Burgers With Muhammad Ali
The unlikely friendship between a down-on-his-luck boxing fan and the greatest boxer of all time
Muhammad Ali is a fast driver. He guns his Stutz Bearcat along Wilshire Boulevard, swinging in and out of busy traffic, and throws a hard left onto Rossmore Avenue. Pedestrians point and wave, and Ali lifts his hands from the wheel to throw shadow punches in their directions. Stopped at a red, a driver leans from his car window and shouts, “Hey Ali — you’re the greatest!” Ali bites down on his Louisville lip and offers the driver a comic grimace. Then, as the light turns, the man they call the Champ hits the gas and races toward Hollywood Boulevard.
It’s 1984, and Ali is driving the Bearcat from his mansion in L.A.’s Hancock Park into Hollywood to find something to eat. In the back seat, Ali’s manservant, Abdel Kader, is being thrown around, and his face is turning pale below his silver hair.
“Do not go so fast!” he yells at Ali. “You kill us all!”
This only serves to encourage Ali, who offers a huge grin and floors the gas pedal, throwing Abdel back into his leather seat.
Riding shotgun next to Ali is Russ Routledge, a 26-year-old telephone engineer from England. An Ali fanatic, Russ has only been in the United States for a few hours and only properly met his idol this afternoon. With a grin as wide as the ocean he’s just crossed, Russ’s problems back in England could not be further from his mind.
“Please slow down!” yells Abdel. “Russ must go home to his family alive!”
Russ just laughs. He’s in Hollywood with Muhammad Ali. This is like a dream. If he does end up wrapped around a palm tree in Ali’s sports car, he reckons, it will be one hell of a way to die. He puts his arm around Ali’s broad shoulders. “Go faster, Champ,” Russ says.
Abdel shoots Russ a look of amazement and yells, “Please do not encourage him! You only make him worse!”
The Bearcat approaches the intersection with Hollywood Boulevard.
“Which way?” asks Ali.
“Left,” says Abdel.
Ali takes a right.
“I told you to take a left, not a right!” yells Abdel.
“You told me to take a right!” says Ali. “I will destroy you for sendin’ me the wrong way! I’m gonna speed down this road and crash into a post!”
Abdel puts his head in his hands.
“This here’s the Walk of Fame, Russ,” points Ali, once they headed back in the correct direction. “See, Russ, that’s the Chinese Theater.”
Eventually, Ali parks outside a Burger King and climbs out of the car. He’s 42 now, three years retired, still fit and working out, but his face is a little more rounded than it was in his heyday, his body a little fuller. He’s wearing a black open-neck silk shirt and smart black pants. He still looks great — he would say pretty — and, of course, he is instantly recognizable. A group of kids chant, “Ali! Ali! Ali!” The Champ waves them over and signs autographs.
Inside the restaurant, everyone wants to meet him. He patiently shakes hands and signs his name for every one of them. Then he orders two Whoppers, fries, and a large Coke for himself, and buys meals for Russ and Abdel. The three men squeeze into a booth, Russ bagging the seat next to his hero. Ali takes one of his Whoppers from its cardboard container and demolishes it, then spreads his fries across his plastic meal tray and douses them in ketchup.
“Hey Champ,” says Russ, “I’m eating a Burger King with the Boxing King …”
Ali pushes a handful of fries into his mouth and pulls a fight face. The Champ’s hand then reaches for more fries; this hand that floored Liston and Patterson and Foreman. If Russ had looked carefully, if he wasn’t so completely caught up in his moment with the Greatest of All Time, he would have detected a faint tremble.
In the summer of 1972, when Russ was 14, he decided to become a boxer. He began by joining the West End club in his hometown of Newcastle, in the northeast of England. It was a gym with a tough reputation but an impressive track record, and he was immediately thrown into the ring. Russ took a few beatings and then, in his third week, he came up against regional champ Jackie Dinning. Within seconds, Russ was laid out on the canvas, flat on his back, unconscious, and — he says — daydreaming about Muhammad Ali.
Over the next few years, Russ rarely left the club without a black eye or a split lip. Growing in confidence, he began to mimic Ali’s style in the ring, dancing on the balls of his feet, talking jive to his opponents, playing up to the spectators. In 1974, he traveled to the nearby town of Hartlepool for his first proper bout in front of a big crowd. He easily beat the local champion, but his clowning around and waving to friends and family during the fight weren’t well received by the crowd, who booed him all the way back to the dressing room. The promoter, though, was impressed by his skill and began to arrange Russ’s next fight, but Russ wasn’t too keen.
