4:55 p.m. Friday. The Auto Train leaves a few minutes early. Notice new Sanford commuter station, next to last on the northeast leg of SunRail – Central Florida's new version of Tri-Rail. Research ridership. It got 17,000 riders in one day – then, they started charging. Still, it’s averaging more than 4,000 daily riders in the first month – not bad considering only one half of the proposed 60-mile system is running. The other half to the southeast is not scheduled for several years. But unlike Tri-Rail, this train is on the right track, with three stations in downtown Orlando. It should be a big winner.
8:30 a.m. Saturday. Arrive in Northern Virginia right on time. Learned overnight that the previous reports that Auto Train makes money are no longer valid. Amtrak still claims that the train is profitable, but a confidential source says that’s no longer true. The signs are there. Cutting back on frills. No more free wine at dinner. No more welcome aboard cocktails. No more free fruit. Room attendants hinting about tips; never saw that in 30 years. Now, there are too many fat people who can barely fit in the narrow sleeping car corridors. If one of them falls in the diner car, it might turn the whole freaking train over. It’s still the best way to go north. It’s about $350 more than driving, but you save a full day and maybe your life. It should be running all over the country.
Noon. Read Washingtonian magazine. Founded 1965, same year as Gold Coast, making us among the oldest regional magazines. Also, the only magazine to share Gaeton Fonzi's 1980 story implicating the CIA in JFK's assassination. The big Washingtonian story this month is the fight to have a memorial for former President Dwight Eisenhower. It began in 1999, with seeming accord, but has turned into a capitol feud, getting worse with each decade, dissent among dozens of power players, including Eisenhower's descendants, made complicated because those feuding are dying off. Maybe a good thing. Almost 15 years later, project in limbo. Washington already has too many memorials.
3:30 p.m. Cocktails in kid’s backyard. We’re shown the newly re-bricked alley behind the house. Perfect place for grandkids to play, which they did until 4 p.m. when a wandering derelict scared everyone away with anti-social act. Retreated to the yard and called the cops. They asked if the subject was armed. Otherwise, they’re not likely to respond. … So much for a changing neighborhood. Daughter says neighborhood is much safer than in the past, but says to always be alert. Years back, wrote anti-mugging piece, pointing out that muggers sometimes pass going the other way, and then attack from behind. Guard against that by walking backwards, which can be tricky on Washington's uneven brick sidewalks.
9 a.m. Sunday. Mass at St. Peter's (c. 1820, rebuilt 1890) which has made a big comeback along with the Capitol Hill section … absurdly young congregation. They should rename the place “Our Mother of Day Care.” More babies than gray heads. Toddlers were running all over the church. Suffer the little children. This neighborhood revival owes much to the Florida House, which Rhea Chiles, wife of the late senator and Gov. Lawton Chiles, helped create 42 years ago. It took an abandoned, rundown property right across from the Supreme Court and made it a beautiful state embassy – the only state to have one, totally privately funded. The movement spread block by block. The late U.S. Rep. E. Clay Shaw and wife Emilie bought here, and now half of government lives in what used to be a slum.
10 a.m. Pancake breakfast with grandchildren at Eastern Market, another former eyesore now one of D.C.'s biggest attractions, especially for hungry children.
1 p.m. Went shopping in Alexandria, Va., the closet major center to Capitol Hill. Got component at Best Buy to make this stupid iPad work.
2:30 p.m. Made impromptu decision to visit Gravelly Point Park, which you can reach only by going through Reagan National Airport. There, hundreds gather to spend Father's Day watching jets taking off so close overhead you hear the wheels going up. Was it not that long ago that Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport had to throw everybody out of the way to provide a clear zone on both sides of the runway? How can Washington get away with making its supposed clear zone virtually a picnic area at the very end of a busy runway? Great fun anyway. Only thing better would be sitting on the wings.
