had lived them, with courage and a flair for the dramatic. In 1992, Ashe stood bravely before TV cameras to confirm that the sto- ries circulating that he had AIDS were true. Four years later in Atlanta, Ali delighted the world when he appeared, seemingly from nowhere, to light the Olympic torch. On June 3, 2016, Ali died of Parkinson’s disease at age 74, but not before he could register one last protest, against the wave of anti-Islamic feeling that was being stirred up in the U.S. “Islam is peace,” Ali said. Ashe and Ali often expressed a desire to meet each other, but it happened just once during their athletic careers. After his trip to South Africa in 1973, the tennis player made a pilgrimage to the boxer’s training camp in rural Pennsylvania. Here was the man who had helped Ashe gain the courage to be more than an athlete, to live for more than himself. “Ali spoke in his usual folksy way, with the bad grammar and the colorful idioms,” Ashe said—he had his standards, even with the immortals. “But there certainly is no doubt in my mind that a very natively clever man lurks behind this façade. We had a most forthright and intelligent conversation.” Their long-distance dialogue—about what athletes owe to the world, and what Americans owe to their country—is over now. But Ali’s passion and fearlessness have been inherited by a new generation of Af - rican-American activists and athletes, while Ashe’s cerebral moderation can be seen in the governing style of Barack Obama. That conversation also lives on in their words, which are quoted ceaselessly on the internet by people too young to have seen them in their primes. Here the two legends will talk to each other, and to future gener - ations, forever: “I know where I’m going, and I know the truth, and I don’t have to be what you want me to be.” —Muhammad Ali “From what we get, we can make a living; what we give, however, makes a life.” —Ar- thur Ashe
backhands to break serve in the fourth set. When tennis historians speak of strategic masterpieces, this is the match they point to first. After his final winner, Ashe turned to his player box and raised his fist, briefly, in cele- bration. He had become the first black man to win Wimbledon, and many believed he was making a black-power salute. Ashe said it was merely a gesture of triumph toward his friend Dell. But he also said he was happy, later, to hear that “Among blacks, I’ve had quite a few say [the win] was up there with Joe Louis in his prime and Jackie Robinson breaking in with the Dodgers in 1947.” Ashe, hewing as always to the middle path, began the afternoon wearing his USA Davis Cup jacket, and finished it by holding up a clenched fist. Ashe and Ali were born at the same time, became politically aware at the same time, and reached the summits of their sports at the same time. They would also suffer physi- cal decline at the same time. In 1975, Ali beat Joe Frazier in 14 rounds in the Thrilla in Manila. The fight took place in 120-degree heat, and both men felt like they had been lucky to live through it. “We went to Manila as champions, Joe and me,” Ali said, “and we came back as old men. Ali, as usual, was prescient. Three years later, he lost his belt to an unknown named Leon Spinks. In 1980, at age 38, he was knocked out by Larry Holmes. By then, Ali had begun to show the symptoms—slurred speech, slowed reactions—that would be di- agnosed as Parkinson’s disease in 1984. Four years after winning Wimbledon, in July 1979, Ashe suffered a heart attack while teaching a tennis clinic in New York. After two rounds of heart surgery, it was discov - ered in 1988 that he had contracted HIV from a blood transfusion. He died of AIDS on February 6, 1993. Ashe and Ali ended their lives as they
Stephen Tignor is a senior writer at Tennis Magazine and Tennis. com, and author of High Strung: Bjorn Borg, John McEnroe, and the Last Days of Tennis’ Golden Age .
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