Category: Sports

The National Football League is an exception to a lot of rules. We won’t even bother counting the ways. Suffice it to say that celebrity double standards and an obscenely subsidized marketplace are two of them.

But here’s one that does apply. Timing is everything. A Super Bowl, for example, doesn’t happen without the right coach at the right time orchestrating and exhorting injury-free personnel to play their best when it counts the most.

For the Bucs, the ill-fated tenure of Hugh Culverhouse never would have happened had not the finances of the original ownership group collapsed. Had John McKay not been the Buc head coach, Tampa Bay likely would have drafted Tony Dorsett instead of USC’s Ricky Bell. Had not the Community Investment Tax been passed, the Bucs would have beaten the Browns to Baltimore. And had Rich McKay not been the front man, the CIT wouldn’t have carried.

Had Steve Spurrier not turned down the Bucs, Tony Dungy would never have had the opportunity to turn them around. Had Warren Sapp not had off-the-field issues at Miami, he never would have been available to the Bucs on draft day. Had Jon Gruden not been heading into the lame-duck year on his Oakland contract, he would not have been available to the Glazers at any extorted price.

And had several well-chronicled events not occurred, Rich McKay would still be the Bucs’ general manager.

The most obvious of those was the hiring of Gruden, the charismatic, creative genius with the successfully amoral, win-now mantra. It was hoped that he could complement the look-to-tomorrow, community-conscious paragon of probity that was McKay.

The timing was hardly fortuitous. But not just because the volatile Gruden and the low-key McKay were as different as Ray Lewis and Derek Brooks. It was simply the final act of a two-act drama.

The first act was played ham-handedly by the Glazers who paid McKay well to swallow his pride. Recall the shabby scenarios involving the firing of Dungy, the courtship of Bill Parcells and the back-door channels to Gruden. McKay was trumped and waived off the case after he had all but signed up Marvin Lewis as head coach.

The Glazers gave McKay a handsome new contract, however, and the humiliation presumably subsided. But never disappeared.

When Gruden came in, he took a close look at what he had. Sure, the offensive line was an issue, but right off he saw that he had more than a highly skilled, Pro Bowl wideout who could block. He also saw that Keyshawn Johnson was an over-paid, over-rated, over-the-top annoyance who couldn’t put team first. Reportedly, he told insiders that Johnson, who snubbed early mini-camps, was the one player he just didn’t like.

Johnson’s big mouth and big contract also had come at the expense of top draft choices. Johnson at his worst was a recurring reminder of who had cut the deal for him: McKay.

Ditto for the whiney, lazy, immature, underachieving offensive tackle Kenyata Walker, for whom the Bucs and McKay had spent a number one draft choice and a lot of money. Gruden didn’t even let him dress out for the 2002 season opener.

McKay had a reputation for going after “character guys,” and Brooks and John Lynch were typically cited. But McKay had also saddled Gruden with Johnson and Walker, who were distracting, annoying “caricature” guys.

And then there was the guy who wasn’t there: Warrick Dunn, the all-purpose back whom Gruden wanted retained for whatever it would have cost. Dunn signed a lucrative free-agent deal with Atlanta.

Sure, McKay and Gruden disagreed over roster help — from Emmitt Smith to Kyle Turley — and McKay was weary of his “Dr. No” role. But an ill-timed breach of in-house confidence undermined the relationship even more. In fact, it punctured any lingering Super Bowl euphoria last summer. That’s when Gruden — at an NFL convention — spoke in unflattering terms about McKay and his reluctance to pull the trigger on personnel acquisitions favored by Gruden.

At a certain point, even a wealthy pillar of this community who bled orange and then pewter for the Buccaneers, couldn’t live with that kind of disrespect. McKay became rich man, poor-mouthed. For an executive who was extremely well-regarded around the league, he had become a frustrated, humiliated, under-appreciated prophet in his home town.

But Gruden didn’t push McKay out the door. He prodded him. The door had already been flung open by the Glazers.

And no less important to McKay, who had largely grown up with the Bucs, was that he was no longer leaving “family.” He was merely leaving a franchise and a job — albeit in a city he genuinely loves. Tampa’s still a community; Atlanta’s all marketplace.

