Rosalie Pyle
“Rosalie, Muhammad Ali is here.” “Oh, no! That can’t be. He isn’t scheduled to be here until this afternoon. It’s only 10:00 a.m.,” I sputtered. “What should I do with him?,” asked my ever patient administrative assistant. “Well, bring him in my office, I guess,” I replied. And with that, in marched Muhammad Ali along with his assistant, whose name I can’t remember, and seated themselves on the tiny little rocker/loveseat opposite my desk.
It was May of 1992 and all of the plans for the first ever Tulsa, Oklahoma Charity Fight Night had been carefully worked out to the minutest detail. A beneficiary was The Tulsa Boys’ Home, a residential treatment center for boys ages 12 to 18 who were often delinquent, way behind academically and not able to function within whatever family was available to them. Interviews with Ali were scheduled and ceremonies outlined. Nothing had been overlooked, or so I thought.
As the Executive Director of The Tulsa Boys’ Home, I was in charge of implementing all of the plans and now found myself staring at this big hulking man in my little office. I thought to myself, this isn’t happening. I am going to wake up, but each time I blinked, he was still there. What am I going to do with him for the next four hours? I asked myself. So I sat there stricken with fear and anxiety as we three tried to make small talk. How was the journey, etc. The minutes seemed like hours and then Muhammad Ali began to nod and appeared to be dozing off. After a short time of this, his companion turned to me and informed me that Ali was very tired from the trip and he hoped that he wouldn’t start dreaming. “Dreaming,” I asked?” “Yes, his companion explained, it seems that when Ali is over tired he starts dreaming of the fight in Manila and he can actually become quite violent.” With this a fist shot out toward me. I was sitting in my desk chair on wheels so I lurched backwards to avoid being hit. With that I realized I had my back to the only door in my office and my mind started racing trying to recall who was on duty that day. Who could provide security. Before I could think of a name, Muhammad Ali suddenly jumped from the loveseat, fists flying right at me. I let out a scream and flew out of my chair. And then — he started laughing, a big roaring laugh and his companion, too, was enjoying himself immensely. And then I realized, it was all a joke or perhaps more accurately, an effort on his part to help me relax. It worked, of course.
What did I do with Muhammad Ali for the next four hours? Well, it happened to be a Wednesday, and that was my Rotary day, so I called the President of the Tulsa Rotary and asked if he thought it would be too disruptive to bring Muhammad Ali to lunch. Of course, he was delighted to have such a distinguished guest come to Rotary. Rotary was also involved in promoting Fight Night so it all fit together well.
Fight Night was a huge success and The Boys’ Home had the luxury of being a beneficiary for the second year of Fight Night, again hosting Muhammad Ali, but also Frazier the second time. I had the fantastic privilege of meeting both men in more relaxed circumstances, breakfast, lunch and dinner and discovered very kind and compassionate men, not to mention a great sense of humor.
And that is my story.