TAKING NOTE

In November 1969, Jim Murray took to his column to make the cry of “bring back the grass!” The trend du jour was moving from natural grass to the newly invented (1965) “chem-grass.” It was first used in professional sports in 1966 at the Houston Astrodome. In 1972, the first NFL stadium to install the artificial turf was Arrowhead Stadium, home of the Kansas City Chiefs, who will represent the AFC in the Super Bowl on Sunday . . . on real grass at Raymond James Stadium in Tampa against the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

As of 2020, 17 of the 31 professional NFL stadiums featured natural grass, including, ironically, Arrowhead, the first place to go artificial many years ago.

Stadiums with Natural Grass:

Allegiant Stadium, Las Vegas Raiders

Arrowhead Stadium, Kansas City Chiefs

Bank of America Stadium, Carolina Panthers

FedEx Field, Washington Redskins

FirstEnergy Stadium, Cleveland Browns

Hard Rock Stadium, Miami Dolphins

Heinz Field, Pittsburgh Steelers

Lambeau Field, Green Bay Packers

Levi’s Stadium, San Francisco 49ers

Lincoln Financial Field, Philadelphia Eagles

M&T Bank Stadium, Baltimore Ravens

Nissan Stadium, Tennessee Titans

Raymond James Stadium, Tampa Bay Buccaneers

Soldier Field, Chicago Bears

Sports Authority Field at Mile High, Denver Broncos 

State Farm Stadium, Arizona Cardinals

——

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1969, SPORTS

Copyright 1969/THE TIMES MIRROR COMPANY

JIM MURRAY

Bring Back the Grass

  I don’t know about you, but I’m kind of an old-fashioned guy who likes the real McCoy. I want butter that comes from cows. I like cotton in my shirts, wool in my socks, leather in my shoes.

  I’m sick of the polyester, permanent press, plastic world. I don’t want additives in my bread, chemicals in my beer. I think Aspirin is the best cold remedy and castor oil will cure almost anything else that’s wrong with you. I squeeze real oranges for breakfast or I go without. I won’t buy a suitcase if it’s got plastic hangers in it.

  But I’m willing to forgive the chemists, pharmacologists and syntheticians anything if they’ll just keep their cotton-pickin’ — pardon me, nylon-pickin’ — hands off sports.

  Football should be played on grass, baseball should be played outdoors, and golf should be played against nature, not hydraulics. I wish DuPont would stick to explosives, and Monsanto to fertilizers, and leave the gamesmanship to us.

  Take last weekend: Three fine football teams from the area, USC, UCLA, and the Rams, ventured outside the all-wool-and-a-yard-wide world of the Coliseum and entered the plastics division of sports. You would have thought they were playing the game on solid ice. You half-expected them to halt the game at any time and say, “Wait a minute, I’ll go home and get my skates.”

  The only game that should be played on an artificial surface is pool. (I exclude hockey, because, while it is artificially made, the surface is, after all, real ice and not a Libbey-Owens-Ford derivative.)

  I am not fully persuaded a football field should even be MOWED. (I remember one year, the Trojans of USC played a game in Colorado in which they complained the grass was too tall for them, but I have to think any offense that can’t move the ball against high grass should turn in its scholarships.)

  You see, good old American know-how can’t leave any sport, fabric, climate, river, lake, or any other natural condition alone. It would tinker with Paradise. It feels it can fade nature. It can give you a rose without thorns, cattle without horns. I expect any day now they will let the contract for construction of a new synthetic earth and use this old one for a warehouse.

  Take baseball. They began to construct parks to eliminate the cheap home runs (forgetting the cheap home runs saved baseball after the Black Sox scandal) and, the next thing you knew, they were playing it indoors, on felt and with air conditioning. You take the sweat out of baseball, the blood out of football, and the walk out of golf and, pretty soon, you have a nice permanent-press wash-and wear no-calories form of athletics. You can buy a world’s championship in a super market.

