FIFTH MAN AND FIRST WOMAN: AGASSI AND GRAF

By Richard J. Noyes and Pamela Robertson

Andre Agassi won over 60 singles titles during a long and productive career and is a former number one player in the world. His major championships include four Australian and two U.S. Opens, the French and Wimbledon; and with these victories he joined Don Budge, Rod Laver, Fred Perry, and Roy Emerson as the fifth man to win the tennis Grand Slam.

   Agassi was a gritty player who came back from near defeats and triumphed. He was down 0-2 in sets at Roland Garros and 1-2 at the U.S. Open and came back to win both matches. To reach the Wimbledon final in 1992, where he defeated Goran Ivanisevic, Agassi had to go through three-time champs Boris Becker and John McEnroe. In 1996, in another career highlight, he became the first American to win the singles gold medal at the Olympic Games.

   Agassi, at age 35, lost the first two sets of the 2005 quarterfinals of the U. S. Open. Using his experiences with handicaps, and in an age-versus-youth turnabout reminiscent of the historic Connors/Krickstein Open match 14 years earlier, Agassi rebounded to defeat James Blake who was ten years younger. Blake, who had recently recovered from a broken neck, was a crowd favorite as was Agassi, and the emotions overflowed in an endurance test that went on into the late-night hours. The third and fourth sets were hard fought with many deuce games. And the fifth set was won in a tiebreaker. Agassi went on to take a tough, five-set semifinal contest over Robby Ginepri.

    After playing competitively in the first three sets of the final, and winning the second, he was crushed 6-1 in the fourth set by the athleticism and shot-making virtuosity of Roger Federer who, Agassi said, was the best player he had ever faced. Despite the loss, Andre Agassi is now grouped with tennis luminaries Ken Rosewall and Jimmy Connors as an all-time venerable. A bad back forced Agassi’s retirement in 2006. He founded the Andre Agassi Charitable Foundation to aid at-risk children.

THE GREATEST FEMALE TENNIS PLAYERS

German-born Steffi Graf married American tennis star Andre Agassi in 2001. She toured with Agassi, became his practice partner, and helped his game. Steffi and Andre have two beautiful children, Jaden and Jaz.

    During her career, Steffi Graf won 107 career WTA singles and 11 career doubles titles. She also captured an astounding 22 Grand Slam singles titles.  At the conclusion of the 1995 U.S. Open, she became the only player, male or female, to win each of the four major singles titles at least four times. In 1988, Graf achieved the 'Grand Slam, winning the Big Four in the same calendar year; and an Olympic singles gold medal to boot. She is in the conversation as the greatest female tennis player.

   On August 13, 1999, Graf was number three in the world and the highest-ranked player ever to announce retirement from the sport. Off the court, Graf founded the Steffi Graf Youth Tennis Center in Leipzig, Germany. She is also the founder and active Chairperson of Children of Tomorrow, a non-profit foundation with the goal of implementing and developing projects to support children who have been traumatized by war or other crises.

   The glories of Steffi Graf and other champions like Chris Evert, Martina Navratilova (many people argue that Martina was the best player ever, if not she was clearly the second best), and the Williams’ sisters, Serena and Venus, might never have happened without the leadership of Billie Jean King.

   Women’s tennis was a poorly paid stepchild of men’s tennis when King, a tenacious serve-and-volley player who won 20 Wimbledon singles and doubles championships, plus a career Grand Slam brought many women out of USTA tennis in the late 1960’s, took them on tour and gave them financial opportunities.

   Billie Jean also helped originate the highly successful Virginia Slims Championship. But what really put women’s tennis on the map happened in 1973 when she crushed Bobby Riggs (a two-time U.S. Open and Wimbledon champion and flamboyant anti-feminist) in the “Battle of the Sexes” at the Houston Astrodome in front of a record 30,000 fans.

   Conventional wisdom held that even the best women players (Riggs had beaten the formidable Margaret Court in straight sets a few weeks earlier) could not beat a good male player, even a middle-aged one like Riggs. King not only beat him, she destroyed him in straight sets, running Riggs all over the court until he was a sweaty wreck and then finishing him off with sharp volleys.

   Billie Jean King was a superb athlete, tennis player, competitor, and coach (she coached the 1996 U.S. Women’s Olympic team to three Gold Medals) who brought a single-minded focus to her game and to the promotion of women tennis players. In 1974, King was a player/coach for the Philadelphia Freedoms, a professional team that included men. Her friend Elton John wrote the hit song “Philadelphia Freedom” celebrating her success.