3:45 p.m. Impromptu decision to stop at Garfield Park so kids can recreate. Wife immediately recognizes voice of Kathleen Sebelius, recently defrocked secretary of Health and Human Services, etc. who is there with toddler, likely a grandson, certainly not grandfather. For the occasion, she chose a top of Dolphins aqua, shorts a cross between cadmium and taupe and a shoulder bag somewhere between liberal tan and University of Tennessee cantaloupe orange. Daughter resists urge to confront her for criticizing those, such as daughter, who suspect a link between heavy doses of vaccines and the increase in autism among young kids.
8 p.m. After dinner, resist urge to stay up late and watch the Miami Heat lose final game.
7 a.m. Monday. Read Florida papers online. Impressed with grace with which Heat takes loss. Wife asks if basketball season is over. Advise that it is just about to begin.
9 a.m. to noon. Walk all over Washington looking for an open barbershop. Where are the girls of Las Olas when you need them?
1 p.m. Read email from Buddy Nevins who says recent quote in this stupid blog, "These are the events that alter and illuminate our times," comes from the 1950s TV show "You Are There." It was narrated by Walter Cronkite before he was Walter Cronkite. "Does this make me old?" Nevins asks. Well, it doesn't make him Kathleen Sebelius' grandson.
5 p.m. Cocktails in preparation for the World Cup.
6 p.m. Watch World Cup. Advise wife that two on U.S. team are from local high schools. She asks how long World Cup lasts. Tell her if they beat Ubumba and Socratia, they play countries we have heard of. If they win all, must play Spurs and winner of Wood Memorial.
9 p.m. Enjoy victory cocktails, and prepare to find open barbershop. Off to Philadelphia in the morning.
The great advantage of having beautiful 25-something editors is that they know how to run all the high-tech gadgets that dominate the publishing field in this young century. They understand terms such as Pinterest, the Cloud, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and Snapchat. They also like likes.
The disadvantage is that when it comes to producing a 50th anniversary issue, which Gold Coastis planning for early next year, such skills are seriously compromised by the fact that the same people are often clueless about the local history and the people who made it. Such anniversaries are, by definition, a remembrance of people and their times, or places and the people - pretty much the same thing. And that can be tricky to do when hardly anybody on our juvenile-laden staff remembers events and people who altered and illuminated our times.* A further complication is that those who do remember are often below ground, or can't remember what they forgot.
Thus, it comes to pass when it comes to passing, our young folks will recognize the name Dan Marino, and maybe Bob Griese or Larry Csonka, all of whom kept their names current on TV. But, the people to whom they passed - such as Paul Warfield, Marv Fleming, Howard Twilley or the Marks brothers, just draw blank stares. Almost none of the young’uns knows Dr. Doug Swift, an Amherst grad who played on that undefeated team, and went on to become a distinguished anesthesiologist in Philadelphia. They may recognize Joe Robbie, largely because a few of us loyalists insist on calling it the former Joe Robbie Stadium, no matter how many times they change the name. The same goes for Chris Evert (pictured above in 1979) because of a medical facility, George English (park), Brian Piccolo (ditto) or Virginia Young (school).
When you glance at our archived issues from the 1960s and '70s, there aren't that many around who relate to people who often graced our issues. We speak of Gov. R.H. Gore (no, he wasn't governor of Florida) or Lewis Parker or Theresa Castro or Milton Weir or Yolanda Maurer (she made every issue when she owned the book) or Hamilton Forman or Lambert and Paul Holm or Joseph Taravella or Tom and Foy Fleming or Elliott Barnett or Dr. Kenneth Williams or the Radice brothers or Jim Bishop. And the younger set may even have trouble identifying figures who stayed in the limelight, meaning our pages, for years later. Don McClosky, Bill Farkas, Dr. Abe Fischler, Frank Borman, Bob Cox, Nick Sindicich, Prince Michael of Austria, also known as Michael Waldbaum – after he got arrested for running a stolen luxury car ring.
As you might guess, all these storied figures, and literally hundreds more, will figure in our anniversary issue. If we can just remember their names.
* This phrase is an obvious theft from a once-prominent TV show. Anyone who can identify it will get a free drink at Nick’s, except it closed in 1987.
