After 51 Years, It’s Time to Say Goodby

So a guy is checking out today--51 years on the job--and, stroking their chins, the gods ask pensively if anything can be said in his behalf.

It is submitted that never in his prose has a batter hit a solo shot. One never has taken a pitcher downtown, nor has a baserunner motored home.

If a basketball player went coast to coast, you didn’t read it here.

And deja vu ? Too many guys write deja vu who haven’t yet learned to write English.

No one has been described in this space as cocky. We don’t like cocky. It is still better than butt.

A resident of California since 1926, the individual taking a walk today has yet to attend a Rose Parade. Can you knock one of such exquisite taste?

He never has camped at Yosemite. He never has camped anywhere.

Making his appointed rounds over the years, he learned to be wary of hotels that advertise rooms with “garden view.”

Garden view usually means light well.

He never ordered “catch of the day.” Catch of the day is what the chef catches from the wholesaler.

The words of Wilbur Clark, late owner of the Desert Inn in Las Vegas, lit the way in the retiring guy’s stroll through life. Advised Wilbur: “Never eat or shoot craps above the ground floor.”

Nick the Greek tipped his secret. He trained himself so that he could stand at the table eight hours at a time without going to the washroom. It was Nick’s theory that one in action shouldn’t lose the continuity of the dice.

And Jimmy the Greek, a teacher of renown? The day of the Derby, he recommended we place a rubber band around our bankroll.

Said Jimmy: “Any dip can work his hand into your front pocket. But the rubber band creates friction, meaning the dough can’t be removed without your feeling it.”

We never trusted an owner who announced he wanted to do what was best for the horse.

We never trusted an athlete who said he was merely going to go out there and have fun.

We never trusted a guy who wore his jacket off the shoulders.

And an eyebrow always arched at cocktail parties when an editor was heard soliciting an opinion. An editor should know who can write and who can’t. He needn’t consult amateurs.

During our time, the world of commerce harvested rich advice from Walter O’Malley. Engaged in a hot negotiation with Marvin Miller, then head of the players’ association, Walter whispered: “Marvin, never try to steal it all at once. Steal a little at a time.”

We are sitting in the bar of the Beverly-Wilshire Hotel one afternoon with Gene Tunney. Gene is tipsy.

He says to us: “You have the gentle face of Keats.”

Keats has been gone since 1821. We warm up an old joke: “You mean Sam Keats of Perth Amboy?”

Gene continues: “I weep for Adonais he is dead. Oh, weep for Adonais! though our tears thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!”

Gene is reciting in Spenserian stanzas Shelley’s elegy on the death of his friend, John Keats.

We make a cultural shift. “What was it like fighting Dempsey?” we ask.

Gene sobers quickly.

“I was terrified,” he confesses. “I felt Dempsey wanted to kill me, literally. I never had that feeling with another fighter.”

So one day we ask Al Weill, manager of Rocky Marciano, to tell us about Rocky.

“I won’t say he is close with a nickel,” says Al. “It’s just that we went out of town for three days. Rocky forgot his toothbrush. He wouldn’t buy a new one. He brushed his teeth with his finger.”

And what would a waitress, an aspiring singer, confide to Jimmy Cannon and your correspondent as she was serving us breakfast? She had been out with Joe Louis and Sugar Ray Robinson.

“I’ll tell you the difference between the two,” she said. “Joe gave me $100. Ray promised to introduce me to important people.”

The entrepreneurial genius of Archie Moore remains unmatched. A brilliant deal maker, Archie arranges one--details unknown--with a jeweler before his title fight with Yvon Durelle.

Archie enters the ring. Locating the TV camera, he turns his back to it. Viewers read on his robe this message of earthly impact: “Nate Rosenberg’s Diamond Palace, San Diego.”

But if Archie was nimble in his ability to sell, so was Jack Kent Cooke. It is 1967, opening night of the Fabulous Forum.

We ask Jack idly: “Why do you call it Fabulous?”

Jack is stunned. “Mel, Mel, Mel,” he begins. “Dear, dear Mel. Precious Mel. That’s the most stupid question ever to pass through your lips. Look at this place. It is Fabulous.”

Not so fabulous, in the judgment of Louis B. Mayer, is our name. A young columnist, we meet the mighty mogul at Santa Anita. He is gracious.

“You write OK,” he says, “but that name of yours--it’s hopeless. Who the hell is ever going to remember Durslag ?”

We ask: “What would you suggest I do, Mr. Mayer?”

He answers: “Come over to the studio. I’ll have my people work on it.”

Instantly, we recall Doris von Kappelhoff emerging as Doris Day, Archie Leach as Cary Grant, Roy Fitzgerald as Rock Hudson. Our head spins with excitement.

But we never go over to the studio, which may explain the life of obscurity that would follow.

So, romancing the folks all this time, a half-century flirtation, does the guy have anything tender to tell them?

He answers yes--it was great fun, but it was just one of those things.

Goodby. Thank you.

Editor’s Note: Melvin Durslag, one of the nation’s leading sports columnists for most of his 51-year career, has decided to call it a day and retire. Today, he writes his final column for a Los Angeles newspaper.