“NEVER” has finally arrived! Yay!!!

Daniel Snyder the owner of the Washington NFL team vowed he would “NEVER” change the team name of the Washington franchise. “NEVER,” he promised. Ever since I heard Mr. Snyder issue his “Never’ declaration I have not let the nickname of that team cross my lips, not once.
Even though my childhood football hero Bobby Mitchell played for them and worked in the front office until his death this year. I simply called them The Washington team in the NFL.

How could the name not be offensive? What if they had been the Washington Crackers, or the Washington Blackies. Would that have been offensive?

But the culture change taking place in the country is moving us past hollow words and promises and into action to continue to move the country past systemic racism.

Money, pressure, loss of sponsorships and culture change make things happen. In late June, DC politicians and business leaders announced the team could not build a new stadium within the district without a name change. In addition, FedEx, Nike and Pepsi were among the companies that reportedly received letters from shareholders asking that they no longer do business with the Washington team. That did the trick.

Let’s move forward. We know better. Cleveland and Atlanta the baseball teams know better. Florida State knows better. Things change when viewed under the lens of a new world. The past was not always blissful, especially when large groups of people were disenfranchised with little or no say-so as to how they were perceived and used as pawns by majority business entities to make money.

After I’d written this and turned it into “The Communicator” Emily Hedrick for posting, Washington made more headlines. At least 15 women who work or previously worked for the team has accused executives of sexual harassment from inappropriate conduct to butt grabbing,

The world is changing. The Washington team needs to change with it. It’s about time!

There are many coaches to thank for a college football career that helped propel me to later careers as a professional actor, writer, and communication consultant.

Richard Porter, my high school basketball coach, guided me through the physical fundamentals of sports and the emotional experience of integration in the 1960s at John Carroll High School in Birmingham, Alabama. Hugh Craig was my first football coach also at John Carroll. He believed in me even though, in the tenth grade, I was playing organized football for the first time. At Auburn University, Coach Ralph “Shug” Jordan rewarded my hard work with a scholarship after I walked on my freshman year. Gene Lorendo, the offensive coordinator at Auburn believed in me and made me a starter on some great Auburn teams. Still, after all these great leaders had shaped and formed me, it was Coach Doug Barfield who stepped in and saved my football career at Auburn University.

Being awarded a scholarship after my freshmen year led to a redshirt year my sophomore year. Not playing was tough but I made the travel squad and watched as Pat Sullivan won the Heisman trophy that year. The next year we went 10-1 and created the legend of the “Amazins,” an Auburn team that is still celebrated today. The following year, in 1973 we slipped. Injuries, divisiveness, dissension, and bad attitudes crippled us. We went 6-6 after being highly rated. We were not a happy bunch. I ripped a hamstring and missed three games. Games that, maybe, we would have won if I had been able to contribute. When I returned after my injury, I did not regain my starting position and things spiraled downhill. I played very little.

Things got ugly. The coaches hardly spoke to me. I got little practice time and was demoted. Was some of it personal? Maybe. But being injured when needed on a struggling football team does not endear you to your coaches. I was miserable. Because I had been redshirted and was ahead in my degree program, I contemplated graduating and not playing my senior year. I talked it over with my parents who understood the drama I was going through but did not want me to leave.

Enter Doug Barfield to the rescue.

We were headed to El Paso, Texas to practice for the 1973 Christmas Day “Sun Bowl” game versus Missouri. Sitting alone on the bus, Coach Barfield chose to sit by me. That act of kindness caught me off guard. No one had bothered to talk to me in a while. Injured players become ostracized. I knew what I needed to do to get my job as a starter back, but what can you do if you are not playing or practicing?

There were rumors Coach Barfield would be promoted the next season to the offensive coordinator position. Coach had a gentle, folksy style. He led with it. “Are you coming back for your fifth year?” he asked. While keeping my eyes glued to the passing scenery outside the window and not looking at him, I responded that I didn’t know. He said, “If I am the offensive coordinator, I want you on the team.” I was skittish. Not many outside the game, know about the head games an athlete goes through during a college career. I turned back to look at him. “Will you think on it?” he asked. He was serious. I turned to look back out of the window and confirmed, “Yes coach.”

We quickly fell behind in that Sun Bowl game. I was inserted into the game and the two touchdowns I scored almost brought us back. It was a reminder of what I could do.

Coach Barfield was named offensive coordinator in 1974, and I did return for my senior year. What a year we had! We went 10-2 and finished number 9 in the country. I was the leading receiver. As a team, we were big, fast, and had some great athletes. I had the best time I’d ever had playing organized football. Coach Barfield was a player’s coach. He made the game fun for me. I could talk with him about football and about life. He gave me leadership responsibilities. I could suggest plays during the game. It was the best football time of my life.

Once, in the middle of a game, while jogging back to the huddle, I found a quarter lying on the field. I stopped and picked it up, then jogged over to Coach on the sideline and gave it to him. He could only laugh. We had fun and could still win games.