A few years ago, we had a drink with a fellow on Las Olas Boulevard. He had Philadelphia connections and we knew his son. He was retired and when we asked what he had done, he was vague but intriguing. Worked around the world, had oil company connections, had been in the Middle East and other places where Americans did not tread lightly, or vice versa.
“I did a lot of things,” he said.
“Sounds like you worked for the CIA,” we said, only half joking.
He chuckled, but did not answer, which was an answer in and of itself. We probably guessed right. It is the art of the good spy that nobody knows they are spies, and they often take their secrets to their graves.
That was the case with one of the best. Robert Ames has been dead since 1983, but just recently is becoming widely known as the subject of a biography. The Good Spy was written by Pulitzer Prize winner Kai Bird. A review was in Sunday’s Miami Herald and it tells the remarkable story of a man most people had never heard of, unless you know basketball history in Philadelphia. Before he became a master of his trade, Bob Ames was a member of La Salle College’s (as it was then known) team that won the NCAA basketball championship in 1954. He is shown above in a team photo beside the legendary Tom Gola, who died earlier this year. Ames was a sub in 1954, the seventh man, and averaged only two points per game. But for many a jock, just being on that team would have been a career high.
Bob Ames' career high came on April 18, 1983 (the 208th anniversary of Paul Revere’s midnight ride), when he was one of 17 Americans killed in a suicide bombing attack at the U.S. Embassy in Beirut, Lebanon. Only then was it revealed that Bob Ames was CIA, which cleared up a mystery for his old college teammates. He had gone back to La Salle for reunions, but never revealed what he did. He said he just worked in Washington, D.C., for the president on special projects. It would be some time before they learned that their likable, quiet friend was not just any CIA guy. He was one of our most important figures in the Middle East.
That came as news to his family as well. As the book details, his six children knew he worked in government, something in the state department. But they did not know that he was our top man in the Middle East, whose reports and advice went to the president, at the time Ronald Reagan. So he wasn’t kidding when he told La Salle buddies he did stuff for the president. At La Salle, he was known as a good student, with a flair for languages. Rare at the time among Americans in the Middle East, he spoke Arabic. Even more rare, he developed a personal, and highly secret, rapport with key leaders in the Palestine Liberation Organization.
He was trying to swim against the CIA current, which was pro-Israel, right or wrong, formulated by men who could not speak the language of the other side. Bob Ames was dangerously in the middle of parties who were trying to kill each other. It caught up with him. The reviews of the new book, usually written by CIA insiders, portray a man greatly respected by his peers. They also pose a question with no clear answer: What might have happened if this insightful and highly connected man had been listened to more carefully, or lived to see his work fulfilled? Thirty years after his death, some of Bob Ames’ secrets have at last been leaked.
He was trying to swim against the CIA current, which was pro-Israel, right or wrong, formulated by men who could not speak the language of the other side. Bob Ames was dangerously in the middle of parties who were trying to kill each other. It caught up with him. The reviews of the new book, usually written by CIA insiders, portray a man greatly respected by his peers. They also pose a question with no clear answer: What might have happened if this insightful and highly connected man had been listened to more carefully, or lived to see his work fulfilled? Thirty years after his death, some of Bob Ames’ secrets have at last been leaked.
Penske-Donohue did not win that day, but they made a great first impression. They broke down late in the race while in third place. The winner was Mario Andretti. Penske at the time estimated it would take him three years to win Indy. He was off by a year. Mark Donohue won the race four years later. Three years after that, he was dead, killed in practice in Graz, Austria.
Our story, “Mr. Clean and Captain Nice at Indy” wasn’t bad, considering the author had never seen an auto race in his life and had little idea what he was writing about. He learned a new word – magneto. That is what killed the engine late in the race. Penske (shown above in 1969) got the name “Mr. Clean” from his immaculate garage and racecars. He was already famous for his attention to detail, and his striving for “the unfair advantage” – a faster racecar.
