I guess I’m supposed to be mad at Jimmy Smith. I sat in his living room nearly two years ago, doing a live broadcast for Channel 4, two days after Smith was charged with DUI and, according to police, tested positive for cocaine. Smith maintained that the test was a police mistake and said he wasn’t a drug user, hadn’t been in the past and didn’t plan on it in the future.

Now, of course, we know that was a lie.

But it was a part of a pattern that Smith had developed over a couple of years. The night before, Smith had committed to an appearance on our weekly show “The End Zone” only to not show. The year before, Smith had agreed to join Keenan McCardell as a co-host of “The End Zone” only to not show for the contract signing with no explanation. All the signs were there, the lifestyle, the notoriety, the availability, and the cash on hand and now police evidence that Jimmy Smith was in trouble.

But he denied it.

Flat out, looked into the camera and said he didn’t do it. Told Wayne Weaver and Tom Coughlin the same thing. Sold the story to his teammates, the fans and the media. Eventually the charges were dropped and the whole thing kind of went away. But Smith had spent the reservoir of good will he had built up during his time in Jacksonville as a Jaguar. He was known as somebody who was involved in charity work, was accommodating to the fans, and produced on the field. When he got in trouble, he was given a free pass by just about everybody, even those who thought he was guilty and lying. He had a chance, right then, to throw his hands up and say, “I’m in trouble and I need help,” and people would have rushed to the rescue.

But he didn’t. He lied instead and continued the farce.

He had medical problems, enduring three abdominal surgeries, only to return to the field and light up the opponents. He held out during last year’s training camp, until Weaver acquiesced and gave him a bucket full of money. And now he’s suspended for four games and has voluntarily entered an undisclosed treatment program. No wonder the Jaguars’ owner was furious when he heard the news.

After allegedly missing a mandatory drug test, the NFL imposed the next level of punishment on Smith, forcing him out of the Jaguars lineup and into treatment. Smith could have stayed with the team until the regular season started, but instead chose to leave immediately to seek help. That’s about the first good sign for Jimmy Smith.

There have been hundreds of guys who have fallen to the temptations of the high living lifestyle, and all have been given some kind of “wake up call” at one point or another. That’s when they have to choose to get their lives straight, or continue on a path that leads to more trouble. It might be about two years late, but Smith is at that spot right now. He can either get his life straight, or continue to think he’s fooling everybody. Smith has put a permanent black mark next to his name as a professional athlete, and as one fan said, “Brought dishonor to his name and to his family.” He’s out of goodwill from the fans. He has nothing left to spend.

I’m not mad at Jimmy Smith. I’m disappointed that he didn’t trust somebody enough to tell them the truth and get some help. More than anything, I feel sorry for him right now. He’s got a long road ahead of him.

About this time of year, I get to tell a fish story. You might know that I like to fish. I’m not very good at it, growing up on the concrete and asphalt streets of Baltimore wasn’t conducive to knowing anything about fishing. But my time in Charleston, S.C. and specifically in Jacksonville has given me a real education in fishing.

“That’s why they call it fishing, not catching,” my friends recite to me after a day where not much was biting. Still, there is a certain feeling, call it serenity (some call it boredom) that comes from spending time on the water. I can’t pinpoint it, but I know it when I feel it. That’s why when a couple of months ago my friend Ernie invited me to Southwest Florida to fish for tarpon, I put it on my calendar and looked forward to it almost every day.

Boca Grande is a well known hang out for those in the jet set. Multi-million dollar real estate, and the beautiful people are an every day staple. That’s not where I went. I was on the “other side of the tracks,” actually the other side of Charlotte Harbor in Bokelia, one of the small fishing towns on the north end of the southern banks of the Harbor. Bokelia is where the road ends, literally. You drive until the road ends, and you’re in Bokelia. So nobody’s just “passing through.” If you’re in Bokelia, you’re either lost, or you meant to be there.

Ernie’s friend Alan has a house there, and was hosting the Second Annual Bokelia Invitational last weekend. It’s what you would hope a fishing tournament is about: lots of food, drink, friends and most importantly fish. From this outpost across the Harbor from the beautiful people, it took us about 12 minutes to get to one of the most famous fishing holes in the world: Boca Grande Pass. Famous because you can’t pick up a fishing or outdoors magazine these days that doesn’t say somewhere, “and the world’s best tarpon fishing can be found at Boca Grande Pass in southwest Florida.” If it’s that famous, people are going to find it, no matter how difficult it is to get to or how remote it is.

So as the sun came up behind our backs, Ernie and I, along with our guide Brian skimmed across the Harbor as part of an armada intent on fishing the pass. The scene that greeted us just after 6 am is hard to describe. One of my fellow fishing competitors said later, “remember when you were a kid and rode the bumper cars? It’s like that, only without the rule that you all have to go the same way.” I thought that was a pretty apt description. In an area smaller than two acres, at least 75 boats were working their way through the pass, some drifting with lines in the water, others looking for a spot. It was bedlam, chaos, crazy, funny, confusing and amazing all at the same time.

“The pass is just the pass,” one guide noted, “fishing rules apply everywhere else, but in the pass, everybody knows what they’re getting into.”

I saw boats with fish on, screaming through the mass of boats, separating them like a hot knife through butter. Generally. Sometimes the captains were otherwise occupied with their own fish, and didn’t have a chance to get out of the way. Lines were tangled, fish were lost, hooked tarpon were flipping in the air between boats, hooked by some distant angler in a far away boat. Marine scientists estimate as many as 20,000 tarpon are migrating through the pass at any one time this time of year, so it’s no wonder it seemed like an equal number of boats where there to catch them.

We had lines in the water for over an hour, and I had hooked the bottom twice and felt the small “tap, tap” of a tarpon once before I knew what it was. Right after eight, Brian threw a line in the water along side Ernie and me and before his rig got to the bottom he screamed “fish on!” A scramble to reel our lines in ensued, with Brian handing me the screaming rod and reel and commanding me to the fighting chair on the bow of the boat.

Tarpon can grow big, and they’re solid muscle. Smaller tarpon fight longer than the big ones, but big tarpon let you know they’re not happy about being hooked in the mouth. As I tried not to be yanked overboard, the reel continued to scream, as Brian put the boat in gear, trying to track the fish down. We were parting boats, zig zagging our way through the pass. “Reel down,” Brian screamed. “Tell him that won’t do any good,” I told Ernie witha laugh, “this fish is still taking line out faster than we’re chasing him!”

Knowing the possibility that this tarpon could be cut off my line at any second, I was determined to get him to the boat quickly. So I “horsed” him a little tougher than I might in different conditions, and after about 10 minutes, we saw him roll about 20 feet to starboard, right on the surface. He got a look at us, and dove back down, taking plenty of line with him, leaving my arms shaking worse than before. But this time I got him to the surface a little quicker, and as I felt the tide turning in my favor, not 15 feet in front of the boat, I saw a scene I thought only happened in the movies. The fish came to the surface, and a bull shark, at least 10 feet long, hit it broadside with it’s mouth.

We’d seen our fish twice now, and knew it was big. Well over 100 lbs. The bull shark tossed the tarpon around like a dog bone, but for some reason didn’t bite through it or cut the line. The shark let go, and I quickly drug the stunned tarpon to the side of the boat. “I’m not reaching over there,” Brian said with the calm demeanor of somebody who knew what he was doing. “That shark is hiding under the boat, just waiting.” We did need a measurement, so Brian quickly worked up a lasso for girth and a quick length estimate, and sent the tarpon on his way. The fish swam freely back toward the Gulf, but as if on cue, the shark reappeared and devoured him in about three bites! We all stood there is a stunned silence, mouths agape, looking at each other with that “did you see that” look.

Our official numbers were 38 inch girth and 70 inch length (which I swear is smaller and shorter than the fish actually was) which adds up to, according to the formula, to about 134 lbs. It was good enough for third place in the tournament, for which Alan presented me with a very nice trophy. It’s another fish story I won’t soon forget.

Guest Commentary by Kris Mulholland

This will go down as the saddest day in Gainesville’s history. Believe me, I know. I grew up in Gainesville. Gainesville has seen its share of miserable days. Emmitt Smith skipping his senior season. Steve Spurrier resigning. Sister Hazel releasing a second album. Dwayne Schintzius deciding to grow a mullet. Dwayne Schintzius deciding to play basketball. The whole Dwayne Schintzius era. All memories that most of Gainesville and Gator fans would just as soon forget or pretend never happened.

This is worse. Worse than Steve Spurrier resigning. Worse than Billy Donovan resigning (no….Billy Donovan has not left Gainesville for the NBA….yet!). Worse than Ed Zaunbrecher calling plays for the Florida football team.

