Black Ball

Late one night in 2001, Curtis Brown was finishing up some work in his office at a car dealership in suburban Atlanta, fiddling with the tuner on his radio in the hope of finding a ball game to make the time pass more quickly, when he stumbled upon something he'd never heard before--or, to be more precise, something he'd never heard before on the radio. Because what Brown heard that night was actually, to his ears at least, quite familiar. It was a raucous, freewheeling discussion about sports in which no topic was considered taboo and no observation was deemed out of bounds. It was the type of no-holds- barred sports talk Brown had grown up hearing at the local barbershop in his native Detroit; and it was the type of sports talk he now often participated in with his friends in Atlanta when they gathered in bars or basements to watch games. But, until that moment, it was not the type of sports talk Brown had ever heard on the airwaves. "It was real, it was down to earth, it wasn't about statistics, it wasn't afraid to say the stuff most people think but a lot of the time won't ever actually say," Brown recalls. "It was totally different from any other sports radio format, and I've been listening to sports talk shows for a long time." In other words, he explains, "It was black guys"--black guys like Brown and his friends--"talking about sports."The black guys Brown heard that night were Doug and Ryan Stewart, two brothers (in both senses of the word) who had recently persuaded the management of Atlanta's sports talk station 790 The Zone to put them on the air. Between the two of them, the Stewarts had scant radio experience: the then-31-year-old Doug was a mortgage lender; Ryan, who is three years younger, had played football at Georgia Tech and, since retiring from the sport after five years in the NFL, had done some fill-in work at the station. But the Stewarts did possess an undeniable chemistry--the kind that can take years for a radio duo to build but tends to come naturally to two guys who grew up under the same roof--and they had a convincing demographic argument for why they deserved some airtime. "Atlanta's about 70 percent black, and a good percentage of those black people love sports," Doug remembers telling 790's program director. "But there's no sports talk show in Atlanta--or anywhere else, for that matter--that specifically speaks to them." The powers that be at 790 were intrigued by the Stewarts and their idea for a "hip-hop" sports talk show, so they gave them a tryout in the graveyard shift- -when few people bothered to listen to 790 and even those who wanted to listen (like night owls working late at car dealerships) had a hard time doing so, since the station's AM signal became extremely weak after sundown. It wasn't long into their first show that 790's management realized that, in the Stewart brothers--or, as they called themselves and their show, the "2 Live Stews"--the station had a hit. "There was no question," says Andrew Saltzman, 790's president. "Hearing them that first time--their cadence, their vernacular, their energy--was like jumping in an ice pool." The Stews have come a long way in the four and a half years since their late- night debut. While they did their first shows for free, today they both pull down six-figure salaries. And, after moving "2 Live Stews" into a succession of increasingly better timeslots, last year 790 took the ultimate step and installed the Stews in sports talk Valhalla--otherwise known as afternoon drive. Earlier this year, the Stews extended their reach beyond Atlanta when the black media company Radio One began syndicating their show as part of its national black talk-radio network (the network's two other shows feature Al Sharpton and Michael Eric Dyson); today, "2 Live Stews" is heard in more than 25 markets. In the process, the Stews have become sports celebrities--even earning a profile in Sports Illustrated. In February, when they broadcast their radio show from the NBA All-Star game--an event so popular among African Americans that Washington Post sports columnist Michael Wilbon once called it "Black Thanksgiving"--the duo sometimes received as much attention from the fans as the players. That the Stews bested the likes of Shaquille O'Neal and the rap star Ludacris at an All-Star weekend celebrity pool tournament only seemed a fitting confirmation of their new cachet. But, for all the distance the Stews have traveled in the last few years, there is one thing that has not changed since their first night on the air: Despite its tremendous success, "2 Live Stews" remains the only sports talk show in the United States--and there are now more than 500 of them--that features two black hosts and is explicitly geared toward black listeners. Which almost certainly has something to do with the other thing that makes the Stews such a sports talk anomaly. The world of sports is routinely hailed as an oasis of colorblind meritocracy and racial harmony, but the most common racial dynamic is a group of black players taking orders