Pandemic may end talking to nude men
A great American sports institution is facing extinction, which means I might have interviewed my last naked man.
As sports spring back to life, virus caution will cut off media access to locker rooms and clubhouses. Even when the pandemic ends, the centuryandahalf tradition of lockerroom interviews likely will be toast.
It’s been fun, a lifetime of lurking and loitering.
We inkstained wretches — a term coined by Ted Williams — got yelled at, cursed out, ignored, scorned, insulted. We were sweaty, panicky and bored. We got to interview players eating like kings while our stomachs growled. We got to record mindless cliches shot at us like mosquito spray. We got to jockey for position at locker stalls like NBA power forwards under the boards. But it wasn’t all fun. In honor of the departing era of L&L, I jotted down a few thoughts and memories:
One baseball player called us scribes “green flies.” I thought the “green” was a nice touch.
Another baseball player referred to his team’s four beat writers, who moved from locker to locker as a group, as the Swiss Mountain Climbers.
Pat Riley, then the Lakers’ head coach, called us either the Buzzards or the Peripheral Enemy.
When Danny Ainge was a player, he agreed to an interview. “Meet me here tomorrow at 4.” We met in the locker room, had it to ourselves. Ainge stripped off all his street clothes, hung them neatly in his stall, sat down and gave me an excellent halfhour interview. Not until years later did this strike me as unusual.
Before women reporters gained access to clubhouses, it was not uncommon to interview a naked player as he wolfed his postgame meal. The worst part was watching the guy tuck into his fried chicken and cold beer while you were starving and thirsty.
I can never get back all that time I wasted lurking and loitering. But can I please get back just the time spent waiting for players to apply cologne and body lotion? That’s at least a year.
You wade through a lot of boring interviews (I’m sure players feel the same way) to get to the gems. One spring, I asked Rickey Henderson for a minute. He gave me 45. The sometimes daffy and drifty Rickey unloaded a ton of inside baseball knowledge. He explained in detail why teammate Jose Canseco would never repeat the 1988 season’s 4040 (homerssteals). Canseco never came close.
Barry Bonds would bone his bats for 20 minutes while a group of reporters on deadline waited and watched. Once he blew us off after a game with, “Can’t talk, I’m late for the opera.” I said, “Come on, Barry, they won’t start without you,” but he left anyway.
Besttalking team? Either the HendersonCansecoEckersley A’s, or the L.A. Raiders of Howie Long, Lester Hayes and Matt Millen. Long could threaten you and make you feel good about it.
With the Raiders, you always had Al Davis looming theatrically, the phantom of the lockerroom opera. Nobody did condescension like Al.
Like many writers, I would walk away from an Eckersley session wondering, “Does he think I’m his psychiatrist?”
The Showtime Lakers were great. Magic Johnson would talk all day, before and after games. Michael Cooper was crazy. Paul Westhead, in his brief coaching tenure, oft quoteth Shakespeare.
Rule: You never ever talk to the starting pitcher before a game. Even eye contact is forbidden. Tim Lincecum was an exception. To him, baseball was just a fun game he got to play. Another exception was Nolan Ryan. He would make you talk to him before he pitched.
Reggie Jackson, if you were on his good side, was a mother lode of quotes and conversation. Many players try hard not to say anything of interest or substance; Jackson was the polar opposite. The pregame clubhouse closes to media at a set time, but if Jackson was still going, he’d lead you into the shower room to finish the conversation.
You can get a fun five minutes from any sportswriter, especially baseball writers, by saying, “Tell me your favorite ‘Go f— yourself ’ story.”
One of mine: Rod Carew was new to a team I was covering. I approached his locker, asked him for an interview. He launched into a very loud and super profane tirade. All the words. When he paused, I said, “Let’s forget the interview, but maybe you could tell me what’s bothering you.” He unleashed another volley. I never did find out what was bothering him.
“Can’t you see I’m reading the newspaper?” snarled one baseball player who grabbed a paper and held it in front of his face as I approached. I didn’t have the heart to tell him his newspaper was upsidedown.
A sincere thanks to the many, many athletes who engaged in honest conversation, human to human, giving us inkstained wretches a chance to see them, and present them to our readers, as real people. To name a few at random, guys like Dusty Baker, Pablo Sandoval, Joe Staley, Stephen Jackson, Steve Young, Draymond Green, Matt Chapman.
The pleasure was all mine, fellas. The fried chicken and beer were all yours.