Muhammad Ali – 22 September 1978

Of course, the big news, for a day or two, the most heartening lift to everybody of whatever political party, was the mini miracle of President Carter's achievement at Camp David. Which, very sadly, is turning quicker than we thought into a splendid E for effort. Nobody guessed, even a week ago, at the ferocity of its rejection by Syria, Libya, South Yemen, Kuwait, Qatar, of course the Palestine Liberation Organisation, not to mention its dim prospects in Jordan and Saudi Arabia.

So, for the time being, let's turn to something lighter. To the only sort of conflict which gets settled once for all. A heavyweight boxing championship. And the kind of conflict which never gets settled at all: that between the white man's world and the rest. 

A night or two before Muhammad Ali did what he said he was going to do, namely to prove to you all that 'I am the greatest, the greatest I has ever been, the greatest in the history, not of the world but the universe'. He went on television, on public television which, if you'll forgive me, I still have to remind some non-Americans, is a national network of 270 stations, the second largest in the country, which has no commercials. Muhammad Ali is an interviewee that no television interviewer, however learned, however witty, however self-possessed, should invite for a chat without crossing his fingers and praying that when it's over he isn't going to be remembered as one talk-show host who was made to look witless and foolish by a boxer. 

Of course, few people need to be reminded by now that Ali is a remarkably handsome man, that he's loaded with instinctive charm, that he's very intelligent and, at all times, as sensitive as a Geiger counter to any trace in his interviewer of condescension, solemnity or jokiness. But perhaps more people need to be told that his whole public act of being the greatest, the prettiest; the bubbling and babbling eloquence with which he declaims his status as the most famous and serious figure on earth; is as much of a professional come-on as that of any other great comedian, from Sid Field and Max Wall to W.C. Fields and Woody Allen. The main difference between them and Ali is that it's quite easy to know when they're on stage and off. Ali is so mischievous – I think mischief, both emotional and intellectual, is his driving force in public– that he loves watching even the most alert interviewer get trapped in his make-believe. 

Well, the other night his interviewer was as alert as they come. He's Dick Cavett, a tiny, 40-year-old Yale man, who has a lively, sophisticated intelligence, a wide range of interests, is at ease talking about Kafka, or Cole Porter, the nature of Communism or the nature of Thomas Hardy. And he has a pretty wit. Well, Mr Cavett has a half-hour interview show on public television once a night. Having lately interviewed Kenneth Tynan, Gore Vidal, Vanessa Redgrave, Mark Connelly and Joe – alas suddenly the late Joe – Venuti, the great jazz violinist, he invited Muhammad Ali. 

Cavett has the rare gift of being able to adjust his idiom to the vernacular of his subject, rather like an accomplished linguist, or a wise priest with a knack of putting scholars and peasants equally at their ease. And he had no trouble talking Ali's language, even when it was the language of boxing. They had, in fact, known each other and there was a clip, a funny clip, of Cavett who's about 4 foot 8 inches in boxing trunks in the ring at Ali's training quarters. When they got on to the one topic that really seemed to fascinate Cavett, why should Ali, champion twice, want – with his body sagging – want to be champion three times? Ali looked him square down in the eye, with the merest hint of a twinkle, and said gravely, 'Dick, you are as dumb as you look, aren't you.' Ali then tried to explain the varieties of emotion involved in meeting the challenge, the literal challenge, of different personalities. It was not just wanting to be champion against anybody. One man baits your pride, he said, another is asking for pity. The third is showing off and needs to be deflated. And he ran through a list of great boxers, on the presumption that they were all in their prime and had just invited Ali to a rematch. He described the way he would feel if the challenge had come from Sonny Liston or Frazier or Foreman and then played with the idea of how each would feel if challenged by the other. This was so sure, so exactly felt that it baffled us for a moment – not least, I think, Mr Cavett. All right, he said, let's go back and suppose at his peak you were challenged by Tony Galento. Ali shot back at once, with a kindly tone, 'You do need new writers', and there was no embarrassment to anybody: Ali, Cavett or the delighted audience. 

At one point Cavett brought up the interesting question of how Ali felt to have a grandmother named O'Grady. 'Feel?' he said, 'how would you feel?' 'I mean,' said Cavett, 'why O'Grady?' 'Because,' said Ali, 'she was an Irish woman. Every black family goes back to slavery and some time or other in most families there was a rape, or an affair, or a thing between the master and the tenant or a neighbour. Whoever.' 'I just wondered,' Cavett mused, 'I was just wondering though how it felt to have one grandparent who was pure white?' 

