By Bob Markus
It wasn't always this way. Frank Maloney can remember the days when he would go onto the nearby Addison Street "L" platform and virtually beg waiting passengers to visit Wrigley
field to see a Cubs game. That was during the period when Cubs' manager Lee Elia famously ranted: "Eighty-five per cent of the people have jobs; the other 15 per cent come out here and boo the Cubs."
Now, as the Cubs prepare to open the National league playoffs Wednesday against the Los Angeles Dodgers, Maloney, the Cubs' longtime ticket manager, just has to worry how he's going to accommodate everybody clammoring for tickets to the greatest show on earth--the Cubs' quest to end a century of failure by, at long last, winning the World Series. The players may have the easier job. "When we got in the playoffs in'84," Maloney recalls, "I could help practically everybody. But now everybody wants to go to these games."
Maloney came to the Cubs in 1981, a pivotal year in Cubs' history. In a strike-shortened season, the Cubs averaged a little better than 10,000 fans a game and by the time play was resumed following the lengthy walkout, the team had been sold to Chicago Tribune Company. Now, with new Tribune owner Sam Zell apparently intent on selling the team, every game is a sellout of more than 40,000 and, beginning in 2004, the yearly attendance has exceeded three million--even in 2006, when the team lost 96 games.
"In those early days," recalled Maloney, "the upper deck was not open. We had 4,000 season ticket holders. Today we have 28,000 and there is a waiting list of 90,000. " The Cubs could, of course, probably sell out the entire ball park for the season, but to do so might have a negative impact on future fans. The team used to advertise that 10,000 seats would go on sale the day of every game. "That's just not good business practice," says Maloney. "You can't be holding back 10,000 seats for day of game sale." Today there are no game day sales at the box office. Every available seat was gone within a week of being put on sale last February. "People were camping out overnight," Maloney recalls.
Maloney lists several factors in transforming Wrigley Field from a neighborhood park to a national shrine. "When I first came here," he offers, "the neighborhood was kind of questionable as to whether it was going to become slummy. Then early in the 1980s the Yuppies started coming in and along with them came restaurants and bars. Second was Harry Caray. He was enormously important. He really sold this place. The third thing was cable TV. When cable came the Sox decided to try it; they left WGN-TV and that left it wide open for us."
Even Maloney admits to being amazed that so many people can afford to visit the north side temple of baseball, given the high cost of tickets. The Cubs have some seats called dugout boxes that go for $200 each and the rest of the field level boxes go for $80. For the division series the prices will range from $100 to $25, with world series seats, should the Cubs get that far, much higher.
"It's really difficult for the average guy to bring his kids out to the ball park," acknowledges Maloney. "I don't know if I could go out and do that. The other side of the coin is that no matter how high we raise the prices, there's a frenzy to buy them. But we aren't the priciest team in baseball. In the new Yankee Stadium some of the seats will go for $2,500."
By rights, Maloney should probably be working for the White Sox. A south sider, he was a center and line backer at Mt.Carmel High school back in the days when the Caravan was dominating the area prep scene. After playing for Bump Elliott at Michigan, where he was "mediocre at best," he enrolled in law school at Northwestern. But he also served as a volunteer coach at his old high school and when the head coach left, Maloney, at 21, was offered the head coaching job.
Several years earlier another young Mt. Carmel coach, Terry Brennan, had gone back to his alma mater, Notre Dame, where he replaced a legend, Frank Leahy. Maloney followed a somewhat similar career path. He coached Mt. Carmel for six years and, after winning the city championship game over Dunbar before 65,000 fans in Soldier Field, went back to Michigan as offensive line coach for Elliott. That was in 1968 and, despite going 8-2, Elliott was fired after that season for the egregious sin of being blown out by Ohio State, 50-14, in the final game. "Bo (Schembechler) came in and kept two of us assistants," remembers Maloney. "I became defensive line coach and was with Bo for five years."
Obviously, Maloney was not going to replace Schembechler at his alma mater, but he did replace a legendary coach, Ben Schwartzwalder, at Syracuse. In a quarter of a century at Syracuse, Schwartzwalder produced one national championship and two of the greatest running backs in the history of football, Jim Brown and Ernie Davis. But he went 2-9 in his final season and Maloney was brought in to get the Orangemen back on track.
He never really did. In his best season he went 7-5, including a victory in the Independance bowl, Syracuse's first postseason appearance in 13 years. He turned out some outstanding players, including NFL Hall of Famer Art Monk, who years later invited Maloney to his induction ceremony. He surrounded himself with some outstanding young assistants--Tom Coughlin, Nick Saban, George O'Leary, Jerry Angelo, all of whom became well-known head coaches or, in Angelo's case, an NFL general manager. "We had a good go," he says. But after seven years he was fired and "I made the decision not to coach any more. I was from the old school--hard-nosed--and that doesn't fly now. I had some chances. I could have gone here; I could have gone there. After I'd been with the Cubs one year I had a chance to go to Green Bay as an assistant. "
He's never regretted his decision to stay with the Cubs. "I'm the luckiet guy in the world," he says, "just being in this ball park and seeing people. The other day a kid who played for me at Mt. Carmel called. I hadn't seen him for 30 years."
I imagine that, in the coming few weeks, Maloney will be hearing from a lot of people he hasn't seen in 30 years.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
By Bob Markus
"What Babe Ruth joined together, George Brett tore asunder Friday night. In The House That Ruth Built, Brett wrecked the New York Yankees with a mamoth three-run home run in the seventh inning that sent the Kansas City Royals to a stunning 4-2 victory and into the World Series."
That was the lead of my story for the Chicago Tribune on Oct. 10, 1980, and the memory of that moment is the one I'll hold on to when metaphor gives way to reality later this year and the wrecking ball brings down Yankee Stadium, that great gray lady in the Bronx.
The situation was this: The Royals had taken a two games to none lead in the best of five American League Championship Series by winning the first two at home. But the Yankees, behind lefty Tommy John, were leading 2-1 in the seventh inning of Game Three and if John should falter there was always that ace in the hole--reliever Goose Gossage.
This was Gossage in his prime, the flame-throwing intimidator who had led the American League in saves. The call to the Goose came with two out and a man on base and after an infield hit by U.L. Washington, Brett stepped up to the plate. The Royals third baseman had just completed a season for the ages. His .390 batting average still remains the highest in the majors since Ted Williams hit .406 in 1941. This was drama of the highest order, the fastest gun on the hill versus the fastest bat on the planet and the game and perhaps the season on the line.
Upstairs in his private box, Yankees owner George Steinbrenner watched nervously and murmered: "This is what it's all about; Gossage vs. Brett. Brett is 0-for-7 right now? Don't tell me that; it doesn't mean a thing." And, of course, it didn't. Brett jumped on Gossage's first pitch and sent it screaming into the third deck in right field. There may have been longer homers hit in Yankee Stadium, but not many. There may have been more dramatic homers in baseball's most famous venue. But there can't have been any with more wrenching impact.
