A Short Season

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When I was a boy, I did many of the things boys of my generation did.

For awhile, I was an avid collector of football and baseball cards — many of which would be quite valuable today if my well–meaning mother had not thrown them out when she was cleaning and sorting once.

As a result of my hobby, I became familiar with the names of most of the men who played professional baseball and football in those days. Even today, when one of those men dies, it triggers memories of my childhood, and I am reminded that, no matter how healthy and strong people are when they're young, eventually bodies give out with the passage of time.

A few of those men taught me the lesson of mortality when I was still a boy and they were at an age that most of us would regard as too young to die.

One such man was Brian Piccolo of the Chicago Bears.

Piccolo never became an NFL superstar. I knew his name because I had his football card. But I didn't know until well after the fact that he had been diagnosed with cancer.

What I knew of Piccolo prior to that time was what most football fans probably knew — that he was an undersized fullback and a good friend of the Bears' star halfback, Gale Sayers.

But I really knew nothing of his disease until I read a book that was written about him after he died at the age of 26 on June 16, 1970.

My grandmother knew of my fondness for reading, and she gave me a copy of the book, "A Short Season," which was written by the wife of one of his former teammates. And I remember devouring that book, reading it from cover to cover, even though I was too young to pronounce many of the medical terms — much less know what they meant.

But I knew enough about cancer to know that just about everyone who was diagnosed with cancer did not survive. Well, that was the impression I had at the time. And I guess that was understandable. Up to that point in my young life, everyone I knew who had been diagnosed with cancer had died.

And, although I knew before I read the book that Piccolo also had died, I still grieved when I got to the part of the book that described his final days.

And I grieved again when I saw the TV movie that was based on his life, "Brian's Song," starring, among others, James Caan and Billy Dee Williams. Neither Caan nor Williams were unknowns when that film was made, and I have seen both in other movies in the years since. But I always think of Piccolo whenever I see either of them.

Oh, remember what I said about a cancer diagnosis being a death sentence when I was a child? Well, I've lost some other friends to cancer since Piccolo died — but I also have some friends who fought it and won. Thankfully, the times, they are a–changing.

When Piccolo was diagnosed with embryonal cell carcinoma, the fatality rate was 100%. But, thanks in part to the work of the Brian Piccolo Cancer Research Fund, about 95% of those who are diagnosed with it can be cured.

It was a tragedy that Brian Piccolo's season was so short, but perhaps his life has served — and continues to serve — a long–lasting purpose

The Cinderella Man

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"People die in fairy tales all the time."

Max Baer
Cinderella Man (2005)

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In spite of the oil flowing into the Gulf of Mexico and the flooding in Arkansas and all the other terrible things happening in the world, there is a kind of fairy–tale quality to this June.

It is the anniversary month of two related events.

Earlier this month was the fifth anniversary of the theatrical debut of a movie that was well reviewed — but not terribly well attended, which seems odd in hindsight because it was directed by Ron Howard and it starred Russell Crowe, Renee Zellweger and Paul Giamatti.

The film, "Cinderella Man," was inspired by something that happened in New York on this day 75 years ago. James J. Braddock, a journeyman fighter, defeated Max Baer for the heavyweight championship.

Braddock was written off as a real tomato can. He was chosen by Baer's handlers because he was believed to be an easy payday for a fight scheduled on the eve of the anniversary of the fight in which Baer took the title from Primo Carnera.

What followed resembled the plot of the original "Rocky" film.

Apparently convinced that Braddock, a 10–to–1 underdog, was a pushover, Baer hardly prepared at all for the fight while Braddock was deadly serious in his workouts. "I'm training for a fight. Not a boxing contest or a clownin' contest or a dance," he said. "Whether it goes one round or three rounds or 10 rounds, it will be a fight and a fight all the way."

Like Rocky's fight with Apollo Creed, though, it went 15 rounds. And history shows that, unlike Rocky's, Braddock's dream came true. He won the title and held it until Joe Louis knocked him out two years later.

The Braddock–Baer fight has been elevated to legendary status in the three–quarters of a century since Braddock's upset victory. It was astonishing to me that no one ever made a film about it until long after both men died.

But even though the movie got great reviews and promoters spent a bundle trying to get audiences interested, it never caught on with the movie–going public. Promoters even took the unusual step of offering a money–back guarantee to anyone who didn't like the movie. I haven't seen any figures that would indicate how many people took them up on the offer.

