Noted newsman John P. Wise is Director of Digital Media for WAVE 3 News, Louisville’s NBC affiliate. You can follow him on Twitter @wisejohnp. Below is his account of covering Friday’s Muhammad Ali funeral memorial in the city.
A hot and sunny Friday in June provided a blue-skies backdrop to what will go down as one of the greatest days in the history of the city of Louisville.
Just a month after the eyes of a nation fixed their gaze on the Derby City for the most exciting two minutes in sports, a more global audience looked upon Louisville as it said goodbye to its favorite son.
Boxing legend and humanitarian Muhammad Ali died from septic shock a week earlier at age 74, following several decades of suffering from Parkinson’s disease.
Ali was miles and miles from perfect and even in death there was no shortage of harshly-worded postings about the former three-time heavyweight champ.
But Friday wasn’t about Ali. It was by him. It was from him. It was because of him.
Photo: John P. Wise/WAVE 3 News
Friday was his final gift to his legions of admirers worldwide, but particularly in Louisville, where he was born Cassius Clay in 1942.
An estimated crowd of 100,000 lined the city’s streets, especially Grand Avenue, where his childhood home served as ground zero for thousands of fans of all ages, many of whom were so young that last week was probably the first time they’d heard the champ’s name.
“Muhammad Ali.
Muhammad Ali.
Float Like A Butterfly.
Sting Like A Bee.”
That was the chant some of the kids broke into as a television reporter began his live shot during one station’s daylong broadcast, prompting references to “chills” and “goosebumps” by many around my newsroom. That live hit happened right across the street from the old Ali home as the 23-mile procession wound past that property. It was an incredible moment.
Friday was packed with many such neckhair moments – including the three-hour procession and a three-hour memorial service that featured eulogies from Billy Crystal, Bryant Gumbel and former President Bill Clinton – and when the work was done after 8 p.m., so, too, were our nerves. The normally 15-minute drive from my station to my suburban drinking consultant took nearly a half hour because driving and crying isn’t terribly safe. I had to pull over twice in order to clear my eyes and compose myself.
But those tears had nothing to do with the sadness that follows the death of a legend. They were instead tears of pride, exhaustion and euphoria, as well as probably 13 other emotions, all rushing toward the same, grand exit. My colleagues and I had remarked all day long about the massive outpouring of love and happiness and positive energy. The extraordinary celebration of one man’s unforgettable life was more beautiful than the most extravagant wedding you could ever imagine.
I wasn’t alone in feeling accomplished that day. Everyone in my shop knew we had covered, achieved and just watched something very special. And judging by the posts from friends at other local outlets, they felt the same way.
For me, Friday wasn’t about winning the coverage war; it was about making a memory that will no doubt stay with me forever.