I suppose the odds are pretty good that you don't remember where you were and what you were doing 30 years ago today.
But I do.
I was still living in my home state of Arkansas. I was a journalism student at the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville, the home of the Razorbacks. Regardless of religious faith, that's really Mecca for most Arkansans (and I guess you have to have lived there — or someplace similar — to understand).
On this day in 1981, I was in my hometown of Conway, Ark., which is about 120 miles to the southeast. It was spring break, and I was visiting old friends in Conway that week.
The NCAA basketball tournament got under way that Thursday, on March 12, 1981. Before it ended, John Hinckley would attempt to assassinate Ronald Reagan. Later that year, someone would shoot Pope John Paul II. Somebody else had already murdered ex–Beatle John Lennon a few months before.
In mid–March, Razorback fans rejoiced in the basketball team's opening round victory over Mercer, but then a sense of foreboding set in. The next opponent would be Louisville, the team that won the national title the year before.
Arkansas and Louisville were to face each other on Saturday afternoon, March 14, 1981, in Austin, Texas. Austin, as any long–term Razorback fan could tell you, had been the scene of many Arkansas disappointments over the years, most of them in football.
But that had been in contests with the University of Texas.
Razorback basketball had really taken off in terms of popularity in recent years. Eddie Sutton took the Hogs to the Final Four in 1978, then they were within a whisper of returning to the Final Four in 1979 before Larry Bird and Indiana State knocked them off in the regional finals.
Spring break was nearing its conclusion. I was planning to drive back to Fayetteville the next day, but on that Saturday, I went over to visit my Aunt Bess and watch the game with her.
Aunt Bess wasn't really my aunt. That's just what everybody called her, and she was probably old enough to be my grandmother. She treated me as if I were her grandson. Matter of fact, she had a grandson who was close to my age, but he lived two time zones away so I guess I was kind of her surrogate grandson.
I used to stop at her house after school on Wednesdays, and we would drink iced tea and talk for an hour or so about all sorts of topics. She was old school about a lot of things, and she did her best to pass along lessons for living.
And, like just about everyone else in Arkansas, she was a Razorback fan.
The three–point shot was still several years from becoming a reality so Reed's shot was only worth two points. But that was enough to turn a one–point deficit into a one–point triumph.
I have never had a feeling like it — before or since.
Aunt Bess and I leaped up from where we had been sitting. We yelled in unison, and then we embraced.
As I have written before, Aunt Bess was devoutly religious. She saw the hand of God in everything. In hindsight, I was always envious of that sense of assurance. Aunt Bess never seemed to doubt that there was a purpose in everything, but I often did. I still do.
But Aunt Bess was certain of what she had seen.
"The Lord took it away from us," she said with a big smile, "and then he gave it back to us."
There was "a reason" for that, she told me, but, 30 years later, I'll be darned if I can figure out what it was.
Arkansas got routed by future SEC rival LSU in the next round.
They'll be announcing the NCAA Tournament pairings today. Not so long ago (or so it seems), that was an important day in my life.
In my home state of Arkansas today, there seems to be some uncertainty about the future of the relationship between my alma mater, the University of Arkansas, and the basketball coach, John Pelphrey.
Pelphrey's position was a bit shaky when the Razorbacks went one and done in the SEC Tournament last week, but the reports I heard indicated that, even so, he would remain the coach for another year.
Lately, there have been reports that Pelphrey violated NCAA rules, and many people now seem to feel that all bets are off.
I have no special insights into the situation. Since I no longer live in Arkansas, I often feel as if I am an outsider when it comes to these things. Today, I have been trying to learn what I can from a distance.
I was acquainted with John Brummett, now of Arkansas News, when I lived in Little Rock and worked for the Arkansas Gazette. He is, as he says, a political columnist, not a sports columnist, but the lines are often blurred in Arkansas when the Razorbacks are involved.
And I think he makes a good point when he says that Arkansas has lost its "brand." One of the things I always admired about Brummett was his way with words, and he shows that in his column about Razorback basketball.
"The problem with University of Arkansas basketball," he writes, "is that it ... is Elvis without a hip, Dylan without a lyric, Michael Jackson without the moonwalk."
Football will always have an identity in Arkansas, but other sports need a "brand" with which fans can identify. Basketball got that from Eddie Sutton and Nolan Richardson. It doesn't seem to have gotten that from the coaches who have come along since.
Harry King of Arkansas News says there won't be an announcement made on Pelphrey's fate until the weekend is over at the earliest — and if the Razorbacks somehow manage to get into the NIT, it will probably wait until after they have been eliminated.
