THE date is June 4, 1992, the scene, an overcrowded Blackwell’s bookshop in Oxford in sweltering midday heat.

We have been standing for two hours, swapping tales.

Having driven more than 100 miles to pay homage, I wonder if the moment will ever arrive.

Without fanfare, a white car pulls up. The object of our idolatry, Muhammad Ali, is here.

Tourists abandon the Sheldonian and dash across the Broad to applaud the figure in blue suit, crisp white shirt and colourful silk tie who climbs from the back of the Rover 827. The Champ, The King, The Greatest has arrived.

He enters the shop with unsteady gait. Parkinson’s and the exertion of a five-city book-signing tour have seen to that. But no-one minds.

Pandemonium ensues. The TV arc lights and microphones crane overhead, photographers unfold stools and clamber on to them for a better vantage point. Pop! Pop! “This way, Champ! This way!”

The Champ sits at a desk laden with copies of his authorised biography. Soon it is my turn. What do you say to your lifelong hero? Can’t be tongue-tied – might never get another chance.

He extends his hand. It feels more like shaking hands with a velvet-gloved potentate. How could a fist this dainty have bludgeoned Henry Cooper’s eye to mush?

I deliver the words I have crafted. “I’ve waited 30 years to meet you, Champ.” “Thirty years, eh?” he replies. “You must be pretty old!”

“Yes,” I say ad-libbing, “but, unlike you, I ain’t pretty no more!’ Smiling, he says: “You’re not as dumb as you look!”

Thirty seconds’ verbal sparring with The Man had left a light glowing in my soul. Outside, I glanced at the hand that had shaken his. It still trembled.

A photograph capturing that handshake was mailed to the United States for a signature, with a $10 bill for return postage. Back it came, bearing not just a signature but a personal dedication.

The envelope also delivered a suitably inscribed portrait of Muhammad Ali in his prime. Keeping the photographs company was the $10 bill.

MICHAEL TANNER
Sleaford
Lincolnshire