Life on the Run Read Online Free PDF

commentators on the sociology of sport. A couple know the game themselves and are confident of their own analysis. Others are insecure, pseudo-journalists who will slant a story in any way that will promote their own careers. A newspaperman once told me, “When you come right down to it, the politician’s very survival depends on me and journalists like me. That’s why I have no mercy on them and never respect their privacy. But you, at root you don’t need us and it’s as simple as that. You have your performance.”
    But it is not so clear-cut, for no one outside the arena would know about our games without the press. If the only information in the newspapers after a game was a tiny box score, professional basketball would be a different kind of experience for the player. And any writer who says I don’t need him is either misunderstanding his job or attempting to ingratiate himself to me. The players and the reporters are bound together inextricably, like partners in a dance.
    After the game, nine reporters rush to Frazier’s locker. Five walk to the training room where DeBusschere sits on one of the rubbing tables sipping a beer. Another six spread out among the other players.
    “What do you think?” asks one. “Why couldn’t you score during that stretch in the second quarter?”
    “Do you think Kansas City has improved?”
    “How would you describe Dave’s game tonight?”
    “What did Red say at half time?”
    “Do you think Kansas City has improved?”
    Video Associates, in cooperation with WOR-TV and WNBC Radio, names Dave DeBusschere the star of the game. For this honor, he receives a gift certificate from a local haberdasher entitling him to three knitted shirts in the color of his choice. They probably will arrive some time next summer and there is a fifty-fifty chance they will be the wrong size.
    After taking a long shower, I dry myself with my sixth towel of the evening. My home uniform already has been hung up by one of the ball boys. A blue road uniform is in my traveling bag. The home uniforms are cared for by the club. They are cleaned about five times a year. There are two sets, plus spares that Whelan keeps in his closet. Keeping road uniforms clean is the responsibility of the player, a responsibility individual players don’t always fulfill. Fortunately the group can always express its dissatisfaction in such subtle ways as inviting a particularly ripe uniform to shower with the team.
    After I dress, I stuff my wet socks, shoes, and jock into the leather traveling bag with my road uniform. I gulp two sodas, take a beer for the bus ride to the airport, and leave the locker room.
    Outside the Garden, a black man waits, another diehard fan who in the old Garden sat under the basket. I see him less frequently since the new Garden opened because he can’t afford the higher ticket prices. Tonight is the first time this season. “Hi ya, Bill,” he says, “how you doin’? You guys will win it all again this year if you keep goin’. The Pearl is ready. You know, you can score more if you drive for the basket. You should shoot more, too. I remember you in college….”
    I finally get to the bus which will take us to Newark Airport for an 11:30 flight to Atlanta. I am cold and my eyes burn from the sweat and wind. Thirty teenagers stand outside the windows chanting “We’re number one, we’re number one.”
    “How can these kids be here,” says DeBusschere, “don’t they have school tomorrow?”
    They jump up and down pointing at their favorite players and begging for an autograph. As we start moving they run along the street with us, for one block. Two slip and fall.
    The bus enters the Lincoln Tunnel and the lights come through the bus window and strike my black leather bag. The brightness of one light quickly fades as we move through the tunnel. Just as the bag is about to become dark, we pass another light and brightness returns. The variations make the bag look like a neon light