Joanne Gerstner at the New York Times reports there have been rumors that Missouri coach Mike Anderson is a top contender for the job. Anderson, as Gerstner observes, has roots in the Arkansas program, having been an assistant under Richardson when the Razorbacks won their first — and, so far, only — national basketball title in 1994.
Ah, yes, 1994. I remember it well.
It had been years since I left Arkansas, but I followed the Razorbacks that season with a real sense of pride.
I had been just a schoolboy when Sutton came to Arkansas and turned the U of A basketball program into something more than a diversion between football seasons. The national title was like the culmination of all his efforts.
It had grown before my very eyes. It was still growing when I left the state. And, nearly 17 years ago, it blossomed under Richardson into a national champion.
The Razorbacks made it back to the national title game the following year but lost to UCLA.
I don't know all the details about what led to Richardson's departure from Arkansas — and it isn't really something I want to explore today, anyway — but things just haven't been the same for the program since he left.
In the years after I left Arkansas, I always knew the Razorbacks would be in the NCAA Tournament, so I didn't really pay close attention to the regular season. And even when they dropped from the national rankings, I wasn't overly concerned.
But in recent years, the Razorbacks seem to have returned to the basketball swamp in which they existed before Sutton came along.
Sutton brought a magic to the Arkansas basketball program, and Richardson picked up the baton when Sutton dropped it in his haste to take the job at Kentucky, but Sutton made his way back to Oklahoma, where he made a new name for himself at Oklahoma State.
Thus, I think one of the most interesting reports I have heard comes from Berry Tramel of The Oklahoman, who suggests that Arkansas might replace Pelphrey with his former Kentucky teammate and now Oklahoma State coach Travis Ford.
Could Ford restore the magic that the Arkansas program needs to bring fans to the games and make Razorback basketball nationally prominent again? His first two years at OSU resulted in 20–win seasons and consecutive NCAA Tournament appearances, but the Cowboys' record this year was much like Arkansas', and it is doubtful they will make it three in a row.
Still, if the U of A's administrators believe Ford can restore the Arkansas brand — make it his own — it might be worth a try.
It was bound to happen. It was like that week before Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, when people stood transfixed for days, watching as it meandered across the vast Gulf of Mexico and only began taking steps to protect themselves — or get the hell out of there — when the storm was practically on top of them.
The NFL and the players bought themselves a few days to dream about a miracle. When one did not happen, they were forced to do what they should have done earlier.
I feel somewhat vindicated by Don Banks of Sports Illustrated, who writes, "Here's wishing they would have saved us all some time and skipped the explanations of what went wrong, or why things broke down once again."
It's all public posturing.
And, really, who can blame either side? They're only mimicking what they have seen their national leaders doing, and they've all been guilty of it. No one is blameless.
Everyone points fingers and assigns blame — and nothing gets accomplished.
Well, they went through their week of pretending that they were making progress, but they really weren't. Now, they have to get down to the hard work, and the pressure will just increase as the days go by. The NFL draft is supposed to be held next month. Players should be going through offseason conditioning programs and drills. In a few months, training camps will be scheduled to open.
Fans will be increasingly impatient — until an agreement is reached or the NFL does what major league baseball had to do 17 years ago and cancel the season.
That didn't really work out too well for baseball. The 1994 World Series was canceled and the start of the 1995 season was delayed, leaving a bad taste in everyone's mouth that lingered for a few years and didn't go away until the home run duel between Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa in 1997.
That gave baseball a shot in the arm — until it was revealed that McGwire, probably Barry Bonds and possibly Sosa hit hundreds of home runs in their careers (especially the late 1980s, the 1990s and the early 2000s) with the artificial assistance of steroids.
Since those revelations, America's pastime has been steadily losing fans.
The same fate awaits NFL owners and players if they don't get over their greed and resolve their differences.
It might be worse. The economy wasn't great in 1994 — but it was a lot better than it is today. Unemployed fans may not be as sympathetic as they were then.
For that matter, fans were a lot more sympathetic four decades ago, when athletes were virtual slaves to their teams and had no control over their professional lives.
But today many fans see all professional athletes as overpaid prima donnas and all team owners as greedy.
The NFL's most recent experience with a work stoppage as nearly a quarter of a century ago. Much has changed in that time. Tom Landry was still coaching the Dallas Cowboys. Joe Montana was still playing for the San Francisco 49ers.
That lockout was modest compared to what may be in store for the NFL in 2011. The players' strike lasted less than four weeks. Three games were played with "replacement players," and one game was canceled.
