No Hate in Nate, He Loves the Media

The Pittsburgh Steelers have the reputation of being a bunch of guys who spit on the sidewalk, drink beer from a bottle, call the wife “the old lady,” work in a blast furnace, get a new bowling shirt for Christmas and eat kielbasa on a bun.

The Dallas Cowboys come into focus as 11 Gary Coopers, guys who say ‘Aw, shucks!” a lot, call women “Ma’am” and men “Sir,” sleep in the saddle, eat beef jerky and sing “Home on the Range” around a campfire.

All stereotypes are exaggerations, but the Steelers do come off as the kind of guys who would wear their hat brims up, chew gum and wise off. As if they had come to pull the wings off butterflies and not clutter the place up with meaningless chatter. Mafia toughs. The Dead End Kids go to the Super Bowl.

The Cowboys actually are more media friendly, but, as in any proper western, they do have their share of black hats from the O.K. Corral, guys who call you out and shoot from the hip and spew profanity.

And then there’s Nate Newton.

Nate Newton is like a kid at his first circus. He thinks the Super Bowl was arranged just for him. No one has a better time than old Nate, 320 pounds of jollity, friendliness. He’s as gregarious as a hound dog.

He takes pictures of people taking pictures of him. He interviews people interviewing him. He thinks he’s the host of the Super Bowl.

Newton is an offensive lineman. You know how most offensive linemen are. Quiet, monosyllabic, taciturn, anonymous, part of football’s Secret Service. Their assignment is not to protect a president but to protect their own chief executive, Mr. Quarterback.

You can usually spot the ones who are the offensive linemen at a Super Bowl press breakfast. They’re usually sitting alone reading a newspaper because no cameramen crowd around them, no microphones are stuck under their noses, no reporters are furiously scribbling what they have to say about the upcoming game. It’s not a position, it’s a hideout. The only time they’re asked for their autograph is on a check at the supermarket.

Nate Newton will have none of this. He comes into the news conference and the flashbulbs pop, the writers clamor, the TV cameras go on the alert. He even upstages Deion Sanders, Troy Aikman. They whisper. He shouts.

Don’t worry about finding his table. Just follow the noise. Newton is not being interviewed, he’s holding court. There is a 900 number scrawled across his chest. “Call 1-900-Run-Newt.” No other player has his own 900 number.

Not for Nate are grunts and long stares. He solicits coverage. He fancies himself one of us, a newsman, because he writes a Super Bowl diary for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. “C’mon in,” he encourages the reporters. “The only time I’m relaxed is when I’m with you guys, my kind of people, us newspapermen. I have a love for you guys.”

Thus encouraged, someone is brave enough to want to know if Dallas is ‘a dirty team.” Newton wears a look of mock surprise. “Naw! We’re as clean as any team. We wash our hands before we hit anybody. Take showers--two a day. Brush our teeth, change our shirts. Shine our shoes. What more do you want?” Next question.

Does he eat a lot? “Naw! Not really. But the 11:30 at night feeding is what messes me up--two or three hamburgers, couple of pieces of fried chicken, whatever’s left over and the cream pie. No coffee though. I want to sleep.”

What does he do to relax Super Bowl week? “Well, the cops gave us a list of places not to go. So we went to all of them. I had to check out the places. Isn’t that what us newspapermen do?

A lot of heads nod. Then, someone wants to know what he thinks of Greg Lloyd, Pittsburgh’s malevolent linebacker whom he may encounter. “He accepts his role as a hit man,” Newton concedes. “But his mother didn’t give him enough loving when he was growing up. But he’s a great player. His play speaks for itself.”

What does he do to stay game-ready? “My secret is water. People don’t drink enough water in this game. Cramping is lack of oxygen, right? Well, water is H2O. The second-half devastation of most teams is lack of water. I drink gallons of water.”

Around the league, Nate Newton is known as Highway 61. That’s because he’s the freeway that Emmitt Smith cruises down--for 1,773 yards and 25 touchdowns this season. There’s no traffic as Emmitt cruises to the end zone behind the ponderous blocks of Nate Newton, who clears the path like an elephant stomping through rose bushes.

He also protects his quarterback. Aikman is as safe as if he were in a bank vault when Newton drops back to pass block. He’s harder to get around than the Queen Mary.

He’s even chatty on the line of scrimmage. He doesn’t talk trash exactly. His dialogue is more likely to run to concern for his opponent. As in “I hope you remembered to bring some aspirin along, chump. Because by the third quarter you’re going to need it! You’re going to have this splitting headache!”