“You have to love to guts it out to win.” –Billie Jean King

This story was excerpted from the published book, Guts in the Clutch: 77 Legendary Triumphs, Heartbreaks and Wild Finishes in 12 Sports with a Foreword by Drew Olson of ESPN                                   http://amzn.to/19QmSVH                                                                                 

SOURCES

Courtesy of ATP Tennis, http://www.atptennis.com/en/players/playerprofiles/default2.asp?playersearch=Agassi, available as of 10/7/05

Courtesy of the International Tennis Hall of Fame, http://www.tennisfame.com/enshrinees/graf.html, available as of 10/6/05

“I’LL BET THEY STILL COULDN’T KNOCK HIM DOWN”

A Beer with the Raging Bull

As Told To Richard J. Noyes

Marcel Cerdan of France knocked out reigning champion Tony Zale in 1948 to win the world middleweight crown. Cerdan defended his title against Jake LaMotta “The Bronx Bull,” in 1949. The heavily favored Cerdan injured his shoulder in the first round, fought with one hand, and lost on a TKO in the 10th round. A rematch was scheduled for 1950, but first some background.

  We decided to wash down our New York evening with a late beer at P.J. Clarke’s. As we approached on 55th Street, and the little redbrick building came into view across 3rd Avenue, Gia said, “Look how it sits there so stoically among the tall filing cabinets.”

  I was still smiling as we edged into the noisy crush. After threading to the end of the crowded bar near the garbage tray where it was quieter, we checked out the front-room action, ordered beers, and bantered with the bartender. Suddenly, he straightened up with the dumbstruck look and head turn of a Hollywood extra watching Jesus pass by on a donkey: The Look. Turning back to us, he asked in a voice combining reverence and delight, “Did you see who that was?”

  Gia and I agreed later that we instantly thought the bartender was referring to Jackie Onassis. Since, a few years back, another Clarke’s bartender confided to us that the main reason Ari married Jackie was to insure that people recognized him at his front-room table. We caught a glimpse through the smoke and throng of a group filing into the back room. After we shook our heads no, the bartender said, “That was Jake LaMotta.” We talked about Jake’s fights, the movie’s realism, Scorcese's direction, and then Jake turned up at the bar.

  “Who’s gonna buy me a beer?”

  I said, “I will, Champ.”

  “Thanks, Pal, a Bud.”

  The bartender asked, “How come you’re out, Jake?”

  “The wife’s in Jersey.”

  Daringly, Gia inquired, “Which wife is that, Jake?”

  “Fourth, but don’t tell her that.” Laughs and swigs on beers all around.

  “Jake,” I asked, “Who did you win the title from?”

   “Marcel Cerdan, the Frenchman. He was killed in the plane crash on the way back for the rematch, a great fighter. I met his girlfriend too, that little singer.” Jake held his right hand at shoulder height.

  The bartender offered, “Edith Piaf.”

  Jake grinned and said, “That’s right, yeah, they were some couple.”

  As Jake pulled on his bottle of beer, I said, “A friend saw the February ’51 title fight with Sugar Ray Robinson in Chicago Stadium. He said he was half-dead from pneumonia but didn’t go to the hospital until the fight was over.”

  “Hey, that’s good. It was February ’51. I was half-dead, too. He almost killed me. Sugar Ray was best man at my third wedding, a nice guy, a good friend. He was the best fighter pound for pound who ever lived.” It was a thrill to hear Jake LaMotta say that about Sugar Ray. Better than a hundred sportswriters banging it out.

  Gia asked, “Did you ever fight Rocky Graziano?”

  “No, we were signed, but he broke his hand training. I woulda killed the bum.” Jake smiled and said,   “Actually, we’re good friends, but his wife won’t let him out anymore.” While Jake was shaking hands and kidding with a passing admirer, I was thinking how Rocky had been a cheerful regular and unofficial host at Clarke’s for years. When Jake turned back to us, I asked what he thought of “Raging Bull.”

  “It won the Academy Award, didn’t it?”

  “How did you like De Niro’s performance?”

  “He won the Oscar, didn’t he?”

