Muhammad Ali was a dancer.
He danced in the ring, light as a feather, sticking and moving, bobbing and weaving, avoiding blows, floating as if on air, stinging his earth-bound plodding adversaries, mere mortals, beating them up, knocking them down and out, in a world of hurt.
Ironic, isn’t it. Such grace of movement, such beauty of physical expression really, in service to violence and pain. Ali wanted to knock you out: his end, his purpose, was your end.