Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Letter to a Demon

Dear Red Auerbach:

  I thought I’d write because I wasn’t sure if they had wireless in hell.

 First of all, please don’t hesitate to let me know if I can make things any more miserable for you down there. Can I get you a Super Pretzel? Season tickets to the Soul? A Phanatic hat?

 You might remember me. I’m the kid you and your Celtics tortured in the ‘50s and ‘60s. You always found ways – some of them legitimate, some not – to beat my Philadelphia Warriors.  

 They were painful losses for a young kid to swallow -- late rallies, fight-marred contests, bad calls. Lots of bad calls. Havlicek might have stolen the ball but, as I recall, you helped Mendy Rudolph and his refereeing colleagues steal quite a few meaningful games.

 And it wasn’t just me. Anyone who ever lost sleep, hair, money, or years off his life vainly rooting for the Warriors or later the 76ers against the Celtics, or for Wilt Chamberlain against Bill Russell, must feel the same.

 Unfortunately, by the time Philly finally vanquished the Celtics in 1966-67’s Eastern Conference finals, you had left coaching for the front office. It made that memorable night in Convention Hall, when we all chanted “Boston is dead!” with such glee -- so much less sweet.

 Anyway, I thought you were through tormenting me. Then, not long after watching the 76ers edge the Celtics in Game 2 of their playoff series Monday night, I had a nightmare.

  In it, you were coaching the Celtics. (By the way, if you ever do get the job again, how about banning headbands?) As usual, you’d spent all of Game 2 berating the officials. So when there were 10 seconds left, referee Michael Smith never called that illegal-pick foul on Kevin Garnett. Somebody hit a three, the Celtics won and you lit one of those foul victory cigars.

 I awoke in a cold sweat, though my wife blames it on the crab fries I had at midnight.

 You were smarter than the rest of your cohorts in the NBA back then, which I realize is a little like saying Randy Jackson is the smartest “American Idol” judge.

 You drafted and traded well. You knew the game. You understood how to get under an opponent’s skin and into a referee’s head.

 But let’s be honest, if you hadn’t had Russell at center, you’d have been selling shoes by 1957.

 Still, you did coach the Celtics to nine NBA championships, many of them at the expense of my Warriors and 76ers. And that brings me to the real reason I’m writing.

 Why did you feel the need to be history’s worst winner? You enjoyed unprecedented success. Was it really necessary to be an obnoxious jerk too?

 I never understand how you could be so arrogant, how every time Boston  won, you lit a fat victory cigar, a gesture that signified nothing but that you enjoyed rubbing it in the faces of opposing players and fans.

 I like to think I’m a student of sports history, but I can’t recall any other prominent figure who acted so childishly, so cruelly. I never saw John McGraw, but I doubt even he wouldn have stooped so low.

 When you had every reason in the world to exhibit class, you chose crass. Perhaps in the end, your greatest accomplishment will be the fact that no 6-8 power-forward ever rammed one of those cigars down your throat.

 You once tried to explain the maddening custom. You said that in your early days with the Celtics, you had no assistant coaches. When victory was finally assured, you were so exhausted and eager to relax that you sat down and lit a cigar.

 Sure.

 And the only reason you manipulated the heat in Boston Garden’s visiting dressing room, I guess, was because you were concerned about owner Walter Brown’s utility bills.

 I don’t know how the eternal-damnation works, but if you ever get a day off from the brimstone and suffering, please reply. I’m not expecting you too, though. I hear the mail service is horrible in hell, even though the place is teeming with disgruntled postal workers.
Posted by frank fitzpatrick @ 8:23 PM  Permalink | Post a comment
Sunday, April 29, 2012

