Mama vs. Ali

It was the late 70’s in Chicago. I was in my late teens and had recently started dating a young stockbroker named Ron who worked in the same downtown building that I did. I was working at the State Bank of India at the reception desk trying to earn enough money to hitchhike cross-country. (It was the 70’s, remember.)
Working at the bank was interesting. I had been called “Melle Lion” instead of Mary Ryan by the bank customers so many times I was beginning to get myself confused. Politically incorrect, but charmingly true.
One day Ron came to my workplace to pick me up for lunch and he was all smiles.
“What’s up?” I asked. “You look suspiciously happy.” We walked to the elevator and Ron explained.
“You’re not going to believe this! One of my clients just gave me two ring-side seats to a Muhammad Ali exhibition fight at DePaul University here in the city. He couldn’t make it, so they’re all ours!”
“Ours?” I asked.
“Sure! It’s not until 7 o’clock tonight, so we can leave right from work and be there in plenty of time.”
“Tonight? Well, okay,” I said. “I guess I’m game.” Ron was a huge Muhammad Ali fan. I was not.
We got to the fight on time and took our seats. We were closer than I had imagined and I was starting to catch the excitement of the crowd. I could see Ron King and his hair seated around the corner of the ring from us, and listening to the cheering of the heavyset woman seated behind me, I discerned that she was the mother of Ali’s opponent.
After much hullabaloo, Ali entered the ring with his entourage and danced around to the crowd’s delight.
His opponent entered to the boos and jeers required of any opponent of the great Ali. Behind me, his mother was yelling, “Don’t you boo my boy! Don’t you dare boo my boy!”
The bell rang. This was past Muhammad Ali’s prime and it was obvious he wasn’t taking this fight too seriously. He would do his shuffle around the
ring, give his opponent a few swift punches to the face and back off.
On the other hand, his opponent was in the ring with The Greatest and was doing his best to make a name for himself. Every time he got in a punch that landed, his mom would shout out, “That’s it, boy, you’re the new champ! You show him!” Whereupon Ali would proceed to pepper him another twenty times.
The fight only lasted four rounds, much to Ron’s disappointment but mercifully for his opponent and me. The last punch happened right in front of us. Ali wound up and nailed the guy.
Now, I don’t know what trainers put on the boxers before the fight – whether it’s oil or what – but when Ali hit this guy in front of us I was showered with a combination of sweat and oil. Ewwwwwww! I looked down at my blouse and slacks to find they were now splattered with this stuff. I glared accusingly at Ron but he was too busy jumping up and down, ecstatic in victory.
Meanwhile, Mom was trying to climb over her seat to get to her boy, who was now laying prone on the canvas. “I’m coming, son! You’ll get him next time!”
I rolled my eyes.
We left DePaul with the crowd, Ron on Cloud Nine and me trying to remember what time the dry cleaner’s opened.

M.R.N.