There are only a handfull of ball parks that enjoy the iconic status of Yankee Stadium. Fenway Park in Boston. Wrigley Field in Chicago. The rest of the historic hitting grounds have long given way to what is called progress, but actually is fiscal pragmatism. I'm not now nor have I ever been a Yankee fan. But love them or hate them, the Yankees still are the standard by which all other teams are measured. And Yankee Stadium, with its center field monuments and multiple championship banners, is still baseball's Valhalla. So I couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret while watching the closing ceremonies Sunday night.
This was the ball park where I saw Frank Gifford make one of the greatest football catches ever, laying out, parallel to the ground, to snare a Y.A. Tittle pass in a 1963 victory over the Pittsburgh Steelers that put the Giants in the NFL championship game.
This was the park, too, where I saw rival catchers Johnny Bench and Thurman Munson engage in a mano a mano World Series batting duel to turn a four-game Cincinnati sweep into a compelling story--with a little help from Reds' manager Sparky Anderson. If you ever wondered what would happen if Superman fought Captain Marvel you should have been in Yankee Stadium that night. Munson had four straight hits, running his streak to six in a row, while Bench answered with two homers and five r.b.i.s in the 7-2 Cincinnati victory.
When it was over, the Yankees were dead, Munson's ego lay in tatters at his feet, and Anderson had elevated Bench to the realm of the immortals. "Don't ever compare anyone to Johnny Bench," said Anderson, when asked to do just that. "You don't want to embarrass anybody. When Johnny Bench was born I believe God came down and touched his mother on the forehead and said, 'I'm going to give you a son who will be one of the greatest ball players ever seen.'"
Munson was standing next to Anderson at the time and was livid. "Nobody likes to lose," he said, "but when I stand and hear the crock of shit I just heard, that's the most embarrassing thing I've heard tonight. To be belittled after the season I had and the game I had tonight--well, it's sad enough to lose without having your face rubbed in it."
"I wasn't talking about Munson," claimed Anderson, although, neither Bill Dickey nor Yogi Berra being anywhere in the vicinity, it's difficult to understand which Yankee immortal was being trashed. "They've tried to compare him to a lot catchers," insisted Anderson. "They tried to compare him to Carlton Fisk last year. You can't do that. He is in a class totally his own. He is not in the National League or the American League. He is in another league, the league up in the sky."
Unlike his ebullient manager, Bench seemed to have his spikes planted firmly on the ground. "I don't think we have to be that vain to worry about whether someone is greater than we are," he said. "Someone is always greater than we are and someone is always going to come along who's greater still."
For me, this postgame trialogue was like manna from heaven. (I'm not sure what manna is and I probably wouldn't like it, but, oh, well, one cliche's as good as another.) When I had entered Yankee Stadium that night I was handed a message to call my office. When I did, sports editor George Langford told me that my wife was in the hospital, having collapsed from a bleeding ulcer, that she was in no immediate danger, but I needed to get home.
I booked a flight for early the next morning and, although I have never violated the "no cheering in the press box" rule, I was silently praying for a Cincinnati sweep. I would be going home regardless, but I had been assigned to cover the World Series and I didn't want to leave the job unfinished. My prayers were answered--and then some.
"What Babe Ruth joined together, George Brett tore asunder Friday night. In The House That Ruth Built, Brett wrecked the New York Yankees with a mamoth three-run home run in the seventh inning that sent the Kansas City Royals to a stunning 4-2 victory and into the World Series."
That was the lead of my story for the Chicago Tribune on Oct. 10, 1980, and the memory of that moment is the one I'll hold on to when metaphor gives way to reality later this year and the wrecking ball brings down Yankee Stadium, that great gray lady in the Bronx.
The situation was this: The Royals had taken a two games to none lead in the best of five American League Championship Series by winning the first two at home. But the Yankees, behind lefty Tommy John, were leading 2-1 in the seventh inning of Game Three and if John should falter there was always that ace in the hole--reliever Goose Gossage.
This was Gossage in his prime, the flame-throwing intimidator who had led the American League in saves. The call to the Goose came with two out and a man on base and after an infield hit by U.L. Washington, Brett stepped up to the plate. The Royals third baseman had just completed a season for the ages. His .390 batting average still remains the highest in the majors since Ted Williams hit .406 in 1941. This was drama of the highest order, the fastest gun on the hill versus the fastest bat on the planet and the game and perhaps the season on the line.
Upstairs in his private box, Yankees owner George Steinbrenner watched nervously and murmered: "This is what it's all about; Gossage vs. Brett. Brett is 0-for-7 right now? Don't tell me that; it doesn't mean a thing." And, of course, it didn't. Brett jumped on Gossage's first pitch and sent it screaming into the third deck in right field. There may have been longer homers hit in Yankee Stadium, but not many. There may have been more dramatic homers in baseball's most famous venue. But there can't have been any with more wrenching impact.
There are only a handfull of ball parks that enjoy the iconic status of Yankee Stadium. Fenway Park in Boston. Wrigley Field in Chicago. The rest of the historic hitting grounds have long given way to what is called progress, but actually is fiscal pragmatism. I'm not now nor have I ever been a Yankee fan. But love them or hate them, the Yankees still are the standard by which all other teams are measured. And Yankee Stadium, with its center field monuments and multiple championship banners, is still baseball's Valhalla. So I couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret while watching the closing ceremonies Sunday night.
This was the ball park where I saw Frank Gifford make one of the greatest football catches ever, laying out, parallel to the ground, to snare a Y.A. Tittle pass in a 1963 victory over the Pittsburgh Steelers that put the Giants in the NFL championship game.
This was the park, too, where I saw rival catchers Johnny Bench and Thurman Munson engage in a mano a mano World Series batting duel to turn a four-game Cincinnati sweep into a compelling story--with a little help from Reds' manager Sparky Anderson. If you ever wondered what would happen if Superman fought Captain Marvel you should have been in Yankee Stadium that night. Munson had four straight hits, running his streak to six in a row, while Bench answered with two homers and five r.b.i.s in the 7-2 Cincinnati victory.
When it was over, the Yankees were dead, Munson's ego lay in tatters at his feet, and Anderson had elevated Bench to the realm of the immortals. "Don't ever compare anyone to Johnny Bench," said Anderson, when asked to do just that. "You don't want to embarrass anybody. When Johnny Bench was born I believe God came down and touched his mother on the forehead and said, 'I'm going to give you a son who will be one of the greatest ball players ever seen.'"
Munson was standing next to Anderson at the time and was livid. "Nobody likes to lose," he said, "but when I stand and hear the crock of shit I just heard, that's the most embarrassing thing I've heard tonight. To be belittled after the season I had and the game I had tonight--well, it's sad enough to lose without having your face rubbed in it."
"I wasn't talking about Munson," claimed Anderson, although, neither Bill Dickey nor Yogi Berra being anywhere in the vicinity, it's difficult to understand which Yankee immortal was being trashed. "They've tried to compare him to a lot catchers," insisted Anderson. "They tried to compare him to Carlton Fisk last year. You can't do that. He is in a class totally his own. He is not in the National League or the American League. He is in another league, the league up in the sky."
Unlike his ebullient manager, Bench seemed to have his spikes planted firmly on the ground. "I don't think we have to be that vain to worry about whether someone is greater than we are," he said. "Someone is always greater than we are and someone is always going to come along who's greater still."
