Everyone Shares Blame In Whittemore-Prescott Football Loss

One of Bob Dylan's lesser-known, but more powerful, pieces is a song called "Who Killed Davey Moore?"

Its lyrics detail the aftermath of a death in the boxing ring, and how everyone associated with the fight - the fans, referee, sports writer, manager and other fighter - all refused to take the blame.

If one took the message to heart, and used it to describe the football follies which have taken place at Whittemore-Prescott this year, it would probably sound something like this:

Who killed Whittemore?
How come it died, and what's the reason for?

"Not I," said the football player, after putting up with peer nay-sayers.
"I was out there on the field, playing with pain, refusing to yield.
Until we lost too many guys; to continue would have been suicide.
By nature, I am not a quitter - to be labeled as such is rather bitter.
But it wasn't me who made it fall. You can't blame me at all."

Who killed Whittemore?
How come it died, and what's the reason for?

"Not I," said the football fan, who would pepper the team with verbal slams.
"I'm a Cardinal, through and through. Sure, I knock them at times - what else is there to do?
These guys are my friends, they know I'm kidding. You know I'd be cheering them if they were winning.
It wasn't me who made them fall. You can't blame me at all.."

Who killed Whittemore?
How come it died, and what's the reason for?

"Not us," said the football mom and dad, who cheered good plays made by their lad.
"We supported him through and through. It's what all good parents are supposed to do.
It's Cardinals spirit that's the key. Homecoming - that's for all to see.
Let them crown the king and queen during halftime - the way it's supposed to be.
It wasn't us who made it fall. You can't blame us at all."

Who killed Whittemore?
How come it died, and what's the reason for?

"Not I," said another father. "I played football without any bother
To pain, or sleet, or snow or rain. I played no matter what kind of weather came.
He might get injured, that's for sure. But it's part of the game, he will endure.
If he wants to play, he knows the risks. And so do I - I signed that waiver slip.
You can't blame me at all. It wasn't me who made it fall."

Who killed Whittemore?
How come it died, and what's the reason for?

"Not I," said another fan, who left the team by his own command.
"I played enough before this year. It's not opponents or pain I fear.
I was just tired of the game. I'm not going to holler or complain.
They could have used me on the team - but I had bigger, better dreams.
I didn't want to play no more," he said.
"I'd rather sit around with my dreams and be bored.
No, it wasn't me who made it fall. You can't blame me at all."

Who killed Whittemore?
How come it died, and what's the reason for?

"Not us," said the School Board, which had heard the arguments two weeks before,
And decided it was worth the chance to keep the program as its Friday night dance.
"We listened to what everyone had to say, and we think it's OK to play.
Of course, we saw this coming down, but we stayed 'status quo' - after all, Friday football is a good show.
But it wasn't us who made it fall. No, you can't blame us at all."

Who killed Whittemore?
How come it died, and what's the reason for?

"Not I," said the football coach who saw the problems rapidly approach.
"We were small in numbers, yes, it's true. But you learn to cope. That's all you can do.
Could I have stopped this from taking place? I suppose. But now, that doesn't matter. It's too late.
The buck stops here, I realize. But it's not as if we didn't try.
Still, we didn't have backup prepared at all. But it wasn't me who made it fall."

Who killed Whittemore?
How come it died, and what's the reason for?

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Ernie And Paul Gave Us Plenty Of Memories

"I would rather be lucky than good." Lefty Gomez said it, Bobby Thomson showed it and Ernie Harwell lived by it.

October 3, 1951. Thomson strode to the plate, his heart as big as an ocean. The game, and a World Series berth, were on the line. His New York Giants were one out away from losing to their much-hated rivals from across the river, the Brooklyn Dodgers.

Facing Thomson on the Polo Grounds mound was Ralph Branca, wearing No. 13. And in the booth, on the first live, coast-to-coast television sports broadcast ever, was a young announcer named Ernie Harwell.

The TV opportunity went to Ernie over fellow Giants announced Russ Hodges. Ernie thought he was lucky.

But when Thomson launched the most famous home run in baseball history - creating "The Miracle of Coogan's Bluff" - it was Hodges who was lucky.

Television had no instant replay in those days. It is Hodges we hear screaming, "The Giants win the pennant!" over and over, not Harwell, who was, in retrospect, not lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time.