  Jake was smaller than I expected, around five seven and lean, not the physique of the fearsome mid-century brawler who had never been knocked down, or later fatty. Unlike most people, Jake didn’t stand obliquely when conversing. He faced you dead-on, balanced on the balls of his feet, hands hanging at his sides, ready. I pasted on a pleasing smile, adopted deferential body language, and decided to phrase further questions more carefully. In particular, I decided against asking him about an earlier fight he was alleged to have thrown for the mob.

  Jake’s gaze was intense, almost staring, good concentration. He became distracted between questions, yet the responses were quick and pungent. Except for the somewhat-flattened nose, his white, baby-soft-looking skin was surprisingly unmarked, with very little scar tissue around the eyes and mouth. Jake didn’t look like he had gone through all those brutal ring wars we watched, listened to, and read about.

  Unexpectedly, he said, “I gotta go.” The crowd had thinned, and the three bartenders on duty gathered around, hands on each other’s shoulders, leaning over the bar toward Jake, an ideal tableau for an Edward Hopper painting. They said in turn, with caring:

  “See you next time, Jake.”

  “Be careful, Jake.”

  “Safe home, Jake.”

  We watched Jake’s rolling, light-on-his-pugilist’s feet exit down the room and out onto 3rd Avenue. One of the bartenders said, “I’ll bet they still couldn’t knock him down.”¹

---

“The town that has no ceiling price, the town of double-talk. The town so big they named it twice. Like so: New York, New York.” –Christopher Morley

The Jake LaMotta was story was told by a friend of the author.

  This story was excerpted from Guts in the Clutch: 77 Legendary Triumphs, Heartbreaks and Wild Finishes in 12 Sports with a Foreword by Drew Olson of ESPN. (Amazon print and e-Book. Nook and Google e-Book.)

http://amzn.to/19QmSVH

TEDDY BALLGAME-FENWAY DREAMS

TEDDY BALLGAME

 

In a chapter on baseball in a book about legends and triumphs, we must include Ted Williams and his fabled career. Fenway Dreams, the firsthand story that follows the introduction is the first we’ve read that combines descriptions of Williams’s temperament with his methods in the batter’s box, and it’s engrossing.

But let’s set the stage by quickly reviewing some career highlights. There is so much: 1941, for example, when the U.S. was about to enter World War Two and Joe DiMaggio hit safely in 56 straight games; and Williams lifted a .399 average to .406 by going six-for-eight in a final-day doubleheader against the Philadelphia Athletics at Shibe Park. (The last hit of Williams’s red-letter day was a ringing double that splintered a loudspeaker horn on the right-field fence.)

Again in 1941, Williams’s game-winning, bottom-of-the-ninth, three-run shot off Claude Passeau of the Cubs became one of the memorable clutch hits in all-star history. The homer rebounded off the upper-deck façade in the cozy right field of Detroit’s Briggs (later Tiger) Stadium (read about another Tiger Stadium all-star blast in the story “Fall Classic” in this chapter).

Williams loved to hit in Detroit, and his career numbers would have been unmatched had it been his home city. (Yankee Stadium also has a short right field. But because of the light, shadows, and background, Williams didn’t like to hit there. And his numbers, especially in determining games, reflected it.)

In the 1946 all-star game at Fenway Park, Ted Williams hit the strangest home run of his career off Pittsburgh Pirates’ veteran right-hander Rip Sewell’s eephus pitch. Williams probably hadn’t faced Sewell before, but he had seen a similar blooper thrown by Bobo Newsom, a colorful, American League journeyman pitcher.

      Sewell’s eephus resembled a humpbacked lob about 15-20 feet in height, sort of a weak pop-up traveling in reverse from the mound to home plate. Hitters had time to adjust their chaw, hitch their pants, knock dirt out of their spikes, and check out the action in the stands while waiting for it arrive. When the eephus finally descended into the hitting zone most batters couldn’t lay off it and usually popped up, fouled it off, or missed. Stan Musial once doubled off Sewell’s eephus, but no one had homered.

The National League was in full rout, and Williams already had a home run and two singles when he came up against Rip Sewell late in the game. The mood was light, and the million-bee buzz that preceded Williams’s at bats was louder then usual since everyone in the ballpark knew what was coming. Williams shifted under Sewell’s first eephus, and the fans groaned when he fouled it into the third-base stands. Could he get a hit off this pitch? Sewell then floated a magnificent eephus into the late-afternoon sunlight. Williams shuffled forward gazing up at the arching baseball. Although he set himself well beyond the front end of the batter’s box, no umpire would dare nullify the phenomenal piece of hitting that followed. Arching his long neck toward the descending ball, Williams’s extreme uppercut swing nailed it in the same plane as the descent. It appeared at first that he generated a high infield pop-up. But quickly it developed into a towering fly ball that kept going and going until to everyone’s surprise and delight, including the laughing, base-circling Williams, it landed in the right-field bullpen over 380 feet from home plate. The eephus home run demonstrated an extraordinary of blend of skills and panache that only a Ted Williams could fashion.

