DOES GREATNESS ALWAYS LEAD TO MISERY?

This year I’ve read two biographies of famous sports heroes. The first one was about Ted Williams, the legendary hitter for the Boston Red Sox during the 1940s and ‘50s, written by longtime Boston Globe sportswriter Leigh Montville. The other book chronicled the life of “Pistol” Pete Maravich, the innovative basketball showman during the late 1960s and ‘70s. It was written by Mark Kreigel.

The books were meticulously researched, and went into great detail about the athletic accomplishments of each man. If you’re a sports fan like me, you’ll find the information very fascinating. But above and beyond all the athletic stuff, the overwhelming impression portrayed in the books was that both ultra-famous superstars were miserably unhappy men.

Teddy Ballgame went through life angry and bitter. If Montville’s depiction is remotely accurate, Ted was loud and rude and profane, and went out of his way to make people take an instant dislike to him. I’ve always heard that Williams feuded with the sportswriters in Boston, with some of the “Knights of the Keyboard” taking rather nasty potshots at the temperamental slugger. But after reading how Ted behaved toward most people during those years, I suspect if I had been sitting up in the press box back then clacking away on a manual typewriter, I’d have referred to him as a self-centered bum, too, regardless of how talented he was with a bat in his hands. Also, Ted treated his wives and kids like dirt.

Pete Maravich’s personality couldn’t have been more different than Ted Williams’. The Pistol was quiet, insecure, and painfully shy, which not only was the exact opposite of Ted, but also the exact opposite of his brash and bold “showtime” performances on the court.

Ever hear that joke, “He puts the ‘fun’ in dysfunctional”? Well, Pete’s domineering coach and father, Press Maravich, most certainly took the fun OUT of dysfunctional. Again, assuming the book’s depiction is accurate, the Maravich home was a complete mess—rife with anger, violence, alcoholism, and suicide—and Pete turned out to be an emotional basket case who tried to flee from the pain with booze. One can only guess what his gaudy career stats really might have been if he had played sober and sane more frequently. Only in the last years of his life did The Pistol find a small measure of peace when he embraced Evangelical Christianity. Sadly, he dropped dead from an undiagnosed heart condition at the age of 40.

Who knows, maybe the biographers figured they’d sell more books if they focused on negative stuff. Maybe when they conducted their interviews with old friends and family members, they asked only for unhappy stories about their subjects.

The two biographies made me wonder: were the unhappy personal lives of these men a driving force that helped them achieve greatness? Or did the fame and fortune that came once they achieved greatness cause their misery?

It seems to affect other high-profile professions, too. In the music world, when you hear the names Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson, the words “happy” and “well-adjusted” do not immediately pop into your head.

I’m not sure if there’s anything particularly humorous in this week’s column. (No, I’m sure: there’s nothing funny here.) I guess I’m just glad I’m not rich and famous. Good thing God never answered those prayers I offered up years ago. Well, actually He did answer. He said, “No dummy, you couldn’t handle it!”

Just in case, if a journalist comes snooping around years from now asking a lot of questions about me, throw in a few happy stories, OK?