*Published in April 2015 issue.
“I am the greatest. I said that even before I knew I was.”
While the youth in Turkey were trying to build a new, fair and better life, at the far end of the world, a black man in United States of America was beating whoever came in his way and engraving himself into the minds of those ignoring him. The story of Muhammed Ali was an inspiration for most of the kids in this world and Uğur Yücel was one of those. Yücel wrote about the Ali that he wants to become, for Socrates.
My father used to box. My uncle was even a better boxer. While my father was a man of single punch, my uncle was like a rooster. He used to get beat up for three rounds, become giddy and struggle to stand on his feet, then take down his opponent. He worked as a boxing referee for a while. He used to tell everyone that he has met Clay once. He even had a photo taken with him. My other uncle had also practiced boxing at one time. Men used to converse more about boxing than football in our house. Some of us used to yell “Kesüs Kılay be! Heeyt!” in the moments of silence, and everyone who wanted to be Clay used to stare blank and smile…
Cassius Clay… We called him “Kılay” for many years. The first time we saw him was when he beat Sonny Liston; The World Champion… I had just begun elementary school. Kids were still putting up football players’ posters on their walls. Whereas I nailed down that terrific black and white picture that I had cut out of a newspaper. Liston was on the ground like a neighborhood drunkard, who just had seven bottles of wine. Kılay was our hero; standing tall, keeping his arms on his abdominal muscles as usual, and looking enraged with his gum shield showing. We had found our icon: Clay!
His African-Irish roots have given him an athletic dance and quick fists. He would avoid counter attacks through dancing. He was more marvelous than anyone else who would stand on a ring. One day he decided to convert to Islam and wanted to be called Muhammed Ali from then on. My CHP supporter hadji grandfather was excited more than anyone about Clay becoming a Muslim. He was a member of our family hereafter.
He protested against The Vietnam War and said “I ain’t got no quarrel with the Viet Cong. No Viet Cong ever called me nigger…” When he refused to participate in war and was sentenced to a fine and time in prison, we in Turkey, were on our way to becoming the militia of the socialist revolution. His uprising was the permission to curse The Vietnam War. Progressivists were standing behind him.
The grocery store in our neighborhood became a quilt shop; Temel Kamacı: older brother of boxer Cemal Kamacı. Temel was also a boxing and wrestling trainer. He was preparing a few youngsters in the basement of Uncle Saim for rings. I also put some gloves on due to a genetic instinct. One day my dad caught me with my gloves on; “Take them off right away!” he said. We explained to him: I was going to get in the ring… “Are you a tramp! Go look at your face in the mirror! It will be smashed after three fights. Your nose will come out of your ear. What about the stage? Acting is really good for you. And what about the music? Is playing the drums not enough for you? What is this boxing all about?” he yelled. I was petrified. I easily had the talent to be a champion. My speed, my defense and offense were diverging me from others. I would think of Clay in the midst of flying feathers and wool bits; Jumping on my tiptoes and throwing punches, just as he does. I was like a blowing wind when walking backwards and rushing forward after a half spin. “Just check me out practicing” I said. He took a deep breath and asked “Have you ever got punched on the chin, son?” I had not. “Punch yourself on the chin with the palm of your hand” he said. “See? When your head goes right your brain goes left. You take a tour in the galaxy afterwards. Boxing is over.” I couldn’t say, “but father, I wanted to be Ali!”
There was only one parent present at the conservatory audition: My dad. I was ashamed. “Just leave dad,” I said. He didn’t. When they were announcing the results, they called my name; I stood up. “You are in” they said, and a hand reached out from the chair next to mine; My dad’s hand! He had just won the fight between us. But later, it is likely that he thought: “I wish I let him be a boxer; at least he wouldn’t have messed with politics this much.”
When we set off to the path of revolution and Ali off to Islam, we had a common ground; standing against the imperialism of The United States. American cinema was reminding people of the nastiness of war through movies about post traumatic stress disorder. Ali’s outcry was one of the reasons for the upheaval of the people and arts. The annihilation of our brothers and executions of Deniz Gezmiş and alike were leaving us in tears. My mother, my cousin, my uncle, and my grandfather were all crying while my father was thinking of the gallows, knowing that I also am a revolutionist.
We considered Ali’s opponents to be fascist Americans that despise and destroy blacks and the weak. He would beat Those who would try to aggravate him by calling him “Clay” until they started calling him “Ali.” Here, we were also enraged to crash murderers and make them scream the name “Deniz.”
