Stories My Father Told Me

by Patrick Drake

My dad told me a lot of good stories over the years about his time shooting for Sports Illustrated and Time-Life, but most of them I've since forgotten. They were usually just little anecdotes, mainly celebrity sightings with no big punch line or payoff, but interesting nonetheless. Like sitting poolside at the luxurious Beverly Hills Hotel next to classic Hollywood stars like Cary Grant -- or was it Jimmy Stewart at the Beverly Hills Hilton? Or both? I can't remember. Sports Illustrated would put the photographers up in fancy places back then. They even flew the shooters first class early on, reasoning they would be better rested and take better pictures when they got there. (Of course, they later rethought the financial wisdom of all that.) He told me stories like bumping into James Garner in the hallway at a big fight in Las Vegas. Or was it James Coburn? He told me he was at a party once with an NFL player who had a reputation for eating glass, and according to my dad, the guy really did eat the glass. (He had likely crossed paths with Eagles linebacker Tim Rossovich, who was known for biting the tops off beer bottles and chewing the glass, not to mention setting himself on fire and other crazy stunts.) My dad told me he once hung out of a helicopter to get good photos of sailboats in Hawaii, and hung from the ceiling of the Spectrum in Philly to get overhead shots of the Ringling Brothers Circus. He drank blood and cow urine with the Maasai in Kenya when covering distance runners for the Olympics. Boxer Larry Holmes once even offered to straighten out his crooked nose, all for free.

My dad said it was a lot of fun, but always complained there was a lot of pressure, too. One bad shoot and you might be out, as there was an expectation for great photography. There was plenty of competition among the photographers, who were always vying for better photo placement in the magazine and sweeter assignments that would likely get better play. And it wasn't just bragging rights they were after. They were paid more the more often and prominently their photos were used. So, there was some “delicate” office politics amongst the SI photographers and editors, but there was also plenty of light-hearted camaraderie. For example, they were always carrying around that wide, silver gaffer tape on assignments. It was handy for holding up lights or rigging cameras if you didn't have the proper clamp or tripod with you. So on one assignment, it must have been a big event like the Super Bowl or World Series where they sent multiple photographers, a couple of my dad's Sports Illustrated friends snuck into his hotel room and used his own gaffer tape to tape all his clothes to the ceiling. (I think he said the main culprit was John Iacono.) Let's hope the ceiling wasn't too high, or there was at least a ladder nearby. No man should have to cover the Super Bowl without clean underwear. Here are a few more of the better stories I can remember.

Showdown on the Riverside Raceway with the "King of Cool"

It was 1966, and my dad was taking pictures of Steve McQueen at the Riverside Raceway in Riverside, California. The idea was to have Steve, then a huge Hollywood action star also known as a big driving enthusiast and car nut, try out several new sports cars on the raceway, get good pictures, and have Steve write-up his take on the cars for a big feature story in Sports Illustrated. Steve was a former competitive driver later known for his films Bullitt, which has one of Hollywood's all-time best car chases, and Le Mans, a straight-ahead racing movie, not to mention his iconic motorcycle scenes from The Great Escape. My dad had planted himself at one of the turns on the raceway with a bunch of his cameras, tripod and equipment, and was getting some good shots of Steve driving by. (I don't know which car he was driving, but it was probably the Aston Martin DB6, that's a close cousin of the ultimate James Bond car, the DB5, or the Jaguar 2 + 2, a sports car that looks a little like a 1960s groovy space ship, or the Corvette Sting Ray, because the other cars in the story were convertibles. Those little details matter to all the car buffs out there.)

On one pass, Steve slowed down and stopped his car right in front of my dad. "Hey, get in," he said. "I know a much better spot for pictures." Well, what do you think my dad did? It's best not to disappoint the subject of the story. He got in. Then Steve floored it. He took off like a bat out of hell, and my dad was pinned back in his seat. Steve took the turns fast and hard, and the cameras around my dad's neck started flying all over the place. They bounced off the door, the roof, and swung all around. This was a real racetrack. There were no cops or stop lights. My dad was probably shitting a brick, but he did his best to act cool around the man known as the "King of Cool." (Did I mention my dad was into classical music? Do you think Steve likes Stravinsky? I'm sure it would have been the perfect time to ask.) After four or five turns Steve slammed on the breaks, and the car came to a screeching halt at a sharp turn with a nice grassy area for my dad to shoot. "Here we are," said Steve. My dad finally caught his breath and got out, but the new spot was a lot like the last place. "You know, the view really isn't any better from here," said Steve. "I just wanted to see how thick your mud was." Well, that was Steve McQueen. They used a bunch of my dad's pictures in a big spread for the story in the August 8, 1966, issue. And the article by Steve is a good read if you are at all into driving (see https://www.mcqueenonline.com/sportsillustrated66.html).

