Let Us Shine

When Y.A. Tittle tossed the coin at the Super Bowl, it landed on tails, but the winner was heads. Bald heads. And if Tittle had tossed an Eisenhower dollar—bald man flipping bald man, beneath the vast dome of Reliant Stadium—the two might have replaced Terry Bradshaw and Mel Blount as history's most formidable pair of Super Bowl chrome domes.

But we'll take what we can get. Men like me (at left, with white face on black turtleneck, so that I resemble a Titleist on a tee), root for the bald on whatever field we can find them, be it Don Zimmer versus Pedro Martinez at Fenway or the Mexican hairless versus the bearded collie at Westminster.

We have little choice. "Would I like to have the hairstyle of Travolta, the looks of Cruise and two good eyes?" asks the bald, one-eyed ESPN broadcaster Dick Vitale. "Of course I would. But it's not gonna happen, so you work with what you've got."

And yet, his hairstyle has been, in more ways than one, a lucky horseshoe. "People recognize me as much for my bald head as for my voice," says Vitale, one of many accomplished sportsmen throughout history whose forehead has become a fivehead.

Think about it: Knute Rockne, Bald-American. Cal Ripken Jr. and Jim Boeheim and Ray Nitschke. George Costanza, assistant to the Yankees' traveling secretary. Bob Pettit, early Bobby Hull and late Andre Agassi. And that's just, if you will, off the top of my head.

This roster doesn't include the Yul-tide of shaved heads in sports, because—as bald comic-actor Larry David has noted—"We don't consider [them] part of the bald community." We can presume that closeted bald man Michael Jordan, if he grew his hair, would resemble former Bulls center Granville Waiters or ex-St. John's coach Mike Jarvis. But the truly bald are out and proud. No plugs or rugs or drugs. And no comb-overs, which is why Charles Barkley and Kenny Smith have urged Rockets coach Jeff Van Gundy to abandon his six-string "guitar." Give us receded ( Vitale) over reseeded (Cosell). On this point, the bald agree. We are United Hairlines.

We don't want your pity. You won't see us pleading, "Help the combless." Jim Furyk, in doffing his golf cap, goes from telegenic to Telly Savalas. But he doesn't mind. Is there an athlete more up-front in his baldness than Jerry Pate? Not unless it's former heavyweight contender Earnie Shavers, whose scalp earned him the nickname the Acorn.

"Nobody working for David Stern has any hair left," says NBA Entertainment president Adam Silver, who is—if you believe Bud Selig's hair to be real—the most powerful bald executive in sports. He's Samson in reverse. Still, demurs Silver, "Can't I be balding?"

Balding, like aging, sneaks up on you. "If you look at my photo in the 1958 East Rutherford [ N.J.] High School yearbook," says Vitale, "I have a thick crop of crew-cut hair. In my mid-20s I started leaving it on my pillow. But it honestly never fazed me."

He's lucky, for it's not an easy transition from Head & Shoulders to Mop & Glo. Bald men daily suffer baldist remarks. When Utah basketball assistant Kerry Rupp filled in for Rick Majerus during one game last year, Utes star Britton Johnsen shrugged off the change as insignificant. "Our coach was still bald," he said. "It didn't make too much difference."