If the Bucs’ window of Super Bowl opportunity has, indeed, closed for now, McKay’s departure, however awkward, could prove well-timed. For him. If a resurgent, Michael Vick-led Falcon franchise soon returns to the playoff status it enjoyed just one year ago, McKay’s move could look even better.

Timing is everything.

Congratulations are nothing new to the Brandon High School Wrestling program. The Eagles have won a bunch of state championships. But even more notably, every time the Eagles win a match, they set a new national record for consecutive victories. It currently stands at a mind-numbing 375 — across 30 years. Moreover, the program keeps getting better.

But special congratulations are now due for Brandon’s performance in a recent national tournament. Brandon finished second in the prestigious Walsh Jesuit 2003 Ironman Wrestling Tournament in Ohio. That’s second among the nation’s elite.

For years, some disgruntled coaches have sour-graped Brandon’s generation-long achievement, saying that was only against local competition. As if Brandon were merely the biggest fish in a very modest-sized pond.

Let the record show: Brandon is a very big fish in the biggest of ponds.

Alan Weintraub doesn’t have to moonlight. He has a good enough day job. In fact, it affords an affluent, South Tampa lifestyle.

The 42 year old is one of the pre-eminent gastroenterologists in the area. A waiting room typically packed with colonoscopy patients attests to it. Among his peers, he’s particularly well regarded for his diagnostic skills.

Although the Philadelphia native resembles Jerry Seinfeld, he’s not one to gather on-the-job material for a stand-up. He’s not about to add to the ample corpus of G.I. jokes; besides, he’s heard them all. Patients will tell you Dr. Weintraub is pretty much all business in his practice — and less than forgiving of those who are non-compliant. And some will tell you flat out they are alive because of him.

But there’s this other pursuit. Call it Dr. Weintraub’s parallel universe. Every couple of months you can find him at the A La Carte Event Pavilion on Dana Shores with a thousand or so fellow fight fans. In such an eclectic crowd — local VIP’s, jiggling hotties, ex-pugs, ethnic laborers — he stands out. He’s the one with a stethoscope.

“It’s the best party in town,” assesses Weintraub. “And everyone gets along.”

On such Friday nights, he’s not just Alan Marc Weintraub, M.D. He’s Alan Marc Weintraub, F.D. He is the Fight Doctor. They can’t start without him, the medical firewall in an often brutal sport.

“There’s nothing like fight-doctoring,” says Weintraub. “You’re involved. It’s the best seat in the house. It’s not that hard. I’m playing triage nurse for the most part. And I enjoy getting to know the fighters. There are some interesting characters.”

When he’s available, and that’s almost always, he’s the one requested by Tampa’s Starfight Productions. He’s also on the speed dial of the Florida Boxing Commission. He’s been doing it for about five years.

“Passion for boxing”

“Alan is a brilliant physician who also has a passion for boxing,” says Starfight promoter Randy Feldman. “He really knows his stuff.”

At ringside, he’s more Doc Holiday than Doctor Feelgood. He is very much in his element in what sportswriter Jimmy Cannon once dubbed the “red light district of sports.” Weintraub pulls no punches. He likes the sport — a lot — and he’d be there with his pretty, red-haired wife, Sharon, even if he had to buy a ticket.

“I watch 90 percent of the fights on TV,” acknowledges Weintraub, whose 80-inch Mitsubishi is the biggest Hyde Park screen this side of Madstone Theaters. The fights are often taped. Friends know not to tell him results. He passes on the sports page to maintain the blackout. Around the house, he’s as likely to have Ring Magazine as a medical journal — including ones where he’s been published, such as Cancer Research, Drug Development Research and the Society of Gynecological Investigation.

The love affair with boxing goes back to his Philly upbringing, says Weintraub, who didn’t grow up in the suburbs. He had his share of childhood scrapes, he recalls, and “more than held” his own — until “everybody else got bigger.” Even today, the 5-foot, 8-inch, 150-pound Weintraub would have to add a few pounds to reach junior middleweight.