from a white coach as they play for a team owned by a white guy. Most members of the sports media typically suppress the tensions that come with this reality or deny that they exist. The Stews, on the other hand, make their living by bringing them to light. Like every "2 Live Stews" show, this one begins with a jolt--a sonic collage that features an old Public Enemy song, snippets of dialogue from movies like Bad Boys and Barbershop, and, of course, the Stews themselves. "You're in the doooooooog house!" Doug yells into his microphone, as Ryan barks and growls into his own. The Stews--both wearing sweatsuits, both with shaved heads, and both sporting large diamond stud earrings--are seated at opposite ends of an elliptical console in a studio on the eighteenth floor of an office building in the upscale Atlanta suburb of Buckhead. Through a window in front of them, they can see their producer in the control room; through a window behind them, they have a view of Stone Mountain. After their ear-shattering introduction and some words of greeting for the "dogs" and "poodles" (which is what they call their male and female listeners), the Stews turn to the big news of the day, which, on this particular afternoon, involves Michael Vick, the hometown Falcons' supremely talented but maddeningly inconsistent quarterback. Vick, who recently finished a disappointing season, has decided to voice his frustration to the press, telling a reporter with USA Today that the Falcons' offensive coordinator doesn't know how to use him properly. And the majority of Atlanta's sports talk community--both the hosts and the callers--has reacted predictably, blasting Vick for refusing to listen to authority; for airing the team's dirty laundry in public; for being, in the parlance of the medium, a "malcontent," a "brat," and an "uncoachable punk." But that is not the view of the Stews. In their eyes, Vick is the victim and the Falcons' coaches are the bad guys. And they spend the next hour making that case. According to Doug, the Falcons' coaching staff really isn't using Vick properly. Rather than taking advantage of Vick's blazing speed and remarkable running ability, they're trying to force him to become something he's not-- namely a conventional, drop-back passer who stays in the pocket. Ryan isn't sold on Doug's notion that Vick can be an option quarterback like he was in college, but he doesn't fault Vick for going public with his grievance. That the quarterback did so, Ryan argues, only means that the coaching staff wasn't taking his concerns seriously. In effect, Vick had no alternative but to go to the press. And, because Vick is black and the Falcons' offensive coordinator is white, the whole situation becomes, in the Stews' retelling, a thinly veiled parable about race in America--in which a stodgy white system once again conspires to thwart a creative black talent. Even the statistical measure used to assess quarterbacks--something called the "passer rating"--is biased against a multi-dimensional player like Vick, Doug argues, since it fails to take into account the yards he gains by running. This sort of racial talk goes on constantly on "2 Live Stews." Often, it's lighthearted and frivolous--such as when it involves making fun of white athletes for being slow or detailing the differences between white strip clubs and black ones. (In case you're curious, Ryan explains thusly: "Black strip clubs, the girls dance a whole lot more and shake it a whole lot more. White strip clubs, the girls model more and walk around more. Silicone has a lot to do with it, too.") But, just as frequently, the racial talk can be serious--and it's at its most serious when the topic is the athletes themselves, who, after all, are predominately black. Where most sports talk shows consist of angry white hosts and angry white callers braying about the myriad shortcomings of these black athletes, "2 Live Stews" features the reverse: black hosts and black callers voicing sympathy, understanding, and support for the black people who play the games. When they're not defending Vick, the Stews and the dogs and poodles are defending former Ohio State running back Maurice Clarett, who was generally vilified on sports talk shows for leaving school early and then accusing Ohio State of NCAA violations but who, according to the Stews' portrayal, was a young black man who'd won a national championship for Ohio State only to be abandoned by the university when he ran into problems off the field. Or they're sticking up for Barry Bonds or Terrell Owens or whichever black athlete happens to be serving as a sports talk punching bag at that moment. "When everyone else is saying that this guy is crazy or that this guy is a jerk, we're usually the only ones on radio viewing it the other way," Doug says. This pro-athlete view, Ryan argues, stems from the fact that he and Doug-- who also played football at the college level--are themselves athletes. But the sports talk landscape is littered with ex-jocks now trying to make a second career talking about the game