By Bob Markus
"There was a guy from The Chicago Tribune who. . . ." Before Dean Smith could finish the sentence, the first he had ever spoken to me, I jumped in and confessed, "Yeah that was me." I had gone to Chapel Hill in the late spring of 1976 to do a story on the U.S. Olympic basketball team, which had assembled at the University of North Carolina to begin working out for the Montreal Games coming up that summer. Smith was going to coach the team, which he himself had hand picked. In constructing his roster the Tar Heels coach had leaned rather heavily on Atlantic Coast conference players. Too heavily, I thought. This was a critical year in U.S. Olympic basketball history. The 1972 team had suffered a stunning upset loss to Russia in the Gold Medal game in Munich and Smith was charged with assembling and coaching a team that would restore the United States to its rightful place at the top of the world. Most Americans felt that the Gold Medal had been stolen by the Russians, not earned. After all, an amazing string of foul-ups by the officials had given the Russians three chances to score the winning basket after time had seemingly expired. We wuz robbed, was the consensus opinion. But I had covered the game and the reality was that the U.S. had trailed throughout and took its only lead of the game when Doug Collins nailed two free throws with a few seconds remaining. We might have been robbed, but what were we doing in that neighborhood in the first place?
I put the blame on Coach Hank Iba, whose slow tempo style of play turned a bunch of thorobreds into a collection of dray horses. Now it was up to Smith to make things right again and, looking at the roster he'd assembled, I wasn't optimistic that he could do it. When I approached him in his office I was prepared for a tongue lashing or at least a verbal shot or two, but Smith couldn't have been nicer. He explained to me why he had made certain choices and, as it turned out, they were the right choices. Although this was the first time I had met Smith I'd been aware of him for years. He had played, as a reserve, on the Kansas team that won the NCAA tournament in 1952 and was on the squad I saw play at Missouri my first year in journalism school, 1953. The Jayhawks reached the NCAA finals again that year, but lost to Indiana by a point.
Smith was already a well-known coach by the time I really got to know him. By that time I was no longer writing a column but was The Tribune's national writer for college football and basketball. I had approached him about doing an in depth interview, but he said he didn't want the spotlight on himself. I told him it would be a story about the team and he agreed to meet me in his hotel room before a game at Clemson. I don't recall any of the conversation, but I do recall that it was a good interview. After that, whenever we ran into each other, Smith would call me by name and we'd exchange pleasantries. That's why I was saddened to read last week that Smith has suffered such severe memory loss that he cannot remember the names of some of his players and most certainly would not recall mine.
"There was a guy from the Chicago Tribune who. . . . . " "Yeah, that was me." When you write about sports for 35 years there are going to be times when you'll ruffle some feathers. I was not known as a "ripper," but nonetheless there were more than a few times when I had to steel myself for a confrontation with a player or coach I had criticized. Usually, the converstion would start out just as I have written here. I would introduce myself as Bob Markus from the Chicago Tribune and . . . ."there was a guy from the Chicago Tribune who wrote that golfers are not athletes," said Arnold Palmer when we had lunch together a few months after I had written just that, on the occasion of Palmer's being named Athlete of the Decade. "Yeah," I replied, "that was me." "Aw, that's all right," Arnie said before making a pretty good argument that golfers are athletes.
"There was a guy from the Chicago Tribune who. . . ." said Billy Martin and, "yeah that was me," I replied. Martin then went off on a 10-minute tirade about the column I had written about his role in a brawl after a bat throwing incident in the 1972 American League Championship season. Martin was managing the Detroit Tigers at the time and his pitcher had just plunked Oakland's Bert Campaneris in the ankle in response to Campy's multihit, two-steal performance. Campaneris had responded by throwing his bat at LaGrow, who fortunately ducked it and then the proverbial all hell broke loose. In the aftermath Martin demanded that Campaneris be banned for life and I felt compelled to remind him that he himself had once charged the mound and thrown a punch at a Chicago Cubs' pitcher, who, unlike LaGrow, did not duck and suffered a fractured cheek bone. In spring training of 1973 I was visiting the Tigers camp in Lakeland when Joe Falls, an iconic columnist in Detroit, approached with a twinkle in his eye and asked sweetly, "Have you ever met Billy Martin?" "No," I said. "I'll introduce you." After Martin finally ran out of verbal steam, he patiently answered all my questions and we never had another problem.