Penske went on to win Indy a stunning 15 times, with a number of great drivers: Rick Mears, Bobby Unser, Al Unser, Al Unser, Jr., Emerson Fittipaldi, and most recently, Helio Castroneves. His once dark hair had only a touch of gray. But now, in recession and turned to snow, Penske was going for a 16thSunday. Blocking his way was the name Andretti, and Michael Andretti’s driver, Ryan Hunter-Reay. It was an event to get your attention for more reasons than one.
We were on the grid that day in 1969 when Penske made his debut. We were working for Philadelphia Magazine and it was a good local story. Penske had begun getting attention as a sports car racer while still in college at Lehigh University, north of Philadelphia. Ten years later, he owned a Philadelphia Chevrolet dealership, and his racing team was headquartered in suburban Newtown Square. His sponsor was Sun Oil Company, which was located just around the corner from Philadelphia Magazine.
And now, into the modern area, and we still have a home team. Hunter-Reay lives in Fort Lauderdale and was on Gold Coast’s cover in 2012. We also covered Helio Castroneves more recently. He also lives in Fort Lauderdale, although the TV guys did not seem to know it. We had this story coming and going. It was like the end of Sunday’s race, with Hunter-Reay and Castroneves passing each other on the closing laps. It was a race won by who passed last.
That was Hunter-Reay. Helio Castroneves, by the way, was driving for Roger Penske. His unfair advantage was only the length of a racecar short.
About this time of year the interminable NBA season becomes terminable and we start paying a little attention. Thus, we noticed the name Rasual Butler playing for the Indiana Pacers. Now, there can’t be two guys with that name in professional basketball, but it surprised us because we thought his career was over a few years ago. How could the man be playing for a team facing the Miami Heat in the playoffs, with a chance to go all the way?
Turns out, after several minutes of exhaustive research, it is the same guy who made the pages of Gold
Coast magazine 11 years ago when he was a rookie playing for Pat Riley’s Heat team. Partly because Butler came from our old school, La Salle, partly because we had followed his development from his high school days in Philadelphia, and partly because the highly successful Riley, after a good start in the mid-1990s, was struggling to repeat his championship achievements in Los Angeles and New York, we decided to follow the Heat. We had done some work with the team years before when theater producer Zev Bufman and former NBA star Billy Cunningham (another Philadelphia connection) first launched the franchise. It seemed like a good time to revisit.
Coast magazine 11 years ago when he was a rookie playing for Pat Riley’s Heat team. Partly because Butler came from our old school, La Salle, partly because we had followed his development from his high school days in Philadelphia, and partly because the highly successful Riley, after a good start in the mid-1990s, was struggling to repeat his championship achievements in Los Angeles and New York, we decided to follow the Heat. We had done some work with the team years before when theater producer Zev Bufman and former NBA star Billy Cunningham (another Philadelphia connection) first launched the franchise. It seemed like a good time to revisit.We followed the team from pre-season through early January, by which time its season was effectively over. It would wind up a dismal 25-57. Butler, however, was a different story. Because the team was beset with injuries, the rookie got a lot of playing time. He started 28 games and averaged 21 minutes. Over the next two years he established a reputation as one of the league’s better 3-point shooters, hitting 46 percent in his second year.
The Heat traded him to New Orleans, where for four years he was mostly a bench player before being traded to the Los Angeles Clippers. There, he had his best scoring season in 2009-10 with an 11.9 average and 41 percent from beyond the arc. But after that it was downhill. He played for two more NBA teams and then played for the Tulsa 66ers of the NBA Development League. We had lost track of him before that. A player in his 30s knocking around basketball’s minor leagues is usually considered finished. But his performance in Tulsa earned him a shot with the Pacers. He hasn’t played much but he’s been in 50 games, including nine minutes in the win over the Heat Sunday. And, with his 35th birthday this week, his before taxes take this year is $1.4 million, which is better than a lot of us did at his age.