He eventually became enamored of the Muhammad Ali phenomenon and classic fights between Ali and Philadelphia’s Joe Frazier. Then followed the memorably “mesmerizing” Sugar Ray Leonard bouts with Tommy Hearns and Marvin Hagler. He frequented some of Philly’s oldest boxing haunts and would later attend fights in Atlantic City when the University of Miami grad’s internship, residency (internal medicine) and fellowship (gastroenterology) brought him to Philadelphia’s Presbyterian University of Pennsylvania Medical Center.

“I really do love boxing,” says Weintraub, who used to catch the fights at the downtown Tampa Hyatt in the 1990s. “I love watching it. I love the big punch and the big bout and all that surrounds it. And, yes, I always want to see a good fight, but I’m not there to be a fan when I’m the fight doctor.”

He is there officially to observe closely, to consult if necessary, and to be available in case of an emergency. In Florida, the fight doctor (actually two — one is a backup) doesn’t actually stop a fight. The referee does. But the ref confers with the doctor.

Ringside routine

“It’s the ref’s call,” explains Weintraub. “But we’re on the same page. I’ve been impressed with the caliber of referees.”

Since roughly one in 10 fights results in such consultations, a big challenge for fight doctors is maintaining concentration through an entire card, typically six to eight bouts — and more if TV is involved.

“You have to make sure you stay focused,” states Weintraub. “You can’t have any distractions. I love the crowd scene, but I have to stay zoned in on the fight. You can’t turn your head or you’ll miss something. There’s no instant replay.”

As part of his responsibilities, Weintraub administers pre-fight physicals. He has failed only one fighter, a boxer with telltale congestion in his lungs.

“It sounded like bronchitis or pneumonia,” recalls Weintraub. “He seemed relieved.”

He will also check each fighter’s record to look for signs of a mismatch. Records, however, can often be deceiving. He relies on his own observations and instincts.

“Within 30 seconds, I can tell if it’s well matched,” he says. “I can tell if I’ll be involved. Good fighters rarely get hurt.”

When a fight is halted, it’s almost always for cuts.

“The key question is where,” explains Weintraub. “Is it bleeding into the eye and impairing vision?”

The fan in the fight doctor comes out when a combatant is bleeding — but winning.

“That’s the toughest decision,” he admits. “We may let that go a little longer. Permanent injury is what we fear. Cuts and fractures heal. Neurological is what we fear most.”

Weintraub’s duties can also mean post-fight responsibilities. For example, every fighter who loses by a knockout — which means concussion — is prohibited from fighting again for at least 30 days. The fight doctor’s recommendation — based on neurological-impairment clues –could extend that period.

Moral dilemma?

One question that Weintraub has a ready answer for is this: Doesn’t it seem, well, incongruous for a physician to be party to such a bloodsport? More to the point: What’s a doctor — who’s sworn to first do no harm — doing being involved in boxing, the intent of which is to inflict harm?

“I agree that boxers are exploited,” concedes Weintraub. “But what would a lot of these kids be doing until something is done about that? It may be a cliché, but boxing still gives kids a chance to work their way out of the ghetto.

“Put it this way. You ever see a street fight where somebody will say, ‘You ought to take that to the ring?’ That’s what we do. But I’m no enabler. I’m there to make sure they don’t get hurt.

“You can be paralyzed playing football,” Weintraub underscores. “These are well-trained athletes. There’s a risk in any contact sport. Frankly, for all the fights and all the punches, I don’t think there’s an inordinate number of injuries

The world of professional sports is often at odds with logic. It finally prevailed, however, when the Bucs jettisoned Keyshawn Johnson.

For several years, one of them a Super Bowl season, “Meshawn” was contributing enough to offset his singularly selfish, sophomoric, the-rules-don’t-apply-to-me attitude. He was valuable enough to negate the classless manner in which he went about showing up his coach.

But that all changed when the team started to lose. Worse than tolerating a talented, morale-infecting brat is tolerating a talented, morale-infecting brat while losing. That makes no sense, regardless of the financial implications. The logic of the ultimate bottom line, W’s and L’s — finally caught up to Keyshawn and his tenure in Tampa. Would that he had enough class to be embarrassed.

