Living Out Loud

by Craig Sager

  “How you feeling?” I was asked dozens of times by players, coaches, and strangers that weekend.

  “Doing the best I can,” I’d respond.

  I did everything possible to avoid being untruthful. There were times that weekend when it was uncomfortable, but I tried to not think about it, distracted by family and the All-Star festivities. It was Kobe Bryant’s farewell All-Star Game and the passing of the torch to Steph Curry, and I loved every minute of it.

  We had a long-scheduled family vacation to our home in Orlando immediately after Toronto, as the kids were off from school, but I had to return to Houston on Monday morning. Despite her resistance, Stacy agreed to go ahead to Orlando so she and the kids could enjoy a short respite.

  The new combination of Vidaza and Lirilumab would not show much of an impact for weeks, so we knew we were unlikely to see a marked improvement anytime soon. I also knew that the drugs were unlikely to get me back into remission. At best, it would slow down the aggressiveness of the leukemia or maybe even lessen it a bit, but we knew that this was only a bandage. The day after the All-Star Game, I was full steam ahead starting my first day of yet another game plan. I was not scheduled to do any games that week anyway, as I had taken off time for the family vacation.

  In late February, my best and oldest friend from Batavia, John Clark, came down to visit me in Houston, and we got in a round of eighteen.

  “Hondo,” I blurted out, using the nickname I liked to call him, “we should do this again. And you know what? I am going to do everything in my power to make it to Jenny’s wedding.” His daughter was scheduled to be married in Batavia in July.

  Being on the golf course took my mind away from the aggressive return of the leukemia, but it hit me like a brick later that day as Hondo and I rode down in an elevator at MD Anderson.

  “This is just no way to live,” I admitted, knowing what lay ahead in the coming months. For a brief moment, I questioned whether I really could do it. But as had happened often in my life, the negative thought was fleeting, and soon my resolve and determination returned.

  Finally, Dr. Pemmaraju gave me the go-ahead to go back to work on February 25 for an Oklahoma City game in New Orleans. I was back on the road, living my life, but every few days I needed a blood transfusion and new platelets just to stay alive. I was swimming upstream.

  *

  On March 10, producers from HBO’s Real Sports with Bryant Gumbel reached out to see if I would be interested in being the subject of a feature profile. Before agreeing to sit for an interview with reporter Bernard Goldberg, I wanted to make sure that the story would focus on the positives and not the negatives, as I wanted AML awareness to be the focus, not to see a pity story. Two days later, HBO and Bernie were in my home in Canton, Georgia, interviewing me and Junior for the story. I shared publicly for the first time that my leukemia was no longer in remission, and I was candid about my prognosis.

  I [said to the doctors], “I know, what are the chances?” And [the doctors said], “Well, you’ve got normally three to six months to live. But somebody may only have a week. Somebody may have five years. You could be the first one to five years.”

  I go, “Well, whatever it takes.” I’m not going to be that three to six months. I’m going to be that five years. I’m going to make medical history.… I’m fighting this thing to the end. I have too much to do.

  I returned to Houston for my second eight-day cycle, and the blasts were up to 36 percent. The treatment appeared to not be working, and doctors were keeping an eye on my kidneys, spleen, and heart, as the two chemo drugs were highly toxic.

  When the HBO story aired on March 22, the headline, of course, was that I had only months to live. What was not made clear in the HBO piece was that the three-to-six-month time frame was for someone with aggressive leukemia who was not receiving any treatment. I had to clarify the prognosis in a statement the following day.

  I had no idea of the impact that the Real Sports story would have on my own story. Suddenly players, coaches, long-lost friends from Batavia, strangers, golfing buddies—everyone knew, and everyone thought I was near the end. I received letters that, though kind in intent, were ominous.

  You have had a great life. There is a better life afterwards.

  You were a great broadcaster and you will be sorely missed.

  I know they meant well, and I wasn’t upset, but it was almost like reading your own obituary.

  The only question or comment that really upset me was from John, my best friend for more than sixty years. With good intentions, he asked me if I had my “things in order.”

  “Are you giving up on me?” I shot back.

  He clarified his meaning. “Estate, will, finances…”

  I thought pretty deeply about why this, of all the inauspicious commentary, bothered me.

  Ego. I always have my things in order.

  It makes me laugh to write that, but there’s some takeaway there. Have your “things in order” so that, when you have to, you can focus on the actual fight.

  In the days and weeks after the HBO story aired, I got noticed on the street and stopped by people more frequently—I saw heads turn, even if I pretended not to notice. But when I walked into an NBA arena for my assignments—I kept up a pretty full work schedule—the magnitude and reach of the story couldn’t be ignored.

  In early April, before the start of the NBA playoffs, I was heading back to MD Anderson for eight days. Just before my return to Houston, Stacy and I took the kids to the Turks and Caicos for a long weekend—a place we had always wanted to go but had kept putting off. We had a great time, snorkeling, picking up seashells, and playing in the ocean, but I also caught myself out of breath and weak. By the time I got to MDA, I knew that I needed transfusions and platelets. And I was right: my blasts were up to 36 percent. Things were getting worse, not better, and I didn’t know how long my body would put up the fight.

