Seventeen years later, Jim Valvano’s memory lives on

It was 17 years ago today that Jim Valvano died after a bout of a little less than a year with cancer. I can still remember the day vividly. I was teaching at Duke back then and I’d flown down early in the morning (in those days I still flew regularly) and I was in a rental car driving to campus when I heard the news on the radio.

It wasn’t a shock. I had last seen Jim when Duke played North Carolina in Chapel Hill in early March and you could almost feel the life seeping out of his body. By then, he had made the two speeches that came to define his last days—one at a 10-year reunion for his 1983 NCAA championship team at North Carolina State (click here: reunion speech); the other at the ESPY’s (click here: ESPY speech), the first and last moment that the ESPY’s had any value at all—and had clearly made peace with what was to come.

Jim and I had been close for a long time. I had seen him play at Rutgers (he was part of a superb backcourt along with a great shooter named Bob Lloyd) and had first gotten to know him when he coached at Iona. I had spent many late nights sitting with him after games when he was coaching at State. Like most coaches, Jim couldn’t sleep after games—he was never much of a sleeper to begin with—and he would always head up to his office after doing his postgame press conference in Reynolds Coliseum and order pizza, wine and beer. His coaches would come in and hang out and so would various friends. I always stayed until the end because I knew when the room cleared out, Jim would stop telling stories and get serious. As hysterically funny as his stories were—I still re-tell some of them when I speak—the best parts of the evening always came well after midnight.

Jim would put down his wine glass and often stretch out on the couch in his office and say things like, “I need to figure out what I want to do when I grow up.”

He was constantly restless. He had spent his life dreaming about winning a national championship and then when he won one at the age of 37, in the most dramatic fashion possible, he felt unfulfilled. You could almost hear the famous line from the old Peggy Lee song, ‘Is that all there is?” playing in his head on a constant loop.

He chased The Next Thing for a while, flying to New York on Monday mornings to appear on CBS’s ‘Early Morning,’ Show; doing color on occasional games IN season; hosting that awful sports bloopers show; doing a pilot for a variety show in Hollywood (seriously); selling memorabilia; becoming the athletic director at State. Anything to avoid being JUST a coach.

Everyone knows what happened: he stopped paying enough attention to his program and enough bad kids seeped bad kids seeped in to bring the program down. A book, written with the (paid) cooperation of a former manager, helped bring about an NCAA investigation—even though there were so many in-accuracies in it on simple things like what day of the week Thanksgiving fell on (I’m not joking) that it should not have been taken seriously. Still, the investigation led to probation and to Valvano being forced to resign after the 1990 season. Twenty years later I think it is fair to say that State still hasn’t recovered from that episode.

Valvano quickly rebuilt his life through TV, which wasn’t surprising. He was smarter and quicker and funnier than anyone who had been given a microphone in a long time. He was a more direct version of Al McGuire: very smart, very funny but you didn’t have to unravel what he was saying to see the genius in it. It was right there in front of you.

As close as we had been—I was the first writer Jim talked to about the various accusations in the book—and I think it is fair to say someone he confided in often, he wasn’t happy with what I wrote when things fell apart at N.C. State. Basically I said I was disappointed because he seemed to be taking the route most coaches took when they had let standards slip in the program: It’s not my fault. It’s the administration’s fault or my assistant’s fault or the players fault or the NCAA’s fault.

Jim certainly wasn’t alone in doing this. And I wasn’t inconsistent in writing what I wrote: If you take the credit for success, you take the blame for failure. He and I were both working a game in St. Petersburg the year after he stopped coaching (I was doing radio, he was doing TV) when we had it out in a back hallway of what is now known as Tropicana Field.

Basically he said this: How could YOU of all people do this to me. YOU are my friend. He was in a place I hate going: raising the issue of where the line is drawn between a professional relationship and friendship. Years ago I believed you should NEVER be friends with people you covered. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that’s impossible. How can you know someone for 20 or 30 years, watch their families grow up, see them go through joy and tragedy and not have feeling for them? Similarly, when they are there offering help when you have issues in your life, how can you not be grateful?

I told Jim exactly that: I considered him a friend and I did not think I had violated any trust in what I’d written. But as someone covering college basketball, how could I not write about what had happened? As someone who KNEW he’d neglected his coaching job how could I say I didn’t know it? And, if I simply covered up for him, what credibility did I have when I defended him—as I had done when the book came out because it was so clearly full of mistakes on issues big and small.

We agreed to disagree—loudly.