Remembering the Rodney King Riots
 The big bus rolled through a rightfield gate unto Dodger Stadium's pristine playing field. It moved slowly along the foul line before coming to a stop in front of the visitors dugout. Phillies players, gazing warily around the empty stadium as if expecting to encounter rampaging mobs, emerged from the dugout darkness and got on the bus. John Kruk carried a bat in case there was trouble on the short ride back to the Sheraton Hotel. Dave Hollins gripped one in each hand.
 The bus, which after most games carried the manager, coaches, broadcasters and maybe half the roster was filled that night of April 29, 1992. Players who usually cabbed it back opted for the bus, even Lenny Dykstra, a notorious lone wolf. On this night, there were no cabs. It was nearly 11 p.m. when the bus, with police cars on each side, exited the stadium.
 It had been an odd day since shortly after the Phillies arrived at the clubhouse that afternoon. A news bulletin flashed across the room's one tiny TV monitor. A Simi Valley jury had acquitted the four Los Angeles policemen accused of beating Rodney King.  The tension that had been building in L.A. during the trial exploded at its unexpected conclusion. As soon as the first fires in Watts and South-Central L.A. had appeared, the entire apparatus of the TV news industry in the nation's second largest city was devotyed to coverage of the burgeoning riots. It was riveting television.
 During the game, which the Phillies would win, 7-3, players wandered back into the clubhouse to provide their teammates with dugout updates on the chaos that was unfolding just a few miles from where they played. As the fires spread and reports of motorists being dragged out of cars by mobs grew more frequent, curiosity turned to unease. The public-address announcer kept the crowd of more than 40,000 appraised of road closings and police avisories. By the ninth inning there only a few thousand fans remaining. 
 Up in the press box, the nervousness was no less palpable. How would we get back to the hotel? Was it safe to drive there? Were the riots close? It was my first visit to Los Angeles as the Inquirer's new Phillies beat writer. I'd rented a car, which was parked in the Dodger Stadium lot. My Inquirer colleague Tim Dwyer was along for the West Coast trip. After the game the half-dozen Philadelphia reporters hustled downstairs and gathered a few quotes, some about the game but more on the players' reactions to the surreal scene unfolding in flames beyond Chavez Ravine. The unseen wall that typically separated athletes and sportswriters disappeared that night. The typical rhythms of baseball had been disrupted. We all had one thing in common. We were, if not all frightened, certainly concerned.
 Manager Jim Fregosi had asked traveling secretary Eddie Ferenz to bring the bus right on the field and up to the dugout. Graciously, he informed the writers that he would hold the bus for us. There was no way I was going to drive back to the hotel. I left the car in the lot and, after filing a story, got on the bus. We'd all finished our rewrites in record time, gathered our stuff and descended to field level. The ride back to the hotel was uneventful but filled with nervous laughter and speculation. Would the second game in the planned three-game series take place tomorrow? Would the riots spread to our hotel? Would we all be prisoners in our rooms?  
 Back at the Sheraton, the writers all convened in the hotel bar, something that generally happened even on nights when there were no riots. Very quickly, however, the bartender got a phone call. There were reports that the riots were moving this way. He got orders to shut down for the night. Before the man departed, Dwyer asked him for a few lime slices. He and I  then went back to his room where I learned I had a lot to learn as a reporter on the road. Dwyer, who once had been stationed in the Inquirer's L.A. bureau, had brought along Tangueray and tonic, which coincidentally was my drink of choice too. He got some ice and, topping the drinks off with the lime slices, fixed us each a massive gin-and-tonic. It took the edge off the tense night.
 The next morning we quickly got word thatThursday night's game had been canceled. Dwyer was assigned to report on the riots while I concerned myself with the Phillies. When Friday's game was canceled too, the Phillies decided to depart early for San Francisco where their next series was due to take place that weekend. Everyone, players, coaches, broadcasters, writers, gathered in the hotel lobby for an afternoon update and meeting. By then, most of the other guests had checked out and we had the place virtually to ourselves. Fregosi said the team would be flying to San Francisco on a charter even though there were concerns that, as had happened during the Watts riots in the late '60s, rioters might be shooting at planes as they departed nearby LAX. The manager said the writers again were free to fly on the charter with them and most did. I had one problem -- the rental car now sitting all alone in the vast parking lot of a now closed stadium. I figured that if I could get to it, I could drive to San Francisco. Hell, the two cities were in the same state, right? How far could it be? I asked Fregosi, a San Francisco native, how long a drive it was from L.A. "Just a couple of hours," he said.  
 I took a cab to Dodger Stadium, found the car and, seven hours later, neared the outskirts of San Francisco, cursing Fregosi for the first of many occasions over the next few years. The radio said there were riots in San Francisco too, not far from our hotel, and that Saturday's game already had been canceled.
 The next day I called the mother of a boyhood friend. She lived in California now and  I hadn't seen her son in decades. She told me he had died. 
Posted by frank fitzpatrick @ 4:35 PM  Permalink | 1 comment
Sunday, April 29, 2012

