TORONTO (Sep. 27) — Given that I traveled extensively during my radio career (1988–2011), mostly while covering the Maple Leafs, home and away, for 17 seasons, I encountered many famous sports people. Often by chance. Frequently while flying from city to city. But, not always. Unplanned meetings also occurred on terra firma. This came to mind in the wake of the recent goalie deaths in the National Hockey League: Wayne Thomas, Ken Dryden (both of whom I knew by name), Ed Giacomin, Bernie Parent (who I met several times but did not know).

So, on a quiet Saturday, please enjoy these random encounters:

BILLY MARTIN (1924–1989): Undoubtedly the most–famous manager in modern baseball history, Martin is best–remembered for the volatile era in which he guided the New York Yankees to consecutive World Series titles (1977 and 1978). Yankee Stadium became known as the “Bronx Zoo”, primarily for the hell–bent relationships between Martin, owner George Steinbrenner and egomaniacal slugger Reggie Jackson. When I came across Billy, he was managing the Oakland A’s; in 1980, my second year as a sportswriter at the Etobicoke Guardian community newspaper. Howie Starkman, publicity director of the Toronto Blue Jays, was kind enough to issue a media pass to my sports editor (now, lifelong friend), Joel Colomby. We shared the credential and used it occasionally.

For whatever reason, I was in the Exhibition Stadium press box in May to watch a game against Oakland.

Afterward, I went to the home clubhouse then ran down to the visitors’ lair. By the time I arrived, the place was deserted. None of the Oakland players were left; no trainers or equipment staff. But, I heard a shower running and curiously went to investigate. Just then — and just my luck — Billy stuck his head out and asked what I wanted.

I nearly pissed myself.

“Oh, excuse me, Mr. Martin, I was in the other room and thought I could get here in time. So sorry to bother you.”

To which he replied “now, young man, you stay right there. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

I then nearly crapped myself.

Martin wasn’t known as a docile figure. His now–legendary behavior toward umpires — which often included the absurd kicking or tossing of dirt — flashed through my mind. As did the half–dozen or so times he got loaded and instigated a bar fight (or punched out another person) while with the Yankees. Every strand of my DNA told me to run!! but I somehow obeyed the veteran manager and stuck around. Nearly convulsing with fear, if I recall.

A moment later, Martin walked purposely toward me; a towel wrapped around his waist. I barely resisted a Ralph Kramden “huhmina–huhmina–huhmina”. “You know, I don’t usually make extra time for people after I’m finished my media scrum,” Billy said. “But, you came in here and were very polite. Sit down.” Martin crawled behind his desk and I took a chair in front of him. “What’s your name?” he asked. After replying, he said “Howard, what I can I help you with? I’ve got all the time you need.” I couldn’t believe my eyes, or ears. Billy Martin saying this? To me?

At one point in our brief conversation (I consciously did not overstay my welcome), I asked “you went through so much in New York. Do you look back on those years sadly?” I thought it was an appropriate question. “Are you nuts?” Billy laughed. “Winning two championships as a manger in my city? It’s the best memory I’ll ever have.

“From then until the day I die.”

Never will I forget how he spoke those words. And, the unanticipated friendliness of such a baseball icon.

JEAN BELIVEAU (1931–2014): It was Oct. 22, 1995, a Sunday morning, and I sat in the bulkhead row of a DC–9 jet at Dorval Airport in Montreal. The aisle seat next to me was unoccupied and the cabin door was about to close for departure (to Toronto). Just then, a distinguished looking man wearing a sport coat and open–collar shirt smiled and took the vacant spot. He introduced himself, but did not have to. It was Jean Beliveau, the great captain of the Canadiens during the 1960’s and one of the most–decorous hockey figures of all time. Known as the “forgotten dynasty”, the Canadiens won the Stanley Cup in 1965–66–68–69 and 1971. Beliveau captained all of the championship clubs. If not for a surprise victory by the Maple Leafs in 1967, the Habs would have repeated their record haul (from 1956–60) of five consecutive NHL titles. Now, at 64, Beliveau was vice–president of the Montreal team; recognized, throughout the sport, for his dignity and grace. What an unexpected honor for me.

