Category Archives: Sportswriting

A Chronicler’s Mea Culpa

“Or, so it seemed.”

If only I’d read the tip from a wiser scribe than myself, you my ostensibly loyal readers might have read something here about the Louisville Cardinal Nine’s loss on Saturday.

But . . . well . . . I didn’t hear the advice . . . and you didn’t get a gamecap. Which you probably wouldn’t have read anyway, because the Cards lost, which generally is the proximate cause of fewer views among the fan base.

So here as Paul Harvey would intone is the rest of the story.

For some inexplicable reason, I wrote a lede to my planned Saturday game recap in advance. In which I used the term “CWS-bound Cards” even though the game had not been played yet. Continue reading A Chronicler’s Mea Culpa

Thursday’s Some Ado About . . .

For a short while during my LEO stint, I had a copy editor with whom I had a, shall we say, testy relationship.

Not talking about then editor Cary Stemle, a friend and fellow sports/ music obsessive who totally understood and approved my modus operandi.

I forget the fellow’s name. My breezy, verbose, culture reference-laden style was obviously an anathema for him. He was prone to the pedantic. In extremis.

Along the way, I noticed some tweaks to my submissions that were becoming more vexatious. But, in a fit of maturity, I let them go without complaint.

Then, an issue came out in which he’d put a header over my column, which read to me anyway something like, “Here’s Another Stupid Nonsensical Article About Nothing.”

Pissed, I went to Cary, who given his other duties really hadn’t paid attention before the issue was published. I specifically recall we took a meeting with the guy, and a shouting match ensued. A new sports piece I’d submitted was during football season, and I inserted the totally cool acronym AFROS, which the Cardinal receivers had dubbed themselves at the time.

*America’s Finest Receivers On Saturdays. 

The fellow, totally clueless, did not understand, did not inquire and 86ed the reference. Continue reading Thursday’s Some Ado About . . .

Tales of Derby (Then & Now)

One of Glorious Editor’s cute quirks is his annual call for members of the Commentariat to regurgitate their most mondo bizzaro stories of how they got home from the track on Derby Day.

Hey, since, I got the key to the gate, I’ll weigh in. And, triple post it at all my venues. And, in addition, throw in other tales of the first weekend in May, some of which might actually be of moderate interest. Some with more info than you probably ought to be told.

But let’s start with 2025, since I got a huge dose of Derby Derby just last evening.

Derby Wednesday Dinner at Jeff Ruby’s.

Our corner table was multi-geographical. Guy in from LA, gal in from NYC. The usuals from New Orleans. Crescent Hill, Clifton and a Downtown denizen all in attendance.

The place was jammed. And jammin’. Electric. Like everybody had a power cord comin’ outta their hip, plugged into a socket under the table. Vibes of Good Times.

Fellas with rolls of pocket cabbage. Ladies on their arms in four inch stilleto fuck me pumps. Dudes who looked like they wandered in off the street staring.

And, giving it a hint o’ sports relevance, other than Derby of course, our special guest. Sitting at the next table, a pal of my horse playing buddies, a Derby regular, and former NBA champ, former NBA Coach of Year, Avery Johnson.

Who, when he saw my pals who are regulars at the track, came over and worked our table.

Nice guy.

Sitting at his table was one of those don’t-we-know-that-guy from somewhere guys? Isn’t he a Somebody?

We never figured it out. There were a couple of others like that in the throng.

Food was OK, nothing special.

But it filled my minimum yearly requirement of Derby Derby.

Other than watching the race, and the Oaks, I’ll be sitting the rest of the festivities out.

Unlike the Daze of Yesteryore.

 * * * * *

Of course, we start the memory trail with a moment from back in the day. Early 70s. When everything was skewed a bit, if not enhanced with some neon tracers to add color and disorientation.

One year, a pal had a pocket full of powder. Though the statute of limitations has long since run, he shall remain anonymous nonetheless. Because he was packing some serious substance.

Off to the track we went, with several of those one hit schnozzle things that fit easily in one’s pocket. And could be engaged for use more surreptitiously than the old lines on the fist thing.*

*Too much info for ya? Since I’ve been clean since ’82, I’m comfortable sharing. Though I did argue with myself, is this story simply not to be recited?

Anyhow, as is the case in such situations, spreading it about becomes part of the deal. Even in a throng like Churchill on Run for the Roses day. See a pal in the Paddock. Some comely jeune filles in the Mint Julep cue. Gotta share.

And the next thing you know, we’ve made it back to my place in the Triangle after the race. Along with 20 or so other folks, maybe 2 or 3 of which one or the other of us actually knew.

The details of how we got there or how the evening unfolded are long forgotten.

More than enough said about that evening anyhow.

But, yeah, Derby Derby.

 * * * * *

My old college pal Marc, the fellow who introduced me to JazzFest, is as obsessed with Derby as I am with JF. He owns some horses. Loves to bet the ponies. Has been to town here for Derby every years since late 60s.

Met his bride here when staying with me one year in the 70s. At Eddie Donaldson’s no less.

We’ve had some times.

Anyway, one year long ago he hit it big on the race.

$25 Large.

I forget why — maybe because I had stopped imbibing, and he was inclined given the moment to tipple a few — but he handed me his winnings to safekeep. He knew I wouldn’t peel off a few bills.

So there we were in celebratory mode among the revelers at Captain’s Quarters.

And I’m walking about, working the crowd, with pockets full of Benjamins.

Very strange feeling.

Derby. Derby.

 * * * * *

Then there’s the Derby Eve — again early 70s– I found myself after midnight grabbing a burger at Masterson’s there by U of L.

