Favorite lede you've ever written or read?
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Double Down
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The lede to Dan Jenkins' Namath profile. You can stop after the first sentence and it's still amazing, or read the entire first paragraph and it becomes an all-timer.
Stoop-shouldered and sinisterly handsome, he slouches against the wall of the saloon, a filter cigarette in his teeth, collar open, perfectly happy and self-assured, gazing through the uneven darkness to sort out the winners from the losers. As the girls come by wearing their miniskirts, net stockings, big false eyelashes, long pressed hair and soulless expressions, he grins approvingly and says, "Hey, hold it, man—foxes." It is Joe Willie Namath (see cover) at play. Relaxing, Nighttiming. The boss mover studying the defensive tendencies of New York's off-duty secretaries, stewardesses, dancers, nurses, bunnies, actresses, shopgirls—all of the people who make life stimulating for a bachelor who can throw one of the best passes in pro football. He poses a question for us all: Would you rather be young, single, rich, famous, talented, energetic and happy—or President?
http://www.si.com/vault/1966/10/17/614136/the-sweet-life-of-swinging-joe
The lede to Moehringer's "Resurrecting The Champ."
I'm sitting in a hotel room in Columbus, Ohio, waiting for a call from a man who doesn't trust me, hoping he'll have answers about a man I don't trust, which may clear the name of a man no one gives a damn about.
Stoop-shouldered and sinisterly handsome, he slouches against the wall of the saloon, a filter cigarette in his teeth, collar open, perfectly happy and self-assured, gazing through the uneven darkness to sort out the winners from the losers. As the girls come by wearing their miniskirts, net stockings, big false eyelashes, long pressed hair and soulless expressions, he grins approvingly and says, "Hey, hold it, man—foxes." It is Joe Willie Namath (see cover) at play. Relaxing, Nighttiming. The boss mover studying the defensive tendencies of New York's off-duty secretaries, stewardesses, dancers, nurses, bunnies, actresses, shopgirls—all of the people who make life stimulating for a bachelor who can throw one of the best passes in pro football. He poses a question for us all: Would you rather be young, single, rich, famous, talented, energetic and happy—or President?
http://www.si.com/vault/1966/10/17/614136/the-sweet-life-of-swinging-joe
The lede to Moehringer's "Resurrecting The Champ."
I'm sitting in a hotel room in Columbus, Ohio, waiting for a call from a man who doesn't trust me, hoping he'll have answers about a man I don't trust, which may clear the name of a man no one gives a damn about.
1996 Atlanta Journal-Constitution:
"There was only one bad seat in the house at the new Stone Mountain Tennis Center on the opening day of Olympic tennis competition, and it was on the throne."
Story went on to explain it was a mundane day of action, but the facility toilets weren't working properly. I still chuckle when I think of that lead all these years later.
"There was only one bad seat in the house at the new Stone Mountain Tennis Center on the opening day of Olympic tennis competition, and it was on the throne."
Story went on to explain it was a mundane day of action, but the facility toilets weren't working properly. I still chuckle when I think of that lead all these years later.
Jan. 5, 1997, the AFC No. 1 seed Broncos at home in a divisional playoff game against the second-year Jacksonville Jaguars. The Broncos were a 12 1/2-point favorite and led 12-0 in the first quarter yet inexplicably lost 30-27.
"What do the Pope, Billy Graham and the 1996 Denver Broncos all have in common? They all got 76,000 people inside Mile High Stadium to stand up and shout, 'JESUS CHRIST!'"
"What do the Pope, Billy Graham and the 1996 Denver Broncos all have in common? They all got 76,000 people inside Mile High Stadium to stand up and shout, 'JESUS CHRIST!'"
Joe Williams
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Columnist John Schulian in Chicago Sun-Times advising Bulls fans the morning after their favorite team drafted Quintin Dailey, the USF guard who had beaten a rap (some said) for sexual assault of a fellow student:
"You shouldn't boo Quintin Dailey. You should hate him."
"You shouldn't boo Quintin Dailey. You should hate him."
Bradley Guire
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This is one of my personal bests.
http://m.magicvalley.com/news/local/more-than-photos/article_0247df44-c128-11de-9c68-001cc4c002e0.html?mobile_touch=true
http://m.magicvalley.com/news/local/more-than-photos/article_0247df44-c128-11de-9c68-001cc4c002e0.html?mobile_touch=true
This one from Thomas Boswell in 1981 remains one of my favorites:
You may notice his wooden leg first, but it’s his face that you remember. It’s a wreck, as in Veeck. Here is a man with the gift of radiant homeliness.
