At Home with Muhammad Ali

by Hana Ali

  “Wayne Grover! It’s Ali.”

  “Yes, Muhammad . . . What’s the news?”

  “I just called Mr. Farhay of the embassy. He told me they got my message and they’re trying to get through to the students. As soon as they find out something, they’ll call me.”

  “Okay. In the meantime, the Saudi Arabian ambassador’s wife just called me. The ambassador has still not returned, so I am now drafting a telegram direct to the King of Arabia.”

  “King Khalid?”

  “Yes, King Khalid,” said Wayne. “We’ll sign both of our names to it and tell him what we’re proposing to do.”

  “If your dreams could be fulfilled,” asked my father, “with what we’re trying to accomplish, what would happen?”

  “If my dreams are fulfilled,” said Wayne, “first we will open communication and the ayatollah will finally talk to someone. He will realize he has refused everything; and our president has refused everything, as far as letting go of the shah. Before we can start making anything happen, we must communicate. We’ve got to talk to each other first. Once we talk, then we will work something out. The ayatollah will become a hero in the eyes of Islam because he has stepped in and eliminated the situation that’s bringing the world to a crisis standpoint. At that point, Muhammad, you will have done something that nobody else in the world was able to do—period. If King Khalid comes along, then it will be the trio of you, King Khalid, and the ayatollah. So right now we are trying to get to King Khalid, and if he replies faithfully, we’ll fly to London. From London, we’ll fly to Riyadh, the capital of Saudi Arabia, and meet the king. And then, along with the king and his staff, on the royal airplane, we will plan to go into Tehran and be met by whoever oversees the government now and be led to the ayatollah.”

  “So we’re going on the king’s private plane?”

  “Hopefully, yes. If he goes, he’ll go on that private airplane.”

  “If we can go with him, that’s a big honor,” said Dad. “What do we have to do when we get to the ayatollah? What do you think our appeal should be?”

  “Well, in your case, Muhammad, you will be appealing to the ayatollah to make him realize he alone can now eliminate this situation and bring the world off this stage of crisis, and that Islam stands for peace and for love, as you know, and nonviolence . . .”

  “That’s right!” said Dad.

  “He can eliminate the possibility of worldwide violence and confrontation by doing something now and understanding the position of the American people and the position of the president—that we have the shah here in a hospital and we can’t be blackmailed. It just can’t be done. But if our president and the ayatollah say ‘Absolutely not!’ then nothing can be done. So, we have to start with King Khalid. The ayatollah will listen to the king, and he will listen to you, Muhammad. King Khalid also commands the city of Mecca, which you know, of course, is the Holy of all Holies . . . I spoke to the State Department again. They are working on their own level, but they are not getting anything accomplished.”

  “So our main goal right now,” said Dad, “is to reach the king, who will help us promote peace. We know he’s a religious man, and we know he doesn’t want these people dead. We know he doesn’t want trouble and disunity, so if he makes his move and just releases these people, that will be a great thing.”

  “He will listen to you, Muhammad. He may be a crazy man, but he will listen to you. And if he won’t, so many other people there will, because they know and love you . . . the State Department called and got through this morning to the students that are holding the people hostage in the embassy in Iran. They called several times before but got no response. This morning they mentioned that you, Muhammad Ali, would be willing to come over there, and for the first time the students got excited and showed a definite reception to the idea that perhaps you were going to come over and help do something about this crisis.”

  “Who made that call?” asked Dad.

  “That was the State Department’s crisis group this morning. A man called Sheldon Kris, I believe . . . I’m going to call the Western Union and send our telegram directly to the king.”

  “Okay, God bless you.”

  “Same to you, Muhammad.”

  * * *

  Later that evening, my father and Tim Shanahan were alone in his office, waiting to hear back from the State Department. The house was unusually quiet. The phone had finally stopped ringing, everyone had gone home, and Mom, Laila, and I were fast asleep.

