NPR’s politics team, with help from reporters and editors who cover national security, immigration, business, foreign policy and more, live annotated the debate. Portions of the debate with added analysis are underlined in yellow, followed by context and fact check.
You can follow more highlights of the debate at nprpolitics.org.
Note: The transcript on this page was updated live as the debate proceeded. We are working to correct the transcript as it comes in, but owing to the live nature of the event, there may be some discrepancies.
NPR’s Robert Siegel talks with Michael Bamberger, a senior writer at Sports Illustrated, about the legacy of Arnold Palmer. He died Sunday at age 87.
ROBERT SIEGEL, HOST:
The death of Arnold Palmer marks the loss of a rare professional athlete who changed the way people viewed his sport. He came from humble roots to shine in a game associated with the well-to-do. He played with a vigor that reminded you that hitting a golf ball is in fact an athletic feat. He was a golden boy who attracted fans who adored him. Michael Bamberger joins us now. He’s a senior writer for Sports Illustrated. Welcome back.
MICHAEL BAMBERGER: Thank you, Robert.
SIEGEL: How would you describe the impact that Arnold Palmer had on the game of golf?
BAMBERGER: Well, he really redefined golf for American middle-class weekend athletes. It was a game that was considered off limits prior to Arnold. And because of Arnold and ever since, it’s been a major leisure time activity for literally tens of millions, if not hundreds of millions of people. He also sold an enormous number of color TVs along the way. So Arnold’s impact is immeasurable.
SIEGEL: But you say people thought it was off limits because they, like Arnold Palmer, came from working-class roots, and this was a game that people who belonged to country clubs played.
BAMBERGER: Arnold sort of made his first mark in golf by winning the 1954 U.S. Amateur in Detroit. He defeated someone who was from a prosperous Long Island family, and that sort of set the tone really for the rest of his career.
And even though there were certainly other golfers, including Ben Hogan, who he sort of replaced as America’s leading golfer who also came from working-class humble origins, as you say, he did it with a verve and a style that was irresistible. He had an enormous amount of sex appeal that drew women to him in great numbers, but men live vicariously through that same charisma as well.
SIEGEL: Yes, his fans, Arnie’s Army, were a phenomenon. He was a hugely popular athlete.
BAMBERGER: He was. And interestingly, Robert, he remained so long after his days as an athlete were over because he had a rare ability, like certain actors, like maybe a Tom Hanks or maybe like a George Clooney have to connect with people. He could connect with galleries in the thousands or be it a rubber chicken dinner with several hundred people there. And everyone had the feeling of connecting individually with every single individual person.
SIEGEL: In addition to being a great golfer and handsome athletic-looking guy, Arnold Palmer came across as a very sunny personality. Was that for real? In private was he that nice?
BAMBERGER: I wouldn’t describe Arnold as nice. I would say that he was interesting and that he was truthful. I would say he was much darker in his private life because there were losses in golf that haunted him literally for the rest of his life. And most particularly he never won a PGA Championship which he needed to have completed the cycle of winning the four great major golf championships.
But also he had numerous opportunities, a half a dozen or more opportunities that he could tick them off rapid fire to win U.S. Opens, which was really the crown jewel to him of all golf championships. And he won in 1960.
And as he said, he never really could get back the deep aggressiveness that let him get into a gear to get the job done after he won that 1960 U.S. Open. So really everything he achieved after that 1960 Open did not really measure up for him because that was his grail, was that U.S. Open.
SIEGEL: Michael Bamberger of Sports Illustrated, thanks for talking with us about the late Arnold Palmer.
NPR transcripts are created on a rush deadline by Verb8tm, Inc., an NPR contractor, and produced using a proprietary transcription process developed with NPR. This text may not be in its final form and may be updated or revised in the future. Accuracy and availability may vary. The authoritative record of NPR’s programming is the audio record.
Arnold Palmer acknowledges the crowd after hitting the ceremonial first tee shot at the 2007 Masters tournament. David J. Phillip/ASSOCIATED PRESShide caption
toggle captionDavid J. Phillip/ASSOCIATED PRESS
Golfing legend Arnold Palmer has died at 87.
