Super Bowl: The Greatest Show in the World

Posted Feb 10, 2012 by TBO.com

Updated Feb 10, 2012 at 11:59 PM

We just experienced the 2012 Super Bowl and Madonna: the game, the Patriots and the Giants, was great, the ads spectacular and all had a good time except at the end when the New England fans got disappointed. It brought to mind our first Super Bowl here in Tampa and a letter I had saved of Tom writing to Jim Steeg, who was in charge of the games for years and years, a man unmatched in putting on the greatest show in the world, and a great personal friend of both Tom and I.

I was invited to watch the game at Val Pinchback Jr’s home with his wife, Mindy, and family and friends. It brought back memories of the monumental tasks of putting on the Super Bowl and the heartstopping problems to solve. Val Sr. was in the NFL headquarters and did all of the scheduling of the NFL team games for many, many years until his death. In 1984, Tampa’s first Super Bowl, Jim did the impossible. - Linda

Steeg: This is McEwen

They told me I could not mention the women at Hooters and your 50th birthday party.

They told me I could not mention the insurance costs of the ‘84 Super Bowl Party at the Florida Fairgrounds when you hired and allowed high wire trapeze acts and motorcycle acts on wires above the diners in the great hall there, probably the most daring of all parties.

They told me I could not mention your skills at juggling ticket allotments and the Commissioner’s Party - also not improperly recognized as Jim Steeg’s Super Bowl Party - not the wonder at who and the heck are all the people there every year?

They did not tell me I could not say I have no idea who has the second-toughest, and second-best, job in the world to you, Jim Steeg, nor who could possibly succeed you.

Remember who followed Vince Lombardi, or Bear Bryant? No one remains who could manage the greatest event in the world with the aplomb, absence of known malice, or getting a case of the crazies, of despite some acts seeming to make no one who counts angry. And how bold but lasting it was to come to Tampa for a Super Bowl, then three more, to start the Host Committee and the NFL Experience with us, and paving the way for the mid-sized American cities to get on the rotation - Tampa, Phoenix and San Diego and Jacksonville and others later.

Yet, in these tense moments, you remain the same, unsmiling, stoic, impersonal, yet loyal to friends and pro-Super Bowlers, fair and fun, if without much of a sense of humor. It did show once when you had to change the wallpaper in the bathroom for the NFL Commissioner’s wife at Saddlebrook near Tampa. And your patriotism burst through In smile and tears and gratitude when your choice, Whitney Houston, sang the great National Anthem in Tampa during the Gulf War and the tense circumstance came off brilliantly, without a hitch, and as American as the Super Bowl wants to be.

Finally, riding with you on a Saturday inspection of venues at a Super Bowl, I watched with admiration at the great Jim Steeg Juggling Act when on the car phone, you had the Rev. Jesse Jackson, Paul Brown, George Halas, and a representative of the White House while you and Brownie and Weiss settled the matter positioning of coin flip participants, or something equally critical.

Thank you, Steeg, for the fun and the lessons, helping take Tampa to the bigtime, but mostly for the unchanged friendship.

McEwen

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Farewell to Angelo

Posted Feb 6, 2012 by The Tampa Tribune

Updated Feb 6, 2012 at 11:48 PM

By LINDA McEWEN

The world seemed a little sadder today, after one of Tom’s great friends, Angelo Dundee, died. In typical fashion, on looking at Dundee’s great little book of his life, “My View From the Corner,” I saw that he wrote to Tom: “To My Friend,” and to his wife, Helen Dundee, he said, “You are a rare and wonderful woman. Thank you for being everything that a wife and mother should be. You are my last fighter and the greatest fighter I ever had.”

After coming back from Muhammad Ali’s 70th birthday party, where he had a wonderful time, Angelo’s health took a turn for the worse and he died at the age of 90.

One of the last times Angelo visited Tom in our home was for a long question and answer session for ESPN, which turned into an animated conversation with the great trainer and the great writer remembering their lives well-spent in sports and of all the great figures they both knew.

Angelo was a sweet man, beloved by his family and his son, Jimmy, who drove him around in his more frail later years. For me, it was a special time being around them with all of their treasured history. Both knew Cassius Clay, nee Muhammad Ali, and one of the world’s greatest boxing heavyweights of all time, Angelo being his trainer.

During those years, we remember the “Rumble in the Jungle” in 1974, high boxing drama in Zaire in darkest Africa. Ferdie Pacheco, Muhammad’s doctor, frequently told the story of that fascinating fight. Then the “Thrilla in Manila,” with Muhammad and Joe Frazier (from my home state of South Carolina), who probably was one of the toughest fighters of them all.

Howard Cosell loved broadcasting and commenting during this era and was the best ever with his captivating voice and personality. At these boxing matches no trainer was more skilled or popular than Angelo Dundee. He was well liked by all who knew him during his long career in the boxing world.

Goobye Angelo. Tom went before you, so now you two can get together again way up there and tell some great stories about Ali, about George Foreman, about Ken Norton and of course, Smokin Joe Frazier, and many others.

We miss you Angelo - and Tom both - now.

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Looking Back: Tom on Jon Gruden

Posted Feb 1, 2012 by The Tampa Tribune

Updated Feb 1, 2012 at 06:09 PM

It is always a challenge to hire a new pro football coach, to find the right fit, the right background and the upbeat, can do, winning attitude. So we have the very highest expectations of the Bucs new Coach Greg Schiano, just hired after a successful run at Rutgers.

Tom wrote a very good comprehensive piece on Coach Jon Gruden below, who was brought in a similar situation and went on to win the Super Bowl.

What fun that was!

Hey Coach Schiano, do the same. - Linda

Brainy Bunch

Kathy and Jim Gruden have not just been the parents of their three sons, but three sons who are all brainy and successful. Yep, it is that Gruden Family with boys, Jim, Jon and Jay. Jim is a chief of radiology, Jim a quarterback and Jon the coach of the 2003 Super Bowl champion Buccaneer_. This look at that admired family was prepared before that Super Bowl victory.

