By David Scott
Boston Sports Media Watch

Well, that was a quite a month for Shots and we appreciate all of you who jumped over the CSTV.com to follow along with our insane amount of live-blogging and assorted shenanigans over the past five weeks. We broke some ground, retread some old paths and was part of an overall fanatastic month for the fledgling network from CBS. The Atlanta CSTV presence alone was monumental.

We’ve been doing the slow re-introduction into Boston’s sports media mayhem and at the same time we’ve been prepping for the debut of a Shots-involved radio show which kicks off this Saturday at 9 a.m. on ESPN Radio Boston 890 AM. The “Boston Sports Review Radio Show” with yours truly and the ever-cranky Mike Salk will surely set sports talk radio on its ear.

Put it this way – you can either drive around doing the recycling, running the errands and sipping the Dunkies while listening to two senile members of AARP at Entercom’s Sports Leader – Hot Dog and The Tracer – or you can come and grab a little infotainment and mischief at 890 with The Salker and Scotty.

The choice is no choice at all, really. We’ll see you there. Oh, and the launch show is scheduled to feature Basketball Bob Ryan of the Boston Globe in addition to a weekly ticket giveaway (via trivia) to see the Hometown Nine at The Fens.

[You bet your ass that was shameless and self-promoting. After a week of watching the “national guys” stumble through the Final Four, we’re pretty damn sure it’s okay to tout one’s self for anything and everything. See Below: Lupica, Mike.]

. . . An alphabetized run-down of what we learned while we were away from The Shanty visiting parts unknown and parts called Ft. Myers, Richmond, Atlanta (twice), Buffalo and East Rutherford.

Atlanta – Centennial Park was the perfect setting for the Final Four and what has now become a weekend festival (outdoor and indoors) with bands, “Big Dance” labeling on signage and more than a few products being shilled in magnificent fashion.

. . . Oh, and they’re tearing down Buckhead and putting up condos which means our favorite manager at The Lodge is going to need to find a new job. If you have a need for a sassy redhead with a killer smile, call (404) 233-3345 and ask for Heather.

Boston Globe – A month removed from the Borges Bungling, the sports desk has now gone to no disclaimer whatsoever at the bottom of some notes columns including Jim McCabe’s golf notes and at least one recent Peter May Sunday basketball compilation.

This would now seem to indicate that all the material in those submissions is entirely the writer’s. Of course, we don’t have any clarity on the matter because clandestine Joe Sullivan has never publicly addressed the issues with any type of Editor’s explanation or Note to clarify the page’s policies for notes columns and other works, in the wake of Borges’ cut-and-paste revelations.

It’s been known as ‘transparency’ for some time now, but apparently it doesn’t filter into the New York Times’ family’s teetering ship o’ Sullivan. Instead, we’re left to guess and pray that all the information we’re reading is original work.

Do they think we wouldn’t notice the disclaimer’s removal? Or just that we wouldn’t care? Becuase clearly they don’t.

Cowboy Tony Romo – A huge college hoops fan, Romo was seen being pitched by frequent March Fox Sports New England contributor and Providence College coach, Tim Welsh, to come join the Friar staff. “Hey, Deemo,” Welsh yelled over to his assistant Steve DeMeo during the CSTV/CBS party on Friday night, “you’re out and Romo’s in. Go get a head job already, would ya?”

Welsh was just kidding, of course (although he is a monster Cowboys and Romo fan), and Deemo is doing his darndest to stay in the mix for the Iona job.

Davis, Ken – Giving hope to Borges’ brethren everywhere, the Hartford Courant’s former plagiarist was working Atlanta for the plagiarists’ favorite writing place, MSNBC.com.

Engagement – Looks like the Globe sports desk has beat the sister-company’s “Sox Appeal” show to the punch with “Sully’s Matchmaking” project. We heard in Atlanta that ex-Sox beat kid and Esquire darling, Chris Snow, is engaged to ex-Globie Kelsie Smith (now at the Pioneer Press).

