Category: History

A bunch of Big Red what-ifs

This week is the 50th anniversary of one of the strangest incidents in the history of UW athletics, summarized by Madison.com:

In 1968, the University of Wisconsin interviewed seven finalists for its vacant head basketball coaching position, before choosing Army coach Robert Knight, 27. The UW Athletic Board was searching for a replacement for John Erickson, who resigned to accept the position of general manager of the NBA’s new franchise in Milwaukee.

Knight, announced as the new coach on April 25, renounced his selection in anger 2 days later, over the premature release of his acceptance.

John Powless, the number two choice, and an assistant under Erickson since 1963, was then selected after an emergency meeting of the Athletic Board.

The rest of the “first four” besides Knight were UW–Milwaukee coach Ray Krzoska, Southern Illinois coach Jack Hartman, and Earl Lloyd, who played in the NBA in the 1950s and after this coached the Detroit Pistons.

Hartman might have been a good choice. (Read on for why I write “might.”) He got Southern Illinois from the NCAA’s Division II to Division I, moved on to Kansas State, and between junior college, the Salukis and the Wildcats won 578 games in 24 seasons, getting to the D1 Elite Eight four times and the Sweet Sixteen twice at K-State. Krzoska went 86–87 in seven seasons at UWM, and left two seasons after applying at UW. Lloyd went 22–55 with the Pistons.

The “last three” included two UW assistants, John Powless and Dave Brown.

Also included was a guy with some similarities to Knight, Jim Harding, the coach at La Salle in Philadelphia. Harding coached one season at La Salle and went 20–8, though La Salle was then placed on NCAA probation over two players’ revoked scholarships, and Harding was fired. One of his players, eventual American Basketball Association player Roland “Fatty” Taylor, said, “Forty years later, if I saw him today sitting in a wheelchair, I’d walk over and smack him.”

Instead of going to Wisconsin (or to the Bucks, where he reportedly was a candidate for their coaching position), Harding then went to the American Basketball Association’s Minnesota Pipers, and, well, here’s what happened there, according to Stew Thornley:

The Pipers would open the season in Minnesota with a new leader. Vince Cazzetta, who had coached the Pipers to the championship, resigned after Erickson and Rubin refused to give him a raise to cover moving his wife and six children to the Twin Cities. Hired to replace Cazzetta was 39-year old Jim Harding, who had compiled a 93-28 record in five seasons at LaSalle College in Philadelphia.

Harding had been equally successful in coaching tenures at two other colleges, but he left behind a trail of NCAA violations and endless turmoil, the latter a pattern that followed him to the professional ranks. …

The tension between Harding and the players came to a head after an altercation between the coach and center Tom Hoover. Unhappy that the incident was reported in the newspapers, Harding ordered his players not to talk to sportswriters and closed all practices to the press. The Minnesota management, in turn, refused to back Harding and all restrictions on the press were lifted.

During the next week, Harding began experiencing chest pains and underwent an electrocardiogram. Just before the team was to fly to Houston for a December 20 game, it was announced that Harding would not be making the trip. Concerned by the coach’s chest pains and dangerously-high blood pressure, doctors ordered Harding to take an indefinite leave of absence.

[General manager Vern] Mikkelsen assumed the coaching duties in the interim. The Pipers won only six of thirteen during that time but still maintained the lead in the division. Originally, Harding was to be gone for six weeks, and the Pipers said Mikkelsen would take his place as coach of the East squad in the All- Star Game. Harding, however, returned three weeks early and was back on the bench in mid-January. …

Harding was angered, however, by Washington and Williams absence at a banquet the night before the All-Star Game and attempted to fine them $500 each. His anger increased when he was overruled by team officials, and he sought out part-owner Gabe Rubin.

The result was a bloody midnight confrontation that left Rubin with a welt on his temple (and Harding with a scratched face). Harding was immediately relieved of his All-Star duties by Commissioner [George] Mikan; two days later, he was fired as coach of the Pipers.

Harding then spent four years at Detroit Mercy (after being the Titans’ second choice when first-choice Don Haskins of Texas–El Paso quit two days after he was hired — yes, there’s a theme developing here), going 55–45 while apparently alienating all his players due to his methods to the point where, at the beginning of his second season, all of his players quit. Harding, who had coached high school basketball in Wisconsin, Illinois and Iowa before going to La Salle, had only one losing season in six years of college coaching, but never coached after leaving Detroit Mercy. (Harding’s eventual replacement: Dick Vitale. Really.) Harding eventually became athletic director at UW–Milwaukee from 1975 to 1980 and is in the Gannon University Athletic Hall of Fame.

So apparently Wisconsin had two, shall we say, volatile coaches to choose from. Their choice was Knight:

Here, however, is where things get murky. Madison.com’s version is that Knight quit due to anger over reporting of his hiring before he had a chance to tell his wife and his bosses. (That would not be the last time Knight had a run-in with the media, of course.)

A slightly different version comes from a coach named Bo but not Ryan — Bo Schembechler, a candidate to replace Milt Bruhn as UW football coach in 1967:

After we won our conference title in my third and fourth seasons at Miami–1965 & 1966–Wisconsin called. From the outside, it seemed like a pretty good job. Wisconsin’s a good school in a great league. It was about ten o’clock on a Sunday when I walk into this meeting room to face twenty guys sitting around–and some board member falls asleep, right there in front of me! Now what does that tell you?

They also had a student on the committee, and this kid asks me how I would handle Clem Turner, a Cincinnati kid, who was always in trouble. Well, how the heck do I know how I would handle Clem Turner? I’ve never met him! And that’s exactly what I told that kid. But I’m thinking, Who the hell’s running this show?

The whole thing lasted maybe forty minutes, and the second I was out that door I walked to the nearest pay phone and called Ivy Williamson, the Wisconsin athletic director, and told him to withdraw my name from consideration.

Jesse Temple adds:

“They brought in all the candidates at the same time but put us up at different hotels,” Schembechler said in the book. “Real secret agent stuff. They asked Johnny Ray and me to come down together, and he goes in first before the committee. I guess it’s about 10 (p.m.) before it’s my turn.

“You have to picture this. They’ve got 20 guys sitting around, and one of them — a board member, I guess — is sound asleep. He is sitting there asleep. I mean, how the hell would you feel? I’m mad. Really mad. I don’t even want to be there. I don’t want to answer any of their questions.”

According to author John U. Bacon, the entire interview lasted all of 40 minutes. Schembechler also wasn’t thrilled that a student seemed to relish asking smart-aleck questions during the interview. He promptly walked out the door, found the nearest pay phone and called Wisconsin athletics director Ivy Williamson to withdraw his name from consideration.

“I really got miffed when I got there,” he said. …

The story behind Knight’s near-hire is equally maddening for Badgers fans. In 1968, he was a coach on the rise at Army and arrived in Madison as one of seven candidates to appear before the athletics board for the vacant men’s basketball coaching position. The previous coach, John Erickson, had resigned to become general manager of the Milwaukee Bucks.

Knight wowed the board and was offered the Wisconsin job. There is some dispute as to whether he outright accepted the position or whether he asked simply for more time to think about it upon his return to West Point — which he claimed was the case in his book, Knight: My Story. Either way, he was not prepared for school officials to leak any news of his hiring to a local newspaper. That move, however, is exactly what happened.

“Almost as soon as I left, they announced me as their new coach,” Knight said in his book. “When I arrived home at West Point, I heard what they had done. Now, I was in a hell of a spot. I was up all night trying to figure out what I should do.”

The only person Knight could think of to run his decision by was Schembechler, who was still coaching at Miami (Ohio). Schembechler had served as an assistant to Woody Hayes when Knight was in school at Ohio State, and Knight was aware of his situation one year earlier at Wisconsin.