To this day, any player I’ve ever run into who played for Coach Barfield, love the man. He treated us like young men. He would sit and talk with us. I’ve always said that the 1974 team, particularly on offense, was the precursor of today’s game; big, fast, and we were respected as individuals, yet molded into a team. Coaches have the ability and opportunity to grow boys into men. I’m grateful to have had that experience under Doug Barfield.

I rolled into Birmingham Alabama, my hometown, for a couple of days of Board meetings, to hang out with some friends and to visit with my 90 year-old Dad, when, bam… a heavyweight championship fight broke out on the University Of Alabama-Birmingham (UAB) campus, Don King and all.

Deontay Wilder, never heard of him? I hadn’t either. But now you know. He’s the recently crowned WBC (World Boxing Council) Heavyweight Champion and he lives in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. That’s right Tuscaloosa! He stands 6’7” has an undefeated record of 34-0 and the man throws bombs! Whew!! I could feel the challenger’s pain from my third row seat.

Here’s some background. Deontay won the title last January at the boxing mecca of the world, the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. He defeated Bermane Stiverne for the WBC crown, making Wilder the first Heavyweight Champion from Alabama, since the Brown Bomber, Joe Louis.

For his first title defense, Deontay wanted to do things differently. He wanted to defend his crown in his home state of Alabama. That’s right. He turned down the MGM and Vegas for Alabama. Specifically, he wanted to fight in his hometown of Tuscaloosa and on the campus of the University Of Alabama. They said no! Who knows why?

Birmingham raised its hand and grabbed its first Heavyweight Championship fight in the City’s history. It was quite an event!

City dwellers, suburbanites, and out-of-towners, some from as far away as Russia crammed the UAB Bartow Arena. Ring card girls in skimpy, short shorts stood on high heels, sashaying back and forth ready to announce the upcoming round. The ShowTime Network was visible all over the place with its cameras telling the Birmingham story to an international audience.

In the less-than-VIP quality VIP room, recognizable names and faces, drank chatted and ate with some of the celebrities. My friend Big Charles Barkley gave me his customary “thank you” as he wooed a small group of admirers. He always gives me a thank you, telling me “You know I always say thank you to you.”

“I appreciate you Charles,” I told him.

“Thank you,” he again repeated to me. I smiled and moved on as others fell over themselves to get his autograph and a picture. Charles obliged them all.

“The Real Deal,” former heavyweight champion, Evander Holyfield strode in looking all fit and ready to kick some a__. He looked great! I kept trying to get a good look at his ear. You know the one Mike Tyson bit a plug out of in one of their Heavyweight Championship fights. I couldn’t find it. The ear looked whole to me. I wonder if someone bites a chunk out of your ear, does it grow back?

With his security guard standing nearby, “The Real Deal” conducted a thirty-minute tutorial to a small crowd on heavyweight boxing championships. Evander calmly explained how Deontay could beat that night’s opponent, and with improvement, “He could beat the Big Russian,” Wladimer Klitschko, the king of today’s heavyweights. That was saying something! But if Evander says it, hey, you have to listen. The man has a heart as big as any that ever set     foot in the ring.

The biggest celebrity of them all was Don King. That’s right, Don King! He was a gentleman, which threw many of the VIP’ers for a loop. They wanted to dislike him based on his media characterization. While trying to wolf down his food, he was constantly bombarded with autograph and photo requests. “Mr. King would you mind if I take a picture with you?” He obliged every person, gave everyone a smile and never did get to eat his food.

“Get him Deontay,” the young woman screamed in her shrill and annoying-as-hell high-pitched voice. “Get him.”

She sat right behind my friend O.T. and me. From the opening bell of a round to the closing bell of that round, she screamed in a piercing scream, “You better knock him out. Knock him out Deontay! Git him.”

While screaming she would jump, throw punches and scream some more. “That’s my brother,” she announced. “Git him, bro. Git him Deontay. You better knock him out.” O. T. caught several of her punches with his head. “Excuse me.” She screamed at O.T. when he rubbed his head. “Git him,” she continued screaming at her brother. “You better knock him out.”

“You better duck,” I told O.T.

She only caught me once, an elbow to the head. “Sit down,” I wanted to say. But I didn’t. She would not have heard me anyway. She was in a zone. “Git him. Knock him out Deontay,” she continued. I let it go.

The place got really loud! The crowd blew the roof off of the noise meter.

The ring card girls did their slow sultry walk between rounds.

Deontay finally connected on a couple of bombs in the 9^th round and the challenger, Eric Molina, who wasn’t a bad fighter, had had enough. He gave in to the pummeling he had been taking the last few rounds. Enough was enough! He went down and didn’t make it up before the count of ten. The night was over.

My friends, and I poured out of the arena with the still enthusiastic crowd. It had been a great night.

Birmingham had done itself proud. “Git him Deontay!”

I wake up on full go! Ready for the day’s adventure. Six decades into my existence, I still hold on to that childlike anticipation of what adventures a given day might bring. I’ve been lucky like that. Choosing professions that are fun to do on a daily basis and careers I’d do for free and have.