For me, this postgame trialogue was like manna from heaven. (I'm not sure what manna is and I probably wouldn't like it, but, oh, well, one cliche's as good as another.) When I had entered Yankee Stadium that night I was handed a message to call my office. When I did, sports editor George Langford told me that my wife was in the hospital, having collapsed from a bleeding ulcer, that she was in no immediate danger, but I needed to get home.
I booked a flight for early the next morning and, although I have never violated the "no cheering in the press box" rule, I was silently praying for a Cincinnati sweep. I would be going home regardless, but I had been assigned to cover the World Series and I didn't want to leave the job unfinished. My prayers were answered--and then some.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
By Bob Markus
Every time I tune in a newscast I'm told that there has been a shift in the polls. "A new poll shows that John McCain and Barack Obama are now dead even," one pundit tells me. "The latest poll shows that Senator McCain has pulled ahead of his opponent in the critical Panhandle of Oklahoma," shouts another. "This just in," intones another voice. "A poll of left handed oral surgeons shows Barack Obama is biting into John McCain's lead. Heh-heh."
I don't want to hear it. I want a poll I can trust. I want a meaningful poll. I want the AP college football poll. Now, the AP poll is not without its flaws, its little quirks. It tends to be a little too static sometimes, too slow to change. Once a team is anointed No. 1, it takes an earthquake to dislodge it. But at least it never told us: Dewey Defeats Truman.
And there are signs the college football writers who vote in the AP poll are becoming a little less unbending. They dropped Georgia out of their preseason No.1 spot despite an opening week victory and dropped the Bulldogs down again following last Saturday's lackluster 14-7 victory at South Carolina. I can't remember when that happened before. I was an AP voter for a few years back in the '80s and I always tried to vote on the basis of what a team had done rather than where I had ranked it the previous week.
Many of my fellow voters, however, seemed to feel that if they had ranked a team No.1 in the preseason poll they were honor-bound to keep it No.1 until it lost a game. Even then they would automatically elevate the No.2 team regardless of how that team had performed, as long as it kept on winning. That's why I've always thought there should be no preseason poll, which is a reflection of how the voters THINK a team will play.
Another guide line I tried to follow was to consider not only how a team played, but who it played. Today, strength of schedule is emphasized in making the pairing for the Bowl Championship Series title game. In fact, it's overemphasized. The formula utilizes both computer rankings and strength of schedule components. But, presumably, the computer rankings already have factored in strength of schedule.
To me, it appears the AP voters have gotten it right so far this year. They properly recognized East Carolina, a team that nobody had in his top 25, for its two upsets of ranked teams, and voted the Pirates into the top 15. They rewarded Southern Cal for its opening blowout of Virginia, moving the Trojans into the top spot, a move USC validated with its romp over Ohio State Saturday night.
Of course, five SEC teams in the top 10 seems a bit much, but that will sort itself out when those five teams--Florida, LSU, Auburn, Alabama, and Georgia start playing one another. First up: No. 6 LSU plays at Auburn Saturday night, and the host Tigers will need more than the three points that were enough to beat Mississippi State last Saturday. If the SEC is the conference of choice for the pollsters, then Tigers is the nickname of choice. In addition to Auburn and LSU, Missouri's Tigers are in the top ten, ranked No. 5.
There's still a long way to go, but Southern Cal seems secure in the No.1 spot. The Pac 10, which in my view was the best conference in the country the last few seasons, is way down this year and only Oregon seems a likely challenger to the powerful Trojans. And the Ducks, for the second year in a row, have lost their starting quarterback. Arizona State appeared to be a top 20 team until losing at home to UNLV Saturday night and California was bounced out of the top 25 by Maryland..
Southern Cal's blowout of Ohio State was pretty predictable. The Buckeyes looked terrible in their win over Ohio the previous week, when they trailed into the fourth quarter, and there's no need to recount their miserable failures in the last two BCS championship games. This simply is not that good a team. So if this is Southern Cal's signature victory of the season there is a chance that somebody--Oklahoma? Missouri? An unbeaten SEC champion?--could leapfrog the Trojans into the No.1 spot. But I can't see USC falling any farther than No.2, which still puts them into the title game.
SECOND THOUGHTS--Brigham Young may have another Heisman Trophy quarterback on its hands in Max Hall, who threw seven touchdown passes in the 59-0 torching of UCLA last week-end. Despite their long history of outstanding passers, which includes Steve Young and Virgil Carter, their only Heisman winner so far has been Ty Detmer. Missouri's Chase Daniel still looks like the front runner. . . .BYU, by the way, could run the table, at least until its final game when the Cougars play Utah in what looks like the Mountain West Conference championship game. The winner could go on to a BCS bowl game. Utah has a win over Michigan under its belt and both teams are ranked in the top 20. . . .Ohio State thought it had seen the last of the Trojans, but its next game will find them once more facing the men of Troy. This time it's Troy University and don't be totally shocked if the Buckeyes lose again. Troy is the only unbeaten team in the Sun Belt conference, which is lightly regarded, but has two victories over BCS teams this year. Arkansas State knocked off Texas A & M in the season opener and Middle Tennessee State upended Maryland a week later. Troy opened its season with a 31-17 win over Middle Tennessee. Regardless of the outcome Saturday, the Buckeyes might not be Troy's toughest opponent this season. The mini-Trojans still have to play at LSU in a game that was postponed by Hurricane Ike. . . .Don't put too much stock in Notre Dame's victory over Michigan. The Irish, who in most previous years would have been highly ranked after opening a season 2-0, received only 4 votes in the AP poll and rightly so. They struggled to beat San Diego State in the season opener and then beat the worst Michigan team I've seen since the late 1960s. That's when Bo Schembechler stepped in and returned the Wolverines to the glory days of Fritz Crisler. I had an early insight into Schembechler's fiery nature when I was paired with him in a golf outing the summer before his first season. I played my usual pathetic golf and Bo wasn't much better. At the end of the first nine he thrust his golf bag at the caddy and sputtered:"I gotta go and recruit."
Every time I tune in a newscast I'm told that there has been a shift in the polls. "A new poll shows that John McCain and Barack Obama are now dead even," one pundit tells me. "The latest poll shows that Senator McCain has pulled ahead of his opponent in the critical Panhandle of Oklahoma," shouts another. "This just in," intones another voice. "A poll of left handed oral surgeons shows Barack Obama is biting into John McCain's lead. Heh-heh."
I don't want to hear it. I want a poll I can trust. I want a meaningful poll. I want the AP college football poll. Now, the AP poll is not without its flaws, its little quirks. It tends to be a little too static sometimes, too slow to change. Once a team is anointed No. 1, it takes an earthquake to dislodge it. But at least it never told us: Dewey Defeats Truman.
And there are signs the college football writers who vote in the AP poll are becoming a little less unbending. They dropped Georgia out of their preseason No.1 spot despite an opening week victory and dropped the Bulldogs down again following last Saturday's lackluster 14-7 victory at South Carolina. I can't remember when that happened before. I was an AP voter for a few years back in the '80s and I always tried to vote on the basis of what a team had done rather than where I had ranked it the previous week.
