Upon Further Review...

(I wrote this shortly after The Who's performance at Super Bowl XLV)


After nearly a decade, we may have seen the last of Rock’s legends playing Super Bowl halftime. A fan of both football and rock & roll makes a case for why it should never have happened in the first place.

Picture this: There’s a sold-out stadium rock show featuring a band at the peak of their performing powers. The concert is televised to millions of people throughout the world. Halfway through the show, the band takes a break. While the boys are backstage, a group of NFL Hall of Famers takes their place, playing what amounts to a twelve-minute old-timers football game.

Sounds absurd, right?

Now, flip the scenario: There’s a sold-out football game featuring the two best teams in the NFL, their rosters packed with world-class athletes in their prime playing for the sport’s ultimate prize. The game is being broadcast to millions throughout the world. And for your halftime entertainment, a Hall of Fame rock band well past their prime plays a twelve-minute greatest hits medley.

The first scenario is pure fantasy, something the athletes wouldn’t dream of participating in. The second, however, in case it wasn’t obvious, represents what has become of America’s biggest sporting event, the Super Bowl.

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Growing up in New England in the 1970’s, I was a lover of both sports and rock & roll. I played football and I played drums, went to Bruins games and Bad Company concerts, collected baseball cards and KISS cards, read Sports Illustrated and Hit Parader. I was passionate about these activities, but never at the same time.

Sports and music were separate realms, but a small group of friends and I migrated freely between like keepers of an unspoken truce. We watched and played our sports in the afternoon and early evening, and on weekends, stayed up for Don Kirchner’s Rock Concert and The Midnight Special. We were knowledgeable and opinionated, and dismissed those who would attempt to cross over without proper credentials -- usually a drawer full of ticket stubs and a bookcase full of LPs and worn copies of The Sporting News were enough to gain admission. I suppose we were somewhat disliked, too, but we didn’t care; it was an important peace.

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A standard NFL halftime is 12-minutes long. But back in 1967, at the first Super Bowl, which wasn’t yet called the Super Bowl, someone decided that halftime of the biggest football game of the year should be a half-hour.

Not only did the extended break disrupt the natural rhythms of the league’s two best teams, making them wait two and a half times longer for the second half of the most important game of the season to begin, in later years, it also created an opportunity for rival networks to broadcast counter-programming and compete for a television audience bored by years of marching bands, Carol Channing, and Up With People.

Enter The King of Pop.

When Michael Jackson performed at Super Bowl XXVII in 1993, it marked the first time Super Bowl viewership actually increased during halftime. Thus, the modern-day Super Bowl halftime show was born.

Over the next several years, the NFL continued to target stars of popular music with Diana Ross, Boyz II Men, Stevie Wonder, and Phil Collins appearing among others. I was okay with this. Although I liked some of those artists, rock & roll was my passion and Super Bowl halftime remained for me nothing more than an extra long break between halves of a football game.

Even when Aerosmith traded verses with Britney Spears and ‘N Sync during a genre-bending halftime orgy at Super Bowl XXXV, I still wasn’t fazed; the Bad Boys from Boston hadn’t behaved badly for years, concentrating more on rap collaborations and power ballads than straight forward rock & roll. But things were about to change…

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When it was announced in the fall of 2001 that U2 would be the sole halftime act at Super Bowl XXXVI, I remember thinking it was a joke. Then, upon confirmation, I felt two mismatched worlds were about to collide.

Then Drew Bledsoe got hurt and Tom Brady got promoted and the hometown Patriots kept winning and I momentarily forgot about U2 until both ended up at the Superdome on February 3rd, and with the Patriots ahead 14-3 at halftime, U2 took the stage and played brilliantly and then the Patriots won their first Super Bowl and everything was great. And when Shania Twain, No-Doubt, and Sting played the following year, I thought, Okay, Super Bowl XXXVI was a one-off, once-in-a-lifetime event where my favorite team and one of my favorite bands stood together on top of the world.

But just for one day.

Two years after U2’s appearance, the NFL handed over the halftime controls to MTV, leading to Justin Timberlake’s liberation of Janet Jackson’s right breast. The next day, talk was divided between the Patriots’ second Super Bowl victory in three years and indecent exposure. The FCC slapped CBS with a $550,000 fine and the NFL banned MTV from future halftime shows. I thought back to 1985 and how my stomach whirled watching Joe Theismann’s leg snap in two on Monday Night Football; ABC showed it over and over. According to those who police the airwaves, a half-second of bare breast was obscene, while showing gruesome multi-angle replays of a career-ending, compound leg fracture was deemed good, hard football.

Perhaps MTV were the lucky ones.

The next season, Paul McCartney was summoned to clean up the Super Bowl filth. I had seen McCartney two years earlier in Boston, and the show was great. But with the halftime score Patriots-7 Eagles-7, I was too nervous and distracted to pay attention to Sir Paul’s performance.
On Monday morning, debates ranged from whether or not the victorious Patriots were a dynasty, to whether or not, at age 62, McCartney was too old. Both debates were about contextualizing recent events; the Patriots were being compared to great teams of the past, while McCartney was being judged on preconceived notions of age and reason.

