Muhammad Ali, Yannick Noah and me

Or ... when I introduced Muhammad Ali to Yannick Noah

Or ... the crossroads of destiny

Here’s an anecdote I’ve only shared with a few people
But as time passes, given the fame of the two main protagonists, I’ve decided to share it with the world, to send it out onto the web via my first blog, like tossing a bottle into the sea, before I die, before either of the other two protagonists dies, just to see if it makes ripples.
The events took place in 1975, 1983, and 1996. We are now in 2010.
Let’s start with 1983, the year Yannick Noah won Roland-Garros
I remember how I trembled in front of my television every time Yannick moved to the net with his chip shot. I prayed for the ball to stay in bounds, and I prayed that Mats Wilander wouldn’t return it to score a point.
We held our breath until the very end, and then he won the match. It was magnificent! He jumped into his father’s arms as he climbed down from the stands. It was wonderful! A memory as unforgettable as when France won the World Cup in 1998.
In 1983, I had just started my own small business. After two backpacking trips around the world between 1975 and 1981, filled with countless adventures, I had returned to Paris. Having greatly improved my English during my travels and even learning Spanish and Brazilian Portuguese in South America (and even Italian in Guadeloupe, which I could explain in another blog, why not?). I naturally found a job as a multilingual guide at the “Paris Visions” tourist travel agency.
I worked as a night guide, leading sightseeing tours of Paris that ended with a show at the Lido, Moulin Rouge, Bateaux Mouches, and so on.
A Business Idea is Born
Tourists often told me they had trouble getting to the tour departure point on Rue de Rivoli. Either they had trouble finding a taxi, the drivers were rude, they were scammed, or they got lost on foot or by metro. Some were even mugged by a group of young Romani pickpockets, usually five or six kids, with one or two older girls who would distract tourists while the others cleaned out their pockets.
Since the tours ended between 2 and 3 AM, night guides like me were expected to drop off clients near their hotels. Some hotels were in small streets inaccessible to buses, or on the outskirts of Paris, sometimes even in the suburbs. We couldn’t go everywhere, so we had to drop them off somewhere in the middle of the night, often scared and anxious.
A few times, to their satisfaction, I offered to personally drive them back at the end of the tour for 50 francs. An extra service that also helped supplement my income.
This led to an idea: Instead of squeezing two or three tourists into my two-door Datsun Cherry, why not transport up to eight of them? I quickly decided to buy a second-hand nine-seat Volkswagen minibus on credit.
Even better, if I could drive tourists back at the end of their tours, why not pick them up at their hotels too? And if I could guide them on a Paris Visions tour bus, why not do the same in my minibus?
That’s how I launched the concept of semi-private excursions in Paris in 1983. At the time, this type of service didn’t exist. Between a 4,000-franc limousine for half a day and an 80-seat double-decker bus leaving from Rue de Rivoli, there was now my minibus offering pickup and drop-off right at the hotel door.
I created my first small brochure, Paris Tourisme, offering tours such as city sightseeing, Versailles, Loire Valley castles, and Paris by night in a minibus. The only challenge left was convincing Parisian hotel concierges (with motivating commissions) to book with me instead of just selling limousine reservations or Paris Vision or Cityrama bus tickets.
Believe it or not, the first year wasn’t easy. But I managed to win over some hotels whose clients returned highly satisfied. In the following years, my company grew significantly. I named it Excursions Parisiennes, a whole other story that could be another blog topic.
And where does Muhammad Ali fit into all this?
I’m getting there, but I needed to set the scene first.
A Chance Encounter
By 1983, working “on my own” was still new to me. I still had the spirit of a traveler who worked for a while, then set off again with the money earned. After six years of globe-trotting across a hundred countries, it’s hard to break free from that rhythm.
Imagine this: When I returned from my first world tour in 1977, my mind, heart, and soul were so full that I needed to write it all down. I wrote a book titled La Leçon de Vie. It sat in a drawer for 15 years.
Then one day, purely by chance, I met a publisher in London willing to publish it. Can you imagine? Just as it was about to be released in bookstores and FNAC, during a difficult financial period in my life, the publisher went bankrupt and handed me, get this, four copies of my book. Just four. They now sit somewhere in a box. How do you interpret that as a twist of fate?
I had decided to end my business at the end of the tourist season, around late October, and go visit my old friend Carole Cardinal in Canada for the winter. I made good money that summer with my minibus and planned to restart excursions in the spring of 1984.
I already had my plane ticket to Canada when the phone rang.
"Hello?" I answered.
"Hello, this is the concierge from the Hilton Orly. I have a client for you."
"Sorry, but I told you I was closing for the winter. I’ll start again in the spring."
"Yes, but this is special. I really need you to come pick up this client."