Rasual Butler’s rise from the ashes is rare, but not for a La Salle guy. Tim Legler, who is now an announcer for ESPN, is an even better story. He graduated (Academic All-American) from La Salle in 1988. For the next seven years he had some moments with the Bigs, but was mostly playing in Europe or for minor league teams, notably the Omaha Pacers, where he made $400 a week at one time. Most guys would have hung it up, especially after he earned an MBA from Penn’s Wharton School. But pushing 30, an age when NBA careers are often winding down, he finally made the big time. Really big time. With Washington he led the NBA in 3-point shooting, hitting 52 percent in 1995-96, and stayed in the league another four years. His success, and basic smarts, propelled him into his current broadcasting career.
Churchill, in a more momentous moment, said it best. “Never, never give up.”
When Florida East Coast Industries (hereafter known as FEC) came up with the name All Aboard Florida, it probably did not mean all aboard for critics. But everybody from the marine industry to people who like walking on railroad tracks has added baggage to those worried that the proposed fast train from Miami to Orlando will destroy tropical living as we know it.
The criticism is particularly loud in Palm Beach County where the Palm Beach Post has run a number of stories (including one today) reporting concerns about noise and safety. Such fears have drowned out those supporting one of the most important steps in Florida transportation since – well, since Henry Flagler brought the trains here in the first place.
Not that these worries aren't legitimate, especially in the case of the marine industry, but some of the noise is like the people who move next to a booming airport and then complain about the airplanes roaring overhead. Anyone with vision could have predicted that this FEC track running through the heart of cities up and down the East Coast would someday be a crucial and busy component of a modern transportation system. Especially since Tri-Rail 25 years ago proved the usefulness of a commuter train, even one running on the wrong track.
People in Palm Beach County are asking why they have to pay the price for a train that doesn't do them any good, that will principally be used by tourists headed to and from Disney World. Well, give it time. Tri-Rail has already identified locations for stations if (and it seems almost certain this will happen) it moves some trains to the vastly more useful FEC tracks.
The controversy over All Aboard Florida planning to run trains at 75 mph on tracks with frequent grade crossings might be a blessing in disguise. It calls attention to the reality that the FEC needs a new railroad, or better put, a modernization to bring it into the 21st century. There are places where the new train could actually get up to 75 mph. The more than two-mile stretch from Griffin Road south of the airport to State Road 84 is free of crossings, and the train could move out. And there are miles along Dixie Highway in both north and south Broward where an engineer can see well down the track and brake safely in an emergency. There are other places where grade crossings at minor streets could be closed, making higher speeds practical. But for much of the route in Broward and Palm Beach counties it would be dangerous for a train to go much over 50 mph. It is from these neighborhoods that fears of constantly blaring horns and crashes at grade crossings have arisen.
It would not be surprising if the FEC has anticipated this opposition, and sensed the opportunity to turn it into an opportunity to modernize its track, with much of the cost carried by government. Some improvements are a necessity, the principal one being downtown Fort Lauderdale where the marine industry along the New River would be severely impacted by many additional drawbridge closings. What is needed is a high bridge, similar to the one that takes Tri-Rail and the longer Amtrak trains across the river farther west, or a tunnel under the river. The Tri-Rail bridge on the CSX tracks is about a mile long, and even that is too steep for long freight trains. They still cross the river on a drawbridge.
Such a bridge on the FEC would leave the status quo, with freights still using the drawbridge. We can also anticipate a new All Aboarding party – the residents of buildings near the railroad who would hate their view to be a bridge just outside their balcony. A tunnel would be a permanent cure, if the grade were sufficiently gentle to permit shorter freights to use it along with passenger trains.
It sounds like a huge expense, and it would be, but not as bad as you might think. The tunnel itself need be no longer than the Henry Kinney Tunnel on Federal Highway. It’s only about two blocks long. The approaches could be open air, going under Broward Boulevard (a blessing for drivers) and extending for blocks on each side. From the railroad’s point of view, that should be intriguing, opening up the prospect of air rights for blocks of downtown Fort Lauderdale.
One tunnel does not rebuild a railroad, but it’s a beautiful start.
