STICKS & STONES

I was a bit taken aback by a recent response to one of my posts on Facebook. I really wasn't surprised by the sentiment as the guy who posted the comment possesses an outlook that is diametrically opposed to mine when it comes to just about everything and, yet, through our work in the media, we have garnered a healthy respect for each other and have often been able to hold a civil conversation. We have even threatened to get together for a beer or two on a number of occasions. Recently, however, he posted something as a response to someone else who responded to a post of mine that I just can't seem to let go of. Let me try to explain: After the legislature in Arizona passed a law that allows, and almost seems encourage, discrimination against members of the LGBT community based on religious beliefs, I posted an opinion. This law will also allow discrimination against Jews, Muslims, Sikhs, Atheists – basically anyone who is not a Christian, and let religious beliefs serve as the reason. My initial comment read, “I wonder how long it will be before members of the LGBT community will be forced to wear rainbow armbands so that those who choose to discriminate will know who to keep out. No armbands needed for people of color - they're obvious. As for non-Christians - Well, they can save money by distributing a few cases of used Star of David armbands that someone picked when visiting Germany a while back. When did the government in Arizona become the Fourth Reich? Honestly - this is exactly the kind of shit that people in MY family came here to escape - and this is just how it started!” I received quite a few comments including one from a friend in Texas who wrote, with tongue firmly embedded in cheek, “Finally a state with more rednecks per capita than Texas!” Well, that seemed to truly anger the guy who made the statement that this piece is about and, I knew he was pissed off when he made it. If fact it didn't take him long at all when he saw the “rednecks in Texas” observation to remark, “Liberals throw the redneck term so much, it is damn near racist... And some of us are getting kind of tired of it.” I am really very sorry to see that some of “you” are getting "kind of tired" of the term “redneck” which you see as being turned into something “damn near racist.” Probably about as "kind of tired" as I got of being called a “kike” and having rocks thrown at me by neighbors at about the age of 8. Or as "kind of tired" as I got of exclusion when I was told I couldn't pledge any of the fraternities on my college campus by the time I had reached 18. All frats and sororities on campus were “restricted.” Or as "kind of tired" as I got of being asked where my horns and tail were by some clown from Georgia (I hesitate to use the term redneck), who was dead serious and found a way to leave literature on my pillow, each night, warning me that I was bound for hell. I was all of 19. I didn't have the heart to tell him that we were both already in hell. It was called boot camp. Or as "kind of tired" as my parents got, while trying to buy a house in Connecticut, of all places, of being told that we weren't at all welcome nor allowed to buy in a number of areas. Or as "kind of tired" as my wife's extremely educated family got of being referred to as “niggers” and told they could not legally vote until the big, bad government stepped in in 1965 and gave them the ability to exercise the most basic of our rights, although, even in 2014, it's still made as difficult as possible. You see, pal, I do understand how you feel when you see the term redneck bandied about in such a cavalier way. I truly get it when you say that it's “damn near racist” to use the term. I might be a little more clear in my perception, however, if the terms I've had to deal with for my entire life hadn't far surpassed the “damn near racist” stage more than 60 years ago. The most ironic thing about his comment, however, was that it was a response to a friend who will be the first to use the term “Texas redneck” to describe himself. I suppose there might be a place in some minds that can find a modicum of racist implication in the term “redneck.” I'm just not sure where that could possibly be since the “art” of using the race of another as a way to hate, exclude and make life as miserable as possible for had to come from somewhere. When one group ranks others as inherently inferior and acts upon those beliefs to keep others down socially, economically, spiritually and institutionally and then gets called a name, I suppose I can "kind of" see their dilemma. What it all boils down to is the ironic fact that every single bit of this moronic nonsense could have been avoided if only the Samoset, the natives who were the first to encounter the pilgrims, had just had a tougher immigration policy.

