T he fifth edition of the ESPY Awards, held in 1997 at Radio City Music Hall in New York, was a celebration of the Afri - can-American athlete. Ti- ger Woods won Best Male Athlete, Michael Johnson and Desmond Howard received honors, black celebrities were on hand to pay tribute to Jackie Robinson, and Ray Charles performed. But the loudest ovation was reserved for Muhammad Ali. The former heavyweight champion was presented with the Arthur Ashe Award for Courage, which for more than two decades has been given to a recip - ient who “reflects the spirit of Arthur Ashe, possessing strength in the face of adversity, courage in the face of peril, and the willing - ness to stand up for their beliefs no matter what the cost.” It was the evening’s melancholy high point. The spirits of Ashe and Ali were alive in the room. Yet the voices of these two he - roes of the 1960s and ’70s could no longer be heard. The tennis player had died four years earlier, at age 49, of complications from AIDS. The boxer was only 53, but Par - kinson’s disease had muted this most verbal of athletes. The man who introduced Ali at the ESPYs, Sidney Poitier, spoke for many of his generation when he said, “The first thing I remember is his voice.” But on this night, Ali could muster just two words for the audi- ence: “Thank you.” It would be hard to imagine two people, let alone two sportsmen of the same era, whose personalities diverged as much as theirs did. Ashe was cautious and cerebral, Ali brash and outrageous. Ashe excelled in a genteel sport, Ali in a brutal one. Ali refused to be drafted into the Vietnam War; Ashe was a lieutenant in the U.S. Army. Ali joined the separatist Nation of Islam and befriend - ed Malcolm X; Ashe dedicated his life to the cause of Martin Luther King and integration. If we think of Ali by his given name, Cassius Clay, even their surnames—Clay and Ashe—
represent opposing states of matter. Yet it was fitting that they should be hon- ored together on a night of African-Ameri- can celebration. During the same tumultu - ous period, they had proved what a powerful impact engaged athletes can have on the world. Ashe had once said of Ali, “He was largely responsible for it becoming an ex - pected part of a black athlete’s responsibility to get involved.” Ashe was one of those who had followed Ali’s lead. Ali and Ashe were born within a year of each other, in 1942 and 1943, respectively, in large cities in athe segregated South. Ali grew up in Louisville, Ashe in Richmond. Their lives would run on parallel tracks for five decades, as each rose to the top of his sport and, at the same time, transcended it. They became spokesmen for African-Americans during the revolutionary ’60s, took their messages to Africa in the ’70s, and record - ed their final triumphs in 1975. Through the ’80s, each man would show courage in the face of tragically early physical deterioration. Ali and Ashe brought different messages to a country, and a black community, that had been upended by civil rights. Ali’s experi - ence as an African-American in the South led him to believe that the U.S. would never live up to its professed ideals of equality when it came to blacks; Ashe’s experience led him to try to prove that the nation could. Their lives can be read as a conversation about what it means to be an African-American and, by ex- tension, what it means to be American. In 1955, Ali—then known as Cassius Mar- cellus Clay Jr.—turned 13 in Louisville and Ashe turned 12 in Richmond. That summer, both boys were deeply affected by the story of another African-American their age, from Chicago. While visiting relatives in Missis - sippi, 14-year-old Emmett Till had made the fatal mistake of calling a white cashier at a grocery store “baby.” Three days later, the woman’s husband and half brother dragged
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