  25

  Searching for Answers

  The first year of my father’s leukemia was a brand-new growing process for me that I came to embrace. By the time we made it through the second transplant, however, I could feel myself slowly unraveling.

  When my father miraculously made his way back to the sideline again in October, it was an intoxicating blend of emotions for me. Sports became bearable again. I could enjoy watching them after a long day of work again, knowing Dad was back. My own hope had been restored. Each time he went on the air, I would appreciate more and more of what he represented to our lives, but also to the industry as a whole. He embodied an authentic era of sports that he never shifted from and had preserved after all these years. There he was, again celebrating the excitement and the atmosphere in everything he did. My childhood and the golden era of sports coverage were still alive through him. His was an unthinkable battle, just to be able to stand on the sideline and report again. I felt how inspiring it was, and as much as I wanted to be spending time with him, I could appreciate why he was doing it.

  His attention goes entirely into living through his experiences—the bigger, the better, and the biggest moments always follow his boldness and enthusiasm for sports. He never let a press release or Twitter trend tell him what was important or what should be today’s most talked-about argument. He wasn’t on his phone or rushing to tweet reactions like the rest of us. In the age of tablets, iPhones, and streaming, my father was still plugged into the environment around him, blocking out everything but the fun and excitement. Just as he had taught me years ago, every game was still the most important game to him, and he emanated that mind-set once he returned to the sidelines.

  It took twenty-seven years and two bone marrow transplants for me to realize that it’s my dad’s perspective that makes him one-of-a-kind, not the colorful personality and clothes that I’ve seen all of these years. It is what he sees, and I’m grateful every day that he fought his way back to the sidelines to remind me that sports can be an opportunity to practice enjoying every moment to its fullest.r />
  While I searched for answers and looked for guidance, my dad, the one person I wanted to talk to most, returned to the sidelines full-time. I was beginning to realize how unimaginably difficult the past two years had been, from that first shocking phone call to a special on HBO Real Sports. Now April was here and I once again found myself conflicted as the playoffs approached. Was I going to get any alone time where it would be just the two of us? I am such a different person than I was before this, I thought. Now more than ever, I wanted that time with him. I understood myself, and the type of family we are, so much better. The playoffs arrived and there was no way he was going to be available when I needed him. Everything was back to the way it had been, except this time he had overcome two transplants to return to the sidelines and was balancing chemotherapy and blood transfusions as well.

  Everywhere I went and everything I did was revolving around my dad, and I wondered if it had been that way my whole life. Every press box I went into hosted old friends of my father’s who wanted to know how he was doing or to pass on their regards to him through me. Every trip to the gym or casual meeting with a friend sparked a conversation about my dad’s health or when he would be back on the air. I chronicled his progress on social media for his fans to follow. I continued to listen to every interview he did in order to have the facts to give the public a glimpse into his fast-paced life and how incredible his battle was. It was tough sharing these moments from afar. No matter how happy it made me to see him back on the sidelines, there was always a part of me that wanted to be there to experience it live. But that shouldn’t be surprising to a Sager. There are sacrifices that demanding jobs have on a family. I didn’t understand this until I was older, but one thing our family always did was make the most out of the time we spent together. And, truth be told, there’s nothing like tuning in to a game and watching him in his element. I realized that as the incredible 2016 NBA playoffs journeyed on, and watched with an appreciation I could never have imagined possible.

  26

  LIVING OUT LOUD

  During my Northwestern years, a handful of friends and I would party in the infield of the Kentucky Derby in Louisville along with tens of thousands of others, though I was a bit more interested in the races than most. After I graduated college in 1973 and moved to Sarasota, some buddies and I decided to continue the annual pilgrimage, and so it was that Sebastian Larretta, Frank Lutostanski, Curt Malthouse, Mike Moore, Rich Rushkewicz, Tom Ryerson, Mark Sibley, Paul Tate, John Clark, and I all met in Kentucky the day before the race in 1974. My parents had close friends in Lexington, so we always had a place to crash.

  On the Friday night before the Derby, our group of eager young men visited a local Lexington bar, and before long we were engrossed in conversation with a group of beautiful ladies, who happened to work as nurses in the area. Next thing I knew, it was closing time, and we all went back to the nurses’ apartment complex to continue the fun. I noticed from the balcony a swimming pool in the next complex over. The pool water was an inviting shade of green, but a high metal fence separated the pool from my desire.

  “I’m going swimming!” I yelled to no one in particular.

  I walked down the stairs, crossed the parking lot, and climbed the fence. I jogged slowly to the diving board as my group of old and new friends cheered from the apartment balcony. When I walked to the end of the diving board, I could see just how nasty the green water actually was. I didn’t care. I turned around, put my toes on the edge of the board, and did a backflip into the abyss as the fan club roared with approval.

