Ali And His Entourage

THE MANAGER

The last man to enter the Chicago mosque was short and round and rumpled. His sport coat was two sizes too baggy, his shirttail spilled out across the seat of his pants. His shoes were unbuckled, and his face was stubbled with whiskers. He looked not at all like the man who had reached into his pocket for a million dollars to buy the land and build the mosque he stood in.

The others at prayer stood near the front. He slipped off his shoes, padded to the back and dropped to his knees behind a pillar. Few were aware of it, but he remembered well a passage in Muslim scripture advising worshippers to pray behind an object, an obstruction for the devil.

All his life Herbert Muhammad has hidden behind pillars. As a young man he was the quiet, respectful houseman and chauffeur for his powerful father, Elijah Muhammad. Then he became the manager of Muhammad Ali, taking 33% of Ali's multimillion-dollar purses but remaining so obscure that bouncers at Ali workouts sometimes barred his entry to the gym. "I never wanted to be a leader," he said. "I never wanted to be a target. My role is to support those in the lead."

Now he was 58, and he had trouble. His pillar was crumbling, his point man fading away. His dream of building 49 more mosques like this first one, using the money Ali and he could generate, was drifting further and further from his reach. Ali slurred words and shook and didn't want to be seen on television. Ali didn't care about making money anymore.

Herbert remained Ali's manager, and he wasn't going to give up his dream without a fight. Beneath the untucked shirt, unshaven face and tufts of black hair was a man burning with determination not to be forgotten when the Muslim history in America is written. Perhaps not equal to his father nor to his younger brother Wallace, whom Elijah anointed as successor, but close. "Fifty mosques," said Herbert. "Allah said if you build him a mosque in this life, he'll build you a paradise in the next life. My father established 200 mosques, my brother 250. But they didn't pay for them. I want to pay for 50. That would make my father proud. Every day my wife tells me to relax. How can I? I want to go till I drop. If I can't do something meaningful, take me now."

He sighed. The Muslim movement had changed since Elijah died in 1975; it had dropped the black separatist thrust and become rounder, softer—more Herbert. Big-name athletes weren't changing their names to Abdul and Rashad as they did in the '60s and '70s. The glamour years were gone, and now it would take the quiet, behind-the-scenes work—the kind Herbert was cut out for—to keep the movement growing.

"Seemed like we were always doing something back when Muhammad was fighting," he said. "Building buildings, schools, starting mosques, buying buses, helping people. Now everything has quieted down with AH, but I still got the taste of it in my mouth."

The irony was pungent. For years the Manager tried to restrain Ali. Now Ali was restraining the Manager. "I'd beg him not to be so proud, not to mess around with women, not to say, I am the greatest,' " Herbert said. " 'I am the greatest' was an insult to God—in our prayers, we say 'Allâhu akbar,' God is the greatest. That was when I was trying to make him more meek and religious. Back then I had to run to keep up with him when he walked. But this sickness stopped him dead in his tracks. Now everything's in slow motion. Now he's a hundred times more religious and meek than I ever thought he'd be. His whole life is his prayers. But he doesn't seem to care about anything...."

The Manager had ushered in the era of million-dollar sports contracts, brilliantly playing promoters Don King and Bob Arum off against each other. Now he has an agreement for 25% of the cut if he negotiates a product deal with Ali. "If he wanted it and he wasn't sick, he could be making $20 million to $30 million a year in endorsements," said Herbert. "He's probably making a couple a hundred thousand. Last year I made $500 dollars from him."