“I didn’t really enjoy hitting people, and I especially didn’t like getting hit,” he says. “Dancing, talking, and playing up to the crowd was great. I loved that. But being punched in the head was something I never took a liking to.”
Trouble was, every time he watched Ali fight, Russ was drawn back into the ring. In October 1974, he sat with his mother in Newcastle’s Odeon movie theater and watched a closed-circuit live screening of the Rumble in the Jungle, as Ali’s rope-a-dope antics defeated George Foreman. The next day, Russ was back at the West End club, reciting Ali-style poems in the ring, and being popped on the nose for his efforts.
In December 1974, Russ got to see his idol in the flesh. Joe Bugner was fighting Argentine veteran Alberto Lovell at the Albert Hall in London, and Ali was guest of honor. The fight was a farce, stopped in the second round, with Lovell no match at all for Bugner. The angry crowd bayed and booed, and it seemed that the place could be torn apart. Then Ali leaped onto the ring apron, tossing his jacket and tie aside, and began flicking jabs at Bugner. As the crowd’s boos turned to cheers, Ali’s minders hurriedly pulled the champ away and bundled him for the exit.
Russ scrambled down from his seat and, as Ali passed, he grabbed the champ’s thick arm — and held on tight as the entourage moved through the chaotic venue and outside towards a waiting limousine. “Hey, lay off the champ’s arm, man!” shouted a minder. Russ obliged, Ali was pushed into the limo, and the car drove off into the night.
Then, in July 1977, Muhammad Ali visited Russ’s hometown. Still the reigning WBA/WBC heavyweight champion of the world, Ali was a global superstar, and probably the most famous man on the planet. Yet he had been moved to take time out from preparations for his upcoming fight with Earnie Shavers to visit Newcastle to raise money for local boxing clubs.
“When I first heard Ali was coming to Newcastle, I just couldn’t believe it would happen,” says Russ. “And when I was told that he was actually coming to our boxing club, I knew I wouldn’t believe it until I saw him walk through the gym door.”
On the morning of Ali’s visit, Russ lined up alongside his fellow amateur boxers and watched with amazement as the Champ, wearing a smart brown suit and crisp white shirt, entered the club, surrounded by photographers and minders. Ali worked his way along the line of wannabes, joshing and sparring as he went.
“Can you box?” Ali asked one of the kids. “Oranges or cigars?”
One young buck overenthusiastically landed a sparring punch in Ali’s stomach. “Cool it!” Ali exclaimed, laughing.
Then Ali approached Russ, who swallowed his nerves, puffed out his chest, and stepped forward:
“Muhammad Ali, I have a poem for you!” shouted Russ, placing a hand on the Champ’s shoulder and offering his best Ali impersonation: “I welcome you here to my town / You have come here with no furious frown / Plus your heavyweight boxing crown / Oh great one, enjoy your stay / We will all enjoy this memorable day / God save the Queen and Allah save the King / Because you are the king of all the rings!”
Russ admits it was “a little corny,” but Ali seemed impressed, adopting his boxing stance, throwing a few punches, then grinning and saying, “You genuinely sounded like me.” Before Russ could say anything else, Ali moved on, continuing along the line of boxers, and challenging one of them to a photo-op round of sparring in the ring. And then, after just a few minutes, in a blaze of camera flashes, the Champ was gone.
Russ followed Ali around during his four-day visit, squeezing into a line-up of dignitaries at a civic reception to shake the Champ’s hand, and surreptitiously nabbing a press pass for a television interview recording. He wanted to tell Ali that he was boxing as a heavyweight, and that a dream-come-true for him would be to go back to the U.S. with him, to Ali’s gym, and help him train for the Shavers fight, but he never got the chance. Ali went home and defeated Shavers over 15 rounds in a unanimous decision.
Over the next few years, Russ wrote scores of letters to Ali, often receiving personal replies, with the Champ writing that he hoped the pair would meet again soon. Russ continued to impersonate Ali, at local social clubs, in talent shows, and, on one occasion, on national TV. But Ali’s career was on the wane. After defeats to Larry Holmes in 1980 and Trevor Berbick in 1981, Ali retired to his new gated-community mansion in Los Angeles. In 1984, he was diagnosed with the early stages of Parkinson’s Disease.
