REST IN PEACE, MAX
To those he touched, Gifford Louis Edison is remembered for big voice and bigger heart
What set him apart?
That booming voice. That always sharp, ready-for-the-NBA-draft, or as the old folks used to say, “cleaner than the board of health,” way he dressed.
That biting wit: harsh, honed, hilarious. That heart, not the one that failed him, but that which was always on display in how he was so giving, so caring, so passionate, so real.
There was no one like him; there will never be another.
Gifford Louis Edison, died Friday, on his birthday. He was 63.
Most knew him as Max, a fitting moniker. He lived, laughed and loved to the max.
The sports editor at the Houston Defender, was a sharp writer and storyteller, whose masterful voice distinguished him from every radio host in town. He made his mark in radio some 30 years ago.
He was a trusted adviser to many, often putting his role as journalist aside to counsel. Max was the father some of the professional athletes he regularly interviewed wish they had.
When he worked a locker room, he avoided the large scrums with the rest of the crowd, preferring off-to-the-side banter with athletes who looked up to him.
He knew how to connect. He earned their trust. Athletes discussed private matters with him they would never share with others.
While media were scrunched together to hear a Texans player repeat some cliché about needing to be a better teammate, Max would be over in a corner talking to a player about whether the stripper the kid was dating was Miss Right. She wasn’t.
Max and his wife, Judeene, were married in 1985. He knew what he was talking about.
Infinite comfort zone
When the media turned off their cameras and recorders, leaving with a player having said the bad call didn’t cost his team the game, Max would sidle up with “I’m surprised you didn’t get thrown out, doc. You trying to save money by not getting fined?”
Next thing you know …
“You know it. That call cost us the game. Think I should have cussed him out?”
The hip hop generation didn’t stand a chance.
See, Max was as comfortable on a private jet with a billionaire during business hours as he was in a jazz joint enjoying a few cocktails with streetwise movers and shakers.
Max loved him some Houston sports teams. He was a pure homer. Amazingly, though, his objectivity was never questioned. Rooting for local teams merely drove his passion.
As knowledgeable on high school and HBCU sports as he was on the Rockets, Texans and Astros, Edison drove home points with a hammer that showed he cared.
Despite being hard on owners, general managers, coaches and players when they deserved it, he was always fair. He was more than happy to give them a pat on the back when he felt they earned it.
Max loved Super Bowl Week. Those trips to the biggest game of the year, which he began making in 1994, were highlights for him and his college homeboy and longtime friend Adolphus “AD” Moore, Jr.
When the Fritz Pollard Alliance was formed in 2003, Max jumped right in, recognizing its importance in developing, supporting and educating NFL team owners about qualified minority coaching and management candidates.
He was a fixture at the annual black sportswriters’ dinner.
Max developed friendships with journalists from major outlets, who immediately respected his intelligence and were drawn to his charm.
He was so much one of the big boys that writers from across the country called him to get the inside scoop on what was going on with Houston teams. They knew he’d have the real real.
He told it like that too. Straight and real. A big-city presence with down-home delivery.
A football player at Sweeny High School before he attended Sam Houston State, Max knew that sport, but was well-versed in basketball, baseball, and track and field. He was tireless.
His daughter Nicole is a junior sprinter at Arkansas-Little Rock. He beamed with pride when he talked about her track accomplishments.
We were all his kids, even those not much younger the he was. He had that presence.
Max never let a teachable moment with a younger colleague go by without sharing wisdom. Not preachy like a commencement speaker, but educational like the best teacher you ever had.
He told you how, showed you how, and just as importantly, explained why. If you weren’t sharp enough to get it, that was on you.
Willing mentor to many
Aspiring journalists, wannabe writers, television reporters and radio personalities, particularly the dozens of young black ones he mentored, were bettered by spending a few minutes at the School of Max.
He broke ’em down like Teddy Pendergrass working a women-only concert.
See, right there, my man Max would interject in his amazing country bass: “Did I really have ’em throwing panties on the stage?”
Yes sir!
What a voice. Deep, strong, soothing. Cool isn’t a strong-enough word to describe the way my man expressed himself. Every sentence seemed to carry more meaning because of the inflection from that raspy sound. It didn’t matter if he were talking sports, politics or dinner plans, when Max spoke, the room froze.
I first caught the voice in the mid-1990s, when he hosted a groundbreaking show “Sports Timeout” with Kim Davis on KYOK. They didn’t have to put on a show to put on a show.
A decade later, the night before my first radio hosting gig, on a station that was new to town, Max called to check on me. And to check me.
It was odd, because at the time, I only knew him in passing. I’d spent a decade covering the Big 12 and the New England Patriots before then, so our paths hadn’t crossed much.
Yet, he took the time to hunt me down and tell me everything I needed to know. What to expect. How to prepare. He wouldn’t let me go until he was confident I could handle my business.
That coaching session, which was akin to getting a hitting lesson from Tony Gwynn before making a major league debut, saved me from a disastrous beginning. There was nothing in it for him. Max wanted to see me succeed.
It was the beginning of a wonderful friendship; the first of many lessons.
He applauded when I delivered, redirected when I was lost, celebrated when I won. As debate-minded as I am, we didn’t argue much.
He had his way with debate
We rarely disagreed, but when we did Max usually made it clear that if my opinion differed so much from his, I needed to go do some more research. Find new and better sources.
“What fool are you talking to?” he asked me once. That was wrong. And right.
It is easy to think of times Max made me laugh heartily. He wasn’t a comedian, he was just doggone funny.
I’m crying today, but I’m laughing. That’s Max.
Max was a star in Houston media. Something tells me Max never wanted to be big-time. Not in a sports journalism entertainment business that rewards foolishness over facts, clowning over class, noise over knowledge.
Now, Max could get down — he could have been a professional roaster — but he was too real to perform just for show.
He always had a bigger purpose. It wasn’t about him. His life was about love and family, and you didn’t have to be a blood relative to become part of Max Edison’s family.
A few weeks ago, Max posted a message on Twitter along with the song “A Great Work” by Brian Courtney Wilson.
“This song is going to bless and encourage someone today,” Max wrote.
The song’s chorus speaks to a man like Max. A man who does for others. A man of faith.
“God is doing a great work. He’s doing a great work. He’s doing a great work … in me.”
Yes, He did, Max. Yes, He did.
Rest in peace, my friend.