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.

It's A Tough Job, But Best Man Gets To Do It

I see we have a Friday the 13th this week. Tradition says this day carries a bad omen, the fear of evil and the worry of the release of another stupid slasher film starring a masked maniac named Jason.

Scary.

For my friend Amy, all of these paranoias will be by the wayside. The is happy. She is beyond worry of black cats, broken mirrors and all that other schlock which permeates our nightmares.

Friday the 13th is the Aimless One's 27th birthday. She gets to join a not-so-elite group who are at this milestone already. This list includes myself and her boyfriend - one of my best friends - Randy.

Except I can no longer use the phrase "boyfriend" when talking about the two of them. The news came to me via my telephone recording machine last week that Randy and Amy are advancing their relationship beyond being merely "boyfriend" and "girlfriend."

They are getting married.

Next November.

And they asked me to be the best man.

Scary.

I am an untested rookie. New to the game. Prone to rookie mistakes, I am sure.

But already I'm excited. Cautious, but excited. I k now what the worst man is supposed to do - show up drunk, wearing one of those tacky tuxedo T-shirts, carrying plastic flowers. He objects to the wedding, shouting from the rafters like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate.

Being best man won't be as easy.

I've been told to write HELP ME! in huge black letters on the bottom of the groom's shoes, or tape a sign with the same plea on the back of his jacket. But that really doesn't seem like something the best man should do. Maybe a dunk in a tuxedo T-shirt, not the best man.

I have, however, been at wedding ceremonies where the best man goaded the rest of the bridal party to hood up cardboard "Rate the Kiss" cards. Another best man, when reciting "The Lord's Prayer," bobbed his head to the tune of Prince's "Controversy," where His Royal Badness puts the prayer to a funky beat.

I probably won't be doing any of this. I'll be too busy with two items: (1) the bachelor party, and (2) my toast at the reception.

Randy would probably feel at home playing drums for the Canadian rock band Rush during his bachelor party. Or during any other party. Unfortunately, I doubt I can get the group to "drop by" for a couple of hours, so that's probably out of the question.

(Of course, if they actually show up, we've gotten ourselves a pretty decent band for the reception. But that's another story altogether.)

So we probably have to do something different. Something in good taste. Maybe a Red Wings game.

This is important. It merges me into the funniest reception toast I've ever heard in my life.

According to the best man, the groom in question was at a Wings game with some friends, depressed about his social life. Or maybe about the way the Wings were playing. Whatever.

The best man "just happened" to have a copy of 101 Pick-Up Lines That Work with him, and loaned it to the groom ... who turned around, tried one out, and now was getting married.

So while 13 might be an unlucky number for many people, the 13th is looking like a wonderful day for Amy. It's also a good way to prepare for the wedding, which is slated for Saturday, November 14, 1992.

The day after another Friday the 13th. Scary.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Trademarks-As-Jargon Not Proper English Use

Words.

"I'm sending you an Xerox copy of that story you wanted to see," Chuck said to me.

"Whoa," I responded. "You can't send me a Xerox copy!"

"Why not?"

"Well," I explained, "Xerox is a brand name. It's not the correct phrase. If you had that in print, Xerox might sue you for using its name without permission. What you really want to do is send me a photographic reproduction of the story, perhaps using a Xerox machine."

We both laughed over that little exchange, which took place a few weeks ago. Chuck thought I was being a little technical. "It's the same thing," he said.

I disagree, and I told him as much. Maybe it was technical. Maybe it comes down to context. But making a photostatic copy and making a Xerox copy are not the same thing. You can't use the trademark in this way.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that making Xerox copies might not even be the most misused trademark or brand name.

Nor is Kleenex.

Or Q-Tip.

No, as far as this writer is concerned, that honor goes to the trademark name Styrofoam, which is a brand of plastic foam. Rarely do you hear someone at the supermarket ask, "Where are the plastic foam cups?"

But that's OK. The market stockers are far too busy stocking the aisles with Jell-O, Kool-Aid, Band-Aids, Vaseline, Magic Markers and Coke (which can be drunk from those plastic foam cups).

Words.

The use and misuse of trade and brand names goes deep. Suppose you need a new window for your house, but don't want to put in glass. If you decide to replace the pane with plexiglass, you're doing fine. But if you choose Plexiglas, you're messing with a trademark.

And that new movie you wanted to see? You know, Teenage Ninja Rambos Have a Total Recall and Die Harder With a Lethal Weapon XVI? I understand it was filmed in Technicolor, which is also a trademark.

When the media referred to President Ronald Reagan's inability to grasp reality, they termed him the Teflon Man. Whoops, there's another trademark. Better, he should broadcast an All-Star Game played on AstroTurf (yep, there's another one).

All of these names come to mind because of a political rip session being waged on the television airwaves recently.

The hate campaign which brought the use of language to mind is being waged in Illinois. The issue, of course, is taxes. And one word, in one ad, could cause an uproar.

I noticed on WGN-TV last week that a political advertisement from the campaign of Jim Edgar, a Republican candidate for governor of Illinois, lashes back at his Democratic mud-slinging mate, Neil Hartigan, on the tax issue.

In an ad several weeks ago, Hartigan ripped Edgar for supporting higher taxes. In Edgar's reply, he points out that Hartigan and his "cronies" in the Illinois legislature supported th ehighest tax increase in state history.

My eyebrows raised at the word "cronies," which - to me - has that subtle implication of seediness, rather than friendship. In fact, in college I learned that "cronyism" was one of those so-called "red-flag" words which could lead to, among other things, a slander or libel suit.