He died Sunday evening at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center Shadyside, a tertiary care hospital in Pittsburgh. NPR confirmed his death with UPMC’s media relations manager, Stephanie Stanley. The United States Golf Association announced Palmer’s death via Twitter.
Palmer won 62 PGA Tour events, fifth on the all-time list. He won golf’s biggest titles: the Masters, the U.S. Open, the British Open. He won seven majors in all.
We are deeply saddened by the death of Arnold Palmer, golf’s greatest ambassador, at age 87. pic.twitter.com/iQmGtseNN1
But it wasn’t just the numbers that made Palmer an iconic sports figure.
He wasn’t the greatest male golfer of all time. That title usually prompts a debate about Jack Nicklaus or Tiger Woods or Ben Hogan, maybe Sam Snead. But the most important player? It’s fairly unanimous that Arnold Palmer was, true to his nickname, the King.
Palmer strapped a moldy, staid game on his back and gave it new life. He ignited golf’s popularity in the 1960s as he became the sport’s first TV star.
“He was someone who looked like an NFL halfback,” says ESPN.com senior writer Ian O’Connor. “He had arms like a blacksmith and giant hands, and he had those rugged good looks. And he was just a different golfer. Nobody had ever really seen anything like him in that sport.”
Palmer’s arrival as a champion pro in the late 1950s dovetailed with the emerging medium of television.
Whether he was winning tournaments or pitching products, Palmer’s looks, athleticism and talent made him a natural for TV.
Arnold Palmer, left, and his friend and often-rival Jack Nicklaus, after winning a team event in 1966 in West Palm Beach, Fla. Toby Massey/ASSOCIATED PRESShide caption
toggle captionToby Massey/ASSOCIATED PRESS
But that was only part of what transformed admiring fans into a devoted following that became known as Arnie’s Army.
The Working-Class Kid Who Popularized An Upper-Class Sport
Palmer grew up in a working-class home in Latrobe, Pa., and ultimately he brought the game to the same kinds of people.
“Golf was always considered a blue blood, country club, elitist sport,” says O’Connor. “Arnold Palmer gave the sport to people who worked for members of the country club set.”
He’d play with his shirt tail hanging out. He’d flick away a cigarette before hitting, then swing for the fences and grimace like an average duffer if the result was bad. O’Connor says the class conflict was a motivating factor in Palmer’s career.
Palmer hangs his head after a double bogey on the ninth hole during the third round of the PGA Championship in Ligonier, Pa., in 1965. wfa/APhide caption
toggle captionwfa/AP
So was Palmer’s dad, known as Deacon.
Milfred J. “Deacon” Palmer was a greenskeeper, golf pro and, Arnold often said, the man who taught him everything he knew. Deacon was known for his honesty, and toughness. Especially with his son.
“He was tough on me. He never backed off,” Palmer said in a 2015 interview. “He played tough, worked hard, and he died a tough guy. He played 27 holes of golf the day he passed.”
It was Deacon who introduced Arnold to golf, with the instructions, “Hit it hard, boy. Go find it and hit it again.”
Palmer’s mom Doris softened the hard edges. A friendly woman, golf historians say Doris Palmer gave Arnold his people skills, which were a critical part of his legacy.
A Genuinely Nice Guy
“I’ve often said that Arnold puts up with people that neither you or I would put up with,” says Doc Giffin.
[embedded content]
YouTube
He was Palmer’s personal assistant for more than 50 years. Giffin remembers the many moments of Palmer walking among throngs of fans as he strode down fairways – the King and his army. Or Palmer talking to people in the gallery, joking with them, making paying customers feel like he wanted them there at the course.
Palmer would also take great care when signing autographs. One of his pet peeves was modern day athletes scribbling their names. Illegible autographs, Palmer thought, cheapened the fan’s experience.
But judging by his golfing success, Palmer knew when to tune out the adoring masses and focus on himself.
Most of the time.