Timing, and what you do with it, is everything. You cannot say Ernie stood there like the house by the side of the road, watching that one go by. He's been very busy since that day.

So perhaps it is ironic that, 40 years to the day of "The Shot Heard 'Round the World," Ernie is preparing for his last game for the Detroit Tigers. Not by his choice, mind you. He thinks - and most people agree - that his time in the booth is not up.

But thanks to this new age of "superhype" announcers, the Tigers are saying au revoir to Motown's laid-back, informative and even-keeled announcer. The man who has symbolized Tigers baseball for 32 years.

They are butchering the sacred cow.

Paul Carey, his broadcast partner of 19 years, immediately announced his retirement after the news on Ernie came out last December. With all the success of the 1991 Tigers, it has been impossible to forget that their two most beloved sons have been lame-duck ambassadors this year.

Everyone who is a Tigers fan has some fond memory of Ernie and Paul. For some, it is a warm handshake. Others may have been at one of their speaking engagements. Or maybe it's not just one recollection; maybe it's the knowledge that these two warm, friendly voices have been part of their lives for years.

For me, it was April 11, 1986. I was interning at an educational radio station in the Detroit area, and had sent Ernie and Paul a letter on a whim. I asked about interviewing them for the station.

To my shock, and pleasure, they agreed to the request. We sent April 11 because it was a Friday after a day off. That way, they would be well rested after flying in from Chicago. Ernie, in the morning. At his house. Paul, that afternoon. At his house.

So I prepared questions. Important questions. Questions ranging from the current to the past. Why announcing? What's the worst thing about the job? Who are your favorite players? What was your biggest game? How does Ernie know that foul ball was caught by a young man from Battle Creek?

Then came the interviews. As I drove to Ernie's Farmington Hills house, my heart was pounding. My stomach was wound up tighter than grandma's knitting. I prayed that (a) the tape recorder didn't break down; (b) the tape didn't become garbled; (c) I didn't pass out from the excitement; (d) I didn't come across as a foolish, young college student who didn't have a clue what he was doing; and (e) my 1979 Chevette didn't pop a gasket on the way.

Ernie was most kind. The scheduled day off was scrapped when that Wednesday night's game was rained out. Make up on Thursday night. He had called his wife, Lulu, informing her to tell me the interview was still a go.

So there he was, on his couch, decked out in a t-shirt and faded lime-green shorts. With me, the novice, in a three-piece suit.

The interview didn't begin for at least 45 minutes. Why? Because he was asking me questions at the beginning, making me feel more at ease. He could see my nervousness. He asked about the station, about my background in broadcasting, about life in general.

Despite living on four hours of sleep, he was extremely cheery and made me right at home, right away. His crisp, Georgian accent was comfortable and warm.

The interview lasted an hour. His candor was typical Ernie. We talked about the 1984 World Champion Tigers. About how he got started in broadcasting. he threw in several baseball anecdotes, a Harwell staple. And, of course, Thomson's blast.

I interviewed Carey later that day, at his house. Still on a natural high. It was the same basic line of questions. We discussed what it was like broadcasting the 1984 World Series, his first one. And his chagrin over a Detroit Free Press columnist's comment that, if he spoke to God, His voice would be that of Paul Carey.

That night, I went to Tiger Stadium. Spent an inning in the broadcast booth, sitting with Ernie and Paul. Not just a fan of the game anymore, but a part of the game.

The booth. The fans. In his Hall of Fame address in 1981, Ernie thanked Tiger followers for being so supportive of him through the years.

"You've given me so much warmth, so much affection and love," he said. "I know this is an award that is supposed to be for my contribution to baseball. But let me say this: I have given a lot less to baseball than it's given to me. And the greatest gift I've received from baseball is the way that the people ... have responded to me with their warmth and their friendship."

April 11, 1986. That entire day, spent discussing and observing the art of baseball announcing, were the most challenging I've ever spent. Nothing has come remotely close since then.

I was lucky, You don't know what you have until it's gone. Thanks for the wonderful memories, guys. And I am still forever grateful to both of you for giving a 22-year-old college kid with a lump in his throat the size of an ocean the chance of a lifetime.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.