TAMPA-The Gruden Family, now even more important to Tampa, is one long on brains, football, male genes and the right stuff whose macho members will declare the leading lady the real star.

That would be Kathy Gruden, wife of Jim, mother of sons Jim, Jon and Jay, grandmother of six more boys, recently retired favorite teacher at upscale Berkeley Preparatory School here who quit at the suggestion of the sons to take care of her grandkids, all boys.

That will get a little easier now that her second son, Jon, has accepted the head coaching job of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and he’ll be heading back this way from Oakland and the Raider coaching job from which the Buc owners are paying a bigtime ransom to tree him.

“When Jim and I were married I was a giant Cleveland Indian fan,” she said recently, “so big I told my uncle I planned to have nine boys so I could have my one team. Well, I have these three sons and now six grandsons, so I got my team.”

Husband Jim college coached all over the place, at Dayton for John McVay, for Lee Corso at Indiana, for Dan Devine at Notre Dame. Then, husband Jim

in 1982 came to Tampa more than a decade ago to coach Buc running backs (James Wilder) for the late John McKay, then made this wonderful place in which we live the Gruden Family homestead, despite coaching at other NFL spots, including serving as a scout for the Forty- Niners for the last 10 years. Know this, when Ray Perkins, now moved back to Tampa as well, became the head coach of the Bucs, the Gruden daddy, Jim, was released, The father then and went to the Niners for the scouting career, but continued to make Tampa his home. In time, Gruden son Jon became the head coach out at Oakland where Ray Perkins had become an assistant coach. Perkins, of course, left for other jobs, and in time back to Tampa, where irony surfaces again with Jon Gruden now moving back to take over the job Perkins once had.

But, now let’s move to the Gruden sons, to more football and more brains.

Eldest son Jim, 40, was a doctor-scientist in a big job in radiology at Atlanta’s Emory University, then in Arizona. He was the valedictorian of his South Bend., Ind., high school, a summa ##### laude graduate of Notre Dame and a 4.0 man at the University of Miami medical school. He had one B at Notre Dame-in Catholicism.

Jon, the Buc coach to-be, 38, was a quarterback at Dayton, but not in the pros. He is a computer whizbang, a workaholic, a human memory bank. He became the offensive coordinator for the Philadelphia Eagles Davis hired him to be the head coach at Oakland. He got into the pros because of his computer work and application of that knowledge to coaching, because of his innovation.

Youngest son Jay, 33, best known to us hereabouts, was a Billy Turner quarterback at Tampa Chamberlain, and a good one. He won a scholarship to quarterback for Howard Schnellenberger at the University of Louisville, before being the best Arena Football quarterback in the business. Four times he quarterbacked Tampa Bay Storm to championships, for Fran Curci, then for Tim Marcum, moving to Orlando to coach and administer there, successfully. Someone might, just might, come back to Tampa now, with good wife Sherri, former Buc marketing expert. Might, just might be a spot for him with the Bucs, now.

Now, in the Family Gruden, Jay has always complained his two brothers got all the brains, but, this young man has done well in this family of achievers, and of no-trouble sons. No trouble, at all. Honest.

“Not one minute,” said their dad. “Cops never came to the door. Principal never punished them. Never were smart-alecs to us. And, they’re smart, too.
Lucky, aren’t we?”

I’ll say.

But, Corso, now a top-notch ESPN college football analyst not only says papa Jim was the best recruiter “and a terrific influence on the sons, but in my mind, it was their wonderful mother who deserves most of the credit,” getting no argument from anyone.

Now, this is not to suggest any comparison of any kind, but clearly the Bucs have a brilliant young man as the new head coach.

Hear his dad on second son, Jon: “He installed the computer system at the Niners, and then at Philadelphia. He uses them wisely and extensively, I mean, he did that at the other places and now he did at Oakland. Jon will work all night. He needs only three or four hours if sleep. He’s no-nonsense,” his dad said. “He hires strong people, gets along with players and never, ever forgets anything. Even now, he can recite every player we had when I coached for Corso at Indiana, recite their names, numbers and positions. He’s an elephant. Yet, he listens. Not a spout-off. He never played pro ball, but football he has on the field and in his mind all his life.”

There’s another thing.

Jon Gruden is a popular choice, young, gifted, and out of that superb Gruden Family.

Oh, sure, Steve Spurrier would have been a top-notch choice. And we still don’t know why there was no publicly-acknowledged pursuit of him. No, Bill Parcells would not have been a popular pick. And no, neither would Marvin Lewis, or the Maryland coach, or perhaps any of the others, except Steve Mariucci of the Niners. Not really. But, Jon Gruden is a dandy land, despite the cost.

Dandy. Won’t have to mend fences, or win over the fans. He’ll have them going in. Big problems: Offense, quarterback, O-line, players to fill needs to be lost with draft choice penalties.

Of course, nothing mattered, because young Gruden performed beyond all expectations by going to and winning the Super Bowl so very quickly in 2002. No one ever questioned his selection by the Malcolm Glazer ownership nor his work habits again.

The suddenness of it? Well, …well, it ... well, do you hear what I hear, a small male chorus (The Gruden Family Choir) over at One Bucko Place singing that George Gershwin show tune:

“They all laughed at Christopher Columbus when said the world was round…” And a bit later, “ooh, ooh, ooh. . . . whose got the last laugh now?”

With the background humming male chorus, the Glazer Men’s Choir, working the background music.

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A Toast (Hear! Hear!) To Baseball

Posted Jan 21, 2012 by The Tampa Tribune

Updated Jan 21, 2012 at 12:47 AM

In honor of Derek Jeter’s 9th Annual Celebrity Golf Tournament for 2012 at the Avila Golf andCountry Club in Tampa, he received the Lou Gehrig Memorial Award in recognition of his charitable work with youngsters, given at the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel Wednesday. Jeter recently became the first Yankee to reach 3,000 career hits and resides in Tampa in the offseason and says he loves it.

