his physical appearance
his tendency to "swing" a little more raucously than is considered acceptable
his knees, which were bad enough to excuse him from the draft, but healthy enough to qualify him as a professional quarterback
his drinking habits
his "excessive" $400,000 contract
his "mouthing off"
his white football shoes
his alleged association with known gamblers
Schaap, apparently, attempted to make his book serve as a sort of Namath's Great Reply to the critics, and the arrangement of chapters alone shows it.
The first, "Harper Valley P. T. A.," explains why Namath felt that his interest in Bachelors III, a tavern allegedly frequented by Mafia-types, was innocent.
The second, "Who'd They Think They Were Messing With. The Rams?" provides the reasons why Namath felt he was justified in predicting the Super Bowl triumph, and goes into detail concerning its attainment. The fifth, "They Probably Would Have Told Our Lord to Cut His Hair," argues in defense of Namath's hair style. Anther defends his large bonus contract. And so on.
What is most irritating about Schaap's style is his blatant pandering to a narrow audience. One chapter entiled, "I Like My Girls Blond and My Johnnie Walker Red," is devoted to Namath, the stud, and one can just imagine the segment of America that fancies itself he-man. Schlitz-drinking, duck-shooting and hard-loving smugly saying, "Yeah, goddamn, Namath's one of US, Fcrissake."
In fact, that same chapter appeared last summer in True magazine, one of your basic rod-and-gun club publications, and on the cover there was a mud-stained Namath sitting in front of a locker filled with a llama rug, a bottle of champagne, and a naked girl.
SCHAAP is obviously a much better writer than one would conclude from the book. His epilogue, which explains how the book came about, and the problems Schaap faced in trying to nail down Namath, is superbly written, and departs noticeably from the Namath-voice that comprises the remainder of the work.
The sports biography, or perhaps, the sports profile, can be an amazingly interesting and worth-while form of journalism. When it is well done, as it is often in the New York Times Magazine, the New Yorker , and surprisingly, Sport Magazine , it can compare with any form of literature with regard to attainment of its avowed goal. John McPhee proved that the profile can successfully be expanded into a book with a piece about Princeton's Bill Bradley several years ago.
But Schaap's unfortunate failure to write I Can't Wait Until Tomorrow , as such a profile, with his own impression in his own words, dooms the book to fall into the same class as Al Hirshberg's Yaz, or Hawk, about former Red Sox outfielder Ken Harrelson, or Mike Holovak's Violence Every Sunday. And who remembers them any more?