  I mean, where does it end? Do you have bats with adjustable settings for curveballs, fastballs, off-speed pitches — or are they self-correctible for whichever shows up at the plate? Do you magnetize gloves so fly balls will drop in them wherever they are stuck up in the air?

  Football on a carpet, indoors, at regulatory 72 degrees is an obscenity. Football is supposed to be played in nose-biting cold, watched from inside a raccoon coat, and on Mother Earth. It should not be played on any surface you can vacuum-clean or hang on a clothesline and beat. If it’s raining or snowing, it should trickle down your neck, get in your cleats. Give us back our mud, gopher holes, puddles, grass. Go carpet Rhode Island or dome Delaware, if you must, but let’s play football the way Walter Camp did. We don’t want powdered football, artificially-sweetened baseball, or miracle fabric golf any more, thank you.

——

Reprinted with the permission of the Los Angeles Times

Jim Murray Memorial Foundation P.O. Box 661532, Arcadia, CA 91066

——

info@jimmurrayfoundation.org|

www.jimmurrayfoundation.org

Last week, the world lost Henry Aaron, who was one of the greatest hitters to ever pick up a bat.

Aaron had a lifetime batting average of .305, 3,771 career hits and 2,297 RBI. He broke Babe Ruth’s lifetime home run record with 755 in 1974 and held that record until 2007 when it was broken by Barry Bonds.

Aaron remains baseball’s all-time leader in RBI (2,297) and total bases (6,856). If each of his 755 home runs were removed from his statistical record, Aaron would still have 3,016 hits.

In 1982, Aaron was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame during his first year of eligibility.

Aaron died in his sleep on January 22 in Atlanta. He was two weeks shy of his 87th birthday.

——

OCTOBER 3, 1963, SPORTS

Copyright 1963/THE TIMES MIRROR COMPANY

JIM MURRAY

Oh, Henry!

  I like to watch Henry Aaron play ball for the same reason I like to watch Spencer Tracy act, or Jan Peerce sing, or Nureyev dance, or the sun set over an open body of water.

  I don’t get a lump in my throat but I have a feeling I’ll remember it long after I’ve forgotten a lot other things that happened about the same time, and that I’ll bore people talking about it when I get old.

  What I mean is, it’s an EVENT in your life — like your first sighting of Edward G. Robinson holding off the whole damn FBI in “G-Man” or “Public Enemy.” It’s Cagney yelling “Come in and get me, coppers!” Bing Crosby singing “Please.” Victor McLaglen stumbling through the Irish rebellion. Your first walk home with a girl in the blonde pigtails. Your first look at the Empire State Building or Spode china or a Botticelli. It’s pure pleasure is what it is. You can forget the mortgage, the hole in your shoe, the fight with your wife, the date who turned you down for the prom, your boss, your income tax, your ulcer and you can lose yourself in admiration. He’s a one-man escape for you.

  It’s an aura given only to a few athletes. With most of your heroes, you agonize. Henry is curious in this regard. He is to enjoy only. The way he plays it, baseball is an art. Not a competition. He is grace in a gray flannel suit, a poem with a bat in its hands.

  Hold on you say? What’s that? Willie Mays has more “color?” Well, if “color” is your hat flying off, or “color” is the over-the-shoulder catch, or “color” is the wild 360-degree swing and the all-purpose pratfall, Willie is your man. Henry is mine.

  With Willie the effort is there. You see it. You empathize with it. You strain when he strains, struggle when he struggles. Willie is a bit of a ham. With Henry Louis Aaron it’s as smooth and effortless as a swan gliding along a lake. He underplays like a British actor. Willie attacks the game. Aaron just gets it to co-operate with him.

  “He’s a pretty hitter — about the prettiest I’ve ever seen,” the Dodgers’ Vin Scully, who must have seen 2,000, says. “Henry’s no trouble on or off the field,” his manager Bobby Bragan says. “He’s the perfect ballplayer, the kind, if you get one in your lifetime, you’re one-up on most every other manager in the game. The beauty of Henry is you don’t even know he’s there.”