Da' Bears, Wrigley Field, and the Curse of the "On-Street Platform"

This story comes to me through the eyes of Neil Leifer, a well-known Sports Illustrated photographer and friend of my father's. It was 1963, and the Chicago Bears were one of the best teams in football. It was November, when the season was just getting into crunch time, and they were set to play the mighty Green Bay Packers, who were also having a great year in the midst of their 1960s glory days. Both teams were coming into the game 8-and-1, almost undefeated, and were battling for dominance of the NFL's Western Division and the league as a whole. At the time, the Bears played their home games at Wrigley Field. This storied stadium in Chicago, also home to the Cubs, has a low wall on one side that allows for a view of the field from the street if you are perched up high enough. (This setup eventually led to neighbors selling seats to the Cubs games from their home rooftops across the way.)

Both Neil and my dad were assigned to the big game, with both hoping for a big score photo-wise. "We were really competitive, for sure," Neil told me. "Each of us wanted to get the cover of the magazine, or a big spread on the inside pages. Half the time your dad won, and half the time I won." The Sports Illustrated picture editor at the time, George Bloodgood, wanted some wide shots of the game, so he assigned Neil to shoot from a wooden platform that had been erected out in the street for just this purpose. He must have had a genuine interest in seeing the whole field captured in one picture, but it seems funny now that an accomplished photographer like Leifer would have the same view as the neighbors across the street, who might have no interest in the game whatsoever. "Bloodgood told me it was going to be great," said Neil, but he couldn't quite believe him. It was too big a game for some sort of unconventional or artistic photo. And back then, they didn't have the huge telephoto lenses they have now. He needed action shots, and he had to be close in to get them, but "... I was on this damn platform on the street, I wasn't even in the stadium!" he said. He knew my dad was inside on the sidelines, likely getting better pictures.

The game was a low-scoring affair until the Bears' Willie Galimore, then one of the best running backs in the league, broke some tackles, jumped over some guys, and went on a game-breaking, 27-yard run for a touchdown. And sure enough, he did it right in front of my dad, who snapped the shutter at just the right moment to capture the leaping runner. Bloodgood used the photo on the cover of that week's issue, November 25th, 1963, with the headline 'The Bears on Top!' "That was a fantastic photo," said Neil, who still remembers it well, although not necessarily pleasantly. Sometimes the ones that get away are the ones that you remember best. The Bears went on to win the NFL Championship, and Neil and my dad got plenty of other great SI covers over the years. (By the way, one of the guys Galimore was jumping over was the legendary Bears coach Mike Ditka, then a tight end with the team. You can just make out his face grimacing on the bottom of cover.)

The Vice President, Watergate and the Case of the “Missing” Film

My dad was working on a story about Vice President Gerald Ford in June of 1974. This was the height of the Watergate scandal. President Nixon was being impeached in the House of Representatives over the Watergate break-ins and alleged coverup. If Nixon was impeached or resigned, Ford would presumably become President. That is, if he wasn't mixed-up in the whole sordid affair himself. Ford was a big sports fan and athlete, which was the point of the magazine story. He was the captain of his high school football team and a former collegiate All-Star, playing center for the University of Michigan Wolverines back in the 1930s. But at the time he was known as a big golf fan. He loved golf, and played in several pro-am tournaments with guys like Bob Hope. His wayward shots were the stuff of legend! They would occasionally hit spectators, usually to the amusement of the press and all the Nixon-haters out there. I imagine it was something out of a Jerry Lewis movie. "Oh, look out, nice lady!!!"

