Dan Jenkins, R.I.P.

This story dates back more years than I want to remember. My wife and I were sitting around in the living room one night reading. I don't remember what it was she was looking at, but I had You Gotta Play Hurt, the new novel (at the time) by Dan Jenkins. It was about a sportswriter named Jim Tom Pinch, who bore a suspicious resemblance to Jenkins himself; Pinch was part of Jenkins' wacky universe, having appeared as a supporting character in Jenkins' best-known novel, Semi-Tough, as well as several others. This was a chance for Jim Tom to star in a story of his own.

My wife was telling me something funny from her book, and in retrospect what I should have done was stick a finger in my book and turn all my attention to her. Not that I was not paying attention, mind you (you don't stay happily married for 26 years by doing that), but by letting my eye continue to drift down the page while I listened to her, I was dooming her dooming her story to eternal obscurity.

The end of her story and the end of the paragraph I was reading came more or less simultaneously. As for what happened next—well, the only way to really do justice to it is to say that I completely, utterly, lost it. I had been confronted with a scene that was beyond Jenkins's usual level of absurdity; it was so outrageous, so utterly ridiculous, that there was no possible way I could have reacted otherwise. I suspect it was the reaction Jenkins was hoping for; I like to think that when he'd finished the paragraph, he might have read it over and had a good chuckle himself. I was able to go one better than that, though—perhaps several times better.

Had my wife not known me as well as she does, she might have thought I was suffering from convulsions, or was perhaps about to throw up. As it was, there was nothing she could do but sit there and watch as I spent five minutes, maybe ten, cackling hysterically. Have you ever seen the famous clip of Steve Allen laughing uncontrollably at some blooper he'd committed? If you have, you'll know what I mean. And if you haven't, here it is. The description calls it a "laughing fit," and that's what I suppose it was. I was trying to keep the tears from getting the pages of the book wet, and whenever I tried to tell her what it was I'd found so unaccountably funny, I was only able to get a word or two out before I started all over again. She wasn't offended that I was ignoring her story, I don't think. I'm a serious enough person that I think she's usually just happy to see me laughing. It was, without question, the single funniest thing I have ever read, seen, or heard in my nearly fifty-nine years on this planet. And what was so funny, you might ask?

I'm not going to tell you.

Don't be offended, though; the point of fact is that in the twenty-some years since this happened, I've never told anyone what it was that was so funny. The only person I ever did tell was my wife, when I was eventually, after repeated attempts, able to get it all out in a somewhat coherent form. She agreed that it was, indeed, very funny, although perhaps not quite as funny as I thought. But that was, to this day, the last time I've even read that scene, let alone tried to describe it to anyone else. I suppose I'm afraid I'll find out it wasn't as funny as I originally thought it was, which would not only be disappointing, it would ruin a story I've been able to live off of for nearly thirty years.

I kind of doubt that, though. Maybe I wouldn't react the same way I had that night, but then again maybe I would have. That's the kind of writer Dan Jenkins was, after all. He was, quite simply, the greatest sportswriter ever, and I'm not even going to try and equivocate by adding "one of the greatest," or "arguably," or "possibly," or any other way of trying to hedge my bets. He was the best of all time, period, and he'll continue to be for as long as his writing is in print.

Dan Jenkins died a couple of weeks ago at the age of 90, and he certainly doesn't have to worry about his work being forgotten. I'm not going to attempt to recap his career; I'll leave that to two excellent articles, here and here. And for those of you who say this story has been more about me than about Jenkins, I'd answer that this is perhaps the way it should be. One of the reasons Dan Jenkins was a great sportswriter was that he was also a great storyteller. And what better way to remember a great storyteller than with a story of my own, one that in the end really tells you more about him than it does about me. I'd like to think that he might even have enjoyed my story, although he might also have given me one of those sideway glances that you could almost see, so vividly did he describe them.

I daresay that as long as people read sportswriters (and I mean real sportswriters, which you can still find from time to time, not what passes for writing nowadays), they'll be reading the books and articles and (yes) tweets by Dan Jenkins, and learning, and laughing. What writer could possibly ask for any more of a legacy than that?

Come to think of it, maybe I'll read that story again, after all. My bet is that it will still be just as funny as it was all those years ago All the same, I'd better make sure my wife isn't trying to read to me at the same time.

Classic Sports Thursday: In Memoriam, David Gene Pearson

We just received word that Spartanburg NASCAR legend David Gene Pearson has died at 83 Monday.   The 1976 Daytona 500 winner is one of seven drivers to have been recognised as a winner of all four majors.

Here was that 1976 Daytona 500 finish where he defeated Richard Petty by over one lap (under NASCAR rules, Petty's last lap did not count because the crew pushed the car to the finish line).

John McCain, R.I.P.

It is said that if you can't say something nice about someone, better to say nothing.

Billy Graham, R.I.P.

I s it possible to know someone not by who they are, but by who they aren't? Billy Graham wasn't the faith-healing huckster Oral Roberts, who lived lavishly and once told people God was holding him hostage to get them to contribute more money. He wasn't the Elmer Gantry-life Jimmy Swaggart, who married a 15-year-old and dallied with hookers; he made it a point to never be in a room alone with a woman with the door closed. He wasn't Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker; he never served time in federal prison, nor was he associated with industrial-strength cosmetics. He wasn't Joel Osteen, preaching the prosperity gospel in a megachurch that used to be a professional basketball arena; in fact, he never pretended to be a pastor at all. He was a preacher, who always sought advice from his own pastor. He didn't run for president like Pat Robertson; instead, he counseled them. He didn't have his own television network, he didn't live in a mansion, he never was implicated in personal scandal. That was who Billy Graham wasn't.