Of course, how one perceives the word will decide whether "cronyism" is an attack on character or just making light of connections. As a reporter from The Chicago Tribune told me, the word crony "is a common term in Illinois politics."

Is Hartigan surrounded by corruptness, or just by a bunch of good ol' boys who back him up time and time again in the Illinois legislature?

Words.

If there were a slander suit, it would not involve WGN, or any other television or radio station. Broadcast outfits are covered by Section 315 of the Communications Act of 1934, which says stations may not alter the script in political advertisements. This was for two reasons: (a) to prevent station owners and executives from changing the words of candidates they might not find attractive, and (b) to prevent the stations from being sued if the possibility of slander existed.

Words. At least Edgar didn't try to Xerox anything.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Serious Changes Needed In Downtown, Hill Area

The voice came from the heavens, sounding like a divine mixture of Jack Nicholson and Darth Vader. Scratchy, yet powerful.

"If you write it, they will understand."

I looked up, trying to comprehend the words. And a vision appeared before my eyes. Well, not really a vision. An angel.

"Hi there," the hovering angel said. "I'm Bruce. Bruce the Angel."

I stared at this image, this mirage dressed in pseudo-Victorian clothes. Then I rubbed my eyes. Man, this is one bad dream. Maybe it's Heritage Days II. Maybe I was being zoned into by Sam as part of a Quantum Leap episode.

No such luck.

What do you want? Is my time up? Am I going ... well, wherever I'm supposed to go in the afterworld?

"No, no." Bruce smiled. "Nothing like that. I'm not that kind of angel."

Something about his smile made me trust him.

So tell me, Bruce. What's up?

"I'm here to advise you. To give you a message for West Branch merchants."

Come on, Bruce. I don't own a store. What makes you think business owners in West Branch will listen to me?

"I'm willing to give it a shot. Do you think they'll listen to me? Get real."

Great. A psycho angel.

"I'm not psycho ... can I have a seat? My wings are getting pretty tired up here."

Sure.

"How about a smoke?"

I stared at him. Sorry, no smoking allowed. Now tell me. What are you talking about?

"It's the strip, Paul. Businesses. Downtown. Victorian theme. The works. And the traffic problem, too. West Branch is at a turning point, and it's up to you to help them out."

Right. What do I look like, the messiah?

"I'm serious, you geek. Hear me out. You've go this new mall, the Tanger Center. Right? And now this amphitheater, this Palace of Auburn Hills ..."

Garden of Ogemaw Hills.

"Whatever. This summer concert thing, it's a go. The city is growing. The area is expanding. And now, West Branch is stuck in the middle. Caught in a vortex of changes and transformation."

Will you stop babbling! What do you mean? And can you take your feet off the coffee table?

"Oh. Sorry. What do I mean? West Branch wants to keep this small-town, Victorian-era theme. But it also wants to be one of the 'big boys.' Well, it can't work both ways. Not without some changes."

He leaned back. "First thing businesses here gotta learn is, get some reasonable hours."

I know what you mean, Bruce. I'm working when all the downtown stores are open. By the time I get off work, they're closed. And I can't go shopping.

"And you're not alone, Paul. If stores were open till, say, 9 p.m., you'd have the chance to do some shopping. If the stores would stay open later, they'd make a killing!"

OK. What else?

"Well, they're putting in a turn lane by the Tanger Center, but I doubt it will be enough. Even if they put in one traffic light, it wouldn't really help out the stores up there. Or the traffic problems. The only thing it would do is keep most cars from darting onto the business loop.

"But cars, trucks and the like will be backed up beyond I-75, maybe even worse than right now, because Cook Road traffic will have to stop for a while."

So, what's the answer?

"I think a service drive would solve all the problems. Set up two traffic lights - in front of Tanger's and out by Arby's - and have that one drive go behind all the businesses on the north side. Connect all the parking lots to that loop, and close the current drives onto the business loop. Voila! You've got less congestion and a safer situation."

I still can't believe no one saw all this coming down when Tanger was proposed in the first place, Bruce. It would have made life on the Hill a lot easier for everyone. There must have been someone at Tanger who knew there would be this huge traffic influx. After all, West Branch isn't the first complex they've built.

"True."

You'd think someone in charge - whether in the county's zoning department, or the Tanger architects, or MDOT or whomever - would have said, when this project was first conceived, "Hey - why don't we make a service drive part of the deal?"

"You'd think so."

Why don't you send a zoning angel down to talk to the county boys about planning? Maybe when Tanger expands, the officials will require them to handle the traffic problems before issuing a building permit.

"Sorry, Paul, the zoning angels are all busy with that Tiger Stadium project in Detroit."

So what you're saying is we're stuck with this traffic problem which is causing thousands of drivers havoc on the road.

"Now you're getting it ... it is your job to show business owners the light. Let them know how important it is to have a service drive down there."

We've been through this already, Bruce ... these business people ain't gonna listen to me - not when it means spending money.

"If you write it, they will understand. They are not going to let the bottom line be that they're willing to live with dangerous situations along Hamburger Hill."

You know, Bruce, you could be right. I'll write it ... they will understand. Thanks.

"Hey, no problem." He glanced at his watch. "I'm running late. Sorry, Paul. That's all I got time for now. Good luck with it."

Thanks, Bruce. Fly safely out there.

"No problem."

And he left, ascending into the heavens, that stupid smile still on his face.

I wonder if anyone will take his words seriously.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.