Several years ago, I attended a party at which a friend was taking a headcount for an up-coming AC/DC concert. “Look,” another friend said, “I’m 35 years old, I don’t think I need to be going to any AC/DC concerts.”

He missed a hell of a show.

Afterward, I thought, man, can that really happen? Can people actually outgrow rock & roll? Then I remembered Mick Jagger’s famous quote; at 35, he said, “I’d rather be dead than singing “Satisfaction” when I’m 45.” And after playing “Thunder Road” at a show in 2002, a 52 year-old Bruce Springsteen said, “That line, ‘We ain’t that young anymore…’ I was 24 years old.”

The point is, rock & roll is nearing the end of its first lifetime, and no one, including the musicians, knew how far it would, or could, be taken, or how long people would pay attention. The early expectations for longevity were along the same lines as professional athletes; give it all you’ve got in your 20s, maybe maintain some popularity through your 30s, and if you’re real lucky, people might still think you’re cool when you’re 40.

But the rockers kept going, breaking every rule of acceptance and expectation, including their own, setting new precedents with each new album and tour. Some fans stayed on. Others, however, found themselves waning and chose to camouflage their own fears of mortality by openly resenting the rebels of their youth for continuing to sing of sex, drugs, and revolution. How dare you grow old and not go away, they seemed to be saying.

And when The Rolling Stones signed on for Super Bowl XL, I prepared myself to hear more from the ageist, Super-Bowl-square-yahoos about who should be doing what, and at what age.

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The Patriots had been knocked out of the playoffs early. Usually that means a leisurely, anxiety-free Super Bowl Sunday. So imagine my surprise when I found myself getting nervous as halftime approached. Looking down at my sweaty palms, I wondered, what is this? Then it hit me; my heroes were about to be judged by a worldwide panel of self-proclaimed experts just waiting to tear them down. It was like waiting for a family member to appear on American Idol.

When I see The Stones in concert, there’s no concern for how they’ll be received; we’re all there for the same purpose. This was different. Most of the people at the game were not Rolling Stones fans. In fact, according to a friend who once attended, most people who go to the Super Bowl barely qualify as football fans. And the contest-winners who flood the halftime field? Nothing more than props, really.

Three songs in twelve minutes is closer to a glorified soundcheck than an actual show, but The Stones, who were in the middle of a world tour, gave a pretty good account of themselves. They even had a few lyrics censored for old time’s sake. But it wasn’t until Mick, who, at 62, had long outlived his death-wish regarding “Satisfaction”, introduced that very song, saying, “This one we coulda done at Super Bowl I,” that I realized what was so wrong with this latest union of football and rock & roll.

The Rolling Stones practically wrote the rulebook on why sports and rock & roll don’t mix. Drugs, arrests, drug arrests, tax evasion, deportations, dead guitar players, Altamont, more drug arrests – such debauchery has always been publicized and glorified in the rock world, while professional athletes, teams, and the leagues they represent go to great lengths to cover up scandals such as gambling, amphetamine abuse, and steroids.

So, I say, No, Mick, you could not have played “Satisfaction”, or any other song, at Super Bowl I. Even if the NFL were hiring rock bands in 1967, they wouldn’t have looked your way if you were wide open on a desperation Hail Mary pass. You were dangerous. They would have waited you out. Forty years. Until we’d reached a point where you and Keith were considered a safer option than Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson.

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The term “sell-out” is a tired, overused expression when applied to rock & roll musicians. A lot of older stars, whether victims of unscrupulous management or fast-talking lawyers, missed out on the rewards honest publishing deals would have brought. Who could blame them for cashing in when the moneyman comes calling with an offer for a commercial, theme song, or corporate sponsorship?

Super Bowl entertainers do not receive appearance fees. Supposedly, they do it for the exposure, which, according to the sales-tracking system, Soundscan, leads to a spike in album sales and digital downloads. But just how much money a “spike” represents has never been made clear, making it difficult to accuse entertainers of playing the Super Bowl for the money.

Tom Petty was one of the last corporate holdouts, so it was a bit of a surprise when he agreed to play the Bridgestone halftime show at Super Bowl XLII.
“I’m not sponsored by Bridgestone,” he said. “My deal is with the NFL.”

On Super Bowl Sunday, New England was back in the big game. The halftime scoreboard read:

(Heavily favored and undefeated) Patriots-7
(NFC wildcard) New York Giants-3

I watched Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ 4-song set, but while hearing “I Won’t Back Down” and “Runnin’ Down a Dream”, I saw flashes of Giants’ linemen Michael Strahan and Jason Tuck standing over a crumpled Tom Brady. And while those flashes were nothing more than subliminal reminders that the Giants were a serious threat to the Patriots’ perfect record, the flashes of the Bridgestone logo in the corner of my TV screen were very real.

The next day, we New Englanders mourned our less than perfect Patriots, while the rest of the nation celebrated the Giants’ great victory. And in a planned attempt to cash in on their Super Bowl exposure, tickets for Petty’s 2008 tour went on sale.

Demand was high with many dates selling out in minutes. In other words, the 2008 tour would be the same as every other Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers tour of the past thirty years when they didn’t play the Super Bowl.

