The Greatest

I had a different blog post planned for tonight.

I held it off -- wisely, it turned out -- when I heard that one of my childhood idols had fallen ill.

It's hard to begin. My mind is racing. For those who never saw him in action, never heard him speak, never knew the kind of man he was, both in front of the cameras and in private, it's impossible to describe Muhammad Ali. All many people will remember is his inability to walk, or speak, as his disease robbed him of the grace he showed so well for much of his life. He was so ahead of his time that he became the time. He was color, when the world was still black and white. He was a digital voice, when the world was analog. He was an iPod, while the rest of us carried Walkmans.

I don't remember the first time I saw Muhammad Ali. I do remember my father talking about him. I remember, growing up, seeing him on ABC's Wide World of Sports, and I remember hating Howard Cosell for grilling Ali and forcing him to defend himself. Years later, I learned that the two were really best friends, and Ali had virtually scripted every encounter. But that's another tale for another time.

Ali was more than just the heavyweight champion of the world. There were, after all, a lot of champions. Some of them had better win-loss records. So why aren't they celebrated?

Because he reminded the world something it had forgotten since the days when boxers didn't wear gloves and matches would go on for hours. It was the same reason baseball exploded in the early 20th century. And the reason the AFL began to catch up to the NFL, and attention was being taken away from Johnny Unitas and Joe DiMaggio, and given to Joe Namath and Mickey Mantle. They were entertaining.

Ali didn't just beat you. He told you he would beat you. Then he would describe it in detail. Then he would shadow box and threaten to "take that rag off Cosell's head." We cared whether he won or lost. We had to care.

He borrowed elements of pro wrestling in his boxing career. He was a long admirer of George Wagner, a.k.a. "Gorgeous George" and borrowed his flair. He used quotes from wrestling champions like Dick The Bruiser and "Nature Boy" Buddy Rogers. Why? Because wrestling was popular, even though there was a "stigma" at the time that the whole thing maybe, just maybe, isn't completely legit. Ali took what was popular in wrestling and brought it to a legit sport. By himself.

I never had the chance to meet Muhammad Ali. I always with I had. I wanted to know what the real Ali was like. My eyes are literally filled with tears as I write this. But I think it finally hit me -- Ali was everything we saw. There was a piece of Ali in every shred of film, and in every interview with every family member, confidante or opponent. (In many cases, someone was all three.) Ali touched so many lives, and every single soul he encountered is actually a part of him. I realize that now.

It's just too bad it took his death for me to understand that.

I can see it now. Ali is being welcomed by St. Peter, who tells him he's led a good life. Ali's response, "Never mind that. Where's Frazier?"

Ali/Frazier IV. The Altercate at the Pearly Gates.

Rest in peace.

Travel Ball Star? Whoa! Bust Out the Confetti!

It’s hard to put a definite description on me, but there are three things that truly define me: 1) I am the picture of perfect health. I turn 44 years old later this week, and I feel like I’m 18, despite the fact that I eat more pizza than each of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles combined (including Donatello). 2) I am patient and easy to talk to, ready to lend an ear and, when called upon, to give advice to help my fellow man. And 3) I am a compulsive liar on blogs.

So I recently visited my favorite ethnic health food restaurant to partake in one of my favorite dishes, named after a great military leader (I believe his name was General Tso) when in walked a family of five. What stood out was the youngest member of the group: A girl, maybe 9-10 years old, wearing a softball uniform. The family members were holding the dual glass doors for her, and she entered with one of those pre-teen smirks on her face. It really looked more like a young movie star and her entourage -- only she forgot to leave her costume at the Bad News Bears set.

Real bears do their bad news elsewhere.

As I waited for General Tso to get his butt in gear and give me my food already, the oldest person in the group starting bragging on the girl. “She hit a home run today,” he said with, I must note, what looked like a miniature celery stalk in his front teeth. “She hit two yesterday. She leads her team. She’s supposed to play in 10U, but they bumped her to 12U, because she was just that good. Her first at-bat she hit a triple. She stopped while rounding the bases to heal a leper. Then she flew in the air and the team built her a ziggurat etc. etc. etc.”*

I wanted to take those little red peppers that came with my dinner and shove them in his eyes. But I couldn't. His eyes were hiding behind the nose that was sticking way up in the air.

It was another case of a family going way too out of its way to make a girl play softball on some traveling team whose only purpose is to make money enrich the lives of the players. I see it all too often: Little Jimmy is hitting .600 or .750 or 1.500 and has like 8 thousand jillion home runs. Unfortunately he has to miss the big family cook out because we’ll be in Hakensak, New Jersey, at some national-level tournament which, if his team places in the top four**, they’ll qualify for this other national-level tournament in Talequah, Oklahoma, and then qualify for another national-level tournament in Fargo, North Dakota, and so on.

 Then, for fun, we'll all try to fit inside our coach's uniform.

These kids are playing the sport they love and going to all these exotic places. They’re traveling the country! No expense is too great, because in the end, Jimmy will get his college paid for and then go on to be a really big star in the majors.

At least, that’s what they want you to believe.