CLOSET IGNORANCE

Michael Sam has caused quite the little brouhaha by coming out of the proverbial closet, which now sets him up to become the first “openly” gay player in the NFL. He's never, however, really been IN the closet. His family always knew he was gay as did his teammates at Missouri, the team he helped to a 12 and 2 season. His job is to play football. He does his job well. In fact, he does his job better than most. That's why he is on the football field in the first place. He's not there to score a date, he's there to prevent the other team from scoring a touchdown. He does his job well. There have been a number of comments from the world of professional football, a sport that has more than it's fair share of gay players that nobody knows about, so Sam would only be a “first” in a sense. In reality, the only difference between him and, easily, a dozen other players is that they do their jobs without talking about their personal lives. Michael Sam chose to “come out” months before the NFL draft, in plenty of time to diffuse all the negative and, ideally, be picked on his merit as the really good football player that he is. I have known gay people in radio, some who have done their job well and others who haven't. Those who did – achieved some semblance of success. Those who didn't – didn't. That's kinda how it works for anyone in any job. Of course, there are those who fear he will “look at them” while in the locker room or the shower. That, in itself, seems a bit egotistical on their part. Do they really think they are so attractive that anyone would even want to look at them in a locker room? Little do they know but they have been showering with gay men for quite a while. Everyone who has ever played a sport has showered somebody who is gay and never knew it because it was always as irrelevant as showering with a guy with a birthmark. You won't catch the birthmark and you won't catch the gay. It was never a problem for Sam in the Mizzou locker room as the team tallied up win after win after win. An anonymous (there's a surprise) player personnel assistant even had the gall to chime in with: "It'd chemically imbalance an NFL locker room." I was never aware that a football locker room was so important to the earth's ecosystem. You'd think the likes of anabolic steroids, Aderall and a plethora of pain killers had taken care of that environmental issue a long time ago. Sam is, most assuredly, not the first professional NFL player to identify as “gay.” David Kopay, running back for 5 different teams between 1964 and 1972 was the first NFL player to “come out of the closet,” albeit after he retired. He even revealed, in his post football career book, that he had an affair with another NFL player, who played for the Washington Redskins from 1965 – 1977. He remained unnamed in Kopay's book but everyone knew it was tight end (his position on the field, not a favorable review from Kopay) Jerry Smith. After Kopay, four others made themselves known after the fact – Roy Simmons in 1992, Esera Tuaolo in 2002, Wade Davis in 2012 and, in 2013 (after he left the game) offensive tackle Kwame Harris who played six seasons with the NFL as an Oakland Raider and a San Francisco 49er. His family had known he was gay ever since he discovered it as a young boy. His NFL teammates didn't have a clue. I'm not sure it would have been much of a problem for him, though, if they did. At 6'7” and weighing in at 320lbs, would YOU have been the one to tell him he couldn't take a shower? Try googling “LGBT Sports People” and then give yourself some time to read because the list is extensive. And it permeates every professional sport from baseball to basketball to football to hockey to soccer to tennis to swimming to handball to water polo.....and beyond. The difference? Most of them (depending on the sport) “came out” after they had finished with their careers, not before beginning them like Mr. Sam. Remember when Jackie Robinson became the first Black player in major league baseball? Well, of course you don't. That was in 1947 and, according to many, it was the end of our national pasttime as we knew it. Well, of course it wasn't. Baseball got progressively better as a result of opening it up all of the great players who, until that time, were forced to watch from the stands. That's when it truly became our national pasttime. When everyone had a right to play, if they were good enough, the bar was raised and the game got better. Part of Michael Sam's problem, as I see it, will be the front office personnel who are around my age and who still live ensconced in their little worlds of out dated morality and judgement. When they leave and the younger guys (and gals) take over, we will see a much more tolerant system where things like race, religion and sexual preference become as valid as hair and eye color or length of fingernails when it comes to finding players so the team can win games. What about Michael Sam? The NFL seems to be much more tolerant of domestic abusers, murderers and animal torturers like Michael Vick than it is of a guy who chooses to show his affection, in private, to someone outside the perceived norm. Will he still be at the top of the NFL draft? Will his fortunes fade and drop him to a much lower number? Will he even be drafted at all? That remains to be seen. It would be smart for a team to snap him up as soon as they can because if the archaic attitudes of some prevail, as a fierce defensive end, the players on the other team will stay away from him so they won't catch his disease and his team can win every game. Of course, if they did catch what he's got, would it be so bad? Openness and honesty are diseases we could all stand to suffer a little more from.

