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POINT AFTER
The Dirt Under the
Rug
The media turned the sex life of a mere sportscaster into a
national
sensation
by Gerry
Callahan
Posted: Tue September 30, 1997
After years of living his dream, Marv Albert last week was booted out
of the broadcast booth and into his worst nightmare. He
came off the sidelines and became a participant in
America's
No. 1 spectator sport: watching celebrities squirm. When this
game was over, no one had to ask who won or lost; Albert
was chewed up and spit out, which, some would say, means
justice
prevailed.
For three bizarre days in an
Arlington, Va., courtroom, Albert was revealed to be, among other
things, a dirty little man in ladies' underwear. The
decline and fall of the rich and famous often makes for
good theater, but in this case it was especially
fascinating because Albert was not just, to steal a phrase,
a bad boy. He committed another egregious offense: being a
complete
phony.
We now know with certainty that his hair was fake (a
witness said she pulled it off during a struggle), his age
was fudged (he's really 56, said his ex-wife, not the 54 he
claimed to be in his NBC bio), his name was changed (from
Marvin Aufrichtig) and
his public persona, that of a sports nerd, was the biggest
lie of all. No wonder he copped a plea: Another day of
testimony and we would have heard all about his Press-on
nails and false eyelashes. Unfortunately for the plaintiff,
Albert's longtime
paramour, Vanessa Perhach, it seems his teeth were the only
things that were authentic.
Shortly after he pleaded guilty to misdemeanor assault and
battery for biting Perhach 18 times during a rendezvous
last February, Albert was dealt an even more devastating
blow when he was fired by NBC and then had to resign from
MSG cable network. A
man who boasted of having no life away from the arena
(obviously, another lie), Albert surely will feel
emasculated without a microphone in front of him. The swift
action of the networks drew sympathy for Albert from his
allies in the media, some of whom
thought he had a right to broadcast any game in which the
likes of Dennis Rodman took
part.
But there are major differences between the two most
notorious cross-dressers in sports: 1) Rodman has yet to be
convicted of misdemeanor assault and battery; 2) Rodman
doesn't present himself as anything but a degenerate; and 3) Rodman is a player.
Players matter. Especially good ones like Rodman. As loathsome
as he is, Rodman has a direct impact on winning and
losing—and thus on his league's profitability. Albert
doesn't.
The lurid details of the case elevated Albert to the Dick
Morris of sports: a man more famous for what he did in a
hotel room than for who he was. Amid the frenzy we seemed
to lose sight of the fact that Albert was just a
sportscaster. What did he do to
achieve his celebrity? We watched games, he told us what we
were
watching.
Oh, let's not forget—he also sometimes yelled,
"Yes!" Now there's something that every hip young
anchor at ESPN can only dream of coming up
with.
Yes! How are we going to make it through another sports season
without Albert's
genius?
Sure, Albert is very good at what he does, but no one has
ever tuned in to a game just to hear someone do the
play-by-play. Most likely no one ever will.
Oh, gee, no Marv? Then the heck with the Knicks game. It's
PBS for me
tonight.
Television play-by-play announcers are like referees or
people in the next seat on a long flight: You don't even
know the best
ones were there. Unfortunately Albert violated that axiom
in a
big way. He became the most notorious sportscaster in
history—the play-by-play man in panties—and in the end he suffered
self-inflicted humiliation. He declined a plea agreement
offered in
early September by Virginia prosecutors and smugly dared
them to take their best shot. Then he and his lawyer Roy
Black tried to destroy his accuser rather than just beat
the rap. That strategy exploded in Albert's face. And
millions of curious
Americans pulled up a chair and gawked at the train wreck that is
his
life.
A month ago a lot of Americans didn't know Marv Albert from
Fat Albert, but today he is more infamous than
Pee-wee Herman. Once just a guest on
Letterman, last week he was most of the monologue. He became a
running joke, a lasting monument to phoniness and
counterfeit
celebrity.
His sentencing is set for Oct. 24, but by then sending
Albert to jail will seem almost redundant. He has already
received a life term. He lost his dream job and is locked
in his own personal
hell.
No microphone. No game. No crowd. No intoxicating thrill of
sitting so close to the real stars that you start feeling
like one
yourself.
illustration by Evangelos
Viglis
Issue date: October 6, 1997
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Past Editions of Point After
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