Like It Is

Blackie Sherrod left a mark on his profession

In this 1999 photo, Blackie Sherrod poses for a photo in Texas for a story on him at the time of his 80th birthday. Sherrod, the longtime Texas sports writer revered for his dry wit, died Thursday, April 28, 2016, at his Dallas home after a week in hospice care, wife Joyce Sherrod told The Dallas Morning News. He was 96. (Jim Mahoney/The Dallas Morning News via AP)
In this 1999 photo, Blackie Sherrod poses for a photo in Texas for a story on him at the time of his 80th birthday. Sherrod, the longtime Texas sports writer revered for his dry wit, died Thursday, April 28, 2016, at his Dallas home after a week in hospice care, wife Joyce Sherrod told The Dallas Morning News. He was 96. (Jim Mahoney/The Dallas Morning News via AP)

He was known as a sports columnist. A Texas sports columnist with a national reputation.

William Forrest Sherrod was much more than a sports columnist. His Runyonesque style of writing was almost required reading for sports fans in Texas.

There was no event too big or too small for the man who went by the nickname Blackie for more than six decades, given to him by one of his football coaches at Howard Payne College.

He covered Super Bowls, Olympics, World Series, the Democratic National Convention and the 1969 moon landing with the same deft art at putting together words that made other writers say they wished they had written that.

He won so many awards that he kept only the ones that were first place.

At the age of 85, 11 years ago, he was gently pushed into retirement, something he didn't necessarily feel was all that gentle.

Blackie had no children; his writings were his legacy.

When I heard about the retirement, I wrote a column about him. You see, he was my hero. I was one of the many who looked up to him professionally and personally.

A few days after the column appeared, I got a handwritten thank-you letter from him. His last sentence summed him up: "It must have been a slow news day."

As long as I live, I'll never forget the Kentucky Derby, at a media party (back when they had those), when Blackie was at a table with Jim Murrayof the Los Angeles Times, Edwin Pope of the Miami Herald, Dan Cookof the San Antonio Express, Furman Bisher of the Atlanta Constitution, and a couple of other reporters.

Admittedly, I had slowly circled their table twice, trying to catch a few words of one of their stories. Those guys stayed at the same hotel -- and later condos -- because they were close friends and confidants.

Blackie offered the last chair to yours truly, with one caveat: As the youngest, by far, I'd have to agree to be their waiter, running to the bar for their drinks. I would have painted their houses.

The next three hours flew by, and the trips for adult beverages were few and far between.

Once at the Cotton Bowl, at another media dinner (the Cotton Bowl still respects journalists), Blackie was sitting with some friends. The young reporters with me wanted to meet him. I politely asked if he minded, and while he admittedly looked pained because he knew, rightly, that his friends would tease him, he agreed.

After spending a few minutes shaking hands and sharing a story or two, he started to leave. I told him thanks, and he looked back and said, "No, thank you."

Several years ago, my daughter, who was 12 at the time, and I ran into him in a hotel hallway. He spent a few minutes talking to Whitney and left for his room.

Later that night, in the hospitality room, in front of several reporters, he called out a warning: "You better be careful about young girls in a hotel."

Early in my career I asked Fred Morrow, then the sports editor of the Arkansas Democrat and a gifted columnist himself, how I could get better.

He told me to read Blackie, Red Smith, Murray and a few others. He said to never copy them; just study them, write a million words, throw them away, and then you are ready to start learning.

I bought many a Dallas Morning News just to read Blackie. He was my favorite. I still cherish the collection of columns he published years ago in a book.

We could be at the same event and I'd always wonder at his prose the next day.

Last week, at 96 years of age, Blackie Sherrod died, and I have no doubt that today he is looking down and saying, "must have been a slow news day."

Sports on 05/01/2016

Upcoming Events