Sport: Just One More Season

If the legs go first, how soon will pride follow?

The style of athletic leave-taking seems to have diminished since Ted Williams homered in his final at-bat, when the Boston fans failed to draw him back out of the dugout for the purest reason, put perfectly by John Updike, that "gods do not answer letters." In mortal and modern contrast, Guy Lafleur, a Montreal Canadien once of the highest rank, lingered several aimless shifts before exiting last month as sheepishly as former Pittsburgh Running Back Franco Harris, who was bluffing along a few extra downs in Seattle. Babe Ruth limped away in midstream too, so departures of this sort are hardly new. Still, there is an impression that boxing has been spreading around its patents in the allied areas of recovered faith and mistimed goodbyes. Perhaps it is the money.

Money made as regal a figure as Jack Nicklaus fling a putter a few weeks back in his alltime display of rapture over an eight-footer, not to win the grand slam, not even to clinch a 20th major championship, but to publicize a condominium development in Arizona at a made-for-TV golf tournament. Ben Hogan would never have wet his pants over such a glory, but there are levels of ego in this. When Bjorn Borg slipped merely to second, ahead of everyone but John McEnroe, Borg had to go. Eleven years removed from his No. 1 rating, Ilie Nastase pursues the tournament allures as profanely as ever, but now he adjourns to the disco after the second round. People begin to forget that he ever was a great tennis player. As pride stalled and greed rallied, Borg reappeared momentarily, still young and naive about how fast and far a delicate skill can plummet, only to find that he had lost it.

"When you talk about a professional athlete losing it," Bob Cousy says, "it comes down to what he can settle for. In the individual sports, you lose it more quickly, or show it more. In a team concept, it's not that you can fake it exactly, but you can hide the subtle decline better. I did." This is more than surprising because, when Cousy retired against the Boston Celtics' wishes in 1963, the common feeling was that he was still on top of his game, one of those considerate treasures who chose the time grandly. "I chose it pragmatically," he says, laughing lightly. "I knew I'd be exploiting this notoriety for 20 years. Keep in mind that my salary was $30,000 in 1963." In other words, exchanging some of his legend for its full cash value up front might have made economic sense. "If it had been $300,000, chances are I would have played until 1969." But bleeding the fund by such small increments would have been shortsighted.

He has not picked 1969 randomly. That was the year Bill Russell retired. Cousy was 40 then. "I could have played that long without hurting myself or anyone else too badly. If the aging superstar continues to carry the load, the aging process accelerates." However, Russell bore most of the heavy equipment, and when Cousy became unable to hold up all of his traditional parts, he changed roles without anyone noticing. Here was the magician's finest sleight of hand.