Telling It Like It Is

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I really admire Dale Hansen, weeknight sports anchor and sports director at WFAA — the ABC affiliate here in Dallas.

He has the courage to tell it like it is, which shouldn't come as a surprise, really. Nearly 30 years ago, he exposed NCAA violations at Southern Methodist University that ultimately led to the imposition of the NCAA's "death penalty" on SMU's football program. His work earned some awards for distinguished journalism — and several death threats, as I recall.

Football is virtually a religion in Texas. It's that way across the South, but it seems especially true of Texas.

And I love to watch football as much as anyone. I grew up in Arkansas, and we love our Razorbacks. It's the only thing that nearly everyone in Arkansas agrees on.

We love to like win, like just about everyone, I guess, but I honestly do believe that we also have standards in Arkansas. I think that was proven when the head coach was found to be carrying on an intimate relationship with a young female assistant. He is now coaching elsewhere, and the football program was subjected to some excruciating growing pains after he left, but the ship seems to be going in the right direction now — and it appears to be doing so with a group of young men who seem to know the meaning of the word honor.

That is part of what makes it so difficult to live here in the Metroplex and see how Jerry Jones has mismanaged the Cowboys for more than a quarter of a century now. I've lived here for all but four of those years — I even covered Jimmy Johnson's first press conference as Jones' new head coach hire — but I might as well have grown up here, given that most of the people in central Arkansas in those days were Cowboys fans.

Then, as now, there was no professional football team in Arkansas — and only a few professional teams within driving distance. The Cowboys were televised there every week. It was only natural, I suppose, for football fans there to gravitate to the Cowboys. Those who are still living — and many of their children and grandchildren — have carried on the tradition.

The Cowboys of those days played aggressive football — for which they were either admired or loathed, but, either way, no one could deny they carried themselves with dignity and honor. Tom Landry and Tex Schramm wouldn't have it any other way. Their players played hard on the field, and the Cowboys had something like 20 consecutive winning seasons, which I am sure put them under a great deal of pressure — including all the talk locally that they couldn't win "the big one" — but they didn't beat their wives, their girlfriends or their children when they were off the field.

Recently, though, Jones signed defensive lineman Greg Hardy. In case you aren't familiar with Hardy's background, you can get a pretty good idea of his personal history by reading this by Judy Battista of NFL.com.

You could get a really good idea of his background by listening to Hansen for three minutes earlier this week.

And, while it is tempting to summarize for you what Hansen said, it is far more effective if you see it and hear it for yourself.

So I urge you to watch the attached video.

Dale, I agree with you 100%

The Centennial of Baseball's Showman

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"I know it's the fans that are responsible for me being here. I've always tried in each and every broadcast to serve the fans to the best of my ability."

Harry Caray

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In ballparks in Florida and Arizona, spring training games are being played, perhaps as you read this — the perfect time for a man like Harry Caray to have a birthday.

In fact, March 1 was his birthday. If he was still alive, Caray would have been 100 years old today. And I think he would want to spend it at a ballgame where he could feel the sun on his face, smell the dirt and grass of the ballpark and hear the crack of a bat meeting a ball.

But he's been gone awhile.

When Caray was alive, watching the Cubs on WGN was must–see TV. It didn't matter how good or — more often — how bad they were. Having Caray to call the game was worth it.

People used to talk about how influential Ted Turner was in the early days of cable, and there certainly was truth in that. But don't underestimate Caray's contribution, especially in the days before cable coverage blanketed sports and it became possible to see one's favorite teams — in almost any sport — virtually whenever they played.

For awhile there, only the Chicago Cubs and the Atlanta Braves could be seen just about whenever — and wherever — they played. WGN in Chicago was one of cable's first superstations, along with Turner's WTCG in Atlanta, and their baseball coverage was one of their biggest selling points. As a Dodger fan, that meant that I could see the Dodgers play whenever they faced the Cubs or the Braves since all three were National League clubs (and, with the exception of spring–training games, the only inter–league games in those days were World Series games). It also meant that the Cubs and Braves gained new fans from all across the country every year.

The Yankees and Cardinals probably remained the two most popular franchises, but they suddenly faced competition from the Cubs and the Braves. Caray had a lot to do with that. He was the familiar face of the Cubs, and fans associated his seventh–inning renditions of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" with his Cub broadcasts. Folks were singing that song long before he came along, but Caray redefined that tradition while broadcasting White Sox games.

He was a homer, no doubt about it, and he embraced that role with relish. He didn't apologize for it, either. He didn't pretend to be objective. He seemed to understand that was part of the show.