There was that final hole of the final round of the 1961 Masters. Palmer had a one-stroke lead.
“And [he] had the ball in the fairway at the 18th hole,” Giffin says, “and he saw a friend of his over at the ropes who waved him over. And he walked over there instead of staying with his golf ball. And the man congratulated him on winning his second straight Masters [Palmer won in 1960]. He said, ‘Thank you,’ went back to his ball, and knocked it in the trap.”
Palmer, center, signs autographs at the Texas Open in 1962. Ted Powers/ASSOCIATED PRESShide caption
toggle captionTed Powers/ASSOCIATED PRESS
Palmer ended up with a six on the par four, and he walked off the final green one stroke behind.
“And lost the Masters that it looked like he had it in the bag,” Giffin says. “And he said, ‘I’ll never let that happen again.’ And he learned his lesson.”
Palmer made amends a year later at the same tournament. In a playoff, he made a back-nine charge to win the 1962 Masters.
Arnie And Jack
Our greatest sports heroes often have a foil. In Palmer’s case, it was Jack Nicklaus.
In his book Arnie and Jack, Ian O’Connor chronicles a 50-year duel on golf courses and boardrooms, as the two men competed in the business world as well. Personality-wise, they were, at least in the early years of their rivalry, polar opposites. Palmer was the people’s champ — gregarious, comfortable in crowds, a go-for-broke style of player. Nicklaus, about 10 years younger, was reserved, some say aloof and more scientific about the game.
Nicklaus easily beat Palmer in the record books. His 18 major titles still are the most anyone’s won. Palmer had seven. But Palmer had the adoring fans.
For all their battles through the 1960s, O’Connor says it was a moment in the early 2000s that prompted him to write his book.
Palmer and Nicklaus were well past their primes. O’Connor figures Arnie was in his early 70s and Jack, early 60s. They were paired together for a round at the Masters.
“They were putting on a green and Arnold finished,” O’Connor remembers, “and he picked up his ball and he walked over to the fans circling the green, and he sat down in a guy’s chair. Everyone got a big laugh. Meanwhile, Jack is standing over a putt and he’s grinding. He’s trying to make the cut, trying to contend, trying to win despite his age!”
Palmer, right, with Jack Nicklaus at the Masters in 2016. Charlie Riedel/APhide caption
toggle captionCharlie Riedel/AP
“And he looked up and he shot Arnold a really angry stare. If looks could kill! And I happened to be there and it struck me that these guys have been battling, on and off the course, for so long. It’s probably the greatest rivalry in the sport’s history. That was the first seed [of the book].”
O’Connor says the two men competed on golf course design projects; they even competed for status as the top ambassador of the game.
But O’Connor says there’s no question the rivalry was tempered by friendship.
“I think deep down,” says O’Connor, “Jack knows he couldn’t have been Jack without Arnie and Arnie knows he couldn’t have been Arnie without Jack. There is respect and affection there.”
Touched By A King
Palmer was a friend of presidents, but a man who never forgot his roots. He lived half the year in his native Latrobe. His dual appeal — charisma and humility — didn’t organically turn Palmer into a global, celebrity athlete. That happened with the help of Mark McCormack, whose IMG became the biggest sports marketing company in the world. Palmer was McCormack’s first major client.
While the two of them spread Palmer’s fame, golf started to boom. The number of players and courses increased dramatically in the 1960s. By some accounts, in the early part of the decade, Palmer’s heyday, 350 to 400 new courses were built each year.
It wasn’t all Palmer’s doing. But he lit a fuse. With equal parts swagger and humility when he played.
And a smile for strangers who came to the course to watch a golfer, and left feeling like they’d been touched by a King.
Rolling Stone founder Jann Wenner speaks during the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony in April 2013. Danny Moloshok/Invision/APhide caption
toggle captionDanny Moloshok/Invision/AP
The founder of Rolling Stone is selling a minority share of the fabled magazine to a Singapore-based social media entrepreneur, the first time an outside investor has been allowed to buy into the property.