Here’s a hilarious 2009 piece by Tom about one of the annual Governor’s Luncheons and its history honoring baseball and the Spring Training Season held in Tampa Bay. - Linda

Charlie Crist continues his revived Governor’s Baseball Dinner at St. Pete’s Tropicana Field tonight, designed to salute the sport that has meant so much to Florida throughout all of the springs with teams readying for the season ahead, such as our Tampa Bay Rays.

This has been an off and on affair since it all started a couple of years before World War II with baseball people and sportswriters and radiocasters in an organized drinking and jawing party at the old Tampa Terrace hotel in Downtown Tampa under the supervision of the bartenders at the Terrace Bar. The writers of the 40s, 50s and 60s favored the Terrace for key reasons. They could be helped to their rooms, the bar was open until all had left, thrown out or passed out, and Western Union was around the corner to press rate their stories north, east and west. Plus Howard Wright was an understanding bartender/manager, and early on their was a late afternoon flight to New York to carry film there.

So, all those years ago, Terrace managers and/or bartenders Frank Winchell, George Mason and Wright decided to have a little wing-ding for the writing and radio crowd at the Terrace, and they did, and they doing it. Eventually Tampa realized it was a good idea, and did it for years with Ralph Chapman of the Chamber, then got tired of it and gave it up to St. Petersburg and promoter/booster Bill Bunker. Then Orlando had it, then Lakeland, when Crist, a sport and married man now, revived it and hometown St. Pete wanted to do it again. So it was held, with Nick Gandy in charge for the state, sold nearly 1,000 tickets at $100, rubbed shoulders with those big names who made it. Baseball Commissioner Bud Selig said he’d make it.

The Baseball Dinner has waxed dandy, OK and a bummer. The smaller, intimate ones were well-attended by writers, casters, owners, execs and players. Joe Garagiola emceed one, Ralph Kiner one, Red Mitchum one, Lindsey Nelson one, and perhaps Gabe Paul of the Cincinnati Reds.

Governors have come much of the time. Claude Kirk was a regular, Bob Graham was there often, as well as Lawton Chiles and LeRoy Collins. At one, Howard Collee’s introduction of Gov. Fuller Warren went on so long, Frank Grayson of the old NEA weekly network yelled, “shut up and let the man speak for himself!” It worked.

Once, a musical group performing was so poor, half the crowd got up and walked out.

Formerly the program included big-deal door prizes, including boats and motors. The prizes were on display before the dinner in the Terrace lobby. One year, resourceful thieves arrived in coveralls and told the desk guys they were there to get the prizes. They did, loaded them on their truck and left. No one ever saw the prizes again.

Not long ago, I came across an invitation list Winchell once gave me. Here are some of those sports newsmen attending the Dinner:

Oscar Fraley, Arthur Daly, Red Smith, Lou Smith, Tom Siler, Frank Grayson, Tom Swope, Si Burick, Frank Eck, Harry Grayson, Pete Norton, Bobby Hicks, Red Newton, Wilbur Kinley, Leo Peterson, Jack Hand, Gayle Talbot, Joe Reichler, John Carmichel, Leo Ward, Lyall Smith, Roy Stockton, Dan Daniel, Joe Trimble, Ben Epstein, Milt Gross, Frank Graham, Hy Goldberg and Heywood Broun.
Not a bad staff, eh?

In the papers Winchell willed to me was a letter dated Feb. 26, 1946 from Frank Winchell, long gone now, but until his last days a promoter, to C. C. Vega in which he said he planned to start the Baseball Dinner. He did. He got it done.

Oh, it sputtered, stopped and starated, or was jump-started again by Gabe Paul, by Chapman, by Earl Hastead, who published Baseball Bluebook with Bill Bunker for a time, so many who have thought enough of it, and its history to keep it alive at least through last night, the latest mover being Gov. Crist.

Howard Wright and Frank Winchell must also be hailed as founders, as well as the cornerstone, the Tampa Terrace bar, where the originating newsmen started it and continued it with repeated toasts, even an attempted one that did not work.Wright told me long ago of the writer who came into the bar one morning before heading to a baseball spring camp and ordered a shot of whiskey.

But, as he lifted the glass near his lips, he suffered a heart attack and fell over dead.Wright said he was certain if he could have gotten the drink down, he’d have lived.

The man on the next stool toasted the fallen writer and drank the shot himself. He said he knew the downed scribe well enough to know he would not have wanted it wasted.

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Tebow Time, once again

Posted Jan 13, 2012 by TBO.com

Updated Jan 13, 2012 at 11:38 PM

Tom McEwen loved Tebow when he was at Florida, one of his best pieces about him is below and how he related to him as an extraordinary football player and for his wonderful missionary background.

Win against New England Saturday night for us, Tim! - Tom and Linda
 
Morning After Sept. 25, 2009
 
Tebow on a mission for the Gators

Florida Gator expert Buddy Martin, now active in that role as an identified historian of that near religious experience, wondered in a phone call the other day if in the long Gator historical pursuits had I declared Tim Tebow the best yet to snap the Orange and Blue helmet on.

I said I had not because I felt so that was and would be before he returned to Missionary work in the Philippines where as a kid lieutenant I had spend so many World War II and post WWII years as a 20-year-old prison officer of AWESPAC POW Camp No. 1 outside of  Manila. He and his parents missionaried there, and I bet, will again.

Enchanting place, the Philippines, of which Tebow and his family grew up in the atmosphere of the Christian missions, doing good, doing right, became the family the Tebows came to be.

Declare now and will affirm later that if Tim Tebow is not yet the best of the best, he will be. He can move to that tonight in Lexington where his wonderful Florida Gator team Urban Meyer has assembled can advance closer to another national championship for the Gators to more personal accolades. I declare that, and should, though the ambushes still lie awaiting at Georgia, and at Florida State. FSU has a far better team than most want to admit, unless official ongoing inquiry suggests misdeeds along the way. May, may not.

Florida history is, and truth so is that of  FSU, but less recently, punctuated with superb performers that highlight even more the top achievers.

