For some 13 years, I would wander into the office of the great Furman Bisher, sit down and just listen. He’s a man of many great stories, a writer who for the last 59 years in Atlanta has chronicled just about everything in sports. I was young and Furman was wise, and this sportswriter owes so much to someone who could spin his pen on his finger like Michael Jordan could spin a basketball on his.
The old man finally called it quits last week, writing his last column for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and signing off one more time with his familiar “Selah.”
He is my friend, my mentor, and to this day I send a copy of Score to his house every week.
He knew everyone, and everyone respected him. I’ll never forget my trips with him to the Masters, where he was the man, not Jack Nicklaus or Arnold Palmer. Augusta was his special place, where Furman was at his best, his prose always beautifully written. Sometimes on a windy day I felt as if the grand magnolias were bowing down to him as he passed by.
Because I was the Braves beat writer for many years and Furman loved baseball, we spent a lot of time together at old Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium and on the road, especially in those grand postseasons of the 1990s.
I will never, ever forget the evening of Game 7 of the Series in 1991 when the Braves were playing Minnesota in the Metrodome and I had Furman on my left and satirist Lewis Grizzard on my right. They couldn’t have been more opposite, as Furman, though tough, was organized and gentlemanly, working on the modern-day computer while Grizzard smelled horribly of smoke, his shirt dirty while he banged on an old typewriter.
All three of us had Atlanta running through our veins and, though beat writers are supposed to be unbiased, we all quietly pulled for a Braves win. A world championship wouldn’t come for four more years, as on that night Jack Morris outdueled John Smoltz in one of the greatest Series games ever. Afterwards, I walked Furman and Lewis back to the hotel and we all needed a good cry.
Furman wrote the preamble for one of my three Braves books, and we actually co-authored one together about Latin baseball players, which was translated into Spanish. I never actually saw the finished product, but was paid in what is one of the strangest stories ever. Sadly, I don’t have enough space to tell it here.
I do, however, have room to tell one of my best Furman stories, which occurred on a trip to a college football game with some other staffers in the 1980s. We stopped to get something at a McDonald’s and Furman told us he had never before stepped into the place. So at the counter, looking to the menu overhead, Furman pondered what to order and finally blurted out, “I’ll have one of those Happy Meals.”
What a wonder he is and how lucky this town can feel to have had one of the greatest sportswriters of all time. For me, Furman is right there with the great ones like Red Smith, but also is perhaps the biggest reason why Atlanta is such a great sports town today. He pushed to get the new baseball stadium built in 1966 and helped bring the Braves to town. So much he did, such an impact he has left.
I got to know Furman’s wife, now of 21 years, Lynda, a beautiful lady who will have her husband all to herself on their acreage and home in Fayette County and vacation retreat on St. Simons Island. I also know that while Furman may not write any more for the AJC, he will not stop typing and I hope someday to read his autobiography. Oh, how interesting it would be if he brought his entire life story into one piece of work.
Furman taught me a lot, banged on my head when I needed it and also threw a compliment my way when I deserved it. One weekend I will never forget was when I was in Cooperstown with him covering the Hall of Fame induction of Phil Niekro. I had brought my father with me and, on deadline, Furman asked me to read part of his column and said, “Does this work?’’ My dad, sitting nearby, couldn’t believe Furman would ask the opinion of such a young writer.
But that was the man I like to call “The Bish.”
The great Jack Nicklaus once said about Furman, “… he’s a great friend to many sports. Furman is an absolute gentleman and a true professional, who I consider honest, a straight-shooter, and one of the old-guard media who you could actually sit down with to just chat and never worry about it showing up in the paper. His talent as a writer is exceeded only by his integrity as a person.’’
So, good friend, I wish you the best in your retirement. You have truly been an inspiration to this sportswriter and a gem to everyone who has had the fortune of picking up any of your 10,000 columns.
You started your first column on April 16, 1950 with, “There is something about first columns that should classify them along with bread loaf heels, opening day of Spring training and the first slices of bologna.”
In your last column on Oct. 11, 2009, you wrote, “Perhaps my act has worn thin. Perhaps I have overstayed my time. But to an old warrior such as I, it isn’t easy finding an appropriate ending place.’’
Nothing has worn thin.
In my son’s room sits a book written by Furman titled Strange But True Baseball Stories. On the inside it is signed by “The Bish,” and he writes, “Be Nice to Your Dad!”
His words will last forever.
Rosenberg, who worked with Bisher from 1986-98, can be reached at 404-256-1572 and ijrosenberg@scoreatl.com.
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