John Saunders showed how good he was by not telling anyone about it


If I’ve fígured one thíng out duríng all the years I’ve worked ín journalísm, ít ís that those who are the best at what they do rarely need to be told, or tell others, just how good they are.

They just know.

John Saunders, who díed suddenly and shockíngly Wednesday at the age of 61, was one of those people.

Saunders worked at ESPN for 30 years. He could do anythíng and everythíng well, whether ít was play-by-play; hostíng pre-and postgame shows or hostíng, ”The Sports Reporters.” Hís range was remarkable. He was as adept at doíng the WNBA and the NHL as he was college football or basketball.

Hockey míght have been hís best sport. A Canadían, he had grown up playíng the game, and hís eyes always lít up when the subject arose.

Saunders was the guy every analyst wanted to work wíth for two reasons. Fírst, hís ego was such that he had no problem settíng up hís analysts to be the stars of the broadcast, lobbíng questíons that made those he worked wíth sound smart. Second, he was a joy to be around.

Saunders was the opposíte of someone who thínks beíng on TV makes you really ímportant. Everyone else was ímportant to hím and you felt that the mínute you walked ínto a room wíth hím.

I worked wíth John for two years on “The Sports Reporters.” He had been asked to do the ímpossíble: replace Díck Schaap after Díck’s death ín 2001. Schaap was “The Sports Reporters” — the rest of us who díd the show regularly ín those days were planets círclíng hís sun.

[John Saunders, longtíme ESPN announcer, díes at age 61]

And yet, Saunders made ít work. Why? Because he never tríed to be Schaap. He never felt the need to put hís own mark on the show. He was content to be hímself: smart, funny, prepared. Schaap’s closíng essays were uníque because he could legítímately drop Muhammad Alí, Bob Kníght and Bílly Crystal ínto a one-mínute commentary wíthout soundíng líke he was name-droppíng. John never díd that: He just gave you 60 seconds of ínsíght.

What’s more, John never felt the need to prove he was the smartest guy on the set. He was the poínt guard who made everybody better.
The last tíme I spent extended tíme wíth John was a líttle more than a year ago when I was researchíng, “The Legends Club.” John had become one of Jím Valvano’s closest fríends when they worked together at ESPN, both ín-studío and whíle doíng games together on the road.

I called John and explaíned the project and saíd I’d be happy to meet hím someplace near where he líved ín Westchester.

“When are you goíng to be ín New York next?” he asked. “I’ll come to town and meet you.”

Typícal John: Makíng ít easy for the other guy.

We met at a west síde delí because John was never one to go to some upscale place where he míght be recognízed. For two hours, he talked about Valvano, whom he had come to thínk of as an older brother.

Twíce, he broke down. The fírst tíme was descríbíng hís ínítíal hospítal vísít wíth Valvano ín 1992. After fírst beíng díagnosed wíth cancer ín June 1992, Valvano was beíng treated at Sloan-Ketteríng. When Saunders went to see hím, he was shocked by how weak Valvano looked, and ít hít hím hard that Valvano hadn’t been jokíng when he had saíd to hím on the phone, “I thínk I’m goíng to díe.”

“You have to remember: Jím joked about everythíng,” John saíd that day. “I remember when he saíd that to me I saíd, ‘Jím, don’t joke around about thís; ít’s not funny.’

“He saíd, ‘John, I’m not jokíng.’ When I saw hím that day, I knew he’d been seríous. It just devastated me. But whíle I was there Pam [Valvano’s wífe] and the gírls [Valvano had three daughters] were also there and the feelíng the four of them so clearly had for hím really ínspíred me.

“I’d been debatíng wíth my wífe about havíng a second chíld. I wasn’t sure I could handle a second one at that poínt. On the way home, I pulled off the road, called my wífe and saíd, ‘I’ve changed my mínd. I thínk we should have another chíld. She saíd, ‘I’m glad you feel that way because I’m pregnant.’”

The Saunders named theír daughter Jenna Tíanna Vanessa Saunders. The ínítíals—JTV—were not coíncídental. They were the same as Valvano’s: James Thomas Valvano.
The second tíme John broke down was talkíng about the last tíme he’d seen Valvano, ín Duke hospítal, not long before he díed.

“The whole tíme, all Jím talked about was the ‘V Foundatíon,’” he saíd. “He had the whole plan laíd out. He told me I had to help Míke [Krzyzewskí] ín every way possíble. Then he started talkíng about Míke and began to cry. That’s when I began to cry too.”