Several media reports say Jann Wenner has decided to sell 49 percent of the magazine, as well as its digital assets, to BandLab Technologies, a social-networking site for musicians and fans.
The sale will not involve Rolling Stone‘s parent company, Wenner Media LLC, and Wenner will retain control of the magazine, The Wall Street Journal reports. Instead, BandLab “will oversee a new Rolling Stone International subsidiary, which will develop live events, merchandising and hospitality,” Bloomberg reports.
The sale comes at a time when Rolling Stone, like virtually every publication, has seen its revenues slip and its subscriber base shrink. It also suffered a major blow to its reputation when it published an article about a purported gang rape at a University of Virginia fraternity that turned out to be a hoax.
Under Wenner’s son, Gus, the magazine has pursued an aggressive digital strategy, Bloomberg reports:
“Rolling Stone currently reaches a global audience of 65 million people, according to the company. That includes 22 million domestic digital monthly users, almost 18 million social fans and followers, and nearly 12 million readers of the U.S. print publication. The average monthly unique visitors to its website rose almost 40 percent in the first half of this year from a year earlier. It publishes 12 international editions in countries including Australia, Indonesia and Japan.”
“Everyone is trying to figure out the new business model,” said Gus Wenner, in an interview with the Wall Street Journal. He runs digital operations at Wenner Media and also oversees ad sales, marketing and digital editorial across the company.
“We have the quality that most matters, a brand that means something to people and elicits an emotional response,” said Wenner, the son of Jann Wenner, who founded the magazine in 1967.
BandLab was founded by Kuok Meng Ru, the son of agribusiness billionaire Kuok Khoon Hong. It is funded by private investors, including Kuok’s father.
“What has happened last 49 years has already shown that Rolling Stone is more than a brand to people,” Kuok said in a Bloomberg interview. “It is now our shared responsibility to take it into the future.”
A Washington state county is floating the idea of supervised clinics where people can inject heroin. King County’s health officer Jeff Duchin tells NPR’s Rachel Martin why he thinks it’s a good idea.
RACHEL MARTIN, HOST:
Officials in Seattle and the surrounding areas are considering a controversial proposal to tackle heroin addiction there. A task force has recommended opening clinics where people can take the drug legally and under medical supervision. Dr. Jeff Duchin is the health officer for King County in Washington state, and he joins us on the line.
Welcome to the program.
JEFF DUCHIN: Good morning.
MARTIN: How would this work?
DUCHIN: This particular feature, what we’re calling safe consumption sites or community health engagement locations, where users can come and use their heroin or their opioid drug under supervision of a medical professional – in a nutshell, the idea is not really to give people a place to inject drugs and then go about their lives but really a way that they can inject safely off the street, out of doorways, out of alleyways – hygienic conditions to minimize their risk of infection, such as HIV; to minimize their risk of overdose and to minimize the stigmatization and social rejection that keeps a lot of these people out of the health care system in the first place.
MARTIN: I understand a lot of the implementation of this will be worked out as you move forward with this proposal. But at this point, can you tell me if the clinics would provide the heroin or this is just a safe space for people to come in and use the drugs that they have on them?
DUCHIN: These locations would not provide any drugs. These locations would only provide health care providers that would give clean injection equipment so that people don’t pass infections from one person to the next. There is no provision of drugs at all. It’s just a safe space and a doorway to access other necessary health care.
MARTIN: So is the goal, then, to get these people off of heroin ultimately?
DUCHIN: Yeah, the goal is really access to treatment. So treatment is really the main bottom line that we’re trying to promote as the most effective, you know, population-wide intervention. We want people getting in long-term treatment. And this is just one doorway that we can use to get people into treatment.
MARTIN: How do you make this legal? I mean, you can’t, as it is now, just shoot up with heroin on the street. What makes it different being in your space?
DUCHIN: We are not making this legal. That is a misperception. We are going to give people with substance abuse disorders a safe, medically supervised place where they can use their drugs and not fear being arrested, beaten up or attacked…
MARTIN: That means you have to have support from law enforcement and the courts.
