Muhammad Ali and I share a birthday, 17 January. I crowbar this fact into any conversation about the greatest sportsman of all time. It’s a tenuous link but I care not a jot and bask in the reflected glory.
I was born 27 years after my idol, in Middlesbrough. Our small town on the north-east coast relied on the steelworks for employment. Everybody had a father, brother or uncle who worked there. For me, childhood was innocent, though for my older siblings, it was different. Racist violence was rife. Yet my earliest televisual memories are of Nai Zindagi Naya Jeevan, an Urdu-language programme, and Muhammad Ali’s fights.
I could give or take Jeevan. The fights, however, are seared into my memory. They were events. We’d stay awake, my siblings and father discussing the bout with excitement and “authority”. Predictions were made – not about if Ali would win, but how and when. Would it be a knockout or a stoppage?
At that tender age, I had no idea who Ali really was. I didn’t grasp his achievements, politics or pugilistic prowess. I was simply swept up in the excitement that engulfed our house. Before each fight, Ali would pray, raising his hands just as my devout Muslim mother did when finishing her obligatory prayers. He referenced Allah, as everyone in my tiny orbit did in some way. When someone said “Ali”, we all knew who they meant. Muhammad Ali seeped into my life before I even understood who he was.
As I grew older, my understanding deepened. I devoured books, interviews and TV appearances. Ali wasn’t just a boxer. In the ring, he was graceful, dynamic and powerful – he truly did “float like a butterfly and sting like a bee”. Outside it, he was an activist, entertainer, poet and revolutionary. He spoke of justice, equality and pride. He debated the brightest minds and left them floundering. As he famously told Michael Parkinson: “You can’t beat me physically nor mentally.” For a young British Pakistani Muslim growing up in the north-east, Ali was the brightest star in the universe.
In 1977, Ali came to South Shields, just up the road from Middlesbrough. The town, known for its maritime history, had its own working-class struggles and a small but vibrant Muslim community made up mostly of Yemeni sailors and their descendants. They too were no strangers to racial conflict.
Johnny Walker, a painter and decorator who ran a boxing club in South Shields, went to the US to ask Ali, who was well known for supporting charitable causes, to come and help raise money for local boys clubs. Much to the surprise of Tynesiders, Ali agreed. He even waived the huge cost of the trip for that money to go towards the cause.
When Live theatre, a Newcastle institution with a long history of filling its deceptively small space with epic stories, asked me to write a play for them, I couldn’t think of a more fitting subject than Ali’s visit. I decided to tell the story through a mixed-race Irish-Pakistani family grappling with grief and identity. It felt reflective of where we are as a society now.
During my research, I found that Ali’s visit brought a rare sense of unity to South Shields. For one brief moment, barriers of race, religion and class dissolved. The people of South Shields were united in admiration for Ali. He wasn’t just a champion in the ring, he was a champion of humanity, using his platform to uplift others. In a region often overlooked, Ali’s visit felt like validation – a reminder that even their small corner of the world mattered.
In a piece of serendipity for any writer, the Greatest’s visit coincided with that of the Queen, celebrating 25 years on the throne. She too came to South Shields (the day before), and walked among her subjects on Gypsies Green. I am reliably informed the crowds were bigger for Ali. He greeted them from an open-top “silver jubilee” bus on a trip around town. Ali’s other activities included playing darts against Welsh champion Alan Evans and having his recent marriage blessed in the mosque.
For the Muslim community, his visit reaffirmed our cultural and spiritual identity at a time when representation was scarce. Ali’s confidence in navigating his faith gave a blueprint for carrying yourself with pride. In a society where we often felt invisible, Ali made us feel seen.
Reflecting on his visit now, I feel that it has reiterated to me that our stories, no matter how local, can resonate universally. Ali’s visit wasn’t just a footnote in his life. It underscored the interconnectedness of people and places and showed how a global icon could touch lives in the most unexpected settings. For South Shields, Ali’s visit remains a point of pride, a testament to the town’s openness and resilience. For a young Muslim boy in the north-east, it was a beacon of hope, proof that greatness could find its way even to the smallest of towns.
Champion is at Live theatre, Newcastle, 13 February to 8 March.
