The greeting was repeated over and over on banners hanging end to end over the row of metal detectors slowing admission into the old ball park to a crawl. Even in the rain, nobody seemed fazed, either by the inconvenience or the paradox. Baseball, post 9/11 style.
Nothing surprises us these days. A three hour wait in the security line at the airport is par for the course. A guy in khakis and a Cubs polo doing a full body screening with his buzzing wand on an already tipsy baseball fan in tight shorts and a ripped jersey. An insult hurling, racist, and mostly incoherent buffoon sailing past the conventional old candidates in a sort of bizarre POTUS pre-check where regular old rules simply do not apply.
I vaguely remember when Cassius Clay became Muhammed Ali. He was big, black, and a boxer; had he appeared in my predominantly White middle class neighborhood back then -- even in notoriously liberal mosaic-y Brooklyn -- my mother would have gathered us close and feigned mama bear style fearlessness while, beneath her designer pants suit, she shook with fear. He was different enough, to someone like me, as Cassius Clay. The conversion and the name change were just icing on the cake.
Though I admit I was never much of a boxing fan, I have known for some time that Ali had long ago transcended what brought him into the public eye in the first place. The glitzy, telegenic, trash talking fighter fought his toughest battles outside the ring. Battles that were not about his own medals or the size of his crowds or blood drawn from his counterpunches, battles that were not, by any stretch, just about him. The boxer laid down his gloves and fought with words and deeds for things that really matter. Peace, respect, standing on principles -- not crushing them.
Talk about a paradox. We watch through half spread fingers as Donald Trump turns his bully pulpit into a bloody ring, punching and counter punching and bouncing around like a rabid animal with bloody foam dripping from the corners of his mouth. Nobody even tries to wrestle him back into his corner. He is anger and irrationality and spite unleashed, and when he climbs through the ropes, he will never lay down his gloves. He will never fight for anything that really matters to anybody except himself.
Look at my African American over here. His version of some of my best friends are black. Or his take on beauty and brains: Those guys know even less than that beautiful young woman over there. There's nothing wrong with being born with a silver spoon in your mouth; it's just that his somehow got wedged in his brain. He identifies people by color or by place of birth or by gender or by girth, but as far as he's concerned, they are all the same in that they are not him and therefore they are beside the point. Who woulda thunk it? Donald Trump -- the greatest equalizer.
Had Muhammed Ali not died this week, he may well have been deported next year. The worst that can happen now, with a Trump administration, is a bit of turning in his grave. I don't know why I was so surprised by the metal detectors at Wrigley with the happy signs above them welcoming everyone in to the friendly confines. I don't know why I was surprised that none of the folks waiting in the rain to pass through seemed fazed. Hey, some of my best friends are Cubs fans.
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