Who Billy Graham was was a man who appeared 60 times on Gallup's list of the world's most admired men, who integrated his own crusades in 1953, who preached with Martin Luther King Jr. and once bailed him out of jail, who sold out Madison Square Garden in New York for 16 consecutive weeks 1957, who understood the power of radio and television and used it successfully in a way few ever have. (His radio program, Hour of Power, continued for 60 years.) As a dynamic speaker who could mesmerize television audiences as well as those viewing him in person, he was rivaled - perhaps - only by another evangelist, Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen.

Let's talk a bit more about Billy Graham and television. Those sold-out crusades in New York City in 1957 were telecast on ABC, Saturday nights from 8:00-9:00 p.m. Today, it would be unthinkable to see such programming on a national broadcast network, but it was the first of four times Graham would appear regularly with his crusades on ABC over a two-year span. Later, when the networks banished such programs from their their regular lineups, Graham would appear on syndicated broadcasts carried by massive numbers of network affiliates; those stations, who would gladly preempt network programming in order to gain advertising revenue, carried Graham's crusades commercial-free. Granted, the time was bought by Graham's organization so it wasn't as if the stations were being totally altruistic, but neither were they ignoring that which appealed to their viewership.

I don't know how many people came to Billy Graham through television, who found their way to a relationship with Christ that changed their lives; I think you could plausibly argue that he had a greater direct impact on his viewers than any other star of any other television program that has ever been shown. Although he didn't preach my particular brand of Christianity, I would sit mesmerized listening to the man speak, and seldom heard anything I could disagree with. Watching the young Graham preaching from the Garden, there is a power, a magnetism, a fire, to his words that is almost astounding - if you've only heard Graham in his later years, even in the '70s when he'd become somewhat less the revivalist preacher, you owe it to yourself to look up one of his sermons online; his own website has many of them, and be reminded of the power of speech.

For many years, Graham was associated with the Twin Cities, his headquarters being in Minneapolis, and he appeared here with his crusades several times, but I saw him in person only once, in the '90s when he was older and more frail. So unassuming was he that when he took to the podium to speak, not everyone realized it at once. But when he did speak, it was as if time had stood still, perhaps even wound its way back a decade or two. Standing there preaching about Christ and salvation, his face was animated, his voice strong and clear, and it was obvious that during a half a century of preaching, the externals may have changed - the celebrities who appeared with him, the hairstyles, the clothing - but the message never changed.

After his death last week, The Wall Street Journal asked rhetorically whether or not there would ever be another Billy Graham. The answer, of course, is no; there is never a second version of a one-of-a-kind. The question, I think, is whether or not this medium, present as it is in today's culture, will ever see anyone like him again. Forget the message, think only of the man and the way he penetrated the camera lens and met the viewer wherever he or she happened to be, physically or emotionally. The answer to that, without doubt, is also no.

Cross-posted to It's About TV!

Remembering Dan

PHOTO BY LAT PHOTOGRAPHIC

We've made reference to one California racer who died of pneumonia over the weekend at 86.  But how good was Dan Gurney in the marketing world?

In 1964, Gurney was part of this commercial, which included the fact he had won the first of what we call the Monster Energy NASCAR Cup Series race at Riverside, California a year prior, for the legendary Wood Brothers of Stuart, Virginia, a team that is still owned by the family, though they are now a satellite team to Penske.


In 1970, he was part of Chrysler's SCCA Trans-Am efforts:


In the 1980's, Dan ran the Toyota sports car efforts, and ran both the Over 2500cc and Prototype car efforts under the All American Racers platform.  Toyota did a few ads with him, his wife, and one son.





And a few current owners of Dan's great racers take their laps on contemporary tracks:

Toyota GTP:


1972 USAC MCT Offenhauser:


And the historic car at a historic track: 1967 EagleF1 Spa winner at Goodwood:


Mitchell's Note: Let's not forget when Dan was the Car and Driver candidate for President!

Oh, my! Non-sport memories of Dick Enberg

The sad news from Boston that Nicole Vaz told the AP her father, Dick Enberg, died while packing his bags for a family vacation to the area lastweek was another sign of how our legendary figures of our youth are dying.

Mr. Enberg, 82, and wife Barbara were headed to Boston and the wife arrived, only to learn he never made it out of his La Jolla home, waiting to be transported to the airport.

But as much as we know him from sport, he did television game shows, none of which lasted but a year or two.  We found a few clips from game shows he hosted as a tribute to Enberg the quizmaster – something that started as a gofer at a radio station in college never expected we'd see, let alone a distinguished broadcasting career.

Three For the Money




Baffle


Perfect Match

The Greatest Generation loses a great: Sgt. Walter Maynard Moore, Jr.

Sgt. Walter Maynard Moore, Jr., known in the motorsport fraternity as "Bud" Moore, died Tuesday at age 92.  In addition to his motorsport accomplishments that included the 1962 and 1963 Monster Energy NASCAR Cup Series titles, he is best known for being a Sergeant of the 359th Regiment, 4th Infantry Division when he fought in both the Siege of Bastogne in addition to D-Day, the Battle of Normandy, earning five Purple Hearts and two Bronze Stars.

Other motorsport accomplishments include building Ford's 1970 SCCA Trans American Championship road racing factory cars, 63 MENCS win, 298 top fives, 463 top tens in 958 races.  Of those 63 wins, one was a Daytona 500 and three were Duels (when they were championship races).  We have a video montage of Sgt. Walter Maynard Moore, Jr. primarily discussing not motorsport as much as his part in World War II with Normandy.

