Bill Lyon to write his final column this week (http://www.philly.com/mld/philly/sports/columnists/bill_lyon/)
I know his wife had been battling cancer for a while and he was back sporadically while caring for her. This is truly a loss for sports fans in this area, as he was always a voice of reason and loved to write.
That's terrible. He was always the guy to capture how the city was feeling about its teams and put things into the big picture. I always hoped I'd one day read a Lyon article about the Eagles winning the Super Bowl. This is almost as bad as losing Merrill would be.
He was good. That's certain to leave a void.
"What others are saying" (http://www.philly.com/mld/philly/sports/columnists/bill_lyon/13203137.htm)
My condolensces to ya'll.
I hate losing staples when it comes to sports writing/announcing. Specially under bad circumstances.
We lost two good ones out here....one to death, the other because of a cork sucker owner.
Ross Porter
Chick Hearn
His final column:
QuotePosted on Sun, Nov. 20, 2005
Bill Lyon | Lyon's Last Word
It began 33 years ago. It ends today, with a mountain of memories.
By Bill Lyon
Inquirer Columnist
So, pilgrim, where have you been these last few months?
Trying on retirement for size.
So, does it fit?
Seems to.
But you'll miss this.
Something awful. Never have known anything else. Forty-nine years doing this, the last 33 for The Inquirer. So maybe it's time to sit down and shut up and let someone else have their say.
But what if you might have something left?
If there's one thing I've learned watching athletes struggling to cope with this process of letting go, it's this: Better too soon than too late.
So, all this time you've had the column... or has it been the other way around?
On our wedding day, 41 years ago, my wife said: "I'll never worry about you having a mistress. You already have one."
Wise woman.
Yes, and tough as barbed wire, and three middle linebackers, too.
This all began... when?
Summer of '72. Uprooted the four of us from Illinois and came east. You're gonna love Philly, I assured them. Great sports town. Winners everywhere you turn.
And?
There may have been someone somewhere as naïve, but I doubt it. Phillies tried to lose a hundred, again. Eagles went 2-12. Sixers set a record for ineptitude that exists to this day: 9 and 73. And I told my wife: "Good God, what have I gotten us into?"
But it changed?
Yes. It always does, though sometimes it seems to take a day short of forever to do so. One thing we do really well in this town is suffer. We have a threshold of pain that extends into the heavens. Our capacity for hurt is matched only by our capacity for loyalty. We keep standing there on the street corner certain that one day, some day, just you wait and see, there'll be another parade to happen along. Like the man said: "I bleed Eagles green... I just wish I didn't have to bleed so much." This town endures, you see, and its people keep coming back for more. How can you not fall in love with that?
Memories?
A million, at least. The parade when the Flyers won the Stanley Cup. People hanging out of windows - bigger than the end of World War II, the police said. The Phillies parade in '80, with Tug McGraw telling the fans to savor this and New York to stick it.
The Army-Navy football games played here - the last echo of cannon fire, the Cadets and Midshipmen standing in the cold, tear-streaked December gloaming, saluting each other, soon to be shipped off into harm's way.
Mike Schmidt's silken stroke... Doc walking among the clouds... Bernie Parent utterly impregnable in goal... Bill Bergey's slobberknocker hits... Randall Cunningham performing a 31/2 gainer on the goal line... Allen Iverson, with every important body part either strained, sprained, bruised or busted, continuing to drive fearlessly to the hoop.
Tim Kerr rooted in the crease, as immovable as an oak. Charles Barkley, shortest man ever to lead the NBA in rebounding, going end to end, an 18-wheeler roaring down a steep grade. Never did see anyone willing to step in front of him and take a charge.
Villanova and the perfect game against Georgetown. St. Joe's and the perfect season, and that marvelous little passion pit of a gym on Hawk Hill. Smarty Jones and the run for the Triple Crown.
And the venues. The Palestra, that great gray cathedral of basketball. Franklin Field, where the wind still whispers about the glory days. Happy Valley and the drive there - go to Harrisburg, they said, turn right and swing through the trees for 90 miles. And yes, I confess, a perverse part of me even misses the Vet. A little.
And that grove of pines down at Amen Corner at Augusta National. Surely, Eden's first light shone there. Surely, that is where time began.
And the coaches. Dick Vermeil and John Chaney, Fran Dunphy and Phil Martelli, Terry Francona and Andy Reid... good men and true. Fred Shero and the haunting message he wrote on the Flyers' blackboard just before the Cup clincher: "Win today and we walk together forever."
Muhammad Ali, liquid grace, up on his toes, butterfly and bee. Joe Frazier, a locomotive at midnight, coming ever forward. Secretariat, copper coat glistening at sunset, running a hole through the wind. Jack Nicklaus blitzing the back nine on the last day of the Masters. Tiger Woods stalking a putt. Mike Tyson, the early Mike Tyson, a glistening, oiled engine of destruction.
Montreal, summer of '76, first 10 ever awarded in the Olympics. Nadia Comaneci, a Romanian waif, a sunbeam in leotards, rewriting the laws of gravity and anatomy.
Lake Placid, winter of '80, Eric Heiden, sheathed in a gold bodysuit, speed-skating round and round and round, en route to five gold medals.
And, oh, yes, one more. One man. One solitary man. One solitary man on a bicycle. Lance Armstrong attacking the mountain embodies the very soul of sport. There are these rare treasured moments in sports when the human spirit gives off a light brighter than a thousand suns.
Well, what about the athletes - have they changed in the last half a century?
Each generation is bigger, stronger, faster. What's surprising, and disappointing, is how little most of them know of their sport, its history and legacy, and of those who came before them.
How about the rest of us?
Civility seems to have gone out of style. We're just not very nice to one another. Courtesy is seen as a weakness. And everyone shouts. And when everyone shouts, then after a while no one listens.
What will you miss?
The readers. God bless 'em. I cherish each and every one. You need an audience. Who writes only for their own amusement? It hurts too much.
Are you quitting cold turkey?
No, I don't dare jump without a parachute. I've got some writing projects lined up. Maybe another book. Maybe two. Maybe an occasional contribution to this publication, if they'll have me.
Anything else to occupy you?
Oh, you bet. Their names are Evan Michael Lyon and Joshua William Lyon. The grandchildren have moved into the house right next door.
Right next door?
In the words of Joshua William: "Pop-Pop, I walked it off - it's 34 paces from our front door to yours."
And so it is. And next year, Joshie, it will be 33 paces. And then 32 paces.
And so on...
And so on...
And so on...