“I told him how Wisconsin had released my name as the new coach before I’d had a chance to talk to them about what was necessary for them to do — that I’d have liked to take the job but I didn’t think I could, under those circumstances,” Knight said. “He listened to everything I said, then told me, ‘Just call them and tell them you have no interest in the job.’ I did.” …

Knight recalled that about 20 years after he spurned the Badgers, an alumnus of Wisconsin approached him at a golf course and asked for his version of what happened when he almost became Wisconsin’s coach. He told the man about his situation and the one a year earlier with Schembechler

“If Wisconsin had handled both situations a little better, Bo and I might have been coaching there together for a long time,” Knight told him.

After relaying the story, Knight could sense disgruntlement on the alum’s face. “I think the football part bothered him the most,” he said.

And so …

So did Knight quit over the premature notice or because of what Schembechler said about why he turned down UW? We report, you decide.

This was not the last time UW had to get coach choice number two, or failed to hire the right coach. After Coatta was fired …

… UW offered the football job to North Dakota State coach Ron Ehrhardt, who turned UW down. (Ehrhardt went to the pros instead, becoming an assistant coach, then head coach of the New England Patriots. After his firing, he was hired as an assistant coach for the New York Giants under Ray Perkins, then Bill Parcells, then going to Pittsburgh, getting him three Super Bowl appearances and two wins as an offensive coordinator.)

UW ended up hiring UCLA assistant John Jardine, who had one winning season in eight years, but it was exciting:

Jardine was replaced (though to his credit he remained a UW football supporter until his death) by Dave McClain, who coached Wisconsin to the Badgers’ first bowl win …

… plus two other bowl games …

… including the only bowl game I got to march in …

… before his death of a heart attack at 48 in April 1986.

McClain was replaced by defensive coordinator Jim Hilles. UW had most of its starters back, including eight players who were drafted by the NFL — running backs Joe Armentrout and Larry Emery, linebackers Rick Graf, Tim Jordan (who was one year ahead of me at Madison La Follette), Michael Reid and Craig Raddatz, and defensive backs Nate Odomes and Bobby Taylor — plus five players who would be drafted in the next year’s draft.

That 1986 team might be one of the biggest what-ifs in UW athletic history. They played four nonconference games that were winnable, but went 1–3 instead, and they won only two games after that.

Would that have happened had McClain lived? Hilles was the logical choice to replace McClain since he was assistant head coach, but what if Hilles had, as some head coaches do, focused on his side of the ball and let the offensive coaches run the offense?

Hilles was quoted in the UW media guide that “I will take the responsibility for the offense, and I will also take the blame. We will definitely be more aggressive physically; we want to knock some people off the line of scrimmage — let them know who we are. Since we feel our strengths are in the offensive line and our running backs, we will first set out to be as strong a running team as we can be. An effective running game will open up the throwing game for us, and that’s how we’re going to approach things.”

That is not different from the approach UW had under McClain once McClain switched from the option to the pro set when quarterback Randy Wright transferred in from Notre Dame. They had the same two quarterbacks, Mike “The Springfield Rifle” Howard and Green Bay’s Bud Keyes, though they were minus their top two receivers from the 1985 season, tight end Scott Sharron and wide receiver/kick returner Tim Fullington and one of their offensive linemen, Bob Landsee, who preceded Gruber and Derby into the NFL.

In a sense, though, Hilles’ offensive problems predated Hilles’ one year as head coach. Wright was a good enough quarterback to play for the Packers. His best receiver was Al Toon, who also played in the NFL. The season after Wright graduated, the Badgers had Toon, plus two other good wide receivers, Michael Jones and Thad McFadden, plus tight end Bret Pearson, who was drafted (though did not play) by the San Diego Chargers. None of them arguably were capably replaced, and when a team can’t move the ball through the air, defense becomes easier for their opponent.

Once the 1986 season started going south, UW started looking for a new coach. The five semifinalists included Hilles, Wyoming coach Dennis Erickson (right after Wyoming beat Wisconsin in Madison in Erickson’s first season), West Virginia coach Don Nehlen, Northwestern coach Francis Peay (a former Packer offensive lineman), and Tulsa coach Don Morton.

That list includes one coach who won two national championships, Erickson, and another who coached in a national championship game, Nehlen, winner of 202 games in his career. Neither were finalists for the job. Morton was hired over Hilles, and it could be argued that neither choice was the right choice. Morton won six games in three years, and his ineptitude resulted in the death of the UW baseball and gymnastics teams and nearly the rest of the UW Athletic Department.

If that seems like a mess, the mess of four years earlier was even worse. Erickson’s (and Knight’s) replacement, Powless, had only two winning seasons in eight seasons as coach. Powless’ replacement was Virginia assistant Bill Cofield, who had only one winning season in six seasons as coach. (Cofield died of cancer two years after he coached his last game.)

The options to replace Powless included Boston College coach Tom Davis, who grew up in Ridgeway and graduated from UW–Platteville. UW should have hired Davis, but didn’t. Davis went to Stanford, then to Iowa, where he beat on UW with regularity until he retired in 1999. Instead, UW hired UW–Eau Claire coach Ken Anderson, who then backed out of the job three days later. (One version of the reason was that he got wind of NCAA rule violations that resulted in the Badgers’ forfeiting all eight of their wins the next season; another is that he was making too much money as a landlord to UW–Eau Claire students to leave.) UW hired Ball State coach Steve Yoder, who at least got UW in a couple of NIT tournaments before he quit in 1991.

It should be pointed out that the fact that Schembechler was highly successful at Michigan (though he has two fewer Rose Bowl wins than UW), Knight was highly successful at Indiana (as in three national championships), Hartman was successful at Kansas State, Davis was highly successful at Stanford and Iowa, Nehlen was highly successful at West Virginia, and Erickson was highly successful at Miami (though not so in the NFL) does not necessarily mean any of them would have been successful at UW.

Two years after Schembechler declined to go to UW, he went to Michigan, replacing Bump Elliott (who ended up becoming Iowa’s athletic director and hiring football coach Hayden Fry as well as Davis). Michigan wasn’t at its usual standards, but Schembechler inherited the remainder of a team that had gone 8–2 the previous season. UW was five seasons removed from a Rose Bowl trip, but had finished tied for seventh in the three previous seasons before Schembechler was not hired.

Three years after Knight changed his mind about UW, he went to Indiana, inheriting a team that had gone 17–7 and had long-standing basketball tradition, though they had slipped in the seasons before Knight arrived. Erickson left of his own accord after two 13–11 seasons, but he had had only one other winning season in nine seasons.

UW had issues in the late 1960s that Michigan may not have had. In addition to more intense turmoil over the Vietnam War, The Cap Times chronicles 1968:

After threatening to boycott the final game of the season against Minnesota, 18 black Wisconsin football players skip the team’s season-ending banquet. The group earlier filed a list of grievances with the UW Athletic Board, saying the coaching staff lacked rapport with the black players and that coaches stacked black players at one position. Assistant coach Gene Felker resigns, complaining of “weak, frightened administrators, black athletes and their grievances.” The Athletic Board recommends establishment of a coach-player committee to address grievances, but it also gives unanimous endorsement to John Coatta, who was 0-19-1 in his first two seasons as head coach.

I’m sure Schembechler and Knight would have been successful somewhere besides Michigan and Indiana. I’m not sure they would have been successful at Wisconsin over the long run. I could see them sticking it out at Wisconsin for a few seasons, butting heads with faculty and administration because of their different views of who should be in charge (i.e. themselves) and, in Schembechler’s case, academic standards preventing certain players from admission (Knight never had that issue, but Michigan is not really a strong academic school, contrary to what Wolverine backers would like you to think), and leaving for greener pastures elsewhere. Irrespective of Knight’s late-1980s comments, I wonder if two big personalities like Schembechler and Knight could have coexisted on the same campus, given battles for resources.