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Early in his career, Bruce Springsteen grew weary of the restrictions and lack of respect he received as an opening act for other musicians. In 1974, after a blistering 80-minute set at a show in Central Park, he watched headliner Anne Murray perform while most of the partisan Springsteen crowd filed out. Having turned the tables, Bruce decided he’d played enough supporting gigs and a reputation began to form.

With the freedom to play as long as he wanted, and then play some more, there wasn’t a crowd or curfew that could outlast Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. Starting in the late ‘70s, shows regularly pushed past the 3-hour mark as encores piled up one on top of the other. The band and their fans took pride in the spontaneity – setlist changes on the fly -- and length of the shows, and that Bruce Springsteen would never be the opening act for anyone.

I have seen Bruce nearly seventy times since 1980, and when I heard he and the E Street Band would be playing the 2009 Super Bowl halftime show, I wondered why he would relinquish his hard fought freedom for twelve minutes of scripted over-exposure.

When asked a version of that question at the pre-game press conference, Bruce described what they were going to attempt as “the last twelve minutes (of their 3-hour show); that’s what you’re gonna see.”

I know many Springsteen fans and if any of us missed the first 2:48:00 of a show, it would be looked upon as a complete disaster.

When asked the standard question, Why now? Bruce explained that “initially, (playing the Super Bowl) was sort of a novelty and didn’t quite feel right” he then added, with a chuckle, “We have a new album coming out, dummy!”

Keeping those explanations in mind on the night of Super Bowl XLIII, I watched the band cut verses, choruses, and solos in order to cram four songs into twelve minutes. Included in the set was a total of 90 seconds of material from that new album. There were plenty of fireworks, though. And as the band rushed off stage to make way for the headlining Pittsburgh Steelers and Arizona Cardinals, it felt strange to know they couldn’t play an encore if they wanted to. It felt sort of like a novelty.

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During their late-‘60s to mid-‘70s prime, The Who were arguably the most exciting band in the history of rock & roll. Twirling microphones, windmilling guitars, exploding drums, and, most of all, great songs – The Who had it all. Each member played as if they held the lead instrument, but somehow it meshed, and a band is what you heard. And they were loud -- the loudest band on record to that point. The Who pushed things further than any other band, employing an impossible-to-maintain level of intensity in doing so. Perhaps that’s why, of all the rock legends to play the Super Bowl, The Who, who were not going on tour, or releasing a new album, had the least to gain.

If you’d been following The Who for the last eight years, you would have recognized the band that took stage at halftime of this year’s Super Bowl. Since John Entwistle’s death in 2002, the band has toured as consistently as in any period since the early ‘80’s. You would have known Roger Daltrey’s voice doesn’t quite rise to where it used to and that Pete Townshend looks more the writer/composer than rock star. You would have known the sidemen and rhythm section are no match for Entwistle and Keith Moon, and who would be? Entwistle set the standard against which all rock bassists are measured and Moon remains the most unique and impossible-to-replicate musician in rock history.

But The Who are survivors. And on the Monday after the Super Bowl, they took a beating unlike any previous halftime performer. “They’re too old.” “They look like hell.” “They need to hang it up.” Everyone weighed in, and most were in a big hurry to see The Who go away, taking them to task for once singing “Hope I die before I get old”. Wasn’t that the line that made us love them in the first place?

I was pissed-off.

Pissed-off at the Patriots for getting shellacked at home in the divisional round and for no longer being a dominant team; pissed-off at the halftime producers for putting The Who on an outstretched circular stage, 95% of which was girders and lights, completely inaccessible to the band, separating them by fifty yards from the nearest spectator; pissed-off at Bruce, Petty, The Stones, and The Who for agreeing to assist the NFL and its network affiliates in their annual ratings-grab by climbing into the giant musical dunk-tank known as the Super Bowl halftime show; and I was pissed-off at U2 for making me once believe that it might not be such a bad idea.

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I recently visited the world’s video replay booth, YouTube, to review U2’s Super Bowl XXXVI performance. I hate to admit that, even without the context of the Patriots’ eleven-point halftime lead, the three-song set still gives me goose bumps. I am, however, happy to announce that I figured out the three reasons why it stands alone.

The first is a circumstance that, hopefully, will never again be presented to any artist. U2 played to a politically and spiritually unified America and seized the moment by performing three songs – “Beautiful Day” “MLK” “Where the Streets Have no Name” --that fit perfectly in tone with a nation still healing from the 9/11 attacks. The second reason was the relative youth of the band. All four members of U2 were between forty and forty-one years of age, that’s a full generation younger than the rockers who would follow. In fact, U2 are the only rock band to appear as the sole act at the Super Bowl before being inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Third, U2 were in the midst of a second career-peak behind their latest album, All that You Can’t Leave Behind, and the just-completed, hugely successful Elevation Tour.

