Portside

The Greatest

By Michael Castellano

Stunned silence and pounding fists,
on smoke as thick as smog.

Angry words and hidden tears,
with eyes consumed by fog.

And a roaring crowd that fades from sight,
on blood which falls like rain.

Is this the end of everything,
alone and filled with pain?

It was sixty-three, or sixty-four,
they said I could not win.

My hand held high for all to see,
Brother Malcom wears a grin.

But that was then, and this is now,
my arms as slow as lead,

And days gone are days that are gone,
when legs are nearly dead.

It was seventy-three or seventy-four,
on a hot Kinshasa night.

My hand held high for all to see,
the greatest of my fights.

But yesterday is yesterday,
and only mine to keep.

And the sweetest of victories soon forgotten,
when followed by defeat.

And what now's to become of me now,
I've let my people down.

And those who gleefully cheer my fall,
"He's nothing but a clown."

But it was no clown who one day stood,
to tell his Uncle no.

And gave away the title,
and said I will not go.

The boxer is but a reflection,
he only fights himself.

Punished by fame and left with trophies,
to collect dust upon a shelf.

But the man who stood for justice,
he's the one who's bravest.

He would not kill his brother,
and will always be "The Greatest."

I wrote this short poem about Muhammad Ali in 1981, shortly after he retired and had taken some awful beatings in the ring. I looked up to him partly because he was a boxer, and my father had been a boxer, but mostly for his influence on me when he refused to go into the army. I faced the same fate in 1968. Did get drafted, but went AWOL, got captured, and refused to train or go to Vietnam and went to the stockade.