Fox Sports, 2012:  During Fox's annual salute to the military pre-race show, Moore was the featured subject, discussing his legacy with America's Greatest Day of Fighting in World War II -- D-Day.

At the NASCAR Hall of Fame, 2011.  At the NASCAR Hall press conference, talking D-Day.

Dmitri Hvorostovsky, R.I.P.

This just came in the wires this morning.  Baritone Dmitri Hvorostovsky (Дмитрий Хворостовски), the BBC Canwr y byd Caerdydd (Cardiff Singer of the World) winner of 1989, defeating Bryn Terfel (himself an accomplished baritone too) for the cup, died Wednesday of brain cancer at 55 after a battle of more than two years.

I've always wondered why we always have to watch bad pop music singing competitions every year when the biennial BBC Wales competition in Cardiff which he won is much better and the talent that wins always goes to higher levels, as we've seen.

The Красноя́рск (in Siberia) native thought in adolescence that the toughman society of vice would put him in prison and not on the stage, and his drinking and absurd behaviour took him up to his early 30's, and admitted his first marriage collapsed because of alcoholism.  Going sober, he married Swiss soprano Florence Illi, who survives him, and together they had two children.

The bel canto singer's notable roles include the titular role in "Eugene Onegin," where he performed, among others, with Renée Fleming in her first full production of a Russian-language opera, leads in Verdi's "Don Carlos," "La Triaviata," and "Il Trovatore."  He promoted Georgy Sviridov's music, which the Russian government refused to promote because he refused to join the Communist Party.

He will be missed.

"Eri tu" from Verdi's Un ballo in maschera, which was the song he sang to win Cardiff: 


The Merry Widow (with his wife):


Official YouTube channel of his children.

Roy Halladay, R.I.P.

I flashed back to this earlier in the year, but it seems appropriate to return to it now, as the year comes to a close. This week former baseball star Roy Halladay was killed in a plane crash. SI.com said it well when it referred to him as the "beloved hurler" - not only accurate, but a most appropriate use of retro baseball lingo for a man who by all accounts epitomized the grittiness of the old-time ballplayer.

This post originally ran in 2010, when Halladay became the only the second pitcher to ever throw a no-hitter in the post-season. Read and remember the good times for which Roy Halladay was responsible.

Throwback Thursday: Y.A. Title, R.I.P.

Yelberton Abraham Title Jr., better known to one and all as Y.A., one of the great quarterbacks in the storied history of professional football, died last week at the age of 90. Our own Hadleyblogger Steve had occasion in the past to use Title's legendary as a source for his "This Just In" news bulletins. You can read those pieces here and here, and remember that it takes a true giant (or Giant, if you prefer) to inspire such lunacy. Enjoy!

The final "Big Deal"

We know Monty Hall from Let's Make a Deal most probable for the Winnipeg, MB native, who died Saturday at 96.  But there are some other well-known clips we've found of the great Monte Halaprin (as he was known) from other television shows besides the show that he is best known (and a statement was posted by the current version).  An ethnic quota ended his dream of medical school despite hard work during the Great Depression and World War II, but he turned to radio and became wanted in the United States.

One of Mr. Hall's first known shows that made him prominent was Video Village, a Heatter-Quigley game show where he was the third, and longest-lasting host, of the CBS Daytime and even Saturday morning (children's version).



Monty and business partner Stefan Hatos developed Split Second, a quiz show that aired from 1972-75 with James Narz (aka Tom Kennedy) and again in 1986-87 with Hall at the helm.


In this 2013 Daytime Emmy Awards ceremony where Mr. Hall was presented with a Lifetime Achievement Award, he was presented his award by Wayne Brady, the current host of the show he made famous.  Beware of the Zonks!



An ad for Glen Campbell:


An ad for General Motors with son Richard, now himself a well-known television producer.  Your humble writer owned that generation Cutlass Supreme that was his daily driver in college, and it was part of a series of "next-generation" commercials by the Rocket brand with many offspring of legends (Peter Graves and Mel Blanc were among the others in the campaign).


One of current Let's Make a Deal model Tiffany Coyne's favourite moments was when she and Carol Merrill appeared together to celebrate the show's 50th anniversary in 2013, which now was Monty's last appearance on the show.

.@TiffanyCoyne will never forget the time she shared the stage with Carol Merrill, the original Let's Make A Deal model! #LMAD #memories pic.twitter.com/YZKUD0NRKZ

— Let's Make a Deal (@letsmakeadeal) August 18, 2017

But CBS put Monty as a "hostage" in a 2014-15 season ruse that resulted in a wild crossover between the network's two daytime game shows that allowed Bob Barker to host The Price Is Right as the storyline was Drew Carey had been kidnapped.  The Twitter war between the two game shows was Carey and the Plinko board had been kidnapped by Wayne Brady's crew, so George Gray and The Price Is Right crew responded by kidnapping Hall.

Mr. Hall will be missed.

Hugh Hefner, R.I.P.

We are admonished not to speak ill of the dead, and yet sometimes the historical record makes an honest appraisal otherwise. It’s hard to know exactly how much responsibility Hugh Hefner bears for the decline of Western Civilization. Chances are if he hadn’t done it, someone else would have (nobody forced us at gunpoint, last time I looked). His legacy, such as it is – the imprint that he leaves behind as he shuffles off these mortal coils, bound for parts undetermined – is that of the bunny’s head, one of the most familiar corporate symbols in the world.

