Still The Greatest -- Time Hasn't Knocked Out Ali's Wit, Charisma

The real Ali, the only Ali, stepped - no, floated - through Gate N-9 at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport yesterday. Another day became another city. And where Muhammad Ali goes, so goes his world.

``I'm always in my own world and all the people in my world are my brothers and sisters,'' Ali likes to say.

Ali redefines physics, proving the universe revolves around him. There he was, barely off the walkway from his plane. Within 10 seconds, at least a hundred people swirled around him. The outer orbits trailed back to the cocktail lounge. They all wanted the same thing. To be with Ali.

Those born after his last fight know Ali. African villagers and Chinese peasants know Ali. Sultans, kings and presidents know Ali. Elvis knew Ali.

Today is Ali's day, say Gov. Booth Gardner and Mayor Norm Rice, who have declared today Muhammad Ali Day in the state and city. Tonight, as a prelude to Thursday's Seattle Showdown '90, he will be honored at a dinner as the Fighter of the Century, a distinction bestowed on him by a committee of boxing experts, headed by Bill Cayton, former manager of Mike Tyson.

Some say the real Ali is gone. They say that his two resurrections from retirement beat the Ali out of Ali, or that Ali isn't really Ali without his health. He has been diagnosed as having Parkinson's Syndrome, a disease that attacks the nervous system, slowing his speech, movement and reactions.

Ali used to say he was the greatest. Isn't he still?

``People have ranked me as the best fighter in the history of the whole world,'' said Ali, 48. ``I'm the most recognized, the most known man in the entire world. I have seven grown daughters and one grown boy. I can travel all around the world with the people I love. I'm living a good life.''

Ali's decline may have made others sad. But he is not sad.

``It's unfair because the public expects him to be what he used to be,'' said Mustafa Ameen, who once managed light heavyweight champion Matthew Saad Muhammad and is an old friend of Ali's. ``They see these old news clips of Ali fighting, and that's what they expect him to be.''

Muhammad Ali was in a good mood yesterday. He said so. Ali's fourth wife, Yolanda, said her husband felt so good, ``He walked about 20 miles in Chicago's O'Hare Airport waiting for his plane.''

Yolanda knew her husband's day was charmed when, after he landed at Sea-Tac, he gave an interview. He said it was his first in two years.

``He usually doesn't like to talk,'' Yolanda said.

Where Ali lives, he doesn't have to. He lives on an 80-acre farm in rural Michigan, far from anybody and anything.

``It's big and quiet there,'' he said. ``I can get my rest, and people can't get to me.''

Ali never has lacked for company. Now, in relative seclusion, he still takes about 150 flights a year and is

often away from home, attending charity functions. If you still think Ali has slowed down, Ameen suggests you try to follow Ali around. Ameen promises you will soon want a vacation.

A small parade moved through the north concourse to the baggage claim. Ali was the centerpiece, and every camcorder and camera within lens shot was pointed at him. When people in the cocktail lounge caught wind of Ali, they came running with napkins for him to sign. Parents offered Ali their children. They knew kids are his favorite.

One, two, sometimes three at a time, people hung themselves on Ali as he made his way to the airport subway. Most wanted his signature, some wanted just to shake his hand. The subway car seemed to be powered by his charisma, as every eye looked his way. More eyes latched on when Ali got off the subway.

``It's him,'' was one passenger's answer to a silent, disbelieving stare.

This is old hat for Howard Bingham. He is the last of Ali's old

troupe. Ferdie Pacheco, the fight doctor. Gone. Angelo Dundee, the corner man. Gone. So are Lana Shabazz, the cook; Howard Patterson, the bodyguard; Luis Sarria, the masseur; and Bundini Brown, the poet who came up with the phrase, ``float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.'' All gone except Bingham, the photographer. Ameen thinks part of the reason Ali kept fighting was to keep his entourage together.

``Their livelihoods depended on him,'' Ameen said. ``I think he felt responsible for them. He's like that, a regular guy. If he liked you, he'd take you home with him.''

Bingham has known Ali for 30 years, traveled with him all over the world. He is completely infected with Ali.

``He always draws a crowd,'' said Bingham, 50. ``I don't know how the word gets out sometimes, but people come running. Sometimes I wonder how and why. He always gives an autograph to anyone that wants one. He's always had the charisma and the love of the people.''

These days, when someone asks for an autograph, Ali is ready with a pre-signed leaflet, entitled, ``The real cause of man's distress.'' He pulls them from his breast pocket, one at a time, and fills in the name. On the leaflet is an essay of more than 2,000 words, written by Ali.

A passage reads: ``. . . How could the world of man - who has extremely complicated psychology, whose life has countless aspects and facets every one of which has a thousand problems and a great number of difficulties - be ruled and run by men who, far from knowing other, do not know even themselves well enough? . . . God holds every one of us directly under His sway, and can call back any of us whenever He wills.''

The essay is pious. This is the real Ali, acutely aware of his mortality, his fragility. And comfortable with it.

In Ali's briefcase are more leaflets and booklets containing excerpts from the Koran. Tucked in one of the briefcase's pockets is a postcard of Elvis Presley dressed in trunks and boxing gloves, from the movie ``Kid Galahad.'' Also inside are several photographs: two of his daughters, the entrance to his farm, himself in the ring, and himself with Elvis, possibly one of the few men who approached Ali's level of visibility. As Elvis was The King, Ali was The Champ.

Ali has dined with royalty and lived in palaces. He has been given gifts befitting a deity. His bodyguard carried a briefcase with $50,000 cash in it - for spending money. Ali also had the love and devotion of his entourage and of any number of women.

Having had all that, what is left? What does he dream to do?

``This is it,'' Ali said. ``To go where I want to go, be with who I want to be with, and work for Islam.

``The days of all the hollering, yelling and screaming are over. I did it for a purpose, to become popular and get prestige. My goal was to get famous so I can work for Allah.''

This is the same Ali, always with a cause. In his fighting days, he bucked the draft and gave himself a Muslim name.

At yesterday's press conference, Ali declared he was in town to make an announcement that will shock the world. He said he was making his comeback - ``in my dream tonight,'' he finished. Laughter hit the walls. The room was his.

Don't contest Ali's mental sharpness. He is quicker.

``I'm going to play with your mind,'' he told a reporter. ``Spell pot.''

``P-O-T,'' the reporter answered.

``Spell it again,'' the champ said.

``P-O-T.''

``Spell it again, fast.''

``P-O-T.''

``Now what do you do when you come to a green light?'' the champ asked.

``Stop,'' answered the duped reporter.

``You just stopped at a green light.''

This is the real Ali, always ready with the hidden punch. In his silence, induced by his weakened health, he is deceptively aware of far more than people give him credit. His words hang in his throat longer and come out softly. It takes a patient and attentive ear to hear him. But to hear him is to decipher a miraculous code. To hear him is to discover the real Ali.

He is still there.