What the Parkinson’s did to the Greatest—it’s a fact. We all know it. We didn’t need any of the eulogies and tributes to mention it, because we all witnessed it in real time. The disease laid waste to the entire second half of Muhammad Ali’s mythic existence, slowing and then freezing his beautiful body and mind. In the last decade, all that remained of the inspired insolence and playful wit was a subtle spark in the Champ’s eyes. This Parkinsonian Fact—it’s unyielding, devastating, difficult to accept. And yet it comes with an asterisk.

Because the fact of this Fact is that Ali was not as physically locked down and locked in by his Parkinson’s as we’ve all supposed. Not even close.

Back in December of 2009, when I was reporting my 2010 profile of Manny Pacquiao, I got into a curious conversation with his trainer, Freddie Roach. The subject was Luis “Chavit” Singson, Manny’s most prominent backer in the Philippines, whom I’d met several weeks prior. An unsavory dude, Singson. There were endless stories. We exchanged a few. I knew that “The Governor,” as Singson was known, had taken a tiger whip to a man who’d slept with his mistress. What I did not know, but learned from Roach, was that the Guv also had several of his goons pulverize the man’s penis with a hammer. “He didn’t show you the picture?” Roach asked incredulously. That is, a Polaroid of the mauled privates that the Governor carried around in his wallet. “Usually he shows it to everyone he meets.”

There was a prolonged awkward moment as I tried not to visualize what Roach had just told me. (And failed.) Roach sat quietly looking at his hands in his lap. I think he felt a little sick about it, too. I’ve got to fill this vacuum, I thought, and lobbed up a softball.

“Freddie, what’s been the greatest moment of your career, either as a fighter or as a trainer?”

Roach perked right up.

“That’s easy!” he said. “It was just last year.” Meaning 2008. "Muhammad Ali walked into my gym”—the Wild Card Boxing Club, in L.A.—“unannounced. I couldn’t believe it. It was just him and his driver and a couple of friends. He could barely walk, so I went up to him and said, 'Champ, this is such an honor. What can I do for you?’ ”

Ali could barely shake hands. Roach said he had to take the Champ’s right in his own two hands and lift it up and back to the proper shaking position, halfway between the two of them. Roach tried to read Ali’s face. The lips moved, but as far as Roach could tell, no sound emerged. Roach leaned in close. He could make out the fact of a whisper, but he couldn’t discern the words. Finally, one of Ali’s companions explained.

“The Champ would like to know if you can suit him up so he can do some work on the heavy bag, and maybe spar a little.”

Roach was dumbfounded.

“I thought maybe this was a joke, or some prank,” Roach said. “I wondered if I was on a hidden camera. I almost laughed. But I didn’t want to offend anybody, so I played it straight. I said, ‘Of course, Champ, right away,’ and told my guys to get him whatever he wanted.”

Some time later, Ali emerged from the locker room wearing boxing shoes, trunks, and a shirt. One of Roach’s men laced him into some gloves. The men Ali had come with then escorted him, gently and deliberately, over to the heavy bag and positioned him in front of it. Slowly, Muhammad Ali raised his hands.