Sometimes You Have to Cross When It Says Don't Walk

by Lesley Visser

  I took John Madden to the famed Anchor Bar in Buffalo for the first time. It had to be in the late 1980s. I had been there many times before since my college roommate Jeanne and her husband, Mo, were from Buffalo, but this was John’s first time. And he loved it—it’s kind of a dive, of course on Main Street, with a menu that asks if you want your wings “mild, medium, hot, or suicidal!” There were all kinds of different sauces, the people loved John, and the bill came to $37. I think John doubled the bill in his tip.

  A 2009 interview with pro golfer Kenny Perry, runner-up at the 2009 Masters Tournament

  Buffalo also taught me “beef on weck”—not “on a weck” but “on weck.” I just remember it had a lot of horseradish. The classiest sandwich, of course, is the pimento cheese at Augusta, which is only $1.50, but costs thousands more because you have to get to the Masters to be able to buy one. It’s a very simple sandwich—tons of cheese, simple white bread, and lots of mayonnaise—and you get to see Phil Mickelson or Jason Day while eating it. It’s not much to look at, but the setting is spectacular.

  I never knew bratwurst before I started going to Green Bay, but there is no NFL tailgate like the ones at Lambeau Field, where Packers fans put brats on a grill and serve deviled eggs with Wisconsin cheddar cheese and “finger food” that is chicken wrapped in bacon, which ends up mostly bacon. Everyone wears a Packer jersey (number 4, Favre, is still huge, but now there are many, many Aaron Rodgers shirts, along with old Reggie Whites and new Clay Matthews). It seems that all of Oneida Nation is on hand, eating and dancing in the parking lot, no matter what the weather or the temperature.

  Kansas City also has great tailgating, and the barbeque is like no other. My favorite is Joe’s, which started as a gas station. Joe’s brisket sandwich has smoked provolone and fantastic onion rings. And they’ll ship! As a native Bostonian, I can tell you there is nothing like a great clam roll—the best fried clams, of course, come from Ipswich, right there fresh from the Great Marsh. Pick any shack in Ipswich. For more than one hundred years, the clams have been the best, even better with coleslaw and onion rings. There are also lobster rolls from Maine to the Cape to the Patriots’ parking lot—those tailgates are great, too, with fresh lobster meat and lots of butter. And go heavy on the mayo.

  I’d never even heard of a cheesesteak until I started covering games in Philadelphia. Where had I been? The great Philly cheesesteak, from Geno’s or Pat’s, is heaven on earth. It might be the water or the bread, but the authentic Philly cheesesteak is chopped steak, caramelized onions, and maybe some peppers, always on an Italian roll. Heck, it was born in the Italian section of Philly (Pat’s is on the corner of Passyunk and Wharton, and it’s open all the time, so following the Eagles, Villanova, or any Big 5 or 76ers game, you can always go there). Some people like to add mushrooms, but I think they make a cheesesteak mushy.

  With Red Sox great Big Papi before throwing out the first pitch in 2015

  People in America don’t travel enough to Pittsburgh, but it’s a wonderful city. In western Pennsylvania, it’s the junction of three rivers. In the early 1900s, it was one of America’s great industrial cities. What once was a steel mill town (hence the name of the NFL team, which has been in the iconic Rooney family since 1933), Pittsburgh is now a technology center for companies like Google, IBM, and U.S. defense, and has become a global leader in cybersecurity. The dialect takes some getting used to (“yinz” is the equivalent of “y’all”), but the food is fantastic. Because of the blend of immigrants, people eat everything from pierogis to pizza. Don’t forget that John Heinz started his ketchup company there in 1869, and the world’s first commercial radio station (and eventually one of its first TV stations), KDKA, was started in Pittsburgh in 1920. My favorite sandwiches are from the famous Primanti Brothers restaurant, which began as a lunch cart during the Depression. They cook the meat and cheese fresh on the griddle, and you should ask them to add the hand-cut fries and maybe some coleslaw to the sandwich. It’s messy, but who cares?