I don’t know, but I suppose Playboy is passé nowadays, considering the nudity in it is probably tepid compared to that which anyone can find online. But the bill of indictment, as it were, is a long one, for Playboy was but one step on a long downhill road that lead to the mainstreaming of soft-core pornography, the acceptance of female nudity for the purpose of titillation, the creation of an “ideal” body type that most women could never hope to attain without the benefit of airbrushing, the commodification of body parts in the form of breast enhancements and other kinds of plastic surgery, the ideal that the “modern man” could partake in sex with as little concern over the consequences as if he were drinking fine wine and sampling hors d’oeuvres while dressed in his tux and listening to cool jazz at the club. With all this going against it, it’s a wonder that the nuclear family has survived as long as it has.

The idea that Playboy was somehow unable to compete with what was available for free led the magazine to try eliminating nudity, an experiment that lasted only about a year before it became apparent that nudity, tame though it may be, was just about the only reason left to buy Playboy. And it’s true that, setting aside the lithe, tanned bodies that jumped from the pages (if one can), the magazine was known for a literary style, often introducing young writers whose works would become far better known, as well as established authors who’d mastered the short story. There were the provocative interviews, a type of long-form journalism that’s hard to find anywhere anymore, as well as lifestyle pieces that on occasion didn’t have anything to do with sex. Hefner himself was a champion of jazz, and a generous contributor to film preservation efforts, which are good things. But other, better, magazines had once contained the same kind of content only to disappear from the shifting cultural landscape. There was no reason for Playboy to be any different, so the nudity returned. At least it’s something, you might have imagined them saying in the boardroom, with a resigned shrug.

One can’t blame Hef for all the evil in the world today, of course, convenient though it might be. Larry Flynt took the stylish sophistication of Playboy to the next logical step, introducing graphic, hard-core porn to mainstream magazine stands. Helen Gurley Brown morphed Cosmopolitan, a grand old magazine, into a sex club for women. Stag films had been around long before Playboy, but there was still a sense of shame attached to it, the idea that it wasn’t something respectable men could afford to be associated with in public. Since the entire notion of shame was something that the modern man no longer need to be concerned with, though, the consequences of living the Playboy Philosophy in public were far more diminished, if not gone altogether.

Yet it remains true that the legacy of Hugh Hefner will mostly be that he made soft-core pornography mainstream, even respectable, and in doing so he lowered the bar for acceptable public behavior. The very existence of Playboy was another step down the slippery slope; its success in making porn fashionable accelerated the decline even more.

By the end Hugh Hefner was, I think, something of a joke. The Playboy Philosophy does not wear so well on a man in his 90s, and the site of his withered, wrinkled body next to the smooth, surgically inflated contours of his latest paramours, was not just painful, it was grotesque. One’s tempted here to insert a comment about Dorian Gray, but even that might be lending the scene an excessive dignity.

We can’t know the final disposition of Hugh Hefner – that’s way above our paygrade. We can only look at the visible: what he accomplished with his life, whether or not he did justice to the many talents with which he obviously had been born. Put it this way – I’ve lived far from a perfect life, but I wouldn’t want to have his record. In the end, he didn’t have to be Satan Incarnate to wreck havoc on the world; being one of his lesser, more insignificant minions was sufficient enough.

The Grand Guignol that Hugh Hefner left behind speaks for itself and will do so for eternity. May God have mercy on his soul.

Ray Marshall, R.I.P.

It was back in the early days of this blog: thirteen years ago, days so far back in the mists of time that I never visit them anymore. It wasn't quite back when dragons roamed the world, but it might as well have been, to judge by how long ago it feels. In those days, the blog was called "Our Word and Welcome to It," and the word usually had to do with Catholicism and its place in the world. We had a lively readership in those days, probably a larger one than we have now, part of the reason being that the Catholic blogosphere was a contentious place to be. Once you were able to get your own little hook in place, find a patch of controversy you could call your own, you were guaranteed a readership that would turn up to hear the latest news in whatever chapter of whatever war it was that you were covering. We had our share of those, back then, until it become obvious to me that these flame wars were a waste not only of time but of good writing - as well as a definite threat to one's sanity and spiritual well-being.

It was then that I first met Ray Marshall. I don't quite remember how I actually met him, whether he'd commented on one of my articles, or he'd contacted me by email.In any event, we struck up an acquaintanceship, and soon he had his own website as well, Stella Borealis Catholic Roundtable, in which he tried to keep people in the Twin Cities up-to-date on things going on in the Archdiocese, whether events or things happening behind the scenes. It wasn't like some of those other blogs I mentioned; he didn't generally pick fights with other bloggers, although he wouldn't back down if the integrity of the faith was in question. He tried to keep things from getting personal, and for the most part he succeeded, because it was really difficult to imagine anyone not liking Ray. There was an honesty and integrity about him, and although I don't pretend that I knew him as well as most people who called him a friend, I can't think that they would have seen him much differently.

Occasionally, when I was battling with a deadline working on one of my book projects (especially the ones that have yet to see the light of day), he would pitch in and write a guest blog or two, and in the days before Blogger allowed you to post-date an article, I gave him access to the site so he could post some of my pieces when I was out of town and unable to do them myself. In turn, I was one of the few people who was able to post to Stella Borealis, which I considered a privilege. When we would have one of our local blog get-togethers, it was Ray who would up taking the responsibility to get people together, because he was a persuasive kind of guy.