The previous day ranked among the busiest and most–eventful of my years covering the Leafs for The FAN–590, Canada’s first all–sports radio station. After lunch at Ben’s Deli with Mark Hebscher (who worked alongside Leafs radio voice, Joe Bowen), I walked back to the Bonaventure Hilton. It was the afternoon of the final Leafs–Canadiens match at the old Montreal Forum and there were two message lights (remember them?) on my hotel–room phone, noting me of an “urgent press conference” at the Forum, prior to the game. Turned out, the Canadiens had cleaned house, firing general manager Serge Savard while introducing former Montreal teammates Rejean Houle (as GM); Mario Tremblay and Yvan Cournoyer (as head and assistant coach). Quite the stunner… but not as dramatic as the game, which the Canadiens won at the buzzer on a goal by Pierre Turgeon.

While seated next to Beliveau, I wasn’t certain if the Hall–of–Famer wanted to chat. To my pleasant surprise, he asked about me and I told him of my media affiliation. “Oh yes, I’ve been on your radio station a number of times.”

We conversed throughout the 50–minute flight. Clearly, big Jean wasn’t happy with the changes made by his club. “My teammate, Yvan, won’t like being a coach,” he said about Cournoyer, with whom he won the five Stanley Cups from 1965–71. And, Beliveau proved correct. Most astonishing was the constant stream of F–bombs Beliveau unleashed while making his point. Yes, Jean had been a player for 20 years and was fully versed in locker–room jargon. Still, it was amusing to hear this saintly figure repeatedly swear during our chat. We landed at Pearson Airport and gabbed some more around the luggage carousel. Then, we shook hands and went our separate ways. “Very nice to have met you, Howard,” said Beliveau. It was an hour of life that I’ll keep with me forever.

O.J. SIMPSON (1947–2024): Though I went to Buffalo and watched him play for the Bills a half–dozen times, I never met O.J. Simpson until January 1993, roughly 1½ years before the infamous slayings of his ex–wife, Nicole Brown, and Nicole’s friend, Ron Goldman. Once Simpson had been charged with the double–murder — leading to the most–watched criminal trial in TV history — we searched for a tape of the interview he granted me while I covered Super Bowl XXVII (Buffalo vs. Dallas) in Los Angeles. Simpson and his NBC colleagues (Dick Enberg, Bob Trumpy, Todd Christensen) would call the game, two afternoons later, from the Rose Bowl and were made available at the Century Plaza Hotel to talk about the match. Simpson accorded me seven or eight minutes and was perfectly accommodating. What I remember most, however, is how he gave the “eye” to a female reporter throughout the interview. I’m surprised he was listening to my questions. Only after he’d been charged with the Brentwood murders did the world discover how prolific a “player” Simpson had truly been. That seductive smile immediately came to mind. Sadly, no one at the radio station could locate the tape of my chat with ol’ No. 32.

RICKEY HENDERSON (1958–2024): Late in the afternoon of Oct. 3, 1989, I flew to San Francisco to cover Games 1 and 2 of the American League Championship Series between the Blue Jays and Oakland A’s. The first show of Prime Time Sports (with Bob McCown and Bill Watters) had aired the previous night. What a great opportunity this would be to provide listeners up–to–date baseball info from the Oakland Coliseum. CJCL AM–1430 owned the radio rights to the Blue Jays (three years before launching the all–sports format) and I used our game microphones in the visitors’ broadcast booth. We showed, right away, how Prime Time could be a vehicle for instant and breaking news; there was nothing bigger across Canada, in 1989, than a Blue Jays playoff series.