Even with the deep right field fence at Fenway Park, there’s no telling the records Williams might have broken had he not missed three years while serving in World War Two and most of the 1952 and 1953 seasons during the Korean War. He still played in four decades (1939-1960), hit 521 homers, won two MVP’s, and the rare triple crown in 1942 and 1947. Williams is the only American Leaguer to win two Triple Crowns. Regrettably, he didn’t win the MVP either year because of vindictive sportswriters voting against him because he didn’t kowtow to them.

Williams had a career on-base percentage of nearly .500, a .344 lifetime batting average, ⁴⁴ and he homered in his last time at bat. (Elegantly captured in John Updike’s New Yorker story, “Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu.”)

Never getting up there again must have been very tough on Williams. As former star player and Red Sox general manager Eddie Collins said, “Ted lives for his next at-bat.” (Eddie Collins negotiated the rights to minor leaguers Ted Williams and future Hall-of-Fame second baseman Bobby Doerr on the same West Coast scouting trip. In the ongoing baseball story, it ranks as the most productive scouting trip to date.)

Ted Williams had many nicknames: “The Kid,” “The Splendid Splinter,” and “The Thumper.” He was delighted when the small child of a friend dubbed him “Teddy Ballgame.”

When Williams was called back into the Marine Corps early in the 1952 season many people didn’t believe he would be able to come back and play at all, never mind at the same level. (Williams’s answer to this was a home run at Fenway in his last at bat before leaving to serve in the Korean War.) And back he came at age 35 in late 1953 to hit .407 in 37 games. And he hit .345 in the full season of 1954.

Pitcher Gene Conley (the only player to win a championship in both the Major Leagues and the NBA) said about Williams, “Confidence oozed out of him. He took something away from you even before you threw a pitch.” ⁴⁵

Next to his .406 average in 1941, Ted Williams’s second greatest single-season, batting-average accomplishment came 16 years later in 1957. He was 39, slow on the bases, and batted .388, only a short hot streak away from another .400 season. Williams later said something like: I may not be the best hitter of all time, but I’m probably the best old hitter of all time. (Some observers would counter that Barry Bonds in his late thirties and early forties was more productive. However, it must be noted that Williams’s only vice was chocolate frappes.)

Beyond the God-given talents, including binocular 20-10 eyesight, how did he do it all? Was it indomitable will, the 500¾yes, 500¾pushups a day, or all those chocolate frappes from Brigham’s, his favorite Boston ice cream store? Or maybe it was dedication in the batting cage.

A few years ago, an older friend wrote a diary-based story for this book, and some excerpts based on that memoir follow. As a local 18-year-old high school and semipro pitcher, our friend was selected by the Boston Red Sox to attend a baseball school at Fenway Park in the spring of 1950. The school was run by Hugh Duffy, who hit .438 in 1894, a Major League record. Hugh was then in his eighties and a respected teacher. Our friend was signed by the Red Sox and played minor league baseball until drafted into the Army during the Korean War.

He said that during his four weeks at the school Ted Williams came out nearly every morning of home games to hit in the cage. No other Red Sox or visiting player ever came out for extra hitting, which explains a lot. The writing and keen observations give full flavor to Williams’s expansive personality and love of hitting. Here also is the only description I’ve read that details his matchless system, and how those methods made him the greatest hitter of them all, a legend who is thought of with unusual reverence. ⁴⁶

 FENWAY DREAMS

He bolted up out of the dugout runway and stormed onto the field larger than life. When Williams arrived we didn’t look at or see much else for as long as he was out there.

It appeared that Williams was used to the awestruck gawking and didn’t think much about it. The world operated in terms of Ted Williams, not the other way around. I didn’t detect any arrogance, it was the way he was.

Williams and his batting-practice pitcher of the day warmed up along the sideline while keeping up a steady stream of rollicking, cuss-filled banter as they fired back and forth with increasing velocity. All of Ted’s motions were big, throwing the ball with a raring back hop and letting it fly, claiming great stuff, and no one could have hit that one. He even caught the ball with enthusiasm, gathering it in with a huge embrace and firing it back with a laugh and a roar.

