How can I get a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader of my very own?
A man from Hollywood called one of the cheerleaders last year and told her he had seen her on television and she was beautiful and he wanted to give her a screen test.
She went to see him. Not once, but twice, and then a third time. The last time, the man was no longer with the studio. He was fired for flying a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader to California three times when there were no jobs available at the studio.
LEST WE FORGET
FOR THE PAST TWO weekends, the Falcons, Flames, Hawks, Techs, and Georgias have all been winners, and Losersville is surely dead they say. What miracles next? Wyman C. Lowe winning an election? MARTA making a friend?
In New York, they celebrate winning the World Series. Dallas holds the Super Bowl trophy. Even tiny Green Bay rejoices. It leads the league again. Here, we celebrate winning weekends. Atlanta is a sports cancer patient that just got the word its head cold is clearing up.
But forgive us our headiness over what others might consider routine. Little things mean a lot when the suffering has been long and constant.
Georgia Tech people are talking about a bowl game. Georgia’s football team—and we can claim it as being at least “local”—was supposed to embarrass the basketball squad. Now, it has a chance to win the Southeastern Conference title.
A Falcon placekicker actually attempted a field goal in the waning moments of a game and made it for victory. The basketball Hawks defeated powerful Denver. And the Flames defeated Montreal in hockey. That’s impossible. Montreal invented ice.
Sound the trumpets for the lame and downtrodden. A Polish boy has grown up to be pope, and Atlanta may be slowly rising from the ashes of athletic ruin.
(The only words of caution I might offer are not to forget that the Braves open spring training in just five months, and you remember what happened to the last pope.)
But before the seedy and checkered past of Atlanta sports is dumped into history’s garbage pile, I would like to recall briefly a few of the dumpees. We simply cannot say goodbye to Losersville that quickly.
Now without at least a mention of some of our classic losers and the moments they gave us:
- In the final game of the 1972 season, Falcon running-back Dave Hampton became the first player in the team’s history to gain over 2,000 yards in a season. Play was stopped, and he was awarded the game ball. On the next snap, Hampton was thrown for a big loss and time ran out before he could regain the lost 2,000th.
- In his first major league game, Braves’ rookie shortstop Leo Foster booted the first ground ball hit to him. In his first major league at-bat, he hit into a triple play.
- How did Losersville maintain itself year after year? Here are some of the names of Number One draft choices of Atlanta professional teams:
Skip Harlika, Gerald Tinker, Ron Broaddus, Tom Workman, John Small, Greg Marx, John Valleley, Joe Profit, Gene Hobart, George Trapp and Leo Carroll.
Of that group, Leo Carroll is the most notable. Drafted by the Falcons to improve their offensive line, he disappeared one night from training camp.
All he left was his Tiny Tim “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” record.
- Early in their history, the Flames launched an ad campaign warning fans all season tickets would soon be gone, the demand being so great. A few years later, management was begging city leaders for donations to help meet the team payroll.
- The closest the Falcons ever came to making the playoffs was in 1973. They won seven straight, but then collapsed and lost back-to-back to Buffalo and St. Louis to be eliminated from post-season play.
The head coach, Norman Van Brocklin, blamed it all on “Peachtree Street whores and bartenders.”
- In the middle of a thirteen-game losing streak, the Braves’ team bus got lost in the middle of a swamp between the airport and downtown in Philadelphia.
- Great Trades Number One: The Falcons gave Minnesota their top quarterback, Bob Berry, and their top draft choice for the coming year in return for the Vikings’ number two linebacker, Lonnie War wick, and number two quarterback, Bob Lee. The Vikings later used the draft choice to obtain a player named Chuck Foreman.
- Great Trades Number Two: The Hawks gave Pete Maravich to the New Orleans Jazz.
- For opening game 1977 the Braves asked Bert Lance to throw out the first ball. He was stuck in a stadium elevator for thirty minutes and finished the season lower than the pitiable team he had launched.
