Flak Magazine: Kick Out the Sports! 11.28.05

Today, I turn 36. Thirty-six is not a milestone by any means, though getting to the second half of your 30s gets you to thinking. Maybe it's because when I watch a game, I remember the coaches when they were players. Or I see the names on the backs of the uniforms, and I remember when those names and uniforms belonged to the players' fathers.

Thirty-six years is not much in the general space-time continuum, but it's long enough to see a lot of changes in the sports world. I'm not going to be one of those goofy sentimentalists who remembers everything as being better back in the old days, not with the relatively primitive-looking games from my youth that you can see on ESPN Classic. I just remember.

Speaking of the self-proclaimed Worldwide Leader in Sports, I remember life without ESPN. I remember begging my parents to let me stay up to watch the "Monday Night Football" halftime highlights because that was the only time you got to see highlights from every Sunday game. I remember watching "This Week in Baseball," because it was the only time you got to see highlights from most major-league games.

I remember the early "SportsCenters," which had glorious, glorious highlights, and no catchphrases. I remember when ESPN's programming time-killer was not poker, but Australian Rules Football. I remember everyone I knew being able to imitate the little guy who popped out to point both arms forward to signal an Australian rules score. I remember the little guy looked like the white-coated version of Curious George's Man in the Yellow Hat.

Lots of changes, yes. I remember the Colts in Baltimore, the Rams in Los Angeles, the Browns in Cleveland (the first time), the Raiders in Oakland before they went to Los Angeles and the Clippers in San Diego. For that matter, I remember the Clippers when they were the Buffalo Braves. I remember the NBA with no 3-point line and four-figure paid attendance. I remember big Afros that were never turned into cornrows. I remember when you could be sure the NBA's white guys were from the United States.

I also remember when you could be sure that the NHL's white guys were from Canada. I remember hockey players without helmets, though I'm not nearly old enough to remember football players without them. I remember hockey players without teeth. Actually, hockey players still don't have teeth, but they have better dentists.

I remember John Facenda, the "voice of God" from NFL Films. I remember Darryl Stingley getting paralyzed by Jack Tatum. I remember single-bar helmets and straight-on kickers. I remember when you had starters on offense and defense who stayed on the field — no four-receiver sets or blitz packages. I remember Billy "White Shoes" Johnson being a big deal because he wore white shoes, and because he was the only player with an elaborate touchdown celebration. (Hold the football over your head with one hand, keep your other arm overhead, do a stand-up version of the Charleston with your legs, pass the football between your legs left-to-right then right-to-left, then spike the ball.)

I remember when you either liked the Pittsburgh Steelers or the Dallas Cowboys, and how that said everything about your personality — whether you were sympathetic, hard-working, friendly and down-to-earth, or were cold, calculating, corporate and heartless. (If that sounds a little biased, it's because I was a Steelers fan.)

I remember when managers expected starting pitchers to complete their own games.

I remember stadiums without luxury suites, electronic scoreboards with video and out-of-town score updates, and dot races. I remember when the fans prompted themselves to chant "de-fense," rather than being prompted by a synthesized voice and a cartoon pair of clapping hands. I remember when your food choices at the ballpark were limited to some combination of the following: beer, soda, hot dogs, chips, popcorn and cotton candy. I remember when stadiums were a "Rock and Roll, Part Two"-free zone.

I remember when the Indianapolis 500 mattered, and NASCAR didn't. I remember when horse racing mattered, and skateboarding didn't. I remember when men's tennis mattered, and women's tennis didn't. I remember when boxing mattered, and pro wrestling didn't. (Well, maybe pro wrestling still doesn't matter much, but it sure matters more than boxing.) I remember when sports video games started to matter, even when the object was to get your dot or dash closest to the green-phosphor hoop or end zone.

I remember playing fantasy football when I was commissioner of a league with 10 players in six states, and having to look at Monday's paper to count up the scores. I either had to take a long-distance call to get a team's roster update, or just assume someone wanted to keep the same team that week. I also remember walking through the snow five miles to school, uphill, both ways, with no shoes.

Some things have stayed the same over my sports lifetime. Joe Paterno is still old and still coaches Penn State football. The New York Yankees are still good. The Detroit Lions still stink.

Some things have gone back to how they once were. I remember nearly every outdoor stadium ripping up its grass to install artificial turf. And over the years, just about every team has ripped up its artificial turf to install grass, once it was clear players were ripping up their knees on artificial turf. I remember stadiums that weren't retro. They were just old.

I'm definitely not retro, even if 40 is the new 30. I'm just getting older. But my sports remembrances aren't offered in any spirit of nostalgia, because most of the changes have been far for the better. I'd like to think the same could be said of myself.

E-mail Bob Cook at bobc@flakmag.com.