and appropriate if I was singing with Herman’s Hermits. I ran to the local men’s store and purchased a formal velvet bow tie and dress shirt, so the suit would look like a sort of cool tuxedo. When I arrived at the Plaza three days later, everyone else was in business attire.
I met Dick, who I instantly realized was one of the nicest, most charming, and unassuming people I would ever know. He told me I’d be performing for three to five minutes, and then he asked how he should introduce me. Considering that up to this point I wasn’t sure who I was, I told him to just introduce me as one of Ali’s closest and dearest friends. I figured I’d be too nervous to set up the routine, so I’d get off to a fast start by going right into my Cosell imitation.
The crowd filed in, all excited about the evening. To be in Ali’s presence at this time in his career was a thrill. He was at the top of the world once again. Many people had thought he’d be killed in the ring against the mighty Foreman, but he had “rope-a-doped” George into exhaustion and knocked him out. The Terrace Room at the Plaza Hotel was packed with New York’s elite.
It wasn’t just Ali—I was surrounded by sports stars: Gino Marchetti of the Baltimore Colts, Franco Harris of the Steelers, the Heisman trophy winner Archie Griffin, and, to top it off, two other legendary heavyweight champions, Neil Simon and George Plimpton. All in business suits and ties except yours truly, Mr. Velvet. We were asked to take our seats on the dais, and then there he was: Ali awash in his magical glow, greeting fan after fan. Sometimes when you see someone you idolize in person, they can seem smaller. Ali seemed bigger. He seemed to know everyone, and everyone wanted to know him. Then everything went into slow motion: that smile, those eyes. I kept thinking of how important he was to me. As I settled into my seat, the great Ali stared at me with a “Who the fuck is this?” look on his amazing face. Maybe he was thinking, “Who invited Joel Grey, and why is he wearing velvet?”
I was only a few seats away from Ali as the special officially started to film. Two-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound Gino Marchetti was seated on my left, and Melba Moore, who would sing the national anthem, was on my right. I liked sitting next to Melba; she was the only one at the dinner close to my size. I watched as members of the audience surveyed this dais of sports stars; when their eyes came to me, they all got that same confused look Ali had.
Dick Schaap was a genial host. Plimpton followed splendidly, and then Neil Simon came on and was really funny. It was my turn. Dick, at the microphone, looked at me and said, “And now, one of Muhammad Ali’s closest and dearest friends.” I walked to the podium to a hesitant but polite smattering of applause. I passed right behind Ali, feeling his confusion, and got to the microphone, where I launched right into being Howard Cosell in the ring in Zaire.
“Hello, everyone, Howard Cosell talking to you live from Zaire. Some would pronounce it ‘Zare’—they’re wrong.” The audience laughed hard.
At this point, someone started yelling at me from the audience: “YOU GOT ’EM!” Two lines into it, and I’m being heckled? He wouldn’t stop yelling. I realized it was Bundini Brown, Ali’s flamboyant cornerman. So as Howard, I told him I’d handle it. He got quiet and I got good laughs, but it was awkward, to say the least. I’d always had the ability to think on my feet, even as a little kid, except this was my first time on television and Bundini was getting in the way. I continued as Cosell:
“Muhammad—may I call you Mo?”
More laughs; then I switched and became Ali.
“Everybody’s talking ’bout Joe Frazier!”
Screams, applause.
“Howard,” I said as Ali, “I’m announcing I’m changing my name again. I have new religious beliefs. From now on I want to be known as Izzy Yiskowitz. Chaim the greatest of all time!
I met Dick, who I instantly realized was one of the nicest, most charming, and unassuming people I would ever know. He told me I’d be performing for three to five minutes, and then he asked how he should introduce me. Considering that up to this point I wasn’t sure who I was, I told him to just introduce me as one of Ali’s closest and dearest friends. I figured I’d be too nervous to set up the routine, so I’d get off to a fast start by going right into my Cosell imitation.
The crowd filed in, all excited about the evening. To be in Ali’s presence at this time in his career was a thrill. He was at the top of the world once again. Many people had thought he’d be killed in the ring against the mighty Foreman, but he had “rope-a-doped” George into exhaustion and knocked him out. The Terrace Room at the Plaza Hotel was packed with New York’s elite.
It wasn’t just Ali—I was surrounded by sports stars: Gino Marchetti of the Baltimore Colts, Franco Harris of the Steelers, the Heisman trophy winner Archie Griffin, and, to top it off, two other legendary heavyweight champions, Neil Simon and George Plimpton. All in business suits and ties except yours truly, Mr. Velvet. We were asked to take our seats on the dais, and then there he was: Ali awash in his magical glow, greeting fan after fan. Sometimes when you see someone you idolize in person, they can seem smaller. Ali seemed bigger. He seemed to know everyone, and everyone wanted to know him. Then everything went into slow motion: that smile, those eyes. I kept thinking of how important he was to me. As I settled into my seat, the great Ali stared at me with a “Who the fuck is this?” look on his amazing face. Maybe he was thinking, “Who invited Joel Grey, and why is he wearing velvet?”
I was only a few seats away from Ali as the special officially started to film. Two-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound Gino Marchetti was seated on my left, and Melba Moore, who would sing the national anthem, was on my right. I liked sitting next to Melba; she was the only one at the dinner close to my size. I watched as members of the audience surveyed this dais of sports stars; when their eyes came to me, they all got that same confused look Ali had.
Dick Schaap was a genial host. Plimpton followed splendidly, and then Neil Simon came on and was really funny. It was my turn. Dick, at the microphone, looked at me and said, “And now, one of Muhammad Ali’s closest and dearest friends.” I walked to the podium to a hesitant but polite smattering of applause. I passed right behind Ali, feeling his confusion, and got to the microphone, where I launched right into being Howard Cosell in the ring in Zaire.
“Hello, everyone, Howard Cosell talking to you live from Zaire. Some would pronounce it ‘Zare’—they’re wrong.” The audience laughed hard.
At this point, someone started yelling at me from the audience: “YOU GOT ’EM!” Two lines into it, and I’m being heckled? He wouldn’t stop yelling. I realized it was Bundini Brown, Ali’s flamboyant cornerman. So as Howard, I told him I’d handle it. He got quiet and I got good laughs, but it was awkward, to say the least. I’d always had the ability to think on my feet, even as a little kid, except this was my first time on television and Bundini was getting in the way. I continued as Cosell:
“Muhammad—may I call you Mo?”
More laughs; then I switched and became Ali.
“Everybody’s talking ’bout Joe Frazier!”
Screams, applause.
“Howard,” I said as Ali, “I’m announcing I’m changing my name again. I have new religious beliefs. From now on I want to be known as Izzy Yiskowitz. Chaim the greatest of all time!
Similar Books
