{"id":11030,"date":"2025-06-24T15:17:10","date_gmt":"2025-06-24T15:17:10","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/us\/11030\/"},"modified":"2025-06-24T15:17:10","modified_gmt":"2025-06-24T15:17:10","slug":"one-more-story-from-the-last-of-his-kind","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/us\/11030\/","title":{"rendered":"One more story from the last of his kind"},"content":{"rendered":"

When it\u2019s time for the column, Art Spander squints his right eye hard, seeing what\u2019s left to see.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s approaching early evening on a Thursday afternoon of the 2025 U.S. Open, the 183rd major golf tournament of his career. The first? Well, that was 1966. A sidebar for the San Francisco Examiner. But that was a long time ago. Art is thinking about today.<\/p>\n

Maybe something on Brooks Koepka, going for a sixth career major win. \u201cBut that\u2019s a long way off.\u201d Maybe Rory McIlroy. \u201cBut he shot 74 and didn\u2019t talk today.\u201d Maybe little-known J.J. Spaun, the first-round leader. \u201cHe\u2019s interesting.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know, I\u2019m a columnist,\u201d he explains to someone half his age, but still pretty old. \u201cI\u2019m looking for angles.\u201d<\/p>\n

So Art Spander, 86, one of the last of his kind, a big name of another era, gets to work.<\/p>\n

A lifetime of this. Games, tournaments. All of them. Everywhere. In the smallest rink on the biggest day, when a bunch of American boys beat a big red army in the Adirondack Mountains as Al Michaels yelled about miracles. In Cincinnati for Henry Aaron\u2019s 714th homer, and in Atlanta five nights later for No. 715. Joe Montana to Dwight Clark. Johnny Miller\u2019s 63. Kirk Gibson limping \u2019round the bases, pumping his arm. (\u201cI thought, oh, those poor Athletics.\u201c) The highs and lows of Tiger. Federer in his prime. The fall of OJ. (\u201cBoy, was I wrong about him.\u201d) All told, he put pen to pad at over 60 Rose Bowls, over 50 Masters, over 40 Super Bowls, over 30 Finals Fours, nearly 20 World Series and a few Olympic Games.<\/p>\n

Blinded in the left eye at age 8, thanks to a \u201ca roundhouse\u201d when roughhousing with some kids, Art saw it all through one good eye. Nowadays, he hardly has that.<\/p>\n

The topic has been narrowed down \u2014 Spaun. \u201cI know he\u2019s played well the last few months,\u201d Art says. \u201cBoy, he\u2019d be a great story.\u201d<\/p>\n

So begins another column.<\/p>\n

This is what\u2019s left when all the lines of life are blurred. When what one does becomes who one is. When one can\u2019t stop being who one is because one doesn\u2019t know who else to be. When one\u2019s time on this blue marble turns into living history.<\/p>\n

And when, under it all, there\u2019s the kind of love you write stories about.<\/p>\n

The cursor is blinking. Art starts talking. Liz Spander starts typing.<\/p>\n

Eons ago, back when people licked their thumbs and peeled giant pages of broadsheet from right to left, press boxes and media centers were packed with sportswriters from all over, pressing keys and pounding copy. Everyone knew everyone. They sprang up like circus tents. One city, one day. Another, the next. Expense accounts were flush. Columnists were kings.<\/p>\n

Today, a new world. As many people work for the teams and leagues as they do for outlets and institutions. There are social media stars being social and influencers influencing. Video folks. Podcast folks. Gambling folks. Times have changed and these rooms reflect it \u2014 a codified world of brands and content and bite-sized news.<\/p>\n

Then Art walks in. The thump of a cane, an uneasy step forward. He\u2019s down to 8-to-10 percent vision in that right eye. Glaucoma. He struggles badly with his balance. Liz guides Art in, holding out one arm and dragging a roller bag with the other. She is a much younger 84. The two married in 1962.<\/p>\n

Even at a golf tournament, easily the crustiest of media centers, you will find that Art is old. There\u2019s a certain disbelief as he arrives. How is he still doing this? Why is he still doing this? Should he still be doing this?<\/p>\n

\u201cThe first thing I think anytime I see Art is, Liz is a saint,\u201d says John Hopkins, 80, formerly the longtime golf correspondent for The Times, now semi-retired. \u201cHow many wives would do all this for their husband? I\u2019ve had two who wouldn\u2019t do it for me.\u201d<\/p>\n