The next summer he was diagnosed and it was apparent quickly that what he had was terminal. We had exchanged letters that never referenced our disagreements. On the early March afternoon when Duke played at Carolina, Jim was sitting at the broadcast table with Brent Musburger, who was on headsets taping some pre-game billboards. Jim was surrounded by security because so many people wanted to stop and wish him well. As I walked by, heading for my seat, I heard Jim’s voice: “John, come sit with me for a second.”

I turned in that direction only to be shoved backward by an over-zealous security guard (they breed them, I think, in Chapel Hill). “Hey pal, let him go,” Jim said. “Let my friend go.”

I smiled when I heard the word friend. I sat down in an empty chair next to Jim, the one where the floor manager would sit in a few minutes.

Jim was direct. “I don’t know when I’ll see you again,” he said. His voice was soft, very un-Valvano-like. “I was hoping you’d be here. I owe you an apology.”

“No you don’t.”

His hand was on my arm. “YES, I do. I was mad at you because I wanted you to be my apologist and that’s never been who you are. What you did, really, was an act of friendship because you wouldn’t let me off the hook. I needed more of that back then.”

I didn’t know what to say. I was certain—certain—this was going to be the last time I talked to Jim. I wanted to go back to his office, have him lie on the couch again and explain to me why ‘Perestroika,’ was a brilliant book as he’d done one night a few years earlier. That wasn’t going to happen.

“It means a lot to me you’d say that,” I said.

“I’m glad I got the chance,” he said.

I hugged him and could feel just how much his body had shrunk. I remember shuddering. He must have sensed it.

“Pretty scary isn’t it?” he said.

“There’s about a zillion people pulling for you,” I said.

He smiled. “I know,” was all he said.

I patted him gently on the shoulder as I stood up and he put his hand on my hand for a moment. I never spoke to him again.

Seventeen years later, thanks in large part to the millions of dollars raised by ‘The V Foundation,” which Jim started in his final days, people remember Jim. I remember him too. And, especially on days like this one, I miss him a lot.

Remembering George Michael

Because Urban Meyer’s resignation/non-resignation was the dominant story in sports over the weekend, I didn’t get the chance yesterday to write about the passing of George Michael.

I often joke about the fact that television makes people famous for being famous and they are thought of as stars because people recognize them regardless of the quality of their work. The list of people who fit in that category is a long one.

George wasn’t one of those people.

He was famous because he outworked his competition; because he did things differently and because he had the kind of personality that, even if you completely disagreed with him on something, you walked away from the argument admitting to yourself that the guy knew his stuff.

When he first came to Washington in 1980 I was skeptical about the notion of him doing sports. I didn’t know him, but knew of him—as a rock-and-roll disc jockey at WABC radio in New York where he replaced the legendary Cousin Bruce Morrow and as a hockey color man for the New York Islanders.

He had a big voice, I knew that. I didn’t know much else. But George rode into town with a commitment from the local NBC affiliate—WRC—to spend money to make a dent in the ratings and with a concept that no one had thought of in local TV before: use the new-fangled satellites that TV stations were acquiring to pull down highlights from all over the country.

Washington had a pretty good history when it came to local sports. Warner Wolf had become a local legend before leaving to go national with ABC. Frank Herzog, who had been Wolf’s backup, was a superb basketball play-by-play man on the Washington Wizards before moving to the Redskins in 1979 where he stayed 27 years before Dan Snyder pushed him out the door so he could put one of his see-no-evil house men behind the mike.

Michael took it to a new level—with the satellite highlights (that led to his national show, “The Sports Machine,” which was huge on Sunday nights until ESPN became dominant) and with an open checkbook. Backed by WRC’s money, Michael had weekly shows in which he “exclusively,” interviewed Joe Gibbs, whomever was quarterbacking the Redskins and anyone else who really mattered on the local sports scene.

Michael’s “checkbook journalism,” was mocked by many (me included) but it has now become the norm on both local TV and radio. WFAN in New York spends huge dollars every year ensuring that local football coaches and players; both baseball managers and selected stars in other sports show up on their air every week. Trust me, Joe Girardi and Jerry Manuel aren’t on WFAN every week because they’re so fond of Mike Francesca. Other local stations, including the ones here in DC, do the same thing.

I still remember being in the Redskins locker room in 1986 when Jay Schroeder, then Washington’s quarterback, had come out of the game with what appeared to be a minor injury. Those of us charged with finding out how Schroeder felt or what had happened on the play had little chance to do so because he was back in the training room and then went to an off-limits part of the locker room to dress.

Finally, my boss, George Solomon, who took an injury to a Redskins quarterback about as seriously as an injury to one of his children, demanded that Charley Taylor (not the wide receiver) who was the Redskins PR guy at the time, find out when Schroeder would be available to talk.

Taylor came back a couple minutes later. “Sorry George, he’s just not up to it,” he said.

