Author: Frank Murtaugh

A WEEK TO REMEMBER (AND BOTTLE)

Whew! It took me a week . . . but I’ve managed to catch my breath. Has there ever — ever — been a sports week in this city like the one we had starting March 25th? Felt like I got knocked around for three rounds by the heavyweight champ, stumbled into the world’s most famous arena (and found some old friends), only to find my way back home..and in the company of major league ballplayers. Please, if there’s been a bigger sports week in Memphis history, let me know.

MONDAY (3/25)

It’s official. The most notorious athlete of this generation is going to bring his misogynist, ear-chomping self to Memphis for a shot at Lennox Lewis’s heavyweight championship. Whatever you think of Mike Tyson, be sure of this: his fight with Lewis on June 8th will be the biggest sporting event the Bluff City has ever seen…and arguably the biggest news out of this city (sports or otherwise) since August 16, 1977. The cheapest ticket will be $400. You won’t find a hotel room between Little Rock and Jackson. Let’s just cross our fingers that the only bloodshed to come of this date is the result of a Lewis right hook.

Across the country in Portland, our Grizzlies shook up the NBA landscape by erasing a 25-point second-half deficit to upset the playoff-bound Trail Blazers. So what if Blazer star Rasheed Wallace didn’t suit up? I don’t care if you’re facing the Danny DeVito School for the Height Impaired, making up 25 points in 24 minutes of basketball is a feat. And a franchise record for the Griz.

TUESDAY (3/26)

If University of Memphis freshman Dajuan Wagner does as many think he will and declare for the NBA draft, this was the night his decision was made. Taking the floor at Madison Square Garden for an NIT semifinal against Temple, Wagner looked as comfortable as you’d expect a native of

Camden, New Jersey, to be in the Big Apple’s rightest spotlight. He poured in 32 points — in the process breaking Penny Hardaway’s single-season Tiger scoring record — and dished to Kelly Wise for a game-winning dunk in the final minute of play. (For some gravy, our RiverKings eliminated Fort Worth in the first round of the CHL playoffs.)

WEDNESDAY (3/27)

A day of rest. Exhale.

THURSDAY (3/28)

With all due respect to the juggernaut of a dance team at the University of Memphis, never before this day had our flagship institution of higher learning brought home an NCAA-sanctioned national title. With 16 more points from tournament-MVP Wagner, Memphis whipped South Carolina, 72-62, for the the NIT championship. No, it’s not the NCAA tournament. And no, John Calipari has no interest in repeating next season. But as for consolations, this was pretty darn sweet.

FRIDAY (3/29)

Baseball’s here! Our Redbirds hosted their parent club, the St. Louis Cardinals, in an exhibition game at AutoZone Park. Appearing live were former Redbirds J.D. Drew, Placido Polanco, Garrett Stephenson, and reigning National League Rookie of the Year, Albert Pujols. Worried about the Redbirds’ offensive punch after last-season’s soft showing? You might grab the coattails of So Taguchi. The Japanese rightfielder — starting the year in Memphis after a rough big-league initiation in Florida — drilled a two-run homer and made two stellar catches to boot. Appropriately enough for the family affair that it was, the Cards and ‘Birds finished tied, 3-3, after ten innings of play.

Mother Nature crashed the party Saturday and rained out the second Cardinals-Redbirds game. You know what? I’m sort of glad she did. How much can a Memphis sports-brain take? I was sitting in the press box at the ‘Zone Friday night, shortly after the end of a 40-minute rain delay, when none other than Red Schoendienst took a seat to my right. A man who has worn a Cardinals uniform for 45 years, has nine World Series rings, and a Hall of Fame ring to boot. I introduced myself to “the ol’ redhead” and began to describe our city’s week in sports. Trouble was…where to begin?

I’ve got a quote on my office wall from Rogers Hornsby, the St. Louis Cardinals’ Hall of Fame second baseman and the finest righthanded hitter ever to lace up a pair of spikes: “People ask me what I do in the winter when there’s no baseball. I’ll tell you what I do, I stare out the window and wait for spring.” The Rajah’s spirit is certainly giddy these days, as the dawn of a new baseball season is upon us. In his honor, let’s try and answer nine questions — we’ll call it a batting order — for the upcoming season.

(1) Can the Arizona Diamondbacks repeat? Only if Randy Johnson and Curt Schilling do…which isn’t likely. The D’Backs are an old team. Key contributors to last year’s champs include Luis Gonzalez (34), Mark Grace (37), Matt Williams (36), and Steve Finley (37). As brilliant as Johnson (38) and Schilling (35) were last year in finishing one-two in the Cy Young race, the law of averages says this team is due a letdown. Now, if they manage to stay healthy and get into the postseason, well, there’s no more deadly a tandem than Arizona’s pair of aces.

