The Glaze is signing off.
After three years of terrorizing PR directors, coaches and GMs and torturing you guys out there in Fan Land, I am officially signing off as senior writer of CBS SportsLine.com.
How could I give up all the glitz and glamour, the constant red carpets and A-list Hollywood parties that being an Internet reporter brings? (Actually, the carpet in the front hall of the editorial room is an off-red.)
I leave you guys for the hopefully greener pastures of full-time television for Fox Sports. Rather than having to sit through the torture of that stupid little picture that graces the upper left corner of my writings, you guys will now be hit with all-Glaze, all the time from Fox Sports Net to Fox Sports Radio to Fox NFL Sunday.
The fine folks at SportsLine.com and CBS Sports have been absolutely wonderful to me the past few years, but it was time to take my cellular phone (and $1,400 per month bills) elsewhere.
You guys have been tremendous, and for all the fan mail that has gone unanswered, I apologize. For all the hate mail, I apologize that I have not yet thrown myself off a bridge, as many have suggested.
But before signing off, we at SportsLine.com decided to take a look back at all the Glazerific moments during my stint with the good ol' Internet boys in South Florida.
Sayonara.
Greatest training camp experience
While there have been many travels through towns that had an all too familiar look of Deliverance, (thank God I avoided those types of "friends" and "dates" in such towns), the greatest camp story took place in San Francisco last year.
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| Jeff Garcia's hurting back wasn't the biggest injury in a Glazerific camp visit. (Getty Images) |
Sure enough, true to their word, we were backstage for a private soundcheck with Bruce and the E Street Band. That alone was worth the trip. (Oh yeah, the Niners practiced that day and Jeff Garcia worked for the first day after injuring his back ... but enough about that.)
Toward the finale of the sound check, Bruce's drummer, Max Weinberg, suddenly let loose a howl, grabbed his back and buckled over. The affable late-night TV stalwart and musician had blown out his back an hour before show time. They actually had to cart him off the stage.
Fast forward 15 minutes or so. The boys and I are loitering in Van Zandt's hospitality suite area when Ollison phoned Reynolds and asked us to rush down to Springsteen's dressing room. Being asked to rush to a man's dressing room, I was a little apprehensive, but Reynolds couldn't wait so I followed my meal ticket.
When we arrived, one of Springsteen's top dogs, Terry McGovern, met us outside the door and said something along the lines of, "We need to shoot Max up because we don't know if he can go. What would the players take and how can we get some?"
Devaney and myself insisted that Toridal was the way to go (my mom must be so proud of my knowledge of painkillers). Dexa-something-or-other was also suggested, but how could we get some?
Reynolds got on the phone with the 49ers team trainer who got on the phone with a doctor who got on the phone with another doctor at the St. Francis Hospital emergency room.
Springsteen had a doc licensed to shoot but he needed to get the meds. So Reynolds, Ollison and crew helped arrange for the police escort to rush The Boss' doc to the hospital, where he met someone from the Niners medical staff as well as the St. Francis doc and retrieved the injections.
They shot Max up about half an hour before the start of the show. Unfortunately, Toridal takes about 45 minutes to really kick in. Now the show is five minutes late, then 10 ... then 15 ... when suddenly ... BAM, it kicked in. Oh, baby, did it kick in.
Max, fully appreciating the strength of the painkillers, proclaimed that he was miraculously better, and the show could go on.
We all got carted out to the stage together.
The boys and Max played on and, as a result, Springsteen's guys rewarded us by taking our group up onto the side of the stage (just to the left of the keyboardist) and allowed us to watch the concert on stage. Plus, and this is big, folks, they let us drink beers on the stage.
The moral of this story? Know your painkillers, boys and girls. Oh, and by the way, Garcia's back was fine, too.
Most educational experience
Last year, the New Orleans Saints allowed me in their war room to sit between GM Mickey Loomis, personnel chief Rick Mueller and coach Jim Haslett during both days of the 2003 NFL Draft.
Not only did they grant me full entrée into every aspect of the weekend, they also dispatched me with PR chief Greg Bensel to pick up their top two draft picks from the airport. They allowed me to pen a true, first-hand look inside an NFL draft room as well as a pair of rookie's very first steps into their new career.
While the weekend was a terrific experience, other teams this year asked if I would be interested in sitting through another 48 hours in their rooms.
My response? "There isn't enough Ritalin in the world to get me through that again this year."
Trust me, there are 40 minutes of excitement and 23 hours and 20 minutes of hurry up, wait and make fun of everything that comes up on the TV.
Scoop that brought the most heat
This past season I uncovered not only the NFL players who were being asked to testify in the BALCO anabolic steroid trial but two weeks later followed up with the names of four Oakland Raiders who had tested positive for THG, the newly discovered enhancement drug.
The Raiders went nuts. Then-GM Bruce Allen, usually a very classy and cool guy, and, to that point one of my favorite people to kibbutz with in the NFL, pulled a classless move when he openly trashed me on the airwaves for my reporting and ripped me mercilessly to other reporters.
He went as far as saying I'm often wrong and named examples; like when I reported that Darrell Russell was going to be suspended for a year for testing positive for Ecstasy (correct me if I'm mistaken, but I don't think I missed on that one) and for the scoop on the eve of the Super Bowl that Barrett Robbins went AWOL (don't think I missed on that one, either).