"Sorry, but I’m flying to Canada tomorrow. I can’t."
"I’m asking you as a favor. It’s someone special."
"Special? Who is it?"
"It’s someone famous, passing through Paris, who wants to remain incognito."
Of course, the concierge had piqued my curiosity. I told him that if he wanted me to come, he needed to tell me who it was first.
"It’s Muhammad Ali."
"Muhammad Ali?" I repeated. "Alright, that is special. What does he want to do?"
"He just wants a two-hour tour of Paris."
"Alright. Two hours, two hundred dollars, okay?"
Silence.
"He agrees."
"Alright, I’m coming."
And so began my encounter with a legend.
(Stay tuned for what happened next…)
It turns out that fate had already made me cross paths with Muhammad Ali, in a way.
In June 1975, I was globetrotting through Malaysia, in Kuala Lumpur, and I had heard that a world heavyweight championship match between the British fighter Joe Bugner and Muhammad Ali would take place at the city stadium.
I went there, hoping to maybe catch a glimpse of the living legend "in real life," even from afar. I saw his limousine arrive at the stadium, and I was already thrilled to have caught a glimpse of him stepping out of the car. I even took a photo.
The crowd gathered at the stadium entrances was excited. Ticket prices were too high for the local population, and even more so for me, as I only had a few dollars in my pocket.
Then, suddenly, the stadium doors opened!
The crowd rushed inside, and I discovered a nearly empty stadium. So that’s why they had opened the gates. For such an event, how could the fight take place in complete silence before so few spectators? Ticket sales must have been a flop, and they had opened the doors just to create some atmosphere.
The crowd scattered into the stands but remained somewhat hesitant, keeping their distance from the ring, as if still not quite believing their luck.
Armed with my Kodak Instamatic, the kind you take to summer camp, I moved as close to the ring as possible. I watched the fight right next to the wealthy spectators, men with flashy rings and women in elegant hats. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
Joe Bugner didn’t last long against Muhammad Ali.
When Ali, victorious, was heading back to the locker room, I managed to slip through the crowd and get close enough to touch him. With my Kodak Instamatic, victory! I took a close-up photo of the legend.
I even took one of the defeated Joe Bugner.
Just like this story, that day remains etched in my memory.
It was June 30, 1975, my birthday! I turned 20.
I even celebrated with a chicken drumstick that I bought from a street vendor. It tasted incredibly delicious. After weeks of being broke, surviving only on bananas, since bananas cost practically nothing, that chicken was a feast.
Fast-forward to 1983.
Before jumping into my minibus, I dove into my closet to find the close-up photo I had taken in Kuala Lumpur.
"Hello," I greeted the Hilton Orly concierge.
"Ah, there you are. I’ll call his room. There are five of them, including his children, his wife, and his manager."
A few minutes later, I saw the legend approaching. I recognized him.
But he looked… what was wrong with him? He seemed heavier, moving like an old man, walking slowly.
The concierge introduced me. We shook hands. I led them to my minibus and opened the side door.
Muhammad wanted to sit in the front next to me. With pleasure.
The manager, wife, and children took the back seats, and off we went.
But what was wrong with him? Something wasn’t right. A condition, perhaps? I wondered if all the blows he had taken in his career had left him "disabled."
Not knowing about his illness, never having encountered anyone with Parkinson’s before, I had no idea that’s what it was.
Nevertheless, as we talked during the ride, I quickly realized that even if he spoke slowly, he was completely lucid.
We passed Place de la Bastille, Le Marais, Place des Vosges… I brought up his legendary fights, especially against George Foreman in Kinshasa, Zaire, and Joe Frazier in Manila. At the mention of Frazier, he made a facial expression that spoke volumes about how brutal those fights had been.
I also talked about all the money he must have earned. He admitted that he had made a lot, a lot of money… but that he didn’t have much left. Too many people to pay around him, he said: trainers, sparring partners, his manager, and a swarm of freeloaders of all kinds.
An Urgent Pit Stop
Coming down from Sacré-Cœur, he told me, "I wanna pee." And he made it clear that it was urgent.
I had to think fast. You don’t keep a legend waiting, but I couldn’t exactly have Muhammad Ali relieve himself between two parked cars.
I quickly found a spot, badly parked, right in front of the Ibis Montmartre. Leaving his wife, kids, and manager in the minibus, I urged Muhammad to follow me.
The hotel staff watched us pass, mouths agape.
Following my instincts, I quickly located the restrooms at the back of the lobby. Muhammad trailed behind me until we reached our destination.
We each took an urinal and shared, with great relief, the divine release of our bladders.
With impeccable hygiene, Muhammad and I took our time washing our hands before leaving the Ibis Montmartre restrooms.