He won’t be missed. What will be missed is what could have been had Johnson ever grown up.

For too many years USF bore the burden of an unfortunate inferiority complex. “South Florida” was a confusing, geographic misnomer. The university was “merely a commuter school.” It was some Brobdingnagian misfit — the biggest school in the country without a football team. It was this area’s “best kept secret.” Etc.

No more.

USF is an acknowledged national player among urban research universities. It has taken quantum leaps in on-campus housing. Its annual regional economic impact is measured in 10 figures. It’s unabashedly accessible to its students and plays a key, hands-on partnership role — from health clinics to urban planning — with its community.

And, yes, it has a head-turning, 1-A football program that calls the best stadium in the country home.

And now that football team — and all other intercollegiate sports — will soon be part of the Big East Conference. Definitely, by 2005. Possibly, by 2004.

The Big East is big prestige and bigger dollars than USF is used to. It means entrée into the media markets of New York, Philadelphia and Washington. It means name-dropping Notre Dame. And it means the basketball program may finally find a niche other than under-achiever.

There’s also another reality. In the higher ed scheme of things, it shouldn’t matter whether you’re in a BCS conference or not. Nor should it matter how you are represented on the fields and courts of play. But it does. Unless you are an ivy-festooned institution founded in the 18th or 19th centuries, having this kind of high national profile matters a lot. And it matters across the board — from endowment gifts to student and faculty recruiting.

It took a while, but USF obviously has learned a key lesson. If you choose to play, you must play to win. With an enrollment of 40,000 and the nation’s 13th largest TV market, USF couldn’t be satisfied with staying in Conference USA any more than it could have been content with playing 1-AA football.

Remember when sports were pure escape? There was that time, wasn’t there?

You hunkered down and watched, say FOOTBALL, because you really liked it, it was well worth liking and you had a really serious rooting interest. It was what it was. A compelling game that mandated — with allowances for beer runs — your undivided attention. The mundane no longer mattered. Neither did important stuff.

That’s not to say, however, you were the sort to start a website or rent a banner-plane to express yourself. But you did know those who did.

Anyway, each fall of gridiron rivalries and championship scenarios was anticipated and welcomed as part of nature’s seasonal cycle. Leaves turning, time changing, weather chilling, Doppler radar updating and bowl games and playoffs beckoning. The natural order of things.

Now, it’s different. The natural must vie with the contrived.

It’s partly the TV packaging. When it’s not insulting, it’s merely intrusive.

Roving, typically clueless sideline reporters are a distraction. Cameras in the face of players on the bench capture expressions and messages we don’t need to be privy to. Up close and personal is, alas, precisely that. Send back the clowns.

Worse yet, too many people have way too much to say. And they say it while talking over each other. The games have begotten an obnoxious cottage industry of brash-talking cleat heads. Seemingly, no one is hired to be informed, analytical and pleasant. Doesn’t make for good TV. You have to be a “Type-A” football personality. Would that the “A” only stood for annoying.

When Stuart Scott and Terry Bowden are among the least offensive, it’s not a good sign.

But it’s mostly the players, specifically the deportment department. I sense that a lot of us are increasingly inured to their antics, but at times it’s just impossible to transcend boorish actions of athletes. The time between plays used to be reserved for re-grouping as a team. Now, it’s prime time for the self-congratulatory.

As a result, the games’ ebb and flow is more stop and go; the play is continuously interspersed with choreography and histrionics. Coaches condone it, and networks promote it. Would that some responsible adult could just step in and help all parties differentiate between the exuberantly colorful and the exasperatingly classless.

I know a lot of us could. I already do. Each weekend.

A highly sanitized version would be: “Hey, self-important punk, it’s only an incomplete pass, not The Rapture.”

It’s not like there isn’t already a fitting forum for strutting, wiggling, gyrating, pelvis-thrusting and cheesy chatter. It’s called BET videos.