It was often treated as a gag. The replacement teams were given funny nicknames, like the Chicago Spare Bears, and fans seemed to embrace legitimate pro football when it returned.
But there doesn't seem to be much that is funny about this situation.
Forty years ago tonight, Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali met in the much–anticipated "Fight of the Century."
Technically, I guess you could call it the first"Fight of the Century" — at least in my lifetime.
There have been other fights that have been known as the "Fight of the Century" — the 1910 bout between Jack Johnson and James Jefferies was known by that name, and so was the 1938 fight between Joe Louis and Max Schmeling — but most modern fight fans would tell you it can only apply to a showdown between Ali and Frazier.
Ali and Frazier met three times in the 1970s, and their first bout was on March 8, 1971. I guess some folks would say it was the best of the three — but, to reach that conclusion (when the third fight was the famous "Thrilla in Manila"), one was required (practically) to be pro–Frazier and/or anti–Ali.
It was, after all, the only one of the three fights that Frazier won.
It was an epic showdown. Both men were undefeated as professional fighters. Frazier was the defending champion. Ali was a former champion.
In 1971, though, if one was pulling for Frazier, it said more about that person's politics — specifically, one's position on Vietnam — than anything else. It was as telling as the length of one's hair or the style of one's clothes.
Ali had served a suspension from pro boxing in the very prime of his career for refusing to serve in the military during the war. He had been stripped of his title in April 1967 and then allowed to return to pro boxing in October 1970.
Frazier, on the other hand, was a darling of the pro–war elements in American politics in those days. He said that he didn't serve in the military because he was a father, but he would have no problem serving if called upon to do so.
Before he retired from boxing, Ali became the first man to win the heavyweight championship three separate times. He is considered by most boxing observers to be one of the greatest heavyweights — if not the greatest — of all time.
But, in 1971, he was really no more significant than any other man who had held the heavyweight title at one time — just more flamboyant than most, certainly more controversial than most. He had fought twice since 1967, and he was being thrust into the ring to face the defending heavyweight champion, a fighter who was known to be a punishing puncher.
It was often suggested that he hadn't had enough time to get into peak condition for a shot at the title. That was a fair assessment, I suppose.
It certainly was better than many of the things I heard people say about Ali at the time, that's for sure.
Perhaps no challenger up to that time had been as reviled as Ali. I've heard that Johnson, the first black heavyweight champion, took a lot of abuse while he held the title (but not, I believe, before that time) whereas Ali was always a lightning rod, whether he was the champion or the challenger.
Whether his surname was the one he chose (Ali) or the one to which he was born (Clay).
In 1971, there was a lot of residual anger directed at him from those who supported the war in Vietnam — and resented it when Ali refused to be drafted into service.
In hindsight, I guess the irony is that even those who opposed the war weren't necessarily supporting Ali. My mother, for example, was strongly opposed to the war, but she didn't particularly care for Ali, either.
She was a supporter of civil rights, though, so I'm sure she sympathized when Ali said, "I ain't got no quarrel with the Viet Cong. No Viet Cong ever called me nigger."
As I recall, Frazier said nothing that was in the least bit incendiary — which was a big part of his appeal to conservative Americans.
I guess the Vietnam angle spilled over into other areas. Although both men were black, Ali was something of a champion in the black community — whereas Frazier was often seen as the "white man's champion."
Tickets to the fight sold for $150 — a figure that, as Tim Dahlberg of the Associated Press remembers, was an "astonishing sum" at a time when the minimum hourly wage in America was $1.60.
There was no pay–per–view in those days. For those who were willing to part with the cash, one could see what was called "closed–circuit" coverage of a big fight at selected movie theaters. And there was no bigger event in the boxing world than Ali–Frazier I.
I don't know what tickets to closed–circuit venues went for in those days, but it was simply out of the question for me. I wanted to see the fight, but I just couldn't.
Years later, I finally saw a tape of it, a tape that included the pre–fight stuff that the people who bought the closed–circuit tickets saw that evening. Fight Night brought all the celebrities and publicity hounds to Madison Square Garden, the folks who cared more about being seen than what they were seeing — even if what they were seeing was historic — and the paparazzi of the day were only too happy to oblige.
I remember that night vividly. There was radio coverage — but each round description was broadcast after a delay, and the fact that it was delayed was announced before each round began (I always assumed that was to discourage gambling) — and I remember reclining on my parents' bed and listening on the radio in their bedroom to the announcers' descriptions of Ali and Frazier trading blows.