My wife has always been astonished that I wake up ready to talk, walk, go bike riding, and literally express idea after idea that somehow crept into my head while I’m supposed to be sleeping. Life has always been amazing to me and still is.

But then, like in the movies, things come to a screeeeching….. halt…..when I feed my addiction for reading the morning newspaper. Lord!!! What a come down!

Penn State scandal holds lessons for adults.

Local graduate killed in Afghanistan!

Man charged in fatal shooting.

And that’s just page one!

Growing up in a home where we all, Dad, Mom, and us three children religiously read the newspaper, it is a habit I have not shaken but admittedly I have gotten less dedicated to it. It’s ugly and getting uglier, a daily assault on feeling good, common sense and a day-by-day dosage of business and political propaganda. Have I mistakenly subscribed to The Enquirer?

Man injured in Nov 3 wreck dies.

6 exposed to chemicals used for meth lab in car

Dear Abby: Bride to be is feeling blue because fiancé hates orange.

Why that corporate cash pile isn’t so impressive

And take citizen journalists. Please! Never having had a journalism class in their lives but through the miracle of the Internet and the mask of anonymity, these “writers” can spit venom and simplistic solutions at very complex situations. You disagree and you’re Un-American.

They want to take the country back. From whom? Anyway, whatever happened to those WWJD (What Would Jesus do) bracelets?

Sports? I grew up on the sports pages. Relished them. Before ESPN, newspapers were the major information source. Newspapers distinguished themselves with investigatory facts and features you couldn’t get anywhere else. Today professional ball is about contracts, lockouts and holdouts. Major college ball with its own scandals, continues to hide behind the cloak of amateurism.

Astros sold: Will move to American League in 2013

NBA owners hold conference call

Penn State Trustees hire law firm in abuse scandal.

Okay enough already! The sun is shining. It’s a new day! Forget the Oh woe is me, Divisiveness and Greed, Watch out for Iran, Drill Baby Drill, nature of today’s newspapers and media.

I’ve got positive things to do; the normal work chores of reading or writing a script, a story, prepping for an audition or television role, collaborating with a business client on a marketing project, or, assisting my alma maters with a fundraising idea.

There’s also time to enjoy my wife, call my Dad, ride my bike, call Manuel, Michael O, or Ford for a good gut-wrenching laugh. After all it’s a beautiful day and I don’t have to read the newspaper again until tomorrow morning.

I grew up dreary eyed, stumbling, in search of the morning newspaper, hungry for news of ball scores, won-loss records, knockouts administered by boxing heroes, and track records set by the “world’s fastest men.” Today I can take it or leave it. My flicker of a sports passion is dying a slow, agonizing but somewhat relieved death. The Thrill of Victory and The Agony of Defeat no longer get me amped up.

Why? That’s easy enough. It’s not the same.

Okay, admittedly, I’m into late-middle age and know more than I should. I know that sports have always included cheaters. I know that fat cat jock-sniffers were giving money to “amateur” players before there were even scholarships. I know that owners aren’t great sportsmen but businessmen negotiating with cities, for their last dimes. I know that heroes have always been flawed, not because they were bad people but because they are human.

Shall I continue?

I know that 24 hour around-the-clock sports news includes as much legal and crime news as it does ball scores. I know young boys today can get as excited about playing a sports video game or building a “fantasy sports league as my generation did actually organizing a game, and playing our own Super Bowl in somebody’s backyard. I recognize professional sports when I see it regardless of whether the “amateur” players are paid or not. It’s all business all the time.

Check out some headlines from the sports section of an April 2011 issue of USA TODAY.

BCS Critics want more Fiesta Type scrutiny

BCS Criticism mounts

Lockout raises draft stakes

Dodger can win under MLB control, GM told

Question: Is MLB takeover of Dodgers good or bad?

McCourt tarnishing Dodger tradition

Game-fixing probe spreads

Tree poisoning suspect back on radio

Had enough? It continues. College football spring intrasquad games are nationally televised. It’s a scrimmage for crying out loud! High schools travel for matchups with “football” schools from neighboring states, paid for by corporate sponsors.

And it’s all day, all the time, 24 and 7 brought to you by, talking heads and paid for by sponsors.

Who cares?

I do, really. I still love the game. It’s the game that gets my juices flowing. Between the lines, sixty minutes of action, the two-minute warning, fourth and goal, mano vs mano. Yes!

The talking heads I can take or leave. Former players posing as hard-core analysts, “When I played… ”

It’s nauseating.

I miss the innocence of a pickup game in the street between the up hill guys and the down hill guys. I miss the mystery of rushing to open the sports section and discovering the scores from the night before. I miss identifying with a team because the players stayed there long enough to remember them from year to year. I miss the Wide World Of Sports. I miss big college games in the middle of the season, pitting two of the nations best teams against one another and the loser not having to worry about the silly BCS.

My sports passion is dying. I miss it.