Muhammad Ali: Great Fighter, Complicated Man — But Not “The Greatest”

 

Before the inevitable outrage begins, let me make something perfectly clear: Ali was a great fighter, an extraordinary athlete, a magnificent showman and one of the most consequential sporting figures of the twentieth century. He changed boxing, changed the way athletes interacted with the media and became a cultural figure whose influence extended far beyond the ring. But somewhere along the way, “Muhammad Ali was great” became “Muhammad Ali was The Greatest,” and the latter has gradually ceased to be a sporting assessment and become an article of faith. That distinction matters, because when we turn Ali into a cultural saint, we do something rather strange: we take one of the most complicated, contradictory and fascinating men in sporting history and flatten him into a slogan.

Ali's story is almost too perfectly suited to mythology. The charismatic Black athlete. The brash young champion. The conscientious objector who sacrificed his career rather than submit to the draft. The political rebel. The entertainer. The man who defeated George Foreman in the Rumble in the Jungle. The warrior who endured the ‘Thrilla in Manila’. The aging champion who eventually became an international symbol of courage and dignity. It is a remarkable story.

But remarkable stories have a tendency to acquire remarkable embellishments. Ali's mythology has become so powerful that any criticism of the man is sometimes treated as criticism of the legend itself. That is a mistake. If we want to understand Muhammad Ali rather than simply worship the image of Muhammad Ali, we have to be willing to examine the uncomfortable parts of the story as well.

If you want to see the less flattering side of Muhammad Ali, you need look no further than Joe Frazier. Ali's treatment of Frazier before their third fight in Manila was not merely ordinary boxing trash talk. He called Frazier an “Uncle Tom” and the “White Man's Champion,” mocked his intelligence and appearance, and famously produced a rubber gorilla to taunt his opponent. It was cruel, and it was particularly cruel because Frazier had once been one of Ali's supporters.

When Ali was stripped of his title and barred from boxing because of his refusal to enter the U.S. Army, Frazier supported his efforts to return to the ring and provided him with financial assistance during his exile. Frazier also petitioned President Nixon on Ali's behalf. Yet Ali repaid that support by turning Frazier into the villain of his story. Perhaps Ali regarded it as promotional theatre. Perhaps he genuinely believed that humiliating Frazier would help sell the fight. It certainly helped create one of the most compelling rivalries in boxing history. But Frazier didn't experience it as theatre. He experienced it as personal betrayal, and unlike most of Ali's opponents, he carried that resentment for decades.

That should count for something when we assess the man rather than the marketing campaign.

Nobody seriously disputes that Ali was an exceptional heavyweight. The question is whether his résumé is so overwhelmingly superior that “The Greatest” is an objective conclusion rather than a cultural preference. His final record was 56–5, with 37 knockouts. Rocky Marciano retired at 49–0. George Foreman finished with 76 victories and 68 knockouts. Joe Louis held the heavyweight championship for more than eleven years and successfully defended it 25 times.

None of this makes Ali inferior. Boxing isn't baseball, and greatness cannot be reduced to a spreadsheet. But the reverse is also true: you cannot simply dismiss the numbers when they complicate the mythology. Ali's record is extraordinary, but it isn't untouchable.

Ali did win the heavyweight championship three times, an achievement that remains remarkable. Yet even that accomplishment needs to be viewed in context. The heavyweight division was fragmented, politics and promotion frequently influenced who fought whom, and the championship landscape of the 1970s was considerably more complicated than the mythology sometimes suggests. His third championship, in particular, came during an era of shifting titles, promotional alliances and unusual matchmaking.

Take Sonny Liston. Ali's two fights with Liston are among the most famous bouts in boxing history, yet neither is without controversy. The first ended when Liston failed to answer the bell for the seventh round. The rematch ended with the infamous “phantom punch,” an episode that has generated speculation about Liston's condition and the legitimacy of the result for decades. None of this proves that the fights were fixed, but neither does it justify treating them as straightforward demonstrations of unquestionable superiority.

Then came George Foreman. The Rumble in the Jungle was unquestionably one of Ali's greatest achievements. Foreman was younger, stronger and seemingly devastating, while Ali's tactical ingenuity in employing the ropes and allowing Foreman to exhaust himself before stopping him in the eighth round was extraordinary. But even here, the mythology tends to simplify things. Ali wasn't simply standing in the middle of the ring and demonstrating his superiority. He was improvising, clinching, leaning, absorbing punishment and exploiting every available advantage. It was brilliant. It was also survival.

And there is nothing wrong with that. In fact, perhaps that is what makes Ali so fascinating. His greatness was often found not in overwhelming dominance but in his extraordinary ability to find a way to win.

The same applies to the Thrilla in Manila. It has become one of the most celebrated fights in boxing history, and rightly so, but it wasn't Ali standing triumphantly over an inferior opponent. It was two exhausted, battered men pushing themselves toward physical destruction.

Ali won when Eddie Futch stopped Frazier after the 14th round. Frazier's vision had deteriorated badly, while Ali himself was exhausted and had reportedly come close to asking for the fight to be stopped. The contest was so punishing that both men would later acknowledge how close they had come to breaking. That doesn't diminish Ali's victory. It makes Frazier's performance more remarkable.

The uncomfortable truth about Ali's legacy was that  some of his greatest victories were made great by the extraordinary men standing opposite him. Frazier wasn't merely the villain in Ali's story. He was one of the men who made Ali's story possible.

Ali's greatest gift may have been his ability to understand the power of his own image. He knew how to sell a fight. He knew how to manipulate journalists. He knew how to entertain an audience. He understood television in a way few athletes of his generation did.

Howard Cosell became an integral part of the Ali phenomenon, while Angelo Dundee became one of the most famous trainers in boxing history. Ali's legend was therefore never created by Ali alone. It was constructed by a remarkable ecosystem of journalists, broadcasters, trainers, promoters and fans who understood that Muhammad Ali was not merely a boxer. He was an event.

That distinction is important because we sometimes confuse cultural impact with athletic supremacy. They aren't the same thing. Ali may very well have been the most important athlete of his generation. That doesn't automatically make him the greatest boxer who ever lived.

The  most painful chapter of Ali's career came when the legend became bigger than the man. He wouldn't quit, even when the speed had diminished, the reflexes had slowed and the punishment was accumulating. Larry Holmes dismantled him, and Trevor Berbick defeated him in his final professional fight.

Ali's refusal to leave the sport gracefully has often been romanticized as courage. Perhaps it was. But there is another interpretation: sometimes courage is knowing when the fight is over. The greatest athletes don't merely conquer their opponents; they understand their own limitations. Ali didn't always do that.

Was he one of the greatest heavyweights ever? Without question. Was he the most charismatic boxer who ever lived? There is a very strong argument to be made. Was he the most culturally significant athlete of the twentieth century? Again, the argument is compelling.

However was he objectively, indisputably The Greatest? No. That is where admiration becomes mythology.

Ali was arrogant and generous, courageous and cruel, principled and contradictory, brilliant and reckless. He could inspire millions of people while humiliating an old friend in front of the world. He was not a saint, but neither was he a villain. He was a complicated human being who happened to possess extraordinary physical gifts and an almost supernatural understanding of publicity.

I believe that we  should be satisfied with that. The insistence on calling Ali “The Greatest” actually makes his story less interesting. Strip away the slogan and what remains is far more compelling: a magnificent fighter, a spectacular showman, a cultural revolutionary, a master of self-promotion, a flawed man and, unquestionably, one of the most important athletes who ever lived.

Muhammad Ali did not need to be perfect to be great. He did not even need to be “The Greatest.” His real legacy is that he made the question worth arguing about.