“How can you be a sage if you’re pretty?” rumbles Bill Veeck, with a rhinocerine laugh. “You can’t get your wizard papers without wrinkles.”
You may notice his wooden leg first, but it’s his face that you remember. It’s a wreck, as in Veeck. Here is a man with the gift of radiant homeliness.
“How can you be a sage if you’re pretty?” rumbles Bill Veeck, with a rhinocerine laugh. “You can’t get your wizard papers without wrinkles.”
friend of the friendless
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Sirs, Madames,
In the land of the pickup truck and cream gravy for breakfast, down where the wind can blow through the walls of a diner and into the grieving lyrics of a country song on a jukebox—down there in dirt-kicking Big Eight territory—they played a football game on Thanksgiving Day that was mainly for the quarterbacks on the field and for self-styled gridiron intellectuals everywhere. The spectacle itself was for everybody, of course, for all of those who had been waiting weeks for Nebraska to meet Oklahoma, or for all the guys with their big stomachs and bigger Stetsons, and for all the luscious coeds who danced through the afternoons drinking daiquiris out of paper cups. But the game of chess that was played with bodies, that was strictly for the cerebral types who will keep playing it into the ages and wondering whether it was the greatest collegiate football battle ever. Under the agonizing conditions that existed, it well may have been.
YHS, etc
In the land of the pickup truck and cream gravy for breakfast, down where the wind can blow through the walls of a diner and into the grieving lyrics of a country song on a jukebox—down there in dirt-kicking Big Eight territory—they played a football game on Thanksgiving Day that was mainly for the quarterbacks on the field and for self-styled gridiron intellectuals everywhere. The spectacle itself was for everybody, of course, for all of those who had been waiting weeks for Nebraska to meet Oklahoma, or for all the guys with their big stomachs and bigger Stetsons, and for all the luscious coeds who danced through the afternoons drinking daiquiris out of paper cups. But the game of chess that was played with bodies, that was strictly for the cerebral types who will keep playing it into the ages and wondering whether it was the greatest collegiate football battle ever. Under the agonizing conditions that existed, it well may have been.
YHS, etc
Michael_ Gee
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The favorite lede I ever wrote was at Lillehammer. Nancy beat Sluggo. New graf. It didn't run due to the news side editor's intervention. We had words later.
To read. Well, here's one I remember from Jim Murray. "Before the season, I wrote the Dodgers had players to burn. If they blow this lead, that'll be too good for 'em.
To read. Well, here's one I remember from Jim Murray. "Before the season, I wrote the Dodgers had players to burn. If they blow this lead, that'll be too good for 'em.
Batman
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Favorite I've written was from a gamer on two winless FCS teams playing a conference game on a dreary, cold, rainy day in early November. The definition of two teams playing because they had no choice. It started raining at the end of the first series of the game and stopped late in the fourth quarter. The final score was something like 12-3, and it was as ****ty as it sounds, with lots of fumbles and rain-fueled mistakes:
"The football gods wept on the Delta Saturday afternoon."
I think I posted that one in the 2008 thread and Spnited ripped me a new one for the "football gods" conceit, and then another new one when I tried to defend it. I was farting in stereo by the time he was done.
****'im. I thought it was brilliant.
RIP, you crotchety old *******.
"The football gods wept on the Delta Saturday afternoon."
I think I posted that one in the 2008 thread and Spnited ripped me a new one for the "football gods" conceit, and then another new one when I tried to defend it. I was farting in stereo by the time he was done.
****'im. I thought it was brilliant.
RIP, you crotchety old *******.
friend of the friendless
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Sirs, Madames,
The lede I poured the most love into ended up being used as a deck. Possibly the longest deck ever. (This is a draft. It came out a little different.) It was goofy but the whole story of the Arnold Classic was goofy.
Please be advised this story contains: men rubbing oil on each other’s virtually naked bodies; women clad in oversized g-strings mutually lubricating counterparts likewise; Caucasians walking around with skin as dark as obsidian in what resembles Blackface performance; athletes expectorating into the crowd; fans paying hundreds of dollars welcoming the aforementioned spittle like Dust Bowl farmers would a July drizzle; dietary regimens clinically constituting eating disorders; champions using cocktails of performance-enhancing drugs; body-image psychosis; disfigurements from surgeries and implantations; shameless product placement; crimes against film; philandering; vomiting; fraud; racism; the liquefaction of internal organs; and death.
