I evolved into three end-of-the-year columns. One was the quotes of the year-comments I had gathered from the year's events or that I had come across in my eclectic reading. Those comments are sprinkled throughout this manuscript. Another is the annual Lieberman funfest. This was inspired by a memorable sports gaffe that is explained in the following column. There are two Lieberman columns because I awarded my 1968 Lieberman in early 1969 and then came back at the end of 1969 with that year's Lieberman. Liebermans usually were little-publicized occurrences that I gleaned from little noticed sports reports. The award for 1968 was special because the Liebermans of that year were ones for the ages. January 3: Uh, Oh, There Goes One More Lieberman Okay. So it's three days into the new year and you are waiting with bated breath to know who won the 1968 Lieberman Award. You think you have a pretty good idea who should have won it, but you always have to wonder who this rascal will come up with. First, for the newcomers to these provinces, a note about the demigod for whom the award is named. Tony Lieberman is the tennis player who jumped over the net after hitting what he thought was a match point. His opponent, the redoubtable Sidney Schwartz, somehow returned the shot while Lieberman was standing sheepishly, holding out a limp paw awaiting congratulations. Schwartz went on to win-point, set and match. Lieberman's Leap it was, and each year there is recognition of new Liebermans to add to the Left Field gallery. Generally, a man has to search for a worthy Lieberman with a keen eye on trivia. It means reading down to the bottom paragraphs in various news items and checking out little happenings which less-Lieberman-minded observers tend to overlook. That was the means of digging out Lieberman himself from a story of a tennis tournament in Hackensack. This method has unearthed football kickers who missed the opening kickoff, odd racecar drivers, hard-nosed chess players and other dear hearts. This was not a year for obscure paragraphs, however. A check of little-noticed happenings brought forth nothing to compare with the big-time incidents that took hold of the Tony Lieberman Award. It was the year whcn Tony Lierbermenschen came into their own. The 1968 Masters Golf Tournament produced one of the jolly cause celebres of the decade.On the final round Roberto de Vicenzo shot up the course with a 65. That gave him a 277 score for the tournament, tying him with Bob Goalby and setting up a playoff for the next day. Ah, but the spirit of Tony Lieberman was present in the person of Tommy Aaron, de Vincenzo's playng partner on the round.After de Vincezo shot a birdie-three on the 17th hole, Aaron mistakenly marked him for a four. This gave de Vicenzo a 278 rather than a 277. When de Vincezo, in the excitement at the 18th hole, signed his scorecard verifying Aaron's scorekeeping, he was up the creek. Under golf rules, a competitor is responsible for the accuracy of his scorecard, and must make sure it is correct before he signs it. So de Vicenzo, a charmer of the old school, walked away shaking his head. "What a stupid I am, what a stupid," he said. He had to take second prize instead of playing off for first. But, in the final analysis-whatever that is-it didn't crush Roberto. He lost the match, but gained thousands of friends by the good-natured way he acted in the face of the debacle. He did not blame Aaron, he blamed himself. And later he said things like, "Next year I'm going to race Dancer's Image," referring to the horse that later was disqualified from the Kentucky Derby purse. Aaron, meanwhile, showed little of the "nobody's perfect" attitude of de Vicenzo. Aaron, who has never won a tour tournament, wore the error on his back, resenting any mention of it. People laughed anyway. "When the one great scorer comes to mark against your name, make sure it isn't Tommy Aaron," was one comment. Aaron should have been a hand's down winner of the Lierberman Award. He forfeited the award, however, by showing he would not appreciate the honor. A Lieberman goes instead to de Vincenzo, because he goofed and because of his man's humanity to man gestures. De Vicenzo is a man who no doubt would greet Tony Lieberman with a big hug and buy him a drink. The other 1968 Lieberman is an unknown soldier of the National Broadcasting Company army. He's the executive who put Heidi on the air, knocking off the last one minute and five seconds of the exciting Jets at Oakland game, Nov. 17. The Jets were winning when the game went off the air; they lost if off television. And thousands of outraged viewers wrote or phoned NBC to wail about the stupidity of calling off the game. NBC admitted its goof.f It explained that a key executive couldn't get through to tell the unknown man on the spot to hold up the Heidi film. As a result of that booboo, the competing Columbia Broadcasting System now has a special phone at its studio where a few select executives can get through in case of emergencies. CBS calls it its "Heidi phone." A sidelight to the Heidi affair. A few weeks later, when CBS cut off the Baltimore-Minnesota game to show the Apollo 8 orbits, 2,000 yahoos called in full force to protest. One high-type citizen vented his ire and said,"What's more, I hope they stay up there." A salute then to Robert de Vicenzo.And to the unknown NBC executive who gave the world Heidi rather than football. They helped the spirit of Tony Lieberman leap higher than ever in 1968.
We later found out that the unknown executive was sports producer Dick Klein. He took the ribbing in good fashion. There was some feeling that Klein wasn't the only culprit but, classy guy that he was, he was willing to accept the blame himself. He was, then, a worthy Lieberman. I should add that the Lieberman winner for 1969 was a soccer player, Chris Blackwell, a fullback for the amateur soccer team in Eskdale, England. In April Eskdale was holding off Liverton, 1-1, when an errant kick sent the ball sailing beyond the boundary of the field, down a slope and into the Esk River adjoining the field. Blackwell, a keen competitor, pursued the ball. He jumped into a canoe and paddled after it. The fast-flowing Eski River carried the ball-and Blackwll-a mile before he was able to catch up to it. In the meantime the teams resumed the game. Without Blackwell, Eskdale had only 10 men, one less than Liverton. It was too much of a handicap. By the time Blackwell returned, Eskdale had lost. And Blackwell, who never took his eyes off the ball, had paddled right into the Lieberman Hall of Fame.
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Two Stories Waking Up the Echoes 