Ali leapt to that like a trout to a fly. His brown eyes goggled with amazement and amusement. 'Pure white,' he said. 'Did you get that? The man said PURE white.' And it was too late for Cavett to say he was sorry, he meant just white. Ali can rattle off all the English idioms which use 'white' meaning 'honest and good' and 'black' meaning 'dark and evil'. He loved the discomfiture of Cavett and so, to his credit, did Cavett. 

Well, those are only a few of the exchanges that stick for their fun and their charm. It was over all too soon and Cavett apologised for having run out of time and said he was sure it was one of the best programmes he'd ever had the pleasure of... 'THE best,' Ali threw in. 'You know it. The best you'll ever do, Dick, because you were, for once, up against an intelligence.' 

Towards the end, Cavett asked him what he was going to do with the rest of his life. 'You're 36 now,' he said, 'So let's say that you have another 36 years left.' 'Not 36,' said Ali, and then in a passing parody of the old white man talking to his black boy, he said, 'Where've you been, Dick? Don't you know, boy, we spend one third of our lives asleep, you have no say about what yer going to do with that. So, if you're following me, I have, say, 21 years at most.' And he said it was going to be given over to his family and to helping the poor all around the world. 

But just now, coming up was another meeting with Mr Brezhnev that he has to do since Mr B had invited him to come back and go into Russian American relations. The joke here is, I think, on Mr Brezhnev. It's very unlikely that, whoever Mr Brezhnev consents to see or not to see, he'd dare turn down Muhammad Ali for, if he's not the best-known man in the world – I suspect he probably is – he's certainly the best-known black man, and prudence is not his middle name. He'll say exactly what comes to mind and say it aloud to the press, no matter who he's been seeing, whether it's President Carter or Raquel Welch or Mr Ian Smith or the Shah of Iran. For the first time, I must say I feel a strong strain of sympathy for Mr Brezhnev. 

Not everybody gets to see Mr Brezhnev, as some of the most famous journalists in the world can ruefully tell you. Nor, for that matter, all politicians. But there is one who has just been to see him, whom, I believe, no head of government or head of state would turn down just now, or any time in the next two years. He is Senator Edward Kennedy. And the Kremlin surely knows, as well as Dr Gallup or President Carter, that the most popular political figure in the United States just now is not Mr Carter but Senator Kennedy. 

The latest surveys and polls are alarming, not only to the Republicans but to at least half the Democrats, to that 50 per cent of Democratic delegates at the last convention who voted for the nomination of Jimmy Carter. Well, those delegates were polled again before Camp David. Just about 50 per cent of the Democratic leaders would, if a nominating convention were held tomorrow, vote for Kennedy as their presidential choice. And if you look sideways to a national poll of Republican voters, you'll find there are less than 10 per cent of those who switched to Carter who would stay with him. So, though Mr Carter's national popularity is sure to rise sharply, for a time, after Camp David, you can add 90 per cent of the Republicans and say at least 40 per cent of the Democrats who wouldn't vote for him today. Of course, it's only 1978 and between now and 1980, Mr Carter may prove that he's strong, wise and masterly. But something less than 200 years ago James Brice pointed out to all who can read and run that a presidential convention does not meet to choose the best human being or the wisest statesman, but to pick the man who is most acceptable to most delegates. 

Senator Kennedy says firmly that he is not running for president. He'd be a hopeless party man if he said otherwise. But he is going into 16 states to speak for Democrats running in November. Now, Kennedy may be quite sincere in his protestations of not being a presidential candidate, but his unconscious is working overtime to that end. When Pope Paul died, President Carter sent three people to represent him at the funeral: Mrs Carter, Governor Carey of New York, a Democrat and a Catholic, and to show that he looks on Senator Kennedy as a friend and not a rival, Senator Kennedy. When the delegation arrived in Rome, it was found that Senator Kennedy was missing. Maybe a plane delay, pressure of Senate business? Not at all. The Senator went straight from the airport to the cemetery and knelt at the grave of the murdered Italian statesman, Signor Moro. It happened that about a score of photographers were on hand. Next morning, the Italian papers blazed with pictures of the kneeling Senator and the pictures were transmitted to the United States. Undoubtedly it was an act of piety, whether intended or not, it was also a beautiful political gesture. 

This transcript was typed from a recording of the original BBC broadcast (© BBC) and not copied from an original script. Because of the risk of mishearing, the BBC cannot vouch for its complete accuracy.

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