The Gators reach to their all-male days of the Coach James A. Van Fleet, to J.

Rex Farrior, to Coach Charles Bachman and the great national scoring champions of 1928 who led the nation and were  headed for the Rose Bowl when a mysteriously wet field on a dry day in Knoxville entrapped the speedy, slipping and sliding Gators to defeat by the Tennesseans. In the years ahead, Gator greats would emerge such as Cannonball Clyde Cragtree, a 5-8, 150 pound player who could pass with either arm, and kick with either foot and dazzle the Gators of those days as Gators of later years like Nat Moore, Emmett Smith and Larry Smith would.

Gator football advanced, with setbacks of course, through the Fergie Ferguson times though those of Nat Moore, to the return of the prodigal Steve Spurrier and now our emerged Tim Tebow. Gator fears now are for survival of this fittest.

Does any Gator in Blue look safer, more fit, more reassured, when Tebow announces as he changes directions, as he takes a snap, from the crouch, steps back one or two steps, to his right or left, downhill towards those waiting, stares and declares, with a snarl, here I come, and there he flings himself full blown into the body blockade.  He may get bounced once or twice. He is seldom stopped full on the first, or second thrust, or, until Tebow has the pile going his way, goalward, will he stop. This man of the Philippines almost always gets his way. Then he snarls as they do in the Province of Pampanga.

There is not a Gator, now or yesterday, who at that moment won’t rise, give the Chop and declare that it is good to be a Florida Gator, at least in these times of Tim Tebow when he cuts, heads toward six and one of  those defensive backs under their breath, like the frog in the commercial whispers “oh, dear,’’ as the big man in the suit has turned back and began his fall backward to crush the frog. 

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Vintage Tom McEwen for a Happy New Year

Posted Jan 8, 2012 by The Tampa Tribune

Updated Jan 8, 2012 at 12:54 AM

Breakfast Bonus for the Holidays

Over your Christmastime glass of chilled, spicy tomato juice, over-toasted pre-buttered Cuban bread thinly sliced, two basted eggs atop buttered grits, a slice of holiday baked ham, chilled sliced tomatoes with mayonnaise dashes, glass of cold milk, coffee, then a mouth-cleansing bite of two of the red apples someone gave you, this special Saturday morning trilogy:

A friend sent along an essay written by Robert J. Hastings titled, “The Station.”

The wife of a friend of his read it at the funeral of her young husband, former Miami Dolphin, Wayne Moore.

Allow me to share it with you.

“Tucked away in our subconscious is an idyllic vision. We see ourselves on a long trip that spans the continent. We are traveling by train. Out the windows we drink in the passing scene of cars on nearby highways, of children waving at the crossing, of cattle grazing on the hillside, of smoke pouring from a power plant, of rows of corn and wheat, of flatlands and valleys, of mountains and rolling hillside, of city skylines and village halls.”

“But uppermost in our minds is the final destination. On a certain day at a certain hour we will pull into the station. Bands will be playing and flags waving. Once we get there so many wonderful dreams will come true and the pieces of our lives will fit together like a completed jigsaw puzzle. How restlessly we pace the aisles, damming the minutes of loitering -waiting, waiting, waiting for the station.”

“When we reach the station, that will be it!’ we cry. ‘When I’m 18. When I buy a new Mercedes Benz!  When I put the last kid through college!  When I have paid off the mortgage!  When I get a promotion!  When I reach the age of retirement, I shall live happily ever after!’

“Sooner or later we must realize there is no station, no one place to arrive at once and for all.  The true joy of life is in the trip. The station is only a dream. It constantly outdistances us.”

“‘Relish the moment,’ is a good motto, especially when coupled with Psalm 118:24: ‘this is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.’

“It isn’t the burdens of today that drive men mad. It is the regrets over yesterday and the fear of tomorrow. Regret and fear are twin thieves who rob us of today.

“So, stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles, instead, climb more mountains, eat more ice cream, go barefoot more often, swim more rivers, watch more sunsets, laugh more, cry less. Life must be lived as we go along. The station will come soon enough.” 

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From the past: God’s QB Club Has Its First Speaker, Now

Posted Oct 16, 2011 by TBO.com

Updated Oct 16, 2011 at 12:12 AM

I thought it a good idea, since John Wright, Dean of the College of Journalism and Communications at the University of Florida is coming down to discuss with a group of us how to create scholarships in Tom McEwen’s name this week, that I submit to you this classic eulogy dedicated to his great old Gator friend. - Linda
 

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He was funny and he was fun. He was a Gator and he was committed to make all around him laugh. So, he was perfect for his River City sales routine. He could entertain you one-on-one or if you were among 1500 at a dinner. He was a solid athlete, great citizen, remembered your name. But ailments lingered and he left for a speaking job in Heaven. This is a eulogy by America’s Friend, Red Mitchum.
 
OCALA- If The Lord’s 2003-04 Quarterback Club fiscal year starts mid-summer, Red Mitchum will be His first speaker.

Red became available on this Special agenda this weekend.

The best at what he did, make you laugh on a full belly, Red Mitchum left our QB Club tables for that of The Lord when he died quietly this mid-May weekend in Ocala after being our buddy all these years.

Red Mitchum, Florida Gator to the bone, down home humorist who had that rarest of qualities, to make you laugh at the same story be was telling you for the umpteenth, died at 78 after so many serious ailments flat wore out his big ole, good ole, funny ole, friendly ole, Alabama-born body.

Anyone who knew Red Mitchum, even Gator Haters, loved him, and he loved every dadgum one of us all, even Georgia Bulldogs, even Florida State Semiholes he loved to bait, even when they were winning.

A bunch of his pals drove from Tampa here Monday to say so-long, to visit with good wife Grace, son Scott, and the other kids. A graveside service was scheduled the next day. Didn’t care to have a regular service in a full church.

Heck, Red may have gotten up and asked is if we heard the one about the gal from Georgia, and we had. In fact, he had a story, and a good one, about an old woman who was so bent over they had to strap her down and straight in the casket.

