If the printed page dies, there is no denying that the fatal wounds have been self-inflicted. There was an elitist smugness even in the press boxes of the 1960s, when Howard Cosell was just a radio nobody hustling for interviews in clubhouses filled with sports writers who treated him like a wad of gum stuck to the soles of their Florsheims. One of my early idols, Dick Young, railed at TV crews trolling for sound bites on his clubhouse turf. And this was before the Internet had a name or an existence. Now, with bloggers knocking down the walls, 24/7 sports radio and TV networks all around, sports writers still string quotes from day-old press conferences that have been cycled and recycled on radio and TV. Guys and gals, this isn't the '60s anymore.
Bill Conlin: Two-minute warning for our beloved sportswriters
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The decline of exclusivity is a compelling reason that newspaper commentary and exceptional writing should not be trusted to bean counters and glorified ribbon clerks.
For many years, there were just two certified sports institutions in Dallas: the Cowboys and late sports columnist Blackie Sherrod. Blackie had more fans than the Texas Rangers.
Permit me to close this angry, frustrated piece with a Sherrod gem written after large-living Detroit Lions quarterback Bobby Layne got into a literal scrape:
"After indulging in some heavy, late-night research with some scholarly friends, Bobby was driving back to his hotel, innocently enough, when he was side-swiped by several empty cars lurking at curbside." *
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