The batting practice pitcher said he was loose. Williams nodded and strode eagerly to the three bats he had brought out. He hovered over them, testing the feel of each, completely absorbed, almost listening to the bats. He settled on one and moved quickly to the cage, bat on left shoulder, head inclined toward the bat. He was so glad to be there, jiggling like a skittish thoroughbred.

Williams paused near the cage and took several of his classically fluid wraparound swings. The bat seemed to be part of him. You could hear the whoosh 25 feet away. Then he ducked his six-three frame into the batting cage moving fast and loose and looking like he had just gotten home after being released from jail. He was in a state of total absorption and absolute delight. I never saw a man so happy in his work. Bursting with animation, booming comments to the pitcher, Williams got himself arranged at the plate. I hustled to get a place opposite him, nose to the netting.

This was no straight balls at 75-mph batting practice session. The big pitcher combined a little wildness with a wicked slider and a fastball that sounded like a hornet zipping by. Williams stood in and only leaned away when pitches were tight. Whether hit or taken, the location of marginal pitches was discussed and often debated, but always in kidding terms and in language that a master sergeant would appreciate.

I’d heard that he could be a difficult person but never saw it. The Ted Williams I saw on many occasions was good-natured in the batter’s box. His temperament allowed him to remain the incredibly intense perfectionist while also maintaining good humor. He didn’t seem to take himself seriously. Rather, he took the hitting seriously, but didn’t play it out as tension on others.

For example, if the pitcher thought he had a corner and Williams disagreed, it was never in a vociferous tone, and after the usual arguing and kidding back and forth, he would often say something like, “OK, I guess you got lucky and snuck one in on me.” Usually, though, the batting practice pitcher and Williams agreed on location. I never sensed the pitcher was a panderer. Williams was obviously likable, and the disputes were never personal in a harsh sense. It appeared to be all about the hitting which seemed to lodge in every fiber of his being.

His head was aligned so that both of his eyes faced directly toward the pitcher. Williams’s cap was tipped up on the right side to afford better visibility. His stance was moderately closed and the knees slightly flexed. I never saw a player who looked as hitterish.

at the plate.

Williams held the bat vertically near the launch point, choked about a half inch. The only movement while waiting for the pitch was a continuous wringing of the bat handle. He certainly wasn’t worried about keeping the label up or facing the pitcher.

Williams’s swing mechanics were perfectly balanced: Slight front-leg and hip cock, and a small pop or pump of the hands as the bat moved back about six inches to the launch position in rhythm with a short, flat stride. He stayed back and down on a dipping rear leg, with the ball of the foot firmly planted, as the hips snapped through followed by the trunk, shoulders, arms and wrists. The balanced follow through ended directly opposite the start point of the swing.

The repeatable process was grooved and flawless; and the lightning-quick bat was short to the baseball. Williams’s slightly uppercut swing was so explosive that on each one he grunted and saliva shot out of his mouth. The drives into the outfield either took off like well-hit tee shots that rattled the seats in the distant right-field stands and center-field bleachers or sank like stones from the topspin. The swing was incomparable, and the results were astonishing.

Williams hit low liners so hard that you lost sight of them off the bat as they screamed out of the batting cage. You could only pick them up as they crossed, pea-size, over the near cut of the infield dirt. Nelson Fox, the able and resourceful White Sox second baseman, took many hits away from Williams by situating in short right field 50-60 feet beyond the outside cut of the infield. First basemen were out on the grass, but not as far back as they would have liked because they needed to reach the bag ahead of the surprisingly quick Williams. Shortstops who shifted to the right side of the infield also played Williams deep, especially without runners on first or second. It was mostly strategy, but self-defense was a definite factor in the positioning.

I had a tryout with the Dodgers at Braves Field around this time and had an up-close chance to see Gil Hodges and Duke Snider hit in the cage. They both hit tracers very hard and far, but the velocity of the baseball off Williams’s bat was another order of magnitude.

I stood riveted opposite him listening to the harmony of the bat hitting the ball. It was a consistent tone since everything was hit on the sweet spot. Wherever the strike-zone location: up, down, inside or outside, the distinctive, pleasing crack rang out as the ball jumped off his bat like a rocket off its sled. Talk about smoking the ball; I thought I could smell smoke.

