Many years ago, the King met the Greatest and gave him a sequinned robe. The Greatest promised to wear it for his next fight. He did, but he never wore it again.
Because on the night of 31st March 1973 the wheels fell off the wagon courtesy of Kenny Norton. I’ve always liked boxing and Muhammad Ali and on the 2nd July 2005, I got to feel what his shoes might fit like.
For many, this date reminds them of Live 8 and the festival of rock. For me it brings memories of an entirely different kind. Despite having had my contract rather abruptly and unexpectedly ended the week before I was fairly upbeat. Something else would come along soon. Although lurking in the back of my mind I suppose there lay a great deal of frustration.
It was a sunny day, so I headed off to the pub for a few lemonades. Usually I would knock it on the head around tea-time and head home for something to eat and a rest before heading out again later [if I could be bothered]. This particular Saturday saw the boozers filled with fellow travellers brought out of hibernation by a combination of the sun and a desire to escape the rock dinosaurs and their mammoth back slap-a-thon dominating the day’s TV schedules. Not that I or they objected to the cause but some of the line up stank of opportunism. It reminded me of the plague of charity singles that polluted the charts in the post band aid 80’s.
Unsurprisingly one drink led to another as I discussed the events of the day and all manner of other pointless drivel with like minded barflies. Suffice to say by around 9pm I was well oiled. So well oiled infact I could be used to lubricate an entire fleet of Intercity 125’s. It is always best to quit when you are ahead and as I struggled to maintain any interest whatsoever in the reformed Pink Floyd set [to be frank I had little interest in them before they split] I decided to have one for the road and beat a hasty retreat.
Famous last words. My mobile phone rang and it took little convincing by my friend for me to stay in the pub and wait for him to arrive. My compadre had just finished a 12 hour shift and unremarkably was eager to have a bucket or two. So I remained in the fleapit of a ‘rock’ pub awaiting reinforcements.
By the time the cavalry arrived I was still borderline lucid, but must have looked a pretty picture. Large quantities of alcohol seem to have a unique effect on facial muscles and you begin to look like a Crimewatch photo-fit of yourself.
As closing time neared I was in full swing and my second wind kicked in. My beer sizzled brain, fortified by [I’d imagine] a fair few shorts of the harder stuff had begun to convince me that I was actually quite sober. Given I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and had been drinking since two in the afternoon, had no bearing on this state of mind of course.
So we concluded it would be a wonderful idea to frequent the next door dive of a nightclub, enticed by the later closing time and the allure of another yard or three of ale. Had we stuck to this plan, I don’t think I would be writing this cautionary tale. Oh no, not content with propping ourselves against a wall and watching the kids play, we decided to join in.
The venue had once been quite a good spot for tripping the light fantastic, but time had moved on, as well as the clientele. Gone was anyone remotely near to us in age. It looked like a school disco and given the present nostalgic trends in music, it sounded like one too.
In fairness, my partner in crime was only partially bladdered; I unfortunately had gone over to the other side. The dark side! I thought I was cutting a fairly nifty rug, but really I was just stumbling around banging into people. Generally my fellow dancers wisely kept out of my way. Not everyone is imbued with common sense. Myself included.
It seems there is a trend these days for young turks to stand about on the dance floor, not even attempting to dance, save for the occasional communal hug type dance, which isn’t very pretty to watch. It has always been my one of my philosophies that if you can’t dance, watch from the sidelines.
But then my philosophy also extends to a beer fuelled Georgie Best-esque notion that it is my ball. In days gone by, it was always thought to be important to take the dance floor with mind boggling moves early on so you had plenty room to manoeuvre. But like Ali, we all go to the well a few times too many and well, it was a recipe for disaster.
A lanky clubber took umbrage to the peculiar rumba I was demonstrating and took me up about it.
‘Stop banging into me!’
I apologised to him. However he dismissed my attempts to make amends and repeated himself. I repeated my apology and pointed out to him that given the dance floor was a little busy, he ought to perhaps stand somewhere else. I reasoned if he did this, it would lessen the chances of it happening again.
He seemed to accept my rationale; however one of his two companions provided me with his tuppence worth, which was more or less the same argument as his taller brethren. It was clear they had no intentions of giving an inch. And number two seemed to take exception to my friendly advice. I was in the process of repeating this now familiar mantra when someone turned the lights out.
I had fallen victim to a classic ambush. As I debated with one and two, clown number three snuck up behind me and pole axed me. They say in boxing the ones you don’t see hit you the hardest. That is true to a point. I never felt it, heard it or saw it.
I don’t know how long I had been out for, a minute or two. It could have been three weeks for all I knew. I had only ever been knocked unconscious once before when I had been ran down as an eight year old. It may not surprise you to learn it was at a set of traffic lights. [I have an uncanny knack that way.] I find it rather like when you accidentally erase part of a tape. There is nothing there. You have everything right up to the moment, nothing, and then the music starts again.
I quickly got up, thinking ‘how did I get down here, everyone seems a lot taller’. I then realised what had happened. I also realised I had a very sore face. The inside of my mouth felt like a mining disaster. One of my molars appeared to have mutated into some kind of rock formation. My mouth was bleeding as was my lips. One of the bouncers, a friend of mine and an amateur boxer seemed concerned for me.
‘I think you might have broken your jaw.’
I remember watching an interview with Ali many years ago. He was asked if he knew Ken Norton had broken his jaw in the second round in the first of their three classic encounters. Ali seemed amazed to have been asked the question. ‘Of course not, do you think I would have continued taking all those punches, hard punches if I did?’ At the time I just thought, yeah, there’s Ali being his usual mad driven self, throwing caution and his health to the wind for the sake of a win. I don’t anymore. It wasn’t really as sore as you would think. Maybe the brain switches off some of the pain sensors. I don’t know. But then I had had umpteen pints. All Ali got was another ten rounds of similar punishment.
The moral of this story is there is only one Greatest and if you are going to dance, keep your guard up and your mouth shut.
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