Funny Esqy missed that whole angle of the story, isn’t it? And how they neglected to have a serious salary comparison of the two jobs Snow has held in recent months? Shoddy magazine writing, if you ask us.

Feinstein, John – We missed it live but got several accounts of “Season on the Brink’s” Brink of Lunacy rave in the post-gamer at the Georgia Dome on Monday. Seems the Red Auerbach Chronicler got a bit peeved that the world wasn’t revolving around Feinstein’s need to make deadline.

Guess no one had the heart to tell him that deadline writing is almost now because of the fact that the Internet has no deadline whatsoever. Johnny could have filed a column in plenty of time for his print deadline and then had a web bonus teased within his print copy to lead people to the web for late quotes. You know, creating synergy and such.

Instead, Mt. St. Helenstein has to erupt and show just how self-centered he is.

Goodman, Jeff – Goodman, the FoxSports.com senior college hoops writer was simply on fire all week from Atlanta and has become the first stop for breaking coaching news during Carousel Season. The Boston-based Goodman was working phones, locker rooms, back rooms, coat rooms, bathrooms – all weekend long all over Atlanta. He could very well be the region’s premiere college hoops authority.

. . . And if he’s not, his part-time working partner in Atlanta – the Providence Journal’s Kevin McNamara – probably is. KMac’s Big East book was referenced numerous times in my Atlanta wanderings and his stuff for both the ProJo and FoxSports.com was extremely well done.

Hoops Odyssey Guys – The duo saw something like 90 games in a hundred days. They got (in a digital video sense) the likes of Erin Andrews, The Duke Girls, John Chaney, John Wooden, Billy Packer and even a Hoya with big jowls.

I – I have a new radio show starting on Saturday with Mike Salk. I haven’t mentioned that yet have I? I didn’t think so.

John Dennis and Gerry Callahan – We pooh-poohed the Inside Track ‘report’ that the WEEI morning yakkers were seriously being looked at/ and-or looking at a move to WBCN. With the duo’s contract up in the summer, it seemed like an early volley in the battle to get re-upped and re-compensated by Jason Wolfe.

But now we’re being told the interest is serious on both sides and more than just what the Track Gals had fed to them. If it were ever to go down, it would be a colossal shift of power for Boston sports radio.

Klosterman, Chuck – The tag line at the Klosterman archive at ESPN.com for last weekend’s entries from Atlanta read: “Chuck Klosterman is coming to you live from the Georgia Dome with all the Final Four you can handle.”

Funny, from the time the title game started until it was over, Klosterman posted 644 words and about half of them were from an emailer explaining the origins of margarine.

I could have handled a bit more than that, methinks. And the K-Man’s claim that “Wi-Fi doesn’t really work at courtside because of the traffic at courtside” is complete bunk. My CSTV.com Hang Time cohorts and myself were posting at every media timeout (and more) without fail and without interruption ALL weekend long (pre-games, during games, post-games). The “sketchy” part was Klosterman’s prima donna attitude.

Yeah, ESPN.com really got their money’s worth out of that assignment.

The guy is superbly talented and writes circles around all of us – I’ve been read the riot act on his genius. I even agree with most of it.

But he flat out stole money in Atlanta and he did it in a way that caused friction among the ESPN personnel in attendance. Use the guy the way he’s meant to be use and don’t try to pigeonhole him into a role he neither cares about nor puts the effort into.

The WiFi access wasn’t sketchy, Klosterman’s approach was.

Lupica, Mike – We got distracted during the national championship game on Monday night and because of it, we had to start a “Lupica Count.” This was the amount of times that The Lip would proudly rise from his high-visibility front-of-press-row seat and prance around his section whispering all sorts of witty things into the ears of long-time scribes who secretly can’t stand the egomaniacal, attention sneaker.

On one of the four separate risings from his highness’s throne, Lupica paused before sitting down, gazed down the row, preened his fine feathers and then, after much consternation over not spotting whoever it was he wanted to impart wisdom to, sat down again, eagerly awaiting the next media timeout when he could again stand and garner a minute of attention.

