Quick—can you name a memorable sideline report on a sports telecast? Perhaps Jim Gray’s relentless grilling of Pete Rose 15 years ago.  

More likely you remember an impaired Joe Namath’s desire to kiss Suzy Kolber in 2003.

The list goes on. Most recently, Tristan Thompson of the Cleveland Cavaliers called sideline reporter Allie Clifton “Tina” and then actually kissed her head on the air.

Anything else memorable?


I had the job of NBC sideline reporter for the New York Jets for a couple of years in the late 90s, and I must confess it was the least happy assignment of my broadcasting career.

Let me count the ways:

The sideline reporter is not allowed to actually speak to any of the players who are suited up.

The sideline reporter is not allowed to go near the bench area, I guess for fear he might actually overhear something newsworthy.

Jim Gray once advised me that in order to get around the rule, he would take a long, slow walk behind the bench but wouldn’t stop! It got so bad that the Jets actually assigned a “goon” to stand next to me, and if I walked into some verboten area he would physically push me away.

Then there are the injury reports.

Those scoops you hear from the sideline reporters aren’t scoops at all. The news emanates from the team’s P.R. man in the press box. He then relays the information to the TV truck. And only then does the producer tell the sideline reporter what everyone else knows.

It’s an elaborate game of telephone.

One time the Jets team doctor told me that quarterback Neil O’Donnell had separated his shoulder, and I finally had a mini yet “illegal” scoop. Should I keep going? You haven’t lived (or nearly died) until you get to report outdoors at Soldier Field late Sunday afternoon with the wind chill about a minus thousand. Thank goodness for the Bears security man who took pity on me and gave me a ski mask.

And then there was the added joy of dealing with the coaches.

You were allowed to talk with them off-microphone as they left the field at halftime or re-entered for the second half. The first time I tried it a certain coach asked me, “what the hell are you doing?” even after I had explained it to him before the game. Some coaches just refused to do it, period.

Then there was Bill Parcells.  

He had a rule that you couldn’t talk to his assistant coaches ... ever! Before a game in Seattle I was chatting with offensive coordinator Ron Erhardt. Parcells spotted us and yelled out, “You’re not allowed to talk to my coaches.”

Boy did I feel important. I had known Erhardt for about 20 years. We were probably talking about movies or restaurants. But no matter. Parcells was pissed. And Erhardt apologized for “getting me in trouble.”

Nowadays I wouldn’t be hired as a sideline reporter. I’m not pretty, blonde or female enough. It’s not fair to generalize, but it’s generally a male viewing audience, so let’s cut to the pretty babe on the sideline who has nothing important to tell us.  

As with most things I often wonder where it’s all going? Since the Jacksonville Jaguars and the Arizona Diamondbacks have swimming pools in their stadiums, isn’t it inevitable that a sideline “expert” will do her report in a bikini?  Now that’s breaking news.

To contact Len, go to www.ThatsSports.com.