Shooting ALI
memory + words: alicia shulman
It’s February 1998, just my typical Sunday in midtown Manhattan. Except for one thing. I’ve heard that Muhammad Ali is in town for the NBA All-Star Game, staying at the Sheraton Hotel, the host property of the festivities. It’s my dream to photograph the great Ali, so I venture to the hotel late in the afternoon with a letter of request, hoping that it will be delivered to him.
You have to understand: I consider this totally normal behavior. Tucked in with the note are several carefully-chosen four-by-six-inch images of fighters I’ve already taken in my newfound quest to become – of all things – a boxing photographer. Capturing the lightning-fast action and breadth of human emotion pushes the boundaries of my comfort zone and challenges me artistically. I might as well aim for the top. The fact that I don’t yet know an f-stop from an aperture doesn’t concern me much.
I approach the concierge, explaining that I’m doing work for a magazine called “Fight Game” and that it’s critical the envelope be given to Mr. Ali. Amused by the petite auburn-maned Long Island princess before him, he promises it will be delivered.
Familiar faces like world heavyweight champion Evander Holyfield and Motown president George Jackson pass by me as I work my way back through the bustling lobby to the street. I’m emotionally depleted and ready to go home.
I go to bed early. The phone wakes me from a deep sleep. It’s only nine-thirty.
“Hi, Alicia? This is Lonnie Ali. Muhammad Ali’s wife.”
Nobody is playing a joke on me here. I know this because, in an effort to not jinx things, I haven’t breathed a word to a soul.
In that blurred zone straddling slumber and awakening, I’m unsure if I’m dreaming. Then, I hear the soft voice:
“This is Muhammad Ali. Would you like to come over and take some photos?”
Now is not the time to obsess about wardrobe. I play it safe and jump into a simple black sheath, pumps, and make-up. Though inappropriate on this unusually mild evening but just right for a visit with royalty, I pull Grandma Hannah’s vintage mink from the front closet.
Minutes later, I’m in a taxi, my pedestrian point-and-shoot camera clenched tightly in hand. Except for my thumping heart, it’s a quiet ride to the hotel where the Ali’s have arranged for security to escort me.
Lonnie Ali, warm and welcoming, ushers me through the suite’s double doors and marble foyer into the vast living room.
He’s sitting at the dining table.
The Greatest.
A gentle giant in a Missoni-esque sweater.
Myth meets reality.
My breath catches, and the magnitude of the moment shoots through me like electric current. Their young son sits cross-legged on the floor, engrossed in the gigantic television, oblivious to the thirty-nine year old guest who’s in the midst of crafting the memory of a lifetime.
Ali invites me to put the coat down and motions for me to sit in front of him. He’s fascinated that this girl-next-door would be on the apron of a boxing ring in the testosterone-fueled circus of the fight game. He wants me to know that it’s a tough arena for a woman. I tell him I’m deceivingly scrappy and that my father was an athlete and a coach.
“Let’s take some pictures,” he suggests.
Ali looks me in the eye and smiles.
“Click”
I ask him to look down and lose the smile.
“Click click”
Not wanting to trespass on Muhammad and Lonnie’s generosity, I choose my shots wisely, snapping only a few. We chat a bit longer. Then I say goodbye and leave the suite, take the elevator downstairs, and disappear out onto Seventh Avenue.
I don’t yet know that the universe has a plan and that, one day, this treasured night will come full circle. That, when The Greatest passes, one of the images I’ve just captured will be emblazoned on the back of the dust jacket of Thomas Hauser’s book, “Muhammad Ali: A Tribute to the Greatest.”
