Whoa.
Wait.
What?
.....the story of the day I met Muhammad Ali.
The Bostonian Drunkard met Muhammad Ali?
Wow.
What a coincidence.
So too did the young franksolich, near the end of February 1978; we were on the same flight from London to Chicago (he was returning from Manila where he'd fought with Joe Louis or somebody); we even had a little three-minute chitchattery, at the end of which we shook hands.
I wasn't into boxing, but he struck me as being smaller than I thought he'd be.
He also seemed detached, out of it, and had all these big guys around him.
For the record, he eyed me and approached me; I didn't approach him. I dunno why that happened.
Thanks for the long-ago-forgotten memory, flaccid greasy one.