Apply the last two factors — relative youth and revitalized popularity — to those who would follow and it might’ve looked something like this…

1982 - SB XVI - Rolling Stones - album: Tattoo You - tour: between American and European legs of no-name tour

1983 - SB XVII - The Who - album: It's Hard - tour: six weeks after final date of Farewell Tour

1988 - SB XXII - Bruce Springsteen and The E Street Band - album: Tunnel Of Love - tour: one month before opening of Tunnel Of Love Express Tour

1992 - SB XXVI - Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers - album: Into The Great Wide Open -tour: between American and European legs of Touring The Great Wide Open


Certainly the above scenarios would have added much-needed life to the Super Bowl in an era where the average margin of victory was 19 points. But, of course, it didn’t happen. And in the years between then and when they actually played halftime, each band lost an original member; Bill Wyman left The Stones in ‘92, drummer Stan Lynch was fired by Petty in ‘94, The Who lost Entwistle, and E Street Band organist Danny Federici died of melanoma in 2008. U2 is the only band to play the Super Bowl with its original lineup intact and not looking as if they were there to receive a lifetime achievement Grammy Award.

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So what would I say to my rock & roll icons if given the chance?

To Bono:

In a 2005 Chicago Tribune interview in which Bono tried to explain his “vision of what rock is” he responded to criticism over appearing at the Super Bowl saying, “…to me the Super Bowl was our Ed Sullivan moment. It just came 25 years later.”

The problem, Bono, is that Ed Sullivan moments don’t come 25 years later. For rock n roll, they came in the ‘50s and ‘60s and were like lunar landings for bands of the era. I remember U2’s Ed Sullivan moment, it came in1981, on a new television network called MTV. The song was “I Will Follow”. I’ve been a fan ever since and U2 has been selling out stadiums for decades. Back in the day, an appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show earned you a ticket to stardom. In 2002, stardom earned you a ticket to the Super Bowl.

To Mick Jagger:

At the Super Bowl XL press conference, Keith Richards was asked how he would outlive the cockroaches since the running joke was they would join him as the only survivors of nuclear war. “That is so bad,” Mick Jagger said, before Keith answered, “I’ve got to eat ‘em.” Mick then decided to take one final question, as things were “getting too silly.”

I wonder, Mick, if that was just a fleeting moment, or if you realized how silly the whole Super Bowl halftime process is. From the embarrassment of facing the unimaginative mainstream press, to the organizers alienating most of your fanbase, banning anyone over age forty-five from the on-field audience (the ban was later lifted, but the message was clear: The Rolling Stones were deemed too old to attend their own performance); was the anticipated spike in sales worth the indignities?

To Tom Petty:

In 1980, Tom Petty told Rolling Stone, “I find it difficult to believe anybody really cares that much about what I have to say. I mean, it’s only rock & roll – just disposable crap that won’t mean much in 10 years.”

Tom, as a fan of both your music and rock & roll, I’m so glad you were wrong. I’m guessing you’re glad, too. As far as I’m concerned, those early Heartbreakers’ records mean even more 30 years later. Every time you release a new record or head out on tour, the intrinsic value of everything that came before goes up. Having said that, I sometimes miss that young, cynical Tom Petty; the guy who bared his teeth when he sang, punched walls out of frustration, fought to keep record prices down so I could afford them when I was 16 years old, and who would’ve scoffed at the thought of playing the Super Bowl. What I’m trying to say is, the Bridgestone logo didn’t really bother me, what did bother me is that it didn’t seem to bother you.

To Bruce Springsteen:

In another answer to the “Why now?” question during the 2009 Super Bowl press conference, Bruce recounted a dinner conversation with an unnamed “young musician” that led him to reconsider his past reluctance to the halftime show:

Young musician: Hey, why don’t you play the Super Bowl?
Bruce: Well, you’re kind of playing in the middle of a football game.
Young musician: Man, I hope one day my band’s big enough to play the Super Bowl.
Bruce: Hmm, let me think about that…

Bruce, you blew it! You had a chance to set the young lad straight. Super Bowl? When did that become the goal? What about Madison Square Garden? Or Glastonbury? Or Bonnaroo? You were on the right track, too. Accept you’re not kind of playing in the middle of anything. When you play Super Bowl halftime, you are in the middle of a football game. And I know you had a blast, but I wish you hadn’t done it. I wish you’d stood your ground, and maybe that conversation would have gone something like this…

Young musician: Man, I hope one day my band’s big enough to play the Super Bowl.
Bruce: Son, I don’t know much about football, but we’re musicians, so if you’re ever big enough to play the Super Bowl, you better be wearing cleats, shoulder pads, and a helmet.

To Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend:

“If my hearing is going to be a problem, we’re not delaying shows,” Pete Townshend recently told Rolling Stone. “We’re finished, I can’t really see any way around the issue.”

You guys have said farewell more times than Brett Favre. But unlike Favre, I was always glad to hear you were coming back. Now, after your March 30th performance of Quadrophenia at Royal Albert Hall, the end could really be here. For those in attendance, it must have been a treat to see you one last time, playing complete songs the way they were originally conceived. For those of us in The States, and the rest of the world, however, we’re left with a twelve-minute medley between halves of a football game.

