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

by Lesley Visser

  So let’s remember to toast those who have guarded us, and make it our mission to honor their mission.

  CHAPTER 20

  In my wild and privileged career, I’ve covered more than thirty-five Final Fours—all seven of the Indianapolis tournaments. I’ve been lucky to see Jack Morris go the distance when the Twins beat the Braves in 1991 in the deafening Metrodome, and to witness the Red Sox, with thirteen third strikes to use, lose to the New York Mets in the World Series after Carter, Mitchell, and Knight singled and Mookie Wilson dribbled one past Bill Buckner for the ages. Each event has had its own color and drama, even the blowouts.

  With former NCAA champion, New York Knick, and television analyst Greg Anthony at the 2016 Final Four in Houston

  Reporting from the 2012 NCAA Regional Final in Boston

  With Coach Gary Williams at the 2001 Final Four

  Working in sports for four decades means there’s just about no one in the Final Four broadcasts I haven’t worked with, so I’ll start with Hall of Famer Dick Enberg. I met Dick in 1980, at the first Final Four I covered in Indianapolis. He was working at NBC back then, part of the great trio with Billy Packer and Al McGuire. I was a young writer and our conversation wasn’t very long; we talked about the teams, but I’ll never forget he ended it with, “So, Lesley, what are you reading?” It was so emblematic of Dick, who’s been associated with academics as long as he’s been at Rose Bowls or Wimbledon.

  The pride of Mount Clemens, Michigan, a town of two thousand people, Dick told me his hometown was best known for the time Mae West came to sample the mineral waters at the bath house. It wasn’t a rich community. Dick grew up in a drafty two-story farmhouse with no indoor plumbing. But that’s part of the beauty, the dignity, of my journey: working with people who grew up in a farming community in eastern Michigan or the streets of New York City. Dick has his shirts made on Bond Street in London, but his voice is pure Midwest.

  John Madden taught me the most, but Al Michaels might have been the most entertaining. Without a filter, he always said what he thought and he didn’t care who was listening. After a World Series game in Cleveland, Tim McCarver, Al Michaels, and I got in the stretch limousine to go back to the hotel, and Al took a swig of the Johnnie Walker Blue he’d ordered for himself. Not knowing what to say or do, I commented, “Wow, Greg Maddux had great stuff.”

  Al looked at me, annoyed. “Lezley, Lezley, Lezley,” he said, in the nasal way he pronounced my name, “after the game, we don’t talk baseball, we rip people!”

  Al was a riot, as talented as anyone, and I’m talking about a group that includes Curt Gowdy and Vin Scully and Pat Summerall. I did almost every sport with Al: Monday Night Football, the World Series, and the Triple Crown. He was a joy, never leaving anyone hanging or unsure of where the broadcast was going. The great Charles Osgood once said, “TV is like a duck on the pond—he looks placid on the surface, but he’s paddling furiously underneath.” The first generation of television broadcasters that I knew were all giants: Marv Albert, Dick Stockton, Bob Costas, Michaels, Madden, and Summerall, Enberg, Jack Buck, Verne Lunquist, and Pat O’Brien. The next generation—James Brown, Jim Nantz, Joe Buck, Greg Gumbel, and Ian Eagle—are equally as talented.

  One of my favorite moments with Enberg was during the NCAA tournament in 2001, when Dick, Bill Walton, and I were covering Arizona in the regional final. Bill’s son Luke had just one turnover but Bill was brutal: “Walton, Walton—that’s a terrrribbble pass!” Enberg had to play the father. “Now, now, Bill, he’s just a young man, he’s doing the best he can.” My journey has been full of these moments.

  With colleague and great friend Jim Nantz at a CBS event in 2009

  With Jim Nantz

  At the Final Four in 1980, I was in my twenties, and at my last one in Indianapolis, I was in my sixties—what a wonderful ride it’s been. In 1980, I remember thinking how strange it was that Larry Brown, who’d played for the great Dean Smith at Carolina and now coaches at UCLA, lost the final to Denny Crum (remember the “Doctors of Dunk” with Darrell Griffith?). Crum, of course, had played for Wooden at UCLA. It was such a strange circle of relationships. One afternoon, I went with a group of writers to Hinkle Fieldhouse (this was six years before the movie Hoosiers!). We saw an East–West All-Star game, and I remember being stunned at the building. The bleachers at Hinkle were from 1928, one year after the Palestra was built, but the space seemed so much bigger. The final game was held at Market Square Arena—long gone now—but that was when the Final Four held smaller crowds. Attending the Final Four, you would see everyone in the lobby or in the local bars—coaches, assistants, trainers, even high school administrators. I remember everybody wore a warm-up suit (they still do) and you’d call everyone “Coach,” even if you couldn’t remember his name.