The Purple Porpoise is closing.

The purple neon sign that shines so brightly onto University Avenue will be no more. On this day, Thursday, December 6th 2002, the walls of the Purple Porpoise will fall. It will be replaced, by something to be named the Ugly Gator. The Ugly freakin’ Gator? The only ugly anything I’ve seen on this campus now works for ABC Sports and was once the head coach of a certain SEC West school located in Auburn, Alabama. There is nothing “ugly” about the Purple Porpoise. Oh sure, the toilets are older than both you and I combined. Alright, let’s be honest, the toilet paper is probably older than you and I combined. The floor is old. The bar is old. The roof is old. It smells during the day and even worse at last call. The Purple Porpoise is not ugly. The Purple Porpoise is a legend.

It is the Wrigley Field at the University of Florida. The Soldier Field for the Gators. The Fenway Park for the students. The Sistine Chapel for Florida alumni. The Purple Porpoise is where students kneel to the beer gods, some willing and some by the law of gravity, and ask for one last passing grade.

Ask your older brother or sister. Ask your Aunt or your Uncle. They know. They all know the Porpoise. The Legend has grown over the years but will be no more as of 2am Friday morning.

Gator Ugly. Please. This obvious spoof on that great Hollywood classic movie Coyote Ugly will be replacing a legend. It will be the Babe Dahlgren to Lou Gehrig. The Ryan Minor to Cal Ripken, Jr. The (insert current/any future Florida football coach here) to (insert the head coach of your beloved 5-7 Washington Redskins here). The Damon Huard to Dan Marino. The Shemp to Curly. The Sammy Hagar to David Lee Roth. Alright, that’s a little overboard. But you get the picture. This is what Coyote…errr….Gator Ugly will become. The replacement. Grrrrr!!!

You might say that there have been athletes and coaches that have replaced legends and gone on to have successful careers. Look at Steve Young. Jimmy Johnson did alright for himself after taking over for Tom Landry. Gene Stallings won a national championship at Alabama after replacing Paul “Bear” Bryant. Well, he didn’t exactly replace Bryant. The Crimson Tide of course had to go through Ray Perkins, Bill Curry and a lot of Tide boxes with toilet paper rolling on top before they found Stallings. But we’re talking about the Porpoise here. The wait staff is right out of a swimsuit calendar. The wings are bigger than a Julius Peppers forearm (and with less steroids). One minute you’re in “football” heaven. The next you’re across the street at the Porpoise–in heaven.

There a couple of things that recent (1982 to now) Florida graduates consider a “must-do” while they’re in Gainesville. One is grab a Burrito at Burrito Bros. The 2nd is to grab a beer at the Porpoise. There is nothing better than walking out of the Porpoise with a beer in one hand, a ticket to the game in the other hand and looking up to see Ben Hill Griffin Stadium. What a beautiful sight. It just won’t be the same walking out of the stadium after a 63-0 pounding of Northern Illinois and seeing Gator Ugly.

The Purple Porpoise is the diamond in the rough. The gem among gems. The pick of the litter. Ask anybody. Former UF students. Current UF students. Future UF students. Many, many F’s have resulted from too many late Thursday nights (and Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Saturday, etc.) at the Porpoise.

Flashback two years ago. Florida 48, Central Florida 14. Halftime.

You glimpse over to the east side of the stands, i.e. the student section. That’s all you see. Stands. It’s halftime against a team that had no chance in the first place. They came to get in and out as quickly as possible and leave with their six-figure paycheck in hand. Where is everybody you ask yourself. Silly question. The Porpoise. It was a rite of passage for UF students. Sure, you got an A on your Chemistry 101 final. But you didn’t truly graduate until you left Florida Field at halftime for an adult beverage of choice across the street at the Porpoise. Some students came back to the game. Some didn’t. Some couldn’t.

For one last glorious night, the bright purple neon light will illuminate University Avenue. Go out and enjoy it for one last time. Be careful. Be responsible. Be forgiving, for the Big, Bad Gator Ugly is moving in. Maybe Gator Ugly might not be such a bad spot after all. Remember, Babe Dahlgren was a career .261 hitter.

R.I.P.~ Purple Porpoise ~ April 2nd, 1982 – December 6th, 2002

As the picture of six of New York’s finest slowly parading the tattered American Flag to mid-court before Monday night’s national championship game crossed the television screen I elbowed Irish, sitting next to me at the bar and said, “ Hey look, there’s the flag.” Irish, of course, is my close friend Pat Rainey, Commander, soon to be Captain in the U.S. Navy who has just returned from a record setting six months plus deployment aboard the Aircraft Carrier Theodore Roosevelt.

The always-pleasant Irish stared intently at the screen and quickly traveled in his mind a half a world away, to somewhere in the Arabian Sea before he turned to me and said, “You know, it still smells like soot.” It seems the famous Old Glory from the World Trade Center had been delivered to the Roosevelt to be flown as a symbol of just what they were there for. As the Operations Officer (OPSO) on board, Pat was there when the flag arrived from the States and was unpacked. It flew on the Roosevelt, at Camp Rhino and other spots where Americans, like my friend Pat, were fighting the war on terror.

It got me wondering how weird it must be for Pat to sit and watch a sporting event where the guy sitting next to him, in this case me, thinks the outcome is important, only because he hasn’t seen the real important stuff, like, well fighting for freedom. But then again, that’s what the men and women who are on the front lines know they’re there for: so that all of us can continue to live the lives we have and to have the freedom we enjoy. Stuff we take for granted like going to ball games and rooting on our favorite teams. I’m standing there feeling patriotic as they walk the flag out and they guy standing next to me is recalling what the flag smells like? How different have our lives been the last six months?

When we were driving around catching up, Pat was amazed and very gratified to see all of the American Flags on the backs of cars. His daily run took him down a street were each house flew the Flag, which he said really brought home, right in front of him, the reason he’s been doing the work he’s been doing the last six months. He noticed right away that the flags on the Maryland uniforms Monday night were bigger than the one’s on Indiana’s. (Yet another reason, I told him, to root for the Terps).

I woke Pat from a sound sleep with a phone call on the morning of September 11th, telling him to turn on his television, knowing his life was about to be changed dramatically and I wouldn’t be seeing him for a while. And through the exchange of emails and a couple of phone calls during the deployment, I could tell he was busy and focused on what he was doing. We’d laugh occasionally about how different things were for the two of us; I’m going to ball games, he’s going to Afghanistan. Security concerns kept our correspondence light and mainly about what was going on here. That was fine with me, filling him in on the everyday things, portraying a sense of normalcy here at home.

We’ve crowned a college football champion, played the World Series and the Super Bowl and finished the college basketball season since September 11th, hopefully with a little better understanding of how those things, big as they are, fit into the scheme of things and the bigger picture..

So I guess the whole point of this commentary is to say thanks. Thanks to Pat and those like him who didn’t see the Diamondbacks or Hurricanes or Patriots win because they were off making sure we could see the Diamondbacks, Hurricanes, Patriots and yes, the Terrapins win.

So thanks Pat, I’m glad guys like you were there, and I’m glad you’re home

As you’re out at the malls and at your local shops on the busiest shopping days of the year, don’t forget some of the more notables on your list. What do you get a just un-retired NBA superstar who’s playing with a bunch of dolts? Or an NFL coach whose stars can’t stay healthy, and who, in his own words, can’t get the ones who are on the field to “play above the x’s and o’s?” Some people are easy to buy for; for some others, you have to be pretty creative.

For Michael Jordan, see if you can find a giant bag of patience, and check in a specialty shop for a huge dose of sense of humor. It’s pretty obvious with the supporting cast he has on the Wizards; he’ll need both as the NBA season goes along.

Getting gifts for Tom Coughlin is easy. Grab every medical supply available, and while you’re there, see if the pharmacist can write a prescription for a little luck, the good kind. His team has had plenty of the other already. And while you’re at it, see if the pharmacist has any extra sense of humor samples around you can slip in Coughlin’s stocking. I know Tom has one; it’s just not on display enough. A little extra can’t hurt.

It’s hard to tell what Wayne Weaver would want. His Jaguar investment has more than tripled in just seven years. His wish list includes an appearance in the Super Bowl. That one will have to wait a few years.

Shop around for a match up between JU and Edward Waters on the basketball court. I think you find that in the “when hell freezes over” section.

Grab a little Florida State for the Gator Bowl and you’ll be done with them. See if some sort of weird ending to the BCS Rankings is still available. The line will be long, but if you’re a Gator fan, it’ll be worth the wait.

Drop in the hardware store on your way home and see if they have any “shut up you won the game” for Steve Spurrier. And while you’re there, check for some “better sportsmanship lessons” for current, future, and recent FSU players. Bobby Bowden used to hand that out for free, but I think he’s all out, or he forgot where he left it.