Russ, meanwhile, was happy in his job with British Telecom, and had married a girl — Trish — who indulged his Ali obsession. But then a moment of madness threatened to derail his life. Deciding to drive home one evening after drinking, Russ plowed straight across the middle of a traffic roundabout, in plain sight of a police car. He needed his driver’s license for work, and spent much of 1984 awaiting a court appearance that would probably mean the loss of his job. Distraught, he wrote another letter to Ali, detailing his situation, and reiterating his desire to properly meet his hero.
One evening that October, Russ settled down with Trish and his mother to watch a rare treat. A friend had given him a copy of the Rumble in the Jungle on videotape, 10 years to the month since Russ had watched the fight live from the Odeon theater. Pretty much from the first bell, Ali was taking a pummeling. Foreman’s power had Ali against the ropes, but Ali was soaking it up, talking to Foreman, telling him, “Hit harder! Is that all you got?” Midway through the fifth round, as Foreman began to visibly weaken, and Ali’s tactics began to pay dividends, the telephone rang.
“Russell!” shouted his mother. “Come quick! Muhammad Ali is on the phone!”
That camera looks kinda cheap. You sure you’re gettin’ this down?” Ali is sitting behind a desk in his study, looking into a huge Betamax camcorder.
“I [rented] it in Newcastle,” Russ tells him from behind the lens. “It cost a hundred pounds for a week.”
“It looks like it cost a pound,” says Ali. “Does it weigh a pound? How long does the tape last? You could make a major movie like Gone with the Wind!”
“This is so the people back home believe me,” says Russ. “I told you! I told you I was going to see Muhammad Ali!”
“He’s not lyin’,” says Ali. “He’s here, and this man talkin’ is Muhammad Ali. They say we all look alike, but not that much alike. Russ is too great a fan –he knows one from another. Russ is not as dumb as he looks. He’s kinda pretty. He’s a little thin on top — maybe he needs a toupee, ‘cause his head outshines the sun.”
Russ is proudly wearing a flat cap that Ali has bought him to protect his head from the L.A. rays. It’s only a few days since Ali’s phone call. (“When you comin’ over to visit me?” / “As soon as you let me!” / “How about Monday?”) Russ arrived in a limousine after an airport pick-up driver heard where he was headed and insisted on meeting the Champ. Ali greeted Russ with hugs and coffee.
“Russ is a good fella,” Ali tells the camera. “I get thousands of letters, but something about his letter was so great I had to call him up. And he showed up right there on the porch. He knocked on my window. I said, this man is serious. I know he ain’t crazy. Or he might be crazy… But he came all the way to see me, so I had to take him into my home, feed him, give him a bed. Every day we’re gonna tour the city, meet the people, and I want him to know that he’s the greatest fan of all times. But I asked you how much you gonna pay me for this interview?’
Russ laughs and says, “This is free!”
“Then I gotta poem for you,” says Ali. “I love your camera / I admire your style / But your pay’s so cheap / Don’t come back for a while! Now let’s take a break, and a word from Joe Frazier …”
Ali’s seven-bedroom Italian Renaissance home stands on one and a half acres of land, with separate servants’ quarters, and a full-size swimming pool. It’s filled with marble and mahogany, and decorated with silk wallcoverings and gold leaf embellishments. Russ has seen the place onscreen — Ali allowed Sylvester Stallone to use it in Rocky III — but to see it in person is something else.
At the top of the marble staircase is Ali’s trophy room, filled with display cases containing belts and trophies and gloves and robes. One of the robes, with the words People’s Choice jewel-sequined on the back, was famously given to Ali by Elvis Presley. Ali photographs Russ next to the robe, and then takes his WBC belt in his big hands and puts it around Russ’s waist.
“I can’t explain how delighted I am to be wearing this,” says Russ.
Ali just says, “You don’t need to explain anythin’.”
Ali spends much of his day-to-day time sitting behind his desk dealing with fan mail. Even in retirement, he receives 20 or 30 letters from around the world every day. “Some ask for money,” he tells Russ. “Most want pictures.” One fan has written to apologize for sending a previous request for an autograph, as he has read that Ali is ill and must surely have more important things on his mind. Ali writes back telling the fan not to worry, he feels fine, and is still the greatest of all times.