During the service, the straps broke as the preacher was preaching and she reared up in a sitting position. Red said not everyone could get out through the door, so he said the husband of the bereaved found himself running down the road with the preacher passing him. The preacher had a window sash around his neck, as did the surviving husband, causing the minister to say, still on a dead run, “Dad blast a church that has only one door!”

So, I asked Grace Mitchum, the great and gracious wife, Grace, if he told jokes to the end.

“Absolutely,” said great wife, Grace. “Even when there was no one in the room with him but me, he’d tell one of those old jokes and laugh and laugh,” like he did when stories to the Birmingham, or the Miami, for the Jacksonville Quarterback Clubs, or the Truss Manufacturers of America. You know Red would talk to anyone, anytime, anywhere. He liked to get paid, but the laughs were enough, plus a free meal and the good he did with his appearances for the Gators of his boss-buddies in Florida Lime Rock, Whit Palmer and Fred Montsdeoca Wilbert said, ‘but, ob, heck, Red, Hahira ain’t no big town.’ And it wasn’t and they got married and lived happily the rest of their lives.”

Yes, Grace said he was telling all those, and all the old Gator stories, like he’ll be telling to old friends who’ve forgotten the old ones and haven’t heard the new ones who haven’t, or pretended they hadn’t.

“I hope,” said friend Leonard Levy, who made the trip Wednesday, “he’ll be introduced by Huerta or Kynes as the most improved Gator football player in history-after graduation.”

Gator Booster buddy Tom MacDonald says he’ll have to tell the true one about Coach Ray (Bear) Wolf at Florida taking a long time to work with tackles Mitchum and Curtis King, emphasizing that the tackle position was where games are won or lost. Then, in the Q-A session afterwards when Wolf (the Golden Era 0-13 head man) asked King “where are most college football game lost games lost, King answered in that country tenor of his,  “why, right here at Florida, coach.”

In truth, Mitchum was a quality player, an entertainer at heart, and surely had Gator scales on his hide.

In New Orleans, in the Sixties, when a Florida-LSU game was postponed because a hurricane was on its way, Gator reporting Orlando Sentinel man Bob Bassine, writer Jack Hairston, and I went down to the Pat O’Brien saloon on bourbon street where the big ladies played twin pianos and sang college songs, along with a man who knew the words to them all, and a song and dance man who kept time with his nails clicking a tempo on the bottom of a metal plate with coins on it, at the same time tap-dancing. Well, the wind was coming up and when the singer left early, Red Mitchum, with some urging, took over for some singing, plus the stroking of a set of safety matches like a miniature banjo in time with the music, of course. Red could sing, folks, and play those matches. A favorite song with that accompaniment knew sung best by Red was: “Just a Bowl of Butter Beans. . . Pass the cornbread if you please…”

We went home in New Orleans that night, rose early to catch the last train north to beat the storm, and did, to return to Baton Rouge in December later where the Florida team of Steve Spurrier, Jack Harper, Graham McKeel and that crowd won big time for a major bowl bid. But, I wrote about the stormy night in New Orleans and bow Red Mitchum had saved us aU and Pat O’Brien’s profits.

Somehow, I guess, well, he called early, he’d told wife Grace by phone he and the rest of the Gators were stranded in the Roosevelt Hotel and Mitchum was born in rural Alabama and was raised by an early widowed mother who worked in a cotton mill. Red was big, and he was a good athlete. He hitchhiked to Gainesville where he won a football scholarship to Florida. He would play for the worst of teams (0-13, called the Golden Era), and one of the best (1952 of Bob Woodruff) where his teammates became lifeline pals and joke subjects-Rick Casares, Haywood Sullivan, Doug Dickey, Angus Williams, Jack Pappas, Frank Lorenzo, Charlie LaPradd, Jimmy Kynes, Bufford Long, punter Montsdeoca and two buddies who were the butts of so many of his jokes, the late Coach Marcelino Huerta (guard) and King (tackle).

Mitchum said to me a long time ago it was so much better to be a part of the

0-13 Golden Era than the winning teams because you could talk endlessly and tell great stories about losing, but not many about winning, “because people get bored. Winning isn’t funny. Losing can be made fun. . .as in funny.”

When a Florida team was being pounded by a Great Alabama team coached by Bear Bryant, nobody taking more the brunt than linemen like Kynes (center), Huerta, him and King, “we broke the huddle to go face those gorillas like Bob Gain,”

Mitchum said, “and Curtis King, in his high, country voice said, ‘Come on Red and Jimmy, on the way up to the line, let’s yell something ugly at ‘em, even if we have to take it back.’ We did and we did.”

After college, Mitchum became the unofficial Gator spokesman, president of this or that relating to Florida, saw all the games, wore outlandish orange and blue, sold his products well, and simply left his audiences laughing and feeling good, all, by the way, without smut. He didn’t need it.

Well, here was an off color story for Mitchum.

There was, said, this friend named Melvin Drawdy from Eufala, Alabama, who told he his favorite thing was counting cars as they passed his second story hotel in Mobile. “Melvin got married and the couple went to Mobile for their honeymoon,”

Red said. “I asked him how things went, and Melvin said, “well, Red, I’ll tell you one thing, counting cars ain’t my favorite thing to do in Mobile no more.”

Here’s another one that should pass a Heavenly muster, about “another friend of mine,” said Red, “named Wilbert Wadsworth from Hahira, Georgia, who came home from the war and said he was going to marry Mary Beth Bradley. But, I told him while he was away, Mary Beth went out and got frisky with about every fella in Hahira, to which, frightened of the storm and bored. Then, she read in Ocala the Tampa Tribune Morning After I wrote for that Sunday and pasted it to Red’s bathroom mirror.

But, all in fun. No problem, though Red never forgot it, and said he’d thought the night out was off the record.

