The crowd is electric. Eyes move restlessly, excitedly taking it all
in: large Budweiser sign beyond the centerfield fence, tacky near-psychedelic
home run structure (so Miami), men in military uniforms parading on the infield
dirt. The retractable roof softly opens,
unleashing rays of sun, like a blanket spreading over the green lawn.
It is opening day at the new
Marlins Park. The sold-out stadium
inches towards the first pitch, while fans in the stands celebrate, a buzzing
of anticipation drowning out the PA announcer.
And then it stops.
All eyes turn to the giant
scoreboard. A golf cart moves slowly from
the outfield fence towards the infield.
We can see Jeffrey Loria, Marlins’ owner, sitting beside a frail, old
man. The PA announcer welcomes Muhammad
Ali, former heavyweight champion, who won his first title in Miami, who once
laughed and shouted for all to hear: “I AM THE GREATEST FIGHTER OF ALL TIME!”
He has been ill for years. Parkinson’s has eaten away at his once
classic physique, leaving behind a shadow of what once was.
Loria holds Ali’s left hand, preventing
the uncontrollable shaking that has invaded the rest of his body. Many in the crowd look away. It is a difficult sight to behold.
The PA announcer urges fans to
join in celebration of the man: “ALI! ALI!” he shouts. But few join in the chant, which is less
celebration of life than wistful longing for a dead era.
I close my eyes and see him as he
once was: strong, and brash, and young.
He bounces gracefully around the ring, throwing jab jab jab, mixes
left-right-left combination and then dances away. All the while taunting, boasting, talking – echoes
of his voice like whispers through long-darkened arenas, like Ali himself ravaged
by the passage of time.