When you work nights, weekends and most holidays, as I did when I worked on the sports desk of the Arkansas Gazette, you have to take your perks where you find them, and one of the perks for me was the fact that, when they were playing in the afternoon, I could watch most of the Cubs' games before I had to leave for work. I got to enjoy six, maybe seven innings of Caray and the Cubs.

In those days, I hoped to someday visit Chicago and take in a game at Wrigley Field, just to be able to watch Caray lead the crowd in "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" during the seventh–inning stretch, but I never made it. Sixteen years ago, Caray collapsed in a restaurant, reportedly struck his head on a table and died four days later.

Lots of folks probably thought that there couldn't be a show without Caray — but the show went on after he had a stroke that kept him out of the booth for a couple of months. A steady parade of celebrities, many with local ties, filled in as guests until he returned. Some were good, most were not, but I think nearly all viewers would agree that none came close to matching Caray.

Perhaps it was because he understood the mentality of the Chicago sports fan.

"Chicago people are kind of fatalistic, but they continue to hope that somehow some way the Cubs will shock even them and win it just one time," he said. "Their fatalism allows them to enjoy the team's success, knowing that one horrible thing will happen down the line to rip the rug out from underneath them."

There are some sports announcers whose voices you just associate with certain sports and/or teams. When I was growing up in Arkansas, that voice was Bud Campbell's; whenever I heard it and regardless of what the calendar said, I felt like it must be an autumn Saturday and the Razorbacks must be about to begin a game against a Southwest Conference rival.

National broadcasts on TV and radio have had their own announcers who were known and loved by millions. Whenever I heard Curt Gowdy's voice, I felt like it had to be a summer's day and NBC's game of the week must be on — even though Gowdy did work some football games from time to time.

Caray's voice was like that for me. It just seemed natural to hear him speak of the Cubs and Wrigley Field — even though he was born in St. Louis.

It's been too long since I've heard that distinctive voice.

Jaw Breaker

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For nearly 40 years, ABC's Wide World of Sports was a fixture on Saturday afternoons.

Its mission was really twofold. Ostensibly, I believe it began its existence as a catch–all for offbeat sports that were rarely, if ever, shown on the Big Three networks, but it also showed popular sports, primarily individual competitions, like boxing or figure skating or gymnastics.

As such, it filled a niche in those days before cable.

Everyone knew the intro in which the narrator spoke of "the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat."

As a boy, I often watched Wide World of Sports. The sports it showed really were off the wall most of the time, but, once in awhile, there was some good mainstream sports event on the program.

Such was the case 40 years ago today.

I don't remember much about that day except that my parents went somewhere that afternoon — they probably went to Little Rock to see a movie and have dinner — and a young couple had been hired to look after my brother and me.

As a college professor, my father often recruited his students to look after us when he took my mother out. My memory was that one, if not both, of the young people who came over that day had been in at least one of his classes.

Anyway, as I recall, the four of us started playing a board game of some kind after my parents left. Then, an hour or so later, the young man suggested that we watch Wide World of Sports. Muhammad Ali, who was only two years removed from his first fight with Joe Frazier, was to fight Ken Norton that afternoon.

That was fine with me.

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I don't recall if I had ever seen Ali fight live before, but I had seen him on TV. Interviews. Fight highlights. That sort of thing. I liked him. He always seemed to be symbolic of the era in which he competed.

On this occasion, I got to see him fight — impressively, too, even though he didn't win.

It was a competitive fight, one that Ali lost in a split decision. It went the scheduled 12 rounds, and, after the fight had been awarded to Norton, it was revealed that Ali's jaw had been broken at some point. Norton has always contended that it happened near the end of the fight, probably in the 11th round. Angelo Dundee, Ali's trainer, insisted it was earlier.

Ali and Norton fought two more times. Ali won both — even though some observers will tell you they thought Norton actually won their last fight in 1976 — when Ali was heavyweight champion for the second time. If Norton had won on that day, he would have been heavyweight champ.

As it was, Norton did join that elite club of men who have been heavyweight champion. The title was awarded to him retroactively a couple of years later — after Ali had lost his title to Leon Spinks in early 1978. The crown did not remain on his head for long. In his first title defense, Norton was defeated in a very tight decision against Larry Holmes.

On this day 40 years ago, Norton was only the second professional fighter to defeat Ali (Joe Frazier was the other).

Talk about an exclusive club.

It's All About Lebron

I haven't seen the ratings for Lebron James' hour–long self–lovefest yet.

I know. A few months ago, I wrote in this blog that it was all about Tiger Woods. But that was following Tiger's public "apology" — which, it is worth noting, did not require anywhere near an hour.

Of course, neither did Lebron's announcement. Well, I'm guessing it didn't take an hour to make it. I didn't watch the show.

And, in fairness, Lebron's announcement was an ESPN exclusive. It wasn't shown live on several networks simultaneously — the way Tiger's apology was.

