If You Knew Mal, You Had a Mal Story

I am a relatively young reader of The Times Sports page, but Mal Florence has been a constant in my readership. Although I only knew him as a Morning Briefing writer, I always appreciated him as a classic, witty sportswriter. As an avid USC football fan, I lament the lost opportunity to have read Mr. Florence’s work as the beat writer for Trojan football in particular and Los Angeles sports in general.

I would like to express my heartfelt appreciation for the manner in which The Times celebrated Mr. Florence’s life and career. Dedicating all of Page 2 to this journalist showed class on the highest level. I cannot remember a single instance when an obituary made me smile, chuckle and laugh out loud. However, this is what occurred when I read Page 2 last Saturday morning. I imagine Mr. Florence would have wanted it no other way.

Robert Knepper

Torrance

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In 1963, Mal Florence was responsible for me having the most unusual “bouncer” at my going-away (I had been drafted into the U.S. Army) party. Mal got to the invitation-only party late after covering an L.A. Rams’ preseason night game. With him was the club’s top rookie, who had not been invited. The hostess, my then-girlfriend Jeanne, was turning away all non-invited guests because of an already overcrowded residence.

Mal, ever resourceful, suggested that perhaps the lonely rookie could perform doorman/bouncer duties for a couple of “cool ones” and some party food. And that was how the 1962 Heisman Trophy winner, Terry Baker of Oregon State, spent the late hours after his first game as a Los Angeles Ram.

Jerry Clark

Executive Director, So. Cal. Sports Broadcasters

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It was my good fortune to break in as a Rams beat writer for the old Herald Examiner when Mal Florence was covering the team for The Times.

I was young and raw and, yes, a little overwhelmed back then, but Mal made it so much easier by instantly accepting me, showing me the ropes at training camp, allowing me to tag along with him and his friends on the road. Lots of older writers then looked down at rookies on the beat, but not Mal. His kindness and patience were amazing.

And, of course, his sense of humor always made it a joy to be around him, even when you were the butt of his jokes, and I certainly was a couple of times. But even then, Mal had this gentle way of making you the foil.

When he did, it almost made you feel as if you’d been accepted as one of the group.

He was a true professional with a great work ethic and as good a reporter as there was in town. I think he had more contacts than the rest of us put together.

He was an old school guy who liked to go out and have a couple of drinks and a few laughs after the game. Sportswriting has changed over the years, and that’s too bad.

The business had a lot more dignity and was a lot more fun when Mal Florence was around.

Steve Bisheff

Orange County Register

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Like many who knew Mal, I, too, repeatedly heard the tales about flying over Dusseldorf or Tokyo (“the flak was so thick you could walk on it”), the Purple Heart, his star-studded football career at USC, his distaste for 40-yard dash times and his love for yanking Bill Dwyre’s chain during USC-Notre Dame week.

My favorite memory of Mal happened in Corvallis, where he was covering the Pac-10 track championships in 1987. One night, in a workingman’s bar near the Oregon State campus. Mal and I were throwing darts, not really keeping score, and I’m sure he was telling me something about the war or how he never took any guff from anyone except Wilt Chamberlain.

Then into the bar walks the self-proclaimed local dart champion, with his “Dart Dolly” on one arm and his leather case of darts in the other. After watching us hacks for five minutes he challenged either one of us with the intent of taking control of the board. I quickly volunteered Mal to face the guy in a game of 301, which earned me a sneer and a “good grief” from Mal.

Playing darts with the same amount of grace and prowess that he exhibited in football and golf, he quickly fell behind, but stayed within reach of his competitor. Within points of being closed out, I whispered to Mal, “Hit a triple 14 and you win.”

In true Florence fashion, the next dart hit the triple 14. The Corvallis champ had just been beaten by a guy who perhaps never played darts before. The champ begged for a rematch, but Mal had proved his point. He took a sip from his cocktail, a drag from his cigarette and through his smirk and thick dancing eyebrows, Mal said, “No thanks, I think I need to go somewhere else and find a real challenge.”

Nick Salata

Pasadena