He went as far as demanding an investigation and wanted me subpoenaed in front of a federal grand jury to reveal my sources.
Hey, it was winter in New York and a free trip to Cali actually sounded very enticing. Plus, at the time, I had a young lady friend out by the Bay, so if they wanted to pay for a first-class booty call, I was all for it.
I have yet to be called into court. I think the feds probably cared more about Marion Jones and Barry Bonds than a CBS SportsLine.com senior writer. Please folks, remember that I'm simply the messenger, an information broker. No need to shoot bullets or arrows at me.
Greatest interview subject
Michael Marino, Dan Marino's son.
Mikey had autism when he was younger but about six years ago miraculously came out of it.
I was the first reporter that little Marino sat with and talked to at length about what it was like to be stuck in an autistic shell. He told me that he remembered wanting to do or say something but not being able to find the ability to do so. He was trapped and knew he was trapped.
We in the sport world throw about words like "miraculous" to identify a nice catch or interception, but Michael Marino certainly proves our vernacular is often misused.
When I asked him why I was the first reporter he had ever agreed to talk to about his autism, Michael said, "Because nobody else asked." Yup, sounds about right.
By the way, Michael now plays football, does very well in school and has no signs that he ever stood toe-to-toe with this terrible condition.
Most controversial column
This past year. I heard about incidents in which fans confronted and surrounded a coach's young daughter in the parking lot after a loss, and others made fun of the fatal sickness of another player's son. Consequently, I penned a column titled, Dear fans, the morons among you need to grow up.
The column was directed not only toward these morons but toward the throngs of those who write hate mail toward coaches and even reporters with more venom than they would if their own child came home with a D on a report card.
The hate mail people in and around sports receive brings more hatred and viciousness than it would if we just pillaged your damn house.
The other gist of the story is simply to remind the fans that we in sports are nothing more than escapism. While much needed in society, we are not dealing with saving the world or healing sick children. It's just sports, a release from the things that really matter.
Within one day of publication of this column, I received in excess of 2,100 e-mails.
The positive responses were amazing, with many fans either apologizing for their own actions, gracious for the wakeup call, or apologizing for their fellow followers. Others said they were going to pass the column around their sections of stadiums, offices and even a few classrooms.
Then there were the remaining 5 percent who continue to be morons and wrote that I need to stop whining and shut up, and continued to wish death and pain upon me and, of all people, my mother. Unfortunately, I'm not exaggerating.
Funniest training camp moment
When I arrived at an Avis counter to pick up a car to travel an hour and a half deep into the Bayou of Louisiana for Saints camp. The Avis people had one car left, an old big red Caddy that had Sopranos-mobile written all over it.
I informed the ladies at the counter that considering I already look like My Cousin Vinny, I would be a moving target if I drove this boat through the Bayou.
They laughed, flipped me the keys and wished me luck. I needed it, because while parked in Thibodaux, La., sure enough, somebody bashed the car in from the back and pushed it into the middle of the street.
It was "How YOU doin'?" Louisiana style.
When the police came to write an incident report, I couldn't understand a word Sheriff Fife was uttering. He wrote something down, told our translator he didn't have a computer yet to give me a copy of the incident report and said, I think, "Ya'ouoll hab a nice dah" or something like that and drove off.
Needless to say, CBS is still battling Avis over the incident.
Most interesting questions I got answered
One of the things I most enjoyed for SportsLine.com were annual polls in which I surveyed nearly every head coach in the NFL regarding a variety of topics.
The two that stand out -- both because they were landslides -- were the questions of, "Name the NFL's best coach" and "Who is the league's most dominating player regardless of position?"
The former was conducted three years ago in the offseason and 24 or 25 head coaches participated, many on the record.
I asked them each to name and rank the three best head coaches in the NFL. The winner, and it wasn't even close, was Denver's Mike Shanahan with more than 20 votes. I think Bill Cowher and Mike Holmgren tied for second and third with half as many votes as Shanahan, and Bill Belichick took fourth.
My guess is that Belichick would run away with it at this point. Vermeil and Parcells would also make a dent.
The other question floored me because this was an overwhelming landslide.
The NFL's coaches said that Ravens middle linebacker Ray Lewis was the most dominating player regardless of position. Lewis was the only player to receive double-digit votes with the runner-ups receiving a mere two to three votes. In fact, only five or six votes total were given to offensive players.
The saddest farewell
I leave you guys with this final memory.
On 9-11, 2001, and the ensuing week, SportsLine.com allowed me to chronicle my frantic search around Ground Zero, New York's hospitals and makeshift morgue-areas for my good friend, Jason David Cayne, or Jake, as he was known by.
I wrote about his wife, Gina, and our crew of friends who searched for Jake and supported Gina and their three lovely little daughters.
When I finally exhausted all venues to find my friend (they eventually found a piece of his forearm, and our crew buried it a short time after) and went to Gina and Jake's house to be with their loved ones, Gina and her family showed everyone who arrived at the house not only the three columns but the incredible outpouring of fan reaction toward Jake and Gina.
People from all over the world offered to help Gina and the kids with emotional and financial support. Gina still has these stories and e-mails locked away to show their kids when they grow up and hopefully show Jake's grandkids one generation later.
I've never been more proud of the power of the pen.
Goodbye, everybody. See you at Fox.