Over the years, this blog evolved. I'd joked to Ray once, after a particularly frustrating time, that I was going to change it to an all-opera format. He laughed, and then was startled when the next two articles were, indeed, about opera. While I didn't wind up going in that direction, I formed what began as a companion site, dedicated to classic television, which became more successful and more fulfilling than I ever could have hoped. This blog veered away from religion into a far more diverse subject matter; while we never entirely abandoned Catholicism (witness my recurring commentary on the pope), we also discussed politics, literature, sports, and just about anything else anyone wanted to write about. We changed the name of the blog, partly because I was tired of the old name. And as I drifted out of the Catholic blogosphere, and then moved out of the state, I didn't come in contact with Ray that often, although we remained Facebook friends, and I kind of remained in contact with him through mutual friends. When we moved back to Minnesota earlier this year, he was one of the people we'd hoped to see again.

Late Friday night, I got an IM from our friend Janice that Ray had died. What? Now, his health had always teetered back and forth; still, it was a shock. She'd been closer to him than we had, so it was especially rough on her, which made it doubly shocking on us. In the thirteen years that this blog has existed, under its multiple names and with its revolving casts of writers, I suppose I've been fortunate that I haven't had to write something like this until now. No editor ever likes to do so, particularly when it's a friend about whom he writes.

It is very much a cliché that words are meaningless at times like these, which is only partially true, because words of supplication - prayers - are of great meaning, and I'll get to them in a minute. But it should be known that Ray Marshall was a good soldier, a man who tried to do the right thing as he saw it. When he started his blog it was to inform people with what he thought was important for them to know, even though he'd never done anything like it before. He sang in a local Catholic schola because he enjoyed it, and he felt it important to enrich the beauty of worship, even though when he started he'd had no experience. In other words, he didn't just sit back and wait for someone else to do it. He lived his faith.

In paradisum deducant te Angeli; in tuo adventu suscipiant te martyres, et perducant te in civitatem sanctam Ierusalem. Chorus angelorum te suscipiat, et cum Lazaro quondam paupere æternam habeas requiem.

May the angels lead you into paradise; may the martyrs receive you at your arrival and lead you to the holy city Jerusalem. May choirs of angels receive you and with Lazarus, once poor, may you have eternal rest.

Ara Parseghian, R.I.P.

It was called "The Era of Ara," those eleven seasons when Ara Parseghian was the head coach at Notre Dame, and the Fighting Irish have really been spending the better part of a half-century trying to recapture that era. Lou Holtz won the games, but the was also a snake-oil salesman, and Ara Parseghian was never that. Dan Devine succeeded Parseghian and won a national title of his own, but even though he was Devine, he was never a God like Ara was (at least according to the students, who even Ara could make it stop snowing). Charlie Weiss was a big mouth, and Brian Kelly a hothead, and in-between there have been any number of poseurs and fakirs and the university itself has tarnished the image that once made every Catholic boy in the United States want to play football on its fields of green with the sun reflecting its golden rays on crisp autumn afternoons. The lesson to be learned is that legends can't be replicated, even at Notre Dame; there was only on Rockne, one Lehey, one Ara Parseghian.

I think Parseghian was one of those coaches who transcended sports; my wife, who's anything but a sports fan, remembers hearing about him growing up. He was probably the first college football coach I ever remembered. I was only six years old when he coached Notre Dame in one of the most famous college football games ever played, the controversial 10-10 "Game of the Century" with Michigan State in 1966, and I do have a vague recollection of that game, though not as clear as the 1973 Sugar Bowl, when the Fighting Irish beat Alabama 24-23 to finish the season as undefeated national champions. (As I've mentioned before, I got so worked up watching that game I was sick the next day, which means I've had the privilege of knowing what it feels like to have a hangover on New Year's Day without ever having had a drink.) He was already seen as a savior* when he arrived at Notre Dame from Northwestern following the 1963 season. The Irish had fallen on hard times, having all but ceased to be a player on the national scene, and Ara's Wildcats had made a regular practice of throttling Notre Dame in their annual games. Upon arriving in South Bend, Parseghian was given one task, and one only: return the school to football glory.

*It is, in fact, almost impossible to talk about Notre Dame without lapsing into religious imagery, no matter how hard one might try.

Now, whether or not anyone thought it would happen as quickly as it did, I'm not sure. Parseghian took a last-string quarterback, John Huarte, a player who'd never really been given any kind of chance by anyone else, and coached him to a Heisman Trophy in 1964. The team, which had finished 2-7 the year before, entered the final game of the 1964 season undefeated and ranked #1 in the country; they led USC 17-0 at halftime in Los Angeles before seeing the Trojans come back in heartbreaking fashion with a last-minute touchdown to win 20-17. The team returned to South Bend in the middle of the night, disconsolate - inconsolable, really; nothwithstanding how bad they'd been the previous year, they could only think of how close they'd come to winning it all - and then they found out on the bus trip back to campus from the airport that the people of South Bend had left their porch lights on, welcoming them back, back home.

It's important to know that backstory to appreciate the 10-10 tie in 1966, and why Parseghian played the end the way he did. I've written about the game here, what a hellacious buildup it had and how nobody'd really ever seen anything like it. Once again the team came to the end of the season (the next-to-last-game) with a shot at the title; with no bowl game to look forward to - Notre Dame did not play in bowls back then - the Fighting Irish had to get it done in the regular season. Their starting quarterback, Terry Hanratty, was knocked out in the first quarter, his backup, Coley O'Brien, was young, inexperienced, and diabetic. Hanratty wasn't the only starter to be injured, Michigan State (undefeated and ranked #2 themselves) had a large home crowd cheering them on, and the Spartans jumped out to a 10-0 lead before Notre Dame tied it 10-10 in the second half.