Ali says his wife, Veronica, is away on a modeling assignment. His young daughters Hana and Laila are running around the place, playing with friends. The few moments of peace are broken by a couple of tropical birds on the veranda squawking, “Hana! Hana! Hana!” Ali enjoys the interruptions of his daughters, picking them up for hugs and kisses as they pass. He is less enamored of the birds, imploring Abdel to shut the damn things up.
Among the mail is a package containing photos from a recent Hall of Fame event. Ali studies them carefully. “These are pictures taken with my friend George Foreman,” he says. Ali explains that he considers all of his former opponents to be friends. Then he writes a letter to Yusuf Islam, the singer formerly known as Cat Stevens, about his plans to promote the Muslim faith. “Now that I’m no longer boxin’, I work for Allah,” he says.
He goes upstairs to pray five times a day, alone and in silence, save for the squawking of the birds. And each day he drives to a small gym in Santa Monica, changes into a full-length plastic sweat suit, and thumps away at a heavy bag, perspiration rolling from his body and pooling on the floorboards at his feet. He moves to a speed bag and rattles off a countless series of rhythmical jabs, then climbs into the ring for 15 minutes of sparring. To Russ, Ali looks just as powerful and toned at 42 as he did 10 years earlier. There are no visible signs that boxing has damaged him. No squashed nose, no swollen eyes, not a mark on his face. As Ali trains, the clocks are rolled back. When he climbs from the ring and heads for the changing rooms everyone in the gym applauds.
There is a regular stream of visitors at Ali’s home. Jimmy Ellis, the former heavyweight champion who fought and was knocked out by Ali in 1971, comes to pay his respects. He has been concerned by media reports about Ali’s health, but Ali assures him he is fine. A neighbor kid brings a friend over for autographs. A photographer arrives asking to shoot pictures of the Champ around the mansion.
“Who are these for?” asks Ali, as he holds boxing poses on the steps of his porch.
“For me,” says the photographer. “To remember you.”
Ali tires as the day goes on. He has given so much of himself to every visitor, and his speech becomes drawn and his eyelids heavy. Abdel suggests a walk in the grounds, but Ali says he is going to sleep for a couple of hours. Although Russ had been worried by reports in the British press about Ali’s health, the Champ’s demeanor quickly eased any fears. If Ali has any concerns, he doesn’t show them. He is too busy living his life, looking for new ways to have fun and entertain.
When Ali heads upstairs, Abdel takes Russ on a tour of the grounds. Abdel’s devotion to the Champ is obvious. He tells Russ he never wants Ali to enter a boxing ring again, even in fun. Then Abdel says that Ali and Veronica are getting divorced. He says that Ali doesn’t talk about it, that he is tired of being asked the same questions over and over again. He wants new topics to talk about, Abdel says. He is even tired of the same old questions about boxing.
But after his nap Ali bounds into his study fully refreshed, dancing on tip-toes, throwing jabs, biting on his bottom lip, and talking up a comeback against the reigning WBA heavyweight champion. “I’ll fight Coetzee, and they’ll pay me $10 million!” he says. “It has all been agreed! I have now returned! I am the greatest of all times!”
Ali loves magic. He has a fishing tackle box full of magic tricks, and shows Russ disappearing handkerchiefs and multiplying balls. Then Ali levitates. With his feet pushed together, he lifts his arms, and the soles of his shoes slowly raise a couple of inches from the ground. He floats like that butterfly for a moment, then gently returns to Earth. It’s a neat trick, and a simple one. Ali immediately shows Russ how it’s done. “I always like to reveal how I do my tricks,” says Ali. “My religion dictates that I should never deceive people.”
Then Ali says he wants to show Russ his favorite magic shop on Hollywood Boulevard. Ali parks the Bearcat right outside the shop and immediately is surrounded by a crowd of fans, jostling to shake his hand and get photos and autographs. Ali patiently attends to all of them. Two police officers come over to see what’s going on. “Hey officers,” grins Ali, gesturing at the crowd, “I might have some trouble here!”
Inside the shop, the assistant shows Ali a range of new tricks, and Ali buys some handkerchiefs with false thumbs that facilitate their disappearance. He pushes a wizard’s hat onto Russ’s head and takes a photo, then poses wearing a set of plastic vampire teeth.