Davis turned things around at Stanford somewhat (though his career record was 58–59), and inherited a better situation at Iowa than Yoder did at Wisconsin. Morton was a disastrously bad hire, and should have been fired after his second season. However, UW’s Athletic Department was a financial mess that was bolstered by decent football attendance before Morton got there. Once Morton drove the football program into the ground, the Athletic Department’s financial issues got exposed. (Read Rick Telander’s From Red Ink to Roses and you’ll see how bad things were.)

Nehlen probably would have been a success at Wisconsin. I’m not sure Dennis Erickson would have, given that his formula for revitalizing a program involved junior college transfers, something unlikely to work with UW’s academic tradition. Erickson clearly had the next level in mind since he left Wyoming after that season for Washington State and left Washington State for Miami after two seasons.

Here is a demonstration of how things eventually work out. Jardine hired as one of his assistants Madison Edgewood’s George Chryst. Chryst’s son, Paul, played for Wisconsin, was an assistant coach for Barry Alvarez and Bret Bielema, and then was hired by AD Alvarez to be the Badgers’ coach. Cofield hired William Ryan as an assistant coach. You know Ryan as Bo, who was chosen to coach the Badgers in 2001 over more well known coaches including Milwaukee’s own Rick Majerus. Ryan had one more Final Four trip than Majerus.

 

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Sailor Art, Da Crusher and the Giant

In the seven-year history of this blog (and three years of its predecessor blog) one of the subjects I believe I’ve never written about was professional wrestling.

To get one thing clear first: No, pro wrestling is not a sport. The fact that Sports Illustrated covers pro wrestling, at least online, demonstrates the downhill spiral of SI. As Steve Allen, whose early career included pro wrestling announcing, said in an A&E special on pro wrestling, yes, pro wrestling is fake. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8GcFLyUzFI

Facebook’s If You Grew Up in Madison, Wisconsin, You Remember page mentions live pro wrestling at Breese Stevens Field, presented by promoter Jimmy Demetral and apparently hosted by John Schermerhorn, who both covered sports and hosted the “Dairyland Jubilee” show on WKOW-TV in Madison.

It turns out my hometown was also the hometown of one of the noted wrestiers of the 1960s, Sailor (or Seaman) Art Thomas:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2-1VgzVpC7A

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6iJXD-MPWiM

(Those from the ’80s might remember Lou Albano in the first Cyndi Lauper video, “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ccdF7VrLKU

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sQ6xcKWsqbg

I’m told WKOW carried pro wrestling, but I don’t remember watching it. The first pro wrestling I remember watching was on an Iowa TV station my grandparents got in Southwest Wisconsin. Whoever lost this particular match bled enough “blood” that it looked as though a case of ketchup had exploded. (Imagine cleaning that afterward.)

Once we got cable TV, we were able to watch, first, “All Star Wrestling” on WVTV-TV (channel 18) in Milwaukee. And our favorite wrestler was South Milwaukee’s own The Crusher:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6VN02ZwqiPU

The Crusher started as a heel …

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=evuiz7TH7Yg

… before he became a hero:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wYaxc_Y2S2w

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQGKmNtjbUc

The Crusher and his tag team partner, The Bruiser (former Green Bay Packer William Afflis), were even in a movie:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ypwTUW9sY7k

It turns out some of The (Da?) Crusher’s contemporaries are still on the scene, though Reggie Lisowski died in 2005:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wTlYJUSMEM8

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uX6BU8OGY50

WVTV was then taken off the cable system, replaced by WTCG-TV in Atlanta, which became WTBS, which became TBS. That replaced one hour of All Star Wrestling with two hours of Georgia/World Championship Wrestling.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dVXLe1jatU4

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xKT3V2K0Pc

You wonder why pro wrestling has been popular for decades? Check out this from around 1980 (and remember where the U.S. was vs. the Soviet Union in those days):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u42tFhDXYYQ

Meanwhile, MSG, which carried New York Rangers hockey games, also carried the World Wrestling Federation.

And that brings up what Kyle Smith writes about:

When he first started wrestling in America, the French combatant who had been calling himself “le Géant Ferré” in Montreal needed a new handle. A midwestern promoter explained that running ads for the Giant Fairy wouldn’t fly. Why not, he asked, wrestle under your own name instead?

So was born the legend of André the Giant.

Growing up in a small town in France, the young André Roussimoff told family members, “I don’t want to live on a farm my whole life. I want to do something different.” His life turned out to be as unusual as his body, which, due to an unchecked hormonal surge (his parents and siblings were of normal size), grew up past seven feet and out to nearly 500 pounds. Not an actor, not quite an athlete, he was what the wrestling entrepreneur Vince McMahon calls him in the new HBO documentary André the Giant: “an attraction.”

Roussimoff became the cynosure of McMahon’s pro-wrestling circuit in the 1970s and early 1980s. Other wrestlers on the payroll created their characters with masks or robes or trash talk or eccentric behavior. (George “the Animal” Steele, for instance, made a habit of dining on the padding in the corners of the wrestling ring.) But André’s character was his body. All he had to do was show up. Even routine interactions became strange in his presence. One dining companion interviewed in the documentary recalls that once when he tried to pick up the check at dinner, the Giant, not having it, instead picked him up like a doll and set him on top of an armoire. The speaker relating this anecdote is Arnold Schwarzenegger.

More than any movie star, André couldn’t escape the world’s eyes, couldn’t hide under sunglasses and a hat. He was an oddity too big to ignore, and even people who didn’t know about his career play-acting violence inside the wrestling ring approached him as you would a fantastic creature. Friends, too, dehumanized him. One writer in the documentary compares his hands to a lowland gorilla’s. Fellow wrestler Terry Bollea, better known as Hulk Hogan, said he moved like a Clydesdale horse. He once played Bigfoot on a 1976 episode of The Six Million Dollar Man.

Yet director Jason Hehir finds the humanity in this superficially bestial figure. It’s pleasing to think of such a powerful man as being a gallant one, and his admirers say he was. Within the fake brutality of pro wrestling, says Hogan, André maintained civility by using real brutality. “This is not a business of tough guys,” says Hogan. “If you’re in this business, it’s to entertain. For those guys who thought they were tough guys in this business, André would straighten ’em out real quick.” Example: André despised the wrestler known as “Macho Man” Randy Savage. A clip from the documentary shows a match in which the Macho Man found his face absorbing abuse from the Giant’s gargantuan bottom. “He’s sitting right on his head!” cries an announcer. Buttocks, face, buttocks, face. That’s showbiz, kids! Maybe the true fantasy element André stirred in us was not our wish that a man-Alp could be as tender as the one he portrayed in The Princess Bride, but the longing to humiliate our annoying coworkers as proficiently as he did. Cook fish in the office microwave and an André-style response seems condign.

André had his faults, of course. His drinking was as renowned as his performing: A writer who profiled him said that on any given night, he would put away several mixed drinks, four bottles of wine, and 20 to 25 beers. That’s nothing, says another intimate, who claims he once saw André consume 106 beers. Of equal note is the Roussimoffian flatulence, which is likened sonically to incoming bad weather and would carry on for 30 seconds at a go. Once it nearly crashed a plane, or so legend has it, the aircraft’s pilots being temporarily stunned by the chemical-weapons-grade emission. Flying was excruciating for the wrestler as well: He couldn’t fit into any plane’s bathroom. Someone would have to curtain him off and bring him a bucket in which to relieve himself.

The drinking looked different to a co-star of The Princess Bride, on the set of which an ailing André needed help to catch Robin Wright’s sylphlike Buttercup. Co-star Cary Elwes tells us André drank to relieve the pain. Pro wrestling takes a serious toll on the human body, especially for someone André’s size. He suffered severe back and joint distress linked to his disorder, called acromegaly, and by the time of his valedictory bout with Hogan in 1987, his chief wrestling move was the “standing perfectly still” gambit. Hogan had to come up and allow himself to be bear-hugged for a prolonged period to provide the thrills. Roussimoff was then 40, and had been warned he wouldn’t survive into a fifth decade. The prophecy was off, but only by six years.