By the way, Red’s great son, Scott, said he found a cache of safety matches in his dad’s sock drawer. Among Red’s favorite things was to swipe packages of safety matches coat pocket, for later use. We, mom, my sisters Pamela and Sherry, know he was keeping a bunch so he could play them later when he spoke.’’

Yep, a Mitchum specialty, was to take out a packet safety matches, open  the flap and play the matches like a small hand-held guitar. It worked. It was neat as heck, especially his favorite song, “Butter Beans…..Just a bowl of butter beans,’’ he’d sing. And again, “Pass, the cornbread, if you please. . .’’ We all know butter beans were a Godly creation for Red, and surely was on that first menu of the Lord’s Inaugural QB Club Dinner featuring Red Mitchum, but ending with the standing and the singing of “We Are The Boys From Old Florida…..F-L-O-R-I-D-A . .,’’ and swaying, of course.

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From the Past: Life in the Lightning locker room

Posted Oct 8, 2011 by Tom McEwen

Updated Oct 8, 2011 at 12:35 AM

Tim Taylor is the first out of the locker room for the pre-game warm-ups. Brad Richards the last, Pavel Kubina second, or third, from the last.

That’s the way they want it. And that’s the way it is.

Vinny Lecavalier is the fastest dresser. Fred Modin still uses a wooden stick.

Dave Andreychuk keeps his old wooden KOHO stick from the 1984 Buffalo team on the Lightning bench, home and away, and Nolan Pratt submerges his head in cold whirpool (sink on the road) before heading for ice and warm-ups.

Jasson wets the palms of his gloves in from the water cooler, not the sink, before a game while Ruslan Fedotenko insists his gloves after every game and Brad Lukowich is in charge of the locker room music.

Yes, it is a moral hockey sin to allow your jersey, clean or dirty, practice or game to hit the locker room floor ever, even drag it, and, yes, at the Lighting home arena here you’ll take a verbal lashing and perhaps a fine, if you step on the club logo in that room.

Yes, generally, goalies are the most idiosyncratic, though Nikolai Khabibulin “is a regular guy, while John Grahame requires private time when he plays, between periods, not the least peculiar compared, say, to Gary “Suitcase” Smith who was the roommate of assistant Lightning equipment manger Jim Pickard years ago.

“Why, Smith would take off all of his gear, right through the jock strap, between periods, and then put it back on before play resumed,” said Pickard, “and, I mean every game. Once, he wore six pairs of socks at one time. Why all this? Because he was a goalie, I guess,” said Pickard who was the equipment manger of the New York Islanders ffrom 1972 through 1990, has worked four Stanley Cup winning teams, over 2,000 National Hockey League games and now with wife Ori thinks it terrific to be in his sixth year  at the Lightning. Ray Thill is the equipment manager and Dana Heinze an assistant like Pickard, whose times and stories are legendary.
 
He was precisely the right man with whom to visit and talk Lightning, locker room and equipment. He’s a young 52.

“This team, the Lightning? No goofballs. No jerks. Nice.” He said, confirming the thoughts of newsfolk assigned the Lightning, now.

On equipment, well, the team supplies all, except running shoes for the game site and the training site, including sticks. The sticks now are a combination of graphite and other materials, not just wood as they once were.

The new designs are “supposed to be stronger and more durable,” said Pickard.

“I know they are lighter. Cost? Oh, perhaps $110 to $125 each. I know if the players were playing for them, they’d use less.”

This, the Lightning, “is a fine locker room. A good group of men, and a real mix. I mean when I played there may have been one American while the rest were Canadian. You know how the Europeans have come over and made their home. Take our goalie, Khabibulin, he is a perfect example of a perfect adaptation, No real hang-ups. Not a prima donna. Does want his mask to be functional but beautiful and a reflection of his native Russia,” and it is. The gates of Leningrad can be seen clearly. No, Khabibulin has no hang-ups, no special needs.

Grahame,, however, when he plays, needs space before the game and between periods He has a chair placed outside the locker room a bit out off the path, where he readies mentally the six minutes before heading to the ice. On away games, he picks the spot for the Grahame chair and meditation, “where we will put a stopwatch for his timekeeping,” Said Pickard.
 
And the locker room smell—surely the most powerful in all of sports, certainly by my personal estimate, and I have a nose of the size and sensitivity to judge that, “well, me use an awful lot of spray,” said Pickard, but no sport produces the sweat in the amounts hockey does, then traps it in the heavy equipment for longtime penetration and then inhilation. A hockey locker room is a special place, hardly comparable to a perfume factory in Southern France, despite the deodorizing. Just can’t wash the playing equipment often and long enough to release all of the aroma.

“I know, I know,” said Pickard, “but it don’t bother me no more, for it is a room of fine young men here,” and it flat is.

“The highest pain tolerance has to belong to Cullimore, who had that laceration of over 100 stitches once but didn’t let it bother him. He’s special.
Been through a lot of adversity. Was waived through the league once, then sent down and now has become a landmark Lightning for four years

“St. Louis? Special? Yes. Because he has such powerful thighs and calves and is built close to the ice, he almost is never knocked off his feet. He also is always full out for everything, always moving. Fine player and team player.
Selfless.”

Speed dresser Vinny Lecavalier, is, “well, he likes a pre-game massage of his legs and arms. Some do. Some don’t. But Vinny, gets his massage at 6:15, for the 6:30 ice team. When he starts his massage, some guys are already dressed. He dresses starting about eight minutes before heading for the ice, Then, it I understood Tim Taylor rushes out of the room first and is ready to greet the others when they head out. Brad Richards wants to be the last out and he is, with Kubina second or third from last. So we got these little deals. Like Sarich (Cory). Who has to have a blue sharpie to mark his number on his stick—not red, not black, must be blue.”

This is a good crowd, a good team and a good locker room, Pickard said and most agree fully.

“The room is loose, a good mix of veterans and young guys, who get along well.

“They’d better. That’s what the coach (John Tortorella) wants. No crap in the locker room. None. And everyone on this staff and squad knows where they stand at all times. Torts sees to that.”

