B.A.S.S. Founder Ray Scott, The Father of Modern Bass Fishing, Has Died
Sadly, I learned of the passing of my friend, Ray Scott.
Like everyone else, for years I’d seen his “showmanship side” on TV. But it wasn’t until the mid 1990s, after I attended a Bassmasters Classic event in North Carolina for my ad agency client, Silstar, that I came to really know Ray.
It’s the spring of 1995 and the Greensboro arena is packed to its gills with fishermen stomping their feet on metal floors and loudly cheering for what is about to happen. There is no standing room left. There is no room left at all. Stuffed into one of the entrance halls, I’m a sardine peering between sunburned, ball-capped bodies.
Suddenly, everyone is quiet. The spotlights come on. Decked out in his trademark cowboy hat, fringed leather jacket and an ascot, Ray Scott glides out onto the stage. The audience is awestruck and the building erupts like a volcano. For perhaps 10 minutes an ear-ringing roar rattles the windows and doors of the building. Then, the screaming, admiring fans form a human wave that circles the arena time after time. Even from a distance, I can see that Ray is truly humbled. I was stunned, thinking, “these people really do love Ray.”
In that noisy, crowded arena, the concept, and the title for a Sporting Classics feature story on Ray Scott occurs to me. When I get back home, I take my idea to our editors. And “The Bass God” by Richard Behm appears in the January-February 1996 issue. The ink on the issue has not entirely dried when Ray calls me and asks bluntly, “Duncan, I understand The Bass God, was your idea?”
I’ve got no idea whether he likes it or not, but I fess up, “Yes sir, it was.”
“Well, you certainly captured the real me!” He pauses, “Warts and all. Thank you. I love the story!
“Warts make all your other parts look better,” I say. And a friendship was born.
From then on, whenever I saw him at a show or restaurant, he always invited me over to eat or at least sit with him and his entourage, treating me like a friend he’d known for his many years. He even helped us with our World Record Bass Spoof in the March-April 1997 issue, providing clever ideas that made that story such a success.
A few years ago, he invited me to come fishing at his place in Alabama. I slept in the George Bush bedroom. And of course, I caught a huge number of monster bass. But the real thrill was sitting on the porch of his home and talking with Ray about growing up in the South, testing each other’s knowledge on how to construct a proper jigger pole, and telling the stories all fishermen love to tell.
Ray Scott: Rest In Peace, my friend.
Duncan Grant, Publisher