"There was a guy from The Chicago Tribune who. . . . "said Don Shula and "Yeah, that was me," I admitted. Shula was referring to a question I had asked at the previous year's Super Bowl. I can't remember how the question was phrased but I recall it concerned Mercury Morris and the way Shula had handled him. Shula's famous jaw became even more pronounced than usual and he bawled me out in front of my peers for a few minutes before turning to other matters. Now, it was the opening day of the Miami Dolphins' training camp and I was there to cover the camp for the two weeks leading up to the Tribune-sponsored College All-Star Game. I had introduced myself to Shula in his room and he had said, "There was a guy. . . . ." I explained to him that the question actually was meant to produce a positive reaction and that I was sorry if he took it another way. That was the last time it was ever mentioned and we became friends. I eventually learned there was little reason to ask Shula any questions, particularly after a game. He was hands down the best postgame interview in football. You'd go into the locker room with a half dozen questions in mind and he'd answer every one of them in his opening statement and even cover a few points you hadn't even thought of.
"There was a guy from Chicago who. . . ."This was Alex Johnson talking, an angry looking Alex Johnson and he was referring to a column I'd written the previous fall after his California Angels teammates had stopped speaking to him and the team had suspended him. I pointed out that he needed help, not punishment. I wrote that he had "a devil inside him" and Johnson interpreted that to mean he was the devil. "Did you write that?" he demanded. Under the circumstances I didn't say "Yeah, that was me," but rationalized that I didn't think I had actually called him a devil, so I answered, "I'm not certain. When I get home I'll look it up and next time I see you I'll let you know." You do that," he said. The first time the Cleveland Indians, his new team, came to Chicago, I made out my will, kissed my wife and kids goodby and went to Comiskey Park. I entered the visiting clubhouse, which was only about half full and instantly spotted Johnson. I went over and began, "I'm Bob. . . . " "I know who you are you %&$. Get out of my face or I'll . . ." I did not wait to find out what . . .meant.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
By Bob Markus
I think I understand now. I think I know what they mean when they speak of six degrees of separation. They mean that if you take two people, any two people, you can link them together through a chain of association comprising no more than six links. For example: I know Tony LaRussa through covering the White Sox when he was their manager. Tony is good friends with rocker Brian Wilson, leader of the Beach Boys. Wilson undoubtedly has played before someone who knows someone who knows someone who has bought milk from a goat herder in Afghanistan. Therefore there is a link between me and said goatherd, although I've never been to Afghanistan and most certainly never will.
In the past week there have been four men in the news who are separated from me by far fewer than six degrees. It's even easier to connect the dots among the four of them. Don Coryell. Dan Gilbert. Bob Sheppard. George Steinbrenner. Steinbrenner, who was The Boss when Bruce Springsteen had only gotten as far as D Street, died this morning, just a few days after Sheppard, the elegant voice of the Yankees for more than a half century, passed away at the age of 99. Coryell, whom I knew as coach of the St. Louis football Cardinals long before he brought Air Coryell to the San Diego Chargers, died last week. Gilbert, the owner of the Cleveland Cavaliers, is still with us, but may have committed professional suicide with his impassioned diatribe against the "disloyal" Lebron James. The letter played well in Cleveland, but it might not play so well among future free agent prospects or in a court of law should James decide to sue over allegations he laid down against the Boston Celtics in the NBA playoffs. It's unlikely James will go to court, but Gilbert's wallet is already $100,000 lighter, courtesy of NBA Commissioner David Stern.
Steinbrenner is the most obvious link to the other three. He may or may not have known Gilbert, but they had this in common: Steinbrenner once owned a professional basketball team in Cleveland. Unlike Gilbert's Cavaliers, Steinbrenner's Cleveland Pipers won the ABL championship in their lone season in the league before it folded. Tellingly, the Pipers changed coaches in midseason, although John McClendon was not fired, but resigned. Bill Sharman ended up coaching the team for the rest of that championship season. Steinbrenner grew up in Cleveland, earned his first million in Cleveland, and tried to buy the Indians before ending up purchasing the Yankees for a reported $10 million in 1973. The franchise is said to be worth $1 billion today. Steinbrenner was known as a demanding owner, who fired managers and general managers more often than Reggie Jackson uses the first person singular when discussing great players. In his first 23 years, The Boss hired and fired 20 managers, including Billy Martin five times. In 1981 he replaced Gene Michaels with Bob Lemon and won the American league pennant. The next year the Yankees got off to a bad start and Steinbrenner canned Lemon--and brought back Michaels.
