A Tadbit more…

MUHAMMAD ALI

He wasn’t “the Greatest” anymore. Still physically imposing and still surrounded by an overblown entourage, he shuffled toward his table—VIP section, of course. But it wasn’t the “Ali shuffle” we knew and were awed by from his glory days in the ring; it was the unsteady gait of a man old beyond his years, the slow, tentative steps of someone who’d been dealing with Parkinson’s for over a decade. The face was still there (at one point the most recognizable visage in the world), albeit a bit soft now, even bloated, skin the color of tanned mule deer hide, those small ears succumbing to age and gravity, now lobed and droopy. But you could see it in his eyes. They’d lost the cocky twinkle and focus, and seemed to be locked in a search—both outward and       inward—for something, or someone, to grasp. In other words, you could tell he wasn’t all there. I’d heard rumors that a particularly despicable young waiter, while serving Ali a meal, whispered “Ding, ding, ding” in his ear and Ali rose to his feet, shadow boxing ghosts. But that was only a rumor (which becomes less LOL and more WTF as one ages, of course).