How he found time to write is either credit to his ability or to the NY Daily News’s complete lack of standards for its cross-sectional lightning rod. They figure at this point, just throw his name on it and half the people will read it, no matter what, and the other half (including us) will ignore it.

McGuire, Al – The play written by Dick Enberg and performed (with barely enough fanfare or promotion) during Final Four weekend was simply magnificent.

The actor, Cotter Smith, IS McGuire and with some ironing out of the wrinkled spots and some beefing up of the quotable Al material, the production could really have a serious life either touring or off-Broadway.

(We don’t necessarily know what the hell we’re talking about, but we did talk to quite a few of the people who do know such things and that’s the consensus. Bring that thing to a few college hotbeds and coincide it with a game and you’ve got yourself a smash hit.)

NESN – The Sox are winning the battle on restricting use of game footage – and other material – and it’s got more than a few of the local sports producers grumbling about “rights fees” and “barter agreements.” It’s also got NESN set up for some record breaking numbers with the Dice-K Debuts of Thursday (at KC) and next Wednesday (at Fenway). This is setting up as an all-time great kind of season for NESN and you have to imagine the potential TV revenue is going to be beyond even the most optimistic projections by the beancounters.

O’Brien, Dave – Travel has only allowed me to hear an Obie/Joe Castiglione pairing to this point in the young Sox season. That was Thursday’s Matzah-zaka (this week only, Happy Pesach) outing where Obie was simply outstanding.

It will take some time for the two to mesh – as I’m sure the Glenn Geffner/Stig pairing is much the same – but already Joe’s calling his new sidekick “Mr. Obie.” And Mr. Obie is delivering the way we thought he would after enjoying his college hoops and prior ESPN baseball work. Great pipes, fantastic, well-placed enthusiasm and a reporter’s knack for getting story details.

Oh, and Stig – who we really do enjoy – needs to lay off the Japanese version of strikeout. I seem to recall a similar problem with Pedro and punchados.

Party for Gammons – CD Listening Party for the wonderful Never Slow Down, Never Grow Old release from Gammo.

Shots doesn’t get out much, but after our last experience with Gammons on Guitar at the Saturday night Hot Stove performance, we know this will be too good to miss. And what the heck, it’s Opening Day Eve and that’s an official holiday on the Shots’ calendar.

Cousin Bill will even be in da house.

Quizno’s Subs – I like them.

Ryan, Bob – Did we mention we have a radio show on ESPN Radio Boston 890 AM on Saturdays 9 a.m. to 11 a.m.? And did we mention our first show will feature Basketball Bob on all things Boston?

Solomon, Jerome – The ex-Globie is now back at the Houston Chronicle and he can be found mining his mind and also reports that he has been doing a radio show on the FM side of things in Houston.

In our meeting at the Final Four, Solomon very directly let me know that I had once stated that he was under-qualified for his past Globe position. While I don’t recall and couldn’t locate the statement, I do know that the statement would be dead wrong if it was ever uttered or typed. Solomon is a talented and connected writer and reporter who would have had a long future in Boston if his hometown Houston hadn’t been tugging on him. Not to mention he parlayed his return into a radio gig and a monster web presence.

Talent – Jerry Brewer in Seattle has it by the boatload. Bookmark the guy. Trust me.

Wojnarowski, Adrian – In case you forgot about the definitive Jack Tatum/Darryl Stingley story, you’re welcome to read the Adrian Wojnarowski piece from four years ago that follows at the end of the alphabetical list.

X - Why is this even a letter?

Y - Why can’t the Herald figure out that they need to put BOTH the front and back pages on its website? Drives me nuts that they don’t take the backside as seriously as the NY tabs do.

Z – ZZZZZs, something I’ve had little of in the past five weeks. Gotta catch up.

. . . By the way, I’m working on a project where I need a whole pool of overseas Sox fan to let me know how ardent they are in their support of the Sox from foreign soil and how they display and partake in that support. Drop me an email (address below) if you are such a person or you happen to know of one. Thanks.

