You Let Some Girl Beat You? (17 page)

It was a replay of what had happened forty years ago, when the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League required players to attend Rubinstein's Evening Charm School Classes during spring training. The league, which was formed as a way of keeping baseball in the American zeitgeist while its players were off fighting the Germans, also required that the women wear lipstick under the three strike rule. The first infraction cost $5, the second would put a player back $10, and the third got you suspended. Here we were forty years later and nothing had changed.

Far more scathing for the WBL than reports of the charm school, however, were players' complaints that they hadn't been paid and were refusing to play. Little waves soon spread throughout the sports world of the WBL's financial instability, which tainted the possibility of endorsements and television contracts—something the league desperately needed if it was going to stay afloat. And then the tsunami hit.
The New York Times
reported that the WBL was showing only “feeble flickers of life,” having racked up $14 million in losses in its three years. Among their many unpaid obligations was the better part of my $145,000 contract.

An arbitration ruling was issued in May of 1981, but by then I'd long since given up any hope of resolving the situation, and the league was on the verge of collapse anyway. Besides, the money wasn't the issue; it was the principle of the thing.

Just as I was coming to terms (or, rather, not coming to terms) with the Gems, David decided not to re-sign with the Milwaukee Bucks for a sixth season. The GM of the Bucks, Wayne Embry, called Coach Wooden. “Why isn't Meyers signing with us? Does he want more money? Is he really that greedy?”

Papa's response was simple. “You really don't know David, do you?”

David was coming off a back injury, and he wanted to spend more time with his family. He had also become more involved in his church and decided to take a job teaching in Temecula. Sure, the money from basketball was great, but Dave and I played basketball because we loved it, because it was as vital to us as sunlight is to a plant. And Papa knew that.

It would be an odd thing that my relationship with John Wooden would develop more deeply after we had both left UCLA, though I don't know that he ever
really
left. What he did there was unrivaled with his ten championships in twelve years, and I think that until the day he died, UCLA remained as much his home as the house he shared with Nellie. Papa used to say that the importance of basketball was small in comparison to the total life one lived, and that the only kind of life that truly won was a life that placed itself in the service of others and in the hands of God. His love of UCLA had more to do with the friendships he made there, and for that reason he could often be found on campus walking the track or just hanging out in his office long after his coaching days.

It was wonderful that I and anyone who loved him knew where to find Papa, whether for guidance or just a chat. Either way, his Pyramid of Success and his ‘Woodenisms', which had as much to do with how one lived one's life as with how to play basketball, were never far away:

“Work hard constantly to improve.”

“Be quick, but don't hurry.”

Sometimes we would talk about family or career, but always it boiled down to contribution—contribution to the family, to the team, to society, and to the world. And that included the small world of Southern California and their multitude of charity fundraisers.

Then, just as now, most all So Cal athletes were part of a tight-knit group that knew each other well. Being on the board of the California Sports Council and the So. California Olympic Association, I commonly ran into local athletes at various events. Along with family, I had missed seeing these friends while I was on the East Coast. Finally, I was once again enjoying that same wonderful camaraderie and making some new memories to go along with the old ones—like the time Hugh Hefner held a fundraising event for Mayor Tom Bradley at the Playboy Mansion.

I had asked my brother, Mark, to come with me. We arrived in my Toyota Corona, which seemed out of place on a street lined with Bentleys, Ferraris, Porsche's, and limos. At the party, Rosey Grier and Elgin Baylor recognized me and came over to talk with us. At the end of the evening we all left the Mansion together and both men groaned about how they'd parked far away. Since my car was close, I offered to give them rides to their cars. Mark was 6'3”, Rosey was 6'4”, and Elgin was 6'5”, and somehow we all managed to stuff inside my little Corona for thirty seconds.