YHS, etc
The lede I poured the most love into ended up being used as a deck. Possibly the longest deck ever. (This is a draft. It came out a little different.) It was goofy but the whole story of the Arnold Classic was goofy.
Please be advised this story contains: men rubbing oil on each other’s virtually naked bodies; women clad in oversized g-strings mutually lubricating counterparts likewise; Caucasians walking around with skin as dark as obsidian in what resembles Blackface performance; athletes expectorating into the crowd; fans paying hundreds of dollars welcoming the aforementioned spittle like Dust Bowl farmers would a July drizzle; dietary regimens clinically constituting eating disorders; champions using cocktails of performance-enhancing drugs; body-image psychosis; disfigurements from surgeries and implantations; shameless product placement; crimes against film; philandering; vomiting; fraud; racism; the liquefaction of internal organs; and death.
YHS, etc
LongTimeListener
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I see it in various forms over the Internet and cannot find the original article (someone have Lexis-Nexis access?), but Tom Keegan of the New York Post wrote this (or something like it) in 1998: "Had he known that his New York Mets would play baseball so badly, Bobby Valentine never would have invented the game in the first place."
ChrisLong
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What's worse, finger nails on a chalk board or watching Hank Gathers shoot a free throw.
I wrote that to begin a feature on Gathers' free-throw shooting, which was ugly and painful. His elbow flew out, you never knew whether the ball would miss the rim or break the backboard. We used to joke that the referee should use the same signal as a football ref signaling a missed field goal. It was so bad he started shooting them left-handed, thus, Bo Kimble's left-handed free throws during the NCAA Tournament.
I wrote that to begin a feature on Gathers' free-throw shooting, which was ugly and painful. His elbow flew out, you never knew whether the ball would miss the rim or break the backboard. We used to joke that the referee should use the same signal as a football ref signaling a missed field goal. It was so bad he started shooting them left-handed, thus, Bo Kimble's left-handed free throws during the NCAA Tournament.
HanSenSE
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I'm recalling one (not mine) during the first season the Kings were in Sacramento and were annihiliated by the Bucks:
"You may want to read this one sitting down. Go ahead, grab that bottle of Scotch you keep around for such occasions."
"You may want to read this one sitting down. Go ahead, grab that bottle of Scotch you keep around for such occasions."
Amphibious Rodent
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In the cold, sober light of day, Cinderella doesn't look so hot.
That's my favorite that I've written. It came from the strangest high school football playoff game I've seen. The 14 seed (from my coverage area) was leading No. 3 early in the third quarter of their first-round game when a car accident a couple of miles away knocked out power to half the city. The two coaches found each other in the pitch black and agreed to finish the game early the next afternoon, and the No. 3 seed proceeded to whip Podunk up and down the field.
That's my favorite that I've written. It came from the strangest high school football playoff game I've seen. The 14 seed (from my coverage area) was leading No. 3 early in the third quarter of their first-round game when a car accident a couple of miles away knocked out power to half the city. The two coaches found each other in the pitch black and agreed to finish the game early the next afternoon, and the No. 3 seed proceeded to whip Podunk up and down the field.
Pencil Dick
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The great Lewis Grizzard wrote about it in one of his books:
By Norman Arey
"Chamblee's exciting come-from-behind 21-14 victory over Druid Hills was somewhat marred by the death of its coach."
(Coach collapsed on sideline as runner crossed the goal line on final play of the game and he was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital)
By Norman Arey
"Chamblee's exciting come-from-behind 21-14 victory over Druid Hills was somewhat marred by the death of its coach."
(Coach collapsed on sideline as runner crossed the goal line on final play of the game and he was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital)
Tommy Deas
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Best two from me:
1) High school playoff game, a pitcher named Derrick Bottoms threw a complete game one-hitter over, if I recall correclty, 11 innings. He was a very fit 6-foot-3 and about 180, but had been a pudgy kid and was thus nicknamed "Fat Daddy." He comes to bat in the bottom of the 11th and breaks a scoreless tie with walkoff solo home run.
My lede:
It ain't over til the Fat Daddy swings.