It was a chilly night, and, at one point, my mother, who had been listening to the fight with my brother and me, suggested that she fix mugs of hot chocolate for us. The image of the three of us sitting around that radio and the memory of that warm, chocolatey liquid insulating me against that early March evening while I listened to the fight will always be with me.
That's one of the things about my memory of that evening that is so special for me now. Mom enjoyed some sports, but she had no real interest in boxing — and, as I said, she wasn't too keen on Ali, either. On that evening, though, she listened to the radio broadcast with my brother and me — and she talked about it with us. Not because it mattered to her, but because it mattered to us.
When we started listening to the fight, I just knew we were in it for the long haul. Maybe boxing fans who were brought up during the Mike Tyson era can't understand, but Ali and Frazier always gave fans their money's worth. No first– or second–round knockouts whenever these guys were in the ring together.
I guess the trend was established 40 years ago tonight. Ali and Frazier went the distance, 15 rounds, before Frazier was declared the winner by unanimous decision.
The speculation by the radio announcers was that Ali was trailing on the judges' scorecards as the men began that 15th round, and he probably needed a knockout — or at least a couple of knockdowns — to prevail. The men had been about even through the first 11 rounds, they said, but Frazier seemed to seize control with a shot late in the 11th round that might have knocked Ali down if not for the ropes that caught him and kept him on his feet.
As I listened to the final round, it occurred to me that it was already over and both Ali and Frazier, as well as all the folks who were in Madison Square Garden that night, knew the outcome. But I didn't. Not yet.
About 30 seconds into that 15th round, Ali was knocked down for what may have been the first time in his boxing career, pro or amateur. Already viewed by many as arrogant, he had come into the fight with red tassles dangling from each ankle, almost defying Frazier to knock him off his feet. The sight of those tassles briefly occupying the area where Ali's face had been must have seemed like justification to his detractors.
I can't describe the sound of the announcers as they reported the blow Frazier had delivered and how it knocked a startled Ali on his back. There was an excitement in their voices that I had never heard before.
It was many years before I saw a tape of the fight, but when I saw Ali knocked on his back and those tassles flying wildly in the air, it looked exactly as I had always pictured it. Frazier, who sometimes seemed to be dragging in the late stages of the fight, appeared to be revived by that and hammered away at Ali following a mandatory eight–count, landing a punch midway through the round that should have dropped Ali to the canvas again.
Ali didn't go down again, but the damage had been done — in more ways than one. Both men went to the hospital after the fight — there were even rumors, for a time, that Frazier had died. Ali swore that he would retire from boxing if those rumors turned out to be true.
Fortunately, they were not.
As a child, I always felt that Frazier and Ali really didn't like each other. Ali was constantly calling Frazier names and suggesting that Frazier wasn't very smart, and "Smokin' Joe" really seemed to smolder whenever Ali spoke to him in public.
A couple of decades later, when NBC brought the two of them together to watch a tape of the fight and reflect on that event, the two men seemed to patch things up. Ali, who had been diagnosed with Parkinson's disease several years earlier, said it had all been in fun, and Frazier said there were no hard feelings.
Neither was there any doubt who won the fight.
George Willis writes in the New York Post that Ali eventually admitted that Frazier had been the better fighter that night.
"I watched the fight over and over trying to find excuses, saying they robbed me or didn't like me because of this or that," Ali said, "but I watched the fight, and the first fight he did win."
NFL Hall of Famer Ollie Matson died yesterday and, as John Crumpacker of the San Francisco Chronicle observes, he may have been "as well known for one game he did not play as for those he did."
Mind you, the games he did play between 1952 and 1966 were spectacular enough — or so I've heard. I was a mere child when he retired. I hadn't even begun collecting football cards yet (that was something I probably started doing in the third or fourth grade).
He won a couple of medals at the 1952 Summer Olympics in Helsinki, then he embarked on a pro football career that included six Pro Bowl selections, seven All–Pro selections and being named to the 1950s All–Decade Team by the voters of the Pro Football Hall of Fame.
So what about that game he did not play?
Well, in 1951, Matson was part of the University of San Francisco's football team. It was a good team. Some say it was the best ever. But San Francisco, as Crumpacker writes, "was snubbed by postseason bowls, apparently because two of its players — Mr. Matson and Burl Toler — were black."
If that sounds improbable to 21st century ears, it should be noted that this was in the middle of the 20th century. Integration was happening slowly in professional sports — and even more slowly in collegiate athletics. Most of the postseason bowls at that time were played in the American South, and most Southern colleges and universities would not start fielding black athletes for a couple of decades.