Grab a bunch of those “No Whining” hats. About 90% of the players in the NBA need one of those.

And that extra bag of toughness you bought for your friends in the NHL? Sprinkle that around to some of the other sports, the hockey players have enough.

If you have any money left, and you can find some somewhere, get a little style and pr savvy for Baseball Commissioner Bud Selig. Maybe you can take some from Paul Tagliabue. He has more than enough. In fact, a little too much. And see if they have any “dominant team” in the fragrance section. The Commissioner and the NFL could use a little spritz of that around the ears.

Tiger seems to have everything. A little “cordiality while dealing with fans” would be a nice gift. It’s small, and it’s something he needs and doesn’t know it!

Sometimes you have to buy people something they need, but don’t necessarily want. For many NFL Players, that item is personal accountability. It’s not hard to find, and it won’t be expensive, but getting them to take it will be a whole other story.

That should be about it.

If you have a minute, pick up something for Billy Donovan. Anything will do.

Whatever it is, he’ll get the best out of it and make it a winner.

I was sitting at my desk on Sunday night when I heard the familiar sweet “ding-dong” from my computer, notifying me I had a new email message. It happens all the time, and five or six times a day, I go through the mailbox to cull out the junk and things that are actually sent to me. I checked it right away and immediately started laughing and crying at the same time. The sender was KTMill, one of my friends in the Navy, the one who I did some stories with when he was stationed at Cecil Field, the one who’s kids went to school with mine, the one who I thought was dead.

Cmdr. Kevin Miller’s current assignment is at the Pentagon, located just inside the helipad, just a few yards away from where the direct attack happened. He was there, watching the attack on New York, thinking, “we’re next.” And he was right.

Sitting at his desk, he sensed, as much as heard or felt the shudder of the building and the rush of hot air through the office. Knowing just what had happened, he evacuated with what he hoped was the rest of his staff. It wasn’t long until he learned that a third of that staff was gone in an instant, an act of war on men and women in uniform and civilians serving their country. Kevin, or “Hozer” as he is known in the Navy, is an FA-18 pilot, a member of the Navy pilot Hall of Fame in Pensacola with more than 1,000 carrier landings. He’s the kind of guy we’re not counting on to restore our way of life.

On the front line of that battle is my friend Pat Rainey. Cmdr. Rainey is the Operations Officer on the USS Roosevelt. They shipped out on September 19th. It was a planned deployment, but now with a different purpose. I picked up the phone today and it was Pat, “Irish” as he’s known in the Navy, on the other end. “Hey Sam, Irish here,” he said in his usual pleasant demeanor. “Hey Pat!” I exclaimed, “Where are you?” I foolishly asked. “We’ve got a new plan,” he said, “we’re not talking about where we are.”

I felt pretty stupid, but quickly realized these are the new rules, the new way of life. We chatted for a few minutes before the line went dead, but not before I promised to hold up my end of the bargain here in exchange for the work he’ll be doing in the months ahead.

On the morning of September 11th, Pat and his wife Kim were on a small vacation, enjoying a few days together before Pat shipped out for six months. Pat has made Captain, so this deployment will be his final one as Commander; he gets “pinned” early next year.

I was up early and was following the events very closely. I got Pat on the phone before 10, knowing he and Kim would still be sleeping after a late night out. “Hello,” he answered in his best ‘I’m not really asleep” voice. “Pat, it’s Sam,” I said calmly. “Hey Bone, what’s up,” Pat responded, paying me a high compliment by using the “call sign” the Navy gave me during some tactical jet, back seat training I went through a few years ago.

“Look, Irish, some terrorists have attacked the World Trade Center and the Pentagon,” I explained in as straightforward a manner as I could. I was trying not to be alarmist, knowing a military professional who’s about to be at the “tip of the sword” would want the facts, not something hysterical. To compound matters, Kim is a flight attendant, spending most of her time in the air. “You’re kidding right Bone?” Pat said as I’ve heard him say a hundred times before about things I was kidding about. “No, turn on the TV,” I told him.

Amid the fumbling for the remote control I heard the distinctive “thump” of the television coming on, then silence, then “Oh my God!” in an even tone. “Let me get my bearings and I’ll call you right back,” Irish said before he clicked off.

Over the next few hours, I talked with Pat about a half dozen times, as he got his life in order, drove to Norfolk and back twice, trying to coordinate things that were already difficult. His daughter in Houston didn’t get a chance to see him before he left as planned. His wife now sends him off, knowing full well he’s in harm’s way.

It’s guys like Kevin and Pat that give me strength, give me confidence that we’re following the right path and doing the right thing. They also give me confidence in one other important thing:

We’ll win.

Unprecedented action takes unprecedented decision making. There is no history to rely on, nothing that has happened in the past to compare. While we have the thought that a return to “normalcy” is important, it is our very resilience that can make us vulnerable again.

Our enemy in this war is evil, but he is also smart. He has studied us, studied our culture, and our reactions. He knows we have a nearly maniacal drive to show that our way of life can’t be disrupted, that we won’t be deterred from our freedom. And we won’t be. But a rush to judgement because of our desire to return to normal would be rash. In fact, our whole idea of normal has to change. If we go back to our day to day lives without an altered sense of what is normal, then those people who were victims of this atrocity will have died in vain. It’s naďve to think that the government can ensure our security. We cannot live in a closed society of fear, but we must understand the risks. That’s why our security is our personal responsibility. An awareness of our surroundings is paramount to our safety.

The arguments regarding whether the sports world should pick up this weekend are equally powerful. One side says it’s important to let our enemies know that they can’t disrupt our way of life through the symbolic playing of games. That the games will provide a much needed distraction for a grieving American public. Another side says it’s time to mourn. That a weekend without sports would give people a true time to reflect, to spend time with their families, to deal with their grief on their own level. That putting airliners back in the sky with large stadiums full of 60,000 fans would be too inviting of a target for a cunning, evil enemy. And there’s a third argument. And it’s that the very fact that there are differing opinions and different actions taken is the essence of our freedom.

Instead of receding, this tragedy is getting larger. The numbers are becoming faces and families with the grim reality that it will probably get worse before it gets better. That’s why I don’t think they should play games this weekend. While the games would be symbols of freedom, it would be asking too much of our athletes to bear that burden. Is it fair to ask them to play games within sight of the wreckage where bodies are being extracted? Will we be able to attend as fans, to cheer without guilt, to conjure up a dislike for the opponent?

My biggest fear is that it is not over. But perhaps a larger cloud that hangs over this discussion is that those who say “play” will call those who say “don’t play”, wimps. And those who say “don’t play” will call those who say “play” lunatics. If that what it degenerates to, then the enemy has won.

You might have seen on Channel 4 this week that I’m celebrating my 20th year at WJXT. It also marks the 20th year Tom Wills, Deborah Gianoulis, George Winterling and I have been the anchors at Channel 4, the longest running four person anchor team in television history.

There are many people to thank starting with my family for the sacrifices they’ve made, the management at the station and Post-Newsweek for creating an environment where we can flourish, and Tom, Deborah, and George for their professionalism and friendship over the years.

They’ve been running a couple of highlight clips of my career over the past 20 years on the air, and when I see them, there’s no wonder I think I have the best job in the world. Covering all kinds of fantastic competitions, from the Super Bowl to the World Series, The Masters and seemingly every other major sporting event in America, what’s not to like?

There have been exciting times, like when the city was awarded the Jaguars and the Super Bowl, the national championship seasons of the Gators and Seminoles, the great basketball runs by both schools and many others. And there have been difficult times as well, bringing news about sports figures who have lost their way, or tragically, lost their lives either in or outside of competition.

I’ve learned a lot from the people I’ve reported on and there is a common thread that runs through all of the successful people I’ve covered. They all have a desire to find out just how good they can be. They’re never really satisfied with their final effort, figuring out just how much better they could have been by tweaking this and refining that. They don’t compete against some rules in a book or against the other team, but rather against a standard of excellence they knows exists. They know what’s good and what’s not, and they don’t need somebody to tell them when they haven’t performed at their best.

And they’re passionate.

Passionate about what they do, about life, and about their own achievements. When you’re around people like that all the time, it inspires you. I know it inspires me every day to perform a little bit better, to try a little harder, to not come up with an excuse for why not, but rather to figure out a way to make things happen.

I’ve been honored to have breakfast with Muhammad Ali, lunch with Richard Petty, beers with Arnold Palmer and spend time with a whole myriad of other famous stars in and out of the sports world. I even had a chance to sing with Huey Lewis once at a post-concert party!

