Traveling Always Best Call With Chick

Exploring the ruins of a dead city beneath the surface of modern Seattle seemed a lot more interesting than attending a morning shoot-around by the Lakers.

It was the spring of 1980 and I was a rookie beat writer for the Santa Ana Register, covering my first pro team.

Scott Ostler, then the beat writer for The Times, and I had booked a morning tour of the underground buildings, figuring we’d see enough of the Lakers that evening against the SuperSonics.

Word of our venture, unfortunately, reached the ears of broadcaster Chick Hearn.

When someone called to us in the hotel lobby as we were leaving, Chick interceded.

“Oh leave them alone,” he said with mock disgust. “They are tourists.”

Much has been made in the last few days of Chick’s work ethic. Even last season, his 42nd with the Lakers, he was still the first one in the arena for every game, hours before the tipoff, gleaning a few extra tidbits from a team he knew as well as he knew his family.

Chick’s preparation was intense. On the road, he would attend every practice, every shoot-around, every team function. There was no time for tours.

But there was always time for camaraderie. Chick may have kidded others about failing to live up to his high standards, but he never failed to be supportive of their efforts, as long as they were genuine. A rookie reporter couldn’t have found a better role model.

Because I was the new kid on the road, Chick singled me out as the straight man for many of his zingers.

It was sort of like being targeted by Don Rickles. You felt special, and from that first season on, a special relationship grew.

One afternoon, on a team bus in Denver, Chick was growing annoyed as I carried on a long conversation in a seat behind him. Finally, we pulled up at an intersection, where a worker was pounding away at the asphalt with a jackhammer.

“Hey, Springer,” Chick yelled out loud enough for everyone to hear. “Do you want to make some extra money?”

I dutifully answered as any straight man would, “Yes, Chick.”

“Well then,” he replied, “get out there, put your chin on the sidewalk and start talking.”

Another time, when the Lakers still flew commercial flights, Chick was seated next to a woman who had a camera in her lap. I was seated across the aisle.

“Hey, lady,” said Chick, “want to make a quick 20 bucks?”

The woman replied, “What do I have to do?”

Pointing to me, Chick said, “Get me a picture of him with his mouth closed.”

It wasn’t only me, though. Chick’s sharp wit and exquisite timing were turned on everyone from waitresses and doormen to bus drivers and pilots. He signed off at the end of every Laker broadcast, but his act never stopped.

And nobody ever seemed to get mad. All understood they were stooges in ringmaster Chick’s traveling circus.

One morning in Indianapolis, I found Chick in the hotel coffee shop, finishing an omelet.

“That looks good,” I said as I sat down. “I think I’ll get one.”

A waitress came over to take my order.

“He’ll have what I had,” Chick told her, “but he’d like his eggs warm.”

The waitress, not noticing the twinkle in Chick’s eyes, was horrified.

“Oh, Mr. Hearn,” she said, “I’m sorry. Is there something else I can get you?”

“No, you already ruined my day,” he said. “See what you can do for him.”

The waitress was insistent.

“There must be something I can get you,” she said.

“All right,” he said, “bring me a stomach pump.”

Then, his timing impeccable as always, Chick abandoned the gag and broke into a big smile, letting the waitress in on the fun.

Chick was just as quick on the air.

One night on the road, he instructed his director to come out of a timeout by zooming in on the writers who were all seated courtside. Something got lost in the request, however, and the cameraman focused instead on several waiters who were serving in the luxury boxes.

Chick never hesitated.

“No, the guys I’m talking about serve up a lot of baloney,” he told his viewers, “but they aren’t waiters.”

Even innocent bystanders weren’t safe.

One night in Philadelphia, Chick got into an elevator with several reporters. The door opened at the second floor and a man in a Superman costume entered. The elevator stopped again at the third floor and Superman got out.

As the door closed, Chick said, “You’d think he could have jumped that high.”

Chick was a meticulous traveler and woe to any member of the Laker party who slipped up. It was my turn in Boston, where I had put my wallet down on a nightstand in my hotel. Before going to bed, I made a phone call and then inadvertently put the phone down on top of the wallet.

When I awoke for one of those dreaded 6 a.m. buses, I was too bleary-eyed to notice the wallet was gone until the bus was pulling away from the hotel.

A frantic call was made and the wallet was delivered to me in time at the airport.

No harm, no foul?

Not with Chick around.

He didn’t comment about the incident until we had reached the next city and were in another bus heading to yet another hotel.

“Hey, Riles,” Chick said loudly to Pat Riley, then the Laker coach, who was seated a few rows ahead. “Next time we go to Boston, I got a great new hotel we ought to stay at.”

“Really? Which one?” asked Riley.

“Oh never mind,” Chick said, “I forgot. They have wall phones there. Springer would have no place to leave his wallet.”

Chick’s voice is gone now. Laker games will never be the same. And neither will Laker trips. Chick’s magical tour is over. The next generation of sportswriters is on its own.