As the game wore on, with neither team able to take the lead, Parseghian kept his mind focused on one goal: the national championship. A loss by Notre Dame would end any chance of winning it. However, a tie would keep their hopes alive - this was the end of the season for Michigan State (with the Big 10's no-repeat rule, they weren't going bowling either), so they had no opportunity to improve their lot. The Irish, however, had one game remaining, the following week with USC, a chance to revenge 1964 and clinch 1966 all in one. He didn't exactly play for a tie, he insisted later, but he refused to take any chances that could result in a loss. His decision was scorned by many in the press, but it proved prescient; State sat home the following week as Notre Dame obliterated USC 51-0; the following week the AP voted the Irish national champions. After all the years of losing, after the anguish of 1964, Notre Dame was back.

As I said, they'd win again in 1973, and then after defeating Alabama in a rematch the following season in the Orange Bowl, ruining the Crimson Tide's undefeated season and a chance at the championship, Ara retired; the stress of big-time competition was, he said, getting to be too much for his health. He went into broadcasting, which we see all the time nowadays by coaches waiting for the next plum job opportunity to open up, but Parseghian was true to his word; he never coached again.
He was a television analyst until 1988, then worked for a medical foundation he'd created to fund research for a cure for Niemann-Pick disease, from which his family had suffered.

Jim Dent's wonderful book Resurrection (there's that religious imagery again) gives a vivid picture of life at Notre Dame prior to Parseghian's arrival, and Mike Celizik's The Biggest Game of Them All takes readers through that game against Michigan State, and the 1966 season in general. Both books present an impressive portrait of Parseghian as a man of integrity, committed to winning, yes - but also to his players, as well as to Notre Dame. You can agree or disagree with his decision in that 1966 game, the decision that really defined his career as a head coach, but Celizik makes a compelling case that even Michigan State players, over the years, came to acknowledge that if winning the championship is the end game, the goal of the season, then unquestionably Parseghian made the right choice.

Ara Parseghian died yesterday at the age of 94; I'd had a feeling about this, having read a week or two back that he'd been in the hospital or was going there, something like that. I don't know if Parseghian was a complex man or not, because I think in the end he was very straightforward. His reasoning was simple; the name of the game was winning. He was, though, a very compelling figure - charismatic, impressive, larger than life, a powerhouse. It was the Era of Ara, and now that era has come to a close.

Musings in May

Poitical Panderings.  If it was not clear that Big Entertainment is aligned with the far left, Disney's repeated excuses in canning Tim Allen's Last Man Standing over his conservative character being the lead dog over liberals while protecting The View is a perfect example.  Most viewers do not remember ABC News developed The View in 1996 as a way to take advantage of the 1990's television realignment, and to this day, the show's strongest viewership is in Atlanta, Detroit, and Milwaukee, three markets that ABC took advantage of in that CBS's perennial winner The Price Is Right was not available in parts of those markets (and more) due to weak affiliates.  In a post-Citizens United era, the Left has decided all opposition speech must be shot down in any way, whether it is by court mandates or by control of the media.  Welcome to 1984, everyone.

The Crew Chief.  Fox News is on a decline since the scandals that took down its core: first Roger Ailes and later Bill Shine, then Bill O'Reilly.  Much of the attacks have come from leftist activists such as Mr. Brock, Mr. Soros, and other such leaders who have pushed their way through.  The ratings among the 25-54 crowd, including the Millennials that have tilted solid left from teachings, is proving that point now when a pair of sexual deviants are first (CNN) and second (MSNBC), while nuclear family men at Fox are now in trouble.  Does it say much about the entertainment mentality working to take down Fox?  Have the Murdoch Boys decided they want to remake the channel away from what made it an ace?  Note how many channels remade for management have become disasters. The list includes Spike (was associated with Tennessee), Freeform (was associated with Mr. Robertson), Esquire (was a techie channel), FXX (was a football channel), and others.

So many deaths of men that mattered.

Roger Ailes.  Roger Ailes, 77, whose work in redeeming Richard Nixon later gave way to helping conservative political causes, then pushing Rush Limbaugh to a 1990's late-night television gig before he started Fox News. The fact the Murdoch Boys want to demolish what Mr. Ailes built is sadly allowing us to see how intelligent Mr. Ailes was in the television medium. Despite the controversy over what he knew would work in a visual medium, if it was not for Mr. Ailes, an entire challenger to the one-sided media would never have happened. As the history books noted about the Clinton Administration, the media created "crises" to put their man in power, and Mr. Ailes challenged them.

Nicky Hayden.  Nicholas Patrick Hayden, 35, was the last American to win an international motorcycle racing championship (MotoGP in 2006). His Southeastern humility was shown and ability to win at the highest levels put him on a level of few others during the era where dirt-track sliding techniques mattered more than electronics (traction control included) that has given us the modern Spanish resurgence now that motorcycle road racing now airs exclusively in the United States on Al Jazeera (please see "A Kick in the Ball" from It's About TV! for an explanation). A pity that riding his bicycle during a training run that passed through the Misano World Circuit Marco Simoncelli vicinity, and a motorist was not aware, led to his death.  Share the road, folks!

