FINAL LEGACY
As Nantz narrates your sports memories, remember heart & soul of every word is for cause dear to him
Monday night, Jim Nantz will look into a camera and welcome the CBS audience to college basketball’s championship game. He will be speaking to millions when he says “Hello Friends,” but in reality will see only one face looking back, his father Jim Nantz Jr. who died in 2008 at the age of 79 after 13 years trapped in a disease known as Alzheimer’s.
So, what does this have to do with Monday’s title game? If you really care who Nantz thinks will win you’re in the wrong place. If you want to know his assessment of Bill Raftery’s analytical skills this ain’t the place for that either.
See, for his entire broadcast career, Nantz, like other voices, has been a merchant of memories. While athletes create moments, whether they are participating in a Final Four, Super Bowl, or Masters, voices like Nantz’s describe and accentuate the pictures with words. They are spontaneous soundtracks. The descriptions live forever, so do the memories. Unless you have Alzheimer’s. It destroys memory. It robs its victims of the essence of life. There are no yesterdays. Tomorrows will instantly be forgotten. Nantz, like any family member of an Alzheimer’s patient (my mom, Doris, is one of millions), has lived with the sadness of this reality. During a telephone conversation, Nantz said he never thinks about the memories he helped create being lost, never considered the memory of a title buzzer beater Monday night could be wiped out overnight by Alzheimer’s.
The numbers tell us this will happen. Each year, about 3 million people get Alzheimer’s. Sports fans, so into wins and losses, statistics, the latest rant by some radio Gasbag, or a compelling replay, are not immune to the disease. They too are eligible to forget everything, including a great game or a performance that moved them.
“I don’t think about it in that context,” Nantz said. “...That’s because I’m on a mission. It’s my life mission to be a part of helping out to find a cure for Alzheimer’s. This is something I wake up every morning thinking about. If I don’t see that we have found a treatment for Alzheimer’s by the time I take my last breath then my life will not have been a success.”
There is no certainty this will happen. Still, Nantz has been pushing hard. In 2011 the Nantz National Alzheimer Center, which treats thousands of Alzheimer’s patients each year, opened at Houston Methodist Hospital. His 2009 book, “Always by My Side,” provided insight into the disease.
But there is no blueprint. Like the kind Nantz routinely follows moving from the NFL to college basketball to golf. Nantz’s challenge now is much bigger. It is one of heart and soul. It transcends sports. His father died with his life’s movie erased from his mind, but the son’s heightened awareness inspires this mission. It drives Jim Nantz. Many of the memories are not pretty. Like the five years his sister Nancy and his mother, Doris, cared for the father in the family’s home in Houston.
“Every day they woke up it was the same thing, just trying to keep my dad afloat,” Nantz said. “They had no life of their own. Dad was incapable of dressing himself, showering, going to the bathroom. So they did all these things to sustain their loved one. All these things the rest of the world doesn’t know about. It’s really impossible to get your mind around.”
Meanwhile, Nantz was on the job, flying around the country calling high profile games. From the outside looking in it all looks so glamorous. Not so when your own mind can’t escape a loved-one’s misery, not when you can’t be there to be hands on.
“I’m off spinning in my own orbit, broadcasting these great sporting events and feeling a tremendous burden of guilt,” Nantz said. “I was living in the New York area at the time and, without fail, I came through Houston either on my way, or on my way back, from an event. But I did nothing heroic. They (his mom and sister) did. They were there every day... Did I feel guilt? Yes, I felt a lot of it.”
Nantz would feel even more sadness. It reached a point where it wasn’t possible to keep his father at home anymore. The family moved him into a nursing home.
“When you close that door (of his room at the facility) and you walk out the door of the nursing home, for the first time you are leaving dad behind, you can’t begin to describe how awful that feeling is,” Nantz said. “We had to move him out of the safety and security of his home.” Nine days after the move, Nantz’s dad, a big man who played college football and basketball, was walking around the halls of the facility. Another patient bumped into him. “My father was five years into his death march with Alzheimer’s. He was just not steady on his feet,” Nantz said. “He fell over and broke his hip. My dad was never able to walk again.” Nantz paused and began talking about his only son, one-year-old Jameson. Spending time with the kid brings back more memories of his father. It also makes Nantz wonder s if Alzheimer’s might someday take him down. “Do I think about it? Yes,” he said. “In the meantime I’m grateful I have a brain that enables me to call a sporting event, often times without a single note in front of me. My memory serves me well. That doesn’t mean it’s not going to burn out on me. I don’t spend a lot of time worrying about myself. I worry about my kids.” Nantz asked us to listen carefully to his voice Monday night. The tone and sound will be a lot like his father’s. He said that’s the way it always is. “Our voices were identical. Figuratively it’s my dad’s voice that’s being heard. It’s his voice. It’s his name. He made me feel like I could be a world beater. I can just hear my dad saying, ‘Son, this is supposed to be what you are doing-- go for it,’” Nantz said. “One day we are to going have a great victory over Alzheimer’s to celebrate.” This was Nantz’s greatest call. I went to share it with my mom. I mentioned Nantz. Her brow furrowed. “What? Who Nantz?” She asked. Her smile faded into frustration. Then, into a blank stare. I had seen this look before. She didn’t know who I was. GETTY & NANTZ NATIONAL ALZHEIMER CENTER is Jim