  My father was sitting in his armchair in front of a crackling fire, staring pensively at the flames. Tim was sitting on the couch across from him. Dad had asked the State Department for clearance for two friends: Howard Bingham and Wayne Grover, whom he’d never actually met in person. If everything went according to plan, the three of them would soon fly to Iran.

  Suddenly, Dad broke the silence. “You know, there’s a chance we might not come back.”

  “Yes,” said Tim.

  “How do you think they would kill us?”

  “It would probably be a gunshot to the head,” Tim said.

  “How would it feel?” Dad asked, wide-eyed. “Do you think it would hurt?”

  Tim walked over to my father’s chair and stood behind him. He took his index finger and poked Dad in the temple, quick. “That’s it, Champ,” he said. “You wouldn’t feel much more than that.”

  “Good!” said Dad. “Let’s go!”

  They watched the news for a while, then Tim asked, “Are you sure you want to go?”

  Without hesitation, Dad turned to face him and said, “They’re holding fifty-two people hostage, and each one of them has worried family members and friends who love and miss them. So, for every single person I help, I’m really helping hundreds. If you add them all up—all the mothers, all the fathers, all the sisters and brothers, all the aunts and uncles, and all the friends and coworkers—you see, I’m not just going for fifty-two people, I’m going for thousands!”

  Dad at home in his office.

  © Howard Bingham

  In the end, the State Department couldn’t guarantee his safety and canceled the trip. But my father had been willing to risk his life to help bring strangers home safely.

  Two days later, on November 12, 1979, my father had a little fun playing a prank on one of his friends (whose name I have changed for anonymity). Mr. Jack Elliot called, worried out of his mind after watching Dad on television a few days earlier offering himself in exchange for the release of the Americans being held captive in Tehran. Jack was best known for his lavish parties, thrown on his seaside estates all over the country, and his lively, eccentric personality.

  My father didn’t tell Jack that the trip to Iran had been canceled. He let him believe he was still going and that he wanted to bring him along. Jack had been calling and pleading with him all morning. Dad found his hysteria and nervous, quirky voice so amusing, he had to get it on tape.

  “This is Muhammad Ali making a tape for future reference. We’re now in a crisis where the Iranian college students are holding over fifty Americans hostage. People have been calling me and pleading for me not to go. They’re very frightened when it comes to taking a stand for what is right and for God . . . This call is coming from Mr. Jack Elliot, a big businessman, a multimillionaire. He has been calling me all day, pleading and telling me why I should not go and why it is not worth going. This is the typical frightened man that you’re going to hear, who believes just in money and that’s all. He says he is my friend. He has always told me there is nothing he won’t do for me, but listen to how he talks on this tape coming up. Thank you.”

  “Yeah, Jack, I just got a call from Iran’s embassy in Washington. It looks like I might go, but I’m not sure.”

  In a shaky voice, “MUHAMMAD! DON’T GO OVER! THOSE PEOPLE OVER THERE ARE CRAZY! All those students are neurotic. They’re all crazy! I read in the paper and I saw it on TV, and I said to myself, I am going to call you and tell you not to go! Don’t go ov
er, Muhammad—it’s foolish!”

  “Jack, you’re a friend of mine, right?”

  “Right!”

  Dad, joking, “Why don’t you go with me?”

  “Oh no-no-no! I’m going to go to, uh . . . Tonight, I’m leaving to go to, uh . . . uh . . . I’m going to go to, uh . . . I’m leaving right now for the airport to go to Australia.”

  “I had some people coming there to meet you—”

  Jack cut him off. “No-no-no! NOT ME! No-no! I’m going to Australia tonight. Then tomorrow I’ve got to go to, uh . . . Georgia, and . . . uh . . . Alabama!”

  “Why do you have to? When I spoke to you earlier you didn’t have to go anywhere.”

  “Yeah, I did. I have to go to all these places. I’m going to be gone for about six months or a year!”

  “You’re not running, are you? I want you to go with me to Iran.”

  “No, Muhammad, I can’t go! I’ve got to go to . . . uh . . . uh . . . to Alabama tonight. I’ve got to leave early, right now, as a matter of fact.”