2) In 1998, the University of Alabama women's basketball team advanced to the Sweet 16 in the NCAA Tournament by beating UCLA on a long-inbound catch-and-shoot. There were .8 seconds left on the clock and there was a hesitation on getting it started, allowing the player to catch, turn and release her shot before the buzzer sounded.
UCLA protested. Pundits cried foul (And rightfully so, I might add.) I covered the game (we also had a nice headline: .8 is enough) and did a follow-up. When I went to do another follow-up after the NCAA ruled that the result would stand, the head coach, Rick Moody, said "I can't talk to you about it. Nobody on the team can talk about it." He handed me a fax from the NCAA that was sent to both schools ordering them to not comment on the situation anymore -- in other words, a gag order.
My lede:
The University of Alabama women's basketball team is officially Sweet 16 bound.
And gagged.
As far as I'm concerned, the best sports story lede ever written was by John Lardner in 1954 in True Magazine in his story about the death of middleweight boxing champ Stanley Ketchel, which occured in 1910:
Stanley Ketchel was 24 years old when he was fatally shot in the back by the common-law husband of the lady who was cooking his breakfast.
1) High school playoff game, a pitcher named Derrick Bottoms threw a complete game one-hitter over, if I recall correclty, 11 innings. He was a very fit 6-foot-3 and about 180, but had been a pudgy kid and was thus nicknamed "Fat Daddy." He comes to bat in the bottom of the 11th and breaks a scoreless tie with walkoff solo home run.
My lede:
It ain't over til the Fat Daddy swings.
2) In 1998, the University of Alabama women's basketball team advanced to the Sweet 16 in the NCAA Tournament by beating UCLA on a long-inbound catch-and-shoot. There were .8 seconds left on the clock and there was a hesitation on getting it started, allowing the player to catch, turn and release her shot before the buzzer sounded.
UCLA protested. Pundits cried foul (And rightfully so, I might add.) I covered the game (we also had a nice headline: .8 is enough) and did a follow-up. When I went to do another follow-up after the NCAA ruled that the result would stand, the head coach, Rick Moody, said "I can't talk to you about it. Nobody on the team can talk about it." He handed me a fax from the NCAA that was sent to both schools ordering them to not comment on the situation anymore -- in other words, a gag order.
My lede:
The University of Alabama women's basketball team is officially Sweet 16 bound.
And gagged.
As far as I'm concerned, the best sports story lede ever written was by John Lardner in 1954 in True Magazine in his story about the death of middleweight boxing champ Stanley Ketchel, which occured in 1910:
Stanley Ketchel was 24 years old when he was fatally shot in the back by the common-law husband of the lady who was cooking his breakfast.
Scott Carefoot
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This lede for a story on Toronto's Ryerson Rams hockey team never fails to make me laugh because I can just imagine how clever I must have thought I was at the time: http://theeyeopener.com/1998/10/concordia-swarms-rams-hockey-team/
"The Concordia University Stingers hockey team were more like angry wasps Saturday night, stinging the Ryerson Rams again and again.
In their 8-1 loss, the Rams were more like bees, which sting once, then die."
"The Concordia University Stingers hockey team were more like angry wasps Saturday night, stinging the Ryerson Rams again and again.
In their 8-1 loss, the Rams were more like bees, which sting once, then die."
Classics.
Red Smith: "Now it is done. Now the story ends. And there is no way to tell it. The art of fiction is dead. Reality has strangled invention. Only the utterly impossible, the inexpressibly fantastic, can ever be plausible again."
Bob Considine
"Listen to this, buddy, for it comes from a guy whose palms are still wet, whose throat is still dry, and whose jaw is still agape from the utter shock of watching Joe Louis knock out Max Schmeling.
It was a shocking thing, that knockout – short, sharp, merciless, complete. Louis was like this: He was a big lean copper spring, tightened and retightened through weeks of training until he was one pregnant package of coiled venom."
Red Smith: "Now it is done. Now the story ends. And there is no way to tell it. The art of fiction is dead. Reality has strangled invention. Only the utterly impossible, the inexpressibly fantastic, can ever be plausible again."
Bob Considine
"Listen to this, buddy, for it comes from a guy whose palms are still wet, whose throat is still dry, and whose jaw is still agape from the utter shock of watching Joe Louis knock out Max Schmeling.
It was a shocking thing, that knockout – short, sharp, merciless, complete. Louis was like this: He was a big lean copper spring, tightened and retightened through weeks of training until he was one pregnant package of coiled venom."
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