Life Its Ownself (25 page)

She poured a fresh mug for Larry, who didn't leave his chair; for the cameraman at the end of the booth; for the color man—I was broadcasting from a standing position on Larry's right—and for Hoyt Nester, a man who took his job quite seriously.

Hoyt was seated on Larry's left. He was the play-by-play man's spotter and statistician, a man I judged to be in his seventies. Hoyt's beard was a white Vandyke, his tam was dark green, his Eisenhower jacket a lighter shade of green. Hoyt Nester lived next door to Larry Hoage in Orange County. A bigtime announcer like Larry could choose his own assistant. The network paid Hoyt some loose change and picked up his expenses.

Earlier in the day, I had pointed at Hoyt and said to Kathy:

"There's an oldtimer with some stories to tell. What's it cost not to hear any of them?"

Now, I thanked her for the coffee. Which wasn't the only thing she had produced for us before, and during, the telecast. She had provided hotdogs, soup, notepads, ballpoint pens, well-sharpened pencils, paper clips, rubber bands, statistical summaries from the league, magazine and newspaper tearsheets, media guides, a tub of ice, a pitcher of water, cold drinks, a trash basket, all of the promo cards in perfect order, and a little flask of J&B as a welcoming gift for me. She had even recruited Vivian and Dexter, in case the need might arise.

While we were in this commercial break, she said, "You're doing great. How do you like it?"

"You can see more up here."

"That's it?"

"Smells better, too."

"Is there much talking down on the field? To the other team?"

"Oh, sure."

"What kind of things do you say?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

"I don't know. How the game's going. If it's a close game you'd both like to win, there's not much talking. Lot of cussing. But if it's pretty well decided one way or the other, a guy might ask you if you've seen old What's-his-name, or how's old So-and-so doing? He might tell you he's got some good Colombian, if you want to meet him outside the dressing room after the whistle."

"What do you say when you cuss each other?"

We each had one ear off of our headsets.

"You really want to know?"

"Sure, it's fascinating."

"Well, let's say we're down on the goal line. I might wink at a couple of linebackers and say, 'Here I come, girls, y'all ready?'"

"Good. What would they say?"

"Oh, one of them would probably say something like, 'You ain't got enough shit in your pants to come this way, motherfucker!'"

Kathy shrieked.

Over the one ear of our headsets, we both heard Teddy Cole's voice.

"It's okay, Billy Clyde. Your mike was off."

There wasn't much to do during the halftime but eat another hotdog, drink more coffee, and go to the john. Not until the last two minutes before the second-half kickoff. That's when Kathy told me to put on the headset and watch the monitor.

On the headset I heard the voice of Brent Musburger, who was back in New York in a studio. He seemed to be saying that CBS's newest color man—me—had raised the flag on Iwo Jima, invented the cure for cancer, and in my spare time had taught crippled children how to walk again. And on the monitor I watched as Old 23, wearing a TCU uniform, broke,loose for several long gains against the Arkansas Razorbacks, Texas Aggies, and Baylor Bears. Old 23 then appeared in a New York Giants uniform and broke loose for several long gains against the Minnesota Vikings, Dallas Cowboys, and Philadelphia Eagles. Next, Old 23 was in slow motion, scaling up the ass of Puddin Patterson and diving into the end zone to score the winning touchdown against the dogass Jets in the Super Bowl. Finally, Old 23, in a clip from a home movie, was out on the terrace of his Manhattan apartment, hugging, kissing, and having a laugh with a windblown Barbara Jane Bookman.

"You're live with Brent," said Kathy, as the cameraman in the booth wheeled the lens toward me.

Looking away from the camera, I said, "Hello, Brent. We've got a gut-bustin' sidewinder out here in Green Bay."

There was static on the headset. I couldn't hear the reply. I shrugged at Kathy. She shrugged back.

"Just vamp," she said.

I frowned.

"Say something... anything!"