HBO’s documentary is riddled with gaps — the portrait of McMahon’s wrestling circus, in particular, seems unduly forgiving — because it is determined to frame André’s life as a piece of entertainment. We learn, for instance, that André left behind a daughter, but nothing about her mother or any other woman with whom he had relationships. Instead, it’s the fellas who tell us what a hit he was with the ladies. “He wore a size 24 ring, what else can I tell you?” says one of the guys. The movie is much more interested in this sort of japery than it is in showing who André really was, but then again, he was a difficult person to know. “He was not the most articulate man in the world,” observes an announcer who knew him. His ballads were in his body slams.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_jTeuajas0

Andre’s acting career included Bigfoot:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IVYGHHc0Es4&t=14s

Ended by surprise like everything else I’ve been through

The History of Rock Facebook page tells the story of one of the more amusing moments in rock and non-rock-music history tied to this song:

On March 27th of 1971, the very popular song … was pulled from rotation by an influential radio station. It was the ‘flagship’ radio station of the NBC network. Other stations across their vast radio network soon followed suit … due to pressure from censors and higher-ups at the network and that’s what brings all of the things and/or people in the pics below to my post here. They include…

  • Jerry Garcia
  • WNBC, a now defunct radio station in New York City
  • Lawrence Welk
  • 2 singers from the Lawrence Welk show by the names of Gail Farrell & Dick Dale
  • Myron Floren, the accordionist from that show
  • And of course, last but certainly not least, Brewer & Shipley, in a concert promo flyer within the pics … with a song that can be described as a ONE HIT WONDER in more than one way. A song that was controversial for more than one reason as well

Like for instance, Jerry Garcia had been hired to play steel guitar on the “Tarkio” album from 1970 that this song comes from. There was no need for steel guitar on this song…but when it was released as a single … Jerry played on the song on the B side … by the name of “Oh Mommy (I Aint No Commie)” … which is a song about being ‘allowed’ under federal law to start up a revolution.

… Brewer says, “We wrote that one night in the dressing room of a coffee house. We were literally just entertaining ourselves. The next day we got together to do some picking and said, ‘What was that we were messing with last night?’ We remembered it, and in about an hour, we’d written ‘One Toke Over the Line.’ Just making ourselves laugh, really. We had no idea that it would ever even be considered as a single, because it was just another song to us. Actually Tom and I always thought that our ballads were our forte.

The incident that sparked this song happened at the Vanguard in Kansas City, Missouri. The band was playing the show because, in seeking to escape the LA music scene, they started a tour of their Midwest homelands. Shipley reports that he was given a block of hash and told to take two hits. He ignored the advice and instead took three. Shipley says, “I go out of the dressing room – I’m also a banjo player, but I didn’t have one, so I was playing my guitar — and Michael (Brewer) came in and I said, ‘Jesus, Michael, I’m one toke over the line.’ And to be perfect honest, I don’t remember if Michael was with me when I took that hit or not. I remember it as ‘not’; I think Michael remembers it as ‘yes.’ And he started to sing to what I was playing, and I chimed in and boom, we had the line.”

Brewer also remembers the occasion. “I just cracked up,” he said. “I thought it was hysterical. And right on the spot, we just started singing, ‘One toke over the line, sweet Jesus,’ and that was about it; then we went onstage.”

Now, jump to the very conservative, family oriented, WHOLESOME tv show from back in the day…by the name of The Lawrence Welk Show. The host and his compatriots were famous for playing music of all kinds…but also for playing it with big band and/or polka instruments. Welk had heard the song by Brewer & Shipley and put it on his show (also in 1971), to be performed by 2 of his many regular performers. When the song’s slot came up in the show…accordionist Myron Floren who would often introduce acts, called it, “one of the newer songs”. At which point, singers Gail Farrell & Dick Dale launched into their wholesome rendition of “One Toke Over The Line”. At the end of the song…Lawrence bookended their performance by saying, “there you’ve heard A MODERN SPIRITUAL by Gail and Dale”…..

I am absolutely convinced that of everyone in this Lawrence Welk clip, Floren (of whom my grandparents were big fans, and saw him in concert at least twice) is the only person here who knew what the song was about, which explains his, uh, throat-clearing moment.

 

“You work your side of the street, and I’ll work mine.”

Earlier this year, from SFGate.com:

Dave Toschi, a dapper cop who became the lead San Francisco police investigator for the Zodiac serial-killer case in the late 1960s and ’70s, has died at the age of 86.

Toschi died at his home in San Francisco on Saturday after a lengthy illness, relatives said.

The Zodiac terrorized the Bay Area in 1968 and 1969 when he stabbed or shot at least five people to death, writing taunting notes and cryptograms to police and newspapers including The Chronicle after his kills. Toschi was drawn into the case when he was assigned to investigate the killing of the Zodiac’s only San Francisco victim — Paul Stine, a cabbie shot to death in his taxi on Oct. 11, 1969.

It was the Zodiac’s final confirmed slaying. Like every other inspector looking into the saga, from federal agents to police in Vallejo and Napa County, Toschi was unable to solve the case. But he never lost zeal for the mystery, friends said. …

In addition to his work on the Zodiac killings, Toschi was part of the team that solved the racially motivated Zebra murders in the early 1970s, in which four black men were convicted of the random slayings of 14 white people. In 1985 he received a meritorious conduct award from the department for arresting a man who raped senior citizens and burglarized their homes.

His penchant for bow ties, snappy trench coats and the quick-draw holster for his .38-caliber pistol drew the attention of Steve McQueen, who patterned his character in the 1968 movie “Bullitt” after Toschi. Clint Eastwood’s “Dirty Harry” character was also partially inspired by him.

Toschi was the inspiration for two famous fictional police detectives who did not dress like Toschi:

Thomas Scalzo reviewed “Bullitt” …

When first we meet Lieutenant Frank Bullitt, he’s fast asleep, dressed in a pair of cozy-looking pajamas. Jarred awake by his partner Delgetti buzzing at his apartment door, he stumbles to let him in, and then lurches back to bed. “What time d’you get to bed this morning, Frank?” asks Delgetti, moving into the kitchen to pour a glass of OJ. “About 5:00,” Bullitt replies, visibly fighting down his hangover nausea and feebly reaching for what he thinks is his glass of juice. When Delgetti instead takes a gulp and begins to read the morning paper, aloud, Bullitt stares at him in disgust. “Why don’t you just relax and have your orange juice, and shut up,” he says, obviously not looking forward to whatever assignment his captain has in store, and clearly regretting whatever it was that put him in such a state.

What’s intriguing about this introduction to Bullitt is not so much its originality – untold cop stories begin with a besotted hero grudgingly coming back to life after a long night – as its incongruousness with everything that follows. For aside from these opening frames, Bullitt is a consummate man’s man—unflappable, assured, and impeccably cool. Sure, we have the occasional non-action scene – Bullitt buys frozen dinners, Bullitt takes his lady friend to dinner – to show us he’s not all work. But never again is the man as vulnerable, or as human, as he is in these opening moments. Inevitably, when dealing with an intricate pulp crime drama like Bullitt, plot comes first. But the subtle characterization in this opening scene adds a welcome layer of complexity to the story and makes viewing the film a richer experience. Not only do we keep our eyes peeled in order to get to the bottom of the mystery, but also in hopes of catching another clue as to who this hard-boiled cop in the cardigan really is.