Heck, most of those schools had no black students at that time — let alone student–athletes.
Any of the bowls would have been happy to invite San Francisco to come and play. Any of the nearby hotels would have been pleased to accommodate the members of the team and their coaches. Any of the restaurants in the area would have been thrilled to serve breakfast, lunch and/or supper to anyone on the team.
As long as the two black players didn't come along.
The rest of the San Francisco football team wasn't going to go along with that.
Attitudes were decidedly different, but things really started to change in the 1950s — just not fast enough for Matson and Toler to enjoy a reward for their achievements on the college gridiron in 1951.
They say Matson suffered from dementia for several years before his death yesterday.
You could say that the bowls suffered from society–induced dementia half a century ago.
There are many interests, many tastes that I share with others in my native region.
But, in some ways, I guess I am out of step with the majority of my fellow Southerners. I have never particularly cared for iced tea, for example, and I have never been a fan of NASCAR.
That doesn't mean, however, that I don't respect those who do like iced tea or watch NASCAR.
My friend Phyllis, who died last year, became a NASCAR fan in the last years of her life, and she tried — with little success — to educate me in the finer points of the sport. We had lost touch, then got back in touch a year before she died. We communicated frequently by e–mail and via "chats" on Facebook during that final year.
It was like old times. I often thought, when Phyllis and I wrapped up one of our Facebook chats, that we were kind of like Forrest and Jenny in "Forrest Gump" after they were reunited as adults.
Phyllis and I were like peas and carrots. And it was over far too soon.
Considering how much I have written about Phyllis in the months since she died, there should be no doubt about my admiration for her. And, if she had lived, I probably would have tried to watch some races — if only to be able to discuss them intelligently with her.
But I doubt that she could have persuaded me to become any kind of regular NASCAR follower.
(Now, let me remind my readers that I worked for many years on newspaper sports copy desks, but I have never regarded auto racing as a sport. In my mind, "sport" implies athletic ability, and I see nothing particularly athletic about sitting behind the wheel of a car.
(It is a competition, but it is not athletic.
(I recall saying that once to Phyllis, and she vehemently disagreed with me — but she preferred to use the word "skill," not "athletic ability.")
I have missed Phyllis frequently in the six months since she died, and today is one occasion when I would have liked to have heard her thoughts.
Today is the 10th anniversary of the death of Dale Earnhardt Sr. in a crash at the Daytona 500, and I honestly wish I could ask Phyllis for her thoughts about an article by Liz Clarke in yesterday's Washington Post.
Not long before Phyllis died, she started a blog about NASCAR. She only made one entry — she may have been in a lot of pain when she wrote it, and I know she went into the hospital for what turned out to be the final time a few weeks later — but I had the distinct impression when I discovered the blog sometime after her death that she always intended to do much more with it. She just ran out of time.
But if she hadn't died, I imagine Phyllis would have had some interesting things to say about this anniversary.
At the end of her life, she liked to joke about herself. She called herself a "redneck," for example, even though those closest to her always knew that would never be true.
And I would have been the first to stand up and argue with anyone, even (or perhaps that should be "especially") Phyllis herself, who suggested that she might be "ignorant."
Phyllis was one of the most intelligent people I have ever known. Any competition that could capture her attention and retain her interest couldn't be as simple and dumb as some people contend.
Clarke writes that "for many, stock–car racing's soul died that day" in 2001 and asserts that NASCAR hasn't recovered.
"Attendance and TV ratings have slipped," Clarke writes, "a product of the malaise affecting the economy at large but also, in the minds of some, the result of a number of missteps made by the sport in reaction to Earnhardt's death."
That seems like an awful lot to pin on the influence of a single event — or a single death — but Earnhardt's death was a seismic experience for many people.
And, lest we forget the kind of impact a single event — or a single death — can have on people, let's remember things like the celebrations that followed the rescue of baby Jessica from the well in Texas more than 20 years ago — or the global grief after Princess Diana died in a car crash a decade later.
"[T]o millions of sports fans, NASCAR is simply an annoyance," writes Clarke. "They stumble on a stock–car race on TV and see nothing but cars going around and around to nowhere.
"But to Dale Earnhardt, NASCAR led past the textile mill's gates and farther than he ever dreamed. And with every high–banked, hair–raising turn he made in that black No. 3, he took legions of fans along for the wild ride."
Roy Lang III of the Shreveport Times says kind of the same thing. Lang observes that Earnhardt's crash led to some revolutionary safety changes in NASCAR, but his loss has hurt NASCAR in other ways.