Remembering the Rodney King Riots
 The big bus rolled through a rightfield gate unto Dodger Stadium's pristine playing field. It moved slowly along the foul line before coming to a stop in front of the visitors dugout. Phillies players, gazing warily around the empty stadium as if expecting to encounter rampaging mobs, emerged from the dugout darkness and got on the bus. John Kruk carried a bat in case there was trouble on the short ride back to the Sheraton Hotel. Dave Hollins gripped one in each hand.
 The bus, which after most games carried the manager, coaches, broadcasters and maybe half the roster was filled that night of April 29, 1992. Players who usually cabbed it back opted for the bus, even Lenny Dykstra, a notorious lone wolf. On this night, there were no cabs. It was nearly 11 p.m. when the bus, with police cars on each side, exited the stadium.
 It had been an odd day since shortly after the Phillies arrived at the clubhouse that afternoon. A news bulletin flashed across the room's one tiny TV monitor. A Simi Valley jury had acquitted the four Los Angeles policemen accused of beating Rodney King.  The tension that had been building in L.A. during the trial exploded at its unexpected conclusion. As soon as the first fires in Watts and South-Central L.A. had appeared, the entire apparatus of the TV news industry in the nation's second largest city was devotyed to coverage of the burgeoning riots. It was riveting television.
 During the game, which the Phillies would win, 7-3, players wandered back into the clubhouse to provide their teammates with dugout updates on the chaos that was unfolding just a few miles from where they played. As the fires spread and reports of motorists being dragged out of cars by mobs grew more frequent, curiosity turned to unease. The public-address announcer kept the crowd of more than 40,000 appraised of road closings and police avisories. By the ninth inning there only a few thousand fans remaining. 
 Up in the press box, the nervousness was no less palpable. How would we get back to the hotel? Was it safe to drive there? Were the riots close? It was my first visit to Los Angeles as the Inquirer's new Phillies beat writer. I'd rented a car, which was parked in the Dodger Stadium lot. My Inquirer colleague Tim Dwyer was along for the West Coast trip. After the game the half-dozen Philadelphia reporters hustled downstairs and gathered a few quotes, some about the game but more on the players' reactions to the surreal scene unfolding in flames beyond Chavez Ravine. The unseen wall that typically separated athletes and sportswriters disappeared that night. The typical rhythms of baseball had been disrupted. We all had one thing in common. We were, if not all frightened, certainly concerned.
 Manager Jim Fregosi had asked traveling secretary Eddie Ferenz to bring the bus right on the field and up to the dugout. Graciously, he informed the writers that he would hold the bus for us. There was no way I was going to drive back to the hotel. I left the car in the lot and, after filing a story, got on the bus. We'd all finished our rewrites in record time, gathered our stuff and descended to field level. The ride back to the hotel was uneventful but filled with nervous laughter and speculation. Would the second game in the planned three-game series take place tomorrow? Would the riots spread to our hotel? Would we all be prisoners in our rooms?  
 Back at the Sheraton, the writers all convened in the hotel bar, something that generally happened even on nights when there were no riots. Very quickly, however, the bartender got a phone call. There were reports that the riots were moving this way. He got orders to shut down for the night. Before the man departed, Dwyer asked him for a few lime slices. He and I  then went back to his room where I learned I had a lot to learn as a reporter on the road. Dwyer, who once had been stationed in the Inquirer's L.A. bureau, had brought along Tangueray and tonic, which coincidentally was my drink of choice too. He got some ice and, topping the drinks off with the lime slices, fixed us each a massive gin-and-tonic. It took the edge off the tense night.
 The next morning we quickly got word thatThursday night's game had been canceled. Dwyer was assigned to report on the riots while I concerned myself with the Phillies. When Friday's game was canceled too, the Phillies decided to depart early for San Francisco where their next series was due to take place that weekend. Everyone, players, coaches, broadcasters, writers, gathered in the hotel lobby for an afternoon update and meeting. By then, most of the other guests had checked out and we had the place virtually to ourselves. Fregosi said the team would be flying to San Francisco on a charter even though there were concerns that, as had happened during the Watts riots in the late '60s, rioters might be shooting at planes as they departed nearby LAX. The manager said the writers again were free to fly on the charter with them and most did. I had one problem -- the rental car now sitting all alone in the vast parking lot of a now closed stadium. I figured that if I could get to it, I could drive to San Francisco. Hell, the two cities were in the same state, right? How far could it be? I asked Fregosi, a San Francisco native, how long a drive it was from L.A. "Just a couple of hours," he said.  
 I took a cab to Dodger Stadium, found the car and, seven hours later, neared the outskirts of San Francisco, cursing Fregosi for the first of many occasions over the next few years. The radio said there were riots in San Francisco too, not far from our hotel, and that Saturday's game already had been canceled.
 The next day I called the mother of a boyhood friend. She lived in California now and  I hadn't seen her son in decades. She told me he had died. 
Posted by frank fitzpatrick @ 4:35 PM  Permalink | Post a comment
Friday, April 27, 2012

THE FIRST NFL DRAFT

The first NFL draft was, in many ways, a grand success for Bert Bell.

The Eagles' patrician owner had devised the idea nine months earlier, selling it to his colleagues as a way to maintain a competitive balance and, not insignificantly, hold down salaries.

It eventually would be successful and was a major step on Bell's journey to the NFL commissioner's post, a job he assumed a decade later.

And, if all that weren't nice enough for Bell, that inaugural event took place at the old Ritz-Carlton on South Broad Street, a hotel that he happened to co-own.

Still, Feb. 8, 1936, ended up being a pretty lousy day for the man who founded, owned, named and coached the Eagles.

Bell's Eagles, you see, couldn't sign Jay Berwanger, the No.1 overall selection and the winner of the first Heisman Trophy.

They couldn't sign their second pick either.

Or their third and fourth.

In fact, the Eagles signed none of the nine players they drafted that day, 72 years ago yesterday.

Bell responded by signing 12 free agents - five from area colleges - to stock the team he would coach in 1936 and for the next four seasons.

It didn't work. The Eagles, 2-9 under Lud Wray in 1935, finished 1-11 in 1936.

Concerned by his team's 9-21-1 record in its first three seasons, Bell sought a way to help the Eagles compete with richer clubs that could better afford to buy the best college talent.

In May 1935, he proposed a draft. Teams would pick college seniors in reverse order of the teams' finish. The other owners, eager for a way to stop bidding wars, agreed.

Since it was Bell's baby, that first draft was held in Philadelphia, in a conference room at the grand hotel that stood across Broad Street from the Bellevue-Stratford.