But it did include sponsors, which makes it a commercial endeavor, whereas Tiger's apology was treated as a "news" event.

So, while I still believe that it was all about Tiger back in February, I believe it's all about Lebron now.

Both were shows, not really news events, although there were kernels of news to be found in each one. But they were faux news events. Tiger's sorry he cheated on his wife — how many times? Lebron's going to play for the highest bidder?

What were the odds?

I was amused yesterday when I saw an article at NPR.org, which suggested 20 ways that Lebron could fill "the other 59 minutes and 45 seconds."

Of course, the hour did include commercial breaks, and the revenue from the commercials was earmarked to benefit Boys and Girls Clubs, which is a good thing.

But make no mistake about it.

This production was really about Lebron.

I guess it shouldn't surprise us, this obsession with themselves that so many celebrities seem to have these days.

At its worst, it can be seen in the blatant narcissism of Lindsay Lohan's ongoing saga. But it is everywhere, really, to varying degrees.

So Lebron is not alone.

And he certainly doesn't appear to have been alone last night. If his ESPN "special" was, in fact, a media circus, as Richard Deitsch writes for Sports Illustrated, there were plenty of clowns running around.

And some people have the audacity to suggest that this is "reality" television.

Whose reality would that be?

Death of a Role Model

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I often hear folks complain about the absence of quality in the famous people their children wish to emulate.

All too often, unfortunately, the athletes that young people admire are greedy or self–centered, not generous and selfless. They are the athletes with the multimillion–dollar contracts, the big houses and the flashy cars who cheated on their spouses or took steroids to gain an unfair advantage over those who played the game straight.

Herb Brooks, who coached the U.S. hockey team to its miraculous gold medal at the 1980 Winter Olympics, once defined (without realizing it) the characteristic of an athlete that parents should want their children to mimic — "players whose name on the front of the sweater is more important than the one on the back."

Merlin Olsen was such a role model. And he died of mesothelioma yesterday at the age of 69.

Many folks may only know Olsen from his work in television. Like many former athletes, he provided commentary for NFL and college football broadcasts. He was also a star of Little House on the Prairie for many years before starring in his own series, Father Murphy.

All of this came after his 15–year career in pro football, all of it spent with the Los Angeles Rams and much of it spent in the years before most professional sports teams put the player's last name on the back of the jersey.

Olsen also played at a time when defensive units weren't given collective nicknames. But, before Minnesota had the "Purple People Eaters" and Pittsburgh won four Super Bowls with a defense known as the "Steel Curtain," the Rams' front four were known as the "Fearsome Foursome."

A defensive lineman, Olsen was one of the "Fearsome Foursome." And, although that group included such names as Deacon Jones, Lamar Lundy and Rosey Grier, Olsen may have inspired the most fear of all. At 6–5 and 270 pounds, he was a mountain of a man in the years before it became almost commonplace for linemen to exceed 300 pounds — an intimidating force with "superhuman strength," according to Jones, who told the Los Angeles Times in the 1980s that "[a] lot of the plays I made were because he or the others would make the sacrifice."

Olsen modestly asserted that the "Fearsome Foursome" would have been successful in any era. "We could all run," he said. "The other thing we had going for us was a rare chemistry. There was also a very special kind of unselfishness."

He was a special kind of person. It is uncommon these days to find an athlete who graduated from college before moving on to professional football, but Olsen was named one of the nation's top students during his senior year at Utah State, and he earned his master's degree in economics while he played pro football.

Maybe it was due to the values he learned growing up in a Mormon household. Maybe it was a quality that was born in him. But, whatever the source, his many accomplishments made him someone that any parent would want to see his/her child idolize.

He was a winner. Even if he didn't win championships.

Rest in peace, Mr. Olsen.

A Blast From The Past

A couple of weeks ago, Hurricane Ike rearranged my football-viewing plans.

Of course, the fact is that the hurricane rearranged quite a few lives, and its effect on me was minimal.

Nevertheless, I had intended, on Sept. 13, to watch my alma mater, the University of Arkansas, play the University of Texas in a football game.

The hurricane forced the schools to postpone the game. It was re-scheduled for this Saturday. And, as I understand it, ABC will televise the game at 2:30 p.m. (Central).

If you didn't grow up in Arkansas, you have no idea what the Arkansas-Texas rivalry meant in the days when both schools were members of the old Southwest Conference and faced each other in every sport.

For that matter, as Wally Hall observes at WholeHogSports.com, "[T]here is now an entire generation of people who were born and raised in Arkansas who don’t hate the Texas Longhorns."

That astonishes me.