DUCHIN: Exactly. We have support from our local law enforcement community. And we’re optimistic that this is going to work here. But ultimately, we cannot make this legal.
MARTIN: Dr. Jeff Duchin is the health officer for King County in Washington state.
NPR transcripts are created on a rush deadline by Verb8tm, Inc., an NPR contractor, and produced using a proprietary transcription process developed with NPR. This text may not be in its final form and may be updated or revised in the future. Accuracy and availability may vary. The authoritative record of NPR’s programming is the audio record.
Joe Paterno is seen on the scoreboard during a time out against the Temple Owls during the game on September 17, 2016 at Beaver Stadium in State College, Penn. Justin K. Aller/Getty Imageshide caption
toggle captionJustin K. Aller/Getty Images
#NPRreads is a weekly feature on Twitter and The Two-Way. The premise is simple: Correspondents, editors and producers from our newsroom share the pieces that have kept them reading, using the #NPRreads hashtag. Each weekend, we highlight some of the best stories.
Soon after helping his Texas A&M Aggies knock off the top team in the country, Thomas Johnson, a breakout wide receiver, gave up football for reasons we may never truly know.
What led to his decision and the consequences that followed, irreparably affected numerous lives and led to the deaths of two people: Dave Stevens, allegedly at the hands of Johnson via a machete, and Patti Stevens, Dave’s widow, who took her own life shortly after her husband’s death.
Johnson now awaits mental health treatment in order to stand trial, but this ESPN story focuses on the signs both seen and missed in Johnson as he grew up, became a football sensation, departed the sport and university community, and eventual descent toward the morning of Oct. 12, 2015.
The issue of mental health and the consideration of those who must deal with it — family members, law enforcement, and ourselves — is at the heart of this piece. And lest we forget the Stevens family and their lives, the Dallas Morning News has deftly reported this story as well. I suggest reading their coverage on this ultimately tragic saga as well.
You must read this profile about California gang culture, published in California Sunday Magazine and written by novelist and radio storyteller and reporter and cultural critic Daniel Alarcon. The Ballad of Rocky Rontal is the story of a young man from California caught in an situation that could not end well.
The great thing about this piece is that Daniel Alarcón doesn’t give too much away too fast, and I’ll try not to ruin that here. This is what you need to know about the subject of the piece, Rocky Rontal: he was never, he says, allowed to have a childhood.
Rontal was born and raised in Stockton, California. His father was a violent man and he drank. Rocky tried to protect his mother from his father, until the man beat his 10-year-old son so badly that his mother kicked her husband out of the house. By the time he was 13, his older brothers were both in juvenile detention and Rocky was the man of the house. He started stealing, first fruit, then cars.
Rocky ended up at a state reform school, and then in juvenile detention for breaking another boy’s ribs in a fight.
He was 15 when an adult first called him a gang member.
From there, things go unsurprisingly badly for Rocky. The subtitle of the piece is “How do we forgive the unforgiveable?” I’ll leave you with the sentence that, about halfway through, made my stomach turn in anticipation and dread:
“This is the story of two terrible crimes. Here’s the first.”
From political reporter Jessica Taylor
This take on why it was abhorrent that Penn St. celebrated Joe Paterno this weekend will have you in tears #NPRreadshttps://t.co/SS4u7ySYo7
Believe me, I completely understand college football fandom. Just check my Twitter feed on Saturdays in the fall if you don’t believe me. But there are things far more important than football, and that was the issue Penn State faced last weekend. The school is just few years removed from and still trying to heal after the Jerry Sandusky scandal, where the school’s former assistant coach was convicted of multiple counts of sexual abuse of young boys over the course of decades. Last Saturday, the school decided to honor the 50th anniversary of the late head coach Joe Paterno — who an independent investigator, former FBI director Louis Freeh, had found had concealed Sandusky’s actions, as did court testimony; Paterno and his family maintained he did not.