I remember how Hall–of–Famer Rickey Henderson embarrassed the Jays by running against them at will. Poor Ernie Whitt, the Toronto catcher, had no hope of throwing out the speedy Henderson… at second or third base. As a result, Oakland easily prevailed in the first two games at home. Back at SkyDome for Game 3, I held a wireless microphone at field level during batting practice (and Prime Time). At one point, I noticed Henderson standing alone behind the batting cage. He hadn’t spoken to reporters since after Game 2 at the Coliseum. So, I swallowed hard and wondered if he had a few moments for a live radio interview — fully expecting to be shoed away. “A live interview?” he pondered aloud. “Sure.” I was shocked and had to briefly regain myself. McCown then threw to me and I asked Henderson about his single–handed destruction of the Blue Jays in Oakland. Rickey couldn’t have been more helpful and straightforward. It was a truly fulfilling moment in the infant days of Prime Time Sports.

FRANK GIFFORD (1930–2015): I was in Buffalo on Sep. 18, 1989 — the second year of my radio career — covering a Monday night football game between the Bills and Denver Broncos. Roughly an hour prior to kickoff, I noticed legendary play caller Frank Gifford standing alone in back of the ABC television booth. Gifford had been a Hall–of–Fame running back with the New York Giants but he accrued international fame as part of the iconic Monday Night telecast crew from the 1970’s, working alongside the silver–tongued Howard Cosell and former Dallas quarterback Don Meredith. In the mid–70’s, Monday Night Football was the highest–rated program on American TV. Gifford, Cosell and Meredith became household names… and not just with hard–core fans. The public, at large, tuned in each week to watch the irreverant trio. On that night at Rich Stadium, I walked toward Gifford with trepidation. He seemed like a nice man on TV, but I’d never met him. When I sheepishly introduced myself and asked for a quick taped interview, Frank couldn’t have been more pleasant. “Sure, come over here, Howard. Let’s sit down,” he motioned toward a table in the media dining area, which fully alleviated my concern.

I asked him mostly about the halcyon years of Monday Night Football. Cosell, by that time, was no–longer working and had become openly bitter toward most in the sports broadcasting field. He’d been particularly cruel to Gifford in his latest (and last) of four books (I Never Played the Game), published in 1985. Though Frank knew he had free reign with my microphone — and despite some not–so gentle urging — he refused to return fire. “No… I’ve had plenty of opportunities to chastise Howard for his attack on me and have always chosen to stay above that level,” Gifford said. “I don’t believe any of us on the Monday Night Football crew from the 70’s needs to apologize; Howard included. We had the nation fairly captivated. What I have said is that it saddens me Howard needs to grope at such a level to make himself feel good. His career warranted better. And, I think mine does as well.”

Frank Gifford sounded and acted like a true gentleman that night in Orchard Park.

JOE PRIMEAU (1906–1989): I still marvel at the fact I interviewed, as a 20–year–old, a member of the famed Kid Line that starred for the Leafs, winning the Stanley Cup in 1932, the first season of Maple Leaf Gardens. Joe Primeau (or “Gentleman Joe”, as he was known) had centered the unit with Charlie Conacher and Harvey (Busher) Jackson. Now, it was 1979 and Primeau, then 73, invited me to his office at Primeau Argo Block, an Etobicoke–based concrete/construction business (the same industry, 20 years later, that would make Larry Tanenbaum a gazillionaire). Working for $175 a week at a community newspaper, one semester out of school at Humber College, I had to pinch myself standing with such a royal hockey figure. Primeau was dressed immaculately; hair neatly combed; his famous dimpled chin moving about as we spoke. It was a mythical experience for me, similar to watching Leafs founder Conn Smythe address my junior–high school, six years earlier, in 1973.

GORDIE HOWE (1928–2016): My encounter (one of several) with Mr. Hockey occurred while covering the 2004 NHL All Star game in St. Paul, Minnesota. Unwittingly, I saw Gordie Howe, then 76, as never before. Howe and former goaltending star Patrick Roy spoke at a press conference on behalf of the NHL alumni, mostly recalling All Star Game experiences from yesteryear. Gordie’s devoted wife, Colleen, had encountered severe dimentia (Pick’s disease) two years earlier and was a shell of her former self. It would claim her life in 2009. After breaking into media scrums, I asked Gordie for a quick one–on–one chat. As always, he was gracious and accommodating.