THE SWEET SCIENCE

When I was on the air in Philadelphia all those many years ago, whatever semblance of notoriety I had achieved gave me access to some very cool people, some of whom became pretty good friends. I was a young guy and gravitated toward the sports scene, which, at that time in Philly, was smokin' hot. The city's teams, the Phillies, the Eagles, the Flyers, the 76ers, were all at the top of their respective games and I had become friendly with a few guys from a few of the teams. As I reflect back, I can tell you that my friends were all really good people and I stand by my choices of friends over the years. One of my closest friends was a guy who lived in the next town east of me in South Jersey. His name was Mike Rossman. When people met him, they immediately liked him and found him, as I did, to be a gentle guy with a sweet disposition. When they would say things like, “That Mike's a really nice guy. What does he do?” I would say, “He boxes!” “He boxes?” Boy, did he box. When Mike and I met, I had the number one morning show in town and he was a fan of the show. He was the WBC Light Heavyweight champion of the world. I am to this day, a huge boxing fan. We were both young marrieds with young kids and we had a lot of similar interests. We started “hanging out.” He would let me go me with him when he would train at the funky little gym in South Philly that looked as if could have been setting for every hardcore boxing film you've ever seen. There was even the requisite little, old, gimpy guy sitting in the corner, just sort of keeping an eye on things. He was the “wisdom” of the glove game that permeated the place. One day, when we walked into the gym, Old Gimpy asked, in his unmistakeable South Philly way, “Hey, Mikey.....who's dis guy?” Mike said, “This is my friend, Bobby, think you can get him a fight?” He turned his glance to me and asked, “How much you weigh?” I thought for a brief moment and kinda joked, “About 158....a middleweight.” He didn't even blink before he said, “We'll get him Hagler.” My mouth hit the floor. Was this guy serious? Marvin Hagler was, at the time, the toughest guy in the middleweight division. All of the title holders, to a man, refused to give him a shot because they knew that after the fight, they would be going home without their belts. Get me Hagler? I looked back at the old guy and said, “Get me Hagler's SHIOES.....I'll make sure they look real shiny the next time he steps in the ring with someone who ain't me.” Mike won his WBC belt in 1978 on the undercard of of the Ali – Spinx rematch by defeating the heavily favored Victor Galindez. He successfully defended the title once that same year, stopping Italian challenger Aldo Traversaro in the fifth round. Then, in 1979, Galindez decided he wanted his belt back. The fight was set for February but, due to the challenger's embarrassing “no-show” the night of the fight, it was rescheduled for April at the Meadowlands. Rossman broke his right hand during the bout, severely limiting his boxing ability. The pain became worse over the course of the fight, and unbearable to a point where Mike told his father-manager after the ninth round that he couldn't go on. Galindez had reclaimed the championship. I was sitting front row, ringside with his wife and was taking pictures with his camera, documenting every excruciating moment of his down fall. The man they called "The Jewish Bomber" finished his professional boxing career 4 years later with a record of 44–7–3, with 27 knockouts. It wasn't long after Michael had lost the title he would never regain that I was bidding my farewell to the radio station that had just decided that we were no longer “a fit.” I called him and said, “Hey, pal....looks like we're both 'on the beach.” “C'mon over.” he said so I hopped in my car and drove the 12 or 13 minutes to his house in the next town. He beckoned me to the back yard where he produced a Whiffle Ball and bat and asked, “Wanna play Home Run Derby?” I couldn't think of anything that I would rather have been doing right then and there and so, we played into the evening. We were both going through a period where things were just not going right but I was confident that day, that my fates were about to change for the better. I kicked Mike's ass!