Outside, as Ali climbs back into the car, a grey-haired woman with a European accent leans through the open window and says, “You look beautiful!” Ali takes her hand and kisses it. He puts the car into drive and pulls away from the curb.
Someone from the crowd shouts, “You’ve lost weight!”
Ali seems to consider this comment for a moment, then studies himself in the rear-view mirror, running a hand over his jawline.
“See how I draw the people?” he tells Russ. “I’m still the greatest.”
Russ stays with Ali for a week. In the mornings, Ali makes Russ breakfast, and in the evenings the pair watch television. When a news bulletin shows footage of picket-line violence at a British coal mine, Ali asks Russ about the ongoing labor strikes that are bringing England to its knees. He seems fascinated and concerned as Russ does his best to explain the situation.
Then Russ tells Ali about his driving disqualification and his fear of losing his job. “I’ve told them that if they don’t give me my license back, I’m gonna get Muhammad Ali to come over and whup them!” jokes Russ.
Ali thinks for a moment, then says, “I’m not comin’ to whup ’em, but I’ll tell you this: you love society, you love humanity, and for that reason, they shouldn’t give you your license back, but they should give you a Rolls Royce and a chauffeur!”
At the end of the week, Ali has to fly to Baltimore for an engagement. Russ is invited along, but his leave from work is almost up. “You’ve been great, and you’ll have to come back another day,” says Ali. “But before then, I’m gonna come to England, and I want you to give me a bedroom and you feed me like I’ve been feedin’ you.” He chews on that Louisville lip. “Tell your wife I want some chicken and corn.”
After the visit to L.A., both Ali and Abdel called Russ regularly. Russ spent 10 days with the Champ in London in 1986, around the Bruno-Witherspoon fight. He met Don King and Yusuf Islam, and — with the hotel fully booked — ended up sleeping next to Ali in his hotel bed. “Either we both sleep on the floor or we both sleep on the bed,” Ali said. “Which is it gonna be?”
Three years later, Ali introduced Russ to George Foreman and Joe Frazier at a videotape launch, and later Russ flew to Atlantic City to spend more time with his idol. In 1993, with the Champ in London to promote a book, Russ asked Ali why Abdel had stopped calling him. Ali leaned close and whispered, “Abdel died.”
Russ feared that could be the last time he would see Ali. The Champ’s health was deteriorating, and his affairs were being handled by others. It became impossible to contact him. Russ began working on a college degree course that saw him buried in books for the best part of eight years. His Ali obsession was set to one side — and so was Trish. “We became strangers, and it wasn’t only Trish that I lost,” says Russ. “I lost my house and walked away from a job that I always enjoyed. And, of course, I lost contact with Muhammad.”
But, in 2005, Russ traveled to Louisville for the opening of the Muhammad Ali Center. He chatted with Ali’s brother and daughters, and with Angelo Dundee and David Frost. And then Ali arrived, struggling to walk but refusing assistance, in a blaze of flashlights and applause and chants of “Ali! Ali Ali!”
Russ didn’t push his way through the crowd, didn’t fight to get his attention. He’d had his time with his hero. Instead, he stood back and soaked up the reactions of those around him. As Ali passed by, Russ said, to no one but himself, “Thanks so much, Champ, for all the fabulous times you gave me.”
In January 2012, Russ received an unexpected invitation to attend Ali’s 70th birthday party. He flew to Louisiana and met with his friend one last time. The Champ recognized him, Russ said, and it was a precious opportunity to say thank you, and goodbye.
Today, now 54, Russ still lives in Newcastle, surrounded by a hoard of Ali memorabilia. His Betamax footage has been transferred to DVD. “Great memories to have,” he says as he watches the discs.
On screen, his friend Muhammad Ali, young and pretty, smiles at the camera, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “Tell all my fans,” says Ali, “God bless all of them. Thank them for the years of support. Tell them I’m not through. Tell them I shall return. Tell them I’m still the greatest of all times.”
(Ed. note: This story is based on the recollections, photos, and home videos of Russ Routledge. Earlier this year, Mr. Routledge published a book about Ali’s 1977 visit to Tyneside, a region that encompasses Newcastle, England. A version of this story appeared in Air in 2012.)
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