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| Wally Brewer |
When we become king, the first thing we will do is raise from the dead the obit writers of the world. Their death was never officially announced. The papers just sort of hinted at it, by gradually cutting back from a few obituaries a day to maybe just one, and often none. Unless you pay for it.
Now, that's a whole different story. You still see obituaries in the papers but almost all of them are like ads. They cost money. And often they read like ads, filled with phrases such as "joined the Lord" or "ascended to heaven" and surrounded by “loving and devoted family.” They avoid at all costs the word "died." And you never read that someone "died and went directly to hell."
This has obviously become a good source of income for newspapers. We paid for an obit in a northern paper for a colleague who had played an important role in the development of regional magazines. We thought he deserved a real obit, for free, but it was not to be. Our piece was therefore tightly crafted, about seven inches, and cost $1,300. We wanted to write more but we ran out of money. At least you know when you read something that long that the deceased must have had some status, or at least somebody (usually a relative) thought so. Not long after we saw a free obit for a woman who worked for the same newspaper. What was her job? She wrote obits. Some jobs come with privilege.
Now, not all obits are paid for, not directly. A funeral home usually will submit a death notice as part of its fee. They usually say: "Joe Smith. May 6, 2014." They rarely exceed three or four lines. If they do, the cash register comes on. It is easy to tell a real obit from a death notice. A real obit looks and reads like news, because it is. A paid death notice looks like a death notice. It has small, crowded type.
Our first job as a sports writer on a suburban daily had us sitting next to a woman of vintage whose sole job was to write obits. From 7 a.m. on, she was busy talking with funeral directors. At the same time she was working on her horse racing form, picking her nags for the day. She mumbled aloud. One got to recognize names of jockeys and horses, as well as an occasional name of somebody who had passed. Rarely did she show emotion in her work, but when she did, the whole newsroom knew it. "Twenty-three! What the hell did he die from?"
These morbid thoughts are occasioned by the recent deaths of two prominent people. Earl Morrall made the front page of both the Sun-Sentinel and The Miami Herald the day after he died. Giants of football, including Don Shula, were quoted at length. Wally Brewer barely made the paper four days after he died, and just a day before his funeral service. The picture was barely recognizable (see above). Nobody was quoted. It was a paid death notice.
Now, Earl Morrall deserved the attention he got. He was backup quarterback in the Miami Dolphins undefeated 1972 season, and won many of the games. He did the same for the Baltimore Colts a few years before when the great Johnny Unitas got hurt. Morrall was an outstanding citizen – he was the mayor of Davie and was an exemplary figure from a team that had more than its share of exemplary figures. Even though he had moved to Naples, many people would remember him.
We wonder, however, if more people might remember Wally Brewer. We knocked out a fast blog on him when we thought his death might not even make the paper. It got more reaction than anything we have done over the last several years. Thousands of people knew Wally, and not just from a distance. He was one of the best known bar owners in the long history of the hospitality industry on the Gold Coast. He started in Boca Raton in the early 1960s and over the next 50 years owned four more places, all of them popular. He was a prominent figure in the Irish community, Irishman of the Year, grand marshal of the St. Patrick’s Day parade, and was known to escort a green pig from bar to bar on St. Patty’s Day.
He also was a community guy, and did a lot of good for many people and organizations. One of his contributions was leading the way in the redevelopment of Fort Lauderdale’s historic district. In 1991, he opened The Olde Towne Chop House located at Second Street and the FEC Railway at the time the Broward Center for the Performing Arts was about to transform a shabby district. It became popular with the Blockbuster Entertainment crowd, and Wally’s always smiling, ruddy face and cordial welcoming became a signature for urban renewal. He was, in short, deserving of a serious sendoff. His funeral mass and celebration at Coral Ridge Country Club were well attended, but not as well as it might have been had more people known he was gone.
It seems like poor business for the papers to make obits of important people a source of revenue. After all, their declining readership tends to be older people – the ones who read obits. Young people don’t read obits, or much else for that matter. And that may be the problem. Perhaps the older people at the papers, who would know Wally Brewer, have all been bought out, and none of their replacements had even heard of the man.