What has always impressed me isn’t their money, or fame, but when they’re nice. Without being schmaltzy, it’s true. And with most of the really successful, that’s the case. They’re talent is usually only outweighed by their kindness and understanding.

Outside of sports, easily the most exciting and interesting things I’ve done at Channel 4 are the stories on fighter pilots and other Navy aviators. To have the chance to fly with the Blue Angels, then go through enough training to be “back seat” rated in the FA-18, getting a trap and a launch off an aircraft carrier are things I can never match. Being a Navy town, Jacksonville has given me a chance to get to know the pilots, the surface warriors at Mayport and the submariners at King’s Bay. Any time I think I’m working hard, I only have to remember the things they’re asked to do, and it makes my job look like a snap. Commander Pat Rainey asking me to be the keynote speaker at his change of command ceremony remains one of the highlights of the last 20 years.

Most importantly, thanks to all of you. Doing this job in a vacuum would be no fun. Getting to share your joys and disappointments is a rare privilege, and I’m glad you’ve let me along for the ride.

My Dad throws like a catcher. Kind of a short stroke, not much follow through. I have been on the receiving end of his throws many times. Mostly baseballs, but footballs too, the occasional Frisbee or nerf ball, all thrown with that short stroke.

I’m lucky to have been on the receiving end of those throws.

After school and my paper route, I’d while away the time in the front yard, playing curb ball, throwing at the six short bushy pines that guarded the front of the house (Raymond Berry and Jimmy Orr were the two on the ends, John Mackey in the middle, Lenny Moore stood right next to the stairs, and other unidentifiable Colts filled out the rest).

Like a million other young boys, I was waiting for my Dad to come home from work. He’d drive up; the catcher’s mitt would already be laid out near where his car door would open.

I’d fire my best fastball and hear the occasional, “you’ve got to back up, you’re hurting my hand!” Which, of course, would make me throw all that much harder.

My Dad, in IBM issue white shirt and tie, dark pants and wingtips, caught my first curveball, saw my first failed attempt at a knuckler, and laughed at my imitations of Jim Palmer, Luis Tiant and Juan Marachal.

“Let me go see what you’re mother’s doing,” usually signaled the end of our session, but never before an encouraging “I think you’re going to win the Heisman,” or “you’ll take over when Brooks retires” was mentioned as he bounced up the front steps.

The youngest son of immigrant parents, my father and his brother were the only siblings born in the United States. My Grandfather stowed away numerous times on ships out of Greece before finding a suitable place to bring his family. Known as “Gleeka” (The Sweet One), he finally settled on Baltimore leaving behind a hard life in the Greek islands. By trade, he was a housepainter, a steeplejack, but actually, he spent his time making wine from wildflowers, growing figs and grapes in the small backyard of his row house in downtown Baltimore, playing double pinochle at the coffee house, and watching over the neighborhood, making sure other Greek immigrants had a place to stay and enough to eat while they got on their feet.

My father learned a lot of lessons from his dad early on. They didn’t speak English in the house, and everybody in the neighborhood was Greek. “Two eggs and a bacon,” was the extent of my grandfather’s English, although he never had any trouble communicating. When my father came home from school with a vocabulary test in the first grade, he had no idea what the words meant. “What should I do?” my grade school Dad asked. Rather than march to the school and demand he be taught in Greek or some other silly solution, my Grandfather (Popou in Greek) logically responded, “Learn English fast.” Understanding the power of an education, my father kept his nose to the grindstone (mostly) eventually graduating from Johns Hopkins using the GI bill.

I saw some of these things as a kid, but most I know from stories my Dad has told me. He’s the best storyteller I know. With a bent toward hyperbole, he takes poetic license, as all good storytellers do, but never deviates from the truth. Many times I’ve heard stories about my grandfather fighting the Turks and the Nazi’s. About the first time he met my mother (on an ice skating rink) and about the day I was born.

No matter how many times he tells me that one, it’s always with the same emotion, the same passion. How he and another guy were in the waiting room (long before they allowed husbands in delivery) and decided when their kids were born to go across the street to the “House of Welsh” to have a drink. But when the doctor called the other man to the corner of the room to say his son had died at birth, those plans faded away. And how he decided to name me after himself, (my mother’s idea) and not after his father (his dad’s idea.) And how it was one of the four best days of his life (I have two sisters and a brother.) I never really understood that story until I had children of my own, and now the passion and emotion he tells it with makes complete sense to me.

My father has never been rich, yet he says he’s the wealthiest man in the world. “I have four great children who have never given me a day’s trouble,” is his answer when asked how successful he’s been.

I had a friend who once said to me “you Greeks have the weirdest combination of machismo and sensitivity in the whole world.” That about describes my Dad perfectly. He’s ready to fight if necessary, but is much more interested in compromise. I’ve seen my Dad cry, but not often, and I’ve seen him pretty angry, but not often.

I’m lucky to have witnessed so much of this with my father. Some of my friends never knew their Dads; other’s lost them when they were young. I’ve had a relationship with my Dad as a kid, and as an adult. His business advice has been sage, his personal words wise. Like most men of his generation, he doesn’t like the modern-day ball player, and doesn’t see much on television that appeals to him, except on The History Channel. I told him the best invention ever for him was the remote. “Now if I don’t like it,” he beams, “I just change it.”

“As I got older, somehow my father got smarter,” my Dad used to tell me through a laugh.

You know what Dad?

I think you’re a genius.

Stories about how Moms have influenced careers, made great athletes what they are, and pushed through adversity are plentiful. That’s the story about my Mom too. We didn’t grow up poor, but we weren’t close to rich either. (I never heard any discussions about money when I was a kid, but I did think liver was steak until I was 18.)

My Mother is the toughest, kindest person I know, all at the same time. The oldest of four children, her Father died when she was 17. The charge of helping out with her sister and brothers fell to her. She’s raised four children, prodded and cajoled and put all of us through college, saved three people from drowning once at a North Carolina beach while on vacation, stayed married to my Father for 49 years, and beat cancer. All while working with Special Ed kids, helping out charities and being the best cook on earth.

Pretty good huh?

Of course, she’s my Mom, so I think she’s perfect. Well, most of the time I think she’s perfect.

Who else in your life knows most of your secrets, even if you haven’t told them? Who else lets you make mistakes hoping you’ll learn from them, and praying you won’t get hurt while it happens? Who else made things easy for you, and you didn’t even know it. You just thought you were brilliant.

And your Mom let you feel that way. Because she’s your Mom.

My Mom has the most famous Mom-isms of all time. Ones you’ve heard. “We’re not air conditioning the entire neighborhood,” she’s said to me a million times as she closed the door behind me.

“Go outside and play. Don’t come back ’till it’s dark,” I heard daily after I finished my paper route.

“No bouncing the ball in the house. Do it in the basement if you can’t go outside,” was a regular staple during basketball season.

My favorite of all time though is, “when you have children of your own, I hope they jump on your couch, a lot.” I usually heard that one while practicing some trampoline routine in the living room.

Most of the Mom-isms came from the kitchen while I was somewhere else in the house. How did she know what I was doing? Eyes in the back of her head? Probably. (although when I was nine I looked and didn’t find any.)

My Mom, like a lot of moms, spent a good part of her time finding my various uniforms and driving me around. Some sports practice, a band practice, a speech competition, and even my first date to the Jr. High dance.

“Buckle up,” was a common refrain well before seat belts were even part of our collective consciousness.

When I was in High School, my Mom never discouraged me from anything I wanted to do. In college, she told me to finish. When I did she said “eventually you’ll end this Bohemian lifestyle (I was a bartender) and get on with your life.” (Bohemian? Who uses Bohemian in a sentence not including the words “Queen” or “Rhapsody?”)

I drove a school bus for a while at my Mom’s suggestion while trying to get into broadcasting. “Stay active, something good will happen,” was her sage advice, “and don’t mope, count your blessings!”

I’ve looked to her for inspiration during my career, drawing it from some of our most general conversations. “You’re most creative when nothing’s going on,” she told me one night when I had no idea what I’d put in the 11 o’clock news.

She’s kept me close to my faith, reminding me it’s a foundation for life. She’s kept an oral history of our family going, explaining who my Aunt Annie Brannan was and what kind of job my Uncle Will had (he was a carnival barker. Really).

I tell groups I speak to that all of the good things about me, I got from my Mom, the rest I acquired myself. That usually gets a laugh, but I know it’s the truth.

I’ve always thought my mother has beauty that rivals anybody. Not just anybody’s mom, but anybody.

I’ve never had any problem telling my Mom I love her. It’s always been easy. But on this Mother’s Day I wanted to say something I haven’t said enough.

