Frank Deford, multi-award-winning sports writer and author of 17 books, is back with his autobiography, "Over Time: My Life as a Sportswriter;" in which he chronicles how he went from a child growing up in Baltimore to being recognized as the greatest sports writer of his time.
In which I first
encounter faster guns
High schools are our commonest common denominator. Good Lord,
they even all smell the same, that stale institutional odor that can be
disturbed only by another ringing bell. The children fall out into the
corridors, moving with a special rhythm, at a pace they will never
again employ in life. Nothing else in the human experience resembles
the break between classes.
-- "When All the World Was Young, Lad,"
Sports Illustrated, 1977
Besides prefaces counting their pages in Roman numerals, the other
thing about books that always confounds me is that we authors go
on and on, tediously, with acknowledgments (see page 353), but we
usually make a mystery of our dedication. So, here is who this book
is dedicated to: my high school adviser and my high school basketball
You see, since much of this book is about writing and sports, it
is especially appropriate to dedicate it to them.
Jerry Downs not only was my adviser but he taught me English,
and (although I could've done without the Thomas Hardy) he showed
me how to appreciate great writing -- Shakespeare in particular, of
course -- and he wonderfully encouraged my own writing and helped
me improve it without ever being pedantic. He also directed me in
school plays (struggling mightily with me when I was in my James
Dean period), where I believe I learned to appreciate actors more than
athletes. He was everything good that a high school teacher should
be, and he was a wonderful influence on me, but, of course I was a
teenager then and therefore I didn't let him know that I thought that.
Nemo Robinson -- square name: John -- was my varsity basketball
coach. I had no idea, until forty years later, that he had been a certified
hero at the Battle of the Bulge. That was revealed to me only when
the History Channel devoted a whole program to a re-creation of his
incredible courage, for which he was awarded the Bronze Star with
valor. In deep snow, out in the open, Lieutenant Robinson led an assault
on an entrenched, well-fortified German position, then crawled
back and forth under the enemy machine-gun fire to rescue several
of his wounded men, dragging them to safety -- even as he suffered a
hernia for these extraordinary exertions.
But what did I know when Nemo coached me? If I'd actually
known what he'd so bravely achieved against the Germans I would've
been too nervous around a truly courageous man like that. Luckily, I
just knew Nemo as Coach Robinson, who put up with me.
Because I'm tall, people naturally assume I played basketball.
Every tall guy gets that. When people meet Abraham Lincoln in
heaven, I'm sure they start off asking him where he played hoops.
Unfortunately, I'm not much of an athlete. I have terrible hand-eye
coordination. It's so bad that, when operating a computer, for some
unknown reason, I hold the mouse backward. Apparently, I alone in
the world have this mysterious vertical dyslexia.
Incredibly, though, I could shoot a basketball, and when I was
in my senior year at Gilman School, playing for Nemo, and the jump
shot was coming into vogue, I just sort of magically started making
jump shots. I'd put on a little weight, too, from taking the Charles
Atlas course, which cost $30 (an awful lot of money at the time). Mr.
Atlas called his secret regimen "Dynamic Tension." You sent away
for it through the ads on the back of comic books, where there were
panels showing how the erstwhile skinny Charles himself had put on
muscle and, thereupon, at the beach, beat up a bully who had kicked
sand in his face.
Ideally, you did the exercises naked before a mirror; this gave
them more of a hush-hush, even lurid, aspect. When I got my driver's
license at sixteen, it listed me at 6 feet 2½ inches, 127 pounds, so I was
a wraith. With the help of Charles Atlas, by the time I was a senior I
was up to a hefty 150, and I'd grown a couple more inches, too, so I
was finally able to muscle up jump shots.
It was all quite amazing; overnight I got off the bench and became
a star. It absolutely confounded Nemo that I came out of nowhere.
But me -- I knew, secretly, my success was a fluke. As a precursor to
so much in my life, I was just in the right spot. We had a very good
center named Tommy Garrett, who was 6 feet 7 inches, so he had
to play the opponent's big man, and by far the best athlete on our
team was the point guard, Alan Yarbro, who would bring the ball up
court, do all the hard work, then pass me the ball so I could launch my
beautiful new jump shot over the poor little shorter guy guarding me.
By coincidence, that season, 1956-1957, was the first time that
the Baltimore high school conference, which had been segregated,
allowed in the black schools. Promptly, Dunbar easily won the championship.