"NASCAR has learned how to make the sport safer," Lang writes. "And the benefits are immeasurable. However, in the same period of time, we've learned Earnhardt was irreplaceable."
I don't know if Phyllis became a NASCAR fan before or after this day in 2001. Consequently, I don't know how much influence Earnhardt may have had on her.
I do know she was a fan of Jimmie Johnson, and, while I know little about stock–car racing, I know that Johnson was about half Earnhardt's age 10 years ago. His career was just getting started when Earnhardt's life was ending.
But, even if Phyllis became a NASCAR fan after Earnhardt died, I'm sure she would have had an opinion on where it was and where it was going. She just might not have had the perspective that came with watching Earnhardt compete in the years before his fatal crash.
I think Phyllis would agree, though, that Johnson, as successful as he has been, hasn't been able to fill the void that was left by Earnhardt.
Just as I doubt that anyone will ever be able to fill the void that was left by Phyllis. She was irreplaceable, too.
My mother was an elementary school teacher for much of her adult life. My father taught religion and philosophy on the college level, like his father before him.
And my father's mother taught English for awhile when she was young.
I was raised with an appreciation for education, and I have often told friends that I do not think a student who has been given an athletic scholarship should be allowed to skip his senior year. I see a scholarship as being a binding commitment, like a contract.
Now, I understand about students leaving college for one reason or another. I had friends who left college when I was still in school. But none of them had been given a scholarship.
And, as far as I know, none ever went back to get his degree.
You're only young once, and people tend to get tied to life's other commitments as they get older. I'm not married, and I have no children, but I realize that it gets harder and harder to go back to school when you have children to clothe and feed and house payments to make; by the time those obligations are behind you, the spirit may still be willing but the flesh may be decidedly weak.
Prominent athletes have never asked me for advice on this topic (or any other, for that matter), but, if they did, that advice usually would be to stay in school.
It's been my observation that those who leave college early usually don't return. I will admit that there have been some exceptions to that rule, but they have been rare — almost as rare, it seems, as athletes who decide to stick it out for their senior years.
I can understand the temptation of the money and the fame — and the fear of the very real possibility that it could all be taken away in the wink of an eye. But that is a constant risk in life, is it not? Even those whose talents are not likely to make them either rich or famous run such risks wherever they are and whatever they are doing.
Athletes who leave school early to turn pro (or those who support that decision) frequently say — and with some justification — that their window of opportunity is short.
If a collective bargaining agreement is not in place, it is hard to see how anyone, rookie or veteran, can get a contract. And some people believe a work stoppage in the NFL could easily wipe out the 2011 season.
It seems to me that college athletes who have been in college for three years have a tough choice to make — if they haven't already made it. Should they stay in school? Or should they turn pro?
Given the uncertainty surrounding the collective bargaining agreement that is due to expire in 2½ weeks, a football player who skips his senior season to turn pro might not play in another game of football for more than a year. He'd need to find a source of income, and he would have to find a way to stay in shape until 2012 — or whenever the NFL resolves the conflict.
If he stays in school, though, he can continue to polish his skills with the school picking up the tab. He would still run the risk of getting hurt — but he could be injured driving his car or walking up (or down) a flight of stairs.
I'd stay in school. You can get your degree, and you can continue to play football ... which is a sure thing in college but a far less sure thing on the next level.
And I have come to the conclusion that he rarely received the credit he deserved.
That may be hard for some football enthusiasts to accept. Bellard was a pioneer in Texas, a football coach who revolutionized the sport at the University of Texas with his wishbone offense. Well, that is what they say.
Bruce Weber of the New York Times calls the wishbone Bellard's "signature contribution" to the game.
In some ways, I guess that is true. It certainly changed things at the University of Texas, which had been struggling until the Longhorns' head coach, Darrell Royal, came to Bellard, an assistant at UT, in 1968 and asked him to come up with an offense that would shake things up.
He answered that challenge with the wishbone formation, which was designed to operate a triple option with a lead blocker. It sure changed things at Texas. In the next four seasons, the Longhorns were 38–5–1 with one national title (almost two), a perfect season (almost two), a 30–game winning streak and four Cotton Bowl appearances as Southwest Conference champions.
Then, in 1972, Bellard took the head coaching position at Texas' arch rival, Texas A&M. In so doing, he embodied the civil war that has been fought in generations of Texas families that have counted graduates of both UT and A&M among their ranks.