Frankly, that public reception surprised me. I mean, Howard had already won an Oscar for directing and Crowe and Zellweger had already won Oscars for acting. How much more star power did a movie need to be successful?

Part of the problem may have been the fact that 2005 was considered a down year in general for box office receipts. There were some films that drew large audiences, but they tended to be in the fantasy/escapist genre — Hary Potter, Narnia, Star Wars, as well as "War of the Worlds," "King Kong" and "Batman Begins," etc.

It's also possible that it came up short in an unofficial competition with another boxing movie, "Million Dollar Baby."

Some folks have speculated that negative publicity about Crowe's behavior at a New York hotel — in which he threw a phone at an employee — was a contributing factor to low ticket sales.

But I have always wondered if any previously proposed projects treated Baer as Howard's script did. If they did, the people responsible for them may have been reluctant to deal with Baer's family. As a result, by the time it made it to the big screen, the fight was largely forgotten by all but hard–core boxing fans.

Even so, Baer's survivors protested. All three of Baer's children are still living, and his son and namesake, who made his name playing Jethro on the Beverly Hillbillies, was particularly incensed about the depiction of his father, who was portrayed as a brutal man who savagely killed two of his opponents.

Part of that may have been due to Baer's reputation as a great puncher. Ring Magazine ranked him #22 all time among punchers. He just may have been. He wasn't better than Louis — or George Foreman or Rocky Marciano or Mike Tyson — but he was better, in Ring's estimation, than Joe Frazier and Evander Holyfield.

And part of it indisputably was the result of the course of events. One man slumped to the canvas when his fight with Baer was halted, then he died the following day.

According to Baer's family, Baer was a gentle man who was devastated by that death. He was acquitted of manslaughter charges, but he seems to have held himself responsible for what happened until his own death. None of his relatives seem to have disputed that.

However, Baer's family stoutly resisted the film's suggestion that injuries inflicted in the ring led to the death of another fighter several months after he and Baer fought, even though the autopsy on that opponent indicated that he was suffering from meningitis, a swelling of the brain, at the time of his death.

It's also worth noting that he died after fighting Carnera, who was a mountain of a man at 275 pounds. It could not be concluded that any injuries he sustained some five months earlier when he fought Baer caused or contributed to his death.

Thus, the alleged link between Baer and that opponent's death was tenuous at best.

But the storybook quality of Braddock's improbable championship earned him the nickname "Cinderella Man" from Damon Runyon.

And that is how he still is remembered 75 years later.

The Wizard of Westwood

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John Wooden, the man who made UCLA synonymous with basketball dominance, died today at the age of 99.

If you look up "a tough act to follow" in the dictionary, you'll probably find Wooden's picture next to the definition.

At one point, Wooden coached UCLA to 88 straight wins. His teams won nearly 100 straight home games, and four of his teams finished the regular season 30–0. He won seven straight national titles, 10 in all, the last in 1975. UCLA has won a couple of national titles in the 35 years since Wooden retired, but every time the Bruins have won it all, they have done so in Wooden's shadow. I suspect it will always be that way.

He "is often considered one of the greatest coaches in college basketball history," says the caption beneath the photo on his obituary in the New York Times.

I would take it a step or two farther than that. I would rate Coach Wooden as one of the greatest coaches in college history — the kind of legend that football coaches like Bear Bryant and Woody Hayes were.

I was fortunate to live at the time that I did. I have seen — mostly through the miracle of television — some of the greatest teams, greatest players and greatest coaches of all time. But, whereas Bryant and Hayes were rough around the edges, Wooden was a smooth, thinking man's coach. Maybe it was the nature of the sport he coached, but he always struck me as being more approachable, always ready to share the wisdom he had acquired in his life.

Basketball can be a deceptive game. On the surface, it can seem to be all about individuals accumulating points, but it is really about fundamentals, teamwork and defense. The lessons Wooden had to teach were as applicable to life as to the basketball court.

And much of it he shared through his 1988 book, "They Call Me Coach:"

• "Learn as if you were to live forever; live as if you were to die tomorrow."


• "Talent is God–given; be humble. Fame is man–given; be thankful. Conceit is self–given; be careful."

I feel the same way I did the day Bear Bryant died.

On that day, I felt that something special had been lost forever, and it had.

Tonight, once again, I feel that something special has been lost forever. And, once again, I am right.

R.I.P., Coach.