But when Ali, who died last Friday aged 74, unexpectedly lost to Ken Norton two years later, he was not the only one who felt the shock.
Today, in the final part of our exclusive adaptation of Ali’s book – The Greatest, My Own Story – he tells how the surprising defeat almost killed his wife.
6
I’M sitting on the dressing table, looking at the faces near me and feeling as though I am in a strange place.
Then I understand why. It’s not the winner’s room — it’s the loser’s room.
No one knows what to say in the loser’s room.
Why did I lose?
Why didn’t I stop when I could have got my face torn off?
I think back to the second round, when Ken Norton got in through my guard and crashed a left up, breaking my jaw.
I felt a snap and a sudden gush of blood in my throat.
There were 13 rounds left. I went through round after round. Why didn’t I stop when I could have got my face torn off?
Maybe because I didn’t believe Norton could beat me, even with a broken jaw. Maybe because I’ve never backed off from a fight.
6
Every throb is like toothache.
“Where’s Belinda?” I ask.
Nobody answers. I know something is wrong. Nothing would keep my wife away from me when I’m hurt.
Finally someone speaks up: “She’s in a room down the hall.” And then, “She’s in shock.”
I am pushing through the door, down the hall toward the room Belinda is in.
The clusters of hecklers cheering my defeat have grown and when they see me a roar goes up.
“That loudmouth’s finished. Norton beat that n****r!”
Only this morning Norton was a n****r like me. Now he’s the Great White Hope.
The catcalls and screams follow me. Whoever wanted revenge for all my boasting and bragging has it.
Norton’s blow is nothing to what shakes me now.
Belinda, strapped on a dressing table, is clawing, straining, screaming, rolling her head from side to side.
Five men are holding her down.
6
She struggles and twists so hard the straps fly open. The men scramble to keep her down and get the straps fastened again.
My personal physician, Dr Ferdie Pacheco, has given her a heavy sedative. “But she resists it. I’m afraid to give her any more.” Belinda’s companion, Suzie Gomez, says: “She just went wild when they announced that Norton won.
“At first, she just sat there. Very quiet. Very still. But I could tell something was wrong with her.
“We saw you come down from the ring and we tried to get through to reach you. Then Belinda started fighting her way through. She hit a policeman and she was screaming all the time, screaming
‘Muhammad Ali is dead! They killed him!’”
I look into her eyes. They’re wide open, she’s looking right through me to something far away
I put my arms around Belinda, trying to hold her still.
We married in 1967 when she was 17 years old and I was in exile. For the first three years of our marriage there were no trips across the world to fight, no build-ups for fights, no training.
It was the worst time for my career but the best for my family.
I feel her forehead. It’s blazing hot. I make them loosen the straps that are cutting into her arms. She’s crying: “Muhammad Ali is dead. He’s dead.” I lean closer and put my mouth to her ear. “No he ain’t, pretty girl. I’m right here. I’m all right.”
I look into her eyes. They’re wide open, she’s looking right through me to something far away.
The California Boxing Commission doctor comes over to me. He says: “You’ve got to leave for the hospital now. The quicker we get the X-rays, the better.”
The day I picked a fight with Smokin' Joe
I WAS the “undefeated heavyweight monster-in-exile”. The only way out of exile was into head-on collision with “the popular, undefeated monster, Joe Frazier”.
I WAS the “undefeated heavyweight monster-in-exile”.
The only way out of exile was into head-on collision with “the popular, undefeated monster, Joe Frazier”.
Nearly four summers had passed since I was stripped of the heavyweight championship.
I faced the fact that not a promoter in America could get a fight for me legally.
I had to prove to them that people were willing to pay money to see a “loud-mouthed unpatriotic braggart” beaten.
I have an idea. I dial Joe Frazier. “Joe, what time you training today?”
“Four o’clock, why?”
“Because you and me gonna fight each other at four o’clock.”
Joe is silent for a while: “You mean just a jive? Just to stir things up? Just sort of a show? Yeah!”
Three thirty. We sit in my car and turn on the radio, the news is flashing from one station to another.
“Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier – a showdown at Joe’s gym at four o’clock!”
“This is the big Philadelphia showdown, folks! The great fight has come to Philly! Free! All free if you get there early!”
Police on motorcycles drive up. One black policeman says he wants the honour of “escorting” me over to Joe’s gym in case we get lost.
With a caravan of 50 cars behind us, we drive off but stop nearly ten blocks from Joe’s gym. The street is blocked.
‘Face me like a man’
Walking only makes the crowd bigger.
I begin hammering my fists on the door. “Open up and face me like a man! You ain’t no Champ! I’m the real Champ!”
Someone opens the door. The shoving crowd pushes in, past even me. The police have to help us get inside.
Joe is going along with it. I will always love him for that. He doesn’t have to. He’s the recognised champion. I’m the outlaw.
I start stripping off my blue jean jacket and screaming loud enough for those outside to hear: “I’m sick and tired of people calling Joe Frazier the Champ!”
Joe gets up and comes forward: “I’m gonna shut your mouth once and for all. If I don’t put a stop to it you’ll be trying to take over my wife! Let’s get it on! I don’t need no gloves!”
Suddenly the crowd outside is breaking in through the police line.
A policeman puts his hand on my shoulder: “You under arrest, Muhammad.”
Frazier puts his snub nose up to the policeman’s face: “I invited him. He’s my guest until I whip his ass!”
The policeman says politely: “He’s obstructing traffic. Ten blocks down the traffic is blocked. The chief says to stop this thing.”
Joe and I keep yelling at each other, shaking fists, both being held back.
When we’re jammed together I say to him: “Joe, we’re gonna make a lot of money if this fight ever comes off. We got ’em fooled, they think we’ll kill each other.”
That evening I got the first call.
The hoax had aroused the only group of promoters who had what it took to open the ring up to me. The hoax had forced the real thing.
“I want her with me.” He shakes his head: “There’s another hospital that’s much better for her.
“Seeing you lose must have traumatised her. She identifies so closely with you. It’s like she’s fighting the people who were glad you lost, or else she’s fighting Norton for you.”
My mouth feels like it’s full of barbed wire.
6
I get up from the bench and lie down on the table with her, whispering: “Pretty girl, I’m not dead. They can’t kill me.”
Both doctors are trying to pull me away but I stay until she is quiet.
They take me to Clairemont General. The next thing I remember is waking up with my mouth feeling like it’s full of barbed wire.
My mouth feels like it's full of barbed wire
The pain is gone. I lift my hands to my mouth and feel the wires that hold bone fragments together and keep the teeth lined up.
Several times a day I get reports on how Belinda is doing. Twice she stopped breathing. The first time they bring her around by hitting her on the chest but the second time they have to call for the respirator unit.
They have to work for an hour before they get her breathing on her own again.
6
Whenever she gets to a semi- conscious state, she opens her eyes and asks: “Who won the fight?”
At first the doctors and nurses try to humour her by saying: “Muhammad won. Your husband won.”
But that makes it worse and she starts screaming again: “No! Ali is dead!”
Unless something snaps her out of it soon her malady might be too deep to overcome.
I am looking at her, realising when a fighter is beaten everybody who believes in him is beaten too — his family, his friends, his children, the people who cheer him on, who give him their love, their hope, their pride.
