In 1968, when I was 15 years old, I was staying at my grandmother's house on the southside of Chicago when she casually mentioned to me, 'Oh, by the way, Muhammad Ali just moved into the neighborhood.' My dear old grandmother, who was never a sports fan, showed me Ali's house after I begged her to do it. Ali's house was at a busy intersection on Jeffrey Boulevard, near a city park where I learned to play Little League baseball.
I was nervous as I walked up the few steps to his front door. A few seconds later the front door opens and Ali is standing there. He wasn't wearing a shirt and had a towel draped over his left shoulder.
I shyly asked him for an autograph and while he signed my mind raced through his incredible career up to that point. The great fights against Liston and Patterson and his wild interviews with Howard Cosell, and the latest fight right before I met him, his victory over Zora Folley.
Even at that young age, I felt Ali's intense charisma as he handed me the autograph and shut the door.
As I was leaving, I saw Ali get inside a white Volkswagen and I went over and shook hands with him and thanked him, and as he drove away, little did I know that his greatest fights were still ahead of him. In 1971 against Joe Frazier and 1974 against George Foreman.
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