Frank Deford: Memories and Reflections

I’d read Deford’s work for years, mainly in Sports Illustrated. I’d heard him do interviews and deliver commentary on television and on NPR. I knew he’d written several books, both fiction and non-fiction, and received very positive reviews.

 

He was considered one of the world’s all-time great sports writers. In a world in which I had tinkered a bit, he was a legend. What a great opportunity to hear the best of the best, I thought. Maybe I could even get a few minutes of his time on his breakneck schedule to talk one-on-one, then write a Reflections piece.

 

Except I balked. While I appreciated that he was good, his writing style and public manner turned me off. He came across – to me, at least – as pompous and, at times, even arrogant. His prose seemed lofty. He used five-dollar words when simple syllables would work just fine. Did I really want to subject myself to this? Did I really want to meet this guy?

 

Time passed, and I reconsidered. I called a couple of friends in the media industry who had worked with him.

 

Go for it, each advised without hesitation. Frank’s a great guy. He’s bright. He’s personable. He’s engaging. You’ll enjoy every minute of your time with him.

 

So I agreed. Really good decision.

 

His schedulers allowed me 20 minutes, so I had my questions and recorder ready for the moment he arrived at my office.

 

I’d ask him to comment on issues in the news at the time: Should admitted (or alleged) PED users be considered for the Baseball Hall of Fame? Should Cincinnati Reds’ great Pete Rose be granted clemency from his lifetime ban for gambling? Would Major League Soccer gain a foothold? Explain the popularity of NASCAR.

 

I’d ask about the craft of writing, about managing deadline pressure, about staying fresh when you write prodigiously, about his motivation, about handling fame.

 

David Colón, then our academic dean, delivered him to my office early that January morning in 2007.

 

Our 20 minutes together became an hour. The time whisked by.

 

He answered my questions honestly. He was humble and at times self-deprecating. He drew on a deep well of knowledge. He recalled facts as if the events he narrated occurred yesterday. Forty-five years into his career, he offered sage advice gleaned from real-world experience.

 

You learn to write by writing, and writing a lot, he told me. Don’t limit your scope. Write about as many subjects as possible. Read what other writers write. Beyond that, it’s a “personal enterprise.”

Then, the world’s greatest sports journalist told me, I’ve always been a better writer than reporter. I don’t have the talent or patience to be an investigative reporter.

I expressed surprise and asked him to elaborate. He spoke of his hesitation when in the company of high-profile athletes when he was a young sports writer.

 

It wasn’t so much awe as the fear, he said. They’re put upon, lots of people are chasing after them, and you have to come up and ask questions. It was intimidation, stage fright. The only way you get over it – and maybe you don’t really get over it – is doing it over and over. As I developed a certain stature, there wasn’t as much of an intimidation factor. Still, I’m somewhat nervous sometimes.

Really? I asked.

Sure, he responded. You’re intruding. You’re basically saying, “Hey, can I bother you now?” You don’t want to make a (fool) of yourself.

Later that day, Deford regaled his audiences with vignettes and advice. He answered questions patiently, just as he’d done with me. He spoke from the heart. He shared his considerable wisdom freely. He dropped names but never "name-dropped." His candor and openness were refreshing. He was, at best, authentic.

 

“What I remember most about Frank Deford was his ability to link athletics to deeper and higher philosophical issues,” said Colón, now head of Wakefield School in The Plains. “He understood that it wasn’t just a game but instead a reflection of higher human aspirations and ideals. Perhaps more than that, he projected a humanity in his writings that came across in talking to him.”  

 

News arrived this past weekend that Deford had passed away at age 78 at his home in Key West. His career spanned 55 years. He received every conceivable honor including the National Humanities Medal, which President Barack Obama bestowed in 2013. Long ago, he became a cultural icon.

 

He was a literary superstar. That’s for sure.

To us, though, he was Frank.

Just Frank.

That was quite enough.

   -- Weldon Bradshaw