40 years in a labor of love

MAY 25, 1996

Yes, that is correct, the man had said. If you can string together some reasonably coherent sentences, we shall publish them.

Cool.

Not wanting to dampen the pilgrim's eager enthusiasm, he didn't mention that even before it had a chance to yellow and fade, that very same deathless prose would serve as a repository for eggshells and coffee grounds and as bladder training for puppies who were equally eager and enthusiastic.

Plus, the man said, triumphantly, we shall pay you.

The pilgrim's mind reeled. Money for writing! There is a God and, yea, verily, He is good. The paycheck, such as it was after assorted deductions, came to $84.56. Every other Wednesday. For 96 hours of labor. No matter. The money was secondary. The pilgrim wanted to do this because he was smitten.

Forty years later, God help him, the poor wretch still is.

Memorial Day weekend, 1956. Report for work at 8 a.m., the man had said, sternly. The pilgrim was there at 6. Wired.

There was only one sentence of instruction: The overriding mission of this business is to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.

Lofty goals indeed. Hard to tell, however, exactly how that was applicable when the pilgrim's first summer was spent taking Little League box scores over the phones, interviewing the canned-preserves winners at county fairs, and doing obituaries.

Patience, the man had said. Your time shall come. An apprenticeship must be served.

The pilgrim yearned to chronicle tales of men at play. The man nodded. He understood. We turn to the front page to read of man's failures and defeats; we turn to the pages to read of his triumphs. Reality in one place, refuge in the other.

Alas, it is increasingly difficult to distinguish the losses from the wins. It's not that humanity is any worse than it was 40 years ago - it's that we have put a face on sports and frequently that face is twisted in torment. Getting close became the new rule of the business. The problem with close is that from there you see all the warts.

The first athlete to affect the pilgrim viscerally was a football player. Dick Butkus. The pilgrim first saw him in high school, then followed him through college and the Chicago Bears. What a wonderful name. Say it out loud. But-cussssss. It was the sound running backs made when he hit them.

There was a primitive quality to him that was riveting. His hands were gnarled and misshapen and he was bow-legged, like a croquet wicket in cleats, and he would crouch behind the line of scrimmage and the steam would come from his mouth with each breath, and all the pilgrim could think of was a lion about to be tossed a morsel. One other appealing thing about Butkus: He never offered up an alibi or excuse.

Three dozen Masters and Final Fours later, two dozen Super Bowls later and nearly a dozen Olympics later, the pilgrim is asked, from time to time, to name a favorite performer, and the first choice is always the easiest. It requires no thought at all.

Ali.

He was liquid grace. In a barbaric sport he was so supple and so skilled that you forgot he was making the other man in the ring bleed. But more than anything else, Muhammad Ali could improvise in the midst of chaos. And he was marvelously verbal and mentally agile. Unlike today's sour breed, he was rarely mean-spirited. The only time the pilgrim ever heard Ali left without response was just before takeoff.

Stewardess: "Mr. Ali, please fasten your seat belt."

Ali: "Superman don't need no seat belt."

Stewardess: "Superman don't need no plane, either."

Asked to select other favorites, the pilgrim decides on two: Jack Nicklaus and Michael Jordan. Both are the best there have ever been at their respective crafts. What both have in common is a ferocity of will that glows like candlelight. They will make you well up at the great, shining indomitability of which the human spirit is capable.

The pilgrim grew up, in fits and starts, to where he began to offer analysis and opinion. This often generates a response. Of all the letters, the one the pilgrim treasures most is a dissent, from a reader of relentless and frighteningly thorough loyalty. This is the entire message:

"Dear Manure-For Brains:

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Again. Again. Again."

Today, on that 40th anniversary, the pilgrim has only one unashamedly self-indulgent wish.

Forty more years . . . just like the last 40.