Thanks

I grew up a city kid. Concrete sidewalks, asphalt streets, a few ball fields around, but mostly houses, apartments, cars and buses. We did have a big field next to the house where they eventually built apartments. I made a lot of mischief there, all kid stuff.

There was a stream running through my neighborhood. Or maybe you’d call it a brook, or a trickle, because that’s what it did. Tadpoles were the staple of the trickle.

I never saw a fish.

Some kids grow up with a cane pole and a cork in their hands. My hands were full of baseball bats, my afternoon newspaper route and Nancy Alvarez’s phone number (who lived five houses away and occupied my mind until I was 13).

My parents grew up city kids as well. My dad took me fishing a couple of times. We lived in Florida for a year and went to the Indian River. Once on vacation at my Aunt Linda’s in Houston, my Uncle Tony took us on a charter boat in the Gulf. (Actually my Uncle Tony went to the second deck of the boat, climbed under a bench and fell asleep while the deck was pitching three feet. Something about his Greek heritage.) We caught a bunch of fish off the oil rigs, I remember.

Fishing was not part of my life. I’ve tried to make up for that over the years. I love to bass fish, flounder fish, fish in the intracoastal. fish off –shore, it’s all appealing to me. Occasionally I’ll take what sounds like an exotic trip, just to fish. Sometimes out of state, sometimes, out of the country. Which brings me to the last five days in Guatemala.

My long time friend Denny, who is the best fisherman I know, invited me on this trip last fall. It certainly sounded exotic, and a little scary.

Guatemala?

Yes, Guatemala, where perhaps the best big game fishing in the world is now located. A two hour flight from Miami to Guatemala City and an hour and half van ride to the Pacific Coast put us at the Fins ‘n Feathers fishing lodge. If you’re wondering what Guatemala is like, my friend Chester said as we turned down another dirt road in the dark, “if I hadn’t been here before, this is when I’d start to get scared.”

Armed guards opening the gates gave me a perplexing feeling: I think I’m glad they’re here, but why? Inside those gates was a self-contained oasis of fishing nirvana.

Two bedroom cottages (with great AC) surrounding a common open air eating area, bar, swimming pool, and recreation area, all 50 feet from the boats moored in the marina. Up at six, on the water by seven, and heading out into the Pacific looking for sailfish and marlin.

Last year on this trip, Denny and three friends set the world record for catch and release of sailfish , capturing 76 in one day! I know guys who have fished their whole lives and haven’t seen 76 sailfish.

There were sixteen guys on this trip, all friends of Denny’s, so the compatibility factor was high. Even guys you didn’t know, you figured if they were friends of Denny’s they knew the drill. (no jerks allowed) My roommate Rick and I laughed so hard so many times about things we didn’t know we had in common I can’t even begin to count them.

Drawing for teams, with a small wager involved each day made it a little more sporting, but just being there was a hoot. I probably ate too much, drank too much and was too loud more than once, which means I was probably enjoying myself.

Between the four boats and the sixteen “anglers” (using the term loosely) we brought in about 90 sailfish and untold numbers of Dorado (dolphin). The Dorado is one of the most beautiful fish in the ocean. Brilliant gold, blue and green, fast and aggressive, a Dorado flashing underwater, the sun glinting off its sides brings a gasp of “wow” from most fishermen. The sails were all released, no worse for wear, and a few of the Dorado ended up as lunch or dinner or snacks, or all three.

I kept saying in my mind, “what am I doing in Guatemala?” I found the answer when I hooked a 100+ lb. sailfish Monday morning. Straining to hold onto the rod, feeling the power on the other end and seeing the line out 50 yards or more with a fish dancing on the water isn’t something a city kid dreams about.

But he will now.

It was pretty heady stuff being a sports fan in Baltimore in the late ’50’s through the ‘60’s and early 70’s. The arrival of major league franchises in football, baseball and basketball gave a port town built on immigration and industry a new identity. The Orioles, Colts and Bullets were part of the fabric of daily life.

Teams’ association with their cities was very tight. No one thought of the owners as anybody but great guys in town, part of the community, all pulling in the same direction. Television wasn’t much of a factoring sports coverage, still blossoming itself with three channels and no remote. The newspaper was a sports fan’s lifeblood. The game summaries, the standings, the agate type statistics all brought far away contests to life. The sports columnist explained it all, knew your heroes first hand, hung out with them, ate with them, drank with them, shared their pain and their triumphs and let you know how it felt to be there.

John Steadman was the Baltimore sportswriter in those times. Actually John Steadman was the Baltimore sports writer for all times. Steadman died in Baltimore on January 1st after a long battle with a rare form of cancer. He was 73.

I bring this up now because he was in my thoughts most of the day during the championship games between New York and Minnesota and Baltimore and Oakland. How fitting, I thought, if it’s another New York/Baltimore Super Bowl. John Steadman would have liked that. He wrote the history of the Colts/Giants championship game in ’58. “The Greatest Game Ever Played,” it’s called.

He never missed a game where a professional football team from Baltimore was playing. Never. Really. Since the Colts became the Colts in the ‘50’s, Steadman saw every football game the Colts, and now the Ravens ever played. In person, home and away. He never kept a running tally, never referred to it as “The Streak” or anything like that (719 in a row by the way). Exhibition, regular season, post-season, championship games, Super Bowls, John Steadman was there.

Growing up in a working class neighborhood in Baltimore, John Steadman’s brother, Thom, lived three houses away from us. That made us some kind of celebrities. I mean, his brother lived around the corner, and that meant John Steadman had to visit sometime, right? His nephew was a boyhood playmate of mine. I might see him, right? All of this fuss over a sportswriter you ask?

Being a sportswriter then meant something very different than it does now. A local sportswriter was just that, somebody who was local. They grew up in your town. They went to high school somewhere down the street. They had the same frame of reference as you. You’d see them in church, or at the store. They were part of your town, understanding the ups and downs. Not just a disembodied voice, but rather, somebody real.

There were two papers in Baltimore when I was growing up. The Sun, where my Uncle Angelo worked as a graphic artist, and the News-American, where John Steadman was the columnist. The News-American more closely reflected our lifestyle, but we took the Sun, probably out of deference to my Uncle. In fact, I even had a Sunpapers route. Delivering the paper from my bike in the afternoons and from the back of the family station wagon on Sunday mornings.

But I read John Steadman.

Somehow.

I was too young then, didn’t really know anything about anything, except I wanted to be either John Unitas or Brooks Robinson, but I knew, somehow about John Steadman, Baltimore’s conscience. Somebody who didn’t just write about the game, but rather about the people who played them and what they meant to us.

In journalism, there are a lot of hard-bitten people, cynical by nature, caustic and sometimes just generally mean spirited. Steadman was the exact opposite. Gracious, unfailingly polite and well dressed, call him a throwback if you will, Steadman had a passion for people. And that’s what separated his writing from all the others. Not his analysis of the x’s and o’s. Not his questioning of a manager’s pitching move, but rather his insight on why. He favored the underdog and was willing to take an unpopular stand.

I saw John Steadman a lot when covering events around the country. At our first meeting, I introduced myself, said I was from Baltimore and enjoyed his work. From then on, John Steadman called me by name and always introduced me as “a Baltimore boy” to whomever he was with. When Jacksonville was awarded an NFL franchise, Steadman gave me some insight about how Baltimoreans were taking it. “not very well,” according to a man who knew. I once saw him present long-time Baltimore sportscaster Vince Bagli to the authorities at Augusta National, saying Vince needed a credential. Nobody does that! Steadman did, it was the fair thing to do, according to the fairest writer in the land.

One of the things about my job that I never considered when I got into this business is the relationship with other journalists. Writers and broadcasters, veterans and rookies, all bringing a different perspective to the table. I also never considered the chance I might have to sit, side-by-side with legends, like John Steadman and talk with them, watch them work and learn something. And I never considered the chance I’d have to tell them publicly what a profound impact they had on my career, and in turn my life.

I had that chance last year at the Pro Football Hall of Fame Selection Committee meeting. All I said was “it’s rare you have a chance to tell somebody, publicly, what they’ve done for you and they don’t even know it. I’m what I am today because of John Steadman. I grew up in Baltimore, reading John Steadman, and that’s one of the reasons I chose this profession. You made it seem fun, and important at the same time. So, thanks John.”

And I sat down.

Crying.

Steadman was very sick at the time, but was excited about a new chance at treatment he was getting in the coming weeks. Excited and somewhat embarrassed because he was getting a chance to see some world famous doctor only because of his “celebrity.” Which he thought was silly. When the meeting ended, one-by-one, the selectors made their way to Steadman’s side of the room to shake hands, knowing it would probably, for many of them, be the last time. John knew it too. But he never wavered, listened intently as if it was the most important thing ever said to him. I shook his hand and tried to speak, but all I could get out was “I meant it.” He leaned over, nodded and smiled and patted me on the back.

