ESPN: Mea culpa

The story behind my tumultuous departure from the sports channel.

By Keith Olbermann

Nov. 17, 2002 | A long, long time ago, one of my bosses at ESPN told me that during times of contention, I always showed too much backbone.

Well, he was damned right.

A whining sacroiliac sent me to the chiropractor's last week and the X-rays proved my old boss literally correct. I am part of that hidden minority, the spinal mutants, who have six lumbar vertebrae instead of the customary five. I do have too much backbone.

This was the final sign that it was time to do something that for months has been crystallizing out of the gauzy haze of the unconsciousness that surrounds us all: I need to apologize to ESPN.

This began to become evident weeks ago when the deputy mayor of Indianapolis attacked Chris Mortensen, one of my reportorial role models. I once watched Mort protect a source who not only publicly denied what he'd told Mort in private but also questioned his ethics. Just this month, Mort went on the air and criticized the thoroughness of his own reporting on a story. Mortensen is the gold standard, and this hack politician slashed him and said ESPN was "a sports channel first and a news organization fifth." I was amazed to find my hackles rising and myself rushing to defend my old employers on my radio sportscast.

It all became remarkably clear after that. This isn't about my skeletal freakiness, or Chris Mortensen, or even, particularly, the primary area of wounded feelings for my former bosses and colleagues, Mike Freeman's book about the network. This isn't even about specific events or people, although nearly everybody at ESPN merits an apology from me, and I give it willingly and with great sadness, but with some hope that it will explain if not erase my actions, and might even be of some inspiration to any who might be afflicted in the same curious way I've come to learn I am.

This is about not knowing why you do things -- literally, not knowing for years and years -- and then suddenly beginning to scratch the surface of understanding. That earlier imagery about the gauzy haze is almost factually precise: It feels as if I've been coming out of a huge fog bank.

Enough preamble. After five and a half years there, I left ESPN at the end of June 1997. My decision inspired a lot of head-scratching, everything from graffiti on a wall in a syndicated comic strip, to shouts of "traitor" from a viewer at a World Series game. There have been a lot of explanations conjectured, by myself and others, but heretofore I have never definitively stated why I left -- in large part because until recently, I didn't really know. In point of fact, I couldn't handle the pressure of working in daily long-form television, and what was worse, I didn't know I couldn't handle it.

Not the broadcasts themselves, mind you -- I've rarely had as much fun in life as I used to during those hours on the air with Dan Patrick. I'm talking about an inability to digest all that led up to those hours, about which I had no clue at all. And unless somebody at ESPN had the insight to look for a big-picture pattern, nobody else had any clue at all. I think some executives, most notably John Walsh, had a sense that something was wrong. But whatever any of them said about "insecurity" or "perfectionism," I know I just took it as an attack and stiffened my extra-long spine.

On top of everything else about it that can destabilize the soul, television is fraught with a million commonplace things that can go wrong. A surprisingly large number of things can go wrong even when everybody involved is giving their all. It's the nature of a medium so complex it would've made Rube Goldberg blanch.

But I didn't see it that way.

I have lived much of my life assuming much of the responsibility around me and developing a dread of being blamed for things going wrong. Moreover, deep down inside I've always believed that everybody around me was qualified and competent, and I wasn't, and that some day I'd be found out. If you think that way, when somebody messes up, you can't imagine that it just "happened." Since they're so much better than you are, how could they not complete a task successfully? They have to be not trying hard enough -- and when they don't try and the show goes to hell, who gets blamed? You do.

In other words, you start thinking like George Steinbrenner, circa 1977.

Mix that in to the very public nature of the field, and especially the high-profile nature of a job like hosting "SportsCenter," and you have a combustible combination.

The results can probably be summarized by this conversation I recall from the weeks after the infamous launch of ESPN2 in 1993. After three hours of live shots failing, news breaking, entire 20-minute segments of the show being swapped during commercial breaks, tapes physically falling apart, and production assistants wiping out as they ran through the snow to try to get us information, the producers, my co-host Suzy Kolber and I somehow managed to cover Michael Jordan's first retirement professionally and entertainingly.

Afterwards, the coordinating producer, Norby Williamson, greeted us like the survivors of a World War I foxhole at Ypres. "Great job. Great show," he said.

"The hell it was," I said.

Wrong answer.

Next page: The torment of the question: Whyd you leave "SportsCenter"?