If Others Can Deal With It, Bo Should

It is the custom of His Excellency, Mr. Bo Jackson, to meet with the vulgar horde, the sporting press, once a year.

That’s about as often as one of rank wants to meet with the sporting press, unless arrangements can be made to avoid it altogether.

But there was Bo, arriving at the camp of the Los Angeles Raiders last week, making a painful appearance in front of authors, explaining his functions in life and discussing a book he has written on a subject of vital concern to him, Bo.

Titled, “Bo Knows Bo,” the book, he assures you, has been done for a simple purpose. “It isn’t to make a buck,” he says. “I want people to know who Bo is.”

It usually happens that the guy telling the story about himself can’t be relied upon to tell it all. He tells that part of the story he wants told.

It then becomes the responsibility of others to fill in those parts the autobiographer has missed, conveniently or otherwise.

But Bo is an interesting personality, left by observers to decide how much of him today is athlete and how much actor.

He analyzes himself more than the average guy. Most of us stumble through life, not bothering to ask questions.

But Bo, his feelings inspire on his part a lot of explanation.

Whatever his mission, he has pulled off a major success with his flair for drama and with unique athletic skills enabling him, in the same year, to play both major league baseball and pro football.

He is what you call a great athlete, but not yet a great performer, which is to say, you are not looking at Hall of Fame in either sport.

“I don’t aspire to be great,” says Bo. “I just want to do what makes me happy.”

In this process, he now has arranged, for the fourth year, to report in October to the Raiders, who, up until his arrival, have engaged in minicamp, training camp, four exhibition games and six league games.

Bo, you might say, joins them in progress, in one of the strangest transactions known to professional sports.

Baseball gets a full season, plus training camp, out of Bo. Football gets only remnants. This was the only way the Raiders could bag him and, agreeing to the timetable Bo imposes, they offer no complaints.

What they have done is give Bo a five-year contract, coming to a close the end of 1991. He is paid each year, but if he stays all five, he is enriched by a balloon said to fatten his holdings by seven figures.

If, as Bo says, he is doing what makes him happy, you have to conclude that collecting the balloon contributes to that frame of mind.

It follows, logically, he will play through next season for the Raiders, at which point we picture him forgetting about football and sticking with the game of rounders, better for the general health of one who will be turning 30 at the time.

Bo has done a big job looking after Bo. Among all his enterprises, he is a giant of American industry.

But it always has been, and always will remain, the feeling here that if Bo had concentrated on football, he would have risen to stupendous elevations as a performer. Coaches building defenses against him can’t recall one of his size with such explosive qualities.

In baseball, the strength is there and the speed is there, but the movements aren’t as natural. And, at bat, he doesn’t establish contact with the ball as often as a skillful hitter would at 28.

But you don’t want to minimize Bo as an entertainer. Nor, as we say, do you minimize him as an actor.

Those in entertainment dramatizing their anguish dealing with the media and the public usually are employing their acting skills in such dramatizations.

Too many others set upon in sports have proved the problem can be coped with. You look at Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson, Nolan Ryan, Dave Stewart, Wayne Gretzky--all quite able to deal with distraction without excessive pain.

Few in football were besieged as O.J. Simpson was at his crest. He had a smile for everyone.

And Dr. J and Jim Palmer and Joe Morgan and Catfish Hunter and Johnny Bench? Gracefully, they endured it.

Pete Rose, a behemoth while he played, never was thrown by it.

And Arnold Palmer? No one was bigger. And no one more at ease.

So you invite anyone in sports to lead the existence he selects, but when you hear him complain about living with those who cross his orbit, you level a suspicious eye.

Too many big ones have handled the problem and, in fact, have offered thanks for the opportunity.