It\u2019s the job. It\u2019s the life. It\u2019s who Art is. Liz knows it. Debbie, their older daughter, knows it. Wendy, their younger daughter, knows it.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Spander, right, awards Tiger Woods the GWAA player of the year trophy before the 2006 Masters. (David Cannon \/ Getty Images)<\/p>\n

Roger Kahn, the author, once wrote, \u201cSports tells anyone who watches intelligently about the time in which we live.\u201d This, down to the marrow, is how Art has encountered the world. The players, the people, the relationships. The games, the questions, the stories. The other writers. The travel. Art has written so much, about so many things, for so long, that it can be difficult to imagine him being young.<\/p>\n

An anthology of Art\u2019s collected writing was printed in 1989 \u2014 36 years ago. Al Michaels wrote the foreword. The two met in 1973, when Art got wind that the young Cincinnati Reds broadcaster was coming to San Francisco as the Giants\u2019 new play-by-play voice. The two were fast friends. As were their wives. All this time later, Michaels, 80, shrugs when he hears that Art has arrived in Pittsburgh to cover a U.S. Open that he will not actually see. Of course he is.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo one has ever been as romantic about sports as Art,\u201d Michaels says. \u201cHe works. He works hard. He cares. He cares hard. I don\u2019t know how, but no matter what, he\u2019s never lost that sense of wonder.\u201d<\/p>\n

Makes you think.<\/p>\n

How much of that is left out there?<\/p>\n

\u201cI try not to talk so much anymore, but I still do,\u201d says Art, after a lifetime being told he talks too much. \u201cIt\u2019s just my makeup. I\u2019m paranoid or whatever you call it. But what can I do about that? There are all these things I\u2019ve seen.\u201d<\/p>\n

That picture book, the one in Art\u2019s mind, it begins in 1960, fresh out of UCLA, a job as a copy boy and chauffeur for United Press International.<\/p>\n

Then a job at the Santa Monica Evening Outlook (\u201cWe called it the Evening Outrage, but anyway \u2026\u201d). It was 1963. A gig covering the L.A. Rams and Dodgers. Roman Gabriel and Sandy Koufax. Big-time stuff.<\/p>\n

Then the San Francisco Chronicle in 1965. Art found golf. Golf found Art. He covered his first Masters in 1967 (\u201cGay Brewer won.\u201d), splitting a room at the Alamo Hotel in Augusta with a young writer named Dave Kindred.<\/p>\n

Then the dream job. Lead sports columnist for the San Francisco Examiner in 1979. Art among the kings. Then a move to the Oakland Tribune in 1996. On the side, a regular column in the Sporting News that made him a national name and dispatches on American sports for the London Daily Telegraph. He was a regular on television and radio in the Bay Area.<\/p>\n

\u201cOK, Art,\u201d I say, \u201cbut I asked about your wedding day.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, right, sorry. I digressed.\u201d<\/p>\n

If, on a certain June day in 1962, you were driving up the 101 along the California coast and happened to see the two happiest faces there\u2019s ever been, that was Art and Liz Spander. The honeymoon was in Vancouver. They stopped at the Seattle World\u2019s Fair on the way. They\u2019ve been traveling ever since. Golf tournaments. Super Bowls. Final Fours. Who could\u2019ve ever imagined?<\/p>\n

Debbie was firstborn Then came Wendy. Immediately, they were along for the ride. The girls swam in Palm Springs swimming pools with Jack Nicklaus\u2019 kids. They played with Rick Barry\u2019s fleet of sons on the court at Oakland Arena. They curled up in sleeping bags in the nook under the stairs of a crowded house of sportswriters covering the 1988 Summer Olympics in Seoul, South Korea.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was all very normal,\u201d Wendy says.<\/p>\n

Only later did the girls come to realize Reggie Jackson didn\u2019t sit at other families\u2019 dinner tables. Their dad was larger than life, and their world was subscribed to his schedule.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe was gone a lot, but the things he exposed us to were amazing,\u201d Debbie says.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Sports writing took Spander and his family everywhere, even giving him the chance to carry the 1988 Olympic torch. (Courtesy Spander family)<\/p>\n

As it goes when one gets older, Wendy and Debbie grew up to understand that while, yes, it was dad who everyone fawned over, it was their mother who made the movie. Liz taught Spanish at the girls\u2019 elementary school. She dropped them at practices and sat in the stands for games. She paid the bills and handled the books. She joined a travel agency in 1973 and began a career that would, in time, support Art\u2019s adventures. She started a women\u2019s travel group to go to places her husband had no interest. Passport stamps from India, China, Vietnam, Myanmar, Israel, Morocco and Bhutan.<\/p>\n