Many of my fellow voters, however, seemed to feel that if they had ranked a team No.1 in the preseason poll they were honor-bound to keep it No.1 until it lost a game. Even then they would automatically elevate the No.2 team regardless of how that team had performed, as long as it kept on winning. That's why I've always thought there should be no preseason poll, which is a reflection of how the voters THINK a team will play.
Another guide line I tried to follow was to consider not only how a team played, but who it played. Today, strength of schedule is emphasized in making the pairing for the Bowl Championship Series title game. In fact, it's overemphasized. The formula utilizes both computer rankings and strength of schedule components. But, presumably, the computer rankings already have factored in strength of schedule.
To me, it appears the AP voters have gotten it right so far this year. They properly recognized East Carolina, a team that nobody had in his top 25, for its two upsets of ranked teams, and voted the Pirates into the top 15. They rewarded Southern Cal for its opening blowout of Virginia, moving the Trojans into the top spot, a move USC validated with its romp over Ohio State Saturday night.
Of course, five SEC teams in the top 10 seems a bit much, but that will sort itself out when those five teams--Florida, LSU, Auburn, Alabama, and Georgia start playing one another. First up: No. 6 LSU plays at Auburn Saturday night, and the host Tigers will need more than the three points that were enough to beat Mississippi State last Saturday. If the SEC is the conference of choice for the pollsters, then Tigers is the nickname of choice. In addition to Auburn and LSU, Missouri's Tigers are in the top ten, ranked No. 5.
There's still a long way to go, but Southern Cal seems secure in the No.1 spot. The Pac 10, which in my view was the best conference in the country the last few seasons, is way down this year and only Oregon seems a likely challenger to the powerful Trojans. And the Ducks, for the second year in a row, have lost their starting quarterback. Arizona State appeared to be a top 20 team until losing at home to UNLV Saturday night and California was bounced out of the top 25 by Maryland..
Southern Cal's blowout of Ohio State was pretty predictable. The Buckeyes looked terrible in their win over Ohio the previous week, when they trailed into the fourth quarter, and there's no need to recount their miserable failures in the last two BCS championship games. This simply is not that good a team. So if this is Southern Cal's signature victory of the season there is a chance that somebody--Oklahoma? Missouri? An unbeaten SEC champion?--could leapfrog the Trojans into the No.1 spot. But I can't see USC falling any farther than No.2, which still puts them into the title game.
SECOND THOUGHTS--Brigham Young may have another Heisman Trophy quarterback on its hands in Max Hall, who threw seven touchdown passes in the 59-0 torching of UCLA last week-end. Despite their long history of outstanding passers, which includes Steve Young and Virgil Carter, their only Heisman winner so far has been Ty Detmer. Missouri's Chase Daniel still looks like the front runner. . . .BYU, by the way, could run the table, at least until its final game when the Cougars play Utah in what looks like the Mountain West Conference championship game. The winner could go on to a BCS bowl game. Utah has a win over Michigan under its belt and both teams are ranked in the top 20. . . .Ohio State thought it had seen the last of the Trojans, but its next game will find them once more facing the men of Troy. This time it's Troy University and don't be totally shocked if the Buckeyes lose again. Troy is the only unbeaten team in the Sun Belt conference, which is lightly regarded, but has two victories over BCS teams this year. Arkansas State knocked off Texas A & M in the season opener and Middle Tennessee State upended Maryland a week later. Troy opened its season with a 31-17 win over Middle Tennessee. Regardless of the outcome Saturday, the Buckeyes might not be Troy's toughest opponent this season. The mini-Trojans still have to play at LSU in a game that was postponed by Hurricane Ike. . . .Don't put too much stock in Notre Dame's victory over Michigan. The Irish, who in most previous years would have been highly ranked after opening a season 2-0, received only 4 votes in the AP poll and rightly so. They struggled to beat San Diego State in the season opener and then beat the worst Michigan team I've seen since the late 1960s. That's when Bo Schembechler stepped in and returned the Wolverines to the glory days of Fritz Crisler. I had an early insight into Schembechler's fiery nature when I was paired with him in a golf outing the summer before his first season. I played my usual pathetic golf and Bo wasn't much better. At the end of the first nine he thrust his golf bag at the caddy and sputtered:"I gotta go and recruit."
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
By Bob Markus
A few days ago I received in the mail an offer from the Neptune Society to register me for a drawing for a free cremation. Since cremation is my choice for the disposal of my mortal remains, any way, I thought about it for quite awhile before depositing the invitation in the trash basket along with the remains of the other dozen or so solicitations that arrive daily.
I may be committed to the concept of cremation, but I'm not ready for the reality of the ash heap just yet. Besides, I didn't want anybody at the Neptune Society to be burdened with the guilt of a former New York Times obit writer who once famously admitted that he'd written some advance obits that were so good he could hardly wait for the subject to die so he could see his master work in print.
I've written some advance obits myself, but usually they involved people I knew so I really never had any desire to hasten their demise. Among the sports notables whose obits I wrote premortem were Jack Dempsey, Al Lopez, Harry Caray and Leo Durocher. Although I once met Dempsey in his New York restaurant, I can't claim to have really known him. But I was well acquainted with the last three, whose obituaries I wrote in the same day somewhere in the mid 1980s. All are gone now, but I was in my ninth year of retirement before Lopez, who lived to be 97, died in August of 2005. So I have no idea whether my 2o-year-old obit of El Senor, as the former catcher and White Sox manager was known, was used.
Only this morning did I learn of the passing of Don Gutteridge, the quiet--some would say, too quiet--man who succeeded Lopez as White Sox manager in 1970. Gutteridge was almost spectacularly unsuccesssful in his one year at the helm of the Sox, but he had earlier distinguished himself as a longtime coach for Lopez.
Two other deaths in the past week or so have been of more than passing interest to me. One was golfer Tommy Bolt, whom I never met, but nonetheless feel as if he were an intimate friend. My only personal contact with Bolt, the 1958 U.S. Open champion, came--where else?--on a golf course. The Tam O'Shanter Golf club in suburban Chicago to be precise.
Tam O'Shanter was the site of a yearly tournament backed by a local businessman, George S. May, and for a time it offered by far the highest payout of any tournament in the world. Think of it as the Dubai Desert Classic of its day. As a teenager, along with my best friend, Lawry Johnson, I'd go out to the tournament in the early morning and stay until the last shot was fired.
In those days, your daily pass entitled you to almost complete access to the players. You could pick out your favorite and walk right along with him down the fairway, unless your favorite was Ben Hogan, and then the size of his gallery mandated certain restraints. To be sure, I was a Ben Hogan fan, but it didn't take all day for him to play 18 holes. So one morning, Lawrey and I started following a young, good looking golfer named Tommy Bolt.
Bolt, it turned out, was not only a pretty good golfer, but a highly entertaining golfer, as well. As he strode down the fairway he'd make comments to the fans following in his wake. Over all these years I can still remember his screaming at a fan who had the temerity to talk while Tommy was lining up a shot, "put a nickel in your nose if you want to be a juke box." In addition, Bolt was prone to displaying his temper, alternately cursing and throwing his clubs whenever the gods of golf turned against him. But he was a beautiful shot maker and lots of fun being around.