But by honoring Paterno’s legacy so soon — which, if judged by football wins and losses alone is good — the wounds left open the horrible scandal were not even addressed or seemingly considered. And it’s impossible to remove the Sandusky scandal from Paterno’s legacy. When the school newspaper editor wrote an editorial opposing the school’s plans to honor Paterno, she got hate mail from alumni and fans calling her a “clueless treacherous traitor,” and worse. “I hope God can forgive you for your actions, I sure the hell can’t,” one person wrote. Oh, the irony.
The Undefeated’s Mike Wise has a must-read on why the seemingly tone-deaf move by the school is so damaging. He movingly writes of his own horrific experiences of being sexually abused by an uncle as a child and the shame and torment it caused him. “The people who stood to honor Paterno may have meant no harm. But to Sandusky’s victims, to all victims of child sexual abuse, pining for Penn State’s past is the opposite of love,” Wise wrote.
Ultimately this decision was about far more than football, and in that, Penn State failed, Wise argues:
“It’s not up to the Penn State community – the unaffected fan in the stadium’s third row – to decide how Paterno’s legacy should be treated. It’s not up to his widow, Sue Paterno, who persuaded the university to have this weekend.
“It’s up to the men who were molested. They get to decide.”
Schrafft’s was a chain of restaurants, with a candy store attached, that catered to ladies who lunch. To NPR’s Lynn Neary, who used to waitress there, Schrafft’s “always felt like the epicenter of the comfort zone.” MCNY/Gottscho-Schleisner/Getty Imageshide caption
I believe I am one of the few people in the world who actually had tickets to Woodstock. Of course, I never got a chance to use them, because on the first day of the festival, I was filling up relish trays and taking dinner orders from customers at Schrafft’s.
All this came back to me in a rush of memories when I picked up the new bookTen Restaurants that Changed America. Schrafft’s was one of the restaurants listed. “Really”? I thought. “Schrafft’s changed America?”
This was a chain of tastefully decorated havens where ladies gathered for light lunches or ice cream and sweets. It always seemed like the epicenter of the comfort zone to me, a place that change zipped past in a hurry to get someplace more interesting.
The fountain counter at Schrafft’s on Broadway, New York City, circa 1940. Library of Congresshide caption
toggle captionLibrary of Congress
As a kid I loved Schrafft’s. I have fond memories of excursions into “the city” with my mother. They started with a train ride that emptied us into New York City’s Grand Central station, then out into the street, where millions of people rushed by me as I held tightly to my mother’s hand. If it was a shopping trip, we’d head to my mother’s favorite store on Fifth Ave., Lord and Taylor’s, which just happened to be right across the street from Schrafft’s. And that meant we always ended the day with a hot fudge sundae at the counter at Schrafft’s. No one has ever been able to match the pure deliciousness of Schrafft’s hot fudge.
Eventually, Schrafft’s opened a restaurant in suburban Westchester County. And I got my first summer job there. This was no glamour waitressing job. This was hard core. In addition to a very unflattering uniform, all waitresses had to wear a ridiculously unflattering hair net and shoes that were the very definition of clodhoppers. And this is where I found myself in the summer of 1969. Think about that for a minute. A lot was going on in the summer 1969. I watched men land on the moon while standing in the lobby of Schrafft’s in between serving pot roast and apple pie.
And then there was Woodstock.
I had to work the first night of the festival but planned to meet up with my friends the next day. By the time I got off work, it was clear that something was happening on that farm in upstate New York that no one had anticipated. By the next morning, the New York State Thruway was backed up practically to the Tappan Zee bridge. The news was rife with stories of unsanitary conditions and a lack of food, shelter and medical supplies. Oh yeah, and by then, Woodstock had turned into a free concert. A lot of the kids who showed up for the festival weren’t inclined to pay for it anyway. So, no, I didn’t end up joining them. The idea of getting stuck in the mud was distinctly unappealing. Besides, my mother didn’t want me to go.
Let’s face it, girls who worked at Schrafft’s, bought tickets to the biggest free rock concert of the century and actually listened to their mothers would have been a distinct minority at Woodstock … a minority of one, I suspect.