So, thanks John.

To read more about John Steadman’s career in journalism go to www.baltimoresun.com/archive/ and type in “Steadman” in the search box. Tributes to Steadman and some of his writing can be found there.

Here is the info you need to make donations to
The John F. Steadman Scholarship scholarship fund:

Checks made payable to:
The Trustees of the Baltimore City College Scholarship Funds, Inc.

Forward to:
The John F. Steadman Scholarship
The Trustees of the Baltimore City College Scholarship Funds, Inc.
C/O William Dunbar, President of the Trustees
801 Quincy Road
Towson, MD 21286

Note on your check that the contribution is intended for “The John F. Steadman Scholarship.”

Sometimes I leave a locker room pretty happy with what was said about the team or the upcoming opponent. Sometimes the comments are so cliché ridden it’s amusing. That’s why some athletes are known as media “go-to guys” and others aren’t seen or quoted in the media so often. Just like in any group of people, some are smarter than others, some speak more eloquently than others, some welcome the spotlight, while others shun it.

You can always tell when a team has been “coached” by the staff on what to say to the media. Anytime you ask four or five players a similar question and they come up with the same phrase like, “they’ll try to control the line of scrimmage” you know the coaching staff has used that phrase over and over in their meetings. Some coaches put a muzzle on their players. Jim Fassel of the Giants hasn’t let his team speak in anything but generalities since the middle of November.

Some players close themselves out from the media completely. I’ve always thought that was irresponsible. Aaron Beasley decided early in his career he didn’t like being criticized in print. He stopped talking to the media for a while, but since has relented and is a very good and thoughtful interview.

Part of being a professional athlete is dealing with the public, including the media. If you think a writer has been unfair, close him out. Steve Spurrier did that with Larry Guest of the Orlando Sentinel for years. And he was probably right. Guest wrote what Spurrier thought were unfair and untrue things about the program, so he stopped answering his questions, just ignoring him like he was invisible. One time he even said, “you know I don’t answer your questions,” looked up and said, “anybody else?” I don’t have a problem with that. If you ask a fair and honest question, you usually get the same kind of answer.

Usually.

Some players and coaches don’t mind lying to the media and others are using it for their own personal gain. Some even turn it into a game. John Jurkovic used to “hold court” near his locker, spewing all kinds of sayings and platitudes, turning the interview into a show. That’s okay. John was friendly and honest and was thinking ahead a little bit to a possible career after football.

Some players have an interview schedule. Did you know Mark Brunell only talks to the media on Wednesday? Clyde Simmons had the same rule. That’s fine too. Everybody knows what the rule is and abides by it. Whatever reasons the player has for it don’t have to be justified by anybody. You’re talking Wednesday? Good, I’ll be there.

Jimmy Smith admitted he ran from the media after the AFC Championship game last year. He was gone by the time the locker room was open. “I just couldn’t face it,” said the Pro Bowl wide receiver. He wasn’t alone. The post-game locker room was nearly empty by the time it was opened to the media. I think that’s fairly lame. Reporters who cover the team regularly know the players as people too and are generally wise about how to ask a question after a loss. The national media is a little more savage, but a cold look in the eye to an unknown reporter after a stupid question usually sets the ground rules.

When Kevin Carter was at Florida, he was a great “go to guy” in the Gator locker room. (the Gators locker room is now closed and they bring the players out to be interviewed. I also think this is lame. There’s no uniqueness to sticking a microphone in front of a guy’s face as part of a mob scene) Auburn beat Florida in Gainesville, and I approached Carter in the post-game locker room for a comment. He kept his back to me and mumbled into his locker, “I’m not talkin’.” “What,” I exclaimed. “I’m not talkin’,” he repeated. “Oh, I guess you only talk when you win,” I snidely replied. (remember, this was during my young and stupid phase) Carter turned and stared a hole through me, but I didn’t budge. Actually I thought he might hit me. He relented and answered a couple of questions. I went about the rest of the locker room, gathering information, and eventually, alone, made my way back to Carter’s locker. I told him how much I appreciated his talking with us, and how as he moved on to a professional career, he didn’t want to get a reputation as a guy who only talked when things were good. Nobody respects that. He nodded a couple of times, and I left. Maybe it sunk in, maybe not.

My Hall of Fame of interviewees is probably just like anybody else’s. Joe Namath, Michael Jordan, Muhammad Ali, Richard Petty and Arnold Palmer. All knew the media had a job to do, some were more entertaining than others, but all understood how to portray or promote themselves through the media. Jordan was the greatest post-game locker room interview ever. You had to wait until he was dressed (impeccably) then he would answer any and all questions without exception. When the questions stopped, he would ask, “everybody got what they need?” look around the room, then slip out the back door. Namath was always honest, Petty and Palmer patient and polite without fail.

Gary Player adopted the habit of knowing a reporter’s name, and using it during the interview. That usually makes for good press.

The day of the outburst, the bulletin board material is probably gone with a few exceptions. Coaches warn players about the “evils” of the media. Players see their comments on the cable highlight shows. With the exception of Andre Rison, nobody’s been really outrageous in the Jaguars locker room.

No Richard Todd stuffing a reporter in a locker.

No Ryan Leaf having a temper tantrum.

Tom Coughlin has yelled at me a couple of times, outside of the press conference. He didn’t like a couple of my questions.

That’s okay. He’s doing his job.

I’m doing mine.

I get to spend a lot of time on the sidelines at football games. High School, College and NFL games have their own special appeal. The NFL now limits the number of people on the field, keeping most reporters off the sidelines. They don’t like the clutter. They want a clean look. College sidelines are usually buzzing. Lots of action, lots of passion. Many of the people charged with the duty of covering the game and reporting on it have an allegiance to one school or another. Sidelines in High School always have people who have a vested interest in the outcome. Lots of yelling, not a lot of reporters.

When you stand on the sidelines, the view of the field is magnificent, yet very different. You hear the hitting, you can see pain and exhaustion. The perspective is unique. Bringing that perspective to the television audience isn’t new. In fact, when I was at the University of Maryland, ABC Sports interviewed a bunch of perspective sideline reporters, all college aged, trying to use a college reporter to talk about college students. I was excited about the interview, thought it went well, but Roone Arledge picked Jim Lampley, then a student at Stanford, and a Don somebody who went on to a local television career in Philadelphia. Neither of those guys could get a job with the network these days as a sideline reporter though.

On any given Saturday, Sunday or Monday, the sidelines are littered with sweaty guys doing different odd jobs, security guards, poorly dressed reporters, the chain-gang in ill-fitting uniforms, photographers with all kinds of equipment hanging around their necks or perched on their shoulders, and some fabulous babe carrying a microphone.

During the Florida-Georgia game, I spent the first quarter in the press box, until I went to get some water and at least fifteen guys stopped me to ask, “have you seen Jill Arrington.” So I went to the sidelines to see first-hand what the commotion was about. It didn’t take long to spot the person who didn’t seem to fit among the regular throng. Arrington is a sideline reporter for CBS who doesn’t look like anybody else on the sidelines. Tall, with long blonde hair, well dressed in very tight clothes, Arrington is part of a new breed of television sideline reporter that the networks seem to think is necessary these days. The broadcast team is made up of a serious play-by-play man, some former player, and a striking female reporter on the sidelines.

Arrington, Bonnie Bernstein, Melissa Stark, Pam Oliver and Jillian Barberie are all part of network broadcast teams. Are they good reporters? Who knows? Most guys haven’t heard a thing they’ve said and women are commenting on their hair and their clothes. Is this fair? All could be fantastic journalists, but will never get the chance to show it based on the cosmetic aspect of the television industry. Nobody’s yelling “Quiet, I want to hear what Melissa is saying,” during Monday Night Football. “Great turtleneck,” is what’s being shouted in the local sports bars. Lesley Visser is pretty well connected throughout the NFL, but her choice of headwear was what garnered most of the attention during her reports on MNF.

A couple of years ago, Bonnie Bernstein sent me a tape, looking for a job as our weekend sports anchor. She was working in Reno, Nevada at the time and her tape stood out among the other applicants. Not because she was a woman, but because she was a very good reporter. I’ve worked probably two dozen games where Melissa Stark was the sideline reporter, first for ESPN and now for ABC Sports. She worked pretty hard during her ESPN games and is doing the same on MNF. You’d be hard pressed to see any of that now with the role the networks are asking them to play. They don’t seem to be complaining, so I’m wondering what is the point here.