Sitting at the counter, taking in all the odd gangs assembled.

There were a dozen or so twentysomethings — fraternity/ sorority types, obviously dazed and confused — trying to get oriented. A couple came up to me, and were asking directions or some such.

Turned out, as sometimes it happens, they were from Ohio State, all pals of one of my best friend’s fiancé. And were in town to visit with them and go to the track.

I mentioned they seemed a smidge buzzed. Such that the reason they arrived in town so late was, they had somehow driven all the way from Columbus to Nashville, before they realized they’d missed Louisville and headed back.

True.

Anyhow, they hadn’t been able to get in touch with their hosts. And were fried.

“Can we stay at your place tonight?”

Checking out the sorority sisters, I agreed.

I mean, you know.

My place at the time was a $60/ month 500 sq. foot attic apartment in the Triangle. One bathroom. Sparsely furnished. Pillows in the stereo/ smoking den.

So after I finally got to use my own bathroom, I walk out to find two of the coeds already nestled into my bed. Which was full size, not even a queen.

I’d love to dazzle you with intimations of some memorable inappropriate moments from then on. But there are no stories to be told. I think, if memory serves, I was so uncomfortable but so “hospitable” I ended up sleeping on the floor because it was more “comfortable.”

I’m smiling bemusedly at the remembrance.

I had a Derby breakfast to go to with a date — remember those? — so I shooed away that herd way to their intended destination way earlier than they would have liked.

A Derby Derby interlude I haven’t thought about for years.

 * * * * *

From the 7th grade through high school, I worked at the track on Derby Day.

Selling flimsy little folding stools in the infield.

Two bucks. Three with a back.

My take 10%. That’s right 20 cents, or 30.

So, one and done, if a customer brought back one that broke, we just gave ’em a new one.

I’d make a hundred bucks easy that day.

Plus I could walk anywhere in the Downs with my Harry Stevens Caterer button.

Watched Chateaugay romp to the wire from the roof.

 * * * * *

The last time I was actually at the Downs on Derby Day was late 90s or so.

I was writing for LEO at the time, and my purpose was to cover the whole scene, Culture Maven style. Millionaires Row. Guys peeing on their white bucks in the bathroom. Whatever. Cover story.

I had a pass that got me everywhere in the Club House.

Except the Turf Club.

To which I managed access anyway from the outside staircase.

Saw lots of friends. And some famous folks.

Finally a couple of friendly but insistent security fellows engage me, advise I didn’t have access to that part of the Downs, and they were going to walk me out.

Along the way, others I knew kept engaging me. I’d smile, advise I’d love to stop and chat, but I’m getting the heave ho. It was an amusing situation that had us all laughing. Including my escorts.

When they got me to the hallway, they sweetly advised, “We hope you understand, just doing our job.”

No problem.

But I took it as a sign.

Though it was several hours until the Derby, I’d had enough.

Quarter century later, I haven’t felt the need to return.

— c d kaplan

 

Seedy K Scoops: Every Once in a While

By dumb luck and circumstance, I beat the crowd yesterday to the exciting positive news for U of L baskeball fans.

The NCAA had declared waiting in limbo PG Ty-Laur Johnson immediately eligible.

A guy in the gym texted me immediately after Kenny Payne told TL-J and the team.

You’ve seen those videos where a football coach announces that a 4th string walk on punter is now on scholly, and the locker room erupts in cheers and hugs? Well, I’m told that’s what happened.

Fortunately, when I got the text, I was sitting at my keyboard, and immediately posted the news at the Chron. With the proviso that I hadn’t been able to officially confirm it. Soon enough that happened, so I edited my original post, then remembered to post it at my own sports blog.

Received a pat on the back from Glorious Editor. Always appreciated. Since it wasn’t always the case years ago at another venue, which you will learn if you continue with this “tell all,” such as it is.

I’ve never considered myself a reporter. I’m a pundit. A commentator. A retired barrister with too much time on his hands and his key to the posting app. Someone who is familiar enough with the writings of local icon Dr. Gonzo, to understand fabulists often speak the truth. Or, so we delude ourselves.

But yesterday’s gotcha got me thinking of the very few times it’s happened before. All during my “Rumor & Innuendo” days at LEO. Continue reading Seedy K Scoops: Every Once in a While

“The Pacific was a Home Run”: My Favorite Sportswriting

I’ve been known to steal ideas before, and here it comes again. Deal with it.

At theathletic.com the other day, writers covering different sports listed their take on the best books about each.

OK, there’s a nifty idea, I says to myself.

At which juncture, I perused the bookcases in my condo, donning one of my Covid masks, so I wouldn’t choke on the dust stirred up, and pulled out a few of my faves.

 * * * * *

I’ll start with my favorite sports book, and my favorite story by my favorite sportswriter. My favorite writer period, the fellow whom I would aspire to emulate, while understanding I really am not worthy of toting his inkwell.

Murray, Ky. — You run up Route 641 to get here from Paris in Tennessee, because that is the closest place to Murray where there are any hotel rooms. You run past the browned fields, hawks, and vultures riding the thermals at different levels, and you run past the ponds, as still as Sunday morning. You go through Camden, where Patsy Cline’s airplane went down, and all the little farm roads off the highway seem to lead to churches, many of them the least common denominations. One of them, two miles up the road, calls itself The Church of the Living God of the Holiness of Holiness, which certainly ought to narrow things down. The way you know you’ve passed from Tennessee into Kentucky is that all the liquor stores and roadhouses seem to have disappeared. Continue reading “The Pacific was a Home Run”: My Favorite Sportswriting