We wanted to be Ali in America, and Deniz here. We wanted to shout out for our freedom and fellowship of peoples, even when we were dying.
Ali was like a hurricane. He would first crash his opponents outside the ring with contemptuous words, and then bury them into the ring. His chin broke on the fight with Ken Norton. Anglo-Saxons were saying that his mouth was shut with the punch of God. His mouth was open once again as well as his fists… He came up against Joe Frazier. He couldn’t knock him out but he was really predominant. Then the “state within state” notion came into action and the winner became the loser. The state was showing itself in every way that it can. Malcolm X joined forces with him. He found his strength in his color and habitat like all the other living creatures living together and akin in nature. In the return fight, he knocked Frazier out. America was not going to lend him a win till he knocked his opponent down.
Then we went into darkness… Cold weapons were slipped into our hands. I had the theatre going on one hand and revolution on the other. Plus, the mornings in Beyoğlu where I would get lost in the shadows…
Ali was going to face a giant; George Foreman. He was three times bigger than Tyson with fists that are twice the weight. Ali, cringing and suffering in front of this Hulk, wimped out for seven rounds. My father said “Oh no!” As an amateur boxer, who trained and put gloves on for some time I said “Wait!” I had the feeling that Ali was wearing this bull out. Round 8… and our boy’s spirit has finally appeared… He flies on the ring and throws that incredible right hook to the chin, right on the spot my father had told me before. It was like a huge skyscraper collapsing in the middle of the ring. Ali’s fists were up in the air again… His gum shields would shine in the middle of his angry face. Africa is overjoyed, flying now.
We attended the bloody “1st of May” in 1977 with the regiment of Beşiktaş, together with the conservatory students and our teacher; Melih Cevdet Anday. We were arm in arm with Birlik Sahnesi in Taksim. Then we went to watch their practice all together. Later, the first guns were fired in Taksim; where we were standing earlier. The practice may have saved our lives. Theatre has saved our lives.
Year 1978… Leon Spinks has whacked Ali up, as if he found him standing unconscious in the ring. Ali seemed like he was drugged. He was constantly resting on ropes, taking in insane punches in between guards. Ali’s fans were thinking; “It is coming to an end.”
School is over. End of the break! Return fight against Leon Spinks… We waited with our Austrian girlfriends until morning, drinking whatever we could find: gin, vermouth, and of course, cognac. Ali is not the same Ali anymore. But he wins the fight, leaving a stagnant feeling… Girls are more excited than us. But for us, who knows how Clay floats like a butterfly on stage, it was obvious; a star is falling! I went to do my military service. I got myself prepared for one-man shows. Did my training. Military coup on my return. Revolution is over. Everyone either disappeared, been jailed, or ran away… We were left alone. Then my days of becoming famous has begun, which I never got accustomed to. While other fathers would raise their sons as football players, my father pushed me onto the stage. I made it through the darkness and moved into the brightness of stage lights. On my own.
In our efforts of being Ali, we became something else. I don’t know when and where my final fight will be. Still, even at this age, I punch thin air rapidly with a slight dance on my tiptoes. Then I laugh by myself. Afro-Americans have followed his path. The youth, who couldn’t position themselves in a capital, have invested their athletic savings into tracks, rings, and courts. Nobody could have beaten or outran them. When the ones that follow Ali, who once threw his medal into a river after getting beaten and kicked out of a restaurant because of his color, raised their medals aloft, Americans were shedding tears of joy because of their country’s victories. Victories were being attained through black people now.
Around 200 fights, both amateur and professional, and almost 190 victories… He was the comet that moves the youth from all over the world with all his titles and words: “Whatever the punishment, whatever the persecution is for standing up for my beliefs, even if it means facing machine-gun fire that day, I’ll face it.”
Muhammed Ali, actually fought his last two fights with his James Parkinson, one of his closest friends and biggest rival nowadays, which he kept as a secret. For money… He could not float like a butterfly and sting like a bee anymore. He got beat up, silently. Rings were abandoning him; the greatest heavy weight champion of all-times!
Recently, newspapers wrote that Anita Ekberg and Francesco Rosi are not with us anymore.
As a matter of fact, the stars leave us only when the stage abandons them.
Ali’s late photographs are like shaking stars that died billions of light years ago, yet still keep their twinkle. They will keep shining in the sky at nights. Just like all the stars that taught us how to use our wings…
Unique, alone and free!
*Translated by Baran Yağmurlu.