  With Hall of Fame Pittsburgh Steelers running back Jerome Bettis on his famous bus in 2001

  St. Louis and Milwaukee, like Pittsburgh, are underrated cities, and not just the food. Milwaukee has the Harley-Davidson Museum, a gorgeous art museum, and everything from Serbian sandwiches to bratwurst and salami, plus hundreds of beers on tap. You have to make a picnic from Usinger’s (they supplied brats for the 2002 Winter Games) and the Wisconsin Cheese Mart on West Highland, then head for the beautiful water park. Don’t forget the Kopp’s frozen custard—the late, great coach Rick Majerus, who was from Sheboygan, used to make me go there at least twice a day. Ribs are found everywhere in St. Louis, but you want to go to a place that serves them Memphis style, like Pappy’s Smokehouse. The smoker is parked out back. St. Louis is a different animal. There is the glory of the Gateway Arch, and people sometimes eat a vegan breakfast with a sprinkled cupcake. I’ve been there many times, through the old NFL Cardinals, on the sideline when the Rams finally won a Super Bowl over Tennessee (yes, Dick Vermeil cried), and to basketball games when Majerus was coaching at St. Louis. We Boston Red Sox fans even consider the St. Louis Cardinals our National League team. Manager Tony La Russa once had me throw out a first pitch. Has it landed yet?

  With St. Louis Cardinals manager Tony La Russa before throwing a first pitch for the Cardinals in 2007

  Denver is a mile high and fantastic to look at, but the menu is limited, at least for me. These are your choices and if you like them, have at it. Rocky Mountain oysters are everywhere, but the ranchers are partial to game—elk, venison, and antelope. There are a couple of standouts in the beer category. Of course, the great Coors Brewing Company is from nearby Golden, but if you insist on eating and drinking, I suggest a burrito (smothered in hot green chiles—probably taken from the Mexicans who brought it to Denver). Go to a hole-in-the-wall called Chubby’s. As for beer, the Falling Rock Tap House claims “No Crap on Tap” (they even charge you $1 for a stupid question), and it’s located only half a block from home plate at Coors Field.

  Besides the hyperactive bar at the American Airlines Arena and the gastronomic and visual fiesta on South Beach, the best food in Miami is Cuban. Go anywhere in Little Havana, but Versailles is the cultural icon. Go with a group and order vaca frita de pollo, stuffed green plantains, empanada pies, and some authentic Cuban coffee. For a Cuban sandwich on the run, buy it from a food truck. They are everywhere in South Florida, from Hialeah to Wynwood to Haulover Park, but one of the best is owned by the son of NBC sportscaster Andrea Joyce and her legendary broadcaster husband Harry Smith. Jake Smith has a sushi food truck, Myumi, that has lines around the block. Who knew?

  San Francisco tailgating is a drag. The food at Candlestick was always below average, the stadium itself was below sea level, and we always stayed in those hotels near Burlingame—miles from downtown. I loved the 49ers—back in 1977, I had to do a story on Eddie DeBartolo Sr. in Youngstown, Ohio, and his son, Hall of Famer Eddie Jr. (a lifelong friend), insisted on flying me back to Boston on the DeBartolo plane. It was just the pilot and me in their huge Citation jet, plus Eddie had stocked it with a pitcher of margaritas and a bowl of M&Ms. No wonder he’s so popular. If I were in San Francisco for a baseball Giants game, there was no stopping me from getting lunch at the Tadich Grill, the old seafood restaurant that’s been there 170 years. Save room for the Tadich rice custard. Or go to the new Levi’s Stadium, where CBS broadcast Super Bowl 50. Here are some of your choices during the game (a mobile app will help you find them): fresh Dungeness crab on sourdough bread, crab fondue, Asian rice bowl, carrot cake, or wines from Napa and Sonoma!

  I first started going to Seattle for the Final Four in the 1980s, and everything I’d heard—that it rained all the time and it was miserable—couldn’t be further from the truth. I’ve been there about twenty-five times now and it’s always Chamber of Commerce weather: exhilarating sunshine and fresh air. The Kingdome was nothing to look at, built as a multipurpose facility to hold 60,0
00 people, but I covered all three Final Fours there—victories by Georgetown in 1984 (Patrick Ewing over Hakeem Olajuwon), Michigan over Seton Hall (Rumeal Robinson at the free throw line in the final seconds), and UCLA over Arkansas (the first Bruin win without John Wooden as coach). All the reporters would go to the iconic Pike Place Market to smell the fresh salmon and coho and chinooks. At CenturyLink Field, where the Seahawks play, the choices are mind-boggling: three locally made sausages with five different sauces; Pioneer Square’s Rain Shadow Meats, served in a carton and dressed with capers, aioli, and arugula; or Kau Kau BBQ, roasted pork in a rice bowl. The chef himself spends the whole game walking the stadium to make sure everything’s all right. I’m surprised Russell Wilson can stay on the field!

