"Cassius and Jack" by Neil Tarpey

Note: This column originally appeared in the  Jan. 21, 2007 edition of the THE TIMES-STANDARD. The newspaper reprinted it on January 17, 2012, the occasion of Muhammed Ali's 70th birthday.

It happened on a Monday night when I was 12.

I was in my dark second-floor bedroom, lights off, lying on one of the twin beds, listening.

Listening to my transistor radio, those hand-size iPods of the baby-boomer era.

Howard Cosell’s excited voice was coming out of the radio, but apparently Sonny Liston was not coming out of his corner for the seventh round.

Cassius Clay was the new heavyweight champion.

Back in 1936, twenty-eight years before Clay took the crown, and one year before my parents started their marriage of almost 56 years, my father, Jack Tarpey — a fan of the fights — took my mom on a date to a boxing match.

One boxer was pummeled, sent down to the canvas, lights out.

My mom thought he was dead. My dad told her the guy was just knocked out.

Mom was right.

As a result, by the time I arrived as the last of their four sons, my parents had made a post-nuptial sports agreement, and the Tarpeys did not watch boxing on TV.

When I was in grammar school, the nun who taught my class had us think of, then write letters to, two people whom we admired.

I wrote to Floyd Patterson.

Patterson, at that time, was the youngest (21) man to ever win the world heavyweight title, and the first to regain the crown.

Much to my pleasant surprise, Patterson sent back a signed, glossy, black-and-white photograph.

The year after Clay and Liston’s first fight in Miami, my family was at a gathering of the paternal clan at an aunt’s house in Farmingdale, Long Island.

My cousin Jackie and myself — each 13 years-old and about the same size — stepped down into his cement basement, laced up two pairs of big, brown, leathery gloves, and started shuffling back and forth in half-circles, throwing punches.

What I thought was great fun suddenly turned shocking when, with neither of us wearing mouthpieces or head gear, I knocked out Jackie’s front teeth.

In the ensuing hubbub, some adults took Jackie to the hospital, while others admonished me for my aggression.

That was the final time that I wore boxing gloves.

While I put down the gloves, I picked up an interest in Cassius.

America was proud of him when he won the gold medal at the 1960 Olympics.

He had incredible footwork and stamina, and threw his left jab with blinding speed and rapidity.

After he beat Liston in their first fight, Clay stated that he had joined the Nation of Islam, and in March, 1964, his name changed to Muhammad Ali.

America started to hate, or at least greatly dislike, Ali.

Ali was brash, opinionated, stood up for his religious beliefs, and was given a suspended five-year prison term for refusing to fight in Vietnam.

They also stripped him of his heavyweight title.

It was the tumultuous 1960s, I was a rebellious teenager, and I became fond of Ali.

For one thing, Ali not only tolerated, but he constantly poked fun at, the loud-mouthed, pompous narcissist Cosell.

The Cosell who wanted to sound off on everything.

Even Woody Allen, in one of his funny, early films, “Bananas,” cast Cosell as a play-by-play announcer sitting next to Woody and his bride in bed on their honeymoon night.

Ali was good with words, funny and poetic.

"If you wanna lose your money, then bet on Sonny,” he warned the public before one of his Liston fights.

My favorite Ali-ism was what he said in 1974 before he fought George Foreman, future grill master and father of multiple kids with the same name.

"I’m so fast that last night I turned off the light switch in my hotel room and got into bed before the room was dark,” said Ali.

Another famous Ali rhyme described his intended ring strategy. “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, his hands can’t hit what his eyes can’t see,” said Ali.

For some, Ali’s predictions were arrogant, boastful.

Others warned, “Pride comes before a fall.”

But Ali wasn’t the only sportsman in the 1960s limelight to boast he would win a championship. Remember Broadway Joe Namath? First Namath predicted his upstart AFL Jets would take down the mighty NFL Colts. Then, when his actions backed up his mouth and the Jets prevailed 16-7 in Super Bowl III, Namath went from bad boy to hero.

I watched the first “Rocky” movie in 1976. But then I decided to bypass the II, III, IV, V and Balboa (VI) versions.

In 2004, I enjoyed the Clint Eastwood’s boxing film, “Million Dollar Baby,” based on F.X. Toole’s collection of short stories, “Rope Burns.”

The film reminded me of a night in my early 20s when I watched the Golden Gloves at a smoke-filled arena in Queens, New York. After I watched those bouts, I realized one important thing: even three to five rounds looked exhausting.

Eastwood’s film — which won four Academy Awards, including Best Picture — had strong characters.

The reluctant trainer (Eastwood) reading William Butler Yeats’ great Irish poetry. The talented and determined boxer (Hillary Swank). The gym manager and narrator (Morgan Freeman).

And watching Million Dollar Baby I felt sadness at seeing how a life sometimes unravels near its end.

Years ago, Ali’s slow speech in an interview, and mild tremors, gave the first indication that something was amiss.

That something turned out to be called Parkinson’s Disease.

But even though Father Time had slowed Ali down, the champion’s eyes still sparkled, and his smile warmed the hearts of many people, especially kids, worldwide.

Today, Jan. 17, is Ali’s birthday.

I was driving my pickup truck and thought about my dad, a certified public accountant with a wise, razor-sharp mind.

When Jack was 78, he suffered a stroke, which made some of his life frustrating, and necessitated him speaking very slowly.

Like Ali, even then my dad’s great smile welcomed his four sons and their wives, 11 grandkids, and many others. And just like Ali, my dad was good with words, a poet, and a humorist.

When I was in college, my dad told me. “Sometimes you can judge a man by what he laughs at.”

What made my dad laugh?

Well, he loved the ironic plot twists in O’Henry’s short stories, such as “The Ransom of Red Chief." He enjoyed the daily comics.

I remember watching my father perform onstage in his early 50s, when he played a villain — complete with cape, top hat, cane, fake-mustache and sneer — whom the audience rightfully booed, in a melodrama presented by his Catholic church’s acting group.

Late at night, my dad could often be found crunching numbers on his adding machine — no computers back then — at his desk in his office in our cold cement basement. And while working, he would be listening to Jean Shepherd’s humorous memoirs on the radio.

You may recognize Shepherd as the writer and narrator of a funny holiday film, “A Christmas Story,” about the kid who wanted a BB gun for Christmas but people feared he’d shoot his eye out.

On my parents’ first trip to Humboldt County in 1980, my dad smiled as he told friends and myself at a Trinidad salmon barbecue, “People have more fun than anybody.”

My father died 19 years ago today — on Ali’s 51st birthday.

I still miss him.