http://www.usatoday.com/sports/football/nfl/2004-10-14-namath_x.htm
'Broadway Joe' puts life back on track By Jon Saraceno, USA TODAY
TEQUESTA, Fla. — Last year, before America's disbelieving eyes, the man known as "Broadway Joe" morphed into "Blown-away Joe" — a melancholy caricature of the aging, boozed-up playboy quarterback without enough restraint to stop throwing wobbly passes in public.
Instantly, the phrase "I want to kiss you" joined his "I guarantee it" as two of football's memorable lines. Last December, after a day of non-stop drinking, the cultural icon and cocky superhero humiliated himself live on TV during an inebriated sideline interview with a female ESPN reporter.
That interview pushed Joe Namath to acknowledge that he had a problem — one he couldn't solve with reputation, swagger or a wink of those seductive green eyes.
Namath, an anti-establishment sex symbol of the 1960s, fights something at 61 that is more powerful than anything he ever confronted on a football field. More than 16 million Americans are alcoholics. Joe Willie, an object of hero worship, now acknowledges he is one of them. Within a month of his embarrassing TV episode, he was in rehab.
"I'm here only by luck," Namath tells USA TODAY at his home along the Intracoastal Waterway. "The years that I drank, I could've died at anytime or hurt someone else. I drank to get drunk. I was afraid that something actually had control of me."
Today is day No. 278 of his sobriety, which began in January, 35 years to the day that he led the New York Jets past the Baltimore Colts in Super Bowl III. After four years of slurred speech, sloshed misbehavior and countless hangovers triggered by a divorce, the Hall of Famer became an outpatient for three months in a West Palm Beach rehabilitation facility that specializes in older adults. Namath, rarely alone in life but often lonely, also says he was treated for depression.
Namath has emerged a survivor from decades of carousing and rebounded in a larger-than-life way — with a joyful, exuberant outlook and a willingness to share his problems, hoping others may benefit. He laughs easily, is grateful to be alive and seems eager to make amends for his alcohol-drenched transgressions. With anything but anonymity, he attends Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, in part, because "you feel like you're helping, too."
"I was almost relieved," Namath says about his substance-abuse counseling. Stretched out in his living room in an overstuffed chair, his humongous hands cradle a tall mug of coffee. He is surrounded by mementos, including his 1969 MVP trophy, weathered footballs and photos of family and friends.
"Years ago, the thought of (rehab) terrified me. But I was at a point where I was convinced I had a problem. The only time I ever lied to my children was about alcohol. It was awful. But I am so fortunate. ... A lot of people don't know they get depressed. I didn't know I was in that state. I didn't know I had that pain. But you can get better. You just have to get help."
*Divorce 'was an excuse' *
After nearly 14 years of sobriety, Namath began drinking again heavily in 2000 when the seemingly unimaginable happened — a woman walked out on Joe Willie. Namath divorced his wife, Tatiana, and she later married (and then divorced) a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. Namath, who remains on speaking terms with his ex-wife, received joint custody of their two children, Jessica, 19, and Olivia, 13, who live with their father full time.
"I just didn't care — I was angry" after the divorce, he says. "Life had changed again for me, and I had an attitude, one of being very alone and feeling alone. You start feeling resentful, sorry for yourself. There was anger, depression. It was something that I had never confronted, and it seemed like an everlasting eternity. I was consumed with (drinking) — every God-danged thing I did (affected) my soul, my blood, my mind. There were anxiety attacks where I couldn't breathe.
"But you know what? (The divorce) was an excuse. I didn't stay strong. But I also didn't know I was an alcoholic, or I didn't believe it. The three months I spent getting an education convinced me I was an alcoholic. One of the first things you learn is that you're powerless over alcohol. You have to come to believe that a power greater than yourself can help. A lot of it has to do with spirituality."
Every day he doesn't drink alcohol is circled in green on his calendar. "See, I was lying up until that day," he says, pointing to Jan. 12, 2004, the day he stopped drinking. "I told people I had stopped, but then I had a drink (on the 8th, 9th and 10th). A rum and something."
When dining out for business, he now sips Diet Coke or quinine water. That, however, doesn't prevent his imaginary but very real drinking sidekick, whom he has nicknamed "Slick," from arriving uninvited.
