After 22 years, it’s hard to say farewell
Branden Scott’s mother sent me a video recently. It’s a video of their Sunday morning ritual. Every Sunday, 9year-old Branden reads my column out loud, and then the two of them talk about it.
That’s why this is hard. It’s hard because of y’all. It’s hard because I was 9year-old Branden Scott once, reading the sports pages out loud.
Right about then, I decided I wanted to be a sports columnist. After a misguided detour into the practice of law, I finally got the chance.
In Memphis. A city I had visited exactly once in my life, when I was the beat writer for the Florida Marlins, and the Marlins were scheduled to play an exhibition game at Tim McCarver Stadium, and the game was canceled because of ruts in the outfield.
Someone threw a beer from the stands. It hit me square on the shoulder. Less than two years later, Angus McEachran and John Stamm — the editor and sports editor at the time — unaccountably offered me the job I’ve held and loved for more than 22 years.
So that’s why this is hard. I always thought I’d write columns for The Commercial Appealuntil I retired, and even then I’d write one a week. Instead, I’m stepping down to join a new enterprise that you’ll be hearing more about in the coming weeks and months.
I’m not leaving journalism, and I’m not leaving Memphis. It’s like Penny Hardaway said at his introductory press conference, “I’ve got the Memphis blood in me.”
I didn’t get it the same way Hardaway did, of course. I didn’t grow up in this place. But after more than two decades of living here, of listening to Memphians and telling their stories, I got the transfusion, I guess you could say.
So I’m not going to tell you about all the fabulous places I’ve traveled and all the epic events I’ve covered for the paper. Because the most meaningful stuff happened right here.
The best part of being a local columnist is being a local columnist. My favorite stories were the ones I could get to in
my minivan.
Like the one about Jade Rogers, a Grizzlies fan with cerebral palsy, who would watch Grizzlies highlights whenever life got to be too much for her.
“I’ll think how hard they work even if they get tired,” Rogers said. “I’ll remind myself if they can do it, I can, too.”
Or the one about Claude Humphrey, who was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame after his beloved wife Sandra had died, and was stumped when I asked if he had a favorite picture of his wife back home.
“Every picture she ever took,” Humphrey told me. “My wife never took a bad picture. She was beautiful.”
Or the one about DeAngelo Williams when he announced that he was staying at the University of Memphis for his senior season even though it made all the sense in the world to go pro.
“There’s nothing like running through the Tiger head when it’s inflated,” he said, as everyone laughed.
Or the one about 13-year-old Donte Davis, whose mother was a drug addict and whose father took off when he was 5, but who painted all those Grizzlies yard hearts you see around town to help raise money for the Carpenter Art Garden.
“He has the gift of joy, is how I think of it,” said Erin Harris, the founder of the Art Garden. “I asked him the other day if his life was difficult and he said, `Honestly, Miss Erin, I can’t think of any way my life is hard.’”
Or the one about Murray Armstrong, the former Tennessee football player who took a job with the Memphis athletic department in 1962 and never left.
“It just seems like when I got down here everyone loved me,” is how Armstrong explained it.
Or the one about Phil Cannon, the head of the FedEx St Jude Classic, who lost his first wife to an aneurysm and then was himself diagnosed with lung cancer that ended his life at the age of 63.
“It’s real easy to stop crying and feeling sorry for yourself when you remember all those sick little bald girls,” Cannon said, referring to the kids of St. Jude.
Or the one about Molly, who requested I not use her last name in the column, but who donated a kidney to a total stranger named Alex, who then became her fast friend.
“I just wanted to do something nice,” Molly said. “It’s not as complicated as people think.”
Or the one about Scott Patterson, a basketball star at Memphis University School and then Rhodes, who lost his sight to a brain tumor but would still go on walks with his wife, Tracy, to look at the moon.
“I’d tell him where it was in the sky, that it was at 2 o’clock,” Tracy said. “I have no idea if he saw it, but he said he did.”
Or the one about Grizzlies coach Hubie Brown, whose hiring at the age of 69 was greeted with profound skepticism around the league, but who promptly went out and showed that the best teachers don’t forget how to teach.
“I want to thank you for giving me the opportunity to do what I was supposed to be doing,” he said.
I understand that sentiment. People often thank me for staying in Memphis, which is humbling but backward. The gratitude goes the other direction. Thank you for putting up with me. Thank you for welcoming this Yankee into your city and into your homes.
Over the years, I have come to realize something. As much as I care about Memphis sports, I care a lot more about Memphis itself. It may not be as glamorous as New York, Boston, Miami or some of the other places I’ve lived. But it has a way of — here’s Penny, once again — getting into your blood.
“I once said I’d never live in Memphis,” said Don DeWeese, the owner of Gibson’s Donuts. “Now I’d never leave.”
Memphis isn’t a perfect place, certainly. Maybe that explains the spirit of the town. There is too much work to be done to stand on pretense. Everyone is needed here, even the local sports columnist.
Speaking of which, I’ve worked out an arrangement with Branden Scott, the kid who has been reading my Sunday columns to his mom. I’m sending him a copy of “After the Jump,” my collection of columns. That should hold him until I start writing again.
In the meantime, one last story. It’s about Zach Randolph, another transplant from up North. I’ve never been as wrong about anyone as I was about Randolph.
I wrote a column saying that trading for Randolph was one of the worst things the Grizzlies could do. As it turned out, it was one of the very best things. Randolph helped carry the Grizzlies to seven straight playoff appearances and, along the way, helped transform the way Memphians think of their city and themselves.
One day I found myself talking to Randolph about this. About his special relationship to the town. So I’m going to leave you with the words of the greatest Grizzly, who put it better than I ever could.
“I feel like I’m from Memphis,” Z-Bo said. “It’s never felt like this anyplace else.”
If you’d like to reach Geoff Calkins, his new e-mail is geoff@geoffcalkins.com.