Tatum Story from:

The Record (Bergen County, NJ)

January 26, 2003 Sunday All Editions

SAN DIEGO — Some day, Jack Tatum had to tell his son the story of the most infamous hit in National Football League history. “I knew it was coming,” he said. Three years ago, it did. Lewis Tatum walked into the house. The kids at school had been talking about Darryl Stingley. Now, he wanted to hear for himself: Why had his father paralyzed a man?

They used to call him Assassin, but now they call him Dad. Tatum hadn’t met his wife, Denise, until his professional football career was over in 1980. She and the children — Jestyn, 15, and Lewis, 13 — had never watched Tatum play a down of football. Especially the kids, they just knew him as the man who was there every day in retirement, packing lunches, driving to swimming and soccer practices, and reading bedtime stories.

Yet, if Tatum wasn’t obsessed with the rest of the world understanding his truth, he was with his own son. “I told him that you never intentionally try to hurt someone,” Tatum said. “That what happened was an accident. What matters is what kind of father I am, what kind of husband I am to my wife. If someone can tell you that your dad was a dirty player, you can go back and watch some of the films and see what kind of football player he was.”

****

Jack Tatum stopped trying to tell the rest of the world a long time ago. It’s no use. Almost 25 years ago, with a preseason hit on the New England Patriots star, Stingley, with four words on a book jacket — “They Call Me Assassin” — most of America had its case to consider an All-American out of Passaic as a cold, unfeeling monster.

“I’m not going to beg forgiveness,” Tatum said. “That’s what people say: You never apologized. I didn’t apologize for the play. That was football. I was sorry that he got hurt. But to go out and apologize for the way I played football? That is never going to happen.

“I never did anything wrong. I apologized for the result. It was portrayed that I did something wrong — by the NFL, by papers - because that’s what they were fed. Even today, people still think I’m a bad guy.

“My only question is this: What did I do wrong?”

Tatum, 53, let his question hang in the air Friday night. He was sitting in the lobby of the Barona Casino and Resort on Friday night, about 40 minutes beyond a wild night in downtown San Diego for Super Bowl XXXVII. He had come for a golf tournament with a couple of old teammates, but couldn’t be found on an end-to-end walk of the casino floor. Grab a house phone, connect to his room, and Tatum could be found talking to his family on the phone. It was 9:30 p.m., and he had called it a night.

“I’m not a gambling man,” Tatum said downstairs, settling into a chair for something he so reluctantly and rarely does: Tell his story. The white streaks peel back through his long parted hair, tumbling down into his bushy Fu Manchu. He is still lean and taut. He still has presence. His Super Bowl XI ring glistens on his hand, the Raiders’ 32-14 victory over Minnesota punctuated with Tatum hitting Sammy White so hard, White’s helmet popped off.

Nobody remembers it. Nobody remembers his three All-AFC selections between 1971 and 1979 as a Raiders’ safety. They remember Aug. 12, 1978, a preseason game when Stingley turned toward Tatum on a slant pattern. The pass was incomplete, but Tatum stayed on course and jarred Stingley in the spine.

Tatum still sees Stingley laying on the Oakland Coliseum grass, still expects to see him stand up. Only, it will never happen. Stingley is a paraplegic, confined to a wheelchair and a life believing that Tatum isn’t just remorseless over the hit, but coldly profited with his best-selling book, “They Call Me Assassin.” This will be the 25th anniversary of the hit in 2003, inspiring people to bring the story back to life and try to make sense of this unresolved element of the story:

Jack Tatum still has never spoken to Darryl Stingley.

Tatum insists he tried years ago.

Stingley says Tatum never did.

“I made some attempts but it seems people around Darryl thwarted that,” Tatum said. “It’ll happen when it’s meant to happen. You can’t keep banging your head against the wall.”

If it never does, Tatum has learned to live with it. So has Stingley, who no longer does interviews on the issue.