But here’s another reason — in addition to intimidated coaches, complicit networks and a dysfunctional black culture — why this genie of tasteless behavior won’t be rebottled. Too many fans ostensibly like it — or don’t dislike it enough — when it’s “their” team. For example, those who exulted into a high-five frenzy while watching Warren Sapp pay end zone homage to Beyonce Knowles are part of the process that is turning good football into bad lounge acts.

Billy “White Shoes” Johnson, thanks for nothing. Your legacy is alive and, well, wiggling.

For too many years USF bore the burden of an inferiority complex. “South Florida” was a confusing, geographic misnomer. It was “merely” a “commuter school.” It was someBrobdingnagian misfit — the biggest school in the country without a football team. It was the Tampa Bay area’s “best kept secret,” etc.

No more.

USF is an acknowledged national player among urban research universities. It has taken quantum leaps in on-campus housing. Its regional economic impact is measured in 10 figures. It’s unabashedly accessible to those who live within a commutable distance and plays a key, hands-on partnership role — from health clinics to urban planning — with its community.

And, yes, it has a head-turning 1-A football program that calls the best stadium in the country home.

And now that football team — and all other intercollegiate sports — will soon be part of the Big East Conference. Certainly by 2005. Conceivably by next season.

The Big East is big prestige and bigger dollars than USF is used to. It means, for example, Notre Dame and Syracuse on a regular basis. It means the promise of better recruiting. It means the basketball program may finally find a niche other than under-achiever.

There’s also this. In the higher education scheme of things, it shouldn’t matter whether you’re in a BCS conference or not. It shouldn’t matter how you are represented on the fields and courts of play. But it does. Unless you are a university founded in the 18th or 19th centuries and arrayed in ivy and liberalized arts, having this kind of high national profile really matters. And it matters across the board — from endowment gifts to undergraduate interest.

It took a while, but USF obviously has learned a key lesson. If you choose to play, you must play to win. With an enrollment of 40,000 and a TV-market that is 13th in the nation, USF couldn’t be satisfied with non-BCS Conference USA any more than it could be satisfied playing 1-AA football.

Well done. Now play to win in the Big East — including basketball.

This weekend Bobby Bowden turned 74 and remained two games ahead of Penn State’s Joe Paterno as major college football’s all-time winningest coach. Both Bowden and Paterno lost; the former to Clemson, coached by son Tommy, the latter to Northwestern.

Bowden doesn’t say much when asked about the record and the ostensible mano a mano with Paterno. It’s awkward — especially given Paterno’s fall of discontent — and he generally dismisses the subject in a light-hearted vein. He saves it for the media and fans to chat up.

That they do — as well as speculate about how long both Paterno, who turns 77 next month, and Bowden will keep going. The high-pressure, high-stakes arena that is big-time college coaching is hardly a septuagenarian’s pursuit.

While Bowden will never admit it, if his health cooperates, he just might want to try and coach a few more years beyond Paterno. But not to pad his numbers. More like to validate them.

At this stage, it’s all about legacy — and Bobby’s has an asterisk. Not all of his victories — unlike Paterno’s and Bear Bryant’s — came against major competition. He has 31 grandfathered wins against small schools, starting with Maryville, from when he coached his alma mater Howard (now Samford).

He gets to count Millsaps as if it were Michigan.

It is, of course, permissible, but it’s not quite right. And over the years, it will be brought up again — especially if Bob Stoops makes a career of college coaching. So look for Bowden, if possible, to try and top Paterno by at least 32 victories. But don’t look for him to say so.

Hillsborough County’s Armwood High School has the state’s number-one ranked 4A football team. The program is solid, the talent level obvious and the work ethic of coaches and players self-evident. The result could be a long-awaited state championship.

As for the future, it was interesting to note what Armwood’s “Programs of Interest” would be. Starting next year, Armwood will offer (along with “American Sign Language”) “Olympic Sports.” It’s designed for students “who plan to go to college and major in physical education, physical therapy recreation or a related field, or who plan to pursue amateur Olympic/collegiate and/or professional athletic careers.”

