MUHAMMAD ALI LEAVES EVERLASTING IMPRESSION.

Byline: Arthur R. Vinsel

COMEUPPANCES can come along even 30 years later, ambushing a man with thinning hair and threads of white in his beard.

The thought stirred again as a dawn television news anchor segued from tragic weekend hit-and-run fatalities to an auction of Muhammad Ali boxing memorabilia in Beverly Hills. Christie's took in $1.3 million, while Ali disapproved from a distance in uncharacteristic quiet and restraint.

Now, I'll say what I conceded years ago: He is The Greatest.

But he became far more than a boxer, transformed from a brash loudmouth to a quiet, avuncular near-invalid now, wearing his hard-earned dignity like a satin robe.

Muhammad Ali: Hardly anyone mentions his alter ego anymore, Cassius Clay, the brash, Olympic heavyweight boxing champion whose words spoke louder than his actions in the ring for a time. He came out of nowhere (Louisville, was it?) bearing stars and thunder in his Everlast brand leather gloves, more than half our lifetimes ago.

He could float like a butterfly and sting like a bee, to borrow a line from his favorite creative source, himself.

We are the same age, give or take a few months.

Bob, my old sportswriter friend and onetime high school journalism classmate, dragged me along as photographer/chauffer to meet the future champ. He claimed his car couldn't make it from Orange County to L.A.'s Busch Gardens.

We both still want to be novelists, but poetry was then a form one could finish and admire immediately. Mine, with Beat Generation and traditional influences, was being published in small literary journals. Bob wouldn't waste his own work on ``crummy little magazines,'' which probably means he feared rejection.

But to say we were unimpressed with Cassius Clay would be wrong.

We were impressed by anyone who could be so loud, rude, voluble, obnoxious, flashing-eyed and asinine. He was talented all right, unless it were merely posturing, done for publicity, as some have claimed. Maybe he was just young and full of himself. Trust me. It happens.

One had to be talented, to maintain a barrage of irritation so intense for so long. He demanded an 8-by-10 of every photo and 10 copies each of the best two or three. He wanted 20 copies of the newspapers for each member of his entourage of trainers, aides and sparring partners. (Photocopy machines were rare.)

We laughed at the bozo from Kentucky afterward. We knew we were better than him intellectually. The Busch Gardens steak and beer were great, but well-matched to the greatness of Cassius Clay's boorish pretension.

We foresaw a few pro matches for this mouthy, hyperactive lout until a Sonny Liston or Joe Frazier sped him on to his probable career as used car lot detailer, or sponge bucket operator in a third-rate gym on the fringe of Skid Row. But his reputation grew with his string of KOs, his bombastic stage/ring presence, and - gradually - so did our admiration.

His conversion to Islam and the new identity as Muhammad Ali was a bitter pill for millions, who considered Cassius still a credit to his race, provided he stayed steadfast in the Christian faith. So his refusal of armed forces induction really tore it for those former fans, but my admiration grew.

Over the years I, who never cared for boxing, would become a fan of the maturing, suddenly almost-contemplative Muhammad Ali. A maturity and gentler forthrightness seemed to settle on him. I hoped he would step down and retire as reigning champion, even as I began to despair of literary honors.

But, like a moth in love with the bright lights, he kept coming back out of presumed unofficial retirement for one more pass at the flame.

Since his neurological handicap, similar to Parkinson's disease, manifested itself and his rare public appearances and halting slur have become more poignant, I see Ali in a wistful light. Here is a man we ridiculed in our own immodesty, which we saw as quiet and discreet.

Nonetheless, Muhammad Ali is an icon and an idol to people of three generations and many nations, a supporter of charities, an advocate of good habits and clean living. One auction fan paid nearly $2,000 for a cigarette the champ snatched out of a sportswriter's mouth and autographed.

At the weekend Beverly Hills Muhammad Ali event, a pair of those boxing gloves commanded far more money than I've seen in five years. My old friend Bob has run afoul of quirks of the body and mind and the punishment of time too.

He has been living on a tiny old sailboat in L.A. Harbor, granted early Social Security, he claims.

I wonder if Bob heard the latest about our contemporary, another young man on the way up 35 years ago.That Cassius Clay, he was something else.

Ali now, he's the greatest.