Are these women gladly posing on the sidelines, knowingly acting as a distraction? Are the viewers getting any information? Is there anything the matter with any of this? Have the sideline reporters slipped into the category of cheerleader eye candy?

Actually, this could be much ado about nothing. The women on the sidelines are the next generation of pioneers, and will have to endure the catcalls and doubting that comes with blazing any trail. Network executives should be careful about how they formulate their hiring practices. The viewing public’s trust is at stake. If they lose that, they’ll never get it back.

Growing up as a kid in Baltimore, I was a fan of the Orioles and the Colts, just like everybody else. Exactly when football came up on my radar screen I can’t pinpoint. I can vaguely remember a newspaper headline lamenting the Colts’ NFL Championship Game loss to the Cleveland Browns 27-0 (1963) and I sat on the porch and sulked when Joe Namath’s Jets beat the Colts in Super Bowl III as an 18-point underdog. I became a huge Namath fan after that, and even wore white shoes in my high school football days (way before it was considered OK).

Baseball is a different story though. I remember the day the Orioles traded Milt Pappas for Frank Robinson and I can trace my fan allegiance to the Orioles to one event: The’66 World Series. Baltimore sweeps the Dodgers in 4 straight to win their first world championship

It’s part of a working class town’s birth right to have a close tie to their sports teams. That’s true in Baltimore, there’s an added bonus;

You get to hate the Yankees.

It’s part of the deal. Nobody is an Oriole and a Yankee fan. You can like the Pirates, or the Phillies, even some of those teams out west, but not the Yankees. Paul Blair went to play for the Yankees and was immediately disowned. Don Larsen finished his career with Baltimore, but he was always that guy from the Yankees who threw the perfect game in the World Series.

There’s nothing similar about Baltimore and New York except both are port cities with immigrant neighborhoods. For the longest time, there was nothing similar about the Orioles and the Yankees either. In Baltimore there was “the Oriole way.” How you played baseball the right way. In New York, they were always trying to make some deal to get the top players away from inferior clubs.

If you followed the O’s, you hated the Yankees and that was that. (You also got to make fun of the Red Sox and laugh at the Senators but that’s a different story)

Hating the Yankees was a daily summer pastime. I’ll be the pitcher and you be Mickey Mantle and I’ll strike you out in the bottom of the ninth! You be Whitey Ford and I’ll hit a three run homer off you to win the game! Every day in the street in front of my house from March ‘till October, the Yankees were defeated by some dramatic feat. Even in curb ball (a Baltimore city game) the hated Yankees went down to defeat as the sun was setting and my mother called me for dinner.

Apparently Yankee hating isn’t limited to kids from Baltimore. It’s somewhat of a national obsession and represents all that is good, and sometimes bad about being a fan.

What is it about the Yankees that is so “hateable” anyway? They’re good, if fact they’re arguably the best pro sports franchise of the 20th century. I’m not jealous of them. If they win, they win. I don’t check their scores, unless they’re playing the Orioles.

I suppose when you’re on top, you’re an easy target and they have had their share of characters over the years, starting with Babe Ruth (who’s from Baltimore by the way). Ruth is the only larger than life figure in baseball history, and he was a Yankee! Traded from the Red Sox, Ruth built the stadium and started the Yankees on the most successful championship run in sports history.

People hated the Yankees in the 20’s and 30’s because they always won. They came up with the best players, sometimes coerced from smaller city teams for big money. The 40’s were dominated by the war, and in the 50’s the Yankees went back to dominating baseball. Between Ruth, Gerhig, DiMaggio and Mantle, the Yankees had four of the best players ever!

Maybe it’s their fans that people dislike. When things are good, they’re out in force. When things are bad, they’re in hiding, or explaining how they used to win, bringing up some old box score and acting like it’s only a matter of time before they ascend to the throne again. Yankee fans are passionate, that’s for sure. Nobody is a casual Yankee fan.

George Steinbrenner is easy to dislike from afar. He seems to act like a jerk more often than not, but the few times I’ve talked with him, he’s been as charming as anyone I’ve ever met. And he wants to win!

It is harder to dislike the Yankees with Joe Torre as their manager. Who wouldn’t want Joe Torre as their manager? He’s smart, honest, a real baseball guy and isn’t a glory hound.

How can you dislike Derek Jeter? Or Bernie Williams? They’re two of the best players in the game today, and they happen to be Yankees.

I admit, the Yankees are great. Maybe the greatest sports franchise ever.

I have a lot of respect for them.

But somewhere in my heart I hate them.

I must.

It’s a rule.

Baltimore –
Let’s see, the NFL is in full swing, college football has had their share of dramatic games, Tiger Woods is the lead story every time he tees it up, the baseball races are close, hockey camps are opening, basketball coaches are making news, the US Open showed the future of tennis and, oh yeah, the Olympics start this week. Do you think there’s enough going on?

This might be my favorite time of the year. Some people don’t like the overlap but I think it’s great. In baseball clubhouses all over the country, the TV sets on Sunday are tuned to football. One of the first questions asked after things calm down in a winning NFL locker room is “Did Tiger win today?”

Sports are everywhere. Popping out of the sports section onto the front page. Moving into the news block of the evening news, and not just during the crime report. There are more cable sports stations, more sports talk radio stations. I’m sure some sociologist would say it’s got something to do with the “baby boomers” growing up. Or having grandchildren. Or slowing down. Or sitting in their recliners.

Whatever the reason, people are interested. They’re tracking the ups and downs of teams and players, the victories and their accomplishments. Some are living vicariously, others are being inspired to go do something themselves. Tiger Woods has brought new players to golf, but you don’t think he’s made every weekend hacker try to be a better player?

Computers are buzzing with fantasy football picks and trash talk. People are lamenting the failures of the home team, and cheering their successes. The information age has brought all kinds of information about sports right to everybody’s doorstep.

Where does corporate America go to find motivational speakers for their meetings? The sports world. What metaphors do political candidates use constantly? Ones from sports. It’s becoming the universal communications tool. A way to impart a moral and raise morale. For all of the things pointed out constantly that are wrong with sports, the competition factor is what makes the world go ‘round.

Could there be civility breaking out in sports? Woods takes his hat off at the end of a round to shake hands with a competitor. Bobby Bowden and George O’Leary spend a minute after a hard fought game in the middle of the field talking about the competition like old friends. Pete Sampras says Marat Safin can be the greatest player in the world after running the former champion off the court in straight sets. I’m not saying that overnight things are now wonderful. And Pollyanna hasn’t moved in next door. But it seems some of the players are beginning to understand the tolerance level of the fans and the corporations who pay the bills.

People don’t want to see temper tantrums. They don’t want to see felonious acts committed on the field and washed away as competition. They want to see effort. They want to see Todd Martin laying it all out in a five-set match at the US Open. They want to see Tiger try that 6-iron out of the fairway bunker over water going for the win. That’s what people want, and for the first time in a while, they’re getting a healthy dose of it.

But then again, the NBA hasn’t started yet.

I was having a conversation last night with my long time friend Andy. Andy used to work in Jacksonville 17 years ago and has traveled around since then. He’s one of my friends who I can go several months or even years without talking to, and pick up a conversation as if we spoke yesterday. He’s from New York, so not a lot turns his head. He’d come back with his family for a vacation and we were talking about how Jacksonville has changed since he left. He was overwhelmed. I mean could barely believe it. When he left, the town was just cresting past 200,00 residents. Now that number stands over 1 million. Two things have changed the landscape of North Florida: the Mayo Clinic and the NFL’s Jaguars.

It is pretty easy to document the Mayo Clinic’s influence. Prestigious diagnostic clinic picks Jacksonville for its first satellite. Patients are referred to this clinic and they and their families spend some time in North Florida, hopefully getting good news. Some of the nation’s top physicians are recruited to the Mayo Clinic and settle in the Jacksonville area.

The Jaguars influence is a little harder to define. It’s a mindset about Jacksonville that didn’t exist before. People from around the country know a little more about the city on the northern end of Florida, if not exactly how to get there.

Many have a general impression that NFL players are just thugs, living in a city during the season, taking advantage of the cushion local law enforcement might provide, raking down millions and moving on. The owner isn’t really local, he’s gotten a sweet deal from the city and is pulling down cash. That is the stereotype, and in some cases, even here, well deserved.

But I was standing on the practice field today and came across so many positive influences the team has provided they were hard to ignore.

Mark Brunell’s father, Dave, was at practice as he is occasionally. He moved to Jacksonville after it was apparent Mark had a long term future here. He’s a teacher and a coach. He’s influenced hundreds of local students already, including my own children. His local impact isn’t easy to define.