The other recent death that caught my eye was that of Todd Cruz, a former utlity player for several teams, who died at the age of 52 while swimming in the pool of his Arizona apartment complex. Most of the obits focused on the fact that Cruz was the regular third baseman for the Baltimore Orioles in the 1983 World Series, won by the Orioles. I remember him for a far different reason.
I was covering the White Sox for The Chicago Tribune in 1981 while Cruz was rehabilitating an injury in Edmonton, site of the club's Triple A farm team. The Sox were playing a night game somewhere in the East--might have been Detroit or Cleveland; I can't recall. What I do recall is that after filing my story on that night's game, I called the copy desk and was told the opposition paper had a story that Cruz had been arrested in Edmonton for breaking into a department store after hours and stealing some watches.
When you are a beat reporter and hear news like that you have two immediate reactions. The first is, Damn, I've messed up. The second is, what can I do to retaliate? So I picked up the phone and called Cruz in his hotel room. To my amazement, he answered the phone and my questions with equal alacrity. As I remember it, he said he'd had too much to drink, had broken into the Hudson's Bay store, and fallen asleep. He was snoozing away when the police came and found him. He had just been released and gotten back to his room when I called.
As it happened, the White Sox were scheduled to play an exhibition game in Edmonton the next night. I'd planned to skip the exhibition game and go straight to California, site of the next regularly scheduled game, but, obviously, those plans changed. When I arrived at the hotel in Edmonton, along with the team, there was Todd Cruz in the lobby, three or four watches adorning his left wrist and forearm, asking: "Anybody wanna buy a watch?" You couldn't help admiring his sense of humor even while wondering where he'd obtained the watches. Ultimately Cruz was sentenced to nine months probation and, to my knowledge, never had any further trouble with the law.
Most major newspapers have their own obituary writers, the most famous having been Alden Whitman, the New York Timesman who pioneered the concept of interviewing living people for their own future obituaries. This takes a modicum of Chutzpah as I found out when I rather uncomfortably interviewed Harry Caray for what I described to him as "a feature story."
The majority of sports related obits, however, are handled in the sports department. The master of the genre at The Tribune was David Condon, conductor of the In The Wake of The News column, which for years was the only sports column in the paper. Condon was a gifted writer who sent his subjects into the great beyond with loving care and beautiful prose. I always said that when I died I wanted Dave Condon to write my obit. In one of life's ironies I ended up writing his.
When I wrote a column, I found the obit page a useful source of column ideas. One I recall was of Don McCafferty, who succeeded Don Shula as head coach of the Baltimore Colts and led them to the Super Bowl title in his first year. Less than four years later he was dead. Although I had covered that Super bowl victory over the Dallas Cowboys, I didn't get to know McCafferty until training camp the next year.
One of my assignments during this period was to cover the pro champions' training camp as they prepared to play the College All-Stars in the annual exhibition game, sponsored by The Tribune, that kicked off the new season. The Colts' training camp at the time was at Western Maryland university in Westminster, Md. I had only been in camp a few hours when Ernie Accorsi, then the Colts' public relations director and later, as New York Giants general manager, the man who traded for Eli Manning, proposed we go out to Os & Ginnys, the local gin joint, for beer and pizza.
The saloon served as post-practice meeting hall for both players and coaches, an unusual arrangement necessitated by the fact it was the only joint in town. Players had use of the facility until the 11 o'clock curfew, when the coaches, having had their fill of film study and game plan adjustments, would take over.
On this night McCafferty had engaged in a shuffle board contest with a local hotshot. I don't recall who won but I'll never forget the reaction to the column I wrote about the evening. That Sunday night I was having dinner with Accorsi and his wife when the phone rang and Ernie went to pick it up. I could hear him say, "Yes, he's here," and a short time later Accorsi returned to the table and said, "That was Freddie Schubach (the Colts' longtime equipment manager.) He asked if you were here and I said you were. Then he said, 'keep him there because Os is sitting on the steps of the dormitory with a shotgun and says he's going to kill him.'"
It wasn't until much later that I discovered it was Don McCafferty who talked Os into going home. Os had stormed into McCafferty's room, gun in hand, demanding to know where that s.o.b. columnist from Chicago was hiding, because he, by God, was going to kill him if he ever found him. He showed McCafferty the offending column and at that point there are some coaches in the NFL who would have said, "Wait a minute. I'll get my gun and we'll shoot the s.o.b. together."
Not McCafferty. Instead, Big Mac spent two hours of his evening off talking the irate saloon keeper out of his mission of mayhem. McCafferty never said anything to me about the incident. Except at breakfast the next morning he called me over and scolded: "You'll get along better around here if you remember what the coaching staff does outside of coaching hours is its own business." Seeing I was properly chastized, he added: "Now sit down and have some breakfast."
I think the best obit I ever wrote was about Bill Stern, a long forgotten radio sports announcer who was a giant in his day. Younger readers probably never heard of him but to kids of my generation he was our window to the sports world. We didn't have television back then so we'd sit in front of the big floor model radio on a Saturday afternoon and listen to Bill Stern's description of a football game.
He was our eyes and it's no secret to report that he often gave us a distorted view. He ws famous for calling the wrong ball carrier on a long touchdown run and attempting to correct his error by inventing a lateral at the 5-yard line that put the ball back in the hands of the guy who had it all the time. A football game described by Bill Stern was often much more exciting than the one people were watching from the stands.
Once, when Stern was about to call a big horse race, a colleague reminded him: "Remember, Bill, you can't lateral a horse." When television came, Bill Stern was finished, of course. Not only can't you lateral a horse, you can't get away with distorted or sloppy reporting of an event the viewer can see with his own eyes. A 3-yard plunge into the line is only that, not a meeting of the gods at Valhalla.
But Bill Stern was more than a play-by-play announcer. He had a sports show every night right after supper--which is what we called it at our house--and I would no more have missed that than a modern kid would miss the Saturday morning cartoons. Stern's show consisted of stories about famous people, all of them relating to sports and all of them complete fabrications. We didn't know that then of course. It was a long time before I found out that Thomas Edison's deafness was not caused by his being hit by a fastball thrown by--Jesse James!
The Bill Stern story that has stuck with me all these years is about the little boy in the southern state of Georgia who loved to play football. I couldn't recount for you a single detail of the story, which had something to do with the kid eventually going into politics, but I'll never forget Stern's kicker: . ...." for this was not the Georgia in the southern part of the United States, but the Georgia in the southern part of Russia, and the boy's name was (pause for emphasis)--Josef Stalin. "
So long, Bill, and if you happen to run into Abe Lincoln up there, ask him about the time he won the state wrestling championship.
A few days ago I received in the mail an offer from the Neptune Society to register me for a drawing for a free cremation. Since cremation is my choice for the disposal of my mortal remains, any way, I thought about it for quite awhile before depositing the invitation in the trash basket along with the remains of the other dozen or so solicitations that arrive daily.
I may be committed to the concept of cremation, but I'm not ready for the reality of the ash heap just yet. Besides, I didn't want anybody at the Neptune Society to be burdened with the guilt of a former New York Times obit writer who once famously admitted that he'd written some advance obits that were so good he could hardly wait for the subject to die so he could see his master work in print.