In his tribute to Bruce Springsteen at the 2009 Kennedy Center Honors, Jon Stewart said, “Whenever I see Bruce Springsteen do anything, he empties the tank...every time.” With the exception of Super Bowl XLIII, where the gas gauge barely had time to move, I would agree. But I’m talking to you, Roger and Pete. Throughout your career, the Who also made a habit of emptying the tank. Along the way, you also flattened the tires, broke the windows, and lost a couple passengers, all while driving the loudest and fastest car in the race. If Royal Albert was indeed the finish line, the Super Bowl was nothing but an unnecessary stop along the way.

Don’t agree?

To All:

Next year’s Super Bowl will be broadcast on Fox. In a recent LA Times interview, Fox Sports CEO, David Hill, was asked if the halftime act will be under the age of 60.

“Oh, please, God, yes,” he said. “If I saw Pete Townshend’s belly again I was going to throw up. In his younger days, it might have been rippling muscle, but now it’s like mine – rippling fat.” As for Roger, Hill said, “…poor old Roger had one of the purest voices, but it’s history.” And in case his point wasn’t clear, he added, “From the conversations I’ve had with the NFL, we won’t need oxygen.”

So, there you go. I’m not sure if I want to thank Mr. Hill for providing the voice of reason, or kick him in the teeth for providing the voice of disrespect. Either way, it looks like it’s over. And it wasn’t your decision, but a 63 year-old television executive’s. He went to high school around the same time you all did. You wouldn’t have hung around with him then, and he’s not going to let you hang around with him now. In fact, he’s just the type of person Keith Richards was referring to in a 2002 Rolling Stone interview; when asked, How do you deal with criticism about the Stones being to old to rock & roll?

“People want to pull the rug out from under you, because they're bald and fat and can't move for shit. It's pure physical envy -- that we shouldn't be here. How dare they defy logic?”

I remember back when the Monday after the Super Bowl was a daylong exercise in football rumination and deliberation. Over the last several years, however, I’ve spent a good part of my days-after listening to unqualified, scornful recaps of the compressed, halftime macro-concerts given by my favorite musicians. Since I didn’t really agree with what my idols were doing, it hasn’t been easy to defend them. In my opinion, by playing halftime of a football game, they were the ones defying logic.

I don’t know what Hill, who isn’t bald, but is fat, has in store for next season’s Super Bowl halftime show. But I can take solace in the knowledge that if any of rock & roll’s legends show up at the game, they’ll be in the stands, and not on the field.

Photographs and Memories

In loving tribute to David Migliorini 1966-2010


The last time I saw David Migliorini was at the Stoneham High School Class of ’84 tenth-year reunion. I graduated in 1983, but was dating a classmate of David’s and had accompanied her to the event. David and I hadn’t seen much of one another since high school. It didn’t matter. Friendship has the power to dissolve years, make them feel like weeks, even minutes.

When I heard of David’s passing on August 29th, I thought, as I’m sure many did, there was no chance to say goodbye. Then I thought of one of the many things David and I had in common back in our youth: we both kept photo albums overflowing with pictures of our misguided adolescent experiences. (If memory serves, David called his albums “Beer Books.”) I went to my bookcase and took a turn down Memory Lane.

I flipped through the shiny Mylar pages expecting to find a few scattered shots of my old friend. What I found, however, were countless images of David’s smiling face. There he was at a party in my parents’ basement. Another shot showed him in the cafeteria at Stoneham High. There were a few stills of us posing with our dates before the Twirp Twirl Dance. I found a nice action shot of David jumping on the beds at the Koala Inn on the night of the Maggot Prom – an invention of our very own, created so that cheap, single guys could celebrate Prom night without having to buy tickets or rent a tuxedo. And in a later volume, there were pictures from that tenth reunion.

David and Rosie the lunch lady, SHS cafeteria 1983 (Ron Ponti in background)

There was sadness, but I found myself smiling in spite of the loss. All those ‘80s fashions: hospital pants, half shirts, bandanas, Nikes, bad suits, bad hair. We wore them with pride. In my head I heard the music we bonded over: new wave, punk, The Clash. Mostly though, I heard David’s infectious laugh and imagined it had grown warmer over the years.

L to R: Mike Veno, John Marquard, David and me

display our tickets to the Maggot Prom (1983)

David was one of those rare individuals who not only transcended the preconceived separateness that can keep one group from socializing with another, but encouraged others to do so as well. As a result, our two graduating classes formed an unusual kinship that, in many ways, continues over 25 years later. Several enduring friendships of mine can be traced back to those days, back to when I first met David.

L to R: Robert Guida, Me and David at SHS class of '84 tenth reunion 1994

On the night of David’s wake, I observed the many photographs displayed throughout Finnegan’s Funeral Home. It did my heart good to see that his smile had never changed, and I knew his laugh had indeed grown warmer, and that he was well loved as both a husband and father.

When an artist leaves us, the beauty they created in life, whether in a song, a story, or a painting, remains forever as a reminder of how they touched our lives. I have my pictures; every one of them a song, a story, a watercolor.

I had not seen David in over fifteen years. I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye, but part of him is always with me, in memories, in lasting friendships, in photographs.