After Bellard's departure, Texas continued to thrive, winning two more SWC titles before going into a tailspin in Royal's final year at the helm in 1976.
Bellard's Aggies, meanwhile, struggled, losing their annual showdown with the Longhorns three straight times. It wouldn't have been fair to blame Bellard for that, though. The Aggies had lost to the Longhorns in most of their previous 20 meetings, including the four before Bellard arrived in College Station.
But he turned things around in 1975, winning the annual Thanksgiving showdown and coming within a single victory of taking the Aggies to the Cotton Bowl.
Bellard was never a head coach in the Cotton Bowl, only an assistant. He left A&M in the middle of the 1978 season after the Aggies lost consecutive games to Houston and Baylor.
While Bellard gets credit from a lot of people for developing the wishbone, there is some doubt about that. Former Oklahoma coach Barry Switzer insists that a coach at a high school in Fort Worth actually developed the wishbone in the 1950s. Perhaps Bellard modified something he had seen as a high school coach in the 1950s and early 1960s for use on the college level.
If he did, though, he also applied elements of the veer offense that was being run at the University of Houston and the variation of the triple option that was being used by Gene Stallings at A&M.
So perhaps the wishbone was not strictly Bellard's revolutionary innovation.
But Richard Justice of the Houston Chronicle reminds us of something that was Bellard's innovation — the integration of the A&M football program.
"In 1972, we had one black player on scholarship," R.C. Slocum, one of Bellard's assistants at A&M, said. "Now you can imagine the reputation of Texas A&M at that point. Not just A&M, but pretty much everybody in the Southwest Conference.
"Not many people appreciate what a bold step that was, to bring in nine black players to a place that had virtually no blacks. The deeper story is trust. It's the kind of man he was. Parents trusted him to do the right thing."
Earlier this week, Justice reports, two of those black players came to see Bellard on his deathbed and thank him for what he had done.
As Justice observed, the integration of the Aggie football program was Bellard's true legacy. Integration undoubtedly would have come eventually. Bellard just saw to it that it arrived that much sooner.
There were a few articles that mentioned Lombardi, but none (that I know of) acknowledged the fact that Lombardi died 40 years ago last September.
Perhaps that was due to the fact that yesterday was the 100th anniversary of the birth of Ronald Reagan. That got a lot of attention — maybe deservedly so.
While the Super Bowl matched two of the most storied franchises in NFL history, mentioning two such anniversaries on the same day might have been a bit confusing for some people. It was probably fitting to yield to a former president.
Oh, sure, someday someone else will win a Super Bowl. But, at the moment, it seems far from certain that next season will be played so the Lombardi Trophy may remain indefinitely in Green Bay.
And, for a pro football traditionalist like me, that's as it should be. If there is a work stoppage in the NFL that does what the baseball strike of 1994 did to the World Series, the next scheduled Super Bowl may be a casualty.
Not too many folks seemed to be thinking about that yesterday. Fewer mentioned it, even if they were thinking of it. But others — Packer fans like myself, Steeler fans like some of my friends — chose to leave such thoughts to another day. If Lombardi crossed our thoughts yesterday, it was in connection with the game being played at the time.
And that was as it should be.
Mike Lopresti of USA Today was thinking of Vince that way.
His postgame column may have been written after the game or while it was still being played, but it was in the form of a letter to Lombardi's spirit.
Speaking of the game, Lopresti said, "You would have loved it. ... It was a fight to the finish. ... You'd have loved the sheer will. ... You'd have loved [Aaron] Rodgers. ... You'd love the teamwork ... You'd love ... how this was a game that had to first be taken, and then saved, leaving the losers disconsolate."
It was Lombardi's kind of game. The only thing that might have been better, as far as he was concerned, would have been if the two squads could have slugged it out in some of the ice and snow that gripped the Dallas area last week.
If Lombardi still lived, he would be 97. In a few years, if the Packers are in the Super Bowl, perhaps a big fuss will be made about the centennial of Lombardi's birth and how the Packers want to win for the occasion.
I get the sense that wouldn't matter so much to Lombardi.
But winning mattered to him. Winning isn't everything, he said. It is the only thing.
"If you don't think you're a winner, you don't belong here."
Vince Lombardi
I've heard a lot of story lines surrounding this year's Super Bowl between the Pittsburgh Steelers and the Green Bay Packers.
Considering that the Packers are one of the teams competing in the game, I've been kind of surprised by the fact that no one has mentioned that last September was the 40th anniversary of the death of Vince Lombardi, the man who coached the Packers to victory in the first two Super Bowls and whose name is on the trophy for which the teams will be playing.