As Hall writes, "Until the time Arkansas left for the SEC, the majority of the Razorbacks nation circled the Texas game as soon as the schedules were printed. Now, an entire generation has been deprived of the pure joy of hating the Longhorns, whose fan base generally bordered on arrogant."

When I was a little boy, the Razorbacks won a share of the mythical national championship in football in 1964. They shared the title with Alabama (coached by the legendary Paul "Bear" Bryant), but they wouldn't have been in the position to share the national title at all if Ken Hatfield hadn't returned a punt for a touchdown against Texas.

Arkansas won, 14-13, and went on to beat Nebraska in the Cotton Bowl (back in the days when winning the Cotton Bowl really meant something).

Five years later, for college football's centennial season, ABC persuaded Arkansas and Texas to move their game from its normal schedule date in mid-October to the first weekend in December — when no one else was playing and the eyes of the nation would be focused on that game alone.

In hindsight, it seems preordained that the game — dubbed the "Game of the Century" at the time — would feature the #1- and #2-ranked teams in the nation — and, indeed, ABC made the offer to the schools anticipating that they would be the top two teams in the country when they met.

But only two weeks before the "Great Shootout," as the game also was known, Ohio State was the top-ranked team in the nation. When the Buckeyes lost to their rival, Michigan, it secured the #1 vs. #2 matchup between Texas and Arkansas that ABC had been hoping for.

President Nixon attended the game — the only time a sitting president came to a football game in Fayetteville — and gave the Longhorns a plaque naming them the national champions after they prevailed, 15-14. Future President George H.W. Bush (at the time, a Republican congressman from Texas) also attended the game, along with many political figures from both states.

I guess ABC wanted to catch some more lightning in a bottle the next year because, once again, the Arkansas-Texas game was moved to the first weekend in December.

But, whereas the 1969 game was a dramatic, sitting-on-the-edge-of-your-seat experience for football fans, the 1970 game in Austin was a lopsided affair.

I was 11 years old at the time, and my most vivid memory from watching that game on TV was from the first half. Texas had already scored, and Arkansas had the ball near the Texas goal line. The Razorbacks made four attempts to score and failed on each attempt, turning the ball over on downs.

I recall one of the adults who had been watching the game with us standing up and observing that, if Arkansas couldn't score in four opportunities inside the 10-yard line, it was going to be a long afternoon. Indeed, it was. Texas won the game, 42-7, but failed to repeat as national champion.

For most of the next 10 years, Arkansas and Texas played their game in mid-October, as they had been doing for decades, although the schools were persuaded to move the game to December again in 1976, a year after Arkansas, Texas and Texas A&M shared the SWC championship.

But 1976 proved to be a down year for both schools, and the only real significance of the game was the fact that it turned out to be the last in which Darrell Royal coached Texas and Frank Broyles coached Arkansas.

The networks persuaded the schools to move their game again for the 1980 season — although, this time, it was moved up on the calendar instead of down. The schools agreed to play each other on Labor Day — September 1.

It was Texas' turn to host so the game was played in Austin.

It's always hot in Texas at the end of August. But, if you're old enough to remember the summer of 1980, you know that it was a particularly brutal one. In Texas, which typically sees temperatures in the mid- to upper 90s in the summer, temperatures were well over 100 degrees for about six or seven weeks.

And, although temperatures had cooled off slightly by September 1, it was still an unbelievably hot atmosphere in which to play a football game — especially one as intense as the Arkansas-Texas game. While the game was played at night, the sun didn't go down until halftime and the temperatures never really cooled down. Some players on both sides appeared to be on the verge of giving in to heat exhaustion.

Texas won, 23-17, and Arkansas limped through the rest of the season.

I will never forget the game that was played the next season. I was a senior at Arkansas, and I went to the Arkansas-Texas game for the first time in my life. It was played in Fayetteville in mid-October.

I almost didn't attend that game. A couple of weeks earlier, Arkansas had lost to TCU for the first time in my lifetime. Texas, meanwhile, was ranked #1, and everyone thought Texas was going to administer a severe beating when the Longhorns came to town.

I had my ticket (purchased before the season started at the student discount rate), but I hadn't decided to go the morning of the game. At the last minute, I decided to go. I'm glad I did. Lou Holtz led the Razorbacks to an astonishing 42-11 victory that is still talked about among long-time Razorback fans 27 years later.

Even Hall mentions it in his pregame column.

And he points out that "Since Arkansas joined the SEC, no opponent has come close to creating the same burning desire" the rivalry with Texas did.

Not LSU. Not Alabama. Not even Ole Miss, which was something of a non-conference rival for a long time — and may become even more of a rival now that former Arkansas coach Houston Nutt is the Rebels' coach.

I don't know if Saturday's game will recapture the old feeling. And, if it's a blowout, I may abandon it early.

But I'll be watching.