Aaron Beasley’s mother was watching practice from outside the fence this afternoon. She was a teenage mother to Aaron, and now has twin’s 3-years old. One has Down’s syndrome, and she had her in her arms today. Aaron’s mother lives in Jacksonville now, and Aaron is going to begin charity work, raising awareness and money regarding Down’s syndrome. Can you define his local impact?

Joel Smengee has been with the Jaguars from the beginning. He has a foundation that helps kids with facial disfigurement. His parents have moved here. His in-law’s now live in Jacksonville. Smengee and a couple of his teammates have started a business here, outside of football. His local impact could be immeasurable.

Ben Coleman was a Jaguar until this year, but his footprint has stayed behind, even though he’s playing in San Diego. I ran into Ben at a restaurant right before training camp started. He had 10 people at his table, and it was his treat. His ice cream shops provide not only a family atmosphere, but a place for young teens to congregate and stay out of trouble. Ben spent a lot of time here talking about “Family First” and a father’s responsibility. You don’t think that’s impact?

Jeff Lageman retired after the 1998 season. He still lives here, and plans on staying. In fact, his house on the St. Johns River was a fish camp in the early 1900’s so he says it has “good karma.” Lageman has an economics degree from Virginia, so he’s not locked into his celebrity here. But he’s stayed. He’s the Chairman of the local Channel 4 broadcast of the Children’s Miracle Network. I’ve seen him extend kindness to kids they’ll remember for life. His dedication to handicapped children is amazing to watch. Jeff’s having an impact.

Don Davey retired from the Jaguars two years ago. His knee wouldn’t let him play. Davey was a four time academic All-American at Wisconsin. He majored in Mechanical Engineering. I think he actually has more than one degree. I took him to Stanton Prep one afternoon to talk to the straight A students about continuing their work and Don told a story about how he wasn’t worthy to really talk to these students because he got one B in college. One. And he remembered everything about it, and how he disputed it with the professor. Don stayed in Jacksonville working in an engineering firm and doing charity work. He’s had an impact on me.

Kevin Hardy runs a local golf tournament with his name on it, with the money going to charity. But Hardy also just set his cousin up in a shoe store on the Southside. Members of his family have moved to Jacksonville to work in the store, filling what they think is a void in the local merchant population. They hope to have an impact.

I could go on about the golf tournaments hosted by Brunell and Tony Boselli. The Helping Hands foundation set up by Keenan McCardell. Keenan and Jimmy Smith’s summer football camp for kids. Jimmy’s appearances for a variety of charities. The speeches given by Carnell Lake about family responsibility or the enormous sums of money Tom Coughlin has raised in his charitable efforts, especially at his golf tournament benefiting the Jay Fund.

I’m sure I missed some, but I just thought you should know.

Some of these guys, they’re having an impact.

Apathy is the problem. Not overzealous fans, not an overdose winning at all cost, just apathy. People really don’t care. Too many other options, too many things on television, too many things competing for our attention. Ray Lewis weasels his way out of a murder charge by lying enough to the police and prosecution to have his charge reduced to a misdemeanor, pleads guilty, testifies for the prosecution and walks out of the courtroom.

There’s no public outcry, no protests, no calling for Lewis’ suspension. Just silence. Well, not even silence, instead the clicking of the remote and the sound of sneakers on the hardwood at the NBA Finals or ice shavings on the rink at the Stanley Cup. We’ve turned to something else. Put Lewis out of our minds and moved on. He’s a lowlife? No problem, just move onto the next game. He’ll disappear in time. And he’s just like the rest of those players anyway, isn’t he?

John Rocker’s an idiot. We all know that, yet there is a public fascination with his self-destruction. What moronic thing will he say next? Will he snap and hit somebody? It’s not that we’re indignant about what he said and think he should be punished. We’re apathetic. Let’s see where and how far he’ll fall into the abyss, laugh, and move on.

And that’s the problem. By accepting these guys back as athletes (which we do every time we buy a ticket) who bask in our adulation, we’re not necessarily giving our approval, but rather saying it doesn’t matter. We don’t care. Our lives are compartmentalized. We can separate the heroes from the thugs, even when they’re the same guy. Ray Lewis in an orange jump suit and in shackles looks like anybody in court. Somehow, when he dons that #56, we’ll think it’s a different guy, and that’s ridiculous.

Sociologists have been saying for years actions like Lewis’ and Rocker’s were on the horizon. We’re asking professional football players to have a violent personality on the field, but be child a care worker off it. We want the closer for our baseball team to be bulldog tough with a ferocious look on the mound, but to be self-effacing after the game.

Our expectations are unrealistic, brought on by a clash of generations and cultures. We want some sort of 1950’s “Father Knows Best” character to emerge off the field with an eye-bulging Arnold Schwarzenegger demeanor on it. To think professional athletes play for the love of the game or for the pursuit of excellence is shortsighted. The number of sportsmen in the game is small. The athletes are entertainers, performers who command large compensation for their services.

Perhaps we’re at a crossroads looking for a solution to the current ills of professional sport. Fans have to decide what is important: winning or the competition itself. I saw the movie Gladiator the other night and got a pretty creepy feeling seeing the ‘performers’ take center stage at the coliseum in Rome. Forty-thousand ‘fans’ cheering for which side? Actually neither, just the killing itself. Is that what we’re reverting to? Just observers, wholly immersed in the action while it’s going on, and apathetic afterward. We are seeing a general detachment between fans and athletes. If that chasm grows larger, the place sports has in society will disappear. And we all will have lost.

Maybe it’s over. Or maybe it’s just starting. Either way, you can feel the shift in sports. One age is ending and perhaps it will be considered a golden age of sport.

The retirements of Michael Jordan, Wayne Gretzky, Dan Marino, John Elway in the last two years mark a clear end to a dominant time in sports. A time dominated by players possessed with talent, and incredible will. An argument can be made that Jordan, Gretzky, Marino and Elway are the best of all time in their sports.

Looking back over the history of professional sports, there is an ebb and flow of interest, but a continuous growth of leagues, money and exposure.

Baseball has fought players’ strikes and scandal throughout its history, yet has survived intact. The game is so intertwined with the American story, President Roosevelt advised Judge Kennesaw Mountain Landis, the Commissioner of the game, to continue playing through World War II despite most of the players being called off to duty. Despite setbacks, the game has grown. Even the Black Sox scandal and cancellation of the 1994 World Series couldn’t keep the game from plowing forward. As baseball fans followed the game from radio, to television, to cable and to satellite, more information flowed into homes about the players’ on, and off-field exploits. The game has always had a collection of “eccentrics” but never were they all exposed at the same time. There was some mystery to it.

Overall, the quality of baseball has gotten better. Weight training, fitness, off-season workouts, coaching have elevated the talent to levels never reached before. They’ve all gotten better. Pitchers, hitters, fielders alike. But the game lacks a national promotional vehicle. Only Ken Griffey, Jr. is a recognized ‘national’ star, doing commercials and promoting the game. Fans are a bit disconnected because they’re better informed. They know the lack of revenue sharing has upset the balance of competition.

Basketball flourished when the focus of the game was on the stars. Wilt, and Russell, then Dr. J, followed by Magic, Bird and Michael all continued to push the game deeper into the minds of sports fans. The game still has stars, but all seem hollow imitations of something more real. Despite David Stern’s assurance that the game is better than ever, the game is in real trouble. Television ratings are off by a half, not because Michael retired, but because people are fed up with the macho, chest-thumping.

Football’s unprecedented growth in the last 30-years is directly in line with its ties to television. Yet the exposure of the game has reached a saturation point, and the league knows it. When players are oblivious of their role in society as a whole, it’s the league’s responsibility to make that part of the package. The NFL is taking steps to enlighten players about their part in the future of the game.

I think we’ll see a split soon. A serious chasm between what we now call the hard-core and the casual fan. More casual fans will be put off by the games, the players and the message both send. Those same games, players and messages will be the thing the hard-care fan is attracted to. Hard-core fans are looking for production and championships. Casual fans are looking for heroes, and most think they won’t find them in the sports pages anymore.

With the retirement of the aforementioned stars, there’s a new generation of athletes taking over the limelight. All born in the late 70’s and early ’80’s, all products of the information age. No mythology left about any of them. Sports mercenaries by trade, not in a negative sense, but by training. That’s all they’ve ever seen, all they’ve ever known. Big money and stardom has been at their fingertips their whole lives. It’s all there, right on television, 24 hours a day. Cable TV and satellite broadcasts enable a viewer in Portland to be an Oriole fan and a fan in Baltimore to follow the TrailBlazers.

It will work it self out. Why? Because the leagues have survived by fixing things to appeal to the fans. Despite their statements to the contrary, every league subtly adjusts their product to stay alive. Some will need more than a tweaking, but they’re not going away.