(2) Can one Jason Giambi equal 11 World Series rings? The Yankees are counting on it. Say what you will about the addition of Rondell White, Robin Ventura, and David Wells. They’re window dressing in George Steinbrenner’s world. The Boss will need the former Oakland MVP to pump out his usual offensive numbers and fill a sizable leadership void left by former Yanks Paul O’Neill, Scott Brosius, and Tino Martinez.

(3) Will anybody actually watch Expos baseball? After 33 seasons, Montreal will be playing what amounts to a 162-game swan song. The franchise that gave us Andre Dawson, Gary Carter, Tim Raines, Randy Johnson, Larry Walker, and Steve Rogers (remember him?) will find itself in Washington, D.C. or a victim of contraction come 2003. Been to a Memphis RiverKings game recently? That’s the kind of crowd you’ll see at Olympic Stadium this season.

(4) Is there a rookie out there to match last season’s phenoms? Short answer: no. Seattle’s Ichiro Suzuki last season became the first rookie in 26 years to earn MVP honors. St. Louis’ Albert Pujols merely made Mark McGwire expendable. The only name that might approximate this kind of impact in 2002 is San Diego’s rookie third baseman, Sean Burroughs. The son of former American League MVP Jeff Burroughs, Sean hit .322 last year for Portland in the Pacific Coast League.

(5) Is there life after Cal, Tony, and Big Mac? You want to find a hotel room near Cooperstown, New York, in the summer of 2007? Better call now. Baseball lost a lot of its spirit with the retirement of these three legends. But let’s be realistic…they were shadows of themselves last season. Barry Bonds has 600 homers in his sights. Randy Johnson is going for a fourth straight Cy Young. The Braves are aiming for an 11th consecutive postseason berth. Baseball will be just fine.

(6) Is there a scarier lineup than that of the New York Mets? Roberto Alomar, Edgardo Alfonzo, Jeromy Burnitz, Mo Vaughn, Mike Piazza…yikes. If these five stay healthy and the Mets get reasonable starting pitching, well, the Braves are playing for second.

(7) Is Moises Alou the answer for the Cubbies? George Bell (a former MVP) wasn’t. Andre Dawson (an MVP with Chicago) wasn’t. The only way the Cubs avoid another year as “The Sammy Sosa Show” is for Kerry Wood to burst out, injury free, and carry his fellow starters along for the ride. The North Siders better hope for another 20 wins from Jon Lieber.

(8) Will anyone hit 74 home runs? Let’s hope not. Barry Bonds was incredible last season, particularly in light of the way he was pitched (he wasn’t). But who cared? Whether it was the personality involved or the proximity to the summer of ‘98, the home run race became ancillary in 2001. It’s a team game, folks. Check the standings.

(9) Is there a better place to watch a baseball game than the Wrigley Field bleachers? Absolutely: the leftfield bluff at AutoZone Park. Picnic blankets, toddlers, dads playing catch with sons and daughters, visits from Rockey… and a chance to catch a home run ball every single game. Go Redbirds!

When my friend and colleague Jackson Baker asked me if I was interested in starting a weekly cyber-column, my first thought was…what’s my deadline? As a means of introduction, I feel obligated to mention my day job as managing editor for Memphis magazine. For almost seven years now, I’ve spent more time than I choose to measure establishing and enforcing deadlines for writers, advertisers, and graphic designers. And I’m still learning to distinguish between velvet

gloves and iron fists in this capacity. How the heck am I going to handle making my own deadline, and on a weekly basis no less?

The answer, at least I hope, is an easy one. Because this deadline is going to be fun, a chance for me to share some thoughts, observations, maybe even a little analysis on the local – and sometimes national-sports scene. Jack has even told me he’ll allow a column here or there on topics that really matter in our lives, those away from the playing field and locker room. Scary thought, that.

Once I agreed to take on this happy endeavor, my first assignment was coming up with a title. I hope the three words I chose convey the intended message. Because regardless of the subject matter, no matter how serious or light-hearted my ood is on a given week, the fact is…I’m a fan. I love sports (well, most of them).

And there’s so much to see in Memphis (all you Bluff City sports cynics take a breath here). The NBA (and its big-league hype machine) has landed downtown; AutoZone Park is starting to feel like a delightful part of the city scenery; the University of Memphis Tigers continue to

raise our hopes each fall and winter…and too often break our hearts; professional golf and tennis are locked into the calendar every

bit as much as the two big Elvis weeks; we even have a hockey team playing its tenth (!) season and vying for a championship.

Don’t tell me Memphis isn’t a sports town. (It happens to be a wonderful alternative to that overrated moniker. Memphis is a sports town with an abundance of other unique, even provocative qualities. Perhaps I can explore some of those in the weeks ahead.)