The drafting bore little resemblance to the quasi-science it would become.

The nine men who sat around a large table that brisk Saturday morning - including Chicago's George Halas, New York's Tim Mara and Pittsburgh's Art Rooney - had little firsthand knowledge of players they were about to select.

"We used to go down to the train station on Saturday night and buy the out-of-town newspapers to read about the college games," Rooney once told a writer. "We also looked in the press books of various schools, read magazines and all-American lists."

Bell knew Berwanger, a University of Chicago halfback, had won the initial Heisman - then awarded to the best player east of the Mississippi - so he took him with the first-ever selection.

But Berwanger had an opportunity to get into a new plastics venture in Chicago and was reluctant to sacrifice that opportunity for the kind of paltry salaries the NFL was paying.

Riley Smith, a back from Alabama who was the No. 2 overall pick, by Rooney's team, then called the Pirates, signed for $250 a game. Several of Bell's Eagles were earning $65 to $75 a game.

Bell phoned Berwanger, who was insistent about not coming East - at least not for anything less than $1,000 a game. Eventually the Eagles' owner became convinced and, later that same day, traded the pick to the Bears for a tackle named Art Buss.

Halas couldn't sign Berwanger, either, and the running back never played in the NFL.

Comedy of errors

In many ways, the first draft was a comedy of errors, perhaps an apt title for the event since Rooney's Pirates made Bill Shakespeare, a Notre Dame back, their No. 1 choice.

Shakespeare signed, but of the 81 players taken in nine rounds, 49 did not. Only 24 were on the opening-day rosters of the nine teams. It reflected pro football's status as something not far removed from pro wrestling.

Among those who couldn't come to terms was an end from Alabama named Paul "Bear" Bryant. The future Crimson Tide coach was the fourth-round pick of the Brooklyn Dodgers.

The last player taken, Holy Cross guard Pat Flanagan, the ninth pick of the New York Giants, also didn't sign.

"Owners often compiled their draft lists from well-worn copies of Football Illustrated magazines," wrote Bob Barnett, a Pro Football Researchers Association member. "Then they got ready to talk contract in the low four figures."

The owners did get a few things right. Four future Hall of Famers, only one from the first round, were selected that Saturday in Philadelphia: tackle Joe Stydaher, the Bears' first pick; back Tuffy Leemans, drafted second by the Giants; end Wayne Millner, chosen eighth by the then Boston Redskins; and guard Dan Fortmann, taken ninth by the Bears.

Halas later acknowledged the choice of Fortmann was pure luck. He said he liked the sound of his name. Fortmann decided to play only when the Bears agreed to let him attend medical school.

Bell's idea hadn't helped his Eagles much, and it wouldn't help his hotel, either. It, and every Ritz-Carlton except the flagship in Boston, would close by the end of the decade, victims of the Depression.

In Philadelphia the next morning, the papers reported little on the unusual new event. Draft coverage was even more scant in papers elsewhere.

"Neither the fans nor the the players knew the draft was taking place," wrote Barnett, "and frankly [they] did not care."

Berwanger, meanwhile, got rich in Chicago. Until he donated his Heisman to his alma mater before his death in 2002, he used the trophy as a doorstop.
Posted by frank fitzpatrick @ 8:25 AM  Permalink | Post a comment
Thursday, April 5, 2012

IT'S BAAAAACK!
 I know it's difficult, but stop texting, Tweeting and Zoosking for a moment. (If you don't know what Zoosking is, you've probably got a life, a job or a tan, perhaps even all three.)
 Open the door, walk outside and lift a finger into the air. (No, Philadelphians, not that finger.)
 Ok, feel it?
 It's barely perceptible, but it's out there. These old bones sense it. 
 It's the ill-wind of negativity, edging its way back into a Philadelphia baseball season.  It blew out of town about five years, just about the time the 2007 Mets blew the NL East title. 
 By October of 2008, it was so far gone you couldn't have found it with John Bolaris' Doppler, making it, by the way, just one more think John Bolaris' Doppler couldn't find. 
 Pleasant but rarely felt zephyrs of contentment stalled over our area like a welcome high-pressure system from Canada.
 Our native, black-cloud cynicism about the long-suffering franchise vanished and an unprecedented sunshine of optimism burst forth. Even the most soul-scarred among us became peppy cheerleaders for all things Phillies. Home games became hapenings. Casual fans became fanatics. Anyone in pinstripes became a minor deity. Gayly, we donned their apparel.
 And why not? No one under 40 had experienced anything like the stretch of marvelous, meaningful baseball. A World Series win. Two pennants. Five straight division titles. A packed balpark. Unburdened psyches. Sweet dreams.   
 The glow was so warm that it sustained us through those chilly October nights when the Yankees took the 2009 World Series, through the 2010 loss to the Giants and the stunning 2011 elimination by the Cardinals. 
 But like Peanut Chews and Doug Collins it's come back. You can feel the ill-wind's sting in all the naysaying forecasts about impending doom for these 2012 Phillies, about the end of a golden age, about Ruben Amaro Jr.'s shortcomings.
 Suddenly, instead of talking about the possibility of 100 victories, the focus has shifted to discussions about lying, injuries and anemic offenses. It's as if, to paraphrase a line from "American Pie", the three men we admire most -- Sts. Roy, Cliff and Cole -- took the last train to the coast.  They can't save us. For though our arms be mighty, our bats are weak.
 By mid-summer, if the Phillies find themsleves stuck behind any combination of the Marlins, Nationals or Braves  (the Mets are still blowin' -- in the wind), the bad-news breeze could be at hurricane force. And the old two-word solutions will be hurtling through the charged atmosphere like trailers in a Kansas twister -- Fire Charlie. Trade Jimmy. Sign Cole. We suck.
  Imagine. Howard misses the season. Utley returns a shell of his former self. Rollins loses a step.
 If so, it won't be long until until beer is again the biggest attraction at Phillies games.
 And, just like in the old days, we'll have nothing to cheer, but cheer itself. 
Posted by frank fitzpatrick @ 12:51 PM  Permalink | 3 comments
Tuesday, January 17, 2012

