52nd Anniversary Writing & Photography Contest – Honorable Mention
Pow!
The Painting, me and Muhammad Ali
by Don Scott
I moved to the South Bay in late ’78 thinking I had the drafting job at Long Beach State in the bag. It was down to me and one other guy, and I’d just been the campus draftsman at Cal State Sonoma. I didn’t get it, but picked up another drafting gig for a Santa Monica design firm, and soon was enjoying beach life at a sweet little Hermosa cottage, complete with separate garage for an art studio.
In the move I brought with me a larger-than-life painting that I made of Muhammad Ali in action — biffing his opponent so hard there’s a halo of sweat flying off his head, flashing under fierce arena lights. The day my buddies checked out the still-wet artwork over beers in rural Penngrove, California (population 1,200) they asked what I planned to do with it. I said “First I’d like to show it to the man himself.” Being a totally unknown artist, it was no surprise when Chuck asserted, “Forget it, no way that’s ever going to happen.”
The Painting is an airbrushed oil inspired by Ali, who captured the imagination of my generation while attracting the heated derision of my father. Because it’s based on a small black-and-white photo from the San Francisco Chronicle sports section, I contacted the boxing editor Jack Fisk about getting permission to make prints.
He directed me to United Press International where I purchased clearance. More importantly Jack gave me Angelo Dundee’s phone number (Ali’s trainer and manager). “Maybe he’ll help you get Muhammad’s permission.”
Dundee is a world famous trainer of great athletes. I’d never imagined myself talking to someone of his stature. Surprisingly his secretary told me to hold the line, he was training a new guy. Maybe my pitch seemed unique because suddenly he’s on the phone. I tell him about The Painting and ask if I need Ali’s permission to make money off his image. Angelo said “No, everybody does it.” His curiosity was piqued and he gave me the number of Marge Thomas, who was in Los Angeles handling Ali’s business affairs. I told Angelo I was planning a move to LA. He said, “Good luck kid, send me a print”.
Once I got settled, I began calling Marge Thomas from work. At first she was accessible but always busy, telling me to call back. I called her twice a week for a month with similar results until one day she gave me directions to an office in Santa Monica. I figured, Ok, show The Painting to a few secretaries. Then she called back telling me not to come, there was a change in Ali’s plans. Connecting with Marge was getting tougher, and I reduced my calls to one a week until one day she flatly declared, “We’re not interested.”
I came so close. After a challenging move from NorCal in my ’74 Chevy Nova with The Painting stuffed in my loaded trailer amidst gas shortage lines.. I’d broken up with my girlfriend because of the move.. suffered a blown rear tire on PCH. I’ll spare you the rest. The quest to meet my hero had come to a dead end.
Months passed, I accepted The Painting’s fate, patiently resting in sublime anonymity on the wall of my surf bungalow. Then one day, sleepy-eyed bored from drafting disco layouts for the Jakarta Hyatt Regency I thought, ‘Hell, maybe I should give Marge Thomas one more call.’ To my astonishment this time she said “Yes, can you bring it over?” Whoah! Not ready – in the middle of work and we’re behind schedule.. “uh, sure, of course I’ll bring it over!”
Marge gave directions, this time to the Wilshire District. I concocted an excuse of sudden illness to my supervisor’s dismay. I split work, ripped down to Hermosa and gingerly loaded the 40” X 72” creation into the Nova’s hatchback. Jamming the northbound 405, we headed east on the 10 and north on Crenshaw toward Wilshire. Once past the guard gate I noted this is no business district, it’s Fremont Place, a ritzy neighborhood of stately mansions and leafy sun-dappled lanes. I‘m nearing Muhammad Ali’s home, pulling up the drive through classic colonnades right into his backyard. Marge Thomas rushes out apologizing that the Champ just left for Las Vegas and won’t be back until tomorrow. She says if I leave it overnight we could visit then. I’m not confident, thus far we’re hit-and-miss, but she reassures me it will be safe, so we carry it inside. Marge is an extremely beautiful Black woman with a friendly intelligent smile. I trust her. She writes a note declaring temporary possession, gives me his personal number and says to call him in the morning.. Right, just call Muhammad Ali in the morning. Crazy. I’ve gotten this far – should I ask him to buy it? Decisions. Sleep was hard to come by.