  Coaches were characters back then, and the Big East ruled the country. Invented by Commissioner and Coach Dave Gavitt of Providence in 1979, the league was formed to pull in the big TV markets: Georgetown in Washington, Boston College in Boston, Villanova in Philadelphia, St. John’s in New York. Football was not even a consideration. By 1983, the league was playing its conference championship in Madison Square Garden and the party was on. The Big East was rough and raw (was there ever a more electrifying point guard than Pearl Washington, or a center as terrifying as Patrick Ewing?), and, unlike now, the coaches actually hung around together. Every summer, Jim Boeheim (Syracuse), Bill Raftery (Seton Hall), maybe three other coaches, and a couple of guys from the league would go to Ireland to play golf. Raftery said he once borrowed Boeheim’s shoes and they “whined all the way up the fairway.”

  With radio legend Mike Francesa and broadcaster Pat O’Brien at the 1995 Final Four

  The league and the people were a blast. Coaches like Lou Carnesecca of St. John’s would tell his players not to get too high on themselves: “Today a peacock, tomorrow a feather duster.” Rollie Massimino of Villanova looked like a shaken bottle of seltzer water, all rumpled and wild. When people used to ask me why I did what I did, I’d say, “Villanova 66, Georgetown 64”—that was the title score in 1985, considered one of the biggest upsets in the history of college basketball. Two years ago, when Villanova again won the national title (this time under Jay Wright, who’d been Rollie Massimino’s assistant), I told Jay he should patent the phrase “It ain’t ova ’til it’s Villanova!”

  I’ve always thought that America blooms during March Madness—brackets, spoilers, fantasy, favorites—and everyone is involved. It’s spring, a great time of optimism in America, and almost everyone either went to college, or roots for a local team. I loved when George Mason made a run in 2006, beating Connecticut in overtime in the regional finals in Washington. We all thought George Mason was the architect of the Bill of Rights and then, all of sudden, that was the team we loved in the Final Four. Nineteen eighty was considered the birth of the modern era (any number of at-large teams could qualify, not just one team from one league, like the ACC, where Carolina was always the representative, or, rarely, NC State). Teams were seeded in a bracket and a committee convened to discuss it. That year was also when the last third-place team played a game, which turned out to be Purdue over Iowa.

  Interviewing North Carolina coach Roy Williams at the 2015 Final Four (he’s been to nine of them!)

  In 1991, Duke had been considered the Buffalo Bills of the Final Four—always there, but always on the losing end. But that year was magical. The Blue Devils beat UNLV in the semifinals, 79–77. I had the assignment for CBS of reporting from behind both benches, which is not allowed anymore, but I remember Jerry Tarkanian chewing on his towel and yelling at his team in the Hoosier Dome, “We’re playing like they’re the defending champion!” People then were just learning to spell “Krzyzewski.” It was also a bizarre Final Four because Dean Smith, a model of decorum (he made his players know the history of civil rights, and he never publicly lost his cool), got thrown out of the semifinals. Even stranger, it happened against Kansas and his former
assistant Roy Williams, who idolized Coach Smith. Kansas beat Carolina, 79–73. Then Duke beat Kansas in the final by seven points, and went on to win the next championship in 1992 (beating Michigan in Minneapolis). Those back-to-back titles were historic, but the Blue Devils didn’t win another championship until they went back to Indianapolis in 2010, when Gordon Hayward’s prayer of a shot for Butler just upped out at the buzzer, 61–59.

  In between those two Duke titles, Arizona beat defending champion Kentucky in overtime at the RCA Dome (no longer the Hoosier Dome) in 1997. Before an overwhelming Kentucky crowd, I looked at the Arizona Wildcats and I remember thinking that this is how some day America might be viewed—a blend of black, white, and Hispanic. Just think of that team: Bibby, Strawberry, Miles Simon—all from different backgrounds and colors. It was a beautiful sight to see.