"My most recent temptation happened (two weeks) ago when I was in Alabama," where he quarterbacked the Crimson Tide for the legendary Bear Bryant. "Slick kept whispering in my ear — 'Oh, it's all right. What's one drink gonna do? Don't worry, go ahead.' But I'm not alone anymore. We share these things in our (AA) meetings."
For almost 40 years, Namath has worn a St. Jude medal around his neck. He is quick to point out that it is the "patron saint of the hopeless cause, though I think of it more as the difficult task."
The man who pulled off what many considered the impossible when his Jets shocked the Colts in the Super Bowl in 1969 finds himself in a better place these days. That is despite the release of /Namath/, an unauthorized biography by Mark Kriegel that he refuses to read. He works as a paid ambassador for the Jets and talks about perhaps attempting a return to broadcasting.
"I love to watch pro football, though I don't remember the last time I stayed up for an entire night game," he says.
While life isn't without flaws or frustrations, Namath seems content raising his two daughters, playing golf and working only when the whim strikes because, he says, his finances are in order.
Namath was in San Antonio on Friday to schmooze physicians on behalf of the drug company Boehringer Ingelheim. The German pharmaceutical giant makes the osteoarthritis drug Mobic, an anti-inflammatory that Namath says he uses mostly for a throbbing right wrist that was shattered during his playing days. Namath doesn't appear in advertisements but spends his time chatting up physicians who are thrilled to meet the legend.
"None of these (doctors) walk away thinking anything but that he's a genuinely nice, warm human being," says agent Jimmy Walsh, a classmate at the University of Alabama. "Years ago that might not have been so easy for him."
These days, he mostly enjoys the simple things — even grocery shopping. He laughs easily and heartily, no matter the pain or the pleasure of the subject, including when asked the date of his divorce: "I'm smiling because I don't remember. How many guys can say that?"
Namath lets out a deep, cleansing laugh. Maybe it's partly because Broadway Joe is in love again.
On this morning, the object of his affection snuggles on his lap. He tenderly rubs an ear of his friend, a stylish, longhaired beauty named Gus, his miniature dachshund. He has three other best friends: Friska, a German shepherd-wolf mix rescued from a dog pound; Leo, a yellow lab retriever; and Stella, a beautiful, long-legged Weimaraner. And there's Willie the cat (whose feet are white, like Joe's memorable football cleats). "I've gotten more warm feelings from these guys than anybody," he says.
As for female companionship, "I'm very particular. But I'd love to find a lady who I was in love with, who loved me. Hey, that's hard to find. I'm not out shopping (for women) at joints. But I'm not complaining because I feel very good about things. I love my lifestyle. I know that it's healthy for me."
*Role of a lifetime: Dad *
Looking at life through rose-colored eyeglasses (literally), the slope-shouldered former quarterback patiently waits for a brewing meteorological beast to land.
"Have you ever survived a hurricane?" he teases a visitor in a voice sometimes still twinged with a Southern drop or two from his days in Tuscaloosa, Ala.
The wind rages outside as Hurricane Frances approaches, but Namath refuses to leave his home. Inside, the old quarterback is secure inside a pocket of newfound serenity. Of course, that very well might be because his daughters are not home and the generation gap temporarily is closed.
"Their perception is tough to understand, you know, because it's not the same as mine. They're quick to cop an attitude and express themselves, but they're also strong individuals who show leadership qualities."
And, in some ways, they remind him of himself. The other day, Jessica, a senior in high school, walked in wearing a tank top with the word "JUICY" written across the front. "I thought of my mother right away," Namath says. "I could just hear her saying, 'Honey, for God's sake ...' (But now) I'm a parent, I'm the leader. I am the responsible party. How times have changed."
With that, Namath — who once appeared on President Nixon's infamous "Enemies List" of so-called subversives — bellows at the irony: Broadway Joe is now Mr. Mom. Despite the rigors and challenges of raising adolescent girls, Namath looks rested and tanned, wearing a white shirt and Kelly-green shorts that reveal those famously scarred knees that ached so badly he would take "Butazolidin, Percocet and Johnnie Walker Red" after every game in the '60s, he says.
"(The doctors would) tell me to take (prescription painkillers) on a full stomach, but I didn't want to get fat," Namath recalls. "Eat? Let's drink."
His use of alcohol began during his youth, according to /Namath/, a sympathetic portrayal of his life that attributes his internal strife to a disruptive home life that included the divorce of his parents when he was in seventh grade. Author Kriegel writes that his subject was a highly competitive pool hall rogue who liked to smoke and drink while he doubled as the "Hungarian Howitzer," the premier high school quarterback in the country in Beaver Falls, Pa.