  “Doggone it, I was hoping you would go with me.”

  “Muhammad, I’ve got to leave. As a matter of fact, I’m going to leave in just . . . well, I’m late now. I’m all packed. I’m going to go to the airport tonight. So please do me a favor—don’t go!”

  “In about ten more minutes, there might be somebody out there to meet you.”

  Jack was frantic. “No-no-no!”

  “Because I got some people close by—the mob . . .”

  “Muhammad, I’m going to take the train. I’m going to go by train to New York and then I’m going to go . . . Muhammad, I’m telling you something, do me a favor. Please don’t go!”

  “Well, if fifty Americans were going to be shot, wouldn’t you risk your life for them?”

  “Muhammad, please don’t go. Please don’t go! Those people are all kids! They’re all crazy! Everyone has a gun! You don’t know what the hell they’re going to do, Muhammad! You have no idea what they’re going to do!”

  “Well, I was almost sure I could count on you to go with me.”

  Stumbling on his words, Jack blurted, “I’ve got business—I’ve got business! Then I’ve got to go to England—yeah, that’s where I’m going to go, I’m going to go to England. England!”

  “Okay, well, I’ll have somebody watch your house until you get back.”

  “Oh no! No-no-no-no-no, because, uh . . . I don’t know when I’m going to come back. But please don’t go, Muhammad! DO NOT GO!”

  “Well, I put my word on the line now. I told the world I would go.”

  “Muhammad, that was foolish! I saw you on television, and it said that you want to go and they’d release the fifty hostages in exchange for you. You’ve got to be crazy! Those people are all nuts over there!”

  “I want to ask you something, Jack. Do you believe America is a great country?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if fifty Americans can be set free in exchange for holding you, wouldn’t you go for fifty?”

  “Muhammad, I got to go to, uh . . . I’m going to go to, uh . . . Nebraska tonight.”

  My father burst into laughter.

  “Yeah, I’ve got to go to, uh . . . Idaho—Idaho and Nebraska!”

  Dad was still joking when he said, “All right. Well, I’ll call the airports and have them watch for you—they’ll wait for you there.”

  “No! I’m going to go by train! I can’t fly! I wanna go by train tonight and then I’m gonna leave.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Honest to God—yeah!”

  “Jack, a businessman like you—”

  Jack interrupted. “So, don’t check on me because I just won’t be here.”

  “Well, I’ll consider what you were saying. Those people are acting crazy. They got guns. And like you said, they ain’t got no reasoning. I’m glad I called you. Maybe I’ll just forget all about it.”

  “Take my advice and forget all about it! I’ve gotta go to Idaho tonight.”

  “If you had to do one, would you contribute twenty thousand dollars or would you go?”

  Jack was relieved. “Yeah, money I’ll give, yeah!”

  “What did you say?”

  “I swear to God, I’ll send a check for twenty thousand!”

  “No, I don’t need it. I don’t need any money. I was just saying . . .”

  “I’ll give you a hundred thousand dollars for that WORLD thing that you were going to do. I’ll give you a hundred thousand dollars!”

  “You would rather give one hundred thousand before you would go to Iran?”

  “I swear to God, for the WORLD—what was that WORLD thing?”

  “You would give one hundred thousand dollars before you’d go to Iran, Jack?”

  “Yes, before I’d go to Iran. As a matter of fact—wait—Iran! I’m not going to Iran! Wait a minute, I’m not—I’ve got to go to, uh . . . Missouri! I’m not going to Iran! What was that WORLD thing you were going to do?”

  Dad got more detailed with his prank. “I called the man at the embassy and he said, ‘Do you know any people worth money that are influential? Because we can’t hold just anybody. If we let fifty people go.’ He said I’m good, but he wanted to know if I knew any people who have money who have something to give up. I told him I know Jack Elliot.”

  “I swear I’ll give a hundred thousand dollars if you don’t go. I swear to God I’ll send you a check for one hundred thousand dollars! I’m telling you, you’ve got to be stupid—you got to be stupid to go! Think of your wife, the kids, those Rolls-Royces of yours, that briefcase and that picture in People magazine! You cannot go. I’m telling you!”