SIZING UP JOEPA'S INTERVIEW
Joe Paterno made his first public comments since being fired in an interview with the Washington Post. (John McDonnell/The Washington Post/AP)

A couple of lingering questions about Joe Paterno's Washington Post interview:

1. WHY WAS JOE SO EAGER TO TALK?

According to the Post's Sally Jenkins, after their lengthy session on Thursday, Joe wanted to extend the session into Friday even though he would be in the hospital that day. Clearly, the interview wouldn't have taken place if his lawyer and advisers hadn't believed that the Q and A would aid Paterno in the court of public opinion. In that case, we might have expected a smoking-gun moment, some revelation that would help lift the veil on this troubling Jerry Sandusky scandal, perhaps clear up one of its many mysteries or even exonerate Paterno.

Yet, when it came to the gravest doubts concdrning his behavior, Paterno's responses were basically a rehash. He said nothing of great import. He neither saved nor condemned himself.

The 85-year-od coach said he wished he had done more, but he'd already said that. He indicated that he wasn't exactly clear about what Mike McQueary was describing, but we already knew that.

The ongoing debate between those who believe the coach acted responsibly and sufficiently and those who feel he should have done much more remains unresolved. So does the damage it's doing to Penn State. Neither side has any more arrows in its quiver. And that's too bad. The happiness isn't going to return to Happy Valley until this sordid mess has been cleaned up, the disturbing questions answered, the coverup -- if there was one -- brought to light,

Given his age and declining health -- both of which were in evidence during the Post interview -- who knows how much longer Paterno will be around. This Greek tragedy would grow even more dark and disturbing if he were to succumb before some future legal proceeding were to find him blameless.

We still don't know how or if Paterno tried to follow up with the athletic department officials he had notified about McQueary's story. And we still don't know precisely what he was thinking as his young, red-haired and -- in this instance certyainly, red-faced -- assistant described what he saw Sandusky doing with a young boy in the shower.

For me, Paterno's most revealing comments came when he said Sansusky quit because he'd been told he wouldn't be Penn State's next coach. And, again for me, the interview's single most interesting element not from Paterno but from his wife. After the Board of Trustees had callosuly dismissed the coach with a single sentence over the phone, Sue Paterno hit redial and told trustee John Surma that had some nerve, firing a legend in such a heartless manner. "

2. HE'D NEVER HEARD OF "RAPE AND A MAN"?

Now remember, Paterno is an 85-year-old man with lung cancer undergoing both chemotherapy and radiation as he deals with the most traumatic episode of his long and storied career. If he were forgetful or confused or imprecise in his words, it certainly would be understandable. As one reader pointed out in a email to me:

"My suggestion to you is to talk to a gerontologist to discover just what the effects of chemo can be on a person of Paterno's age, and then ask the doctor how the effect of the stress that Paterno's under would further affect him. I'm surprised JoePa remembers his own name at this point, let alone details of what was said in his meeting with McQueary"

I hope that's the case because otherwise I find the following comments hard to swallow.

“You know, he didn’t want to get specific,” Paterno said of McQueary. “And to be frank with you I don’t know that it would have done any good, because I never heard of, of, rape and a man."

Say what?

I'm sorry, but if Paterno understood the question, it's difficult to interpret his response as anything but disingenuous.

He is, after all, an Ivy League-educated man. He's read Shakespeare and the classics. And even if he weren't so well-read, he's a Catholic. That child sex-abuse scandal that has so deeply danmaged his church? What exactly did he think was happening between those priests and those boys? Horse play?

3. WHY WAS HIS DISMISSAL SO BADLY BUNGLED?

Even if the Board of Trustees knows a lot more than we think they do, and has inciminating evidence against Paterno, the way they dismissed the man who virtually transformed their university from an agricultural college into a modern, nationally recognized research institution was unconscionable.

A note delivered to his front door by a longtime friend and assistant, Fran Ganter, who could say nothing?

A slip of paper containing only a trustee's name and phone number?