My dad's assignment was to take his picture playing golf, at home with his wife, Betty, and working at his office in the West Wing of the White House. Even back then, getting into the White House to see the Vice President was difficult. You needed special permission, and had to go through a lot of security. But Sports Illustrated was a big outlet, so my dad got in no problem. All his camera bags were checked carefully. He got though security okay, but he still had to get past the Vice President's personal secretary. This was a dour, middle-aged, church-lady type sitting behind a big desk in an outer office. She was probably carefully selected for the job for her "enforcement" skills. She didn't like the looks of my dad, but he had an appointment, so she begrudgingly let him in. Once inside, Ford was a fun, genuine sports fan and likable guy with a pleasant personality. (That's according to my dad, anyway.) He got some nice shots of the Vice President, then started to leave before he wore out his welcome. Some of the those big-shot celebrities and politicians can be intimidating and testy, especially when you are on their turf, so you have to know how to work the room, so-to-speak.

Once out in the hallway, he recomposed himself and started to double-check all his equipment. Had he forgotten something? Yes, one of the rolls he shot was missing. Darn it! He must have left it in the Vice President's office. This was embarrassing. Should he just forget about it? No, the film was everything when you are a photographer. No film, no story, no next assignment from the picture editor, no job, no nothing. He needed that film. So he started walking back to the VP's office, trying to appear confident. It didn't work. "What are you doing? Where do you think you are going? Who are you?" asked the secretary. Even though he was just in there and obviously part of the press who had already made it past security, she had apparently forgotten all of this in the minute and a half he was out in the hallway. My dad tried to explain he was just looking for some lost film, but it wasn't working. Would she call security? (Would she sick Nixon's "Plumbers" on him? I can just imagine her on the phone, "Get me G. Gordon Liddy, right away!")

Eventually, the Vice President poked his head outside the door of his inner office and asked what all the hubbub was. My dad explained he lost one of his rolls. "Well, let's find it!" said the Vice President, full of pleasant enthusiasm and pep. They went inside his office and starting looking. They lifted the cushions off the couch. They bent down and peered under the desk. They looked behind the drapes. After a minute or two of this, my dad realized having the Vice President act like a cleaning lady, basically on a wild goose chase in his own office, probably wasn't the best use of time for a man who was likely to be the next leader of the free world. "Oh, I'll be okay without it," said my dad, giving up. "But let me know if you find it." He went back into the hallway and triple-checked his gear. There was the missing roll alright, right at the bottom of one of his camera bags. He had inadvertently smuggled it out of the office without realizing it. My dad got the film back to the magazine in New York, the Vice President was on the cover of Sports Illustrated for July 8th issue, Nixon resigned, and Ford was sworn in as President in August. He pardoned Nixon, and was later lampooned on a weekly basis by Chevy Chase and the writers of Saturday Night Live for his poor golf game and clueless, bumbling nature.

The Red Clay of Roland Garros and the Red-hot Ire of Johnny Mac

My dad was covering the French Open in 1988, one of tennis' four major tournaments and the third most-important of the year by most observers' standards. The great John McEnroe was playing. The notoriously temperamental McEnroe, known for his signature on-court meltdowns, was entering the twilight of his career, but he was still very dangerous, and a threat to win the entire tournament. He had just defeated the young upstart Michael Chang, who would be next year's champion at only 17-years-old. The stadium was Roland Garros in Paris, which had distinctive red clay courts and relatively small court-side areas behind the baseline. To help keep the photographers out of the way, and simultaneously allow them close to the action, the stadium employed little dugouts that were partially sunk below the court surface. (Presumably, the idea was to avoid the kind of incident that happened at the 2025 US Open, when a freelance photographer disrupted a first-round match of former champion Daniil Medvedev by moving onto the court, leading to a McEnroe-style tantrum being thrown at the chair umpire.) After Chang, McEnroe's next opponent was Ivan Lendl, then the dominant player who had won the title the last two years in a row. He was a grinding baseliner, an iceman-type who waited for you to lose your cool and make a mistake. (Johnny Mac, lose his cool? What are the chances?) McEnroe was a serve-and-volleyer who would rush into the net and try to end the point early with a touch volley or sweet angle shot. But he had already blown a two-set lead to the same guy in the 1984 final, indeed losing his cool, shouting at a court-side TV cameraman who had apparently distracted him with a noisy headset, and eventually losing the match.