Products of their generation. Art gave everything he had to the job because there was someone else giving theirs to everything else. Liz did what she needed to do.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe kept the house running, worked full-time and basically raised us,\u201d Wendy says. \u201cI think, maybe in third grade or so, my dad tried to coach a softball team at my school. It was a disaster. All these girls running in all different directions. He was like, well, I\u2019m never doing this again.\u201d<\/p>\n

She laughs a good laugh.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s just the way it was,\u201d Wendy says. \u201cIt still is. She did everything and still does everything.\u201d<\/p>\n

Even the writing.<\/p>\n

Art can make out some giant-sized words, and sort of make out what\u2019s happening on the leaderboard, but he can\u2019t make much sense of what\u2019s in front of him, hasn\u2019t for most of the last year or two. His vision is fading like a ship in the fog. He gets frustrated, embarrassed, upset. But Liz is here, beside him, both at home on the road, with her fingers on the keys.<\/p>\n

These columns are posted to Art\u2019s personal website<\/a>. Not a lot of places out there for an 86-year-old to be published nowadays, ya know? Sure, there aren\u2019t many readers. But that\u2019s not why they do it.<\/p>\n

In a world of clickable headlines and ragebait, everything about Art\u2019s work, and his world, amounts to a continuation of his time. He has every Sports Illustrated ever printed and stacks upon stacks upon stacks of newspapers in his basement. In his mind, the writer is history\u2019s curator and cynicism doesn\u2019t pass for wisdom. He doesn\u2019t know any other way.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis,\u201d Liz says, \u201cis his identity.\u201d<\/p>\n

So Art dictates. Liz types.<\/p>\n

\u201cSlow down,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry, sorry,\u201d Art replies.<\/p>\n

Another column filed.<\/p>\n

Art used to theorize with the Washington Post\u2019s Chuck Culpepper that hopscotching from sporting event to sporting event can be some kind of secret tonic. \u201cThat there\u2019s something about being with the youth,\u201d says Culpepper, 63, \u201cthat keeps you young.\u201d<\/p>\n

Another theory: Maybe it\u2019s more than that. Maybe it\u2019s the sense of place. And the story yet to be told. And the adventures, and characters, and relationships. Maybe it\u2019s doing the one weird thing you were meant to do. Maybe it\u2019s the journey.<\/p>\n

Art was one of the first writers to travel with a computer. The Teleram P-1800. An enormous thing weighing nearly 20 pounds and resembling a blue suitcase. He would ship it from one game to another or put it on a luggage rack and pull it through the airport.<\/p>\n

That was back in the late \u201970s, into the \u201980s. Art began his career by \u201cstupidly\u201d trying to write like Jim Murray, the LA Times demigod. He later found his voice and wrote the kind of columns that winked at you. He wrote of \u201cthe calculated gamble that passes for Al Davis\u2019s life.\u201d He interviewed a 72-year-old Joe DiMaggio at a funeral home an hour before Joe was to serve as a pallbearer in a friend\u2019s funeral. He played the first golf course to open in China since it fell under communist rule in 1949. He wrote about a thoroughbred named Cassaleria that was also blind in one eye. They had a lot in common. \u201cWe spend more time drifting right than Ronald Reagan.\u201d<\/p>\n

Everywhere Art went, his files went. A stack of papers, anywhere from 1-to-2 feet high. It\u2019s what everyone remembers the most from those days. Not because the clips were meticulously sorted, but because they were open to all. Culpepper, as a Lexington Herald-Leader columnist in 1998, asked Art about Cal-Stanford and \u201cThe band is on the field!\u201d Art, of course, was there that day, but he had more than memories. He handed Chuck a stack of clips from a game played 16 years earlier.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think I realized then just how big his heart is,\u201d Culpepper says.<\/p>\n

The stories of Art\u2019s accumulation of information go on and on. Kindred, maybe the best sportswriter of that generation, says he was \u201cthe internet before the internet.\u201d Even on deadline, he\u2019d pull out a file for a fellow writer.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t think it ever registered with Art that we were competitors,\u201d says Scott Ostler, 77, a columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle since 1991. \u201cHe didn\u2019t give a s\u2014 about beating anybody else or scooping people. He just wanted to write what he wanted to write.\u201d<\/p>\n

Today, Art\u2019s computer is a dusty ThinkPad with a smudged screen; marks made pointing at what he wants to read. From that first computer to this one, there\u2019s a story of a gift few ever find. Unending curiosity. Art says he wishes he were 30 years younger, so he could see how the stories of today shape tomorrow. He talks about the stories he\u2019d write, wiggling his fingers, pressing down keys that aren\u2019t there.<\/p>\n