A returned call and a ten-word dismissal, roughly one word for every six years of service Paterno had given to the school?

“In the best interests of the university, you are terminated.” trustee John Surma told him,

When Paterno repeated the stunning words to Sue, she took the phone and hit redial.

“After 61 years he deserved better,” she snapped. “He deserved better.”

4. HOW COULD JOE HAVE HAD NO INKLING OF SANDUSKY'S ALLEGED BEHAVIOR?

I know Joe was a workaholic. I know he was so intensely focused on football that he missed a lot of the milestones in his the lives of his children and granchildren. A technological revolution was born and bloomed without Paterno -- who once called Twitter "Tweedle-Dee" -- taking much notice,

But he wasn't blind or deaf. A man who would inquire about how his third-string tackle did on a history exam is not oblivious.

Though few had hard evidence, there were many people over the years in the coaches' room, in the locker room, in the press box, even in the grandstands who had heard the whispers about Sandusky. It's difficult to believe that Joe could have missed them all, could have worked alongside a trusted aide for decades, in a town as small and provincial as State College, and missed it all.

I know, closeness doesn't imply knowledge. But when Sandusky abruptly quit, just about the time the allegations were beginning to get some traction, how could Joe have sensed nothing in the whispers that buzzed all around him?
Posted by Frank Fitzpatrick @ 10:40 AM  Permalink | 21 comments
Saturday, January 14, 2012

An unpleasant view of Paterno

The first thing you notice about about Sally Jenkins' Washington Post interview with Joe Paterno is the accompanying photo.

In it, Paterno -- his sweater slightly askew, his hair barely combed -- looks more dissheveled than I've ever seen him. He also looks almost exactly like his late mother, who lived into her 90s. Most disturbingly, though, at least for anyone who cares about him, is the fact that he looks like he's been through a wringer.

He has, of course. The lung cancer, the chemotherapy and his wrenching departure from Penn State after 61 loyal years has caused him to lose much. As the photo makes clear, he's lost weight. There's less flesh in his drawn face, less sparkle in his eyes.

You can blame the physical problems for the physical shortcomings. But, for the sparkle that's missing, blame the Jerry Sandusky scandal. Even if it does turn out that Paterno is, to some degree, culpable in that horrid episode, the way in which his dismissal took place seems unnecessarily cold, callous, cruel.

It's also interesting that the sweater Paterno is wearing has the Nittany Lions logo on his breast. Even if he now wants to -- and there's been no indication that's the case -- it would be impossible for him to divorce himself entirely from the university where he spent all but 24 years of his long life. He's probably still sleeping in Penn State pajamas, scribbling the notes he loves to make on Penn State stationery with Penn State pens. And I'd bet the 2012 calendar that hangs in the kitchen of his McKee Street home includes the Nittany Lions football schedule.

It's ironic that this man whose view of life was built on the Greek and Roman classics, on mythical heroes like Ovid's Aeneas, has now become a tragic hero himself. It reminds me of that line from "King Lear", another figure whose greatness collides with a sad and chaotic conclusion:

"Men must endure their going hence, even as their coming hither; Ripeness is all."

Paterno, as the photo suggests, is managing to endure.

But regardless of how this whole sad story concludes for him, what figures to endure even longer is his legacy.
Posted by Frank Fitzpatrick @ 1:40 PM  Permalink | 33 comments
Thursday, January 12, 2012

GOD HELP TEBOW
A  study released Thursday by the web-research group Poll Position found that 43% of Americans believe divine intervention is at least partly responsible for the phenomenal success of Denver Broncos quarterback Tim Tebow.
 Oh really?
 Then how do you explain the failures of all those other NFL players who pray and call themsevles born-again Christians?
 Does God like Tebow better?
 Is God a Broncos fan?
 Does God prefer white quarterbacks over, say, African-American linemen?
 This whole notion of God intervening in football games is as ridiculous as the Tebow phenomenon itself.
  If whoever created this planet -- and the billions of others out there whose only purpose, if you believe the Tebows of the world, is to serve as a colorful backdrop for earth --has nothing better to do on Sundays than help determine the outcomes of NFL games, then there's really not much point on believing in a God, is there?
 Let's face it: Tebow is a marginally talented quarterback enjoying a run of luck and success he will be hard-pressed to match again, no longer how long he plays. 
Or prays. 
Posted by frank fitzpatrick @ 9:43 AM  Permalink | 4 comments
Saturday, January 7, 2012

The Haunting of Joe Paterno

Perhaps it was just me who was struck by the coincidence.

There are elements in the background of new Penn State football coach Bill O'Brien that not only bring to mind one of the more meaningful episodes in his predecessor's career but which would intrigue a dramatist -- or a psychiatrist.

And I'm certain that if Joe Paterno took the time to examine his replacement's past, he'd have shuddered with discomfort.

It all dates back to 1946 when Paterno was a freshman at Brown, the Ivy League school from which both he and O'Brien earned degrees, though 42 years apart.

A middle-class Italian afloat in a sea of wealthy New England Brahmins, Paterno, with his thick Brooklyn accent, felt immediately out of plaace at Brown. That feeling was exacerbated on the night he atended his first fraternity party.