“Not up to it?” Solomon screamed. “I’ll bet he’ll be up to it tomorrow for his paid appearance with George Michael!”

As it turned out Solomon was exactly right. Schroeder’s first interview that week was “exclusively,” with Michael.

By the late 1980s, Washington had a remarkable quartet of local TV broadcasters: Michael was at channel 4; Bernie Smilovitz, who would go on to New York and then Detroit was at channel 5; Herzog was at channel 7 and Glenn Brenner was at channel 9. Each was outstanding in his own way, though Brenner’s humor simply put him in a different class from anyone else. You literally couldn’t stop laughing when Brenner got on a roll. He reminded me of Jim Valvano.

And, tragically, exactly like Valvano, Brenner died at the age of 47 of cancer. The whole town essentially came to a halt when Brenner died and all four local stations went wall-to-wall that night with Brenner. The two most touching moments came when Gordon Peterson, then the anchor at channel 9 and probably Brenner’s best friend, talked about him and when Michael, his No. 1 competitor did the same.

I had my run-ins with George. Like most of us, he didn’t like being criticized and he HATED being called a homer—even though he very clearly was one. When I wrote a column prior to Super Bowl XVIII urging everyone in the local media—including my newspaper—to quit being such Redskins homers I singled out George for his repeated references to the team as, “we.”

The next week my phone rang and I heard the booming voice. “Feinstein, that was out of line! I ask tougher questions than anyone in town and you know it!”

“Questions like, what do WE have to do to win?” I answered.

“Okay, maybe I cross the line every once in a while but that’s what the viewers want! I give ‘em what they want and you know it!”

He did—but he was still a homer. A couple of weeks later George ripped me in an on-air essay for calling the Georgetown basketball program “secretive.”

I knew he was expecting a call from me in response but I didn’t give him the pleasure. A couple weeks later we ran into each other at a Maryland basketball game.

“Hey, you know I ripped you for that Georgetown piece,” George said as we shook hands.

“I heard something about that,” I said. “So I guess you get into practice over there every day, huh?”

He smiled. “You know you’re a pain-in-the-butt,” he said. “But I gotta admit you do what you do well.”

George did what he did very well, right until the end when cancer began to run him down. Even though I’d heard he was sick, I honestly didn’t know it was that bad until Tony Kornheiser called me Thursday morning to say he was on his way in to do his radio show—which wasn’t supposed to air on Christmas Eve—and could I come on and talk about George for a few minutes.

I did and I listened to the stories others told throughout the day and into the night. The overwhelming theme I heard was this: George loved what he did and people loved watching him do it. He had a unique personality—I said to Tony that George always came into a room doing George—and he changed local TV in Washington forever and also pushed the limits at the national level with The Sports Machine.

He was 70 when he died. Way too young. But no one can say he didn’t love just about every minute he had.

8 Years Ago Seems Like Yesterday; Army Hall of Fame Induction Dinner Tonight

There is a story on the front page of this morning's Washington Post about kids who are now fifth, sixth and seventh graders who are learning about the events of 9-11 from history books. When I saw the headline I was briefly stunned, because like most people, I'm sure, I remember the events of that day as if they took place yesterday. But eight years is a long time in the life of a child. My daughter Brigid, who is 11, claims to remember 9-11, but I think she remembers more of what she's read than what she saw or heard. Danny, my 15-year-old, does remember it. In fact, one of my most chilling moments--among many--was going to school to pick him up and hearing him say, "dad, are they going to try to fly a plane into our house?"

One thing that came out of 9-11 was a toning down, at least for a while, of political vitriol. Most of us can still remember the sight of members of Congress--Democrat and Republican--standing on the steps of the capitol that night singing, 'God Bless America.' For once, the country banded together because never had evil been more clearly defined for us. It wasn't a liberal; it wasn't a conservative, it was crazed zealots who steered airplanes into buildings and those who danced in the streets to celebrate.

Now, that's all gone. (Those of you who don't like reading me on the subject of politics should skip the next couple of paragraphs). The scene the other night in The House of Representatives when Joe Wilson of South Carolina shouted, "you lie," at President Obama during his health care speech--and, even worse some of the reaction to it--shows just how far we have slid backwards in eight years. Let's not even debate here (because this really ISN'T a political blog) about whether illegal aliens would be included in the bill even though people on both sides of the aisle reading the bill on Thursday said they clearly would not.

The point is this: under no circumstances do you heckle The President of the United States. The guy who threw the shoes at President Bush went to jail--which is fine with me because he tried to assault him. Wilson shouldn't go to jail, but he should resign. Imagine, for a moment, if, say Barney Frank, had screamed at Bush during a speech to Congress what the reaction on the right would have been. Instead, there were still Republicans trying to claim that Wilson's facts were right--as if that would be a defense--and then the insane right wing pundits were saying he should not have apologized.