I covered the '81 world series and have two memories of it. Most vivid was Goose Gossage drilling Dodgers' third baseman Ron Cey on the helmet and Cey living to tell about it. The second was sitting in front of Steinbrenner in the press box and listening to the Yankees owner berating right fielder Dave Winfield, whom he had signed to a then-record 10-year $23 million contract. Winfield went 1-for-22 in his first world series, eventually causing Steinbrenner to complain: "We need a Mr. October. Winfield is Mr. May." Nor did relations between the two get any better. Winfield eventually sued Steinbrenner for breach of contract and The Boss responded by paying a petty crook $40,000 to "dig up some dirt" on the outfielder. That earned Steinbrenner a "lifetime" suspension, which was later rescinded. It was the second time the Yankees owner had been suspended, the first coming after he pleaded guilty to making illegal contributions to Richard Nixon's re-election campaign.
Managers and GMs were not the only ones to feel the boss's wrath when things went wrong. Only a handful of employees stayed the whole course with the demanding Steinbrenner. One of them, of course, was Sheppard, he of the cultivated voice who added a touch of class to the Yankee Stadium scene. His classic call: Now batting for the Yankees, number 2, the shortstop, Derek Jeter. Number 2. Jeter was so taken with the presentation that he asked to have it recorded and used whenever he comes to bat.
Steinbrenner's relationship to Coryell is a little more tenuous, but only a little. Steinbrenner spent three seasons as an assistant football coach in the Big 10 before going back to Cleveland to take over the family business, which was shipbuilding. He was a graduate assistant under Woody Hayes at Ohio State, coached alongside B0 Schembechler as an assistant at Northwestern under Lou Saban, and was an assistant in Jack Mollenkopf's first year at Purdue. He may not have known Coryell, but he most certainly knew some people who knew Coryell. I don't remember much about Coryell as coach of the Cardinals, but I do recall that he picked Jim Hart to be the quarterback and I was pretty tight with Hart, having interviewed him in his rookie year when he was a complete unknown. I covered quite a few Cardinals games in those years and they generally put on a good show. Covering the Cardinals in December or January was always a challenge because Busch stadium had an open air press box. This was partly due to Joe Pollack, the Cards' p.r. man who went around in shirt sleeves on the coldest days. I finally learned how to avoid frozen fingers. I would book a room in the Marriott across the street, watch the game on television and beat my feet to the locker room when the game ended. It worked. Pollack was a good friend, having been my sports editor on the Columbia Missourian when I was at the University of Missouri. My beat was Missouri football and Joe and I would travel to road games in his car. I recall a trip to Nebraska where we stopped off to see an old Indian scout who had been recommended by one of my professors. The scout was acquainted with Black Elk, a storied chief and, who knows, somewhere down the road was an intersection with Sitting Bull and therefore Gen. George Armstrong Custer and you can take that as far as you care to, take it to Appomattix and Robert E. Lee or take it to Washington and Abe Lincoln. Six degrees of separation. Get it?
I think I understand now. I think I know what they mean when they speak of six degrees of separation. They mean that if you take two people, any two people, you can link them together through a chain of association comprising no more than six links. For example: I know Tony LaRussa through covering the White Sox when he was their manager. Tony is good friends with rocker Brian Wilson, leader of the Beach Boys. Wilson undoubtedly has played before someone who knows someone who knows someone who has bought milk from a goat herder in Afghanistan. Therefore there is a link between me and said goatherd, although I've never been to Afghanistan and most certainly never will.
In the past week there have been four men in the news who are separated from me by far fewer than six degrees. It's even easier to connect the dots among the four of them. Don Coryell. Dan Gilbert. Bob Sheppard. George Steinbrenner. Steinbrenner, who was The Boss when Bruce Springsteen had only gotten as far as D Street, died this morning, just a few days after Sheppard, the elegant voice of the Yankees for more than a half century, passed away at the age of 99. Coryell, whom I knew as coach of the St. Louis football Cardinals long before he brought Air Coryell to the San Diego Chargers, died last week. Gilbert, the owner of the Cleveland Cavaliers, is still with us, but may have committed professional suicide with his impassioned diatribe against the "disloyal" Lebron James. The letter played well in Cleveland, but it might not play so well among future free agent prospects or in a court of law should James decide to sue over allegations he laid down against the Boston Celtics in the NBA playoffs. It's unlikely James will go to court, but Gilbert's wallet is already $100,000 lighter, courtesy of NBA Commissioner David Stern.