they once played, which means that something else must account for the Stews' unusual dynamic. And Doug, the more avowedly political of the duo, isn't afraid to put his finger on it. "It's also because we're black," he says of his, his brother's, and his callers' propensity to see things from the athlete's perspective. Later, he adds, "I just think that, deep down, we feel like the setup is on. I don't know if it's a conspiracy or it's because we've been wronged so many times by authority--and when I say authority I mean the system, the establishment, the sports hierarchy." Indeed, the figures who typically come in for the most criticism during a "2 Live Stews" show are the people who sit atop that hierarchy: the coaches, the general managers, the athletic directors, and the league commissioners, who tend to be white and who, on most other sports talk shows, tend to be treated like minor deities. According to the Stews' schema, these deities have feet of clay: Dick Vermeil, the former pro football coach who was widely hailed in the media for wearing his emotions on his sleeve, is a crybaby and the butt of frequent jokes; Larry Brown, who before his bad turn with the New York Knicks was celebrated as a coaching genius for winning an NBA championship with the Detroit Pistons, is a glory hound stealing the spotlight from his players. The Stews even take shots at David Stern, the NBA commissioner whose stewardship of that league has made him as close to a universally revered figure as you're likely to find in professional sports. When the NBA instituted a dress code for its players, the Stews argued that Stern was unfairly targeting the league's young black players, who, prior to the dress code, tended to wear the sort of hip-hop gear the Stews themselves favor. "Who's the dress code made for?" Doug asks. "It's not made for Mike Dunleavy [a white player], it's not made for, I don't know, give me another white player. So deductive reasoning would tell you that it's directed toward this certain group of people who make white folks uncomfortable." None of which is to say that the Stews don't ever try to make athletes uncomfortable. "If a black athlete does something crazy," says Doug, "we're going to call them out on it." Ricky Williams, for instance--who was recently suspended from the NFL for violating its substance abuse policy--is the butt of many a "2 Live Stews" pothead joke. But, when the Stews do criticize athletes, it's usually done in the spirit of tough, almost brotherly, love. Saltzman actually likens the treatment of athletes on "2 Live Stews" to Doug and Ryan's treatment of each other. "It's like I can take shots at my brother that nobody else can take," Saltzman says. "I'm going to be harder on him than anybody else, but, at the end of the day, I'm going to be the one defending him in a street fight." The Stews like to say that their show is simply a re-creation of what happens when men get together in person to watch and talk about sports. But, no matter how exact that re-creation is, sometimes people want the real thing, and so, with some regularity, the Stews give away tickets to local sporting events and then join the winners. On this night, the Stews are at the Philips Arena to watch the Atlanta Hawks in a section of seats the team has specially reserved for the Stews and their fans called the Dog Pound. (The Stews' seat-giveaway arrangement with Atlanta's pro hockey team, the Thrashers, is called "Soul On Ice.") The Hawks reside near the bottom of the NBA standings and the arena is largely listless and empty, but the Dog Pound, although only filled with about a dozen people, is a comparable den of activity. Vendors and security guards make their way to the section to say hello to the Stews, who spend most of the game schmoozing with their fans and offering a running commentary on the action on the court. It's almost identical to the commentary they offer on the air-- albeit with curse words--and much of it is hilarious. But it's not without its moments of insight, and, in the game's final moments, one such moment occurs. With the Hawks trailing by three and setting up for a final shot during a time- out, the Stews and their fans all agree that a sharp-shooting rookie named Salim Stoudamire should take the last shot. But when the Hawks return to the floor, Stoudamire is sitting on the bench. The Stews and their fans are incredulous. "Where's Salim?" they howl. And, when the Hawks miss the shot and go on to lose the game, the howls grow louder. Doug merely shakes his head. "Salim's gonna be pissed," he says. "I wouldn't want to be in that locker room right now." Sure enough, Stoudamire will pitch a fit in the locker room that night-- according to some reports, he'll have to be physically restrained from attacking the Hawks' coach--and, the next day, he'll be suspended for two games for conduct detrimental to the team. The sports talk universe will have another misbehaving, entitled athlete to excoriate. And "2 Live Stews" will have yet another poor, misunderstood athlete to defend.