With this in mind, we watch as Bullitt collects himself enough to report for his latest assignment: babysitting Johnny Ross, the district attorney’s star witness. It seems a senate subcommittee hearing is scheduled for a few days hence and it’s Bullitt’s job to make sure Ross is on time and able to testify. Complicating matters is the Chicago crime syndicate who want the man dead before he can talk. And so, not long after stumbling out of bed, Bullitt finds himself in a tight spot: If the witness dies, the DA will have Bullitt’s badge. And as long as the witness lives, Bullitt is an enemy of the Mob. When Bullitt asks his captain what recommended him for such illustrious duty, he’s told, “You make good copy. They love you in the papers.” Again, we’re tantalized by the Bullitt back-story. What had he done to make the headlines? The mystery deepens.

(I wonder myself what that means. High-profile cases solved? He certainly doesn’t seem like a quote machine based on his not-even-laconic portrayal.)

Soon enough, however, our intrigue about Bullitt is forced to the backburner by the story of Johnny Ross and the men who want to kill him. At the start of the assignment, the case seems fairly simple: guard the guy for a few days and then hand him over to the DA. But when Johnny’s hideout is discovered, and he finds himself on the wrong end of a shotgun, things begin to get interesting. Instead of outright fear at his own mortality, Johnny appears confused. He even manages to stammer out “They told me…” before taking multiple shots to the body. Add to this the revelation that Ross actually unlocked the door for his would be assailant, and Bullitt’s ordinary case has erupted into a full-blown murder mystery.

Enhancing the obfuscation are several unusual filmmaking techniques in play throughout the picture. One persistent strategy involves positioning some sort of obstruction – be it a plate-glass window, a forest of legs, or another character’s head – between the camera and the central action of the scene. In most cases the action is still discernable, but the viewer is deliberately relegated to the role of outside observer, spying on the scene as opposed to being immersed in it. And in many instances, the dialogue of such scenes is muted, requiring us to distil the importance of the scene based on visual activity alone. There are also several instances of a scene being shot from a location adjacent to that of the main action. When Ross undergoes emergency medical procedures in an attempt to save his life, for instance, instead of shooting the scene from within the hospital room, Peter Yates places his camera in the hallway outside. Thus, we watch the traumatic proceedings at a distance, peering into the room like a nosy neighbor.

The net result of such storytelling strategies is to cast the viewer into the role of detective. Like Bullitt, we’re compelled to pay attention to everything we see and hear, to piece together clues, to ponder the significance of a subtle event, to wonder what is being said behind glass walls. Such reliance on audience attention span was surely risky, even in 1968. And the technique is a particularly tough sell to a present-day spectator accustomed to insecure pictures that go out of their way to ensure viewer passivity. No doubt many modern viewers will find themselves unable to get past the film’s slow pace and nuanced storytelling. The reward, however, for those willing to allow themselves to fall under the film’s spell, is an engrossing crime drama featuring a masterfully understated performance by Steve McQueen, and, eventually, several terrific – and iconic – action set-pieces.

First on the list is the sublime car chase through the hills of San Francisco. Comprising over twelve minutes of dialogue-free runtime, the sequence is a perfect amalgam of terrific stunt work, deft editing, and canny use of music. For the first three and a half minutes we watch as Bullitt and his quarry weave through the twisty streets, a cool jazz score the perfect accompaniment to the slick game of automotive cat and mouse. And then the hunted decides to make a break for it. The music stops, a seatbelt is snapped in place, and the race is on. With squealing tires and revving engines the only soundtrack, the combatants burst out of the confines of the city and rocket onto the highways beyond.

In conspicuous contrast to much of the preceding film, this celebrated scene places the viewer smack dab in the middle of the action. No longer are we compelled to peer past obstacles or wonder at the significance of what’s taking place behind glass windows. Instead, we’re treated to an enticing mix of behind-the-windshield shots offering a first-hand view at the chase, intimate close-ups of the drivers’ determined faces as they navigate the perilous roadways, and unobstructed cutaways of the cars ripping around corners. Not only does the inspired editing of these shots achieve the astounding feat of keeping us riveted to the screen for minute after minute of wordless action, it also highlights the narrative significance of the sequence. Obscured shots aren’t needed here because Bullitt isn’t groping in the dark for answers. The men who want Ross dead are in his sights, and it’s time to get them.

Less famous, but equally enthralling, is the final showdown at the airport, full of gunfire drowned out by the roar of turbines and roving spotlights randomly illuminating the hunter and the hunted as they dive under jets, crisscross the runway, and desperately take cover behind the low-lying scrub brush. Eventually, the riotous chase leads back into the airport proper, and to the climax of the film. In the midst of all this action, however, we reach an unexpected moment that reminds us that, though the mystery of the plot is soon to be explained, the mystery of Bullitt remains. Convinced that his man is waiting on the other side of a closed door, Bullitt draws his gun, the action accompanied by a musical cue. In astonishment, we realize we’re witnessing the first time Bullitt has drawn his weapon. Clearly we’re meant to note the event, and attach significance to it. But why? What is it about the man’s past that makes this action so momentous? Before we have time to ponder the question, however, Bullitt has burst through the door, gun in hand.

After the last shot is fired and the sirens have faded into the night, we once again find ourselves in Bullitt’s lonely apartment, with our hero looking much the worse for wear. He splashes some water on his face and stares at himself in the mirror. He looks tired. But there’s something other than fatigue in his eyes: a sense of regret, possibly, or of doubt—the look of a man contemplating staying up till five, with a bottle, trying to forget. And as the camera shifts away from our hero, to focus directly on the violent tools of his trade, we begin to understand why.

Of course, Frank Bullitt was neither the first, nor the last, loner detective to grace the big screen. From the many incarnations of Philip Marlow to Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry to Al Pacino’s Vincent Hanna in Heat, the history of cinematic crime storytelling is chock full of men whose dedication to work always gets in the way of anything resembling a meaningful relationship or a normal home life. And in those rare instances where domesticity is part of the story, the film suffers. … It seems that when these figures have something to lose, they are unable to take the authority-defying risks that make them appealing. Perhaps this appeal lies in offering a historically male audience vicarious immersion in a world where they don’t have to answer to anyone. It’s only natural, then, that we smile when Bullitt, asked about work by his ladylove, replies, “It’s not for you, baby.” Because deep down, we know it’s not for us either. And that’s why we watch.

… and later compared it to “Dirty Harry” …

Having recently analyzed Peter Yates’ Bullitt, also a loose-cannon cop story (and also scored by Schiffrin), comparisons between McQueen’s Bullitt and Eastwood’s Callahan were inevitable. Like Bullitt, Callahan is an authority-defying San Francisco detective tasked with a difficult and dangerous case. Also like Bullitt, Callahan faces a formidable swath of red tape standing between him and successful completion of the job. David Thomson, that inimitable author of A Biographical Dictionary of Film, has even gone so far as to call Bullitt “a pioneer for Dirty Harry.”

Unfortunately, following the loner cop trail that Bullitt blazed has lead Harry Callahan, not merely to a place of professional frustration, but to a land of outright impotence. Unlike Bullitt, whose daily tasks regularly find him in the role of the aggressor – actively chasing the bad guys through the streets of San Francisco, for instance – Callahan’s action set pieces often find him simply reacting to events beyond his control. Most notable among these is the gripping ransom sequence in which Harry plays bagman to the killer’s cash-for-captive-girl demands. Hoping to evade a possible police trap, Scorpio demands that Harry follow a circuitous route to the drop site, revealing each subsequent step of the journey by phone. Throughout the course of an endless night, Harry crisscrosses the city, running from phone booth to phone booth to obtain his orders, completely at the mercy of a madman’s whims.

Even when Harry becomes so fed up by being led around by the nose that he does take the aggressive tack – trailing the killer to his home and forcibly obtaining the location of the missing girl – he’s summarily cut off at the knees by his superiors, who claim his methods were inappropriate and the evidence he obtained inadmissible. Despite Harry’s efforts, Scorpio will be set free. Eastwood’s incredulous and exasperated expression at hearing this news perfectly encapsulates Harry’s impotence. How can a man be expected to endure in a world where criminals are coddled and lawmen are rebuked for doing their jobs? As these scenes demonstrate, Harry is a man assailed by the fates at every turn, seemingly incapable of directing the course of his own life.