  The water was freezing, so I did not spend a lot of time in the pool celebrating my achievement. I hurriedly got out and climbed the fence again. Except that my hand slipped on one of the metal poles, and because of the way I was positioned at the time, I did the splits right on top of the fence, ripping open my groin and my inner left thigh. My friends laughed, not realizing the seriousness of my injury. Luckily, the nurses quickly came to my aid and immediately recognized that I would need a lot of stitches.

  We piled into a car and raced to the emergency room, where the nurses got me in right away and a doctor inserted sixty-six stiches into my scrotum and thirty-two into my thigh. Both the nurses and my college buddies continued to drink beer while I lay in pain. The doctors suggested I spend the night in the hospital, but my friends would have none of it, and carried me off to the car.

  The next morning was Derby Day and, despite my immature antics the previous night and, more practically, the injury that had almost cost me potential fatherhood, we drove from Lexington to Churchill Downs. It was too painful for me to walk, and I had bandages bulging out of my groin. The only spots left to park were a ways away from the Downs in nearby neighborhoods, and there was no way I was going to make it. One of my friends spotted a child’s red wagon in the front yard of a nearby house. He gave the kid cash, and I had a mode of transportation to the infield.

  There was plenty of drinking and streaking in the infield as I sat in the wagon, my shirt off and my pants still bulging with bandages. I was able to stand up but did so just at the wrong time, as police officers approached and took me into custody. My buddy Mike stood up for me, trying to explain to the officers that I was not streaking or even drinking heavily. They arrested him, too. So there we were, in glorious fashion, in the Churchill Downs jail along with forty other derelicts, most of whom were drunk beyond functioning.

  Finally, after the Derby was over, the judge heard my case, and I explained the accident from the previous night.

  “So you were not streaking?” he asked.

  “No, your honor,” I said. “I can’t even walk.”

  A $220 fine later and I was free.

  Reckless? Perhaps. Memorable? Absolutely. Made even more memorable by the fact that one of my buddies, Curt Malthouse, fell in love with one of the nurses, Kathy Conroy, and they married a few years later; they recently celebrated their fortieth wedding anniversary.

  Taking the dare, overcoming my fears, doing the impossible—these were always part of my makeup; I thrived on high adrenaline. Hang gliding over Mexico, swimming with sharks, and jumping out of a plane for a news story. I remember being so scared free-falling over the fields of Kansas that I almost didn’t pull the parachute cord. I remember touching the ground and crash-landing, thinking, I will never do that again. Of course, my cameraman, Alan Bal, wanted a different angle and made me do it again.

  At the Olympic Festival in 1991 in San Antonio, my producer, Scott Cockerill, suggested that I bungee jump for a story in a parking lot set up for jumps off a very, very high crane. The instructor helped secure my harness around my hips and groin, and I swan-dived off the platform, despite having just learned that two people had already died doing the same stunt, and the jump would be shut down in a matter of days. The rush of free-falling was incredible, but the violent snap-back of the rope and harness against my body was like nothing I had ever felt before, and the remaining ups and downs as I came to a rest did not help.

  It’s been my MO since I was a kid—take the risks, feel the rush, live on the edge. But there is one passion in my life that slows me down. Well, sort of.

  *

  Little old Batavia did not have a golf course when I was growing up, but there were plenty of them outside of town. As my father became more successful in his career, we joined the St. Charles Country Club, where they took golf very seriously. I would swing a club with my mother when I was younger and she would constantly give me pointers: Keep your arm straight. Stop swaying your knees. Don’t grip the club so tightly. To earn some money, I caddied a few times at St. Charles, but the arrogance of some of the young kids I was caddying for turned me off. I also worked at a public course, Old Wayne Golf Club, where I would arrive in the darkness to rake the sand traps, water the grass, and mow the greens before the first morning groups would tee off. For those of you who play golf, you know that, to protect the health of the grass, greenskeepers don’t mow the greens in the same direct
ion each day.

  Our next-door neighbor in Batavia, Bill Maddox, built golf courses all around the Midwest, including the Playboy Resort and Country Club at Lake Geneva. He hired some of us to help construct the course there in the late 1960s, and I gained an appreciation for just how critical the grain and slope of a putting green can be.

  In high school, I started to play more regularly with my friends, though Batavia High School did not have a golf team. Our athletic director at the time, Bob Tober, offered to enter a few of us in the conference tournament, even though we did not have a team and had never competed in a match. So four of us—Jim Rasmussen, Robin Walch, John Clark, and I—took a shot and we finished in third place in the conference and took home a trophy without having a legitimate team and without any practice! When I got to Northwestern, I played a lot on the course near the canal, often paired with my friend and professor Gary Wodder, who had hired me to referee intramural basketball games for $25 a pop. The money came in handy—not only for expenses and beer, but to wager a bit on the golf course.

  Golf stayed with me as I began my career in Sarasota, with many golf courses in South Florida, and continued in Tampa, Fort Myers, Kansas City, Atlanta, and everywhere I could find a course. I have played in PGA Tour pro-ams and in countless club and charity tournaments. I went to twenty-two straight Masters in Augusta, covered PGA tournaments, and befriended the likes of Tom Watson, Jack Nicklaus, and Phil Mickelson.