Williams waited on pitches, and his hands stayed back so long, and the swing came so late, it always looked like the ball was on top of him and he was going to take. Then rip, the bat lashed out, and whack the ball was punished in a stupefying display of single-minded ferocity.

I also noticed that Williams was constantly inventing situations and discussing them with himself: ”O.K., three and two, two outs, bases loaded, two runs down, need a double over the first baseman’s head.” The ball would usually be driven to the spot he was talking about.

Williams not only hit everything hard, his supernatural eye-hand coordination gave him the ability to make impact as necessary below, above, and in the middle of the baseball. Incredibly, most of the drives that stayed in the field looked like they would have been hits, despite the shift. Put another way, Williams could not only tattoo the baseball, he could place the line drives where they were unlikely to be caught.

The hard throwing, batting-practice pitcher mopped some sweat and gathered up baseballs. When he was ready Williams bellowed at him, “OK, Bush, (most everyone was Bush, as in bush league) five minutes more, mix it up, and use that nickel curve (slider).” I moved behind the cage to check out the location of the pitches and quickly confirmed what I had heard: Williams rarely swung at a pitch outside the strike zone. If the baseball was a fraction off the plate he would take it. If the ball touched the strike zone he would usually lace it. Fouls or ground balls were rare. Because of the deep right field at Fenway, several of the long drives that didn’t go out would have been home runs in most other ballparks.

     These were breathtaking shows of batting science, artistry, and mastery I will never forget, and a special gift to be able to watch hitting genius from just a few feet away.⁴⁷

           

Postscript. When my friend saw Williams hit in the summer of 1950, it’s likely that at 31 Ted was at the peak of his hitting powers. The once gangling stripling, formerly known as The Splendid Splinter, had developed himself into a physically mature man with heavily muscled arms and shoulders. In July, Williams played in the all-star game at Comiskey Park in Chicago. While attempting to catch a Ralph Kiner drive, he crashed into the left field wall and fractured his elbow in several places. His two-month absence knocked the Red Sox out of playoff contention. Williams claimed that he was never the same hitter again. It’s unlikely that American League pitchers supported that notion.

Korea. We mentioned at the opening of this story that Ted Williams served in Korea in 1952-1953. He was a Marine fighter pilot who flew combat missions, and was nearly killed by hostile fire on one of them. Another friend of ours was a Marine control tower operator in Korea at the same time and told us the following story:

“I was on duty when a panther jet with the radio out and the wheels up made a fast low approach smoking badly and showing some flames. When it crash-landed and skidded down the runway on its belly I thought it would blow up for sure. When the plane finally stopped and the canopy opened, this lanky guy crawls out, jumps to the ground, races across the tarmac, tears around the corner of a building and drops his drawers. I didn’t find out until I talked to the ground crew in the mess hall that the pilot was Ted Williams.”⁴⁸

As said above, Williams was the last player to hit .400, and with a .388 average in 1957, he came close to doing it again. Since 1941, three other Hall-of-Famers have flirted with .400 over a full season: Rod Carew, .388 in 1977, and George Brett, .390 in 1980. (Tony Gwynn batted .394 in 1994, but it was a strike-shortened season that ended in mid-August.)

SOURCES

TEDDY BALLGAME  FENWAY DREAMS

44 Courtesy of the National Baseball Hall of Fame, Cooperstown, NY,http://www.baseballhalloffame.org/hofers_and_honorees/hofer_bios/williams_ted.htm, available as of 7/21/05

45 Baseball Hall of Fame, Williams

46 Baseball Hall of Fame, Williams    

47 Told by a Friend of the Authors

48 Told by a Friend of the Authors

ARTICLES

Updike, J., “Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu,” The New Yorker, October 22, 1960

Richard J. Noyes coaches pitchers and hitters individually, at all levels. He was formerly Associate Director of the Center for Advanced Engineering Study at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

Elements of this article have been excerpted from the print and e-Book: Guts in the Clutch: 84 Legendary Triumphs, Heartbreaks, and Wild Finishes in 12 Sports, with a Foreword by Drew Olson of ESPN.   AMAZON: http://amzn.to/eaACDW       NOOK: http://bit.ly/L2W4t0

Also by Richard J. Noyes, Larceny of Love, a print and e-Book novel in which one of the main characters is a professional baseball pitcher who suffers from sudden, extreme, unexplained throwing wildness. 