Such powerlessness over one’s existence inevitably leads to mounting frustration, and the desperate need for release. Stymied professionally, Harry’s thoughts inevitably turn to sex. Unfortunately, as a man who lost his wife some time ago, and has no intimate relationship that we know of, Harry seems doomed to frustration in this realm, too. In fact, Harry seems almost incapable of relating to women as a mature adult.

Take his encounter with Hot Mary and her boyfriend. After trailing a suspect down a dark alley, Harry watches his quarry enter an apartment building. Peering in at the man from a window outside, Harry quickly determines that he’s got the wrong guy. But instead of walking away, he stays, watching, and then leering, as the man disrobes his pulchritudinous girlfriend. And then there’s the rooftop stakeout. Training his binoculars on a nearby apartment building, he happens upon a lovely naked woman prancing about behind a curtainless window. Catching himself leering again, he turns away. But then he mutters, “You owe it to yourself to live a little, Harry,” and returns his gaze to the girl. At that very moment, however, Scorpio strikes and Harry must leap into action. Incredibly, the pleasures of even this voyeuristic outlet are denied him.

To a man thus frustrated, the only apparent avenue of release that remains is violence. And for Harry Callahan, violence means firing a gun. Take the bank robbery scene. Calmly enjoying a lunch of hotdogs, Harry hears some commotion behind him. After leaping out of his seat and running into the street, Harry unsheathes his weapon and fires, killing a few of the men and critically wounding another. Harry then walks directly up to the wounded man, points the legendary Magnum in his face, and spouts his famous line about the prowess of his sidearm. Compare this quick-draw demeanor – and obvious revelry in the chance to fire his gun – with Bullitt’s impeccable restraint, drawing his weapon only once, and then only when he has no other choice.

… joined by the setting and soundtracks by the great Lalo Schifrin:

Imagine a movie that included Bullitt’s chase and, let’s call him, Dirty Harry Bullitt. Of course, that idea has been done, but not well.

 

Underdogs

I announced a basketball game in Oregon Thursday night. It was the first time I have covered basketball at Oregon (where we once purchased a station wagon, but that’s not important right now) in 31 years.

The two games I covered in consecutive seasons were classics, and show how things have changed in high school basketball. Game number one in 1986 featured Big Eight Conference boys basketball champion Madison La Follette, one season removed from state, and Badger Conference champion Oregon, featuring future UW football player Dan Kissling. La Follette had two losses, one more than Oregon.

That was, by the way, a Class A regional semifinal — the first game of the postseason featuring two conference champions, playing at the home of one of them and not a neutral site. One positive change, even if performed imperfectly at times (it turns out that conference coaches often vote for their fellow schools in seeding meetings), is seeding to prevent games like that so early in the postseason. Today that game (assuming both teams got that far and didn’t stumble on the way) would have been a sectional-semifinal game played at a neutral site, like last night’s game.

The 1986 game was a great game as expected, except that the wrong team won — Oregon by two points. It was such a great game that the Panthers had nothing left in the tank the next night and lost at home to Sun Prairie, which had had a losing regular season.

The next day, La Follette’s girls team lost its sectional final in Reedsburg to Portage. That ended the career of one of La Follette’s best girls players to that point, Anne Cooley, though their four junior starters would be back the next year from that conference champion team.

One year later, that girls team, having somewhat underperformed expectations (they ended the regular season 9–11), headed into the regional final at Oregon against Madison East. The irony was that, though East finished higher in the conference, thanks to their foreign-exchange player Anke Buchauer, La Follette had beaten them twice, in overtime, including one week earlier in their regular-season finale.

Of course, if two teams played to overtime twice already, they’re practically guaranteed to play free basketball the third time, right? And so off to overtime meeting number three went. La Follette got a steal with 56 seconds left in the three-minute overtime, ran the clock down, then had a shot blocked out of bounds (of course, by Buchauer) with two seconds left. That gave La Follette coach Terry Shermeister enough time to diagram three plays, including a wing jumper. That turned to be the play that was available, and so the pass went to guard Julie Gundlach, whose 15-foot right-wing jumper sailed through the nets as time expired. Despite Buchauer’s 31 points, La Follette won 47–45 to head to week number two of the postseason.

The Lancers’ next opponent was conference champion Madison Memorial, who had beaten La Follette twice in the regular season. But you know the cliché about beating a team three times in a season. And so La Follette ended Memorial’s season before state, sending the Lancers again to Reedsburg again to face Portage for a state berth.

That was a full day. I had to cover state boys gymnastics at Madison West in the morning, then drive up to Reedsburg on an 80-degree early March Saturday for the girls game, followed by heading back to La Follette for that night’s boys regional final.

In the first half of that game on a La Follette inbounds play, a Portage player slapped the ball as the Lancer was holding it before throwing it inbounds. One of the referees gave her a warning. Three quarters later, with the score tied, she did it again, and this time she was assessed a technical foul. La Follette’s best free throw shooter hit two free throws, La Follette got the ball back, she was fouled and hit two more free throws, giving La Follette a two-possession lead in the season before the three-point shot. Portage scored baskets and fouled, but La Follette hit all of its free throws. Final score 48–46, good for a most unexpected trip to state.

A year later I got to cover Monona Grove’s boys team in a sectional semifinal at UW–Platteville against undefeated Lancaster, trying for its first state trip since 1917. MG in those days was one of the smallest schools in the Badger Conference, but the theory was that maybe MG would take its lumps in the regular season but do better in the postseason facing schools its own size. In fact, MG’s sectional trip was its second in three seasons despite having not won its conference in any of those seasons.

Lancaster was undefeated, but the Flying Arrows weren’t exactly flying; their roster was full of the walking wounded, with one player wearing football thigh pads. Either for that reason or the fact that MG was indeed better than its record, Lancaster entered with no losses and exited with a loss, sending MG to extending its season one more game.

A year after that, having moved to Lancaster, I got to cover the Flying Arrows baseball team. (At the time they played in the vastly-preferable summer season, which feels like real baseball instead of the arctic Wisconsin spring.) Like the aforementioned La Follette girls, they ended their regular season 9–11. They also had to deal with Mother Nature, which messed up their pitching rotation by two days of rainouts that pushed the regional game to the day before the sectional. (In those days pitchers could pitch seven innings every third day. Thanks to the rainouts, the starting pitcher for Thursday’s game therefore could go only two innings the next day.)

Lancaster won the regional game 11–6, getting two innings from a collection of pitchers who would not have been on the mound were it not for the rainout. That moved Lancaster to Onalaska and the semifinal the following afternoon. After a moon-shot two-run home run in the top of the first inning, it appeared Lancaster’s postseason end was six innings away. except that the Hilltoppers didn’t score after that, and Lancaster manufactured three runs to take a 3–2 lead into the top of the sixth inning.

Lancaster’s pitcher, Jason Schildgen, created a mess by loading the bases with one out and going to three balls and one strike on the batter, with the tying run at third base. Said batter then swung and missed at what would have been ball four, and then committed the blunder of unsuccessfully bunting on a 3–2 count, resulting in strike three. Four groundouts later, the Arrows headed to the sectional final against conference champion Platteville, which had unexpectedly won the earlier semifinal by defeating Holmen 4–2 in eight innings. The two teams with the best records in the sectional watched, instead of played, the sectional final. (And yes, Lancaster and Platteville traveled two hours each to play each other.)

