Miami, Florida. Cedars of Lebanon Hospital. May 9, 1981. 4:47 pm. Muhammad Ali walked slowly down the hospital corridor, more slowly than he usually moved. At 39, the greatest boxer of all time was beginning to feel that something was wrong with his body. A tremor in his hands, a slowness in his movements, something he couldn’t fight with his fists
But today wasn’t about Ali’s fight. Today was about saying goodbye to a friend. Bob Marley was dying in room 318. Ali had received the call two days ago. Rita Marley’s voice, calm, breaking: “Muhammad, if you want to see Bob, you need to come now. The doctors say days, maybe hours.”
Ali had canceled everything. He flew to Miami immediately because Bob Marley wasn’t just another musician to Ali. Bob was a brother in the struggle. The door to room 318 was partially open. Ali knocked softly. Rita appeared. Her eyes were red from crying.
—Muhammad. Uh, thanks for coming.
Ali hugged her gently.
“How is he?”
“Awake, weak. He’s been asking for you.”
Ali entered the room. Bob Marley lay on the bed, his body reduced to barely 80 pounds. The dreadlocks that had been his crown now looked thin against the pillow. His skin had taken on a grayish pallor. But when Bob saw Ali, his eyes lit up. A smile crossed his face
—Champ— Bob whispered. —You came.
Ali walked over to the bed and sat in the chair beside it. She gently took Bob’s hand.
—Of course I came, brother. Do you think I’d miss saying goodbye to the man who taught me about true courage?
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