In reality, Jimmy is miserable. He’s already burned out from baseball because all he does is get up, swing his bat, eat breakfast, throw into a net, bat some more, lunch, pitch into a net, hit off a tee, dinner, run bases, go to bed. Twelve months a year. He plays for his school team. He plays for two travel teams -- one in the spring, one in the fall. In the winter he plays in an indoor gym baseball league.

Jimmy would love to play some hoops with his friends, or hang out at their house, or play Madden. But, no, none of those things will help Jimmy get to Baseball U. so they’re completely worthless. Quit letting your mind wander, Jimmy***. Time to think about polishing your glove. And while you're at it, lift that nose a few inches.

Nobody told Jimmy that just about every coach in every major league in the country recommends multiple sports at his age. No one in his family ever thought, “You know, if I hand him his basketball, maybe he’ll enjoy baseball even more when he does get to play it.”

In this past NFL draft, 28 of the 31 first round draftees lettered in more than one sport in high school. Twelve of them actually lettered in at least three, including Jared Goff, who played football, baseball and basketball.

No one told Jimmy that I’ve seen a lot of kids who had parents focus on one sport only, and have yet to see a single one of them sign for a scholarship at the NCAA Division I level. Or even Division II, for that matter. I’ve seen a few D-III athletes, but they earned scholarships with academics, because the NCAA doesn’t allow athletic scholarships at that level.

Even if you ask nicely.

A recent study by USA football concluded that D-I college athletes began focusing on one sport at the average age of 15.4. For all other students who participated in high school sports, that average dropped to 14.1. The study sites, over and over, how learning skills in one sport translate to other sports, and build the player’s overall skill level, not to mention their confidence.

My daughter plays softball. It's the only sport she's played, save one (very embarrassing) season when she played soccer and basically spent the entire year chasing the ball around.

Apparently, soccer hooliganism is frowned upon in 5U.

If my daughter wants to play something else, I'll sign her up in a second. But she's content with just softball. And I think it's because I haven't even suggested driving her 2 hours one way to try out for a team she's never heard of, and has no allegiance to. With players who have tall noses.

As I watched that family get seated at the table of my favorite ethnic health food restaurant, I couldn’t help but to think of the irony. Someday, she’ll have a coach call her about that. And, after the coach asks her about those three home runs in two days, the next question will likely be, “Did you figure the tip?”

P.S. The General Tso was yummy.




*--He did not actually say “etc. etc. etc.” It was more like “et cetera et cetera et cetera.”

**--Out of five.

***--Now that I think about it, his name may not be Jimmy. So, from this point forward, I’ll call him Jimmy.

RETURN OF THE LEGEND!

My nickname came about 16 years ago.

I was visiting my best friend in Indianapolis who was engaged to be married. (As opposed to engaged to be what, exactly?) He opened the door and said, “Here’s my fiancee.”

She looked me up and down. “I’m going to find out.”

Wow. Forward.

“Your middle name,” my friend quickly blurted out. “She wants to know your middle name.”

It’s L.

Just the letter.

This wasn’t good enough for her.

We spent the evening together having a good time. Beers were involved. When the night was through, I took my leave and went home. The next morning my friend called me.

“She figured it out,” he said.

Okay.

“The L stands for ‘Legend’,” he said. “Because you don’t meet Bill. You experience him.”

That nickname has cropped up off and on over the 16 years since. It’s pretty much retired -- there’s not much room for personal ego when you have three kids -- but, every now and then, I like to remind my wife that she’s married to the Legend.

And then she reminds me that she has the ability to roll her eyes so far back she can actually see her own brain.

I haven’t blogged in years. I did it sporadically about eight years ago, but I didn’t really enjoy it. I didn’t feel like there was anything inside me that I wanted to let out. (Insert own multiple beer joke here.) But, recent events have led me to realize that, unless I get some things off my chest, I’ll never feel right.

So here we go.

I’m a sportswriter in Mount Vernon, Ohio. Actually, I’m the sports editor. Which carries about as much weight in this town as being a head waiter at a Burger King. I digress. I married my beautiful wife 11 years ago, and have produced three wonderful kids with her. (To be honest, she did most of the work. I simply contributed the raw materials. She ran the factory.) I’ve lived here for seven years. Before that, I lived in 15 different cities in seven different states.

Never went too far north at least.

Not long ago, I had a really bad bout with depression. It’s a diagnosis I don’t take lightly, and I haven’t had a bout like that one in years. But I found out who my friends are. (Read: almost none.) Which is okay, as that’s been a running theme for a guy who grew up getting moved from one school to another because your parents are in real estate.

Since I have few friends, but a lot of thoughts, I plan to take advantage of both with this here electronic diary blog. I’ll fill you in on what’s happening in the world of sports, movies and life as I see it. As you read in the coming weeks and months, you’ll get some laughs. You may think a little bit. (Very little.) And I guarantee, at some point, you’ll be pissed off.

So pull up a chair. Share your thoughts with me. I’ll respond. And come see what I’m made of.

See what I mean? You just experienced the Legend.

Yeah, okay. Lame. I’ll do better next time.