Sports Idols

Many of us have idols. They may be in government, industry, the arts or religion, to name a few. 

Moreover, many of us have sports idols. This worshiping of athletes is primarily based upon their performance, which gains them notoriety or even fame. There are others who like the performers because of how they look, how they conduct themselves and who they work for.

Whatever the reason, it is certainly not a bad thing to like an athlete or even a team. Our favorites are a product of our environments and how we best receive them. 

As I grew up, I experienced many stimuli which formed my likes and dislikes in sports. Living in the New York metropolitan area, we were saturated with local sports on Channels 9 and 11. Channel 4 also had some Knicks games on and Channel 2 carried the NHL on Saturday afternoons, an event CBS broadcast across the country. 

Then there was the print media. New York had the most newspapers and offered the bevy of writers who could describe the elements of a game, the side stories and offer opinions, no matter how slanted they may have been. I scrupulously devoured the papers at lunch time after I walked home from the schools which were on the North Side of Highland Park—Hamilton School and Highland Park High School. Ditto the evening paper, The Home News, a New Brunswick icon. 

There was WCTC Radio, 1450 on your dial, which, despite its having “Hungarian Melody Time” on Sundays, a result of the influx of escapees from the 1956 Hungarian Revolution who were sent to a still active portion of Camp Kilmer in Edison and Piscataway then sealed in New Brunswick along Albany Street in what became known as the “Hungarian section.” WCTC, with Station Director Tony Marano calling the action, was the home for Rutgers football and basketball. Bill Speranza and Sam Mudie for football and Bob Lloyd for basketball were the bigger-than-life student-athletes I adored from afar. 

In those formative years, I watched summer afternoon and evening broadcasts of the Yankees—especially the prodigious blasts of one Mickey Mantle, my first idol. Between him and Tom Tresh, an American League Rookie of the Year, I molded my ability to hit from both sides of the plate. And in 1961, I emulated Roger Maris as he and Mantle chased the ghost of Babe Ruth. 

I could pitch with the no wind of “Bullet” Bob Turley. I tried to throw a screwball like Luis Arroyo. I learned to throw from the outfield by watching Maris with his lethal arm. 

When the Yankees fortunes soured until the mid-1970’s, watching the games just wasn’t the same. Then along came Reginald Martinez Jackson, as the erudite Howard Cosell would speak of him. His 1971 All-Star game blast to the light towers at Tiger Stadium in Detroit made him must see TV. So when he joined the Yankees, I would monitor his at bats during the game so that I would not miss something special. Like his epic three home run performance versus the Dodgers in the 1977 World Series. 

There were other Yankees through the years who I wanted to see. Hall of Fame outfielder Dave Winfield and first baseman Don Mattingly were my Yankee guys. Bobby Murcer was fun to watch, too. 

Then in the new run that began in the mid-1990’s, there were Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera, whose exploits landed them in the Baseball Hall of Fame. I never wanted to miss Jeter. Period. And Mo closing a game was a work of art. I also loved Andy Pettitte’s stare. 

Now it is Aaron Judge and to a degree, Giancarlo Stanton whom I wait to view. Gerrit Cole is the Yankees’ top hurler and there are always the end of game situations for Yankees closer Aroldis Chapman to agonize over. These are my Yankees heroes. 

Yankees were not the only ones I watched. There was Sandy Koufax and his dominating fastball and unhittable curve ball. Tom Seaver, when he was with the Mets, was always a thrill to see. 

Willie Mays in an All-Star Game was incredible. I never missed those contests because the best players in baseball were showcased. 

When WTBS came to the nation, Atlanta Braves baseball was a national phenomenon. I loved to watch Dale Murphy swat homers in Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium and Phil NIekro flutter his knuckleball, baffling batter after batter. Then with the new group in the 1990’s, how could I miss the performances of the pitching trio of Greg Maddux, Tom Glavine and John Smotz—all in the Hall of Fame? 

Hockey and football were more team sports. While I had my favorites to watch, it was in the context of a New Jersey Devils game to see Martin Brodeur and Scott Stevens; or Mike Bossy of the Islanders and Phil Esposito with the Rangers. 

There was no one player in football who intrigued me enough to always turn on his team’s games. The closest I came to watching one particular player was either Herschel Walker and Bo Jackson—two powerful and speedy running backs. 

With basketball, I watched Lew Alcindor at UCLA when I could. I marveled at the battles between Bill Russell and Wilt Chamberlain. Larry Bird and Magic Johnson meeting on the floor was great theater. And of course , there was HIs Airness, Michael Jordan. The probable G.O.A.T.

Which leads me to this season. Thee has been one player who has captivated me for years. Steph Curry. From his heroics at Davidson College in his junior year, Steph’s final year there, to his time with the Golden State Warriors. 

No one player had taken me to a place where I had to watch him every time he played. Which meant that I would stay up late because of the three hours time difference 

Curry has an aura that is simply breathtaking. His moves, his passes, his three point shooting and free throw accuracy are unlike anyone I ever seen. 

No matter what he does, something almost unimaginable might happen the next time he touches the ball. He is magical and graceful. He is tough yet looks to be a nice guy in his public appearances and commercials. 

Thus, when he was in the throes of chasing down Ray Allen as the NBA’s all-time three point shot maker, I was there. ESPN and ABC moved games to accommodate the interest in Curry’s run for the record. 

TNT had the great fortune of televising the game from Madison Square Garden on Tuesday night which would involve the potential record-breaking bucket. They sent Reggie Miller, once the record holder, to help broadcast the game. Allen was nearby.

This ultimate foray was the result of his trying too hard against Orlando at home to get the final 16 in one night. To an abysmal shooting performance in Philadelphia last Saturday night when the Sixers covered him like a glove en route to a Warriors loss. While he fared better in Indiana, the Garden was going to be his triumphant moment. 

On Tuesday night, the Garden was electric. Like a playoff game. All eyes were on Curry. He hit his first three pointer attempt, then missed the second. When he hoisted his next one, it was all net, Wardell Stephen Curry became immortal. He had the record he chased for so long and the moments he shared with teammates, his coach Steve Kerr, and family were precious. 

This is why I watch certain individuals more than others. They deliver performances which exceed those of the mere mortals playing with them. 

We are riveted by their actions. We pray and pray for them to excel. Which invariably they do. 

For they are sports idols.