- Falcons’ quarterback Randy Johnson, sacked several times this given Sunday, led his team out of the huddle and lined up behind a guard.
- That’s nothing. Falcon fullback Art Malone and tight end Jim Mitchell went into an Atlanta huddle and got into a fistfight before the next play could be called.
- Georgia Tech’s 1971 football team was invited to the Peach Bowl, but voted not to go, much to the relief of head coach Bud Carson. Athletic officials demanded that another vote be taken, however, and the pressured players this time voted “yes.”
Tech lost the game 41-18 in the mud and Carson got fired.
- The first Falcons game ever was an exhibition at the Stadium against Philadelphia in 1966. The Falcons were to kick off to launch themselves into the National Football League.
The whistle blew and kicker Wade Traynam approached the ball.
He whiffed it.
THIRD DOWN AND PRAISE THE LORD
A FEW YEARS AGO, I talked to a wonderful preacher named William Holmes Borders, pastor of the Wheat Street Baptist Church, about the political problems Atlanta was having at the time.
The conversation was background work for a series the Atlanta Constitution produced called “City in Crisis.” A lot of people didn’t like what “City in Crisis” said. It said Atlanta had polarized politically, our leaders were more interested in bickering than progressing, and the City Too Busy To Hate was growing ornery.
What I remember most about that conversation was William Holmes Borders saying, “What we need in this city more than any thing else is for our sports teams to get off their behinds and give us something to cheer. The Lord willing, maybe someday they will.”
“The Lord willing . . .” is the key phrase here. I will be the first to admit the recent rise to prominence of our local sporting heroes is nothing short of miraculous, but never have I heard so much credit given to Providence for athletic success.
Take the Falcons. The Falcons have seven victories and only four losses, and Sunday in New Orleans, the tipped-pass-for-a-touch-down that defeated the Saints in the final seconds was hailed by one reporter as the “Immaculate Reception.”
The phraseology is superb. The man who threw the ball, oft-injured and maligned Steve Bartkowski, makes Lazarus look like an amateur. He has risen time and again from the quarterbacking graveyard, and he has also announced he has been “born again.”
Another writer wondered, “Now that he has found the Lord, will he be able to find his secondary receivers?”
Here is what Steve Bartkowski said Sunday after his prayerful pass was answered:
“I just said, ‘Praise the Lord.’ He was with us. I was praying real hard.”
You would think if anybody was going to get help from Above, it would have been the Saints, who are named for those with, I would imagine, heavy influence when it comes to heavenly decisions.
I don’t know how much the Flames figure God has had to do with their resurrection. It wasn’t that long ago there was talk of the franchise going broke, but now the Great Goalie in the Sky is certainly smiling down on Omni center ice.
Last time I looked, the Hawks were only a game behind in their division. Holy turnover! Sadly, the only team yet to be saved from the fiery depths of the league cellar is the Braves. Let’s all stand and sing the first and last verses of “Just As I Am.”
Even our collegiate athletes are in the spirit. Just about the time I had decided Vince Dooley had sold out to the devil for his Georgia team’s incredible 8-1 season, I find out
the Bulldog quarterback, Jeff Pyburn, has linked up with the Almighty.
And recall what happened a few weeks back when Georgia played Kentucky. Kentucky led 16-0 in the third quarter. But with seconds to play, there stood kicker Rex Robinson with a field-goal attempt to win the game.
“I just put my faith in the Lord,” Robinson said after the kick was good, “and He blessed me.”
Eddie Lee Ivery, the Georgia Tech running back who set an NCAA single-game rushing record against Air Force Saturday? He’s deeply religious and occasionally offers a locker-room sermon.
And to think Atlanta used to have athletes like Alex Hawkins, the former Falcons receiver, who, admittedly, once made the Fellowship of Christian Athletes’ all-opponent team.
I certainly don’t want to cast aspersions on other people’s faith-athletes included—but I do sort of wonder what with the Middle East (which is sort of God’s home town), starvation, crime, and discos, does He really have time to bless a field goal or a touchdown pass?