  In New York, it’s impossible, when going to a Knicks game or a college basketball game, to pick a restaurant among the thousands. If you’re in a hurry, go to a deli. If you can pick only one, go to Katz’s Delicatessen on East Houston Street on the Lower East Side—it might have been there since the 1600s. Get the perfect slow-cured pastrami piled high. Like everyone, you will take a paper ticket when you walk in, and be prepared to order quickly when you get to the counter.

  Because I met my husband, Bob, through Rick Pitino at the Derby, and had the privilege of covering the Triple Crown for ABC for almost a decade, Churchill Downs and Louisville will always be special to me. Everything in Louisville (named for King Louis XVI of France) comes with bourbon, but the best sandwich is the most iconic. Head to the Brown Hotel and order the Hot Brown, the famous turkey and bacon open-faced sandwich covered in Mornay sauce. If you have any room for breakfast during Derby Week, go to Wagner’s Pharmacy, founded in 1922, located just outside Churchill Downs. You can sit beside trainers and track workers—legendary trainer Nick Zito first took me there in 1990. You can get sausages and biscuits and pick up some race tips by seven in the morning. But you can skip the mint julep, unless you like muddled mint and syrup. And it won’t help you pick the winner.

  5:00 AM at the Kentucky Derby back stretch in 2004

  CHAPTER 13

  Thank God I loved and was loved by legendary Globe writer Will McDonough. If not, I would have been terrified of him. Half the NFL was in fear of him and so was the press corps. Will would be yelling on the phone at Al Davis in one ear and at Pete Rozelle in the other—and, of course, Coach Al and Commissioner Pete hated each other. All the sportswriters at the Globe would watch variations of this scene day after day with a mixture of pride and disbelief. And the people Will was fighting with loved him. In January of 2003, I was doing a story on the Oakland Raiders the morning Will died. Al Davis found me. We went to his office and cried. If I were in Baltimore or Miami, I used to go around practice saying, “Hi, I’m Lesley Visser, I work with Will McDonough.” One time Don Shula, the most frightening block of granite himself, squinted his eyes and said, “You’re friends with Will? That’s great, let’s have dinner.” I almost fainted.

  Another time, in about 1975, Will set up lunch for me at Art Rooney’s house! Right there, in his old Victorian home in Pittsburgh across the street from where he’d grown up as the son of a saloon keeper. I couldn’t even swallow the sandwich his beloved wife Kathleen brought to us in the living room. But Mr. Rooney made it easy, telling me about why he loved football and horse racing and how he’d tried to become an Olympic boxer. Everyone knew and adored “the Chief.” By 1936, he’d become a sports legend when he parlayed a $500 bet at Saratoga into $300,000 over two days. He was a dominant yet calm person, and he seemed to genuinely enjoy the company of young people. It took Mr. Rooney from 1933 to 1975 to win a Super Bowl, but then the legendary Steelers were off to the races, winning three more championships before most people finished breakfast. If you’re ever at Heinz Field, there’s a wonderful statue of the Chief with “Gate D”—the only remaining piece of Three Rivers Stadium—standing high above his left shoulder. All the Rooneys were close to Will McDonough, and because of McDonough, the players and coaches were respectful. Yes, they thought I was young, but Will had told them that I would work hard, and he taught me to show up no matter what I had written.

  I was always supported by McDonough, who taught me to laugh now and cry later. There was the time, in my first or second year on the Patriots beat, when the offensive line was banged up. Sam Cunningham was the running back then, the older brother of Randall, and Steve Grogan was the quarterback. Because of the injuries, I asked Coach Chuck Fairbanks who would start at right tackle, Tom Neville or Bob McKay. Fairbanks said, simply, “Either one can play the position.” I went racing back to the Globe, thinking I had the scoop of a lifetime. The next morning, the headline read, “Coach Says ‘Neither One Can Play the Position’”! My phone rang at 6:15 AM, and I heard Fairbanks screaming, “Are you out of your mind? Why would I say no one can defend our quarterback or open up a running lane against the Miami Dolphins?” Click. As Will had taught me (and I can feel the chills today), I went down to the Patriots practice and took it like a man (more like a cowardly lion). Vince Doria reminds me of it to this day.

