At Home With Muhammad Ali : A Memoir of Love, Loss, and Forgiveness (9780062917416) by Ali Hana

Author:Ali, Hana [Ali, Hana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-04-02T00:00:00+00:00

23

In July of 1979, the renowned film critic Roger Ebert spent a day interviewing my father. By the end of their time together, he would have a unique story to tell. And because my father let the outside world in, Mr. Ebert’s article would transport me back in time, allowing me to relive the moments I was once too young to remember.

On a Tuesday afternoon, Roger Ebert was standing in the entrance of Fremont Place, admiring the mahogany paneling, the stained-glass window in the stairway, and the Turkish rug on which he was standing, when an insect started buzzing near his ear. He slapped it away but missed. Then it started buzzing at his other ear. He struck at the air, but nothing seemed to be there. My father was smiling to himself, pretending to be looking down the hall. When Roger turned his back, the insect attacked again. Dad grinned mischievously as Mr. Ebert turned in circles, slapping at his hair.

Killer Bees was Dad’s signature prank. Kings and presidents all over the world had experienced the buzzing. After Dad had his fun, he always explained.

“Make sure your hand is dry. Then rub your thumb hard across the side of your index finger, like this, see . . .” Dad showed Roger, making a vibrating noise. “Then hold it behind somebody’s ear, sneak up on ’em, and they’ll think it’s killer bees. I catch people all the time . . .” He smiled. “It never fails.”

A black limousine pulled up in the driveway. Dad was on his way to the NBC studios to film The Tonight Show with Diana Ross. It was her first night as guest host. After the taping, he was taking Mom and me to the movies—a private screening of Rocky II. Throughout the film, my father would play movie critic with Roger Ebert.

“Rocky part II,” he said, “starring Apollo Creed as Muhammad Ali.”

The taping with Diana Ross went smoothly. Dad joked with her about her age, leaned over to read her notes, talked about his official retirement benefit, and asked her to sing at the party. Then he was back in another limousine, a blue-and-beige Rolls-Royce, heading home. My father sat in the front seat, next to the driver, with his window down. His face positioned in the frame, waiting. The entire seven-mile drive, not a single person failed to recognize him. People shouted his name as the Rolls passed, his fist clenched in a victory sign.

As Roger witnessed that day, riding down the road with my father was no ordinary venture—it was a hero’s parade.

When we were setting off for the private screening, five cars pulled out of the driveway like a presidential procession. Dad, Mom, and I were second in line. We were en route to the United Artists headquarters on the old MGM lot. As Mr. Ebert noted, all five cars’ emergency flashers were blinking the entire way: it was the day’s second parade.

When we arrived, a crowd of young kids was waiting for Dad in the parking lot.

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