While the assembled brothers all wore blue blazers and striped ties, Paterno showed up in what was, for the tme, an ostentatious white sweater.Almost immediately he felt the party's focus shift toward him.

"I heard somebody whisper, `How did that dago get invited?'", he recalled decades later. "My clothes scratched at my skin and a chill surged down my insides."

Paterno soon departed but he caried the stinging memory with him like a war wound. He would feel like something of an alien at Brown, convinced that somehow he didn't measure up to his patrician classmates' image of an Ivy Leaguer.

And the thing that came to symbolize that unease for him was a summer home on Cape Cod, something "every rich Yankee kid I'd met at Brown assumed was coming to him, the same as inheriting his dad's club membership."

So powerful were the slight and the image of inherited vacation homes it conjured that the combination nearly led Paterno to leave Penn State in 1973.

That year Patriots owner Billy Sullivan had made the Penn State coach an unprecedented offeer to coach his Patriots. The four-year deal would have made Paterno football's first million-dollar coach. And it also included a $200,000 home, two cars, a country-club membership, and 3 to 5 percent of the team.

Paterno was sorely tempted, and, subconsciously at least, found the most intriguing part of the package to be the opportunity it would afford him to buy ... a summer home on Cape Cod.

"I really wanted it," he would say, the prospect of revenge practically dripping from is words.

Eventually, when his wife balked, Paterno turned down Sullivan and stayed in Happy Valley.

Now, two months after his 61-year career there came to an unseemly end in the wake of the Jerry Sandusky scandal, that long-ago specter has been reawakened.

O'Brien, a wealthy New Englander and Brown fraternity man, has a summer home on Cape Cod. Well, technically it's his parents', but he, his wife and two sons spend considerable time at the Harwich vacation retreat.

If Paterno were paying attention, he must have noticed what O'Brien was wearing when he stepped off Penn State's jet Friday afternoon:

A blue blazer.

And so, the legend of Paterno tarnished and apparently complete, he must now endure seeing an avatar of the breed he so despised occupy his lifetime's creation.
Posted by Frank Fitzpatrick @ 2:43 PM  Permalink | 15 comments
Friday, December 9, 2011

When Pro Basketball Debuted in Philadelphia

Fans, mostly men in hats and ties, filled the musty corners of Philadelphia's Arena the night of April 22, 1947. Though the old West Philadelphia building had only 7,900 seats, the announced attendance would be 8,221. As the 9 p.m. start time neared, many of the 5,000 fans who were turned away lingered outside, beneath the El stop at 46th and Market Streets.

That night, the Philadelphia Warriors were playing in Game 5 of the first championship series of the Basketball Association of America, a league that two years later changed its name to the National Basketball Association.

Eddie Gottlieb, the South Philadelphia native who was the Warriors' coach and part owner, had been associated with numerous failed pro leagues. Surveying this enthusiastic crowd, he sensed that this one was going to make it.



But even Gottlieb, who died in 1979, would have been amazed at how that league, scheduled to being its lockout-shortened season on Christmas Day, has grown and prospered in the subsequent 64 years.

 He had been one of the Philadelphia Sphas -- a team of players from the South Philadelphia Hebrew Association --  who dominated the Eastern League in the 1920s and '30s. They'd played games at the Broadwood Hotel (later the Philadelphia Athletic Club) on North Broad Street, where Gottlieb lured fans by allowing women to enter free or by scheduling postgame dances.

College basketball, on the other hand, boomed in the 1930s and '40s. Its big games were played before packed houses at Madison Square Garden, Philadelphia's Convention Hall and other big-city arenas.

The National Basketball League, founded in 1937, lent some credibility to the pro game when in 1946 it signed 6-foot, 10-inch DePaul all-American George Mikan to an unprecedented five-year, $60,000 contract.

But the NBL was destined to fail. Owners put teams in out-of-the-way places like Sheboygan, Oshkosh and Akron. Several played in YMCAs or basement gyms.

Yet it wasn't until 1946 that the NBL was seriously challenged.

That year, at a New York meeting of the Arena Managers Association - operators of big-city arenas - several members supported the idea of Boston Garden owner Walter Brown, who wanted to form a pro basketball league.

They met again June 6 at the Commodore Hotel, just down 42d Street from Grand Central Station. They were, by their own admission, not great basketball fans. But they were shrewd businessmen with sports backgrounds - 10 of the 11 also owned hockey teams.

Ned Irish, manager of Madison Square Garden, told them that his arena had hosted 29 college basketball programs in 1945-46 and that the Garden had been filled to 98 percent of capacity.

Irish said the NBL was not much of a rival, based entirely in smaller Midwestern cities. More important, he pointed out that a new league was a way to use arenas when there was no hockey game, no circus, no ice show.

With the arena owners convinced, the Basketball Association of America - which three years later would sweep up what remained of the dying NBL and rename itself the NBA - was born.

Philadelphia Arena manager Pete Tyrell and 10 other league investors put up a $10,000 franchise fee and agreed to limit total payrolls to $50,000.