In 1988, it was a fourth-round rematch between the two great players on the same court. During one big point when McEnroe was serving, my dad took some photos with a motor drive just as Mac was about to make contact with the ball high over his head. "Snap-snap-snap-snap-snap!!" went my dad's camera. Mac looked right at my dad and said, "You guys pick the worst times to snap those damned pictures!!!!" Did my dad say anything back? I doubt it. (Did I mention the classical music?) From the angle of my dad's photos, I think he was in one of those little dugouts. But I guess they don't help the photographers stay out of trouble when Mac is playing. McEnroe went on to complain about the rain, slippery court, darkness, and line calls in a series of unhinged temper tantrums that make Johnny Mac an American original and living legend. The match was delayed until the next day, when Mac would ultimately lose to Lendl, who was himself defeated in the quarterfinal.

Was it all my dad's fault? Let's hope not. My dad later flew straight from Paris to New York on the French Concorde to get the film from the final back to Sports Illustrated right away, and as he used to say, "I flew on the Concorde, and went back in time." You see, due to the Paris-New York time difference, you actually arrive before you leave, at least on paper, when flying that route on the supersonic Concorde. Well, my dad got a good story out of it. And after all, he got off a lot better than the chair umpire. You know you've arrived in the sports world when Johnny Mac yells at you.

Hanging with "The Greatest" Before He Was Champ

In February of 1963, my dad got an assignment to photograph a new and upcoming boxer for Life magazine. Back then, Life magazine was the real deal, the center of the photojournalism world. It didn't get any bigger than Life. I'm sure my dad must have been excited about it, as he had only done a few small assignments for them at that point. Who cares who the fighter was? This was Life magazine. The boxer in question was in fact a serious heavyweight who had won the Olympic gold medal in Rome in 1960, and was then just 21-years-old. The kid was a real piece of work. A black guy from Louisville, Kentucky, he was constantly bragging about how pretty he was, spouted poetry left and right, and had the uncanny ability to predict what round his opponents would get knocked out in -- "They fall in the round I call," as he said. They called him the "Lip of Louisville," but he had the nerve to call himself "The Greatest." His real name was Cassius Clay, which he later changed to Muhammad Ali.

"He was just a loud-mouthed guy back then, you could have never anticipated the legend he would become," said Neil Leifer, a prominent Time-Life photographer and friend of my father's who eventually became well-known for his Ali photos. At the time, Clay was itching for a chance to fight the world champion, Sonny Liston, as it was a shot at the heavyweight title. But my dad met him when he was a contender to be a contender, so-to-speak. He was in Pittsburgh for a fight with an ex-NFL player, Charley Powell. My dad's job was to hang out with Ali before and after the fight, photograph everything, and then Life writer Don Moser would write it all up for a big photo spread in the magazine. There are a ton of photos from that set. My dad was there taking pictures when Clay knocked out Powell in three, just like he said he would, when he bought a new pink Cadillac convertible, when he took out his portrait of Sonny Liston just to snarl at, when he sparred with brother Rudy for the press, when he bought a new suit of stylish clothes to go with the car, when talking to nuns at Nazareth College where he once had an after-school job, when talking to fans at restaurants and hotel lobbies, when watching himself on TV, or when just walking down the street in Louisville with brother Rudy. In other words, my dad shot everything. My dad may have even road-tripped with him and Moser from Pittsburgh to Louisville in the new Cadillac.

Ali's friend and photographer Howard Bingham was also along for the ride, also photographing just about everything. Ali seem to love the limelight and attention ("Am I pretty? I'm too beautiful to be a fighter."), but even he had his limits. After about a week of this, they were driving around downtown Louisville with Ali at the wheel and Howard and my dad in the back seat taking pictures. Suddenly, Ali pulled the wheel hard over to the side and slammed on the breaks, pulling over near an empty sidewalk. He got out and started pacing back and forth, lifting up his arms and looking skyward. "God damn, I can't stand going around with you guys taking my picture every three seconds. It's driving me crazy." I can just see him in his new suit, topcoat and Cadillac at twenty-one, cursing the heavens on the wintry streets of Louisville. Ah, the price of fame -- or, pardon me, the price of "The Greatest"-ness. My dad said Ali was nice to be around, but all the photography just got to him.