The eulogy by Wally Brewer’s lawyer, Ernie “the attorney” Kollra captured the man very well. It was warm, witty and rich in anecdote. Too bad you didn’t read it in the paper.
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| Wilt Chamberlain on the cover of Philadelphia Magazine. |
As it sometimes happens, a sordid basketball story got pushed aside for a sublime one. At least that’s what happened in South Florida, Philadelphia, Portland and a number of other towns where the news of Dr. Jack Ramsay’s death made other sports news seem irrelevant. The sordid story temporarily pushed out of the headlines was the racist stuff involving Donald Sterling, the owner of the Los Angeles Clippers. As a casual NBA fan (our team has to be winning) we did not even know the name of the Clippers’ owner, or most of the rest of the NBA owners for that matter. There are too many of them.
But you can never have enough Jack Ramsays. We like to think we have the distinction of being the only guy who covered that legendary coach on three levels – high school, college and the pros.
The high school was St. James in Chester, Pa. We were a sports writer for the student paper at a different school, but we covered our games against a pretty good St. James team. Then, in 1955, Jack Ramsay moved up to coach St. Joseph’s College, and by now at college at La Salle, we covered our games against his teams for three seasons. The previous season La Salle had won the NCAA championship, and we had beaten St. Joe’s five out of six years. But for the next three years, St. Joe beat us. We began to sense they had a great coach, and we hated him, even as we tried to be fair in covering the games for our school newspaper. Our talent was equal to theirs, if not better. Our guys always played hard, but St. Joe seemed to have more intensity, more organization. We have since been convinced that had Ramsay been our coach, all three of those games would have been La Salle wins.
Skip forward a decade, during which Jack Ramsay became Dr. Jack Ramsay, and established a reputation as one of the best coaches in the country. Then he moved on, seemingly burned out. At one time he had vision problems. He became general manger of the Philadelphia 76ers, where we first actually met him, while working on a magazine piece on the team that had just won the NBA championship with Wilt Chamberlain. The coach we had despised in college quickly won us over with his warmth and cooperative spirit. He was always a good interview.
His burn out soon burned out. He returned to coaching and for 19 years was one of the best in the NBA, winning it all at Portland in 1977. By that time he had influenced many other coaches, several of whom had played under him. In the process he also changed basketball.
“Very few coaches change a game,” said Bill (Speedy) Morris when he was coaching excellent La Salle teams in the late 1980s. “But Jack Ramsay changed basketball. I must have read his book (Pressure Basketball) eleven times.”
Before Ramsay, defense in basketball was a half-court game. Ball handlers could often walk the ball to mid-court. But his teams, beginning at St. Joe, pressed full court, attempting to trap a ball handler into a bad pass, or call an emergency time out. It is a tactic you routinely see today. And it began with Jack Ramsay.
As you see in today’s papers, the basketball world grew to love the man. He was especially admired in South Florida (he spent winters in Naples) where he did color for the Miami Heat broadcasts and then for ESPN. He was as good at that as he was at coaching. For a man who coached with such intensity, his demeanor off court was always gracious and dignified. He helped anybody he could. The comments today from Heat personnel outdid each other in praise for his personal qualities. It was reported that, when coaching, Pat Riley used to glance at Ramsay at the announcer’s table to get his take when Riley thought a ref made a bad call. Ramsay would respond with a subtle nod or shake of his head.
Donald Sterling may be in the basketball news today, but whatever his fate, we doubt anybody will know his name ten years from now. The legend of Dr. Jack Ramsay will endure.
Danny Chichester said, not long before his death, there’s only two guys in this town that if you say “Danny and Wally,” everybody knows who you mean.
“How about Wayne?” we said. “He ain’t in the bar business,” said Danny.
The other half of the team everybody knew by first name died Monday. He was 85. Wally Brewer had been sick for some time, but he goes down with a narrowing list of famous bar-restaurant owners in Gold Coast history.
