|| 19 Jan. 1981 — Los Angeles, California

The babbling, weeping, hiccupping voice originated from just beyond the window. It was a terrible noise, indescribably raw and desperate, angry.

Men don’t cry. Colored men don’t cry. That’s how he knew something was very wrong.

Ali grabbed the handle of the casement window and pushed it open, the hinges shuddering and squealing with old age, misuse. He had yet to lean out of it, not knowing if the young man had a gun like the police said he might when they warned him earlier.

—

“That boy doesn’t need a celebrity boxer, he needs a padded room!” one of the officers had remarked just minutes ago when he was on the ground floor.

He had bit back, “I’m not here to talk to him about the heavyweights, Officer. I’m here to help the poor boy.”

“We’ve been tryin’ to talk him down for hours,” another officer said. “What makes you think you can do anything?”

“Because I see something you boys in blue don’t. You see someone who needs to get off a cliff, even if they need to fall, and I see someone who needs help. Now, do you want to let me in this building or not?”

Before any of the cops could retort, a priest had spoken up for him. “I don’t see what’s the harm. Let him through. He has good intentions and he has the right idea. We should do whatever we can to help the young man. If that means talking to Mr. Ali here,” the holy man grinned, “why not?”

—

After that he had bolted into the building, trekking up nearly ten flights of stairs, steeling himself with every step to meet the suicide jumper who was tilting on the edge. An officer was posted on the floor and, once he got over his initial star-struck, informed him of the condition of the young man.

“He’s cornered himself up there on that fire escape,” he said, motioning down the hall and to the right, “locked the door and won’t let anybody in. Keeps goin’ on about the war from five years ago and the Vietcong, like he was right there in their faces.” He shook his head, “But that guy? Couldn’t be anything more than 20, 23 — and that’s stretching it. If he had been in that, he would’ve been too young to see much fighting.”

Ali said matter-of-factly, hints of disgust in his words, “People have lied on their registration,” before jogging down the hall to where the fire escape would’ve been. War was a terrible thing and, in turn, war did terrible things to people. Worst of all, it never leaves you. Ale knew he had to save the young man before the war could consume him whole.

He knocked on the door to the fire escape. “Son,” he began, but the sudden presence of his voice was met by a roar of cursing.

“W- who’s there?!” the boy screamed at him, terrified at not seeing who was behind the voice. “Are you another cop? Priest? Don’t- Don’t come near me, man! I’ll jump!”

Even inside the building, he heard the people down on the street and their muffled screaming — some in horror, some yelling, “Just go!” and “Jump!” into the safety net they prepared for him below. But if the thing they were calling ‘safe’ was the lousy piece of tarp he saw on the way up, it was an ill-conceived adjective for what would more likely act like a spatula that would flip the boy right onto the sidewalk instead of save him.

He needed to try another approach. Quickly, he doubled back to the next room over, a supply closet that had a window. He tapped on the glass as a preamble, hopefully getting the man’s attention, before opening it.

He inhaled deeply before calling out, “My name is Muhammad Ali,” his voice precise and thundering against the the light whip of the breeze, yet gentle, calm even. “I’m here to help you,” he said as he cautiously nudged his head out the mouth of the window. “I’m coming out, so don’t shoot me.”

The boy croaked out an incredulous sob, “I- I won’t shoot you. I don’t even have a gun.” He sounded more confused than impudent.

Ali nodded. “Alright, son, I believe you.” He leaned out fully, exposing himself from his face to his torso, his outstretched fingers slowly curling around the window’s handles, steadying himself. He ignored the people below shrieking his name, the cool yet dry Los Angeles breeze that patted at the sweat on his forehead. His instincts from the ring embraced him, made his heart beat determinedly without aimless dissonance. He had one opponent today, just one, and that was this boy’s devil nipping at his ear.

His eyes met brown ones, similar to his—exactly like his—but y’allah were they scared. Scared, yet still in awe.

The boy yelled, “It’s really you!” over the ten-foot difference between them. The distance paired with the nine-story drop would have deterred anybody, even him on a normal day, but his fears were pushed down the moment he saw the boy. His red eyes, tear-stained cheeks and hoarse voice anchored him to the moment.