"I know where I am; I know how I am," Namath says of his refusal to cooperate with the book's author. "Why would I want to have to juggle — mentally and emotionally — someone else's perceptions of things that I lived when I'm doing the best I can? I know I made mistakes. And I know my perception is different than somebody else's. I'm not going (to read the book) because I'm not a masochist."
Namath's nocturnal habits were no secret during his halcyon days in the big city. Joe Willie not only was the toast of New York; he often was toasted. He flaunted the single lifestyle by opening a nightclub, Bachelors III, in 1968. Namath wasn't fussy about his choice of beverage: wine, beer, vodka tonics, Black Russians, brandy, rum — it didn't really matter how he medicated himself. An old referee friend regularly left Namath blackberry brandy inside his locker.
*Lapses in memory scary *
Namath says that during his rookie season he drank whiskey to ease the pain after a violent hit. He returned to his apartment and asked a friend to find something strong. Joe Willie discovered that while he enjoyed blondes, he loved the company of his Johnnie Walker Red even more. "I drank the worst-tasting stuff for five years," he says. "The only reason I (switched to) vodka is that my doctor told me if you have to drink, drink the clear stuff and not the brown stuff."
He quit drinking at various junctures, most notably after he retired from pro football in 1978 after 13 seasons and again when Tatiana issued an ultimatum within a year after Jessica's birth. He says he was sober from 1987 to 1999, what's known in AA circles as being a "dry drunk," he says.
"I told her that if I didn't stop (after their daughter was born), I'd check into a (rehab)," he says.
Namath remembers the awful morning-afters when his tongue felt like sandpaper and his skull buzzed. There were drunken episodes, angry confrontations with strangers and frightening blackouts where he seemed to travel a solitary road to nowhere, literally and figuratively. In the '70s, after one long night, he drove to his apartment in Fort Lauderdale. Or at least he thought he was home. Turns out he was in downtown Miami.
The blackouts "scared me half to death," he says.
"You don't remember where you are or how you got there. I remember the last one I had, last winter. I was golfing with some buddies, and we started drinking on the course. ... I was later told we had dinner and I got into an argument with a guy at a table next to us. I called him a couple of names. I was shocked because I didn't remember. I felt like a louse. I don't doubt that there were (other) times that I could've become surly, thinking that I was tougher than I was. But I like to think I was more humorous. I certainly was less inhibited."
The turning point came nine months ago. Football fans cringed when Namath, who had been secretly gulping wine for hours during a Jets reunion bash, acted inappropriately during a live ESPN interview. Reporter Suzy Kolber asked him about Jets quarterback Chad Pennington. Namath answered the question but also told Kolber he wanted to kiss her.
She then asked him about his former team's fallen fortunes. "I couldn't care less about the team struggling," Namath said, repeating, "I just want to kiss you."
Kolber quickly and adroitly ended the interview. Namath later apologized to the ESPN reporter, who recalls Namath being "mortified." To this day, he has not watched the interview.
"I thought it was my mischievous, stupid humor," he says. "Bottom line: I was way out of line. It was awful, rude behavior."
Says agent Walsh: "That probably turned out to be one of the best things that ever happened to Joe. He said, 'Wait a second. I better straighten myself out.' And he did."
Trying to explain his years of rowdy behavior, Namath says, "I was a product of my time, a product of the '60s. I had different restraints and different liberties, different rules than a lot of people. I could've gone over the edge and fouled up really badly. I'm only here by luck. I've often thought there must be a reason (I'm alive)."
Every time he returns to New York and walks the streets of Manhattan, Namath feels blessed because "I know there could've been (bad) things that happened to me."
"I had my two guardian angels back then," he says. "I can just see both of them with their beards down to here, bags under their eyes, looking after me. Did I know what I was doing? Not a shot. Every day I haven't had a drink, I've gone into the bathroom, looked into the mirror and grinned. I grin because of how I feel — because I know another day has passed where I haven't had that stuff.
"I don't need it; I don't want it. There's a difference between going to sleep at night and passing out. I feel a helluva lot better in the morning. ... Right now, I consider myself the luckiest cat going. Hell, if I take care of myself and don't get hit by a truck, I'm planning on reaching 100. I'm here, I feel great and I don't deserve it."
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