage your health, as any number www.thelancet.com/psychiatry Vol 3 September 2016
of footballers with knee and head injuries, or cricketers with mental health problems, can testify. A sportsperson’s afterlife often begins long before death. One of the cruellest sports is boxing, in which each blow, no matter how brilliant, physically damages the opponent. There is—or rather, ought to be—no fascination in watching people hit each other. If boxing survives as a sport, as opposed to a disturbing exhibition, it is because of the wit and depth of some of the contenders: personality is revealed, albeit under brutal circumstances. The wittiest, deepest boxer, by popular acclaim, was Muhammad Ali. He did not look like a fighter, but more like an artist with an interest in poetry and spirituality; which, in fact, he was. His fights presented the absurd spectacle of a boy-faced man dancing, clowning, and refusing to hold his hands up as tough men gave the impression of wishing to dismember him. And, of course, he nearly always won, with the absurd certainty of myth, but with a tragic depth and decency that myth often fails to provide. Ali is widely regarded as the best boxer ever, at any weight. He loved the craft of boxing (he called it a science): the ability to understand his opponent’s mind and techniques, and to use that insight to win without getting hurt or causing serious damage, all in the knowledge that failure, or a moment’s inattention, could mean humiliation or disability. He also loved the fame. Even after he retired, he was said to have the most recognised face in the history of the world. Other charismatic sports stars tend to appeal to a particular nationality, or age group; Ali was worshipped worldwide. After regaining his world title in Zaire, in the early hours of the morning, Ali did not go to sleep, but quietly spent hours doing magic tricks for children on the street. Ali lived like a fairytale king. He kept an open house: anyone could visit him, at more or less any time. He gave vast sums of money to people who asked, and those who did not ask. He spent much time visiting strangers in hospital. He persuaded a man to step back from jumping from a high window, when emergency services had failed, by calling out, “I’m your brother. I want to help you.” Ali grew up amid racial segregation, where black men were still called “boy”. But he insisted on being a man. In his early twenties, he abandoned what he called his “slave name”, Cassius Clay, to become Muhammad Ali. That name was given to him by the religious leader Elijah Muhammad, who taught that heaven and hell were on earth, and that white people were devils, created by the mad scientist Dr Yacub on the island of Patmos. Ali continued to treat people of all colours with love 815
Judith Haeusler/Science Photo Library
Insight
Further reading Ali M, Ali HY. The soul of a butterfly: reflections on life’s journey. London: Bantam Press, 2004. Everton C. Snooker: the records. Enfield: Guinness Superlatives, 1985. Hauser T. Muhammad Ali: his life and times. London: Pan Books, 1992. Marable M. Malcolm X: a life of reinvention. London: Allen Lane, 2011. McLellan MF. Literature in medicine: the patient, the physician, and the poem. Lancet 1996; 348: 1640–41.
816
and grace; by the late 1970s, he had left behind Elijah’s theology, to the extent that he ever believed in it, to become a Sunni Muslim. But in Elijah’s message of self-determination and pride, Ali found inspiration. He became a champion of human rights for refusing to fight in Vietnam, on the grounds that killing innocent people was unjust. He was stripped of the heavyweight championship and risked jail. He defended himself eloquently, giving lectures in leading universities, lacing his arguments with comedy, parody, and poetry. He even starred in a Broadway musical, Buck White. On his return to the ring, he reclaimed and defended his title against an exceptional generation of boxers. Throughout his years of victory, Ali can be seen as fighting the battles of adolescence: where we find out who we are, work out what we stand for, and stand up for it. Many of us, although adult, have not yet completed this journey: and few do it with as much courage and skill as Ali. But Ali’s strength was also his weakness. He was renowned for his kindness to opponents: he wanted to beat them, but not to hurt them. But he did hurt Ernie Terrell, and humiliated Floyd Patterson, both of whom refused to call him Muhammad Ali. He was a loyal and generous friend even to people who stole from him and cheated him; but he turned his back on one of his closest friends, Malcolm X, when Malcolm broke away from Elijah Muhammad. Through trying to find himself, Ali lost part of himself along the way. This was brutally illustrated in his final fights. In Larry Holmes, in 1980, Ali faced an outstanding champion when, in boxing terms, Ali was elderly. He worked hard to get fit for the fight, but was bizarrely medicated with an amphetamine and a high dose of thyroxine. By the time
he entered the ring, he could hardly move. He fought, if that is the word, with heatstroke and stupor. In addition, astonishingly, Ali had parkinsonism. Recently, after his death, I saw highlights (if that is the word) of two of his successful title defences: the monstrous “Thrilla in Manila” in 1975, in which he and Joe Frazier exchanged enough blows to disable a hundred men, but refused to go down; and his 1976 battle against Ken Norton. Against Norton, to my inexpert eye, he already showed signs of parkinsonism. Friends around that time noticed that his speech was slurred. He was medically cleared to fight against Holmes despite not doing well on finger-nose testing. 34 years or so is a ridiculously young age to have Parkinson’s disease. For a long time, Ali’s impairment was thought to be caused by head injury. A controversial Yugoslavian doctor diagnosed pesticide poisoning, and gave Ali plasmapheresis. But Ali just kept deteriorating. In his final years, the man who had been the world’s most celebrated athlete often needed a wheelchair. He had wanted, after retiring from boxing, to be a preacher: but now he spoke with difficulty, and in whispers. Severe chronic illness takes from us who we think we are. It often has a certain remorseless poetry: Beethoven going deaf, Monet developing cataracts, Muhammad Ali having Parkinson’s disease. If the journey of adolescence is finding out who we think we are, the journey of old age is finding out who we are not, as everything is taken from us and only our soul remains. And Ali kept travelling. Bitter as his Parkinson’s was, he used it as a catalyst to become more contemplative, more inward. He spoke less but remarked that when he did speak, people listened more. He became a Sufi, following an understanding of Islam based on universal love, and wrote on ethics and spirituality. And still, as much as he could, he gave time and support to people who were ill and impoverished. He lit the Olympic flame in 1996, shaking furiously, but unbowed. As doctors, we often have little to say to, or about, degenerative illness. We talk of palliation and of prognoses, but tinker on the edge of the mast while the patient sails into a long night. We are trained to mend machines, but what can you do when the machine can no longer be mended? Muhammad Ali showed that old age and illness can be the beginning, not the end, of life: when all pretences are taken away, and only love and truth remain. I thank him for dancing his way to victory with his feet and with his words, showing that courage and kindness can overcome all kinds of opposition. I thank him even more for shuffling his way to victory in life, showing that a loving heart remains unbeaten.
Athar Yawar www.thelancet.com/psychiatry Vol 3 September 2016