Platteville got a 4–0 lead against a freshman pitcher who due to the two days of rainouts was making his first varsity appearance in a game that would send the winner to state. Lancaster started the game-tying rally in the bottom of the fifth inning with a ground ball off the third baseman’s mouth. One inning later, the Arrows got a 5–4 lead, erased in the top of the seventh inning on back-to-back ground-rule doubles.

In the bottom of the seventh, the Arrows loaded the bases with one out. On a ground ball to second, instead of trying for a double play in the infield (perhaps because it was hit too slowly or because the winning run was at third), the second baseman threw home. Big cloud at the plate, the umpire yelled “SAFE!”, and my insurance agent’s game-winning run sent Lancaster to state, to the surprise of everyone except their coach. I’ll never forget the 30 seconds of wild cheering, followed by stunned silence from half the crowd — we’re going to state? That team? — and stunned disappointed silence from the other half.

Lancaster apparently figured that since they had to go all the way to Stevens Point for state, they might as well make the trip worthwhile. And so the Arrows beat Minocqua Lakeland 8–5 Wednesday night, bombed Kewaskum 20–8 the next afternoon (said insurance agent’s son hit a grand slam, his only home run in any level of baseball according to his father), but ran out of magic and lost to Sheboygan North 5–0 in the championship game. Ironically the Arrows needed to win their first state game to guarantee a winning season, and they took home a silver trophy.

It may be that in a competition David was the first underdog, Notice who won between David and Goliath. Gen. George Patton (as portrayed by George C. Scott) might have been right when he said that Americans love a winner, but Americans also love to root for the little guy in sports, whether it’s the 1960 or 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team, a double-digit seed in the NCAA basketball tournament, or the fictional Hickory Huskers in the movie “Hoosiers.”

Underdogs are generally either teams that underperformed in the regular season and finally got it together when the games really count, or physically inferior teams that nevertheless figure out how to take out the favorite. Consider the 2000 UW men’s basketball team, which beat three higher seeds to get to a Final Four no one saw coming, or Villanova, which executed its offensive game plan to perfection to beat Georgetown in the NCAA title game. In the Badgers’ case it was defense, which explained why the halftime score of their Final Four semifinal was 19–17.

Americans probably love to root for the underdog because people think they’re underdogs compared to big bad employer/other team/more handsome and rich guy, etc. As a country we’re certainly not an underdog anymore, but if Las Vegas existed in the late 1800s Vegas would have predicted a low probability of the revolution against the British succeeding.

La Follette’s first state champion team finished the 1977 regular season 10–8. It had a future college football player, UW’s Ross Anderson, but otherwise no indication the Lancers would win four consecutive playoff games to go to state, then sweep state, setting a record for field goal shooting in the process.

Even better was the 1978 Elkhorn boys team, which went 5–12 in the regular season, and needed to win state to get a winning season … and did.

Technically speaking the 1982 La Follette boys basketball team wasn’t really an underdog, but the Lancers were against an undefeated number-one-ranked team in the state championship. How did that turn out? Read here.

Gun control is racist

February being Black History Month, David Kopel and Joseph Greenlee present something that should make liberals uncomfortable:

Guns have historically protected Americans from white supremacists, just as gun control has historically protected white supremacists from the Americans they terrorize.

One month after the Confederate surrender in 1865, Frederick Douglass urged federal action to stop state and local infringement of the right to arms. Until this was accomplished, Douglass argued, “the work of the abolitionists is not finished.”

Indeed, it was not. As the Special Report of the Paris Anti-Slavery Conference of 1867 found, freedmen in some southern states “were forbidden to own or bear firearms, and thus were rendered defenseless against assault.” Thus, white supremacists could continue to control freedmen through threat of violence.

Congress demolished these racist laws. The Freedmen’s Bureau Bill of 1865, Civil Rights Act of 1866, and Civil Rights Act of 1870 each guaranteed all persons equal rights of self-defense. Most importantly, the 14th Amendment, ratified in 1868, made the Second Amendment applicable to the states.

Kansas Senator Samuel Pomeroy extolled the three “indispensable” “safeguards of liberty under our form of government,” the sanctity of the home, the right to vote, and “the right to bear arms.” So “if the cabin door of the freedman is broken open and the intruder enter…then should a well-loaded musket be in the hand of the occupant to send the polluted wretch to another world.”

Because of the 14th Amendment, gun control laws now had to be racially neutral. But states quickly learned to draft neutrally-worded laws for discriminatory application. Tennessee and Arkansas prohibited handguns that freedmen could afford, while allowing expensive “Army & Navy” handguns, which ex-Confederate officers already owned.

The South Carolina law against concealed carry put blacks in chain gangs, but whites only paid a small fine, if anything. In the early 20th century, such laws began to spread beyond the ex-Confederacy. An Ohio Supreme Court Justice acknowledged that such statutes reflected “a decisive purpose to entirely disarm the Negro.”

When lynching increased in the 1880s, the vice-president of the National Colored Press Association, John R. Mitchell, Jr., encouraged blacks to buy Winchesters to protect their families from “the two-legged animals … growling around your home in the dead of night.”

Ida B. Wells, the leading journalist opposing lynching, agreed. In the nationally-circulated pamphlet Southern Horrors, Wells documented cases in Kentucky and Florida, “where the men armed themselves” and fended off lynch mobs. “The lesson this teaches,” Wells wrote, “is that a Winchester rifle should have a place of honor in every black home, and it should be used for that protection which the law refuses to give.”

After the thwarted lynching in Florida, the state legislature enacted a law requiring a license to possess “a pistol, Winchester rifle or other repeating rifle.” A Florida Supreme Court Justice later explained: “the Act was passed for the purpose of disarming the negro laborers” and “was never intended to apply to the white population and in practice has never been so applied.”

While lynching began to decline in the early twentieth century, race riots increased. According to historian John Dittmer, blacks fought “back successfully when the mobs invaded their neighborhoods” during the Atlanta riots in 1906. When police stood idle as 23 blacks were killed during riots resulting from a black man swimming into “white” water near Chicago, blacks used rifles to kill 15 attackers.

During the Tulsa Race Riot in 1921, whites (with government approval) burned down a square mile of the prosperous district nicknamed “Black Wall Street,” killing 200 blacks. There would have been more devastation had blacks not fought back, killing 50 of their attackers.

Firearms made possible the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s and 1960s. Charles Cobb’s excellent book, “This Nonviolent Stuff’ll Get You Killed: How Guns Made the Civil Rights Movement Possible” describes how pacifist community organizers from the North learned to accept the armed protection of their black, rural communities.

The Deacons for Defense and Justice was an armed community defense organization, founded in 1965. With .38 Special revolvers and M1 carbines, they deterred terrorism in the “Klan country” region of Louisiana and Mississippi. When Dr. King led the “Meredith March against Fear” for voter registration in Mississippi, the Deacons provided armed security.

Condoleezza Rice became a self-described “Second Amendment absolutist,” because of her experiences growing up in Birmingham. She recalled the bombings in the summer of 1963, when her father helped guard the streets at night. Had the civil rights workers’ guns been registered, she argued, they could have been confiscated, rendering the community defenseless.

Similarly, when the Klan targeted North Carolina’s Lumbee Indians in 1958 because of their “race mixing,” the Lumbee drove off the Klan in an armed confrontation, the Battle of Hayes Pond. Klan operations ceased in the region.

Justice Clarence Thomas’s opinion in the 2010 McDonald v. Chicagoexplicated the history of gun control as race control. Historically, people of color in the United States have often had to depend on themselves for protection. Sometimes the reason is not overt hostility by the government, but instead the incapability of government to secure public safety, as in Chicago today.

Self-defense is an inherent human right. The 14th Amendment is America’s promise that no law-abiding person will be deprived of that right, regardless of color.

When Trump makes liberals nostalgic for Reagan

Ruth Marcus:

A Presidents’ Day weekend visit to the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library and Museum here provokes an unfamiliar and unexpected emotion: Reagan nostalgia.