The Rookie on the Doorstep

Malcolm Brox sailed into the end zone, untouched, for his fifteenth touchdown in just the tenth game of his rookie season with the Cleveland Browns. As soon as the official confirmed the score, Malcolm jogged over, waited for him to lower his arms, and handed him the ball. It never occurred to him to throw the ball into the stands or slam it on the turf, nor did it occur to him to dance or gesture toward his rival’s bench. The play was over.

The score put the Browns on top to stay in an eventual 27-20 victory over the Steelers.

As he headed back to the sidelines, Malcolm accepted congratulations from his downfield teammates. Then, as he’d done after each of his previous fourteen trips past the plane of his opponent’s goal line, he sought out each of his offensive linemen and thanked them personally for clearing the path.

With a record of 8-2, the Browns were enjoying their best season since re-joining the NFL in 1999 and Malcolm was a big part of their resurgence. A former schoolboy star at Vincent Chamberlain Memorial, a little known high school located in one of Cleveland’s middle class suburbs, Malcolm flew under recruiter’s radars calibrated to pick up the movements of athlete’s from the state’s scholastic power brokers such as Massillon and Canton McKinley. As a result, he accepted a scholarship to Youngstown State where he was part of three straight NCAA Division I FCS playoff teams, and, as a senior All-American, a national runner-up.

Still, pro scouts and draft gurus like ESPN’s Mel Kiper weren’t rating Malcolm any higher than 15th among draft-eligible running backs, sighting his size – 5’-9” 188 lbs – and lack of exposure to big-time competition as negatives. So in the 3rd round, with his name still on the board, the hometown Browns selected him with the 67th overall pick. Rumor has it that Browns owner Wendell Goodrich called GM Horace Winfield personally saying that if Malcolm Brox slid past them one more time there’d be a different man representing the team at next year’s draft.

Aside from odds makers, fantasy buffs, and a few local writers who’d followed Malcolm in high school and college, not much attention was paid to the Browns and their young star over the first three months of the season. It wasn’t until that week-ten victory over division rival Pittsburgh that the 1st-place Browns and their league-leading scorer began getting noticed outside the state of Ohio.

The tipping point came following the game when someone with real journalistic clout decided to inquire about Malcolm’s consistently understated post-touchdown ritual.

Sylvester Wheaton had been covering sports for The Cleveland Plain Dealer for more than four decades and as he headed toward Malcolm’s locker, his only regret was that he’d let pessimistic sentiment override his journalistic instincts; Malcolm Brox was a bona fide star with a story that needed to be told.

Wheaton was 69 years old; a throwback right down to his corduroy suit jacket and plaid fedora. He never bothered taking notes and refused to stand elbow to elbow with microphone thrusting colleagues spewing clichés as if they were questions. Wheaton did his job hands-free, one on one, and athletes knew they’d be afforded fairness when dealing with him. He was also a diehard Browns fan.

Malcolm was sitting by his locker when Wheaton approached, but stood and put a t-shirt on over his muscular torso out of respect. He could never understand why athletes couldn’t wait until the locker room was cleared before getting undressed.

The men shook hands.

“Sorry I’m late,” the elder man said.

Malcolm frowned, a slight flush colored his light brown cheeks.

“Late?” he said. “Did we have an appointment?”

“No, son. I should have come to see you months ago. I’m an old man, seen a lot of heartache when it comes to the Browns; Red Right 88 in 1980, Elway for the rest of that decade, Modell in the 90’s. I guess I just couldn’t trust what I was seeing was real; the Browns in 1st place, headed for the playoffs, a rookie running back leading the NFL in scoring. But, you son, are for real. Everyone’s going to write about those things I mentioned, but what I want to know is, why chase down offensive linemen every time you score a touchdown?”

It was a simple question; the only kind Wheaton asked. He never piggybacked a follow-up like so many hacks trying to lead their subjects where they wanted them to go. Experience had taught Wheaton that a simplistic approach always yielded the most interesting and surprising results.

Malcolm looked around the room at his teammates, then back at his questioner.

“Think of it as a delivery,” he said.

Wheaton waited, showing nothing.

“The touchdowns,” Malcolm said, “They’re like a delivery. My father worked 37 years as a letter carrier in Stansfield Heights. He started back when it wasn’t easy for a minority to get a job like that. We lived just over the line in Proctor. We weren’t poor, but we weren’t Stansfield Heights either. One morning, I was about 7 or 8 years-old, he comes into my room, wakes me up, and says, ‘You’re not going to school today, you’re coming to work with me.’ Well, I just about shot out of bed and he says, ‘This is no field trip. You’re going learn something today.’ He took me around and introduced me to as many of his coworkers as time would allow before we headed out on his route. I met truck drivers, registry clerks, and custodians. He explained what each of them did and how important their job was. He wanted me to understand that it wasn’t just the people who did what he did that got the mail delivered. He just happened to be the guy who showed up on the doorstep with the package. And on the walk home, he told me how every Christmas he shared a percentage of his tips with the coworkers who weren’t on the doorstep getting the credit.”

Wheaton nodded, knowing there was more.

“You see, Mr Wheaton, I’m the guy on the doorstep holding the package. I’ve watched plenty of football on TV. I know who the camera’s on. I may as well be holding it. And I make it my business to get that camera aimed at the people who got me to the doorstep. They do some real nasty business clearing a path so I can get there. They deserve as much credit as I do. Even more, if you ask me.”