  “All right, I won’t go.”

  “Honest to God! You can’t go!”

  “Are you really worried about it?”

  “Yeah, honest to God. I saw you the other night on the television. They said you were going to go in place of fifty hostages. And I said, ‘You’ve gotta be crazy! You have got to be absolutely crazy!’ Who knows what’s going to happen! They may just want to shoot you to get attention!”

  “Those guys from the Iranian embassy . . . look outside your front door and see if there is a red car there. They might be waiting. Look out your front door.”

  “Hold on a second . . .”

  Once Jack was off the line going to his door, my father whispered into his recorder: “I’m just joking with him, but this man is really scared. I’m talking while he goes to check the door.”

  A moment later, Jack picked the phone back up. “No, there’s no car! Doggone it, I can’t even see—”

  “Well, the guys were supposed to come and bring you to me . . .”

  Jack was frantic once more. “Me? No—no! I’m gone! I’ve left for Australia! I’ve got to go! I’m late now for the, uh . . . I’ve got to go, Muhammad! I’ve got to go now!”

  “Okay, look . . .”

  He cut Dad off with, “No—no! Honest to God, I’ve got to leave. I’m late for the plane!”

  “Wait, Jack, don’t hang up, I want to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  My father laughed hard.

  “No, I’ve got to go!”

  More laughter. “Can I say one thing to you?”

  “No, I’ve got to go to Alabama!”

  “Jack! I have to say something to you.”

  “What?”

  “All this time I was joking. Since you’ve been on the phone, I’ve been joking.”

  Relief flooded over him. “Oh . . . Okay.”

  “Listen, you sound so funny. First, you said you were going to Alabama, and then you said Australia. I want you to know I was only joking. Nobody is coming to your house, and I’m not going anywhere. They told me they didn’t want me. I was going to go, but they said no, and I couldn’t get clearance . . . I’m not going anymore.”

  Jack was relaxed now. “Thank God. Those people are crazy, Muhammad. So when are you going to come over to the house to eat?”
r />   “Sometime soon . . .” said Dad.

  They made casual conversation for a while. As Jack calmed down, my father saw another opportunity to rekindle the joke.

  “Okay, well, I’ll tell you what,” said Dad. “I’ll cancel that Iran trip, and I’ll call the people to tell them not to come by your house because they were going to pick you up.”

  “Oh no-no, not me because I won’t be around. I sold the house! Tell them I sold the house!”

  “Okay, I’ll cancel the call because I asked the Iranian students to come by your house to take you.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ! No! Not me because I sold the house! They painted it—and I’m going to leave tonight! Let me tell you something. I swear to God, for that WORLD thing—you said something about some WORLD thing . . . I’ll give a hundred thousand dollars to the WORLD . . . what was that WORLD program?”

  “The World Organization for Rights and Liberty and Dignity,” said Dad.

  “Right! I will give a hundred thousand dollars for whatever that is!”

  “Well, just hold it; you don’t have to worry about it now.”

  The line clicked. “Hold on, Jack . . .”

  “Muhammad,” my mother said, calling from the telephone intercom upstairs. “Are we still going out to dinner?”

  “Yeah, in about twenty minutes.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m talking to Jack Elliot—I want you to hear the tape.”

  “Okay.”

  Dad clicked back over to the other line, picking up where he left off. “Yeah, Jack, so let me hurry up and call the Iranian students there, so I can tell them you aren’t going to go with me and I might not go either.”

  “Just tell them that I’m not around and that you got the wrong name because some of those people might just come out here by mistake.”

  “Okay, let me go call them now.”

  “Just tell them I left two months ago!”

  “Okay, I’ll tell them you left two months ago.”

  “Say hello to Veronica, and give her my love and the kids.”

  “Okay, bye-bye.”

  “Don’t go over!”

  “Okay . . .”

  Dad hung up the phone and spoke into the recorder. “This is November 12th, 1979. Jack Elliot, scared to death!”