In fact, any Green Bay coach would be expected to name that as his goal. If he didn't, he ought to be run out of town.
To look at Lombardi was to see football personified in a single man.
He was truly a block of granite, a nickname he earned as a lineman at Fordham — stocky with an angular face that resembled a block, stern, unyielding, dedicated to a goal.
His name spoke of epic duels waged in the snow and the rain and the mud, of a relentless quest for perfection.
The first time he met with his players in Green Bay, Lombardi warned the Packers, in fact, that they would do precisely that, "knowing full well that we will not catch it." But, he said, "We are going to relentlessly chase it, because in the process we catch excellence.
"I am not the least bit interested," he said, "in just being good."
Unfortunately, far too often in the four decades that have passed, the Packers seem to have been willing to settle for "just being good," for not constantly striving to meet Lombardi's standards. A quarter of a century after Lombardi died, the Packers still had not returned to the Super Bowl.
The Packers have won only one Super Bowl since Lombardi's death. Their game with the Steelers will be only their third Super Bowl since he's been gone. Holmgren coached in the other two. This will be McCarthy's first.
If the Green Bay coaching staff is ever going to invoke Lombardi's memory for inspirational purposes, now is the time to do it. Given their history since Lombardi left the scene, it may be decades before they get another chance.
The Packers probably could use a Lombardiesque pep talk. They may be 2½–point favorites, but they have lost their last three games against the Steelers, and two of those losses were recent enough that many of the players on both of the current rosters probably participated in them.
That's bound to put a mental whammy on a team, no matter how well it has been playing — and everyone agrees the Packers have been playing pretty well of late. But they seemed to be hitting their stride when the playoffs began in January 2010, too.
In 2009, Green Bay won seven of its last eight regular–season games. The exception? A 37–36 setback at Pittsburgh. (Bucky Brooks at NFL.com says there are things today's Packers can learn from that experience.)
Before that, they met in Green Bay in 2005. The Steelers won that one, too, 20–10.
In 1998, they played for the last time in Pittsburgh's Three Rivers Stadium. Pittsburgh won on that occasion, 27–20.
The last time the Packers beat the Steelers was on Christmas Eve 1995. The victory clinched their first divisional title in nearly a quarter of a century.
Fifteen years is a long time to wait between victories against anyone. A lot can happen in that time. The Packers played in a couple of Super Bowls, the Steelers played in three. But, when they face each other on Sunday, I believe it will be the first time in the postseason.
Certainly, it will be their first–ever meeting in the Super Bowl.
From that perspective, it's a clean slate.
And, while the Packers may be the favorites on Sunday, that didn't keep Peter King of Sports Illustrated from predicting that Pittsburgh will win.
He acknowledged both teams' proficiency on defense. I guess there's no disputing that. Pittsburgh had the second–best total defense (in terms of yards allowed per game) in the NFL; Green Bay's was the second–best in the NFC. Green Bay's pass defense was fifth in the NFL (Pittsburgh's was 12th), and, although the run game probably won't be a factor, Pittsburgh's run defense was the NFL's best (Green Bay's was 18th).
All that, says King, will go out the window on Sunday. It's a fast track, indoors, protected from the elements.
If he is right, though, logic says that should favor the Packers. Green Bay was tied for third in the NFL in total offense, ranked fifth in passing (with the NFL's seventh–rated passer and its fourth–most productive receiver) and averaged almost exactly what Pittsburgh did on the ground.
Lombardi was far more inclined to run the ball, but that was a different era. In all the relevant areas, it seems like this year's Packer squad is a worthy heir to those teams Lombardi coached in the 1960s — a potent offense combined with a punishing, smothering defense.
A "tomato can" is a fighter who is believed to be past his prime and an "easy" or "guaranteed" win for an up-and-coming fighter who wants to pad his record.
Sometimes, though, the "tomato can" doesn't cooperate. For example, in 1990, undefeated heavyweight champion Mike Tyson lost the title to a 42-to-1 underdog named Buster Douglas.
Another heavyweight champion, Muhammad Ali, almost lost his title to lightly regarded Chuck Wepner in 1975. Wepner nearly went the distance against Ali and inspired the original "Rocky" movie.
I got my bachelor's degree in journalism from the University of Arkansas, and I got my master's degree in journalism from the University of North Texas. Most of my adult life has been dedicated to writing and editing in one form or another. Most recently I have taught writing (news and developmental) as an adjunct journalism professor at Richland College, where I advise the student newspaper staff. Go, Thunderducks!