Since I couldn’t get a direct interview, I can only speculate the answer would probably be: Only when it is absolutely necessary. Like when Notre Dame is playing for the national championship.
The best religion-in-sports story I know is an old one, but one I would suggest every athlete and fan who thinks God gives an angel’s feather about third-and-long should hear again.
A spectator at a boxing match was sitting next to a priest. When the bell rang, one of the fighters crossed himself before heading to the middle of the ring.
“Will that help him, Father?” asked the spectator.
“Not if he can’t fight,” said the priest.
DWAYNE SANDERS
DURHAM, N.C.—ON SEPTEMBER 19, 1978—a sweltering, late summer Saturday—Duke and Georgia Tech played a game of college football in a tattered, half-empty stadium named after an old coach.
Georgia Tech will remember the occasion as a nightmare, its second, thanks to Duke, in less than a year.
The Tech sidelines, as the end drew near, was an outdoor death row. Men and boys, condemned to bitter and solid defeat, cursed themselves, cursed the officials, and cursed the heat. Mostly, they cursed the heat.
A giant Tech lineman, his body bloody and drenched in sweat, looked toward the sky and spat at the sun.
Football, when you are losing, is a game of reassurance. We are surrounded by a million Indians, but any minute now the Cavalry will appear and the day will be saved. Sure, it will.
“We’ll win it,” said a Tech assistant at halftime, the score 10-3 in favor of Duke. “I can feel it.”
“The second half,” added a player, “belongs to us.”
There was agreement all about. But help never came. The bugles never blew. And the heat—damn the heat—grew worse, completing the agony.
September 9, 1978: Duke 28, Georgia Tech 10.
Remember the day, if you favor the White and Gold, as an ungodly day of frustration.
Then, forget it. And put your mind to the misfortune of a young man who had a stinking Saturday, too.
His loss was worse than any silly football game ever played. As Duke was kicking Georgia Tech Saturday afternoon, he was in the Duke University Hospital fighting for the use of the bottom two-thirds of his body.
It happened shortly before the game began. Dwayne Sanders, who is eighteen, was warming up with his fellow Georgia Tech cheerleaders.
It was to be his first game as a cheerleader. He’s a sophomore at Tech. “About the hardest worker we got,” said one of his partners.
Dwayne Sanders, from Atlanta’s Henderson High School, did a few flips on the trampoline in front of the Tech supporters.
Then, he did one more. The kickoff was near. The bands were playing, balloons filled the air. Duke was worrying about the running of Eddie Lee Ivery. Tech was worrying about the passing of Stanley Driskell.
“He made the flip okay,” a Tech cheerleader explained it, “but when he did his roll coming out, that’s when he got hurt.”
It took the ambulance a half hour to arrive. Dwayne Sanders lay on the grass, unable to move the bottom portion of his body.
His neck was broken. His removal from the field was barely noticed. The remaining Tech cheerleaders gave him a good-luck cheer.
At this writing, Dwayne Sanders was in intensive care at the Duke Hospital. He was to undergo diagnostic surgery. A doctor explained:
“It’s too early to know what the outcome will be. Depending on the swelling and the pressure, he could regain his movement. It was a freak thing. The only thing you can do is hope.”
The doctor crossed both his fingers.
Another doctor said, “Had the injury been higher, it could have been fatal.”
So scream if you will about Georgia Tech’s football ineptness Saturday. Granted, the defense leaked. And the offense proved why Pepper Rodgers doesn’t like the forward pass. And there were questionable calls by the officials at times. “Welcome to the Atlantic Coast Conference,” somebody said.
And, of course, focus the blame for it all squarely upon the shoulders of the head coach, for that is the American way of losing.
But do it quickly and then get along to concern for Dwayne Sanders. There will be other Saturdays and other chances for Tech’s football team. Believe it or not at this point, there will even be times to praise it.
On such occasions, may Dwayne Sanders, the Lord willing, be there to lead the cheers.
[Dwayne Sanders did not recover. He remains confined to a wheel chair.]