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Jim Murray, uncensored

Posted Oct 1, 2011 by Linda McEwen

Updated Oct 1, 2011 at 04:16 PM

        Jim Murray was simply the best sports writer in the newspaper business.

            No, he was simply the best writer who wrote sports, primarily, in recent years.  But, he was selfless, without ego, helpful to young writers whose names he always committed to memory and flattered by calling them by name on second meeting.

            Oh, I am not qualified to say who was the best, but during his days in the 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, with the Los Angeles Times as his home base he was out flagship in sports writing, so many thought and still think.

            Yes, Red Smith was comparable wonderful, so admired and copied, but he had a completely different approach, as did the greats a bit longer ago, well, remember the Four Horsemen?

            All were heroes to their peers, and are still.

            Red Smith said he only wrote with the blood that poured from his fingers, he said. Runyon wrote fiction facing a bare wall, so as not to distract, but he wrote live beautifully from his pressbox seat, especially at fights and horse racing, and, as we all know, wrote fiction Broadway in the present tense. Almost all loved horse racing, especially Rice, Runyon and Cannon. Cannon and Grizzard drew on their own experiences, or those contrived.

Grizzard specialized in humor of this Southland and became a standup entertainer, until an early death interrupted his matchless career.

            Grizzard was a sports writer who wrote sports, then moved over to the news side and wrote of his own experiences, took shots at himself always, mixed fact and fiction, with comedy foremost always.  He died too young and at his peak and of the heart disease he wrote so often and so lightly.

            Smith loved fishing along with baseball and horse racing. Fly-fishing enchanted him, as did boxing.  Murray loved horse racing, football and golf, primarily golf, at which he was lousy, but so perceptive.

            Smith lived and wrote from his New York City, as did Cannon, Rice, Runyon, and many of the other greats, notably those of the wire services, such as Will Grimsley, Frank Eck, Milt Richman, and an endless list. But, won’t get stuck here. Easy to do that.

            Grizzard was from rural Georgia, with the Atlanta Constitution/Journal (of Furman Bisher) his homebase. He spent a few uncomfortable years in Chicago, but could not stand the arena and returned to his more natural habitat, Gaw-gaw, and thrived. Grizzard was a genuinely funny man, in print and speech.

            All of these writers were far beyond me and my readership. However, all writers in other days loved to come to Florida for the winter, for baseball spring training, the golf tour, horse racing in Tampa and Miami, tennis, indeed all sports which swung through the Sunshine State in the winter and early spring. Some years back, they all headquartered for a part of their time in Tampa, my town, because of the location, a fine airport, easy access to a dozen big league baseball teams in spring training, and because of the good Western Union services in the days stories were transmitted to their papers by wire.

That meant, they read my newspaper, for news, and for ideas. Believe me, most writers read widely for those ideas, to (1) steal, (2) suggest others. So, I knew all of the great ones personally. It was a treat. It was special. It was an honor. It was fun.

            Long years ago at a banquet, I introduced myself to the great Red Grange. He said, smiling, “Oh, I know you, Tom. I read you every day,’’ and I did write six days a week for 33 years. “I live in Indian Lake Estates and commute from your great airport to Chicago to do the Bear games on television and radio.’’

            Now, since I wrote a daily column (The Morning After) and ran my growing sports department on a major Florida newspaper, I was asked to do seminars several years at the American Press Institute, then held at Columbia in New York City. It was a bigger deal than I thought it was, and I probably was far underqualified. But, I did it, leading the sessions in different years on sports writing, column writing, and sports editing.

            About a half dozen years, or more, after appearances there, a Tribune associate, Nick Pugliese, and I were in Atlanta covering a Southeastern Conference basketball tournament. I suggested, the work done, we go to Bulkhead an eat dinner at a restaurant called Vic’s, I think. It was a spot former Georgia Tech and Florida Gator Coach Ray Graves and the college crowd favored, with a piano player doing the college songs and the crowd singing, as they did in Pat O’Brien’s with twin pianists in the New Orleans. But, this night in Atlanta, the cab driver let Nick Pugliese and me out near the old Vic’s restaurant. It was closed, and had been for a time.

            We started walking and came upon a small restaurant which had a big black limo parked in front. Seated inside, I quickly saw columnist Lewis Grizzard at a nearby table with a lady, just as a waiter came up to us and said:

            “Mr. McEwen, Mr. Lewis Grizzard would like to buy you a bottle of champagne. Do you have a choice, sir?’’

            I said, “his favorite.’’

            Minutes later, I went to the Grizzard table and said: “Thanks, old friend, but why the champagne.’’

            “I owe you, Tom. Do you remember several years ago when you led a sports writing seminar at Columbia University in New York?’’

            I nodded. I did. I did not remember that Lewis was in the session, for about 30 were, from all over. It was an honor to know now he had been.

            “It was a Saturday morning,’’ said Grizzard, a ##### laude in partying. “We had been out late the night before. We were hungover for the 8 a.m. seminar. We did not want to be in a class but had to go. When we walked and sat down at the long table, you were ready in the center. You had a portfolio in front of us, a pencil, a pad, and God Love You, a miniature of Smirnoff vodka, ice in a glass, a bottle of tomato juice, and a lime slice for our Bloody Marys. You saved our lives. We loved you. Thanks again.’’

            When the champagne came, we toasted the lessons of Columbia University again.

            And Jim Murray, the best, two golf involvements come from memory.
          
  At Salisbury, N.C., playing with furniture host John Carter, with Olympic sprint legend Jesse Owens, and me, on the third hole, Owens broke wind, and loudly, on Murray’s backswing. Murray’s tee shot sliced out of bounds.

            “Damn, Jesse, no wonder you were so quick out of the blocks.’’

            “Yeah, yeah,’’ laughed the Owens, causing him to break wind again, and just as loudly, “but no penalty. Hit another. Call it by the book, interference with an outside agency.’’

            Murray didn’t need any coaxing. He took another, stayed in bounds, but took another double bogey.