Seriously. I was a young reporter in Washington, fresh out of college, when Reagan was elected. It felt like nothing less than a hostile takeover of the government. The Reagan people swept in for the inauguration with their furs and their limousines and their Heritage Foundation briefing books and proceeded, as Stephen K. Bannon might have put it, to deconstruct the regulatory state.

I covered some of Reagan’s finest moments — his nomination of the first female Supreme Court justice, Sandra Day O’Connor, for one — but also some of his least attractive — for me, as a Justice Department reporter, the undermining of the Civil Rights Division.

So while every presidential library presents an airbrushed portrait of the president it celebrates, I did not expect to emerge with something of a Reagan glow — certainly not with my dyed-in-the-wool-Democrat husband dragged along. And yet, glow there was.

First, about Reagan and the media. The Reagan administration saw the full flowering of the presidency in the television age, with its focus on message management and staged events and more worry over perfect lighting than precise facts. The president himself was often sheltered from reporters’ pestering questions.

But pick up the handset at the museum and listen to Reagan, back in 1976, talking about the traveling press corps that covered his losing primary challenge to President Gerald R. Ford. “I knew many of them had written pre-campaign commentaries about me questioning . . . whether I was for real,” Reagan recounted during one of his weekly radio commentaries. But in the course of the campaign — “on tour together,” Reagan said — “I saw . . . the long hours when the day was done for me but they were still filing stories. . . . I have to say their treatment of me was fair. They were objective, they did their job . . . we parted friends.”

That was, no doubt, a glossy view of a relationship with built-in strains. Yet it is impossible to listen to Reagan’s words and not hear Donald Trump’s thuggish campaign-trail assault on reporters as “lying, disgusting,” “absolute scum” or, more alarming, the Trump administration’s “fake news” effort to delegitimize any reporting with which it disagrees.

Second, about Reagan and the art of the apology. Admitting error does not come easily to any of us, and it is fraught with peril for any politician and any president. Indeed, it did not come easily to Reagan — hence the famous “mistakes were made” formulation about the Iran-contra affair during his 1987 State of the Union address.

Yet stop at the exhibit on Iran-contra and listen to the speech Reagan gave the following August: “My fellow Americans, I’ve thought long and often about how to explain to you what I intended to accomplish, but I respect you too much to make excuses. The fact of the matter is that there’s nothing I can say that will make the situation right. I was stubborn in my pursuit of a policy that went astray.”

Again, to hear this in the age of Trump is to wonder: Will we ever, could we ever, hear such self-reflection, even such pretend self-reflection, or acceptance of responsibility from President Trump? It is not in his nature or his skill set. He knows only the counterpunch.

Finally, about Reagan and optimism, a theme that pervades the museum’s displays and is made manifest with the famous “Morning in America” reelection commercial playing on a monitor. It was possible to disagree with Reagan without finding him disagreeable. If Reagan was, in Democratic super-lawyer Clark Clifford’s memorable phrase, an “amiable dunce,” his strength was that very amiability and the way in which that genial optimism spilled over into his vision of America.

Now we have gone from Reagan’s “shining city upon a hill,” as he proclaimed in his farewell address in 1989, to Trump’s “American carnage” inaugural.

Reagan told a story in that address that encapsulates the fundamental difference between the 40th president and the 45th. He described the USS Midway, patrolling the South China Sea, when a sailor “spied on the horizon a leaky little boat. And crammed inside were refugees from Indochina hoping to get to America.”

The Midway sent a launch to pick them up, Reagan continued, and “as the refugees made their way through the choppy seas, one spied the sailor on deck, and stood up, and called out to him. He yelled, ‘Hello, American sailor. Hello, freedom man.’ ”

We left the Reagan library on a glorious California winter day, sunny and crisp. And we could not help but wonder: What will future generations think emerging from Trump’s presidential library? What will it celebrate?

Why economic growth is better than “equality”

Amity Shlaes:

Free marketeers may sometimes win elections, but they are not winning U.S. history. In recent years, the consensus regarding the American past has slipped leftward, and then leftward again. No longer is American history a story of opportunity, or of military or domestic triumph. Ours has become, rather, a story of wrongs, racial and social. Today, any historical figure who failed at any time to support abolition, or, worse, took the Confederate side in the Civil War, must be expunged from history. Wrongs must be righted, and equality of result enforced.

The equality campaign spills over into a less obvious field, one that might otherwise provide a useful check upon the nonempirical claims of the humanities: economics. In a discipline that once showcased the power of markets, an axiom is taking hold: equal incomes lead to general prosperity and point toward utopia. Teachers, book review editors, and especially professors withhold any evidence to the contrary. Universities lead the shift, and the population follows. Today, millennials, those born between 1981 and 2000, outnumber baby boomers by the millions, and polls suggest that they support redistribution specifically, and government action generally, more than their predecessors do. A 2014 Reason/Rupe poll found 48 percent of millennials agreeing that government should “do more” to solve problems, whereas 37 percent said that government was doing “too many things.” A full 58 percent of the youngest of millennials, those 18–24 when surveyed, held a “positive” view of socialism, in dramatic contrast with their parents: only 23 percent of those aged 55 to 64 viewed socialism positively.

At least for now, most progressives acknowledge that markets and economic growth are necessary. But progressives in academia contend that growth has proved itself secondary to equality efforts—something to be exploited, rather than appreciated. Not just nationally, but worldwide, policymakers and the press regard the subordination of growth to equality to be a benign practice, as in the recent line in the Indian periodical Mint: a policy aimed at “reducing inequality need not hurt growth.”

The redistributionist impulse has brought to the fore metrics such as the Gini coefficient, named after the ur-redistributor, Corrado Gini, an Italian social scientist who developed an early statistical measure of income distribution a century ago. A society where a single plutocrat earns all the income ranks a pure “1” on the Gini scale; one in which all earnings are perfectly equally distributed, the old Scandinavian ideal, scores a “0” by the Gini test. The Gini Index has been renamed or updated numerous times, but the principle remains the same. Income distribution and redistribution seem so crucial to progressives that French economist Thomas Piketty built an international bestseller around it, the wildly lauded Capital.

Through Gini’s lens, we now rank past eras. Decades in which policy endeavored or managed to even out and equalize earnings—the 1930s under Franklin Roosevelt, the 1960s under Lyndon Johnson—score high. Decades where policymakers focused on growth before equality, such as the 1920s, fare poorly. Decades about which social-justice advocates aren’t sure what to say—the 1970s, say—simply drop from the discussion. In the same hierarchy, federal debt moves down as a concern because austerity to reduce debt could hinder redistribution. Lately, advocates of economically progressive history have made taking any position other than theirs a dangerous practice. Academic culture longs to topple the idols of markets, just as it longs to topple statutes of Robert E. Lee.

But progressives have their metrics wrong and their story backward. The geeky Gini metric fails to capture the American economic dynamic: in our country, innovative bursts lead to great wealth, which then moves to the rest of the population. Equality campaigns don’t lead automatically to prosperity; instead, prosperity leads to a higher standard of living and, eventually, in democracies, to greater equality. The late Simon Kuznets, who posited that societies that grow economically eventually become more equal, was right: growth cannot be assumed. Prioritizing equality over markets and growth hurts markets and growth and, most important, the low earners for whom social-justice advocates claim to fight. Government debt matters as well. Those who ring the equality theme so loudly deprive their own constituents, whose goals are usually much more concrete: educational opportunity, homes, better electronics, and, most of all, jobs. Translated into policy, the equality impulse takes our future hostage.

Touring American history with an eye on growth, not equality, has become so unusual that doing so almost feels like driving on the wrong side of the road. Nonetheless, a review trip through the decades is useful because the evidence for growth is right there, in our own American past. Four decades, especially, warrant examination: the 1920s, the 1930s, the 1960s, and the 1970s.

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