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In the late 1970s I was walking up 6th Avenue one afternoon and passed a crowd of people in front of Sam Goody (a record store chain), a block south of Radio City Music Hall.

It was like they were waiting for someone.

As I was crossing the street, a Checker cab came to a stop directly in front of me. The rear passenger door swung open, nearly striking me in the leg. And out popped…

Muhammad Ali.

My one and only hero. On his way to Sam Goody for some sort of ‘signing’ event (as I found out later).

When he finished unfurling himself from the cab, he was facing me, approximately four inches away.

Very tall. Very handsome. Very long arms.

He looked at me and said, “Hey!”

I just stared like an idiot. Might have been drooling, I really don’t remember. Then he turned away and walked briskly to the record store.

I stood in the middle of the street a while longer, then kind of floated home.