Sir Roger Moore.  Roger George Moore, 89, was a television and film star on both sides of the Atlantic (Maverick, The Last Time I Saw Paris, Ivanhoe, The Saint, and of course, from 1973 until 1985, the EON James Bond franchise).  After George Lazenby made a mistake (the Australian admits it) to not renewing his Bond gig after On Her Majesty's Secret Service (and letting Sean Connery return for one more film), Moore took the Bond character to a semi-comedic at times Bond for the 1970's into the 1980's.  The era of Bond in the 1970's was a different era than that of the original 1960's, and he has been regarded as one of the better Bonds of the five.

All three of those men will be missed.

Baseball Week: Farewell, Mr. Cub, and thanks

If ever there was a player who exemplified the joy of baseball, the delight in playing what is essentially a kids' game, it was Ernie Banks. No celebration of baseball could be complete without a tip of the cap to the man whose entire career was a celebration. Would that he would have been able to see the Cubs win the Series last year.

E rnie Banks, the Chicago Cubs baseball star, was buried today in Chicago. His performance on the field was spectacular—19 seasons, an 11-time All-Star, the first National Leaguer to win back-to-back Most Valuable Player trophies, a total of 512 home runs, Hall of Fame first ballot in 1977. His character off the field was even more exemplary—a spirit of joy, optimism and enthusiasm that was contagious way beyond the friendly confines of Wrigley Field.

Yes, Ernie Banks certainly was, for all the right reasons, Mr. Cub.

There were times, many probably, when that spirit was tested. Banks was the first African-American player on the Cubs when he joined them in 1953. Even as tributes flowed at the news of his passing last week at age 83 from a heart attack, references were also made to early ‘50s encounters that hadn’t been so welcoming. “People said terrible, racist things to him,” one long-time Cub fan recalled. “But Ernie just smiled right through it.”

And then there was the losing. The Cubs have become the longest-running “lovable losers” in major league baseball, if not in all of pro sports. They haven’t been in a World Series since 1945. They haven’t won one since 1908. In Ernie’s first 14 years as a Cub, they only had one winning season. Ernie played 2,528 major league games. None were in the post-season. (That futility is summed up in a riddle. “What did Jesus say to the Chicago Cubs?” Answer: “Don’t do anything until I get back.”)

Losing didn’t dampen Ernie’s spirit, though. “Let’s play two!” became his well-quoted catchphrase. He loved playing the game, it was all about the game, win, lose, whatever. It was the friendly, positive spirit of competition that he most enjoyed. That spirit infused Cub fans, it seems. It lingers at Wrigley, and perhaps in a few other, sadly vanishing, ball fields today.

I wasn’t a natural Ernie Banks fan. Growing up near San Francisco, I was a Willie Mays guy. I resented anyone crowding Willie’s spotlight. (With some justification. In 1958, when Banks became the first player on a losing team to win an MVP, he hit .313. Willie hit .347 that year. Just saying). But I always respected Ernie Banks and enjoyed watching Cubs games on TV, amazed at this slim shortstop who could pretty much do it all.

I realized in a new way this week how much I admired, and will miss, Ernie Banks. It took a Super Bowl to do it.

First it was the sports media machine pumping out endless, rancorous stories about possible cheating in the NFL, in what’s being called “DeflateGate.” Then it was the Super Bowl media day circus where one player in particular—Seattle’s Marshawn Lynch—became the poster-child for today’s arrogant, self-obsessed, pampered, obscenely overpaid, and repugnant professional athletes by ignoring reporters’ questions by smugly repeating  just one phrase (“I’m just here so I won’t get fined”) for nearly five minutes.

Apparently for Mr. Lynch, and many other pro athletes today, the joy has gone out of the game. They put up with it, grab their paychecks, and fly off to the Bahamas or Vegas or wherever they go to spend that money. They certainly don’t want to play two.

So, thank you, Ernie Banks, Mr. Cub, for doing what you did. And more important, for being who you were. Thank you for leaving a legacy that hopefully will not diminish with your passing. We need people like you today. More than we know.

[Mitchell here - Steve had this very funny article about Ernie Banks a few years ago - would that it were true!]

Limbaugh reflection

I remember the first time listening to a Best of Rush Limbaugh was on a typical Saturday drive, and I would catch his highlights. It was one thing in school, but another while listening to it over a quarter century.

In memory of the artist who died this week of cancer, I had to find a controversial song that artist did, and remembered during the furore of the song, Mr. Limbaugh used it as the theme of one of his most famous Updates. Remember which update it was? (Hint: The same genre is used for the current theme for the update.)

Arnold Palmer, R.I.P.

Arnold Palmer was made for TV. By that I don't mean he was prepackaged, like a television movie or a band or the star of a reality show. What I mean is that Arnold Palmer, without a doubt, was made for TV.

The cameras loved him, standing on the tee with that determined look, tossing aside a butt and hitching up his pants and looking down the fairway, then lashing at the ball with a swing that every golfer could identify with. When he sank the last putt on 18 to win a tournament, with that familiar knock-kneed stance of his, he would fling his visor in the air in triumph, a gesture which Tiger Woods would suggest after winning his first Masters. Before televised tournaments became commonplace, he starred with Jack Nicklaus and Gary Player in Big Three Golf, bringing the sport out of the country clubs and to the masses, becoming the People's Champion. With his combination of charisma, talent and genuine likability, just at the moment television was coming of age, he was the right man at the right moment. Arnold Palmer was very good to television, and television was very good to him.

The cameras loved him equally when he was off the course, on the cover of Sports Illustrated and on the cover of Time, trading quips with Bob Hope or running through airports with O.J. Simpson or doing commercials on ESPN. In 2014 Forbes ranked him third on their list of the highest-paid athletes, even though he hadn't swung a club in anger for a decade. He made $42 million that year,* and I doubt it would have been that much if he didn't come across as such a warm personality on television. No matter where Palmer was when the cameras caught him, he appeared to be at home, probably because no matter how the cameras caught Arnold Palmer, they caught him being himself - a great competitor, a nice man.