I've written some advance obits myself, but usually they involved people I knew so I really never had any desire to hasten their demise. Among the sports notables whose obits I wrote premortem were Jack Dempsey, Al Lopez, Harry Caray and Leo Durocher. Although I once met Dempsey in his New York restaurant, I can't claim to have really known him. But I was well acquainted with the last three, whose obituaries I wrote in the same day somewhere in the mid 1980s. All are gone now, but I was in my ninth year of retirement before Lopez, who lived to be 97, died in August of 2005. So I have no idea whether my 2o-year-old obit of El Senor, as the former catcher and White Sox manager was known, was used.
Only this morning did I learn of the passing of Don Gutteridge, the quiet--some would say, too quiet--man who succeeded Lopez as White Sox manager in 1970. Gutteridge was almost spectacularly unsuccesssful in his one year at the helm of the Sox, but he had earlier distinguished himself as a longtime coach for Lopez.
Two other deaths in the past week or so have been of more than passing interest to me. One was golfer Tommy Bolt, whom I never met, but nonetheless feel as if he were an intimate friend. My only personal contact with Bolt, the 1958 U.S. Open champion, came--where else?--on a golf course. The Tam O'Shanter Golf club in suburban Chicago to be precise.
Tam O'Shanter was the site of a yearly tournament backed by a local businessman, George S. May, and for a time it offered by far the highest payout of any tournament in the world. Think of it as the Dubai Desert Classic of its day. As a teenager, along with my best friend, Lawry Johnson, I'd go out to the tournament in the early morning and stay until the last shot was fired.
In those days, your daily pass entitled you to almost complete access to the players. You could pick out your favorite and walk right along with him down the fairway, unless your favorite was Ben Hogan, and then the size of his gallery mandated certain restraints. To be sure, I was a Ben Hogan fan, but it didn't take all day for him to play 18 holes. So one morning, Lawrey and I started following a young, good looking golfer named Tommy Bolt.
Bolt, it turned out, was not only a pretty good golfer, but a highly entertaining golfer, as well. As he strode down the fairway he'd make comments to the fans following in his wake. Over all these years I can still remember his screaming at a fan who had the temerity to talk while Tommy was lining up a shot, "put a nickel in your nose if you want to be a juke box." In addition, Bolt was prone to displaying his temper, alternately cursing and throwing his clubs whenever the gods of golf turned against him. But he was a beautiful shot maker and lots of fun being around.
The other recent death that caught my eye was that of Todd Cruz, a former utlity player for several teams, who died at the age of 52 while swimming in the pool of his Arizona apartment complex. Most of the obits focused on the fact that Cruz was the regular third baseman for the Baltimore Orioles in the 1983 World Series, won by the Orioles. I remember him for a far different reason.
I was covering the White Sox for The Chicago Tribune in 1981 while Cruz was rehabilitating an injury in Edmonton, site of the club's Triple A farm team. The Sox were playing a night game somewhere in the East--might have been Detroit or Cleveland; I can't recall. What I do recall is that after filing my story on that night's game, I called the copy desk and was told the opposition paper had a story that Cruz had been arrested in Edmonton for breaking into a department store after hours and stealing some watches.
When you are a beat reporter and hear news like that you have two immediate reactions. The first is, Damn, I've messed up. The second is, what can I do to retaliate? So I picked up the phone and called Cruz in his hotel room. To my amazement, he answered the phone and my questions with equal alacrity. As I remember it, he said he'd had too much to drink, had broken into the Hudson's Bay store, and fallen asleep. He was snoozing away when the police came and found him. He had just been released and gotten back to his room when I called.
As it happened, the White Sox were scheduled to play an exhibition game in Edmonton the next night. I'd planned to skip the exhibition game and go straight to California, site of the next regularly scheduled game, but, obviously, those plans changed. When I arrived at the hotel in Edmonton, along with the team, there was Todd Cruz in the lobby, three or four watches adorning his left wrist and forearm, asking: "Anybody wanna buy a watch?" You couldn't help admiring his sense of humor even while wondering where he'd obtained the watches. Ultimately Cruz was sentenced to nine months probation and, to my knowledge, never had any further trouble with the law.
Most major newspapers have their own obituary writers, the most famous having been Alden Whitman, the New York Timesman who pioneered the concept of interviewing living people for their own future obituaries. This takes a modicum of Chutzpah as I found out when I rather uncomfortably interviewed Harry Caray for what I described to him as "a feature story."
The majority of sports related obits, however, are handled in the sports department. The master of the genre at The Tribune was David Condon, conductor of the In The Wake of The News column, which for years was the only sports column in the paper. Condon was a gifted writer who sent his subjects into the great beyond with loving care and beautiful prose. I always said that when I died I wanted Dave Condon to write my obit. In one of life's ironies I ended up writing his.
When I wrote a column, I found the obit page a useful source of column ideas. One I recall was of Don McCafferty, who succeeded Don Shula as head coach of the Baltimore Colts and led them to the Super Bowl title in his first year. Less than four years later he was dead. Although I had covered that Super bowl victory over the Dallas Cowboys, I didn't get to know McCafferty until training camp the next year.
One of my assignments during this period was to cover the pro champions' training camp as they prepared to play the College All-Stars in the annual exhibition game, sponsored by The Tribune, that kicked off the new season. The Colts' training camp at the time was at Western Maryland university in Westminster, Md. I had only been in camp a few hours when Ernie Accorsi, then the Colts' public relations director and later, as New York Giants general manager, the man who traded for Eli Manning, proposed we go out to Os & Ginnys, the local gin joint, for beer and pizza.
The saloon served as post-practice meeting hall for both players and coaches, an unusual arrangement necessitated by the fact it was the only joint in town. Players had use of the facility until the 11 o'clock curfew, when the coaches, having had their fill of film study and game plan adjustments, would take over.
On this night McCafferty had engaged in a shuffle board contest with a local hotshot. I don't recall who won but I'll never forget the reaction to the column I wrote about the evening. That Sunday night I was having dinner with Accorsi and his wife when the phone rang and Ernie went to pick it up. I could hear him say, "Yes, he's here," and a short time later Accorsi returned to the table and said, "That was Freddie Schubach (the Colts' longtime equipment manager.) He asked if you were here and I said you were. Then he said, 'keep him there because Os is sitting on the steps of the dormitory with a shotgun and says he's going to kill him.'"
It wasn't until much later that I discovered it was Don McCafferty who talked Os into going home. Os had stormed into McCafferty's room, gun in hand, demanding to know where that s.o.b. columnist from Chicago was hiding, because he, by God, was going to kill him if he ever found him. He showed McCafferty the offending column and at that point there are some coaches in the NFL who would have said, "Wait a minute. I'll get my gun and we'll shoot the s.o.b. together."
Not McCafferty. Instead, Big Mac spent two hours of his evening off talking the irate saloon keeper out of his mission of mayhem. McCafferty never said anything to me about the incident. Except at breakfast the next morning he called me over and scolded: "You'll get along better around here if you remember what the coaching staff does outside of coaching hours is its own business." Seeing I was properly chastized, he added: "Now sit down and have some breakfast."
I think the best obit I ever wrote was about Bill Stern, a long forgotten radio sports announcer who was a giant in his day. Younger readers probably never heard of him but to kids of my generation he was our window to the sports world. We didn't have television back then so we'd sit in front of the big floor model radio on a Saturday afternoon and listen to Bill Stern's description of a football game.