There are just a few more things you should know about me. (1) My family is about the only entity in my life that has hold on more of my heart than the game of baseball. You’ll likely learn the team of my devotion long before an unbiased writer would allow. Call it my vice. (2) I’m the son of two University of Tennessee alumni…and the husband of a University of Memphis graduate.

So no finger-pointing as I take one side or the other in the blue-orange (orange-blue?) debate. (3) I can’t golf a lick. I’ve never even made contact with a driver. But I love the FedEx St. Jude Classic, and I think the fourth round of a major is as gripping as sports can be.

This is my favorite time of year, as winter turns into spring, sweaters go to the attic, March Madness screams into our living rooms, and the front porch is sweeped off for some serious discussion on just who might knock off the Yankees this year. (I’m betting on that National League club up the river a piece, bright red caps. Woops.)

I’m thankful for the chance to share this season (and beyond) with you. Why don’t you pull up your seat right next to mine.

(Care to respond? click here.)

When my friend and colleague Jackson Baker asked me if I was interested in starting a weekly cyber-column, my first thought was…what’s my deadline? As a means of introduction, I feel obligated to mention my day job as managing editor for Memphis magazine. For almost seven years now, I’ve spent more time than I choose to measure establishing and enforcing deadlines for writers, advertisers, and graphic designers. And I’m still learning to distinguish between velvet

gloves and iron fists in this capacity. How the heck am I going to handle making my own deadline, and on a weekly basis no less?

The answer, at least I hope, is an easy one. Because this deadline is going to be fun, a chance for me to share some thoughts, observations, maybe even a little analysis on the local – and sometimes national-sports scene. Jack has even told me he’ll allow a column here or there on topics that really matter in our lives, those away from the playing field and locker room. Scary thought, that.

Once I agreed to take on this happy endeavor, my first assignment was coming up with a title. I hope the three words I chose convey the intended message. Because regardless of the subject matter, no matter how serious or light-hearted my ood is on a given week, the fact is…I’m a fan. I love sports (well, most of them).

And there’s so much to see in Memphis (all you Bluff City sports cynics take a breath here). The NBA (and its big-league hype machine) has landed downtown; AutoZone Park is starting to feel like a delightful part of the city scenery; the University of Memphis Tigers continue to

raise our hopes each fall and winter…and too often break our hearts; professional golf and tennis are locked into the calendar every

bit as much as the two big Elvis weeks; we even have a hockey team playing its tenth (!) season and vying for a championship.

Don’t tell me Memphis isn’t a sports town. (It happens to be a wonderful alternative to that overrated moniker. Memphis is a sports town with an abundance of other unique, even provocative qualities. Perhaps I can explore some of those in the weeks ahead.)

There are just a few more things you should know about me. (1) My family is about the only entity in my life that has hold on more of my heart than the game of baseball. You’ll likely learn the team of my devotion long before an unbiased writer would allow. Call it my vice. (2) I’m the son of two University of Tennessee alumni…and the husband of a University of Memphis graduate.

So no finger-pointing as I take one side or the other in the blue-orange (orange-blue?) debate. (3) I can’t golf a lick. I’ve never even made contact with a driver. But I love the FedEx St. Jude Classic, and I think the fourth round of a major is as gripping as sports can be.

This is my favorite time of year, as winter turns into spring, sweaters go to the attic, March Madness screams into our living rooms, and the front porch is sweeped off for some serious discussion on just who might knock off the Yankees this year. (I’m betting on that National League club up the river a piece, bright red caps. Woops.)

I’m thankful for the chance to share this season (and beyond) with you. Why don’t you pull up your seat right next to mine.

I’ve been wrestling (so to speak) with my conscience over the possibility of a heavyweight championship fight — featuring none other

than Iron Mike Tyson — being held on the banks of the Mighty Miss…in The Pyramid…right here in Memphis.

As an advocate for anything

that helps Memphis, and as an avid sports fan, I have a rooting interest here, to say the least. But I’m not sure what to root for. Speaking in general terms, a bout between reigning champion Lennox Lewis and Tyson staged in Memphis would be, simply put, the biggest sporting event in this city’s history. Forget the personalities involved for a moment and remember: there is still no spectacle in sports like a heavyweight title fight. None. (How you define spectacle, of course, is part of the equation here.)

From Louis-Schmeling to Marciano-Charles, from Patterson-Johansson to Ali-Liston/Frazier/Foreman, a heavyweight

championship tilt is the Super Bowl, the Fourth of July, and Oscar night all wrapped up in one muscle-bound, overhyped, sweatsoaked party of

thousands. Heck, I remember when the Larry Holmes-Gerry Cooney fight was the only sporting event that mattered in the summer of 1982. When boiled down to its basics, a heavyweight bout to decide the world’s king of the mountain is about as American as sports get.