  Coach Tom Izzo, now considered one of the greatest coaches in history, won his first title in 2000, in Indianapolis. In the RCA Dome, his Spartans beat Florida, and who knew that Gator coach Billy Donovan, who seemed so young and innocent, would go on to win back-to-back titles, one of them in Indy? Billy the Kid, who’d been Pitino’s last scholarship player at Providence, had his revenge in the RCA Dome in 2006, when Florida beat UCLA, 74–57, behind the brilliant play of Joakim Noah.

  In 2015, Duke won the title again in Indy—does Coach K have a home there yet? Once more he was in Lucas Oil Stadium, when his Blue Devils, behind freshman point guard Tyus Jones, beat Wisconsin 68–63. Coach K’s now won five titles, three of them in Indianapolis. What is it about Indianapolis? It wasn’t that Coach K loved the Indy 500, or the Indianapolis Colts (he’s from Chicago), or hung out with Reggie Miller. It wasn’t that he ate dinner every night at St. Elmo’s (okay, maybe he did), but it was because, with each of those teams, he learned how to adapt. That’s Krzyzewski’s brilliance. He knows what it takes to win. He takes that philosophy to the Olympic Games. And he wins there, too.

  With Duke and US Olympic basketball coach Mike Krzyzewski

  You can make the argument that five Duke titles today might compete with Wooden’s ten, but Krzyzewski will shoot you down. He claims that would be for all of us to say, not him. Personally, I think Coach K, Pitino, Jay Wright, Izzo, and John Calipari round out my top five, with John Beilein and Bill Self right behind. Brad Stevens and Donovan left the college game, or they’d be there, too. I know this is a long way from seeing seven titles in Indy, but my opinions are on the table. What do you think?

  CHAPTER 21

  There are lots of things young women should know. They should know how to dream and that dreams come true. They should know that prejudice isn’t pretty, but smiling is. They should challenge themselves and also those around them. And they should do the right thing. I loved Billie Jean King and Arthur Ashe and many of the people I worked with. I also let people lead me places I didn’t need to go. Like my hair.

  I really wanted to call this book Hair-anoia, but everyone told me it wouldn’t sell. My first struggles with my hair came in tenth grade, when I would wrap my long brown shank around a giant Hi-C can to make it straight. Ironing came next, which meant arranging my hair on the ironing board while hoping not to burn my neck. This was the 1970s, when everyone wanted to look like Cher.

  It was a cool time in America. Alan Shepard hit a golf ball on the moon and Jesus Christ Superstar opened on Broadway. Doctors Without Borders was invented by some French physicians, which went on to inspire Basketball Without Borders, run by my friend Kim Bohuny, vice president of international operations for the NBA. A Clockwork Orange was the complicated, popular movie. Back in 1971, the voting age had been reduced to eighteen, my age, and I went to work for Senator George McGovern, the Democratic candidate for president. We sang along to the Stones’ “Wild Horses” while tossing our long hair behind our backs, and Clint Eastwood made us hip quoting him in Dirty Harry. Evonne Goolagong, the coolest of the cool, won Wimbledon, and the Cowboys won the Super Bowl.

  I went off to Boston College and didn’t think about my hair again until 1975, when, while working at the Globe, I got a curly, sexy permanent. Or so I thought. Time magazine had named “women” its “Person of the Year” and I wanted to get in on the deal. I guess instead of looking like a wavy Linda Ronstadt, I looked more like an English sheepdog, and Vince Doria, my sports editor, said to me, and I quote, “You are not going on the road representing the Boston Globe until that grows out.”

  Mortified, I said, “You’re kidding.”

  “No, you look like you’ve been on the back of a motorcycle for four days.”

  Since then, I’ve tried everything—and you can see from the pictures that more than forty years in the public eye has meant a lot of different hairdos. When Chris Evert won Wimbledon, I went back to chin length and straight, but I looked more like Duane Allman than a tennis champion. President Jimmy Carter admitted he’d “committed adultery in his heart,” but I don’t think he had me in mind. My friends and I would pretend to be Charlie’s Angels, and I always had to be Kate Jackson, the smart one with the crummy hair. That was 1976, the year I had to wait outside Three Rivers Stadium in the freezing cold to talk to quarterback Terry Bradshaw. With my notepad and my pen in the freezing cold, my hair was plastered to my head.