  With most ballplayers, when you don’t even notice if they’re there, it’s usually because they’re not — and when they’re needed. No one ever needed to look around for Henry Aaron when the chips were down. And he kept his hat on.

  When he steals a base, it’s stealable — and necessary. He’s stolen 24 of 27 this year. In his whole career he’s been caught stealing only 3-4 times a year. And he’s stolen 149 bases. Percentage-wise, he may be as hard to throw out as Maury Wills.

  His skills are so deceptive that, when he first came up to the big leagues, his manager thought he had hired a somnambulist. “Why doesn’t he sleep on his own time like everybody else?” he protested. The scout who signed him was not worried. “Unless you hear him snoring, don’t throw him anything out over the plate or you’ll run out of baseballs before spring training is over. He’s the most wide-awake sleepy-looking guy you ever saw.”

  If Willie Mays gets $150,000 next year, Henry Aaron will be the most underpaid guy in the world this side of a rickshaw. Frankly, the only thing Willie Mays does better than Henry Aaron is hit home runs. Frankly, of course, the only thing Caruso did better than me was sing — but it is a fact that up until two years ago, (and if you weighted Mays’ average with a year — 1952 — when he played only 34 games), Aaron led Mays in (average per year) every single category from hits to runs to runs-batted-in to home runs.

  “You can’t compare one man to another,” Henry protested to me one night this week as he got in some hardly needed bat work fungoing grounders to infielders. Of course, the hell I can’t. I positively enjoy comparing Aaron to Mays. To me, it’s a rock’n roll versus a symphony.

  Of course, the only person you really can compare Aaron to is Joe DiMaggio. Like DiMag, he’s in the right place at the right time. Like DiMag, he never throws to the wrong base. Like DiMag, he’s one of the most consistent hitters in the long history of the game. Neither of them ever had what you could consider a slump. A “slump” for Henry Aaron is going one whole day without a hit or one whole week without a home run.

  Unlike DiMag, he’s dubbed “colorless.” “Color” is also playing most of your career in New York. The camera lights are brighter, the ink is blacker, the Ed Sullivan Show is just around the corner. The guest panelists on “What’s My Line?” have to wear masks when you come on because if you play in New York, everyone knows your face. In Milwaukee, the only recognizable thing comes in kegs! No one ever pays any attention to anyone from Milwaukee. You’re just the second line of a vaudeville joke. You’re better off in Sheboygan.

  Henry Aaron is not my personal discovery. He’s well acquainted with every pitcher around the league. “With Aaron,” says Johnny Podres, “the thing you have to do is not let him come up with anybody on base. You throw your best pitches to guys in front of Aaron or you’ll get dizzy watching the runs come around when he gets to bat.”

  “I have tried everything with Aaron but rolling the ball to him,” confesses Don Drysdale. “You can get him out once in a while — but you better not count on it.”

  He does one thing wrong: He hits off his front foot. It’s such a terrible fault some years he has trouble leading the league in everything. He could bat an annual .320 on his knees.

  When he first came up, a spindly, silent kid from the streets of Mobile, he attracted so little notice that a coach once asked him, “Say, is your name ‘Aaron Henry’ or is it the other way round?”

  Nowadays, around baseball, when you say “Henry,” that’s enough. There’s only one of him in this game. And that’s enough, too, for my dough. I mean, why be greedy? Beethovens don’t come by the dozen. Baseball is not the philharmonic, but it is like it in that when you get someone who doesn’t need the music right in front of him, people pay to see him. As for you Willie Mays fans — Liberace, baby. My man is not the sequined-suit type. No vulgar flash. Just hits the right notes. And the high curveballs.

——

Reprinted with the permission of the Los Angeles Times

Jim Murray Memorial Foundation P.O. Box 661532, Arcadia, CA 91066

——

info@jimmurrayfoundation.org|

www.jimmurrayfoundation.org