There, waiting for us, pretending not to be waiting, was a group of hotel staff, gathered to verify that this wasn’t a lookalike, an illusion, or a prank by the receptionists.
Muhammad Ali, accompanied by some guy (me), walked out of the Ibis Montmartre restrooms, crossed the lobby, and got into a minibus that vanished into Paris traffic.
A Signed Destiny
As we arrived at Place de la Concorde, I took a chance and told him that we had already been this close to each other once before, just a meter apart.
He looked at me, surprised.
I told him it was in Malaysia, Kuala Lumpur, in 1975, when he fought Joe Bugner.
"Oh yeah, Joe Bugner. Good fight," he said.
And then, I pulled out the photo.
"It's me," he said.
"Yeah, it’s you, and I took that picture. Destiny is strange, isn’t it?"
Right there, at Place de la Concorde, Muhammad Ali signed the back of my photo:
"For Jean-Jacques, from Muhammad Ali."
I cherish that photo like a treasure.
And where does Yannick Noah fit into all this?
I’m getting to that. I had to explain all this so the next part would make sense, so the power of destiny would be clear.
As we drove up the Champs-Élysées, Muhammad said he was thirsty.
Well, when the greatest boxer of all time says he’s thirsty, you don’t keep him waiting.
I suggested we stop near the Lido, the biggest cabaret in Paris, and grab a drink at the café next door.
"OK?"
"OK."
At that time, you could still park in the middle of the Champs-Élysées, where taxis stopped.
Just as I parked near the Lido, a big white Mercedes pulled up in front of me.
At the exact same moment that we stepped out of the minibus, a man stepped out of the Mercedes.
It was Yannick Noah!
Incredible coincidence! I call out to him. "Yannick! Come over, I’d like to introduce you to Muhammad Ali."
He looks at me, surprised, but with the weary expression of someone who’s been approached too many times. He must be thinking, "Who is this guy now?" Then Muhammad Ali steps up beside me. Yannick recognizes him, stunned, incredulous.
"Muhammad, I’d like to introduce you to the best French tennis player."
They look at each other.
"Hey, I’ve seen you on TV," says Muhammad Ali.
Funny comment, I think to myself. Well, of course, he recognized him!
They shake hands and exchange a few pleasantries. I invite Yannick Noah to join us for a drink. Unfortunately, he declines, saying he has "things to do."
Too bad. And just like that, we part ways in the middle of the Champs-Élysées.
With Muhammad, his wife, children, and manager, we enter a nearby café and find a table in the back. Perrier and fruit juices. The stunned waiter serves us quickly. We stay only a few minutes, but already, a crowd is forming outside. Curious onlookers, unable to believe the rumors spreading like wildfire, approach to see if it’s true, Muhammad Ali is in the café.
We quickly return to the minibus before the gathering becomes too overwhelming.
Time flies, and after nearly two hours of sightseeing, it’s time to return to the Hilton Orly.
Next to me in the minibus, Muhammad seems happy and relaxed. Clearly, he enjoyed the tour.
Back at the Hilton Orly, we part ways, shaking hands. We’ve become friends (after all, we did share a restroom!). "I enjoyed it very much," he tells me. And we say, "See you someday."
Time passes.
Until a summer evening in 1996. I’m watching the opening ceremony of the Atlanta Olympic Games on television.
It’s on Canal+ TV, and I remember the commentators, though I can’t recall if it was Charles Biétry, Thierry Gilardi, or someone else. There were also renowned sports analysts: Thierry Rey, the Olympic judo champion, Richard Dacoury, the basketball player, and… Yannick Noah.
The commentators promise a surprise. And indeed, who appears as the final torchbearer? Muhammad Ali.
Slow, moving, even more affected by his illness than when I had seen him in 1984, he climbs the steps and lights the Olympic cauldron.
In front of my TV, I’m thrilled to see my friend Muhammad again and deeply touched by this well-deserved honor.
The commentators are ecstatic, asking the analysts to share their impressions. Each, in turn, says how moving and symbolic it is that he was chosen as the final torch bearer, a fitting tribute to his immense career.
Then it’s Yannick Noah’s turn. Sitting on the edge of my seat, I expect him to say that, by chance one day, some guy introduced him to Muhammad Ali on the Champs-Élysées.
And what does Yannick Noah say?
He says it’s beautiful and moving for this great champion, blah, blah, blah… and… and… nothing.
I can’t believe my ears, my eyes. Disappointed.
Did Yannick forget? Or did he choose not to mention it?
The timeless fate of the third dimension had once again recreated our triangle:
Me in front of my TV, Yannick on TV, and Muhammad Ali in front of the camera.
Why?
When will the next sign of destiny appear?
Muhammad Ali had an exceptional destiny.
Yannick Noah has an exceptional destiny.
And me?