More Than a Few Ways to Tell If You Are an Old-Timer

You know you’re an old-timer if you remember . . .

. . . When a guy who dribbled or passed behind his back or between his legs was a hotdog. Nowadays, a guy who doesn’t dribble and pass behind his back and between his legs is a klutzy center.

When you didn’t have to worry about whether or not your favorite bobsled team was pumped up on steroids.

When the Lakers’ No. 1 loyal courtside movie-star fan was Doris Day.

When, in Los Angeles, if it wasn’t happening at Wrigley Field, Gilmore Field, the Coliseum or the Olympic Auditorium, it wasn’t happening. Whatever happened to those grand old places?

When a female reporter venturing into the locker room was a major crisis. Now that event has been downgraded to the same status as a male reporter venturing into the locker room--a minor annoyance.

When all but one or two National Basketball Assn. coaches refused to acknowledge the existence of the 3-point shot, since it was a circus gimmick stolen from the American Basketball Assn. and therefore beneath the dignity of the Big League.

When there was a major prizefight in which neither fighter was making a courageous comeback from cocaine, alcohol and/or wife abuse.

When a college basketball player, after making a free throw at any time other than pregame warmups, was not required to slap 5 or 10 with everyone but the university chancellor. That’s an 85% shot, fellas. That’s why they call it free. The only slap you should get is when you miss a freebie.

When wide receivers, offensive linemen, baseball batters, baseball fielders and baseball baserunners didn’t need specialized golf-type gloves in order to ply their trades. What next? Free-throw gloves?

When we last had a heavyweight champion that somebody actually liked, because he possessed an endearing human quality or two.

When baseball free agency was going to ruin the game and bankrupt all the owners.

When you bought the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue and didn’t get ticked off if the pro basketball coverage was skimpy.

When a 7-foot 5-inch high jump or a 70-foot shotput, by a male, was reported in the newspapers or on TV and the report didn’t use the adjective only.

When you would see other people out jogging who were wearing actual clothing, rather than those second-skin Spandex paint jobs. You vow that even if you get into great shape, you’ll never go Spandex, then you realize that it’s academic, because they probably don’t sell those outfits to anyone over 25, anyway.

When people who sang or played the national anthem at sporting events didn’t keep won-lost records and try to bill themselves as good-luck charms for the local team. What would Franny Key think?

When Magic Johnson’s million-dollars-a-year contract was considered outlandishingly extravagant. And now it’s the NBA’s minimum salary.

When Dick Enberg was doing play-by-play for UCLA basketball and Chick Hearn for USC basketball. Back then, whippersnapper Chickie could rap out 1,000 words a minute. The years have slowed him down to about 990.

When you could watch wrestling on TV and, instead of the current hokum-malarkey blather, you would get legitimate, insightful ringside blow-by-blow from Dick (Whoa Nellie!) Laine.

When Dr. J looked like a wild young kid and not like a real physician.

When the TV camera panning the crowd at a football game would show someone with a half-red, half-green face, and you knew it was the result of a bad hangover.

When kids bought baseball cards simply because they liked to have the cards, to see what the players looked like, to read the stats, to chew the gum. Nowadays, bubble-gum cards are cardboard pork bellies.

When all the players on a college basketball team wore the same brand of sneakers because there was only one brand on the market, not because the coach had a $50,000 contract with Brand Z.

When boxing had fewer world champions than wrestling had.

When a West Coast college basketball team, any team, struck fear in the heart of someone other than its own coach. Please, no letters of protest from Las Vegas or Arizona, neither of which have been on the West Coast in several million years.

When only clods, Celtics, Johnny U and your grandma wore high-top shoes.

When Pebble Beach played host to a Clambake, and not another franchise Korporate Klassic.

When a college or pro team advancing to the championship round of its sport was not required by law to record a sophomoric rap video.

When you would pick up the newspaper and not find a big chunk of a page devoted to a “Baseball Arbitration Schedule.” You see a newspaper publish this and you wonder if we’re doing enough to save the trees.

When kids going after the autographs of their sports idols didn’t need Visa or American Express.

When you would shake your head and roll your eyes when an old-timer would start waxing nostalgic about the old days.