The Southern California athletes weren't confined to fundraising in, or for, Southern California charities. Every year Howard Cosell held a dinner in New York to raise money for the families of the slain Israeli athletes of the '72 Olympics. In 1981, I was one of the athletes being honored. I had already met many famous people by this point and been on
The Tonight Show
, the cover of sports magazines, and featured in every newspaper and rag from
Time
to
Playgirl
. But that evening, when Muhammad Ali walked in late with Don King, it was as though the Messiah himself had stepped through the door. I had never seen anyone with such charisma, such magnetism. He was like a vortex, sucking all eyes his way. And it wasn't simply that he was the most famous athlete in the world. He was overpowering in terms of sheer presence. Who needed ten rounds when you had a hypnotist's ability to transfix your opponent before sending him to the mat with a well-timed jab.

As remarkable as it was to meet Ali, there was still nothing quite like that warm feeling of running into a fellow-alum like Mark Harmon. Mark had played football for UCLA in the early 70s, and was now beginning his television career hosting a local talk show. He had invited Ron Howard and me to appear. Before the couch discussion, he taped the two of us playing oneon-one basketball. Ron loved basketball, was a huge fan, and he wasn't a half-bad player. He came in second.

Of course, I liked to tell Papa all of these stories. Like Mark, Tom Bradley had been an athlete at UCLA running track before going on to become Mayor of Los Angeles. Papa always enjoyed hearing about UCLA athletes who were going on to do other things. Now it was I who was getting serious about a new career.

Since the WBL had folded, there was no way for a female basketball player to make a living doing what she loved, and I didn't see how my sociology degree would net me what I'd made as an athlete. Mark's dad, Tom Harmon, the great 1940 Heisman-winning Michigan football player and broadcaster for the Raiders, took me under his wing and suggested I get into broadcasting. While I had taken Art Friedman's classes at UCLA and had already broadcast a couple of the UCLA Men's games with Ross Porter for Prime Ticket when it launched back in '79 before broadcasting for the Pacers, I hadn't decided to really pursue it until now. Don said if I intended to get serious, I should enroll in the Don Martin School of Broadcasting in Los Angeles. He said it was the best.

There were a few actors I recognized, but I don't recall seeing one woman there. Broadcasting was still very much a boys' club. We learned to work both sides of the camera, and I immediately felt comfortable because I had broadcast professionally for the Pacers.

But
feeling
like a pro was what mattered. I had to believe in myself in front of the camera the same way I believed in myself on the court. I learned to center my voice, never let a sentence trail off at the end, and became aware of how subtle nuances like tone, inflection, and depth affected the credence others gave to our words. For instance, more credibility was placed with a deep voice as opposed to a high, thin voice. But it was especially important that as a female broadcaster, who naturally had a higher voice, I learned to center my words.

Don knew I hoped to broadcast basketball for the networks, so he arranged an appointment with an agent in Hollywood. I'll never forget what he told me. “Well, Annie, you're going to have to grow your hair and nails.” His expression conveyed that he thought I was crazy for not thinking it myself. I'd summoned all the confidence in the world before marching into his office, and now I felt like I was auditioning for Miss America.

I could feel that confidence plummeting. “But I have a lot of knowledge about the game,” I said, centered voice and all.

“I'm sure you do, but come on, everybody knows sex sells.”

I could feel myself crawling back into my shell, the one that I'd constructed as a child the first time someone made fun of the way I dressed, or that I preferred to play with my plastic horses over Barbie dolls. I smiled and thanked him for his time.

He sensed that his suggestion had deflated me. “You never know. You might get a break.”

I extended my hand—with its naked, unpolished nails—and we shook.

There were a lot of variables in the world of broadcasting that I couldn't control. I thought about trying to conform to the tastes of whoever might hire me. Everybody knew that you had to be attractive if you wanted to work on television, but I thought I was okay looking. I'd already jumped through hair-hoops in high school (though it was in the opposite direction) and they still didn't accept me. As for my nails, well they just wouldn't grow, no matter what, and I wasn't about to have those fake things put on. Instead, I decided I'd have to become as good a sports broadcaster as possible.

I became aware of diction, proper pronunciation, and hitting my mark. I learned that when covering a game, it was vital to research the players beforehand and take note of interesting details so I could relay them back to the audience in a succinct and comprehensible way. As a shy child, I'd always been observant, peering in from the outside. Only now, I discovered what I'd long considered a weakness was, in fact, a strength. I wasn't going to grow my hair and nails, but I was going to find my voice off the courts now.

