SI Vault
 
Yak Attack
Geoffrey Norman
October 08, 1990
ALL OVER THE COUNTRY, RADIO AIRWAVES ARE ROILING WITH RAGE, OBSESSION AND ABSURDITY. WHAT IS THIS, ARMAGEDDON? NO, JUST CALL-IN SPORTS PROGRAMS
Decrease font Decrease font
Enlarge font Enlarge font
October 08, 1990

Yak Attack

ALL OVER THE COUNTRY, RADIO AIRWAVES ARE ROILING WITH RAGE, OBSESSION AND ABSURDITY. WHAT IS THIS, ARMAGEDDON? NO, JUST CALL-IN SPORTS PROGRAMS

View CoverRead All Articles View This Issue
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

There are all sorts of tempting McLuhanesque explanations for this interaction between technology and 20th-century urban custom. A generation ago, the fans who now use their cellular phones to argue sports after work would have been doing the same arguing at a neighborhood saloon. Dr. Don Beck, a Dallas sports psychologist who is a frequent guest on local call-in shows, says, "TV is becoming boring because it is staged and canned. But sports talk is always spontaneous. You stay tuned and interested because you don't know what someone might say next. Or how he might say it."

Perhaps. But now, many sports-talk shows are adopting the conventions of contemporary entertainment. A recent sports-talk entry in the Los Angeles market is Sportsnuts, a drive-time radio show hosted by former TV sitcom star Gabe Kaplan (Welcome Back, Kotter). Kaplan has no background in sports, but that is not true of the first man contacted about the job. Norman Epstein, vice-president and general manager of station KLAC, says he approached Ronald Reagan to do the original version of the show. Reagan, after all, had experience with those phony baseball broadcasts back in the '30s. It would have been wonderful to listen to him arguing with some fan about whether Tommy Lasorda overworked his pitchers, or Georgia Frontiere underpaid her linebackers. Reagan may have thought so too; it took him two weeks to turn down the job.

But while sports call-in shows are a contemporary phenomenon, they did not arrive fully formed along with the portable phone and commuter gridlock. The hosts of today stand on the shoulders of yesterday's giants. And as anyone in the business will tell you, Pete Franklin, who had a show on WWWE in Cleveland from 1972 to 1987, perfected the put-down style emulated by many of today's hosts.

"Pete was the greatest. The absolute best," says Bob Lochamy, producer and cohost of a sports-talk show on WAPI in Birmingham, Ala. "Everybody who does it is somehow playing off what Pete Franklin did."

Lochamy remembers how, as a student at the University of Alabama in Birmingham, he commuted 60 miles to school from his home in Gadsden, Ala., usually returning late at night. "Pete probably kept me alive," Lochamy says. "It would be cold, and I'd have the windows all rolled up and the heater on. I'd be so tired that it wouldn't have taken anything for me to fall asleep and put it in the ditch. So I'd turn the volume up and listen to Pete giving somebody hell. You never knew what he'd say to somebody, so I'd just stay awake long enough to find out and, pretty soon, I'd be home."

These days, Franklin lives in North Poway, Calif., outside San Diego, where, he says, "I spend my time handicapping sea gulls." He has done occasional commentary for WWWE, and he may host another call-in show someday. But for now, he is happy to remember the days when he had fans in 38 states. "I played the Palace," he says, referring to the two years he was on WFAN in New York. "I was at the top."

Franklin's style is invariably described as confrontational, but he doesn't see it that way. "I was doing entertainment," he says. "I knew that what people liked to do when they talked about sports was argue. Two guys could be friends, but if one of them said Mantle was better than Mays, the other one could call him a dumb s.o.b. and they'd still be friends because they knew it didn't matter. It was only sports."

So Franklin would argue with anyone, at great, almost excruciating length. "Guys today like to get a caller on and off the air quickly. I figured, if they're good, leave 'em on. So if I got a venomous s.o.b., that's great. Let him talk. Or a pompous ass—even better. Let him talk and then tell him he doesn't know what he's talking about. Most of these guys wouldn't know a slider from their own underwear, and when the people listening heard me tell someone that, they loved it."

Franklin used all the techniques of barroom debate. He would insult and harangue callers, cut them off, hang up on them, correct their grammar—anything to keep the ball rolling. And when talk was insufficient, Franklin used other tricks to raise tension over the airwaves. During football season, when Michigan fans called in, he played the Ohio State fight song in the background. "After a while, that got old, so I got some guys with kazoos and washboards—who sounded like hell—to record the Michigan fight song, and I'd play that."

He made up nicknames for some of his regular callers. "I'd call one guy the Piranha and another guy the Judge. I was just doing shtick, and people loved it because, goddammit, it's sports and who gives a——. Sports is not life or death, but it is important because it's therapy."

Continue Story
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12