"Brent?" I said into my equipment mike. "I appreciate the insert. Sorry they left out the stuff about the Viet Namese refugees I've adopted and all the civil rights legislation I've passed, but tell everybody thank you."

The third quarter of the Redskins-Green Bay game was highlighted by Dreamer Tatum's defensive play.

Dreamer managed to be tying his shoelace when Tommy Maples, a Green Bay receiver, caught a flat pass and scored from 35 yards out. In his own end zone, Dreamer juggled a sure interception into the hands of the Packers' tight end. Touchdown, Green Bay. The fastest Dreamer ran was when he and a teammate, Jamie Brock, took off in pursuit of Green Bay's Edgar Morris, who broke clear on a dive play and went 75 yards for a touchdown. Dreamer didn't catch the Green Bay runner, but he did catch Jamie Brock, tripping him just as the Packer was about to be overtaken.

In between these awesome maneuvers, Dreamer acted like a man in a frenzy. Before the ball would be snapped, he would hop around in a nervous fit, looking as if he had never been so eager to hit somebody.

This moved Larry Hoage to a higher decibel level.

"What a competitor!" he raved. "You don't close the barn door on that fella, no, sir! Dreamer Tatum is some kind of football player!"

Charlie Teasdale kept trying to put the Redskins back in the game, but Washington couldn't take advantage of the penalty flags he threw at the Green Bay defense.

From the control truck, Mike Rash asked if I wanted to make a comment on the officiating.

I waited for the right moment. It came when Charlie resorted to an obscure call, defensive holding. He called it against Green Bay when Washington had tried a quarterback sneak for a first down. Who would a defense hold on a play like that—and why—even if it had time?

On the air, I said, "If Charlie Teasdale's flag stays on the ground much longer, they're gonna have to send out for plant food."

Kathy Montgomery tapped me on the shoulder. I looked around to see her thumbs-up sign.

The last two minutes of the game took an eternity, as usual. More often than not, this is because the zebras call extra time-outs so the networks can get all of their commercials in.

Green Bay was going to win the game, 21 to 0. Hoyt Nester was packing up his statistics and reference material as he said, "Looks like the hay's in the barn."

Hoyt yawned and unwrapped a homemade tunafish sandwich.

I heard Teddy Cole tell Larry Hoage to surrender the air to me. The producer wanted me to deliver some expertise on why Green Bay had dominated the second half.

"Throw it to Billy Clyde, Larry. We may have to go with a panic close," Teddy said.

"Right you are, Ted," Larry Hoage said over the air, leaving what viewers we had left to wonder who "Ted" might have been.

Larry then said, "Well, Billy Clyde Puckett, the old Green Bay Packers lived high on the hog today—Wade Hogg, that is! Yes sir, it looks like the Pack is back! They came out of the chute with fire in their eyes and a tiger in their tank and turned this old-fashioned, gut-bustin' sidewinder into a cakewalk! They'll be singing and dancing in the streets of Green Bay, Wisconsin, tonight! The pesky Washington Redskins came in here to play a good football game, but they got crawled on, climbed on, and laughed at by a bunch of angry Green Bay Packers who look like Super Bowl contenders if I know a thing or two."

Hoyt held up an index card to Larry. The card said: "TEETH AND CLAWS." Larry acknowledged it as he kept talking.

Still at the mike, Larry said, "The Redskins were lucky to get outta here today with their teeth and claws. That's how it looked to me. So, Billy Clyde Puckett, you're a man who knows what it's like down there in the trenches where the mayhem is, where it's muscle on muscle, what's the story behind the story of this Green Bay verdict? How'd the Pack tie a knot in 'em today?"

"Larry, it all came down to one thing. Green Bay scored more points."

Clandestine activity was a course I had flunked as far back as high school. You could drop me behind enemy lines and the first farmer who came at me with a pitchfork could find out the location of our airfields and all the schedules of our troop trains. No man ever caved in to torture any quicker than I did. I would confess to things I hadn't even thought of if it would prevent an argument.