After sending out what must have amounted to miles and miles worth of demo tapes, I finally received a call from KGMB, the station that covered the University of Hawaii's men's basketball games. I had no contacts there, but someone was willing to give me a chance. The Sunday Sports section of the
Honolulu Star
ran a picture of me smiling, wearing headphones, and a lei. The caption read, “Ann Meyers—She's Pretty, But Effective” as though it were an oxymoron. “She knows a zone press isn't a device for ironing,” the piece went on to say. It was hard to keep from groaning.

When I was doing the color commentary in Hawaii, I explained the game in layman's terms, and if I felt there was a bad call, I wasn't afraid to say it. I made sure it was always about the players, never about me. Still, my stint there didn't sit too well with a lot of the folks. I knew there'd be people who expected to find a man doing my job. What I didn't realize, however, was that the former men's coach had been doing color for the games for years, and neither he nor his players understood why he was suddenly being replaced.

For my part, I was just grateful to land a paying job in the world of broadcasting, and grateful someone at KGMB had decided it was time to mix things up at the station. But there were other frontiers, namely network television.

Once the season contract was up, I decided to leave Hawaii and set my sights on a national broadcasting gig. I headed back to California and continued to train for the upcoming
Superstars
. While I was trying new things, I also decided to test my luck at a new sport.

Golf was possibly the only sport I didn't play as a child. I remember that on the one occasion I tagged along with Patty to a golf course, I swung the club, and it went further than the ball. I'd chipped away endlessly in preparation for the previous
Superstars
, and now I was beginning to hone the other parts of my game by playing with Donnie.

Once I got good enough, Don introduced me to Lou Rosanova. Lou had played football for the Cleveland Rams in the 40s before buying a golf course in Savannah, Georgia, and then later the Calusa Country Club in Miami. Donnie said Lou was a great teacher and since he often traveled to the West Coast, maybe he could improve my game. I was eager to play with him at the L.A. Country Club, but hit an unforeseen snag.

“I'm sorry, Ms. Meyers, but women aren't allowed to wear slacks on the range, or the course.”

I couldn't believe it. I was going to take my first golf lesson with the great Lou Rosanova, only I couldn't because I was wearing pants! It was just like being out on the school playground again and people were telling me I couldn't do this or that because I was a girl.

“Well, what am I supposed to wear then?”

“We have lovely golf skirts you can rent.”

RENT?

Coming from a long line of hand-me-down recipients, I wasn't opposed to wearing used clothes, but
leasing
them sounded plain weird. Not seeing any other choice, I rented the skirt and marched out onto the course—club in hand, smile on my face, and white socks pulled up to my shins.

Lou bent over laughing as he stared at my socks. “You look like a Polack!” Lou was 6'1” with a full head of gray black hair and an Italian accent. He reminded me of Luca Brasi in
The Godfather
.

I shrugged. “They said no slacks.”

“Well, at least fold your socks down.”

I didn't realize the first lesson would be on fashion
. Note to self: High socks are not in vogue. Pants are poison.
I wanted to tell Lou that I
was
a quarter Polish on my Dad's side, but I didn't want to embarrass him. Turned out the only thing that embarrassed Lou was a missed shot, mine or one of his other students. Lou never missed.

Lou was brash, unrelenting, and confident. I liked him immediately. I flew to his golf course in Florida, and we practiced eight hours a day. In two weeks he was getting golf magic from me. If he wanted a fade, I'd hit a fade. If he wanted it high, I'd hit it high. I learned to hit the ball low into the wind, or high over a bunker—whatever he told me to do, I could do it. He was a terrific teacher, and I wanted so badly to please him. I quickly got down to a six handicap and began loving the game the way you have to if you want to go pro. Lou had conjured up the same kind of magic from LPGA players Dale Eggling and Hollis Stacey. Now he was encouraging me to follow in their spikes.