Malcolm paused. A hint of a smile appeared on his face.

Wheaton broke his silence.

“What is it, son?”

“I was just thinking about that day, those big houses up in those hills. I remember climbing this one set of stairs, they seemed to go up forever, and I started thinking, he does this every day; in the rain, the snow, the heat, always on the outside, always looking up. And it was like he could read my thoughts because he said, ‘Don’t go resenting these people in these nice houses, son. They’ve always treated me well. You look them in the eye when you speak to them. It shows you respect them and that you’re worthy of their respect.’ What I remember most, though, was that wherever we walked, he always made sure he was between me and the traffic. Not once did I feel unprotected. And now my teammates are doing the same thing. How lucky can a guy get?”

Indeed, Wheaton thought, How lucky, indeed. He’d only asked two questions, but he had his story.

The next day, the Plain Dealer ran the story about Malcolm on the front page of the sports section. The wire services quickly picked up on it and suddenly the Browns public relations office was being inundated with requests for time with the rookie phenom. Even Letterman called to schedule an appearance.

As the Browns closed in on their first division title since 1989, and Malcolm was making a serious bid to be the first player since Earl Campbell in 1978 to win both rookie of the year and MVP in the same season, reporters began flooding the area in front of his locker after games. He stood patiently and answered their questions, charming them with the occasional anecdote. He deflected praise, crediting his parents and coaches, and he insisted that statistics were not important, that they only told part of the story. And whenever possible, he pointed toward his teammates, reminding the writers that they all had a story to tell.

But many of them did not want their stories told. They appreciated young Malcolm occupying the spotlight so they could remain somewhat anonymous and go about their post-game business quietly. And then there were the few who resented his popularity. Even as they accepted his praise, something they had never received from any veteran running back, they couldn’t stand to see Malcolm attracting so much attention.

The season ended in a hard-fought loss to New England in the AFC championship game. Malcolm was as gracious in defeat as he had been in victory, but the fickle media was already getting bored with the well-mannered, articulate star. Honor and stability were not major themes on Sportscenter. Several reporters had gravitated toward Jesse Harper, the third-person wide receiver, and others went looking for reaction from Dennis Plankton, the face-painting linebacker with the speeding tickets and late-hit habit. All of which was fine with Malcolm, he knew the least important things in life were temporary.

Two months later, in a most unorthodox move, Wendell Goodrich invited Malcolm to his home to discuss a contract extension. The house was enormous, with Doric columns and manicured topiary that impressed even in late winter. Goodrich was what you call super-rich. He made his fortune in broadcasting; The Browns were like a hobby acquired to fuel his competitive side.

Malcolm didn’t have an agent. He showed up at the owner’s house with another man to assist in negotiations. Goodrich greeted both of his guests warmly and the three of them sat down and worked things out amicably over lunch.

As a third-round pick, Malcolm had been paid well, but not as well as the best rookie since Gale Sayers deserved to be.

“What about the salary cap?” Malcolm asked. “You’re going to need some room to go after free agents.”

“Let me worry about that,” Goodrich said. He was tall and lanky, in his mid-70’s, with silver hair and long unruly eyebrows. “Is there anything we haven’t covered?”

Malcolm looked at the man who’d come with him. The man nodded.

“There’s just one thing,” Malcolm said. “That incentive clause, the one where I get a bonus for every touchdown I score?”

“Yes?”

“I’d like that money to be divided equally between the other ten guys on the field at the time of the score.”

“A unique request, but I think we can arrange it.”

“And Mr Goodrich? I don’t want them to know where the money came from. In fact, I don’t want anyone to know. Not the press. Not the league. Just the three of us here today.”

“The league might be a problem, but we’ll figure something out. It’s all in the language of the contract.”

When the meeting broke up, Goodrich saw his guests to the door. His wife joined him on the porch as he watched them drive away in Malcolm’s modest Acura sedan. She was wife number three and a good twenty years younger than Goodrich.

“Who was that man with your star running back?” she said. “He looked so familiar.”

“He should,” Goodrich said, “You probably didn’t recognize him out of uniform. That’s Sidney Brox, our mailman for the last eighteen years.”

“Why was he here?”

“Wisdom.”

She looked up at him, a question forming on her cosmetically amended forehead.

“He’s a wise man,” he said. “He once gave me some of the best advice of my life.”

“And what would that be?”

“Two years ago, he told me I’d be a fool if I passed up an opportunity to draft his son.”

One day, in early April, Malcolm walked down to the post office to greet his father on his final day of work. Another thing the new contract allowed Malcolm to do was buy his parents a new home not far from Wendell Goodrich in Stansfield Heights. It wasn’t exactly on the hill, but it wasn’t at the bottom either.

“Come on Pop, I want to show you your retirement present.”

As they approached the house, Malcolm noticed an old station wagon out front and a figure standing by the “Sold” sign on the front lawn. The plaid fedora could only belong to one man.

“Mr Wheaton, what are you doing here?” Malcolm said.

“Real estate deals are part of the public record, son. I’ve been trying to track you down. Heard something about a new contract extension.”