Tatum wasn’t just the NFL’s most feared hitter, but an exacting student of his craft. He was a great cover man, voted one of the 25 best college football players in history for his time at Ohio State, where he moved between safety, linebacker, and corner. Tatum isn’t sure anyone remembers it. Or even cares anymore. All they ever heard was this: He paralyzed a man and sold 1.2 million books bragging about it.

“They thought that I was crowing about hurting Stingley,” Tatum said. “I had to go back after the book was finished and add that chapter, because it happened after the book was finished. He was barely in that book.”

Tatum has never confessed to this, but the hit on Stingley changed him on the football field. He stopped hitting in 1978. Naturally, he was scared of hurting someone else. He never told people, because this could’ve cost him his edge on the field. Yet eventually, Wendell Tyler of the Rams ran him over late in the season. He was a small back, but “I stopped short and didn’t make the big hit,” Tatum said. His older brother, Manuel, had watched it on television. He called Jack and told him, “If you’re not going to play, get your ass off the field.”

He started hitting again, because nobody in football hit like Jack Tatum. Even now, he confessed: “If you were a little afraid, I wanted you to be a lot afraid. If you weren’t afraid at all, I wanted to try to make you afraid.”
He talked this way years ago, and talks this way now. People hate to hear it, but it was the truth. Jack Tatum was a Raider. He was the hardest-hitting safety in the NFL. That’s who he was, that’s who he’ll always be. What it’s cost him, it’s cost him. After his retirement, Tatum wanted to be a football coach, just like his beloved second father at Ohio State, Woody Hayes. He didn’t want to work in the NFL, but college. How about that: Jack Tatum wanted to be Woody Hayes.

“You could teach there,” Tatum said. “You could have a bigger role in the lives of kids. Guys who go to the pros are million-dollar ballplayers. A lot of them don’t have fundamentals, but how are you going to tell a million-dollar guy that he can’t tackle? Or that he’s got to do it this way? I wouldn’t be a good NFL coach.”

So, Tatum started to touch base with old friends in college coaching, checking on even the lowest level of assistant jobs. All of them told him that he would make a good coach, “but told me that they couldn’t afford me in the program,” Tatum said.

“I was blackballed. It’s nothing that I did, but what I was perceived to have done. But then, I started to think that maybe I didn’t want to coach. If I was coaching and a kid got hurt, it would be because I was coaching him. That’s all people would say: I taught someone to do that.”

Nobody can believe his job now: He’s a paid employee of the National Football League’s so-called “Fashion Police.” On appointment by Al Davis, Tatum works the Raiders’ sidelines on Sunday, instructing shirts to be tucked and sneaker logos covered. “I don’t know if the NFL was too happy about it,” he said, “but Al Davis wanted a guy the players would respect.

“I don’t agree with all the rules, but I enforce them.”

It isn’t just the fashion that bothers him, but rules on contact. “They’re trying to make it safer, but this is a violent game. They’re teaching tackling wrong now.”

His son isn’t a football player, which is fine with the father, who understands football is a dangerous game and people get hurt. Denise Tatum was on the telephone Saturday night, a wife who met her husband weeks after his football career ended in 1980 and said: “I never fell in love with a football player. I fell in love with Jack.” She was telling the story of him “changing far more diapers than I ever did,” staying home with the kids, of him spending five years of mornings and afternoons feeding and caring for her father afflicted with Alzheimer’s.

“He’s the most kindhearted man I’ve ever known, the absolute best dad on the planet,” Denise said. “It’s hurtful to hear what people say about [Jack] and [Stingley]. He did hurt over it. He did. He tried to reach out and do the right thing, but he was turned away. It was an accident, what happened. But he didn’t do anything wrong.

“Apologize?” She stopped for a second and took a deep breath. The 25th anniversary is on the way, the story of Jack Tatum and Darryl Stingley starting all over again.

Finally, she said, “My husband is never going to apologize.”

David Scott writes from a seaside shanty on the shores of Hull, Mass. And can be reached at shotsATbostonsportsmedDOTcom