THE OLYMPICS

When sportswriters turn to political commentary—especially the more pretentious commentators—their minds turn sentimental in a new way. The old sportswriters were sentimental about petty things, like Babe Ruth, or the Dodgers, or dear old Alma Mater U. The new sportswriters are sentimental about weighty things, like world revolution, socialism, universalism, and eye-wetting “humanistic” values.

Thus, Dick Schaap took three minutes on NBC news to tell us that a brilliant Cuban runner, Alberto Juantorena, was running solely for the honor of a “poet and former baseball player,” Fidel Castro, and for the Revolution—which is even more incredible than saying Joe Rudi and Rollie Fingers give their all for the love of Charlie Finley. Howard Cosell, too, only tells about half of it like it is, that half composed of shilling entertainment values—touting new favorites as Ed Sullivan used to tout new jugglers and rock stars. The comments from the press box are not investigative, calm, reportorial, full, accurate; they sell entertainment and the newest chic politics. Cosell couldn’t even get the names of the opposition right: he resorted to calling them “the Bulgarian,” “the Russian,” “the Pole,” while treating the Americans to lavish nicknames and lavish praise.

About the Author

Michael Novak

Michael Novak was a Catholic philosopher, journalist, novelist, and diplomat.

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When sportswriters turn to political commentary—especially the more pretentious commentators—their minds turn sentimental in a new way. The old sportswriters were sentimental about petty things, like Babe Ruth, or the Dodgers, or dear old Alma Mater U. The new sportswriters are sentimental about weighty things, like world revolution, socialism, universalism, and eye-wetting “humanistic” values.

Thus, Dick Schaap took three minutes on NBC news to tell us that a brilliant Cuban runner, Alberto Juantorena, was running solely for the honor of a “poet and former baseball player,” Fidel Castro, and for the Revolution—which is even more incredible than saying Joe Rudi and Rollie Fingers give their all for the love of Charlie Finley. Howard Cosell, too, only tells about half of it like it is, that half composed of shilling entertainment values—touting new favorites as Ed Sullivan used to tout new jugglers and rock stars. The comments from the press box are not investigative, calm, reportorial, full, accurate; they sell entertainment and the newest chic politics. Cosell couldn’t even get the names of the opposition right: he resorted to calling them “the Bulgarian,” “the Russian,” “the Pole,” while treating the Americans to lavish nicknames and lavish praise.