  With Dan Rooney and former Globe great Will McDonough at Heinz Field in 2002

  The Patriots were an interesting assortment, with a sloppy and funny history. But by 1976, the team was winning and even had the great John Hannah at left guard. Jess Phillips came to the team that year. He was smart and engaging. Born in Beaumont, Texas, he’d gone to Michigan State as a defensive back and played in one of the greatest college football games of all time, the 10–10 tie with undefeated Notre Dame. He majored in math and was drafted by the Bengals in 1968. Phillips bounced around a little, even switching to fullback, and came to the Patriots as a running back and kick returner.

  His two years with the Patriots were relatively quiet. He was quick and funny, knew all about commodities and mortgage rates. He even spent a summer at the London School of Economics. He told me once he didn’t understand why people would watch TV when they could be learning something new from a magazine. He was classy. I remember one night he ordered a single Chivas Regal and nursed it until closing time. He’d had one careless moment in college that cost him eight months in prison, which Will McDonough had told me about, but Phillips had grown up on a tree-lined street in a middle-class neighborhood. His father taught him to play football in the backyard.

  It made Phillips’s behavior in 1982 all the more bizarre. Five years out of the league, he held up a jewelry store in Reno, Nevada. On a rainy afternoon in April, Phillips went into Jay’s Jewelers and asked to see all the gold bezels the small store had for sale. Jay’s Jewelers had never had a holdup in twenty years. The workers were preparing to close around four thirty in the afternoon, when suddenly Phillips drew a gun from his briefcase and told everyone to hit the floor. Phillips tied their hands with surgical tape and was about to clean out the drawers when suddenly the front door bell rang. It was another customer.

  Phillips ripped a cord from the adding machine, wrapped it around the customer, and pushed him to the floor. He then stuffed six diamonds and $400 in his pants and ran out the door. People outside saw the commotion and called the police. Considered kidnapping and robbery with a deadly weapon, the police immediately cleared all radio channels with the alert “Armed robbery in progress—Priority 1.” The police said he ran like a deer. It even took five of them to stop the thirty-five-year-old former running back who knew how to throw a block. One officer tried to keep up with him on a motorcycle as Phillips flew down West Street.

  They called out for him to stop, but he went into overdrive. Finally a bullet hit Phillips in the right arm and he collapsed in a basement stairwell. He’d been stupid and the perpetrator of a serious crime, and he’d done it with a pellet gun, which—unfortunately for him—met the standard for a deadly weapon in Nevada.

  I went out to see Jess in prison. A lot of women, thankfully, never see the inside of a prison. It is a terrible place, with no carpet to absorb any sound, no fresh air, and no atmosphere of optimism. Back in 198
2, Jess Phillips told me he didn’t want me to see him like this, his arm bandaged, his spirit broken. He knew he’d done a terrible and senseless thing. Now in his late sixties, Phillips has turned his life around, writing a book about the history of stock futures and following the presidential debates. The experience of knowing him, of knowing people like Will McDonough and Art Rooney and Al Davis and Pete Rozelle, gave me such a deep perspective. Both the good and the bad. As Ellen DeGeneres says, “Life has to have a balance. The piña and the colada.”

  CHAPTER 14

  I always tell people that sports is the ultimate passport—it takes you to places like Nagano, Japan, and Flowery Branch, Georgia. It takes you to housing projects in Chicago and majestic palaces in France. There are many lessons to be learned just from the travel alone. Add to that being around people who are the best at what they do and, voila! What a fantastic stew.

  Being a woman—the first woman on most big events, both in print and in television—came with staggering opportunity and deep insecurity. I probably showed too much enthusiasm at first, but I wanted people to know that I would persevere, that a woman could be as good as everyone else. I mixed hard work (many nights in the Boston Globe library) with tennis games or pickup basketball during the day, acting like some kind of class secretary.