Its star player was named Joe Pulliam. One day, before school,
we were sitting around reading the Baltimore papers, both of which,
that day, selected me for second-team all-city. Joe Pulliam was one
of the five players on the first team. My friend Bob Reiter said: "You
know, Frank, whatta shame. The one year the colored boys come in,
they have a good basketball team. Otherwise you would have been
I said, "Bob, I really don't think this was like a one-time thing for
the colored boys in basketball."
It was one of the few predictions in sport I've ever gotten right.
Like most sportswriters and, for that matter, like most other people,
very few of us ever predict sports correctly. It isn't even worth the
effort, and you shouldn't pay any attention to what anyone predicts,*
but everybody keeps trying and many people take it seriously.
A few years later, when I was covering basketball for Sports Illustrated,
I obtained, if secondhand, the definition of basketball, from the
very lips of the creator himself. This happened when I interviewed the
old retired Kansas coach Phog Allen, who had himself been coached
as a Jayhawk by Dr. James Naismith -- he who had personally invented
basketball. Imagine somebody actually inventing a whole sport. You
remember the peach baskets.
It was an even more disorienting conversation for such a young
man as I, however, because Allen continually referred to Naismith as
"Jim," and to me, this was like talking to someone who had known Edison
and kept recalling a chat with "Tom" about working up electricity.
Allen told me Naismith had told him, "Phog, the appeal of basketball
is that it is a game easy to play but difficult to master."
And Phog replied, "You mean just like life, Jim?"
And Naismith agreed. "Yes, anybody can piddle at it, but to
master it -- yes, just like life."
So, there I had basketball straight from the horse's mouth. Really,
I had been a piddler. Would that I could do better with life.
Nevertheless, because of that one glorious year in high school,
I've always known, from personal experience, exactly what it's like for
someone to, as they say, get hot. I got hot, and even though I understood
it was a mirage, I had the time of my life. It taught me how confidence
can transform you, even carry you -- well, at least for a while. We
had a terrific team, and I broke the school scoring records, and one
day Nemo told someone that I was the best "game player" he'd ever
coached. Not the best player, you understand -- I knew I wasn't even
the best player on this one team -- but his best "game player." All-time.
More than fifty years on, I don't believe I've ever had a compliment
I prized so much.
However, when I went off to college, the Princeton coach, an
old gruff billiard-ball-bald guy named Cappy Cappon, watched me
at practice for a while. Cappy was not long on words or diplomacy.
I was already writing for the college paper, and Cappy came over to
me and said, "You know, DeFord, you write basketball much better
than you play it."
Luckily, I already knew this, and Cappy knew I knew it, so it was
not wounding. Sure, I'd have loved to be Mr. Hotshot Player. Wouldn't
everybody? But I'd had that one freak year, when I got hot, and, wow,
that was fantastic, and it taught me so much.
I think of all the boys (and girls now, too) who, as I was, are
good at a sport at some certain level -- maybe even really good -- but
that's as far as they can go. Sometimes, like me, they're finished after
high school. Sometimes in college. Some players are even absolutely
drop-dead terrific, all-Americans, but they're a total bust in the pros.
Water finds its own level. When I started covering sports, it helped
that, because of my own experience as a glorious flash in the pan, I
understood how hard it was on the ones who thought they were so
good, but found out, no, they were good only up to a point, because
there were faster guns out there, beyond. There's always a faster gun.
But I know it's true that so many grown American men are walking
around all the rest of their lives, playing those glory days over,
still hearing the cheers in their inner ear. A lot of them lie about how
good they were, and I think after a while, they come to believe their
own lies. Some of them never get it out of their system, no matter how
long they live or what they do for a living, because in this country,
when you're so damn young and impressionable, it's especially exhilarating,
playing for your school, with pretty cheerleaders jumping
up and down and fans yelling for you. ... [A]ll your life, you might never beat that.
The fuss we make over high school sports is probably the main
reason so many men in the United States are forever adolescent. High
school sports have replaced The Western as the male American lyric.
Anyway, the point is that I wasn't hurt when Cappy Cappon told
me I couldn't play basketball very well, because he didn't say just that;
he also implied, in counterpoint, that there was something else I could
do well: I was able to write.
* Let alone "guarantees." It is the stupidest thing in sports journalism that we actually
report it when some player "guarantees" that his team will win. Please.