“Oh, Mr Wheaton,” Malcolm said, “that’s no big deal. There’s no story there. Just a contract.”

“No story, huh? This is a pretty expensive house we’re standing in front of.”

“I bought it for my folks. Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Wheaton, this is my father. Pop, this is Mr Wheaton.”

The two older men shook hands.

“Pleased to meet you Mr Brox.”

“Call me Sidney.”

“Sylvester Wheaton.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve been reading your column for years. You’re the only civilized newspaperman left in Cleveland.”

“Tell that to my editor.”

“If he doesn’t know it by now, he’s as hopeless as a cross-eyed pool player.”

Wheaton smiled. “So, Malcolm, no comment on the new contract?”

“It’s just a contract, sir. I’m sure the details are available.”

“You know if there’s a story here, I’ll find it.”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Where are you going to live?”

“I’ll be close by,” Malcolm said. “I’ve got a commitment to fulfill.”

And with that, Wheaton said his goodbyes and drove away.

“You think he’ll figure it out?” Malcolm said, as he watched the journalist disappear down the street. “About the incentive clause?”

“Probably. That’s what he does.”

“It certainly is. Come on Pop, let’s go tell Ma she needs to get ready to move.”

The two men walked toward their soon-to-be old neighborhood; Malcolm on the outside, between his father and the traffic.

A Life Lesson Learned at the Stop & Shop

(As first appeared in Newsweek 10/15/2007)
I was obsessive about managing my time, until a small act of kindness slowed me down.

It's noon on a Wednesday; I've got plenty to do, but I need to pick up a few things at the grocery store first. I have determined that it will take 30 minutes to complete the errand. I pride myself on efficiency, and will do everything in my power to meet my goal. You see, I live with this absurd notion that it is possible for me to "own" my time.

I get out of my car and glide through the Stop & Shop's sliding doors. I tuck my sunglasses into my jacket pocket, and scoop up a shopping basket without breaking stride. While my eyes adjust to the fluorescent lighting, I notice a frustrated man struggling to separate two shopping carts that have been wedged together. Good luck, pal.

I stop by the deli first, the only potential speed bump in my meticulously choreographed routine. There are a few people ahead of me, but with two employees slicing away behind the counter, this shouldn't take long. I draw a number, wait my turn, approve the thickness of the initial slice of turkey, and decline the invitation to sample it. I'm moving away from the counter as the clerk hands over my half-pound package; I reach back and collect it as if it were a relay-race baton and scurry off in the opposite direction.

I'm making good time: no need to check my watch—my internal clock is unfailingly accurate.I'm coasting along on cruise control, heading for the pet aisle, when I notice an elderly couple looking at laundry detergent at the end of the aisle, their cart obstructing access. They shuffle coupons while looking back and forth between their shopping list and the merchandise. I stop a few feet behind them and begin shifting foot to foot. They're comparing the merits of Tide versus Wisk while computing some complex mathematical formula involving sale prices, triple-value coupons and fluid ounces. They decide against the detergent. I watch them as they walk off, completely oblivious to me. Unbelievable.

After picking up a carton of litter-box liners, I head to the dairy section and toss a couple of containers of yogurt into my basket without slowing down. I realize I'm still on schedule when, up ahead, I see the elderly couple stalled out in front of the dairy chest. Here we go again. The man has most of his upper torso in the cooler; he's passing half-gallon containers of milk to the woman. She squints, shakes her head, and hands them back to him. They're checking expiration dates. I can see the exact brand of milk I want, but I can't get to it. Finally, the man hands the woman an acceptable selection. She makes a mark on her list, and they slip away without acknowledging me. Clueless.

I pick up a six-pack of Powerade on my way to the checkout area. I search the lighted signs for an express lane and don't see one. A regular lane is open to my right. As I prepare to unload my basket, I find that the lane is not unoccupied. The elderly couple had been camouflaged by the candy and magazine racks. I'd probably laugh if this were happening to someone else. The woman is rechecking each item against her list as the man places them on the conveyer belt. I lean back and inspect the other checkout lines to see if there is a better option. The woman looks at me, then at my basket, and whispers something to the man. He turns around and, in a gentle, friendly voice, says, "Hey, why don't you go ahead of us? You've only got a few things." His carefree manner catches me off guard. He sounds as if he's got all the time in the world, and he's offering me a little piece of it. I feel the sort of shame that comes when someone does something nice for you after you've said something nasty behind his back.

"That's OK," I say, trying to match his casual tone. "I'm in no hurry."

"You sure?" he asks.

"Yes. Thank you."I look down at my shoes; I feel self-conscious and petty.

The man loads the last of their items on the belt and places a divider behind their order. I thank him. He nods and smiles. The woman is watching the checkout girl to make sure no mistakes are made. I have an urge to go forward and bag their groceries for them. Their time is precious, too—more precious than mine.

I pull into my driveway and check the clock on my dash: 12:35. I missed my goal by five minutes. I know that the five minutes were well spent observing the kind elderly couple in front of me after they had offered me their place in line. Five minutes: a small price to pay for discovering that only those who are giving of their time have ever owned it in the first place.