Hmm. Is that an athletic loophole the size of which the next Booger McFarland could barrel through? Might there be some speedy wideouts and studly lineman in such a mix? Could this further arm Armwood?

Not likely, says Armwood Athletic Director Dan Pickern. Students interested in sports journalism, physical therapy and turf management will be attracted. Athletic sorts will be in selected Olympic sports — such as softball, wrestling, volleyball and track and field.

“There’s really no correlation,” explains Pickern. “Football is not an Olympic sport.”

So that’s that — unless, of course, a budding track star or hulking shot putter decides to look at another varsity sport

For an alumnus of Penn State who’s a die-hard fan of Nittany Lion football and head coach Joe Paterno, these are the worst of times. It’s not unlike seeing Willie Mays misplay a fly ball as a Met. Or Muhammad Ali rope-a-dope himself at the end. Or Sugar Ray Leonard fail at summoning the reflexes of his prime.

It’s sad to witness.

“JoePa” has embodied winner and class in his nearly four decades at the helm of Penn State football. His “noble experiment” of succeeding without compromising principles long ago secured a place in the pantheon of American sports legends. Along the way he won a couple of national championships and more than once turned down the National Football League.

An Ivy League grad and voracious reader, Paterno is educated far beyond game plans and recruiting strategies. He has always expected his players to be more than one-dimensional extensions of the football program. There is no jocks-only athletic dorm on campus. Paterno’s name is on a wing of the library. He has spoken at commencement.

He has been good for — and to — the game, and he will be missed. But the missing should have commenced by now. He would have been a tough — no, impossible — act to follow. Now, it will be a relief when his successor is announced. This season will be his third loser in the last four. He has overstayed his legacy.

Listen to the take of Ed Christine, the editor of the Scranton Times , a Pennsylvania daily that staffs Penn State football with two reporters. His perspective is dispiriting.

“You watch that team, and it’s apparent they’re getting outplayed, outmanned and outcoached — there’s an air of confusion on the sidelines,” says Christine. “His players aren’t as good — including their character.

“He’s not aging gracefully,” assesses Christine. “The first couple of times he went (running) after officials, it was seen as fiery and kind of cute. Now it’s getting annoying; he’s like an old scold. People wish he had gone out on top. I’m afraid there’s no light at the end of this tunnel.”

The obvious problem is Paterno’s age: 76. In and of itself, however, that’s less of an issue for most alumni and fans than it is for teenaged recruits. For older generations, Paterno has been an icon. But for the 18-year-old blue-chippers, he looks like the guy you take your shoes to. He’s not charismatic and folksy the way down-home, 73-year-old Bobby Bowden is. He’s not, well, ESPN cool. In fact, Paterno can appear downright self-righteous and terminally grumpy.

Moreover, he doesn’t preside over a high-octane program that looks like the perfect place for a player to prep for the pros — as FSU’s still does.

Even PSU’s uniforms conspire against him. When the Lions were winning, they were plain and traditional. Football’s pinstripes. Now that they’re losing, they’re plainly boring. You not only don’t get your name on the back of your jersey, you don’t even get good-play helmet decals.

Paterno is also a holdout from the ranks of coaches who condone and enable a self-congratulating, look-at-me, in-your-face, trash-talking, college football culture.

The BET generation notices.

As a result, he doesn’t get the players anymore. Certainly not like Florida State still does. The name of the college game has always been recruiting. Penn State used to get the Lion’s share of top, in-state talent. It would also cherry pick New Jersey and upstate New York. It no longer does.

But Paterno seems adamant about staying on. The closest thing to an heir apparent, assistant head coach Fran Ganter, has been with Paterno so long that he is arguably part of the problem.

For Paterno, there’s plenty of ego involved. It’s never easy to relinquish center stage — as Mays, Ali and Leonard can attest. And it’s hard to walk away from what has come to define you. He has been at Penn State since 1950. It’s also difficult to stop what you still like doing — in Paterno’s case, working with young people and enjoying the competition — if not the results.

There might also be a Last Hurrah complex. Those who have done it often can’t believe they can’t do it again. Just one more run.

Very few can. Paterno, alas, isn’t likely to be the exception.