All-time favorite piece of sports journalism?

Nice story, Casey, even though it's been debunked as mostly fiction in later years. That's OK, though. Everybody knows your heart is in the right place and I like it like that.

 

Debunked?
Man, I'm in pieces.
Bits and pieces.

 

"Debunked" is one of my all-time favorite words. Sounds exactly like what it means.

I wonder if the opposite of debunk is "bunk". If you prove something irrefutably, have you "bunked" it?

No, wait. That can't be right. If something is bogus, then it can be referred to as "bunk".

OK, so what's the antonym of "debunk"?

 

Column I enjoyed the most was a Michael Wilbon piece on A.I. Can't remember the year, but it made me realize what column writing was all about.

 

This is, in my opinion, the best column ever written:

If You're Expecting One-Liners, Wait, a Column


Home Edition, Sports, Page C1
Sports Desk
17 inches; 606 words
Type of Material: Column

By JIM MURRAY,

OK, bang the drum slowly, professor. Muffle the cymbals and the laugh track. You might say that Old Blue Eye is back. But that's as funny as this is going to get.

I feel I owe my friends an explanation as to where I've been all these weeks. Believe me, I would rather have been in a press box.

I lost an old friend the other day. He was blue-eyed, impish, he cried a lot with me, saw a great many things with me. I don't know why he left me. Boredom, perhaps.

We read a lot of books together, we did a lot of crossword puzzles together, we saw films together. He had a pretty exciting life. He saw Babe Ruth hit a home run when we were both 12 years old. He saw Willie Mays steal second base, he saw Maury Wills steal his 104th base. He saw Rocky Marciano get up. I thought he led a pretty good life.

One night a long time ago he saw this pretty girl who laughed a lot, played the piano and he couldn't look away from her. Later he looked on as I married this pretty lady.

He saw her through 34 years. He loved to see her laugh, he loved to see her happy.

You see, the friend I lost was my eye. My good eye. The other eye, the right one, we've been carrying for years. We just let him tag along like Don Quixote's nag. It's been a long time since he could read the number on a halfback or tell whether a ball was fair or foul or even which fighter was down.

So, one blue eye missing and the other misses a lot.

So my best friend left me, at least temporarily, in a twilight world where it's always 8 o'clock on a summer night.

He stole away like a thief in the night and he took a lot with him. But not everything. He left a lot of memories. He couldn't take those with him. He just took the future with him and the present. He couldn't take the past.

I don't know why he had to go. I thought we were pals. I thought the things we did together we enjoyed doing together. Sure, we cried together. There were things to cry about.

But it was a long, good relationship, a happy one. It went all the way back to the days when we arranged all the marbles in a circle in the dirt in the lots in Connecticut. We played one-old-cat baseball. We saw curveballs together, trying to hit them or catch them. We looked through a catcher's mask together. We were partners in every sense of the word.

He recorded the happy moments, the miracle of children, the beauty of a Pacific sunset, snowcapped mountains, faces on Christmas morning. He allowed me to hit fly balls to young sons in uniforms two sizes too large, to see a pretty daughter march in halftime parades. He allowed me to see most of the major sports events of our time. I suppose I should be grateful that he didn't drift away when I was 12 or 15 or 29 but stuck around over 50 years until we had a vault of memories. Still, I'm only human. I'd like to see again, if possible, Rocky Marciano with his nose bleeding, behind on points and the other guy coming.

I guess I would like to see Reggie Jackson with the count 3-and-2 and the series on the line, guessing fastball. I guess I'd like to see Rod Carew with men on first and second and no place to put him, and the pitcher wishing he were standing in the rain someplace, reluctant to let go of the ball.

I'd like to see Stan Musial crouched around a curveball one more time. I'd like to see Don Drysdale trying to not laugh as a young hitter came up there with both feet in the bucket.

I'd like to see Sandy Koufax just once more facing Willie Mays with a no-hitter on the line. I'd like to see Maury Wills with a big lead against a pitcher with a good move. I'd like to see Roberto Clemente with the ball and a guy trying to go from first to third. I'd like to see Pete Rose sliding into home headfirst.

I'd like once more to see Henry Aaron standing there with that quiet bat, a study in deadliness. I'd like to see Bob Gibson scowling at a hitter as if he had some nerve just to pick up a bat. I'd like to see Elroy Hirsch going out for a long one from Bob Waterfield, Johnny Unitas in high-cuts picking apart a zone defense. I'd like to see Casey Stengel walking to the mound on his gnarled old legs to take a pitcher out, beckoning his gnarled old finger behind his back.

I'd like to see Sugar Ray Robinson or Muhammad Ali giving a recital, a ballet, not a fight. Also, to be sure, I'd like to see a sky full of stars, moonlight on the water, and yes, the tips of a royal flush peeking out as I fan out a poker hand, and yes, a straight two-foot putt.

Come to think of it, I'm lucky. I saw all of those things. I see them yet.

 

Gary Smith's back of the book special on the Cleveland pitchers killed in the boating accident during Spring Training.

 

Um, proved.

 

Royko's "A Very Solid Book" for columns. Close second for Rick Morrissey's "Silence" column, Sept. 16, 2001. Available on the APSE site.

Updike on Teddy Ballgame for gamer. Sort of a gamer that appeared a month after the event, but Barry McDermott on the second Hawaii Ironman is worth a read, too (Feb. something, 1979).

Because I'm a runner, I keep going back to S.L. Price's story on the eight Wyoming XC runners in Nov. 26, 2001 Sports Illustrated. And a nod to Moehringer's "Champ."

 

It's been said here before, but William Nack's obit story on Secretariat is by far the best sports writing -- and news writing, and feature writing, and horse writing, and anything else -- that I've ever read. I still read it every couple of months just to relive the thrill of watching, reading, a writer torn by a subject he loved so much, and then he sat down and turned it into a story that stands up all these years later.

Probably the saddest story he ever wrote, and he would tell you that. And so it's also the best story he ever wrote. Nack is probably one of the definitive sports writers of our time, and I wish he would write more often these days.

Any time he wrote about horse racing or something else, it usually was the best story in Sports Illustrated that week, and probably that month also.

 

This thread is incomplete without Shelby Strother's piece from the 1990 World Cup in Italy (The National Sports Daily) about the gigolo who had burned his trousers.

 

Do you have a link so the rest of us can read it?

 

Apologies for the pink background, but this was the only version I could find.
http://www.smythe.nbcc.nb.ca/Class97/Fanjoy/pure%20heart