Maurice Podoloff, a 5-foot-2 lawyer from New Haven, Conn., who held the same position with the American Hockey League, was named commissioner of the league. The original 11 teams were the Warriors, Toronto Huskies, Chicago Stags, Boston Celtics, Cleveland Rebels, Detroit Falcons, Pittsburgh Ironmen, Providence Steamrollers, St. Louis Bombers, Washington Capitols, and New York Knickerbockers.

The new league proclaimed its desire to showcase fresh faces - which meant it didn't want a salary battle with the NBL for stars.

"Remember, these owners were arena managers, and that was their first concern," recalled Red Auerbach, who was the 29-year-old coach of the Capitols that first year. "Basketball came way down the line, and they weren't eager to invest too much. But they made the right move by hiring Podoloff. He was a damn good administrator."

Podoloff quickly took charge, firing off almost daily memos. He scolded owners for failing to supply biographical information to the league's publicity director, standardized the paint color for rims and prodded them to develop attendance-boosting formulas.

The traditional 40-minute game, he said, would have to be extended to 48. A 40-minute game, he told them, would conclude in less than two hours, and a public used to doubleheaders and double-features liked to be entertained for more than two hours.

Several teams complained of the shabby treatment they were getting on the road, even being denied practice basketballs. An angry Podoloff memo demanded that at least five basketballs be provided for visitors.

But the BAA's big problem was attendance, especially in Boston, Detroit and Pittsburgh. Podoloff experimented with 60-minute games in Chicago and Detroit.

"I attended the first 60-minute game at Chicago on Wednesday evening, Dec. 11," the commissioner wrote in yet another memo. "The game was not a good one."

*

Early BAA games were plodding and brutish. Scoring was limited (teams averaged 67 points a game), and shooting was horrible (a team total of 29 percent led the league).

Fans loved Philadelphia's Joe Fulks, who led the league in scoring, averaging 23 points a game (more than seven points higher than his nearest competitor), and helped change the game with his jump shot.

"Fulks wasn't a great jumper, but the fans loved the novelty of his shot," teammate Howie Dallmar said. "No one had ever jumped while shooting from distance before. But because of the novelty of it and the fact that he took the ball way back over his head, the shot was impossible to stop."

Fans came out to see Fulks, but attended few other games in great numbers. Philadelphia led the league in attendance with 128,950 fans for 30 home games, but Detroit (37,195), Pittsburgh (40,970) and Boston (50,454) struggled.

Noticing that the public liked Fulks' scoring, owners began to tamper.

Hoping to increase scoring, they took an important step in the league's development Jan. 11, 1947, by abolishing zone defenses. On July 28, they adopted the three-second violation.

The most important change came April 22, 1954, when, at the urging of Syracuse owner Danny Biasone, the 24-second clock was adopted.

One team that played a more contemporary style in 1945-46 was Auerbach's Capitols.

"We ran the same fastbreak that year that the Celtics [ran for years]," Auerbach said. "We had some talented players. People like Bob Feerick and Bones McKinney."

Auerbach's team went 49-11 - losing just once at home - and finished 14 games ahead of second-place Philadelphia in the Eastern Division.

But the Capitols became victims of an ill-conceived playoff system. Using the same formula he had employed in the AHL, Podoloff determined that the first-place team in the East would meet the first-place team in the West and so on down to the fourth-place teams.

The Western champion Stags eliminated the Capitols in the opening round.

With Fulks regularly hitting for more than 30 points a game now, the Warriors hit their stride late. They beat St. Louis and New York in three-game series to set the stage for the best-of-seven championship series against Chicago.

The Warriors won the first two games, then split two games in Chicago to set up the title-clinching game on that night in April. Before a wildly enthusiastic crowd, Fulks scored 34 and Philadelphia won the relatively high-scoring game, 83-80, to take the league's first championship.

The winners received no postgame calls from President Truman but earned an extra $2,150.

"I hope to get out of here soon," Fulks said afterward. "I'm two weeks behind in planting potatoes."

That first season hardly ensured success. Toronto, Pittsburgh, Cleveland and Detroit dropped out, and struggling Boston survived only because Podoloff wanted to keep solid owners like Brown. Baltimore joined for the second season - and won the title - and the next few years were marked by frequent franchise shifts.

Then, in the summer of 1947, the BAA and NBL signed a truce, promising to respect the contracts of each other's players. Before the 1948-49 season, four top NBL teams - including Mikan's Minneapolis Lakers, who went on to win the title that year - jumped to the BAA. The following year, the BAA absorbed five other NBL teams and adopted its new name - the National Basketball Association.
Posted by Frank Fitzpatrick @ 2:10 PM  Permalink | 4 comments
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About Frank Fitzpatrick
Frank Fitzpatrick has worked in the Inquirer Sports Department since 1980. He was a Pulitzer Prize finalist in 2001 and has won numerous state and national awards. He is the author of several books including the recently published, "The Lion in Autumn: A Season with Joe Paterno and Penn State Football." He and his wife live in West Chester, Pa., and they are the parents of four children.

E-mail Frank here or follow him on Twitter.

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