The story came out in the February 15th issue of Life, and they used seven of my dad's photos. Leifer remembers the spread. "When it happened, I didn't think anything of it. But in retrospect, I wish I was there ... They were pictures I wish I had taken," said Leifer, because they were so early in Ali's career. "... Your dad was probably the first really good sports photographer who shot Cassius Clay," Neil later told me. Well, I think Neil also did okay with Ali in the end. His picture of the champ snarling over the real Liston, not just the portrait, is considered one of the greatest sports photos of all time. And my dad covered plenty more of Ali's fights. His photo of Ali regaining the heavyweight title at the Spinks rematch made the cover of Sports Illustrated on September 25, 1978.

Ken Venturi and a "Turn of Fate"

This story also comes to me by way of Sports Illustrated photographer Neil Leifer, who has a clear memory of it all these years later, even though he wasn't even there. It was Saturday the 20th of June in 1964, and my dad was covering the US Open at the Congressional Country Club in Bethesda, Maryland, a suburb of Washington, D.C. Leifer was watching it all on TV, and for once, happy to be away from the action. The east coast was in the middle of a sweltering heat wave. "It was well over 100 degrees and humid," said Neil, who was at home in New York in the air conditioning. "People were fainting." In those days, they played two 18-hole rounds on the final day of the tournament, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. So, all the players and photographers had 36 holes to cover that day. But unlike the players, the photographers didn't get a caddy, and couldn't use golf carts. Ken Venturi, the eventual winner who was tied for fourth before the final day, was advised by doctors to bow out, as he was suffering dehydration from the oppressive heat, and was at serious risk of heat stroke. He decided to carry on with the help of tea and salt tablet treatments between rounds, and so did my dad, but without the treatments.

Neil recognized both my dad and Walter Iooss, Jr., one of Sports Illustrated's top shooters, at the event. (This guy was known for his amazing action shots. He eventually shot over 300 Sports Illustrated covers, so he was not to be taken lightly, photo-wise. His name is pronounced "Yose," and his nickname was "Coast-to-Coast Iooss," as he frequently criss-crossed the country on big-time assignments.) "Somehow, they managed to walk 36 holes with those heavy cameras," said Neil, who was admiring their endurance and curious which of the pair would end up with the better photos in the magazine. Venturi, who had come close to winning the Masters a couple of times and been on the cover a few years earlier with his chief rival, Arnold Palmer, had a chance to win his first major if he could beat the leader, Tommy Jacobs, as Palmer had faded after leading in the first round on Thursday, and Nicklaus and the other big players were back in the pack. For Ken, winning would also be redemption, after playing through injuries for years and those near-misses at the Masters.

Venturi rallied and shot a fantastic 66 and 70 over final two rounds, setting a US Open record, and came into the lead on the ninth hole in the afternoon. Jacobs had already finished. It all came down to one big put on the 18th green. Make it and Ken was champion. But the heat was so bad, nothing was guaranteed. It was getting later in the day. "The light was beautiful," said Neil, who saw my dad on one side of the green and Walter on the other. Venturi was lining up a 10-foot put for the victory with a perfect view for Walter. Neil was sure he was going to get the cover with such a dramatic story, finish, view, and natural light all working for him. "Then, the minute Venturi sank the put, he turned around and faced your dad," Neil told me. Now it was my dad who had the perfect view of Ken's sublime reaction in the warm, late-afternoon sunlight. Now it seemed my dad would get the cover. And indeed, he did. They used his photo with the headline 'Venturi's Sizzling Victory' on the June 29th issue. "I wanted to have the cover," said Neil, who had become engrossed in the TV coverage and now wanted in on the story. "But, thank god, I wasn't there. I couldn't have taken the heat." After that year, they expanded the tournament to four days, with just one round per day, presumably to avoid such a grueling, two-round finish for the players. For some reason, I doubt they were worried about the photographers.

Ken Venturi after winning the 1964 US Open

Muhammad Ali in 1963, possibly offering my dad and Howard Bingham three dollars each to stop taking his picture

Wrigley Field in 1981, showing a view of the action from across the street

Sports Illustrated photographers Walter Iooss (left), James Drake (center), and Neil Leifer at Super Bowl VIII in 1974

Photographer James Drake at the 1973 US Open

My dad with Cary Grant at Dodger Stadium during the 1966 World Series

Photographer James Drake at the 1984 Winter Olympics in Sarajevo

Muhammad Ali and Howard Bingham in 1963