He was our eyes and it's no secret to report that he often gave us a distorted view. He ws famous for calling the wrong ball carrier on a long touchdown run and attempting to correct his error by inventing a lateral at the 5-yard line that put the ball back in the hands of the guy who had it all the time. A football game described by Bill Stern was often much more exciting than the one people were watching from the stands.
Once, when Stern was about to call a big horse race, a colleague reminded him: "Remember, Bill, you can't lateral a horse." When television came, Bill Stern was finished, of course. Not only can't you lateral a horse, you can't get away with distorted or sloppy reporting of an event the viewer can see with his own eyes. A 3-yard plunge into the line is only that, not a meeting of the gods at Valhalla.
But Bill Stern was more than a play-by-play announcer. He had a sports show every night right after supper--which is what we called it at our house--and I would no more have missed that than a modern kid would miss the Saturday morning cartoons. Stern's show consisted of stories about famous people, all of them relating to sports and all of them complete fabrications. We didn't know that then of course. It was a long time before I found out that Thomas Edison's deafness was not caused by his being hit by a fastball thrown by--Jesse James!
The Bill Stern story that has stuck with me all these years is about the little boy in the southern state of Georgia who loved to play football. I couldn't recount for you a single detail of the story, which had something to do with the kid eventually going into politics, but I'll never forget Stern's kicker: . ...." for this was not the Georgia in the southern part of the United States, but the Georgia in the southern part of Russia, and the boy's name was (pause for emphasis)--Josef Stalin. "
So long, Bill, and if you happen to run into Abe Lincoln up there, ask him about the time he won the state wrestling championship.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
By Bob Markus
The college football season, my favorite season, has already kicked off, baseball is just beginning its sweet September song, and the New York Giants open defense of their Super bowl title in two days. So why am I still writing about the Olympics? Because I promised. And not being the presidential candidate for either party, I tend to keep my promises.
At the end of last week's column (I prefer to think of myself as a columnist rather than a bloggist), I had quoted Mark Spitz as saying that Michael Phelps, who had just eclipsed Spitz's record seven gold medals in Olympic swimming, was "maybe the greatest athlete of all time." No way, I responded, with the promise of explaining myself this week.
I remember years ago, when I was an embryo columnist for The Chicago Tribune, writing that Arnold Palmer could not be Athlete of the Year because golfer's weren't athletes. I had in mind the fact that there were pro golfers with their bellies hanging over their belts and others so skinny they could be mistaken for flag sticks. A few weeks later I happened to be sitting next to Palmer at a luncheon when he broached the subject, gently chiding me and explaining why I was wrong. He emphasized the intense focus required on every shot over a four-day period and the mental stress involved, the ability to perform under pressure.
Thinking it over, I now agree that golfers and race drivers and, yes, even swimmers, have a case for being acclaimed as Athletes of the Year. But that is a transitory honor, and I wouldn't be surprised if Phelps were to be named Male Athlete of the Year for 2008, even though I personally believe that Jamaican sprinter Usain Bolt was the most gifted athlete of the Beijing Games.
But greatest athlete of all-time? That takes more than the ability to swim faster for a short distance than any one in the history of the known world. The Olympic motto is "swifter, higher, stronger," and, for me, you'd have to excel in at least two out of the three to even be considered the greatest athlete of all time.
So, if Phelps had also won gold in, say, the platform dive he could figure in this discussion. If Bolt had added the long jump title to his 100 and 200 meter victories, he could be in the mix. Carl Lewis won four consecutive golds in the long jump and another five in the 100 and 200 meter sprints. Jesse Owens won those same three events in the 1936 "Nazi Olympics." They'd both be on my ballot.
Traditionally, the winner of the Olympic decathlon is recognized as the world's best athlete, which makes sense, inasmuch as all three skills are involved in 10 events over two gruelling days. But, in part because NBC's TV coverage all but ignored track and field, the 2008 decathlon winner, Bryan Clay, has been mostly unappreciated, while earlier decathlon winners like Bob Mathias, Rafer Johnson, Bill Toomey, and Bruce Jenner all were lionized in their day. Legend has it that when King Gustav of Sweden gave Jim Thorpe his gold medal in the 1912 Stockholm Games, he declared, "You, sir, are the greatest athlete in the world."
He was right and not just because Thorpe had won both the pentathlon and decathlon in the same Olympics. Thorpe also was a Hall of Fame football player both as an amateur and a professional. He was a two-time All-America for the Carlisle Indian school, which won the national championship in 1912 after going 11-1 the previous year. In its championship season Carlisle beat Army 27-6 in a game in which Thorpe ran 92 yards for a touchdown on one play and 97 yards the next play when the first run was wiped out by a penalty.
After the Olympics, Thorpe played major league baseball for the New York Giants and Cincinnati Reds. In six years he played in 289 games, batting only .252 with seven home runs. As a baseball player he is best remembered for driving in the only run in the celebrated double no-hit game between Fred Toney and Hippo Vaughn, won by Toney's Reds, 1-0, in 10 innings.
He later played for the Canton Bulldogs in the fledgling National Football League and even barnstormed with an All-American Indian pro basketball team. All of which points to Thorpe as the greatest athlete ever. But, as my friend Lee Corso would say, "not so fast, my friend."
There is one other multi-talented athlete I would present for your consideration. My choice for greatest athlete ever is--the Babe.
No, not Babe Ruth, although had he not gone into the Hall of Fame as the greatest over-all hitter of all-time, he surely would have made it as a pitcher. In the three years in which he was a fulltime starting pitcher he had a 65-33 combined record (18-8, 23-12, 24-13) and in one season completed 35 of his 38 starts. His record of 29 2/3 scoreless innings in the world series, established in 1918, lasted until 1961. Ruth is the only one-sport performer I would even consider for the title World's Greatest Athlete.
The Babe I'm talking about is Babe Didrikson Zaharias. All-America in basketball. Winner of two gold medals and a silver in the 1932 Olympics. One of the top five women golfers--ever. Only woman to make the cut in a men's PGA tournament. And have I mentioned that she once barnstormed with the House of David baseball team, the only woman and the only beardless person on the team? The stuff of legends.
As a basketball player, Babe Didrikson led her AAU team to the 1931 national championship. In the 1932 AAU track championships, then the equivalent of the Olympic Trials, she entered eight events, won five of them, all in world record time, and tied for first in a sixth. The lone entrant for her team, she won the team championship all by herself.
Although she had qualified for the Olympics in six events, the rules of the time permitted her to compete in only three. She won gold in the javelin and 80 meters hurdles, then cleared the high jump at the same height as teammate Jean Shiley, but was awarded only the silver medal because of her head first style, not as readily accepted then as it became in the post Fosbury Flop era.
Then she reinvented herself. Took up a new sport. Took on a new name. Although she won an amateur golf tournament in 1932, she did not get serious about the game until 1935 when she took lessons from a pro for the first time. By then she had lost her amateur status because her name appeared in a car ad. She would get it back in 1943 and at one time won 17 straight amateur tournaments.