AMAZON:  http://amzn.to/N76VRC         NOOK: http://bit.ly/M7uOWh

Both books were co-authored by Pamela J. Robertson

Also see new World War Two novel by Richard J. Noyes, Soldier Flier Prisoner Partisan: Missing in Action and Presumed Dead, inspired by the experiences of a B-17 pilot who fought the Nazis with Polish partisans near Auschwitz.   http://amzn.to/19QmSVh

Other Baseball  and Sports Articles By Richard J. Noyes:

Only in Baseball, The One-Arm Follow Through

Extreme Throwing Wildness: Stories of Heartbreak and Hope

Winners Need Long Ball and Small Ball

Myths and Mechanics of the Flow

Clyde, Jackie, Burt, Preacher and Me

Knack is Crucial in Sports

The Enduring Benefits of a Deep Follow Through

Moving Targets Make Pitching Harder

Crew Knack

Knack for the Life Aquatic

Knack of Being a Lefty

Knack of the Loose Huddle

Richard J. Noyes

email: rnoyes285@gmail.com

email: rnoyes100@yahoo.com

@rnoyes1

FOOTBALL CONCUSSIONS: SHIELDING BRAINS WHILE SAVING THE GAME

It is likely, no probable, that most football concussions, at all levels, go unnoticed and untreated. They are often referred to, or shrugged off, as a "ding." The serious ones, when a player goes woozy and the gait is unsteady, are too obvious to let go without treatment, the extent of which is usually being taken out of the game temporarily and asked to count backwards from ten.
   The NFL has paid compensation to veteran players whose physical and mental faculties have declined. Many critics contend that the amounts doled out are not nearly enough to cover the pain of the disabilities. And no amount of money will make up for the suicides of players who have experienced severe concussions.
   The League has also instituted a protocol whereby players with suspected concussions are given a series of tests they must pass before playing again. I wonder how many players, excepting those who are demonstrably hurt, actually disclose their distress against the dread of losing their job? Much like baseball pitchers who would never dare admit to a sore arm for fear of being permanently displaced.
   Brain damage from football concussions is additive, meaning that cognitive impairment, often to the frontal cortex, accumulates over time, and is seldom due to one blow. The longer you play, the greater the insults to the brain. And once a player suffers a concussion, the next one comes much easier. The brain becomes weakened and susceptible to further injury, much like an alcoholic who has one drink and is quickly drunk.
   For years, helmet innovations have improved padding and suspension inside helmets, but concussions and their long-term effects persist. As players continue to get bigger, stronger and faster, the harm from concussions will grow.
   It appears that many players, especially defensive backs, see the helmet not as a protective device, but as a weapon that is used to intimidate and drive an opponent out of the game. In recent years, NFL referees were fairly stringent in issuing penalties for helmet-to-helmet contact. There has been a marked decrease in such penalties in the 2014 season.
   A "boys will be boys, let them just play, it's part of the game" philosophy permeates thinking in both the NFL and the NHL. Critics of excessive violence and its aftereffects are often met with, "Hey, it's their choice, no one is making them play, they know the risks, most of them are not crippled for life."
   Dismissive thinking about concussive harm supports the notion that big-time football, college and pro, is all about the money. Teams sign extended contracts with helmet manufacturers. One vendor has the NFL's teams pretty well sewed up.
  Resistance to equipment changes will be lobbied against. Putative experts will rail against improved padding and design innovations and have for years.
   In the1950's and 1960's, several college teams, Cornell and Harvard come to mind, used helmets padded on the outside. The design appeared to accomplish two things: It more efficiently shielded the brains of two players coming in contact and it made the helmet less of a weapon. The main argument against the external padding was that the padding caused friction and the helmets stayed in contact longer increasing the possibility of damage. Hmm.
   As Vince Lombardi once said, "Football is not a contact sport, it's a collision sport--dancing is a contact sport." No dispute there, and that argues for better-designed head protection and stringent rules-enforcement. But there's big, long-range contract money in play for the manufacturers and the teams in not changing the equipment.

 "When somebody says it's not about the money, it's about the money." -H. L. Mencken
   
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FAREWELL TO TELEVISED SPORTS: FED UP TO THE TEETH WITH THE COMMERCIALS

I'm adapting the title of a book written long ago by sportswriter Paul Gallico. He was moving on from sports to other kinds of writing and reporting and wrote a classic, Farewell to Sport. 
    As known, money derived from television commercials has revolutionized major sports. I've seen professional athletes putting a hand over camera lenses. That's called biting the hand that feeds you. Hey, big guy, your whopping salary didn't come from ticket sales or concessions. TV-ad revenue is your benefactor. Kiss the lens.
      