*Palmer made $875 million in his lifetime; only $3.6 million came from prize money.

The stories are legion, and probably not worth repeating here, since they're so well-known. Suffice it to say Arnold Palmer may have been one of the most beloved athletes of all time, if not the most beloved. He never left until he'd signed every autograph, and the sportswriter Dan Jenkins once joked that Palmer would use a telescopic sight to make sure there wasn't someone out there still wanting an autograph. His friend and competitor Chi Chi Rodriguez said every golfer should be grateful for the impact Palmer had made on the sport. “When Arnie wins a tournament," Chi Chi said,  I make an extra $100,000.” He was responsible for the British Open becoming an international championship; after Palmer went over there and won, other Americans followed. Women wanted to be with him, men wanted to be like him, a drink was named after him. No matter where Palmer went on the course, his legions of fans - Arnie's Army - would follow. Even God seemed to be on his side - he lost a tournament at Pebble Beach one year because he had twice hit a greenside tree with approach shots; that night, a storm felled the tree. Hey, I report - you decide.

Golf has become such a staple of television nowadays that it's hard to imagine a weekend without a tournament on TV somewhere; there's even a channel dedicated to golf - which Arnold Palmer helped create, naturally. Without Arnold Palmer there wouldn't have been a Jack Nicklaus, a Johnny Miller, a Phil Mickelson, a Tiger Woods. Oh, they would still have played the game, and they would have played it well - but would anyone have been watching? Suffice it to say that no man has ever had an impact on the game, and the culture that surrounds it, than Arnold Palmer. And when he died on Sunday at the age of 87, it was a life well-lived.

Yes, there's no question that Arnold Palmer was a television star. Though there may be better players, longer hitters, bigger winners, there's only one Arnold Palmer, and we'll never see his likes again.


This post also appeared at It's About TV.

Phyllis Schlafly, R.I.P.

The first time I ever heard of Phyllis Schlafly, I was in high school and she was fighting against the Equal Rights Amendment. I didn't really understand the moral dimensions of it back then - it was more the political struggle that interested me. And I didn't have the advanced understanding of just what "equal rights" meant either, but I knew ERA wasn't passing the smell test for me. Almost alone at the time, she spoke out courageously against it, she fought it tooth and nail, and she won. I admired her greatly for it.

The last time I heard about Phyllis Schlafly, she was embroiled in a battle with the organization she'd founded, and was stumping for Donald Trump. I don't think Trump would have been her first choice, but as was the case with ERA, she took a look around, saw the society in which she lived crumbling around her, and decided that something needed to be done. In this case, it was a battle she was not able to fight personally, so I think she looked around and saw that there was at least one person out there who was willing to stand up to the tidal wave. I admired her greatly for it.

It was reminiscent of her struggle against ERA - at the time, the amendment had steamrolled through state after state, and its approval seemed a foregone conclusion. Nobody was really opposing it, and it you believed the words coming from its supporters, there was no reason on earth why any rational human being would. And then when Schlafly, in the best tradition of American conservatism, stood athwart history and yelled Stop. She rallied thousands and eventually millions to her cause, and ERA was stopped - even after it received an unprecedented time extension. Whatever misgivings she may have had about Trump (and I don't have any inside information that she had any), she saw in him someone similarly willing to yell Stop at those who sought to take over the country and its culture.

History will ultimately tell us - in about three months - how successful Trump will be in his efforts. We need not wonder about the efforts of Phyllis Schlafly, though. Far, far more than the feminist icons whom the media trumpeted, she represented the "silent majority" of women and influenced the American political scene. Comparing her to, say, Gloria Steinem is like comparing a giant and a pygmy. And yet if you were to depend on the media and our schools for your education, you might figure Schlafly was little more than a gadfly with a meager following, nothing like the giants of radical feminism.

Well, I suspect she was used to that, as all conservatives are. She understood that ultimately victory would be decided not in this world, but in the next, and that here the best she could do was to pray and fight for what her faith and her political instincts told her was right. She died at the age of 92, a good and faithful servant with a life well lived

Sad news - Indy 500 driver killed in Kansas

For the second consecutive Indianapolis 500, tragedy has struck the Field of 33.  An accomplished driver who made multiple Indianapolis 500 starts has been killed in a racing crash.

Three-time “500” starter Bryan Clauson (#88 Dale Coyne Racing Jonathan Byrd's Catering Honda) died Sunday night from head injuries from contact after a violent flip at the Belleville (KS) Midget Nationals A-Main at the North Central Kansas fairgrounds in the said city.  On Lap 14 of the 35-lap A Main, during a battle for the lead the half-mile high-banked dirt track, Clauson, a three-time winner of the event battled Chad Boat, son of former Verizon IndyCar Series race winner Billy, for the lead when, in a classic dirt track “jumping the cushion,” his midget climbed he armco guardrail, flipping violenly and hit by Ryan Greth.  Clauson was transported to a Nebraska hospital where he died the next evening.  Clauson is the fifth Indianapolis 500 starter since 2000 to be killed in a crash from a motor racing incident.

The Midget Nationals, since 1978, has been won by six Indianapolis 500 starters and five current NASCAR national series drivers, including three current Sprint Cup drivers (#5, #42, #88).

Thoughts and prayers go to the Clauson family.