The boy’s shoulders went slack when he saw him, his entire body sighing, all the tension draining from his bones for just a moment. He gasped in a breath, holding the air in like a happy secret. 

Ali smiled at the reaction. “Yeah, yeah, it’s me, brother.” He laughed charmingly. “What’s your name?”

“My- my name?” His brows furrowed, a tight frown scarring his face. “My name don’t matter.” He let out the breath, body tense again and clutching to the ledge. “I don’t matter.”

“Don’t say that,” Ali said loudly. Then he demanded again, “Now, what’s your name?”

The boy managed to croak out, “Joseph. Joseph Brisdon.” It was hard to hear him over the police sirens and the yelling pedestrians below.

“Why are you up here, Joe? Can I call you Joe?”

He shook his head, looking at the ground forlornly. “I don’t care,” he mumbled angrily. “That’s just stupid stuff nobody needs to know. My name. Me. All no good.” He banged his fist against his head wildly, blubbering incoherently, shouting. “I’m no good. I’m going to jump! The Vietcong are coming at me!” He gripped the wall tightly and put his foot forward.

Ali shook his head. “It’s okay, it’s okay, just take a step back” he reassured him, “No one’s going to come after you.” He wouldn’t let the situation get to him. He made his voice composed, for the boy and for himself.

“Man, why do you worry about me?! I’m nothing, just leave me alone!”

He held his hand out in solidarity. “Joseph, I’m your brother. I just want to help you.”

He stomped his foot back onto the ledge. “I’m a nobody!” Both of his hands grabbed the corner of the wall, but he was inclining forward, knees bent and shoulders stiff. New tears spilled out of his eyes. “I can’t find work, I don’t have a job. They fired me. I- I couldn’t handle — it was just a busboy job but,” the rest of his garbled words were muffled as he covered his face with his shoulder, sobbing.

“Joe, Joe! Keep your head up!” he demanded. “I promise to help you if you don’t jump. But look at me, keep your eyes on me, okay?” When their eyes met he grinned to try to comfort him. “Yeah, yeah, don’t look down, buddy. Tell me what’s wrong. Why do you wanna jump? What about your job?”

Joe exhaled bitterly, laughed a broken laugh. “My life’s terrible, everything’s terrible. I-I couldn’t breath one day. S-something — a plate? a plate — it-it dropped a-and everything,” he shook his head, closed his eyes. “Everything came back. Everything. Came. Back,” he screamed. Ali swallowed a lump in his throat, his chest welling with sadness.

“A-and my mom and dad? The don’t love me, d-don’t even like me. My own parents,” the laugh he spit out rasped out of his throat. “I don’t get along with my own flesh and blood—I’m worthless.” He squatted, biting his lip and shutting his eyes and almost tipping forward. “W-what kind of son am I?” His voice sounded wrecked, unforgiving of himself. “I have no job. I can’t even afford clothes. No food, no water. It’s impossible for me to be anything other than I-I am — a failure.”

Ali enunciated slowly, “You listen to me,” his voice a myriad of emotion. “Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men, who find it easier to live in the world they’ve been given, than to explore the power they have to change it.” He sped up his speech, each phrase getting stronger and stronger with each declaration. “Impossible is not a fact. It’s an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It’s a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing. You can be anybody you want to be, all that’s stopping you is yourself.”

Joe croak out a bitter laugh. “Ha! That’s easy for you to say! You’re Muhammad Ali, man! A champion. A hero. Y-you don’t — you’ve got everything ahead of you. You got everything already. I don’t got nothin.’”

“Well, what do you want? Really want. You can do whatever you want in this world now, Joe. The war in ‘Nam’s been over. We got those fancy Civil Rights Acts — though, if you ask me, there’s a lot of improvement to be done. But what do you want? Really?” Ali looked at Joe earnestly. He had a joking smile on his lips, like the two of them were old friends just seeing each other again after so long instead of two people yelling at each other nearly seventy-two feet up in the air.

“I want to be somebody,” he murmured, so low not even Ali could hear him.

“What?”

He shouted, “I wanna be somebody!”

“Well, then, you gotta work hard for it,” he reasoned.

Joe pleaded with him. “I’ve tried! I’ve tried so hard. But nobody wants me! Nobody wants a nobody who can’t do nothin’!”