            Then, at his home course at Riviera,  where the stars played (James Garner was ahead of u), we put our clubs on his electric cart. He couldn’t get it started, turned to me and deadpanned;

            “My God, Tommy, I’ve bogied the golf cart!’’

            Noble profession, sportswriting.

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A Tom tale from outside the world of sport

Posted Sep 18, 2011 by TBO.com

Updated Sep 18, 2011 at 12:57 AM

By LINDA McEWEN

Sometimes the world just gets too heavy these days, so I thought you might want to read this old story of Tom’s about his experience outside of sports. Guess you thought he was a slick character who never got embarassed or got in a fix. This will change your mind!

A special thanks to the Bucs for their tribute to Tom at the game last Sunday. The whole family was there and we appreciate the lovely video of Tom and his life in sports, especially with the Bucs. The family was rounded up by Brian Ford of the Bucs and we all had a good rememberance of our buddy.

Suddenly, Women Were Everywhere

August 25, 1972

An old friend, Matt Jetton, a successful Tampa developer of top of the line golf courses and homes, asked me to play with him in the first foursome on his new course, Carrollwood Village in mid-August, 1975. I did. I got more than that which I had bargained - -ot the accompanying descriptive column that was well received. Had no idea so many people who read and wrote and been trapped as I had been on this fretful day.

Over your sliced Georgia peaches (they’re in now) with cream and sugar, two slices French toast heavy with egg, sprinkled powdered-sugar and maple syrup atop, two slices Canadian bacon, cold milk, coffee, then a mouth-cleansing fresh plum (they’re in too), learn of this drama at breakfast and be glad it was not you.

Since the opening of the first 27 holes of the luxurious Carrollwood Village golf complex represented a hallmark event in the sport in our town, it seemed my duty to be there Wednesday last, verily even to play, though the weather was foul and the hour seemed earlier than the 8 a.m. really was.

I would play with great golfer Gary Koch, University of Tampa Athletic Director Gus Dielens and ex-Tulsa coach Glenn Dobbs, now among us permanently in behalf of Jim Harrell’s Pontiacs.    “.­

I would shoot poorly (88) but win because I brought college All-America player Koch along to ride, and I would have about the best reason a fellow can have- surely a unique one, I think- for playing poorly.

I was unnerved from an experience just before tee off that was surely a first (and hopefully a last) for me, and unsettling, just as it will be unsettling to others on revela­tion.

As mentioned, the hour was early, the departure from home hasty.

On arrival, I quickly announced to friend Glenn Peeples, who is a golf director, and manager Mike Cleveland that it was going to give me a feeling of pride to be the first to use their men’s room in the new, spiffy pro shop Bobby Stricklin and Ron Cupick will staff.

Cleveland said he’d be just as proud of such a christening except that the rest rooms weren’t complete yet.

Blood returned to my face when he added that, however, there were available John­nies-On-The-Spot 300 yards away at the swimming pool complex, even though he thought the regular rest rooms were functioning already.

The obliging and concerned Peeples said to hop in his golf cart and he’d rush me there to see the three new pools and inspect the new rest room facilities.

I survived a tour of the complex and a conversation with Roger McKinney, a work­man there and a heckuva baseball player for the University of Tennessee, then double timed with Peeples into the new rest rooms.

He guided me past the lavatory area into the back where there were three-in-a-row stalls with lockable doors. After checking one, holding the door open and bowing with appropriate gallantry for such a christening, Peeples said, “Be our guest.”

I rushed in, then rushed out yelling to the departing Peeples that it was nice but the spool hip-level on the roller was so new it was empty, No paper.

He said to rest assured, he’s go to a nearby Johnnie-0n-The-Spot and bring a supply.

He returned a few minutes later and shouted over the door that they were out too, and he’d have to go to the pro shop and find something suitable. It would take a while. I said it was okay, I surely wasn’t going anywhere.

He left.

There was silence, a time for reflection, for a few minutes, then it happened. Three women golfers came into the room.

One pushed gently on the door in front of me, perhaps spotted my feet, and then they began making use of the unoccupied facilities next door to me.

Gad!

They’d be mortified if they knew I was in there. Not just a man, but a reporter. I’d be mortified if they saw me.

I quickly lifted my trousers off the tile, hoping my feet and legs would pass for those of a lady who’d let her shaving responsibilities slide a bit.

I thought of lifting my feet completely out of sight, but feared that might prompt a look over the top, the door being locked.

I put my hat on and sank as low as possible.

I tried not to listen to their conversations and their frustrations when they discovered what I’d discovered-the empty spools. No paper.

But, women carry purses and purses carry everything, so they solved what I couldn’t. Fortunately, none of them looked over the top of my cubicle.

I even planned how to raise my voice if some asked:

“Are you all right in there, honey?”

And once, while they were about, talking about this and that, milling around, the devil made me want to shout, brusquely:

“Hey, buddy, you got a match?”

Or, “Hey, don’t you know this is a men’s room!”

But, I didn’t.

It was either cowardly or cavalier, but I didn’t do anything but cringe and hold my breath.

Finally, rested, they filed out, still talking, the three sets of feet moving past my secret place.

Almost as if a comedy, no sooner were they gone, than Peeples came back, trium­phant, with roll in hand. Carefully, he shot it over the top pretending to be Wilt Cham­berlain.

He’d not even seen the ladies come and go.

Only I had. I mean, but only their feet and ankles.

I’ve teed off before large galleries, driven around Daytona Speedway and Sebring, had torpedoes shot at me, killed a rattlesnake with a stick, been bitten by a police dog, broken an arm and two ribs on one football play, had Japanese prisoners write me a plea in their own blood, but I don’t think I ever have been so panic-stricken as I was those minutes I was trapped in that stall in the women’s room.

So, unnerved, I shot the 88. It may have been my career round, considering.

On the way to the tee, I looked neither right nor left.

I didn’t want to see what Carrollwood ladies were about.

Truth is, I think I’d recognize the three sets of shoes. I wonder if they’d recognize mine? Gad!

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