Steinbrenner is the most obvious link to the other three. He may or may not have known Gilbert, but they had this in common: Steinbrenner once owned a professional basketball team in Cleveland. Unlike Gilbert's Cavaliers, Steinbrenner's Cleveland Pipers won the ABL championship in their lone season in the league before it folded. Tellingly, the Pipers changed coaches in midseason, although John McClendon was not fired, but resigned. Bill Sharman ended up coaching the team for the rest of that championship season. Steinbrenner grew up in Cleveland, earned his first million in Cleveland, and tried to buy the Indians before ending up purchasing the Yankees for a reported $10 million in 1973. The franchise is said to be worth $1 billion today. Steinbrenner was known as a demanding owner, who fired managers and general managers more often than Reggie Jackson uses the first person singular when discussing great players. In his first 23 years, The Boss hired and fired 20 managers, including Billy Martin five times. In 1981 he replaced Gene Michaels with Bob Lemon and won the American league pennant. The next year the Yankees got off to a bad start and Steinbrenner canned Lemon--and brought back Michaels.
I covered the '81 world series and have two memories of it. Most vivid was Goose Gossage drilling Dodgers' third baseman Ron Cey on the helmet and Cey living to tell about it. The second was sitting in front of Steinbrenner in the press box and listening to the Yankees owner berating right fielder Dave Winfield, whom he had signed to a then-record 10-year $23 million contract. Winfield went 1-for-22 in his first world series, eventually causing Steinbrenner to complain: "We need a Mr. October. Winfield is Mr. May." Nor did relations between the two get any better. Winfield eventually sued Steinbrenner for breach of contract and The Boss responded by paying a petty crook $40,000 to "dig up some dirt" on the outfielder. That earned Steinbrenner a "lifetime" suspension, which was later rescinded. It was the second time the Yankees owner had been suspended, the first coming after he pleaded guilty to making illegal contributions to Richard Nixon's re-election campaign.
Managers and GMs were not the only ones to feel the boss's wrath when things went wrong. Only a handful of employees stayed the whole course with the demanding Steinbrenner. One of them, of course, was Sheppard, he of the cultivated voice who added a touch of class to the Yankee Stadium scene. His classic call: Now batting for the Yankees, number 2, the shortstop, Derek Jeter. Number 2. Jeter was so taken with the presentation that he asked to have it recorded and used whenever he comes to bat.
Steinbrenner's relationship to Coryell is a little more tenuous, but only a little. Steinbrenner spent three seasons as an assistant football coach in the Big 10 before going back to Cleveland to take over the family business, which was shipbuilding. He was a graduate assistant under Woody Hayes at Ohio State, coached alongside B0 Schembechler as an assistant at Northwestern under Lou Saban, and was an assistant in Jack Mollenkopf's first year at Purdue. He may not have known Coryell, but he most certainly knew some people who knew Coryell. I don't remember much about Coryell as coach of the Cardinals, but I do recall that he picked Jim Hart to be the quarterback and I was pretty tight with Hart, having interviewed him in his rookie year when he was a complete unknown. I covered quite a few Cardinals games in those years and they generally put on a good show. Covering the Cardinals in December or January was always a challenge because Busch stadium had an open air press box. This was partly due to Joe Pollack, the Cards' p.r. man who went around in shirt sleeves on the coldest days. I finally learned how to avoid frozen fingers. I would book a room in the Marriott across the street, watch the game on television and beat my feet to the locker room when the game ended. It worked. Pollack was a good friend, having been my sports editor on the Columbia Missourian when I was at the University of Missouri. My beat was Missouri football and Joe and I would travel to road games in his car. I recall a trip to Nebraska where we stopped off to see an old Indian scout who had been recommended by one of my professors. The scout was acquainted with Black Elk, a storied chief and, who knows, somewhere down the road was an intersection with Sitting Bull and therefore Gen. George Armstrong Custer and you can take that as far as you care to, take it to Appomattix and Robert E. Lee or take it to Washington and Abe Lincoln. Six degrees of separation. Get it?
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