This week (Feb. 25) in 1964, the heavyweight fighter considered the greatest of all time first became heavyweight champ when his opponent, Sonny Liston, called it quits before the seventh round of their historic fight in Miami, Florida. The new champ was Cassius Clay, a 22-year-old African American from Louisville, Kentucky, whose first full day as champion would be his last as Cassius Clay. On February 26^th he announced that he had joined the Islamic faith. Not long after he officially became Muhammad Ali, the name by which the world knows him today.

On fight night, Clay was a seven-to-one underdog, and few expected him to last one round against Liston, a huge, menacing man with a powerful punch that had demolished his previous opponents.  Years later, Ali admitted that even he was scared of Liston that night, and this was before he learned that one reporter covering the fight had been instructed by his editors to memorize the route to the nearest hospital so he could be the first reporter there when Clay was rushed into the emergency room.

Yet from the opening round on that muggy Miami night it was clear that Clay was a new kind of fighter.  Minutes into the fight Liston thought he had Clay cut off and threw a left that should have floored his young opponent — except that Clay wasn’t there.  He had easily danced way, causing Liston to miss by two feet. Clay countered with a jab to Liston’s forehead, repeating the dance-and-jab — what he called his “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee” style — for the next six rounds until Liston, his eyes puffy and his face bloody, couldn’t take anymore. “That’s it,” he told his trainers, ending the fight.

Realizing he had won, Clay jumped up, ran around the ring, and then headed for the reporters sitting at ringside. “Eat your words!” he screamed at the assembled media, which had unanimously predicted he would lose. “I am king of the world!”

He would remain king of the fight world for 16 years, becoming the first boxer to gain the heavyweight title three different times. He also would become the only boxer ever to regain his title after defeating the (huge, menacing) U.S. government, which had attempted to strip him of his title and jail him for refusing induction into the army on religious grounds.  The Supreme Court ruled in Ali’s favor in 1971.

Even today, slowed by age and Parkinson’s disease from so many punches, Ali in a very real sense remains “king of the world.”  His name is arguably the most recognized of any living person on Earth — and it has been 30 years since he last entered the ring.

“A good walk spoiled.”  -Humorist Samuel Clemens describing a round of golf.

The golf tee was patented this week (Dec. 12) in 1899, which allowed golfers to achieve more distance on their drives and created God knows how many jobs in the tee manufacturing industry.  Other than that, it was just another small change in a sport that has seen many since the Scots first invented it early in the 15^th century.

The sport was a good match for the stoic, unflappable Scottish temperament, although — alas for the rest of us — while the game turned out to be easily exportable, stoicism was not, which helps explain the number of broken clubs rusting at the bottom of so many golf course water hazards.  But in any case, golf became so popular in Scotland the Scottish Parliament had to pass laws prohibiting its play because Scottish warriors were neglecting their military training in pursuit of the little brown ball (the first golf balls were made of leather and had feathers, presumably in the hopes of increasing their “flight”).

These laws were mostly ignored, and became somewhat problematic when Scotland’s own King James IV became an avid golfer — a passion he passed down to his granddaughter, Mary Queen of Scots, who, while living in France, frequently played.  And since it was customary for royalty to be accompanied by attendants, she was followed around the course by young men called cadets, a name that was later translated in Scottish to “caddy,” or “caddie,” which is what we now call the young men who tote golf bags for the mostly rich, white, out-of-shape country club golfers who play the game on weekends.

In turn, Mary’s passion for golf was shared by her son, who became England’s King James I.  When James was not dodging assassination attempts by Catholic fanatics such as Guy Fawkes, he was often on the links, and soon much of England was playing the game.  From the British Isles, it was exported to the European continent, and then to places like America where today nearly 30 million people play — a figure that, thanks to golf superstars like Tiger Woods and Rory McIlroy — is expected to keep on increasing.

And speaking of fanatics, golf has had its share, which has inspired many a joke poking fun at the devotion it inspires.  My favorite involves the foursome that was playing a local course one Sunday afternoon when a funeral procession passed nearby.  This prompted one player to back away from his putt, turn toward the line of cars, and silently bow his head until it passed.

“That was thoughtful of you,” said his playing partner.

“It was the least I could do for my wife,” the man replied.

Ted Williams’ greatest feat as a baseball player, hitting above .400, never got its due until long after he retired, which is fitting because Williams was convinced he never got his due from Boston Red Sox fans or sportswriters.  Williams — who twice won baseball’s greatest accomplishment, the Triple Crown, yet was not voted the league’s MVP in either of those years — became the last player ever to hit above .400 when he collected six hits in eight at bats in a doubleheader against the Philadelphia Athletics that concluded the 1941 baseball season.  That historic event occurred this week on September 28.

The 1941 season had been a stellar one for Williams, and although his batting average had jumped around, going as high as .436 in June and staying well above .400 in early September, his average during the month of September dropped significantly, the not-unusual result of the hot weather and the fact that baseball’s long season usually wears out players by late September.  In the opening game of the season-ending three-game series against the Athletics, Williams went 1 for 4, bringing his average down to .3995 and prompting his manager, Joe Cronin, to consider holding him out of the season’s last two games. Cronin knew that the .3995 average would be rounded up to .400, meaning that, technically speaking, Williams had batted .400.

But the man many believe is baseball’s greatest hitter ever would have nothing to do with technicalities. Williams told Cronin that not only would he play in the first game of the double-header, even if he got enough hits in that game to go above .400, he still wanted to play in the final game. “The record’s no good,” Williams said, “unless it’s made in all the games.”

And so Williams collected six hits in eight plate appearances in the two games played on September 28 — four singles, a double and a home run — to bring his batting average up to .406.  No one has ever hit .400 since, and only two men, Kansas City’s George Brett (.390) and San Diego’s Tony Gwynn (.394 in a strike-shortened season), have even come close.

Which was part of the problem in terms of giving Williams his due.  Hitting .400, while rare in the first half of the century, was not unthinkable, so when Williams accomplished it no one knew that 71 years later, and counting, it would not be matched.  Only now do we realize how superhuman, and historic, it was.

Speaking of which, September 28 was a pretty special day for Williams all around.  On September 28, 1960, the 42-year-old Williams hit his 521st home run in the final game — indeed, with the final swing — of his illustrious career.