Nine years ago tonight, Muhammad Ali died.

I remember being devastated, not because I was a huge fan of boxing, but because Ali was so sweet to watch. He was the only boxer who seemed like he was having fun in the ring—he was certainly enjoying himself outside of it.

When the news broke, I flashed immediately to his unexpected appearance at the Olympics. I wrote:

I have only a few enduring sports images in my head. One of them is of Ali, surprising the world by lighting the Olympic flame during the 1996 Atlanta Olympics.

His shaking left arm, as he grasps his unlit torch in his right. His clear determination to make this moment happen. The moment he raises both arms over his head, his torch now lit, as he basks, briefly but knowingly, in the crowds’ adoration, before carefully, carefully lowering his torch to light the cauldron.

The world knew what this moment meant, and it roared its approval as Ali appeared.

I still haven’t forgotten that moment (though my recollection then was slightly faulty).

After Ali’s appearance, George Vecsey wrote in his Sports of the Times column:

Muhammad Ali floats above the Summer Games, no longer an elusive butterfly but a great glowing icon as large as a spaceship. He casts his light on every athlete, every spectator, every volunteer, all the people who walk these humid streets with just a little more zip in their step, now that they have seen Ali. The whole world gasped in shock early yesterday when Ali suddenly materialized on that platform at the far end of Olympic Stadium, the perfect choice to light the cauldron.

Who would have thought of Ali? Who would have predicted he could stand in front of the world, his body slowed by Parkinson’s syndrome, and hold a flaming torch and transfer searing fire to a contraption that would raise the fire to the cauldron?

Putting the old rascal-prophet on the official pedestal raised the tempo of these 17 days. Let the Games begin, indeed.

I went back and read several of Ali’s obituaries. Sports Illustrated offered a wonderful photo essay of the 100 Greatest Photos of Muhammad Ali.

(The first photo—the one you undoubtedly think of when you think “photograph of Ali”, of him standing over Sonny Liston, yelling, arm cocked—turned sixty a few days ago.)

From Robert Lipsyte at The New York Times:

Ali was the most thrilling if not the best heavyweight ever, carrying into the ring a physically lyrical, unorthodox boxing style that fused speed, agility and power more seamlessly than that of any fighter before him.

But he was more than the sum of his athletic gifts. An agile mind, a buoyant personality, a brash self-confidence and an evolving set of personal convictions fostered a magnetism that the ring alone could not contain. He entertained as much with his mouth as with his fists, narrating his life with a patter of inventive doggerel.

Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. His hands can’t hit what his eyes can’t see.

Still the people’s champ.