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Posted on Fri, Jan. 30, 2004 Sobering reflections on night with Namath Skip Bayless Mercury News Staff Columnist HOUSTON - The first and last time I got drunk was with the only athlete I ever idolized, Joe Willie Namath. That night helped save me from my father's fate. But that night, I couldn't have dreamed Broadway Joe could fall prey to the bitter liquid that wrecked my family. That night in December 1977 flashed back as I sat in my Super Bowl hotel room Sunday night watching Namath, 60, tell ESPN's Jeremy Schaap that he has a problem with alcohol and sought counseling after embarrassing himself during a ESPN sideline interview last month at a New York Jets game. As Suzy Kolber attempted to ask a professional question, an obviously sloshed Namath leaned down and twice said: ``I want to kiss you.'' In the late '60s, Namath needed bodyguards to keep the women off him. Namath was the first rock-star jock, the Mick Jagger of sports. Many star athletes before him had chased women and toasted the dawn, but none had flaunted it publicly the way Broadway Joe did as a New York Jet. Jeremy's father, Dick, helped promote that image through a TV show and a book outrageously titled ``I Can't Wait Until Tomorrow, 'Cause I Get Better-Looking Every Day.'' I bought it the day it hit the bookstore in Oklahoma City and finished it that night. I was 17. On my wall was the only poster I ever bought, of Namath dropping back. The white cleats, the black mane, the Fu Manchu: Did No. 12 ever rock my old-school world. My high school coaches cracked the typical burr-haircut, black-shoes whip. But here was a quarterback who ``trained'' at the bar he part-owned, Bachelors III. Here was an AFL gunslinger so confident that he guaranteed a Super Bowl III victory over an 18-point favorite, the NFL's big, bad Baltimore Colts. Jets 16, Colts 7 went down as the greatest upset in sports history and instantly turned Namath into the biggest legend football has ever known. But what I didn't read in Dick Schaap's 1969 book was what Namath recently told Jeremy. He said he didn't drink in high school in Beaver Falls, Pa., or at Bear Bryant's Alabama and started only to ease the pain of an injured hip in 1965. He said he chose ``the worst-smelling stuff I could find -- Scotch -- and I drank it for five years. Then I switched to vodka.'' When he finally got married, at 44, he quit cold turkey. He didn't take a drink for 14 years, he said. But when his wife left him about two years ago, he started again. Namath said: ``Every time in my life something's gone askew, alcohol's been involved.'' Say it is so, Joe. I came from a long line of alcoholics, including both my parents. At a New Year's Eve party they threw when I was 3 or 4, my father let me sip his mixed drink. My bitter liquor face got a big laugh from the inebriated adults. My father had inadvertently done me one favor: I wouldn't even sip a beer in high school or college. But later warnings literally hit home: During my father's failed attempts to get sober, family counselors said I was genetically predisposed toward alcoholism. Yes, I would become a classic candidate: an addictive personality with a high-stress job. My father left when I was 17 and died a few years later from cirrhosis of the liver. It took a bad car wreck for my mom to break down and go to Alcoholics Anonymous. Thursday night, bless her, she celebrated her 30th sobriety ``birthday,'' in large part because she rarely misses an AA meeting. But when I found myself at 23 working for the Los Angeles Times, the pressure to drink was overwhelming. In those days there was just no such thing as a teetotaling sportswriter. I made my colleagues uncomfortable if I didn't order something. One asked how I could stand not to ``anesthetize'' myself after writing a lousy story. Tough question. So I gave in and started ordering your basic red wine. At first I couldn't stand it and took tiny sour sips of one glass for two hours. But I was getting better. I was accepted. I scored points with my sports editor when the Los Angeles Rams acquired what was left of a bad-kneed Namath in 1977. While covering Triple Crown races, I had hit it off with legendary Racing Form columnist Joe Hirsch, Namath's roommate in New York. Hirsch put in a good word for me, and Namath was immediately more open with me than he was with other reporters. But the season was a closing book for Namath, who could no longer move and lost his job to a short overachiever out of USC, Pat Haden. The Namath I saw behind the scenes was very different from his babe-a-night image. Here was a sad, soulful man who had tried everything without fulfillment. ``My biggest regret,'' he once said, ``is that I've never been in love.'' On a rare rainy day at the Coliseum, the Rams lost a first-round playoff game to Minnesota 14-7. The following afternoon I noticed Namath cleaning out his locker and asked why. ``I'm retiring,'' he said. This was huge news. He said he'd be glad to give me the whole story if I'd meet him later at a restaurant-bar down the street. I called my editor, who cleared the decks for my bombshell. I was surprised to find I'd basically been invited to a retirement party. I was seated next to Namath at a table big enough for eight or 10 of his friends. Soon, there was enough alcohol on the table to get Russia drunk. Namath, I figured, could hold his liquor like it was water. I ordered red wine and started nervously sipping. It was difficult to interview Namath because he kept getting interrupted. My deadline bore down. The waitress replaced my empty glass with another. I sipped away. More than an hour later, I thanked Namath and rose to leave. With no tolerance for alcohol, I had consumed 2 1/2 glasses of wine on an empty stomach. To my shock, my legs had turned to Jell-O. I stumbled backward into another table and wound up sitting on the floor looking up helplessly at my one-time idol. ``Son,'' he said with amazement, ``you're drunk.'' Namath warned me not to drive and helped me to a pay phone. I called my editor and said: ``You're not going to believe this, but . . . '' His anger dissolved into amusement. He decided to delay my bombshell a day. I had Joe's word he wouldn't tell any other reporter, and the story didn't leak before we finally broke it. That night I was scared and ashamed, yet I felt oddly proud. What man in America wouldn't want to get drunk with Broadway Joe? But that night was the last time alcohol passed my lips. Contact Skip Bayless at [EMAIL PROTECTED] or (408) 920-5430. Fax (408) 920-5244. ______________________________________________________ RollTideFan - The University of Alabama Athletics Discussion List "Welcome to RollTideFan! Wear a cup!" To join or leave the list or to make changes to your subscription visit http://listinfo.rolltidefan.net