We are going from memory, but Wally showed up in South Florida in the 1960s. We first met him when he had an active downtown place in the mid-70s. It was razed to make room for what is now Fort Lauderdale’s bus terminal. It was popular with government workers. It was close to the state office building, and federal people were often there.
Wally moved up to north Federal Highway near 26th Street. C. 1988. He ran a popular spot there until the early 90s when, anticipating the opening of the Broward Center for the Performing Arts, he opened Wally’s Olde Town Chop House. It was right on the railroad, at 2nd Ave. and 2nd St. At the time it was a distressed neighborhood, a bum in the doorway location. It is now one of the busiest corners in town, across from Tarpon Bend. Wally led the charge to that sector, and we recall him standing outside his place, exclaiming “Bourbon Street, Bourbon Street!” He foresaw that strip becoming a mini-version of the legendary New Orleans entertainment district.
He was a bit ahead of his time, but it did turn out that way. The Olde Town Chop House did a great lunch, particularly with the Blockbuster Entertainment crowd – only a block away at that time. Wayne Huizenga liked Wally, and when the Florida Panthers won their first playoff series, Wayne called long distance to ask him to stay open late so he could bring his Panthers gang there for a midnight celebration. Bob Guerin, one of Wayne’s lieutenants at Blockbuster, recalls helping out in the short-handed kitchen that night.
Wally Brewer eventually sold his place (several times; he had to take it back more than once) and then opened a smaller bar in the Galt Ocean Mile area. It was his last hurrah. An obit has not yet made the paper, but according to his friend, Jim O’Connell (a regular at the chop house) a funeral mass will be held at St. John the Baptist Church in Coral Ridge at 11:30 A.M. Friday.
His friend Danny Chichester had it right. Danny and Wally. Names everybody knew.
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| Painting by Bob Jenny |
Except, it isn’t that much of a mystery. Not according to the late architect John Evans, who wrote about the subject years back in Gold Coast magazine. Evans had an unusual perspective on the subject. He was almost on the lost flight. As Evans wrote, he was a young gunner on a Grumman TBF Avenger based in Fort Lauderdale. He, like the crewmen who disappeared, was training at the base, and might have been assigned to the ill-fated flight had not he gotten leave when his parents came to visit him.
Evans, who participated until his death in the annual memorial service for the flight, always debunked the theory of the Bermuda Triangle and its curse on aircraft. He says that to those at the base, it was never a great mystery in the first place, and that the flight was a fiasco from the time it took off. He wrote that it never should have flown. Bad weather was moving in and the other nearby Navy air stations closed down. Furthermore, the flight leader did not want to fly. He may have been under the weather from a party the night before.
Compounding the problem was that the planes were not in perfect condition. The war had ended and maintenance may have been lax, for key navigation devices did not work that afternoon, at least not on the flight leader’s plane. Its compass was out. The Avenger was a relatively modern design. It entered service at the battle of Midway in June 1942 and in the next few years pilots flew thousands of missions and relied on instruments to return safely to aircraft carriers over miles of featureless ocean.
On the night of the disaster, radar was following the planes, and ground operators and other aircraft could hear transmissions between members of the flight. But the planes could not hear the ground when operators tried to lead them back to base.
Thus, what should have been a routine, relatively short flight to the Bahamas, turned into a nightmare when the flight leader could not find his way back to Fort Lauderdale. Ground operators could hear some of the pilots telling their skipper the correct heading to home, but he did not agree. As weather closed in and darkness came, the flight zigzagged on a generally northward course. Today, even in poor weather, pilots would see miles of lights along the coast. But in 1945, much of Florida’s coast was empty, and Flight 19 had the bad luck not to pass over populated cities.
Radar tracked the planes as far north as Daytona Beach, using fuel the entire time, and (again, according to John Evans) the last plotting had the planes heading out to sea in total darkness. He is convinced they lie in deep water in the Atlantic. If he were around today, he would be highly skeptical that any of the planes could have wound up far to the south in the Everglades. But he surely would have applauded the try.