  When I first went to CBS, they would send me to a big-cheese hairdresser to get my hair “fixed.” His name was John Sahag, and his salon was on Madison Avenue in New York. He was known for styling celebrities, from Sarah Jessica Parker to Demi Moore and—I’m not making this up—he’d cut your hair while it was dry and you were standing up. There wasn’t any music and no one spoke, in case it interrupted his vision. Of course, cutting my skinny strands could not have been much of a challenge, and all I wanted to do, anyway, was talk to him about his life. He’d been born in Beirut, raised in Australia, and learned to cut hair in Paris. Sahag (pronounced, of course, “Sa-haagh”) knew nothing about sports and I’m sure I bored him. He once told me he didn’t cut hair, he “felt it.” It cost CBS a fortune and I looked pretty much the same when I walked out as when I had walked in.

  I finally gave up and let everyone try everything. CBS had a wonderful hairdresser who we called “Mare with the Hair.” She did her best. When I went to ABC, they sent me to another superstar hairdresser. Frédéric Fekkai was known as the “mane man,” and his salon on Fifth Avenue was as glorious as the one in Palm Beach. He loved women and bone structure and could envision strong winds blowing through Cindy Crawford’s hair. Of course, she was a client. My experience with him was limited—twice he canceled on me, once for Jessica Lange and once for Claudia Schiffer. I can’t say I blame him.

  And so it went, until one time, at the World Figure Skating Championships in 1999, the great Peggy Fleming called me in my room and said, “You’ve got to come down to the lobby right now.” I hurried downstairs. I thought maybe she didn’t feel well. She sat me down on the couch and said, “Oh dear, oh dear—there’s a website about your hair.” The internet wasn’t that big then, and we didn’t really pay attention to it, but Peggy was a sweetheart and thought I ought to know. It’s why I tell all young women never to Google themselves. They aren’t going to like it. I told Peggy that from then on, she would have to stand behind me, hiding behind my back and draping her hair over my shoulders. Okay, that didn’t work. It’s why I used to love being assigned a cold weather game in Green Bay or Chicago, where I could wear a hat, or the Kentucky Derby, where I could wear a really big hat.

  With Olympic great Peggy Fleming, with whom I traveled the world for eight years

  With Hall of Fame trainer Wayne Lukas in Saratoga

  When I went back to CBS, the woman with the world’s most perfect hair, Jen Sabatelle, had been promoted in communications, taking over for the great LeslieAnne Wade. I had met Jen many years before when she worked in a restaurant on the Upper East Side, and I thought she was a doll. Little did I know that I would be working with her and that hair every day. She would try to torture me by throwing her glossy loc
ks around. One year, she got highlights and it looked even better. I didn’t speak to her for a week. Now that I’m older and a blonde (what, you didn’t notice?), I’m at peace. Well, until last year, when I was at baggage claim in Dallas and a guy yelled out from across the room, “Hey, you know what? You look like an older Lesley Visser!” Sigh.

  CHAPTER 22

  Carpool Karaoke is the funniest bit on TV, when The Late Late Show host James Corden and a famous singer drive around and have an old-fashioned sing-along. Actually, his name is wrong—it should be James Car-don, since his best stuff is behind the seat belt with the radio on. But after that, it’s perfect, and it’s also a riot that, as far as sports, he roots for West Ham, the English Premier League team that never finishes higher than fifth and is known for a group of skinny standing-room-only pimply lads who sing “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles” while yelling at the opposition.

  I wish there were a sports version, so here’s my idea. Most actors want to be athletes, and most athletes want to be rock stars. Maybe Corden could recruit some athletes to become semi-famous singers. We mix the best of the best, from Dwyane Wade to Kobe and LeBron, to Steph Curry and Kevin Durant, to Russell Wilson and Troy Aikman, to J. J. Watt and Colin Kaepernick, to Sidney Crosby and Alex Ovechkin, to Mike Trout, Mike Piazza, and American Pharoah. We have them sing their favorite songs about sports, while Ellen DeGeneres dances off to the side and the Roots keep the beat. It will be a mixture of walk-up songs, rap, and hip-hop, plus blues and rock and roll. People will laugh and sing along. What’s better than that? Obviously, I haven’t totally fleshed this out, so I’m open to suggestions.