    Layer upon Layer.
    And the ads get longer, more frequent and more intrusive. When the action returns to the field or stadium, more ads are supered over a wide shot of the venue. And you are subjected to a painful, fidgety "Brought to you by" series. Didn't we just watch that? Then the announcer comes back on with his ad pitches, completing a trifecta of exasperation.
        
    Sport by Sport
    Televised baseball displays the least annoying ad show. Innings are uninterrupted, unless there is a pitching change. Unfortunately, these are becoming more frequent, especially after the fifth inning, as teams inject an ever-growing cadre of hard-throwing relievers.      With the two-line passing rule, NFL Hockey is free-flowing and a much more exciting game . Interruptions are less persistent, but only slightly so. 
     
    NBA Game Changer for the Worst
    When the three-point play was initialized in the 1979-1980 season, NBA basketball was transformed from a chess match with action highlighted by crisp passing and accompanied by picks, cuts and weaves. Proper blocking out often resulted in captured rebounds, followed by the start of a streaking fast break. It was beautiful to watch. Since then, the first guy to get the ball usually throws up a three-point heave. If the shot is missed, which happens 60% or more of the time, a rebounding scramble is followed by a foul, and a commercial. NBA basketball is a whistle-blowing nightmare. The three refs are in a game-halting competition The ad execs rub their hands in glee, as the endless stoppages allow a blizzard of ads.
   NOW TO THE MOST EGREGIOUS, the NFL, with its agonizing, becoming unbearable, ad saturation. Game-halting injuries, of which there are many, afford extra opportunities. You can imagine the network execs thinking: Let's hope this one requires a stretcher.
     
    Game on the Line? You'll Just Have to Wait.
    Lately, to hold the audience, ads break in at crucial times: A team is driving for a score late in the game, now it's fourth down on the one-yard line, the game is on the line. Will they opt for a field goal, a short pass, a plunge? Well, since we've gone to commercial, we'll just have to wait for the decision. Will it be a short commercial? Do I dare go to the bathroom, grab a beer, let the dog out, go tell my annoyed wife I love her more than football?
    Except for a crucial playoff game with my favorite team on the schedule, it's farewell to televised sports. I'll brush up on my reading. In fact, I'm off to re-read my own sports book, GUTS IN THE CLUTCH. Join me?

(See my books at:  http://amzn.to/19QmSVH
     
     
    

TELEVISION COMMERCIALS DECISIVE WIN OVER RED SOX-CARDINALS WORLD SERIES

Now that it's over and the Boston Red Sox have won their third title in nine years, let's look back at the media coverage. Predictably, two team members have been accused of cheating. Gop in Jon Lester's glove alleged by a St; Louis Cardinals' Class A player, which makes it a highly reliable source. And probable PED use by David Ortiz by an ESPN commentator. Paraphrasing: "How could he have done what he did at age 37 without help." Interestingly, Jon Lester went face-to-face with the ESPN accuser to defend Big Papi.
    Fox breathlessly covered the actual play with Joe Buck, the regular Cardinals' announcer, and Tim McCarver, former Cardinals catcher, doing all they could (largely unsuccessfully) to show impartiality.
    Buck was handicapped by the need to introduce each inning and most pauses in the action with mini-commercials. His minis followed an endless series of standard between-innings and between-pitching- changes commercials. As we finally came back to the field of play, Buck re-introduced the action with an ad nauseaum run of, "This is brought to you by, and also by, and also by . . .
    Another annoying Fox Sports technique is to reward baseball-hungry male viewers with lingering shots of pretty girls in the stands. This penchant for pulchritude designed to keep the man caves humming was taken to excess when a nice shot of two attractive young women was held too long, and we missed one of the World Series defining moments.
    Game five ended dramatically and promptly when a Cardinals' pinch runner was picked off first ending the game and probably the Cardinals' Series hopes. The Fox television director, who was probably over-enjoying his neat shot of the cuties, failed to switch to the live action in time and robbed us of a great live baseball and television moment.
    Tim McCarver, on the cusp of retirement, delivered his usual sharp color commentary. He will be missed and is in the conversation, along with Jim Palmer, Steve Stone, Buck Hernandez, Rick Sutcliffe, and a few others as an all-time-great baseball analyst.

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