Baseball’s Spittin’ Image
WATCHING BASEBALL ON TELEVISION offers a rare opportunity to see the players up close. The Big Eye can put you nose-to-nose with your favorite stars, most of whom apparently do not shave on a regular basis.
Thurman Munson of the Yankees, for instance, looks like Pancho Villa after a two-week binge. Davy Lopes of the Dodgers looks like the guy who waters his horse.
The reason television has so much time to show close-up shots of the players during a game is there is a lot of standing around in baseball. Baseball is the only sport where three-fourths of the game is a time out.
Here comes the batter towards the plate. Watch him take a few practice swings, knock the dirt out of his spikes, fondle the tar rag, and scratch and adjust. (When a game is on national television, players should be reminded to cut down on the scratching and adjusting.)
There stands the pitcher on the mound. Watch him tug at his cap, pound the ball in the glove, pick up the resin bag, throw it down again, lean over for the sign, shake it off, nod agreement to the next one, and then throw over to first.
The batter steps out and here we go again, more practice swinging, dirt-knocking, and, if you must know, more scratching and adjusting.
Television even goes into the dugouts now. Dugouts used to be off-limits to civilians. A player could scratch and adjust and yawn and figure tax shelters until the last man was out, and who would know?
“Now,” a ballplayer told me, “you have to act interested in the game for nine full innings.”
Seeing the players close up on television during this year’s Yankees-Dodgers World Series has also brought to my attention another interesting thing about men who play baseball for a living.
They spit more than anybody else. I don’t suppose they spit on each other that much, but they spit on everything else. Home plate. The bases. The on-deck circle. Their hands. They used to spit on the ball, but that was outlawed. Leo Durocher once spit on an umpire.
Many baseball players chew tobacco. They all look like they have cheek tumors, but at least you expect them to spit. God help them if they didn’t.
But watching the World Series games, I’ve noticed even baseball players who chew nothing at all also spit a lot.
Take Reggie Jackson of the Yankees. He spits constantly, even when he is figuring tax shelters in the dugout. He spits walking to the plate. He spits while he is there. He spits on balls. He spits on strikes.
Reggie Jackso
n spits with style. He has two distinct spits. There is the straight “ptui!” spit where he simply applies cheek and lip pres sure.
His deluxe, superstar spit—typically flamboyant—is his through-the-teeth-line-drive-spit, however. He can fire away five to ten quick streams through the gap in his two front teeth faster than a Ron Guidry fastball.
One of the advantages to playing major-league baseball, I suppose, is it is one of the few professions that allows you to spit on national television and not be considered uncouth.
Other professional athletes don’t have that luxury. Imagine Jack Nicklaus walking away from a putt on the scenic sixteenth green at Augusta and spitting. Basketball players wouldn’t spit on a shiny hardwood floor. Hockey players might spit on the ice if they had more teeth. Jockeys don’t spit during horse races out of concern for their fellow riders to the rear.
A private citizen certainly can’t spit in public. It is considered nasty, and it could spread disease. It’s like a New Yorker mentioned to me recently.
“Strange thing about the subways in New York,” he said. “You spit and they fine you $25, but you can throw up for nothing.”
I really don’t have anything against baseball players spitting. “Maybe what bothers me is television insists upon showing them doing it close up.
Then, again, perhaps I should count my blessings. Television has gone face-to-face with the players and into their dugouts today. Tomorrow, the showers?
GEORGIA 28, GEORGIA TECH 28
ATHENS—I WAS TOTALLY biased about the Georgia-Georgia Tech football game they played here Saturday. I admit it. Openly, and without shame. None of that I’m-just-here-to-report-the-facts nonsense for me.
I wanted a tie, dammit. When Georgia scored a touchdown in the waning moments to make the score 28-27 in favor of Georgia Tech, I hoped Bulldog Coach Vince Dooley would momentarily lose hold of his faculties and go on for a one-point conversion.
Kathy Sue Loudermilk, I Love You: A good beer joint is hard to find and other facts of life Page 8