Not-so-smooth transition

Plenty of ex-athletes aren't cut out for the broadcast booth

The Indiana Pacers brought Tim Hardaway out of retirement last week when they signed him to be their backup point guard for the rest of the season. It remains to be seen whether his addition will benefit the Pacers, but ESPN's viewers are already clear winners in the deal. Hardaway left his job as an NBA commentator for the cable network in order to join Indiana, which means we will no longer be subjected to his stumbling attempts at television analysis. Apparently the crossover from athlete to broadcaster was far more difficult for Hardaway to master than his patented crossover dribble. Let's put it this way -- nearly every time his studio partner threw the conversation his way, Hardaway turned it over.

But far be it from me to ridicule Hardaway's broadcasting talents, or anyone else's, for that matter. I've made just enough TV appearances to know that the only television work I'm qualified for is calling to complain when the cable goes out. Television talking heads have to be lively, articulate and concise on demand, which is much harder than it seems. Personally, I would have settled for two out of three. It was amazing how the simplest phrase, when it had to be said in front of the cameras, made my tongue act like Greg Louganis on a diving board. I remember one taped segment in which it took me about 12 takes to spit out "Stromile Swift" correctly.

So I marvel at the ex-jocks who make smooth transitions into broadcasting, such as ESPN's Bill Walton and Tom Tolbert on the NBA, or Clark Kellogg of CBS, who has been front and center during the network's NCAA Tournament coverage. I also sympathize with the ex-athletes who just don't have what it takes to succeed behind the mike, like Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, who has worked several college basketball games for CBS. Don't feel bad if you didn't realize Abdul-Jabbar was an analyst -- he's apparently the first TV analyst to take a vow of silence. Fortunately he's part of a three-man team with Dick Enberg and Matt Guokas, because long stretches of time pass between comments from Abdul-Jabbar, and when he does talk, he's about as animated as bread pudding.

The best broadcasters make the job look as easy as talking to a friend, which is probably why so many ex-athletes are surprised to find out how chaotic most telecasts are behind the scenes. There are what seem like a thousand tiny voices in those headsets that broadcasters wear, all talking to the person on the air. In Abdul-Jabbar's defense, for instance, he may be so quiet because producers are telling him to speak up more just as he's about to react to something Enberg or Guokas said. By the time Kareem processes the producer's suggestion, the opportunity to comment is long gone.

A couple of years ago I appeared on television with then Seattle coach George Karl to talk about the upcoming NBA playoffs. We were in different studios, both hooked up by satellite. The producers obviously thought that it would make for good TV if Karl and I disagreed with each other and ripped one another's predictions. As he was talking, the voice in my ear was saying, "You don't agree with that, do you? He's crazy, tell Karl he's crazy." I didn't mix it up with Karl the way they wanted me to, partly because I couldn't keep track of what he was saying because of all the voices in my headset.

The next time you see an ex-jock holding a microphone, looking nervous and lost, it might be partly because unseen people are talking to him, reminding him of statistics, urging him to speak, making suggestions. It's probably about that point that newly retired players start hearing another voice, one that's inside their head, not their headset, and it's saying, "Forget TV. Make a comeback."

Sports Illustrated senior writer Phil Taylor writes about a Hot Button issue every Monday on SI.com.

 

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