Next morning’s break I went to the pay phone in the rear lobby for privacy, took a deep breath and dialed the number:
“Hello”
“Muhammad?”
“This is he”
“Good morning, I’m Don Scott. I made the painting you have over there. Marge and I left it in the library.”
“That’s a great painting, I put it up where everybody can see it.”
“Thank you sir.. I was wondering.. if you might be interested in buying it?”
“I AIN’T BUYING NO PAINTING!” a growling Bengal Tiger’s about to rip through the phone and tear off my ear.
“Ok Champ!.. Whatever you say.. I’m just offering you a special deal.”
“How much do you want for it?”
“I was thinking five thousand.”
His voice softens, “Hmm – that’s a pretty good price… Can you come over?”
“Sure sir. Give me 30 minutes – I’ll be there.”
Again I face incredulous supervisorial reprimand upon requesting leave for a second consecutive day. Chill brother, I’m visiting Muhammad Ali!
He’s test driving a Rolls Royce, so I wait on his front porch, nervous, sweaty palm clutching a quivering clipboard. Emerging well-dressed and confident he heads up the sloping lawn toward me with quickening strides, suddenly on the attack! Fists clenched he throws a right cross that lands ka-POW!! on my raised clipboard, mere inches from my nose! Chuckling at his ice breaker, “You must be the guy with The Painting. Come in man, c’mon in.”
The Painting is resting prominently on a plush settee. Ali introduces me to his entourage. I answer questions before settling down to watch him do business. He’s turning down all offers. First the Rolls, next rejecting a group representing ‘the richest man on earth’. Then, turning to me, “Let’s go upstairs, I want to show you something.” What’s upstairs I wonder – drugs? Hennessy shots? The top floor houses Muhammad Ali’s personal art collection. Andy Warhol, LeRoy Neiman, many others. “See,” he says proudly, “Everybody gives me paintings.”
“Well, I’m not going to just give you The Painting Ali. I’m not successful like these guys.. anyway mine’s better.”
“Look at that Warhol,” with a giant sweep of his arm, “He gave me that last week.”
“It’s colorful but static. Mine’s more dynamic.”
“..and Neiman, he comes to my fights, beautiful, right?”
“It’s splashy, but out of control. You win bouts with precision blows. Mine’s more like that, a focused technique.”
Our ‘Battle in the Attic’ is interrupted by Marge announcing lunch is ready.
Over Crab Louie we discover common backgrounds, like artists in our families. We both refused military induction into the Vietnam War, opening a personal dialog that only a book could fully recount.
But Ali is relentless: “Just think how impressed gallery owners will be when they find out your piece is in Muhammad Ali’s personal collection. You can’t beat promotion like that.”
“You even said it’s a good price. You’d fight for free..?”
“I fought plenty for free! First amateur bout I made four dollars..”
His crazy kids barge in with a snail from the garden.
His doctor calls with a warning to quit fighting. They argue. More is revealed.
Evening approaches and Ali looks up from his desk, “Well?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t give you this painting Muhammad. Will you autograph it?”
“You want me to bless it, huh?”
“Ali, will you bless this painting?”
He signs carefully ‘To Don, Muhammad Ali. March 28, 1980.’
“This means a lot, the guys in Penngrove told me you’d never see it.”
“Never let anyone tell you can’t do something.”
We shake hands. As I’m heading out he adds, “You know what? You did the right thing. That’s a million dollar painting. If you gave it to me it’d just be upstairs with the rest of them. I’m not really a great art appreciator.”
I loaded The Painting in the mild lavender evening air and let the Nova guide us back to Hermosa. Mind on auto-pilot. The tires never touched the ground. ER