Think about it. With the possible exception of baseball, name a sport that has captured our hearts at the cineplex more than boxing, specifically more than the larger-than-life heavyweights. Is there another role we would have allowed Sly Stallone to carry for five films — five, people — than Rocky Balboa? Whether on the silverscreen or in Vegas or Atlantic City —

or Memphis — this is sports at its most elementary, yet glamorous, best. Mano a mano. I’m the toughest guy on the planet . . . come take my belt!

Considering the Bluff City’s seemingly age-old, slump-shouldered history with sports, how could Memphis possibly pass up an opportunity like this? Well, there are a few reasons, and not all of them obvious. Clearly, Mike Tyson is a troglodyte. With the exception of one or two of the dozens of people I’ve asked about this event, the consensus is that even a nickel would be too much to spend for an event where the spotlight will be tilted, not toward the champion Lewis, but toward a washed-up convicted rapist with a taste for human ear lobes. Women I’ve asked about the fight are especially repulsed . . . and rightfully so.

Tyson fighting in Memphis would not so much be a black eye on our city — he’d fly in and fly out in a matter of hours, he’s no Memphian — but a

black eye on something often more difficult to measure and protect: our city’s taste.

But you know the main reason we should tell Shelly Finkel, HBO, and the local supporters who are campaigning for the June 8th bout to go do a

Sonny Liston off the Hernando DeSoto? Because Memphis is nothing more than Plan-B. Were it not for the very fact that no other civilized

community will allow Tyson to legally don his gloves, The Pyramid would not be so much as a blip on the radar screen of Don King and boxing’s

powers that be.

To take the argument a step further, Memphis is Plan-B with an asterisk. Were it not for ten casinos a short drive south — find

a major boxing match and the one-armed bandits will follow — I doubt Memphis would even be considered as a host for Lewis-Tyson.

I don’t need to delve into Memphis history and touch on the blemishes this city has had to try and remove (or hide from) over the years. There

are plenty . . . and recently, there are plenty more developments that are worthy of celebrating, in the eyes of the local, national, and

global communities.

Stereotypes hurt, even when applied to one’s hometown. Memphis would do itself proud to avoid being cornered by the most disreputable sports figure of this generation. And by default, no less. Some history is not worth making.

It’s a helluva thing to lose a role model. Regardless of what my colleagues think, or what my business card says, I consider myself a sportswriter.

I don’t write sports as regularly as Dennis Freeland did — I may never do it as well — but I like to consider myself at least a junior member of that fraternity that pays far more attention than it should to depth charts and draft picks, wild cards and winner’s brackets.

And believe me, the advantage of having this city’s sportswriting standard-bearer in the same office for nine years was worth more than a semester or two of journalism school. My fondest memory of Dennis, though, has nothing to do with athletes or ballgames.

Just a few weeks after I became a father in the spring of 1999, Dennis asked if he could pay a visit to my house to meet little Sofia. I can’t count the number of people who passed along well wishes, cards, gifts, and smiles during this magical time of my life. But I can count on one hand those who gave up part of their weekend to come share the magic in my living room. Not only did Dennis come by, but he brought his lovely wife and young daughter with him.

Talk about a role model! The guy could turn the world of sports inside out, and he was raising a charming little girl. (I paid close attention.) I’m embarrassed that I can’t recall the gifts the Freelands brought with them that day, but I’ll remember Dennis sitting on my couch, smiling at my precious little slice of heaven as long as there are days to remember.

Over the last six months, I seemed to always find a way to put Dennis’ ailment on the sideline, so speak. The first time I saw him after the cancer diagnosis — before any of us knew the severity — was the day cyclist Lance Armstrong, a cancer survivor himself, won his third consecutive Tour de France. One need look no further for inspiration, right?

On the day Dennis had surgery to extract a portion of the tumor, Memphis magazine sponsored a Redbirds game at AutoZone Park and I got the privilege of throwing out the first pitch. While I did so with a heavy heart, I also toed the rubber with a smile, knowing had Dennis been there, he would have been my loudest cheerleader as I scuffed the ball into the batter’s box.

Then on our trip to one of his daily radiation treatments last fall, Dennis told me the one and only Osama bin Laden joke that has made me laugh. Still does.

With September 11th being the most recent — certainly most horrendous — example, we are too often denied the opportunity to say goodbye to those we love.

What I’ll cherish most about the last six months will be the hugs. Dennis was a good hugger, and every time we visited during his battle I was sure to get at least one hug before I left. When you hug someone right, you can feel their spirit wrap around your heart. As weak as his body may have felt,

Dennis’ spirit invigorated my heart in a manner I can still feel. A manner I hope I can now spread, if only a fraction of the way Dennis did. Silver linings are hard to find when you lose someone you love. But I’m trying. While my friend may be gone, I’ve still got a role model.

— Frank Murtaugh