How is he still doing this? Why is he still doing this?<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen he grew up, he wanted to be who he became,\u201d says Kindred, 84, \u201cWhen you\u2019ve done that, you want to hold onto it.\u201d<\/p>\n

It\u2019s late in the week at Oakmont and Art Spander is over at his desk, mulling what to write. Liz is over here chatting, thinking about the future. Let it be known, we should all be so fortunate to have seen and done what Art and Liz have seen and done. No one, though, should ever have to decide between who they are and what they\u2019re able to do.<\/p>\n

Wendy and Debbie talk about this often.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s unfair to Mom to ferry Dad from place to place. The physical toll. Seriously, what happens if something goes wrong? Art nearly took a spill down the stairs in the Augusta National press building two Aprils ago, but was caught by another writer before hitting the steps. He wisely opted not to tell the family about that. \u201cIt\u2019s really demanding on her,\u201d Wendy says of her mom. \u201cIt\u2019s hard as a daughter to see.\u201d<\/p>\n

But what about Dad? Is it fair to be held back from his second home, from all the names he knows, from the place he\u2019s most himself? Memories of the pandemic shutdown aren\u2019t too far in the distance. \u201cI remember seeing him wilt,\u201d Debbie says. \u201cHe didn\u2019t know what to do.\u201d The girls hoped he would finally sit down and write a book, but that never happened. At this point, even if he could, he\u2019d never do so about himself. Liz says he was always oblivious, or embarrassed, of his fame.<\/p>\n

There\u2019s no right answer, but there is an obvious reality. This year\u2019s U.S. Open? This is probably it. The final major event he will cover.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe last one,\u201d Liz says, tapping fingernails atop a table. \u201cHe knows that, I think. His eye really seems to have gotten worse. Even just this week. Glaucoma is just taking over. It\u2019s a shame. He loves to read. He loves to write. He can\u2019t do either.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

He\u2019s covered 183 major golf tournaments in his career, starting in 1966. (Cliff Hawkins \/ Getty Images)<\/p>\n

At least he\u2019s done so much already. Both daughters? They embarked on careers in sports. Debbie is a big-time agent representing players and high-profile media types. After graduating from Stanford, she dabbled in sportswriting before going to law school. Wendy worked for years at EA Sports, handling PR for the \u201cMadden\u201d football empire and the \u201cTiger Woods PGA Tour\u201d series before moving to a tech communications job. As a student at Penn, she wrote for the school paper and penned a column on how her dad\u2019s career influenced all her decisions.<\/p>\n

Art was \u2014 is \u2014 a man of eclectic tastes. A collector of Native American Kachina dolls. The theatre. Shakespeare. Running, so much so that he carried the Olympic torch through San Francisco in the Summer of 1988. Wine, so much so that the Spanders have about 800 bottles in their basement.<\/p>\n

But most of all, there\u2019s Liz. And, in all of this, the only story that really matters is still going.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m here and I\u2019m very fortunate,\u201d Art tells me, \u201cbecause she allows me to be.\u201d<\/p>\n

You can see it as they leave. Feeling the ground under him change, Art steadies his cane and takes hold of Liz. He doesn\u2019t let go. Pushing one foot forward, he feels the ramp of the media center turn into the grass of the golf course. Art lets out a laugh and offers assurance. \u201cI got it, I got it.\u201d<\/p>\n

They stop together, for a moment.<\/p>\n

\u201cOK,\u201d Art says, \u201cI just need to know what\u2019s coming next.\u201d<\/p>\n

(Illustration: Kelsea Petersen \/ The Athletic; photos: Cliff Hawkins \/ Getty Images)<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"When it\u2019s time for the column, Art Spander squints his right eye hard, seeing what\u2019s left to see.…\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":11031,"comment_status":"","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[47],"tags":[1430,62,222,67,132,68],"class_list":{"0":"post-11030","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-golf","8":"tag-golf","9":"tag-sports","10":"tag-sports-business","11":"tag-united-states","12":"tag-unitedstates","13":"tag-us"},"share_on_mastodon":{"url":"https:\/\/pubeurope.com\/@us\/114739009682513179","error":""},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/us\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11030","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/us\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/us\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/us\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/us\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=11030"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/us\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11030\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/us\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/11031"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/us\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=11030"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/us\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=11030"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/us\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=11030"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}