In the interim she would play--and fail to make the cut--in the 1938 Los Angeles Open. But she got a consolation prize. One of her playing partners was George Zaharias, a professional wrestler from Colorado known as "The Crying Greek from Cripple Creek." In less than a year they were married and, as Babe Zaharias, she would make the cut in three men's tournaments and take the golf world, women's division, by storm. A founding member of the LPGA, she won 41 LPGA events.
She won 10 of what at the time were major tournaments for women, four of them as an amateur. In 1950 she won all three of them. Her last victory in a major tournament came at the 1954 Women's U.S. Open, which she won only a month after surgery for the colon cancer that would kill her two years later. She was 45 when she died.
There have been athletes good enough in two sports to play and even star as professionals. None in my memory has dominated more sports than The Babe. As for Michael Phelps, congratulations for a job well done. See you in four years. Maybe by then you'll have added to your repertoire, taken up water polo or channel swimming, perhaps. Then we'll have this discussion again.
The college football season, my favorite season, has already kicked off, baseball is just beginning its sweet September song, and the New York Giants open defense of their Super bowl title in two days. So why am I still writing about the Olympics? Because I promised. And not being the presidential candidate for either party, I tend to keep my promises.
At the end of last week's column (I prefer to think of myself as a columnist rather than a bloggist), I had quoted Mark Spitz as saying that Michael Phelps, who had just eclipsed Spitz's record seven gold medals in Olympic swimming, was "maybe the greatest athlete of all time." No way, I responded, with the promise of explaining myself this week.
I remember years ago, when I was an embryo columnist for The Chicago Tribune, writing that Arnold Palmer could not be Athlete of the Year because golfer's weren't athletes. I had in mind the fact that there were pro golfers with their bellies hanging over their belts and others so skinny they could be mistaken for flag sticks. A few weeks later I happened to be sitting next to Palmer at a luncheon when he broached the subject, gently chiding me and explaining why I was wrong. He emphasized the intense focus required on every shot over a four-day period and the mental stress involved, the ability to perform under pressure.
Thinking it over, I now agree that golfers and race drivers and, yes, even swimmers, have a case for being acclaimed as Athletes of the Year. But that is a transitory honor, and I wouldn't be surprised if Phelps were to be named Male Athlete of the Year for 2008, even though I personally believe that Jamaican sprinter Usain Bolt was the most gifted athlete of the Beijing Games.
But greatest athlete of all-time? That takes more than the ability to swim faster for a short distance than any one in the history of the known world. The Olympic motto is "swifter, higher, stronger," and, for me, you'd have to excel in at least two out of the three to even be considered the greatest athlete of all time.
So, if Phelps had also won gold in, say, the platform dive he could figure in this discussion. If Bolt had added the long jump title to his 100 and 200 meter victories, he could be in the mix. Carl Lewis won four consecutive golds in the long jump and another five in the 100 and 200 meter sprints. Jesse Owens won those same three events in the 1936 "Nazi Olympics." They'd both be on my ballot.
Traditionally, the winner of the Olympic decathlon is recognized as the world's best athlete, which makes sense, inasmuch as all three skills are involved in 10 events over two gruelling days. But, in part because NBC's TV coverage all but ignored track and field, the 2008 decathlon winner, Bryan Clay, has been mostly unappreciated, while earlier decathlon winners like Bob Mathias, Rafer Johnson, Bill Toomey, and Bruce Jenner all were lionized in their day. Legend has it that when King Gustav of Sweden gave Jim Thorpe his gold medal in the 1912 Stockholm Games, he declared, "You, sir, are the greatest athlete in the world."
He was right and not just because Thorpe had won both the pentathlon and decathlon in the same Olympics. Thorpe also was a Hall of Fame football player both as an amateur and a professional. He was a two-time All-America for the Carlisle Indian school, which won the national championship in 1912 after going 11-1 the previous year. In its championship season Carlisle beat Army 27-6 in a game in which Thorpe ran 92 yards for a touchdown on one play and 97 yards the next play when the first run was wiped out by a penalty.
After the Olympics, Thorpe played major league baseball for the New York Giants and Cincinnati Reds. In six years he played in 289 games, batting only .252 with seven home runs. As a baseball player he is best remembered for driving in the only run in the celebrated double no-hit game between Fred Toney and Hippo Vaughn, won by Toney's Reds, 1-0, in 10 innings.
He later played for the Canton Bulldogs in the fledgling National Football League and even barnstormed with an All-American Indian pro basketball team. All of which points to Thorpe as the greatest athlete ever. But, as my friend Lee Corso would say, "not so fast, my friend."
There is one other multi-talented athlete I would present for your consideration. My choice for greatest athlete ever is--the Babe.
No, not Babe Ruth, although had he not gone into the Hall of Fame as the greatest over-all hitter of all-time, he surely would have made it as a pitcher. In the three years in which he was a fulltime starting pitcher he had a 65-33 combined record (18-8, 23-12, 24-13) and in one season completed 35 of his 38 starts. His record of 29 2/3 scoreless innings in the world series, established in 1918, lasted until 1961. Ruth is the only one-sport performer I would even consider for the title World's Greatest Athlete.
The Babe I'm talking about is Babe Didrikson Zaharias. All-America in basketball. Winner of two gold medals and a silver in the 1932 Olympics. One of the top five women golfers--ever. Only woman to make the cut in a men's PGA tournament. And have I mentioned that she once barnstormed with the House of David baseball team, the only woman and the only beardless person on the team? The stuff of legends.
As a basketball player, Babe Didrikson led her AAU team to the 1931 national championship. In the 1932 AAU track championships, then the equivalent of the Olympic Trials, she entered eight events, won five of them, all in world record time, and tied for first in a sixth. The lone entrant for her team, she won the team championship all by herself.
Although she had qualified for the Olympics in six events, the rules of the time permitted her to compete in only three. She won gold in the javelin and 80 meters hurdles, then cleared the high jump at the same height as teammate Jean Shiley, but was awarded only the silver medal because of her head first style, not as readily accepted then as it became in the post Fosbury Flop era.
Then she reinvented herself. Took up a new sport. Took on a new name. Although she won an amateur golf tournament in 1932, she did not get serious about the game until 1935 when she took lessons from a pro for the first time. By then she had lost her amateur status because her name appeared in a car ad. She would get it back in 1943 and at one time won 17 straight amateur tournaments.
In the interim she would play--and fail to make the cut--in the 1938 Los Angeles Open. But she got a consolation prize. One of her playing partners was George Zaharias, a professional wrestler from Colorado known as "The Crying Greek from Cripple Creek." In less than a year they were married and, as Babe Zaharias, she would make the cut in three men's tournaments and take the golf world, women's division, by storm. A founding member of the LPGA, she won 41 LPGA events.
She won 10 of what at the time were major tournaments for women, four of them as an amateur. In 1950 she won all three of them. Her last victory in a major tournament came at the 1954 Women's U.S. Open, which she won only a month after surgery for the colon cancer that would kill her two years later. She was 45 when she died.
There have been athletes good enough in two sports to play and even star as professionals. None in my memory has dominated more sports than The Babe. As for Michael Phelps, congratulations for a job well done. See you in four years. Maybe by then you'll have added to your repertoire, taken up water polo or channel swimming, perhaps. Then we'll have this discussion again.
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