It’s been a rough year for people who believe in free trade. In June, the UK decided to leave the European Union—the biggest free trade block in the world. A potential trade deal between the U.S. and Europe seems to be falling apart. And the Trans-Pacific Partnership — a trade deal between the U.S. and 10 other countries — has two very prominent opponents: Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump.
On today’s show, we pack 240 years of trade history into 22 minutes. There’s a Scotsman who was captured by gypsies (possibly), a man who dreamed of world peace (truly), and Robert Smith in the streets with revolutionaries (sort of).
Music: “Funky Festivities” and “Chilltown.” Find us:Twitter/Facebook.
One of the few coaches in the Olympic Hall of Fame has died. Ed Temple coached sprinter Wilma Rudolph and the legendary Tigerbelles of Tennessee State University.
ROBERT SIEGEL, HOST:
A pivotal figure in American track and field has died. Ed Temple is one of just a handful of coaches in the U.S. Olympic Hall of Fame. He led two women’s teams in the 1960s, mostly of his own runners from Tennessee State University. Temple died last night. Blake Farmer of member station WPLN in Nashville has this appreciation.
BLAKE FARMER, BYLINE: Ed Temple started coaching when many schools didn’t even have a women’s team, and he produced one of the greatest runners of all time – Wilma Rudolph. He talked to WPLN last year.
(SOUNDBITE OF ARCHIVED BROADCAST)
ED TEMPLE: You know, the ’60 Olympics in Rome where Wilma won her three gold medals – that opened up the door I think for women’s sports – period.
FARMER: In all, Temple trained 40 Olympians, and administrators say they all went on to get a degree. In an oral history interview, Temple said he’d assemble the team after every semester.
(SOUNDBITE OF ARCHIVED RECORDING)
TEMPLE: I’d go to the registrar’s office, and I’d get the grades of every girl.
FARMER: He’d read their report cards aloud.
(SOUNDBITE OF ARCHIVED RECORDING)
TEMPLE: Now, a lot of people used to criticize me; well, I wouldn’t do that in front of all of them. I’d call them in there individual and tell them. No, I want everybody to know.
FARMER: Temple was a tell-it-like-it-is taskmaster. Don’t even think about being late to practice or missing curfew. His athletes could only ride in his car – a nine-passenger DeSoto station wagon which for many years doubled as a team bus.
WYOMIA TYUS: His rule was always there’s the right way, the wrong way, and there’s his way.
FARMER: Wyomia Tyus was one of Temple’s proteges. She won gold in the 1964 games, then set a world record four years later. But when she got back on campus, there was no favoritism.
TYUS: And I think that was the best thing. Coach Temple never treated his Olympians any different than the girls that did not make the Olympic team.
FARMER: The Tigerbelles of Tennessee State, as they were known, were tight. Not only did they have to fight with male sports for recognition. They also faced intense racism. Journalist Dwight Lewis says they were sometimes not permitted to use the restroom in the field house. But Lewis, who’s writing a book on the famed coach, says Temple didn’t dwell on the discrimination.
DWIGHT LEWIS: But he didn’t go out and beat drums, saying, we’re suffering; we’re suffering; we’re suffering. They did what they had to do.
FARMER: Temple was a matter-of-fact leader, but he was proud, most of all of Wilma Rudolph, who overcame polio to become the fastest woman in the world at the time. Temple attended her funeral where an Olympic flag draped the coffin.
LEWIS: After the funeral was over, Coach Temple was given that flag. He’s had it at his home, and it has not been unfolded since it draped Wilma’s casket. But his wish was that – I don’t want this flag unfolded until it drapes my casket.
FARMER: Ed Temple was 89 years old. For NPR News, I’m Blake Farmer in Nashville.
NPR transcripts are created on a rush deadline by Verb8tm, Inc., an NPR contractor, and produced using a proprietary transcription process developed with NPR. This text may not be in its final form and may be updated or revised in the future. Accuracy and availability may vary. The authoritative record of NPR’s programming is the audio record.