“Son, life ain’t easy to live.” He took in a breath, then exhaled, speaking loudly so the boy could hear him. But he did so solemnly. The thoughts he was about to say were private, things he didn’t admit to the public, even to himself sometimes.

“Do you think I was The Greatest right out of the womb? No. I worked for it. I wasn’t anybody either, long time ago. Lil’ old Cassius Clay? He got beat up a lot. Someone even stole his brand new bike right from under him! But I said I was gonna whup whoever stole it, just had to learn how to fight first. That’s what made me who I am. But that’s a story for another day.

“My point is I worked hard, so hard to get where I am today. Let me tell you somethin’ — I hated every minute of training, I really did, but I told myself every time I was down, ‘Don’t quit. Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.’ You can do that, Joe. You can be your own hero and live, live to see another day.

“I don’t know what you’re going through, I could never understand, but it’s okay to feel bad. It’s okay to feel like shit. Like you never want to get up again, that’s how I’ve felt sometimes, but the important thing is that you get up, okay? Just get back up. I’ll help you. I’ll do everything I can, but first, just take a step back. That’s all I’m askin’ for.”

Joe dug his hand into his eyes, clawed it over his cheeks. “No, no,” he wept, “no, no, no. I-I — I’m not — I can’t. You don’t know me, man, you don’t know me!” he lashed out. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me! I’m just a stranger to you. You don’t really care about me!” His feet went out from under him as his legs hung over the edge. Only a light push with his hands prevented him from plummeting. Just a few centimeters and he would be gone. If he flinched, if he twitched… “I’m a nobody,” he whispered with closed eyes as he breathed in, clutched onto the ridge, sorting through all his thoughts to just fall forward.

Ali choked out in a broken voice, “You’re not a nobody,” tears brimming up and trailing down his cheeks.

The tone of his voice, so crippled and busted, caused Joe to open his eyes and look at him. “Why are you crying?” he asked slowly, incredulously, confused. “Why do you care so much? You don’t have to be here. You’re Muhammad Ali.”

“Because you should never take your own life,” he roared. “God, Allah — whoever you believe in — they didn’t put you on this earth just for you to leave. Disappear. Waste all the potential you have and all the circumstances and chances to give you breath. You’re important to the world. You’re important to me. Saving your life? That’s a greater win to me than winning any world championship.”

Joe was about to interrupt, clearly shocked and ready to rebuke the emotional comments but Ali, ever the talker, continued. “You’re my brother. You understand that?” he said as he pounded his chest, the brown of his skin contrasting with the white of his inner suit shirt. “We have to stick together. I love you and I wouldn’t lie to you. You got to listen. I want you to come home with me, meet some friends of mine.”

“You don’t love me. You don’t even know me.” But even as he said these things, shook his head, he backed up, scooted away from the edge.

“I do, I do love you. You think I’d be here if I didn’t? We’re brothers.”

“Brothers?” The word Ali had thrown around so many times finally got into his skull. The word meant family, love, kin. It meant they had a bond, something that couldn’t be broken. It meant Ali cared for him. It meant that Ali thought he was somebody, somebody significant.

“Of course.” He saw hope for the first time in Joe’s eyes. It made him proud. Together, they were fighting the devil looming over his shoulder. He leaned out of the window and held out his hand again, this time with much more confidence.

“Joe, let me help you. Committing suicide isn’t the answer. It’s a sin irrevocable to any god — you’ll go to hell and there’ll be no way to repent. If you let me help you, I’ll stay close, I promise. I’ll meet your family. I’ll visit you every day and go home to meet your parents. I’ll walk the streets with you and they’ll see you’re big, how amazing you are.”

“Will you help me? Really help me?” he tentatively asked. He bit his lip. “I don’t believe you can make anything out of me.”

He laughed. “If they can make penicillin out of moldy bread, you can be sure that I can make something out of you. Now,” he said, “you stay right where you are, okay? In fact, get cozy and get off the ledge. Some officers are gonna open the fire escape door for you, alright?”

“And you’ll be there for me?”

 

“Yeah,” he chuckled, “yeah, Joe, of course. I’ll be right there with the cops and come and hug you myself!”