Normally, Barbara Jane only had to look at me suspiciously when I would come home from a road trip with the Giants, and I would blurt out the names of everybody I had been with in every bar, even if some of the names were Micki, Misty, and Trixie and I hadn't gone anywhere near the little dumplings.

It was astonishing, then, that I handled the Kathy Montgomery problem as craftily as I did over the next two months. To the West Coast delegation, my stage manager's name was still "Ken Montgomery," if the name came up at all, which it rarely did.

In the meantime, and by necessity, I lived the life of an airline pilot. I was Barbara Jane's bicoastal husband on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday every week, lounging around the suite at the Westwood Marquis, whereupon I would leave for my next TV assignment on Thursday. This meant that on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, or for most of those days and nights, I would be with Kathy Montgomery, my trusty sidekick.

But if I was with Kathy more than I was with my wife, my wife was with her director more than she was with her husband. The only way we could have changed this would have been for one of us to give up what we were doing, but we both liked what we were doing, and it would have been foolish to turn down the money on top of that. So I didn't know who, or what, to blame for the situation we had worked ourselves into, other than life its ownself.

Modern living is what some people call it.

After my first telecast in Green Bay, I had received relatively high grades from everyone at the network. Mike Rash and Teddy Cole said I ought to be nominated for an Emmy simply for not talking too much. About a thousand letters came into CBS in New York that said the same thing. Comments in newspapers around the country were generally favorable. Jim Tom Pinch's column was naturally a rave.

Jim Tom wrote:

Billy Clyde Puckett is living proof that action speaks louder than words, even when the action is as rancid as it was in the Green Bay-Washington game. The proper words to describe that game could never win the approval of Standards and Practices. Much to the pleasure of any intelligent viewer, Billy Clyde shut the hell up as often as he could, save for his shrewd line about Referee Charlie Teasdale's flag, which must have made everyone wince in the Commissioner's office.

Two days after my debut, the head of CBS Sports called to give me his professional opinion of it.

"I thought you brought a lot to the dance, old man," said Richard Marks. "Not to be picky, but in my view, you ought to speak up more. People want to hear what Billy Clyde Puckett thinks. I'm sure you were being cautious your first time out, but don't be afraid to jump in. You have an open mike."

"Larry doesn't let you in much," I said.

"I don't have the same negative feelings about cross-talk that some of my predecessors did. Cross-talk often adds to the excitement of a telecast."

"Cross-talk?"

"When you both talk at once. For instance, if you jump in, but Larry keeps spinning a yarn. I say let it play."

"Mike and Teddy want me to avoid that."

"Mike and Teddy work for me."

"More cross-talk. Got it."

"I'm not saying it's something you should plan. I'm only suggesting you address yourself to the audience more often. Look, Larry Hoage isn't the best announcer in the business, but he's far from the worst, and he brings an enthusiasm to a broadcast the sponsors like."

"They do?"

His statement shouldn't have surprised me. I'd known a few agency guys in my day. They could derail an elevator.

Richard Marks said, "Oh, yes, Billy Clyde. With our friends who buy time, Larry Hoage ranks right up there. Larry doesn't give you much dead air, you see."

Like none, I thought.

"That's why sponsors love him," Richard Marks said. "Don't place too much importance on what Larry says. Keep in mind that his words are only a bridge from the last commercial to the next."

I said, "You guys know more about it than I do, Richard, but I wonder if there aren't some people out there who might like a quiet stroll from one commercial to another?"

"No such animal," he said. "Our surveys would have turned them up by now."

My talk with Richard Marks convinced me of only one thing: I had to get as much money out of the networks as I could before they were doomed to oblivion by their own surveys—and movies on cable.

My cast came off that week, which was the same week Dr. Tim Hayes's right foot was in a bandage.

I didn't notice his foot at first. I was in such a good mood at the prospect of being released from prison, I was busy dropping witticisms on the Dyan Cannon nurse who assisted the bone specialist in removing my cast.