HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHAMP

Muhammed Ali turns 65 today. It doesn't seem possible. It also doesn't seem possible that he's silenced by a terrible disease. Are you kidding me? The most vocal, most boistrous athlete of all time (well at least for boxers) and he can barely communicate now. Unfair.

But so was our treatment of him. He didn't like Viet Nam (who did?) and conscientiously objected. There were plenty of others who did the same. And they weren't ministers. And they weren't world champions. And they didn't go to jail for it either.

Oh, it would have been easier for him to join the service, get a sack job, probably not see any action in Nam, but even so there were some cushy jobs to be had there, too. Then return to the States, resume his boxing career and be a hero.

But that wasn't Ali. He had a big mouth, no doubt. But he had a bigger stage, too. The world, for one. And his god.

He refused to take the easy way out. Same as in the ring. His rope-a-dope strategy worked to his advantage in the ring, yet quite possibly accelerated his Parkinson's. He didn't endear himself to a lot of people by all his bragging and taunting. But that cat could box. "Float like a butterfly; sting like a bee." He did, in his prime. His shuffle was classic.

Part Atticus Finch, part Vincent VanGogh, Cassius Clay also was part Jake LaMott. Muhammed, you were something else. Enjoy the day.