Toward the end of the interview, I expressed my deep sympathy over Colleen… and big, tough No. 9 began to cry. Good God, I was mortified and quickly wrapped up the conversation. I then held both of Howe’s hands — those which had clicked for 802 NHL goals — in front of me and apologized profusely. Gordie smiled; put one hand on my shoulder and told me not to worry. “This happens multiple times a day,” he said about getting emotional. “But, you are the first of anyone here to ask me about Colleen during an interview. I appreciate you for doing that.”

BOBBY HULL (1939–2023): It began with a phone call on that Saturday in January 1970 from my uncle, Ralph Blatt, a dentist for more than 60 years. Among Uncle Ralph’s patients at the time was a man named Dave Dees, whose wife, Elizabeth, taught Grade 4 at Wilmington Avenue Public School, across the park from where I grew up.

Mr. Dees had Leafs season tickets in the West Rail (or front–row) seats, at the glass, right next to the visitors’ penalty box, an area captured by the end–zone TV camera at the Gardens whenever a player arrived for his two–minute sentence. A couple of times, Mr. Dees offered the Rails to my uncle, who I could easily view on television during such moments. I never envisioned having the chance to sit there, myself, for a Leafs game. Until, that is, Uncle Ralph called on the morning of Bobby Hull’s 31st birthday… with No. 9 and the Black Hawks in town.

I wrote about the ensuing exchange with the Golden Jet in my 1994 book, MAPLE LEAF MOMENTS:

You can probably imagine how I felt at that moment. With thousands of people already in the Gardens for the warm–up, and virtually every eye on the Chicago superstar, Hull took the time to stop in front of those Rail seats and personally thank me for the birthday wish. To this day, more than 55 years later, I get a chill when recalling it.

Unexpectedly, I had a chance, just more than 12 years afterward, to tell Hull the story. In February 1982, never having lived outside of my boyhood home, I moved out west for a job as a sportswriter at the Calgary Sun. I was 23 and scared to death. Moments after boarding an Air Canada jet, the Golden Jet planted himself to my left.

I couldn’t believe it. Here I was on a plane with more than 300 seats… and Bobby Freakin’ Hull was next to me.

Before I could say anything (as if I wouldn’t recognize him), the Hall–of–Famer reached over with his right hand. “Hi, I’m Bobby Hull,” he said. Not yet comfortable around famous hockey players, I nodded before croaking out my first intelligible words. As with others, Hull quickly made me feel at home. He asked about my move from Toronto and I told him how nervous I was. “Ah, relax, everything will work out,” he replied. “I started traveling for hockey in my mid–teens. Leaving home for the first time is an adjustment for a young person. But, trust me, you’ll be fine.”

I got around to telling Hull about how special he made me feel that night at Maple Leaf Gardens. I remember how he looked over with surprise on his face. “You had the balls to stand up and yell happy birthday to me at your age?” Bobby laughed. “I was probably taken aback. It’s something I would expect from an adult, not an 11–year–old. I often stopped during the warm–up and signed autographs for groups of kids near the glass. I don’t remember doing it for one person. You must have really caught my attention. Hope you have a great, new life.”

JOHN CANDY (1950–1994): This, I’ll never forget. I had the privilege, on several occasions, of meeting the great Canadian actor and comedian when he co–owned the Toronto Argonauts of the Canadian Football League (1991–94) with Wayne Gretzky and Bruce McNall. One afternoon, Candy came up to our old Telemedia radio studios on Holly St., near Yonge and Eglinton in midtown Toronto. He was there to record several commercials on behalf of the Argos. At one point, John was sitting by himself in a vacant office. I walked in and introduced myself. In 1984, Candy had starred in the movie Splash, with Tom Hanks, Eugene Levy and Daryl Hannah, whom I fantasized about. I thought Hannah was drop–dead gorgeos, from head to toe. “Can I ask you a quick question?” I said while standing across from Candy. “Is Daryl Hannah as breathtaking away from the lights and cameras?”

John looked up at me with the incredulous half–smile that became world famous.

“You’re a very lucky man,” he said. “You’ve never seen her without make–up.”

EMAIL: HOWARDLBERGER@GMAIL.COM