Sorry folks. You can completely disagree with any president on any issue. But there is such a thing as respect for the office and decorum. Several years ago, at the height of the Iraq war I was invited to a breakfast at The White House as part of the National Literary Festival. I sent regrets for this reason: I could not, at that moment, bring myself to shake hands with President Bush because I believed he was needlessly putting thousands of young Americans in harm's way and I was very angry about it. I had friends in Iraq and had known several people who had died or been wounded there. But I would NEVER accept the invitation and then be rude to The President in The White House. If I went, I would shake his hand and say, "Mr. President, thank you for the invitation. It is always an honor to be inside The White House."

If Wilson was so emotional on this issue, he should have stayed away from the speech. What's more, his apology was a non-apology. Even after making it he was still insisting he was right about the bill.

(Okay ditto-heads et al it is now safe to return to the blog).

As luck would have it, I will be at West Point tonight, certainly a place that is appropriate on this anniversary. Army is having its annual Hall of Fame induction dinner tonight and I was asked to MC, largely because the best-known of the eight inductees is Mike Krzyzewski. I'm old enough that I saw Krzyzewski PLAY at Army, on Bob Knight-coached NIT teams. In 1969, Army played South Carolina in the NIT quarterfinals. South Carolina had been ranked in the top ten most of the year but had lost the ACC Tournament and since only the tournament champion made the NCAA Tournament back then, the Gamecocks came to New York. Krzyzewski shut down John Roche and Army won the game. Years later, Bobby Cremins told me a story about that night.

"We were down and had to come out of our zone and go man-to-man," he said. "As we came out of the huddle Frank (McGuire) said, 'Bobby, who've you got?' I said, 'I got the kid with the big nose whose name I can't pronounce.'"

I first met Krzyzewski my senior year in college when Duke played Connecticut (not a power back then) in Madison Square Garden. I flew to New York a day early with Coach Bill Foster and Duke's star guard, Tate Armstrong. We attended what was then the weekly New York coaches luncheon at Mama Leone's where Foster--who had coached at Rutgers--spoke to a lot of old friends. By then, Krzyzewski was coaching at Army and Jim Valvano--who had played for Foster at Rutgers--was at Iona. After lunch, Foster introduced me to both of them.

"John does a great Dean Smith impression," Foster said. (Actually to quote Dean's long-time SID Rick Brewer, EVERYONE did a Dean impression in those days). It didn't take a lot of coaxing before I did it, referring often to the importance of seniors.

Krzyzewski and Valvano both laughed, little knowing how important Smith would become in their lives a few years later. Of course I had no idea how important Krzyzewski and Valvano would become in my life.

The funny thing is there seems to be a rule that, because I went to Duke, I'm not supposed to say or write anything good about Krzyzewski because I'm doing it just because I'm a "Dukie." Anyone who knows me at all knows I'm hardly considered a loyal son by Duke people and most people know just how much respect and affection I have for Dean Smith. But just as people in politics like to put simplistic labels on people, those in sports do the same. Heck, if you pick up a Duke media guide on the distinguished graduates page under "journalism," they list some woman who was on 'Survivor." I don't make the cut. Maybe calling the last two presidents a liar (Nan Keohane) and a weakling (Richard Brodhead) has something to do with it.

I don't need to defend Krzyzewski's coaching record on any level so I will leave you with one story about Krzyzewski the person and if telling it makes me a "Dukie," so be it. Three years ago, my father died two nights before Duke played North Carolina in Chapel Hill. The funeral was on the day of that game. Duke won in the final minute. Needless to say I didn't get to watch.

The next morning my phone rang and I heard Krzyzewski's familiar nasal voice. Almost always he will open a conversation with some kind of joke or putdown. He once returned a call I'd made to him on New Year's Day and said, "how does it feel knowing the highlight of your year (his calling) has come and gone and the year isn't even 24 hours old yet?"

This time he just said, "how are you holding up?" I told him I was okay, my dad had been almost 85 and he'd lived an amazing life.

"I want to tell you something," Krzyzewski said. "Last night, during our last time out, I stepped away from the huddle for a second and looked up and just said, 'Martin, this one's for you.'"

The last college basketball team my dad ever cared about was CCNY--where he graduated in 1941. Even so, I got pretty choked up at the thought and the sentiment.

That's why, Dukie or not, I'm honored to be part of the ceremony tonight. And I know that all of us in the room, Democrats and Republicans, will take a long moment to honor those who were killed eight years ago today. I can only hope that most of us will remember how that day felt when this day is over.