9501150632
DETROIT FREE PRESS
950424
Monday, April 24, 1995
METRO EDITION
1C
Photo Associated Press
:
Associated Press photos
Howard Cosell plays patsy for heavyweight champ and friend
Muhammad Ali during a 1972 broadcast.
The dream team of broadcasting in the 1970s, from "Monday Night
Football": Cosell flanked by Don Meredith, left, and Frank
Gifford.
MITCH ALBOM
SEE ALSO METRO FINAL CHASER EDITION, Page 1C; SIDEBAR;ATTACHED
Copyright (c) 1995, Detroit Free Press
COSELL OFTEN IMITATED BUT SELDOM MATCHED
He died quietly, which was not like him, early Sunday in New York City,
before sunrise, in the wee hours, when the ratings don't matter. His heart --
which many claimed he never had -- failed him at last.
Meanwhile, just a few blocks away, ESPN was preparing for its second full
day of NFL draft coverage, over-hyped and over- announced insanity, with the
insufferable Mel Kuiper Jr. set to prattle on about split times.
No wonder Howard Cosell left us. He probably couldn't stand it anymore.
Down goes a legend. From his booming, nasal "Tell it like it is" statements
to intros such as "Miiiiile High Stadium, Dennnvah, Colahhrado" to live
action calls such as "Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier!" there has never
been a more imitated sportscaster. Back in the '70s, every teen wearing
bellbottoms could do a Cosell impersonation.
But looking at sports in the sudden blankness of Cosell's death, we see
that, after all these years, people have been imitating the wrong part.
Cosell was not just noise. He was journalism. He poked. He prodded. He
asked frank questions. He dared you to use a dictionary.
"Once again, Danderoo, you have proven to be neither loquacious nor
truculent," he would scold broadcast partner Don Meredith on "Monday Night
Football."
"Aw, Howard," Meredith would drawl, "there you go with them 20 dollar words
again."
Fans, of course, sided with Meredith. So did sportscasters who followed.
Madden, Bradshaw, George Foreman -- the list is long -- found fame playing the
bumpkin. The bumpkin's easy. You're no threat. You're welcome at the party.
Cosell was a threat. He did not attend the party. He knew that the
microphone made your voice louder for a reason, not simply for a laugh, and so
he attacked when he saw something wrong. He was rude, arrogant and
condescending. He was also necessary.
"Oh, this horizontal ladder of mediocrity," he once said of the broadcast
business. He swore he could never do play-by-play at a bowling or golf
tournament, that he would rather work as a ditch digger. This was back in the
late '60s, when Cosell and his bad hair, long nose and frequent cigar made him
a sight sports fans had never before encountered.
Even then he knew he was better than the rest. For one thing, he was a
lawyer. Had been for 10 years before getting into broadcasting.
For another thing, he didn't love the games. He did not swoon at the smell
of a locker room. For a while, he did sports for ABC while also hosting a
Sunday night radio program in which he grilled politicians and businessmen. He
saw both roles as the same. He had to be clear and entertaining.
And he had to be right.
Cosell didn't get famous for yelling stupid things like "TIME OUT BABEEE!"
He got famous, quite frankly, for his guts, and he often had more than the
athletes he covered. It was Cosell who had the nerve to take on white bigotry
that wanted Jackie Robinson and Muhammad Ali squelched; it was Cosell who took
on the labor issue hypocrisies in the NFL. It was Cosell who watched Larry
Holmes pummel Randall (Tex) Cobb in an inexcusable blood-letting boxing match.
Afterwards, Cosell walked away. He quit boxing.
"The sport should be abolished," he said. Never mind that he was doing
this, as critics point out, after he'd made a name for himself through the
ring. So what? If you keep your eyes open, your opinions may change, and you
may suddenly despise something you once thought worthwhile.
Besides, tell me one other broadcaster who ever walked away from a gig.
On that winter night in 1982, as he watched Cobb's face turn to jelly,
Cosell half-whispered his analysis: "What is achieved by such as this?"
Noise rules these days. Cosell was more than noise. He had a point. It is
amazing when you see the old footage of fans throwing bricks through TV sets
in protest of Howard. Yet, nowadays, we sit mindlessly in front of
brain-numbing programs, and we don't lift a finger.
Cosell did nearly 40 years at ABC, including 13 years on "Monday Night
Football." By the end, he as burned out, bitter, and because he was in a
jealous business, his contemporaries quickly to attacked.
He died lonely, with many bridges burned. Given the hair- sprayed world of
the business he once dominated, you can see why Cosell once said, "My greatest
accomplishment may be my mere survival."
That is gone now. In the end, he couldn't stop the big machine, the
hypocrisy, or the horizontal ladder of mediocrity. Down goes a legend. He gets
his five-minute eulogy, and then we return you to your regularly scheduled
program.
SIDEBAR
10 WAYS WE'LL REMEMBER HOWARD COSELL
1. "Tell it like it is."
2. Verbal sparring partner for Muhammad Ali.
3. Most impersonated broadcaster ever.
4. Doing his Ed Sullivan impersonation on "Saturday Night Live with Howard
Cosell." He introduced "the new Beatles" -- The Bay City Rollers.
5. Worst toupee in the business.
6. "Truculent, loquacious" and an endless stream of polysyllabic verbiage.
7. Stories about his drunkenness in the booth.
8. "Look at that little monkey run." Cosell's regrettable comment on
Washington wide receiver Alvin Garrett.
9. Larry Holmes vs. Randall (Tex) Cobb, followed by Cosell's refusal to
broadcast pro boxing again.
10. Polls that showed him as the most popular and least popular broadcaster at
the same time.
OBITUARY; HOWARD COSELL