Summary: Kansas
City Star investigative reporter James Fussell wrote an enlightening cover story
(8/13) for the Star Magazine about the regular callers to sports talk shows
locally and nationally. These folks have become mini-celebrities to the point
where "Combine Billy" has been used to do radio commercials for soybeans.
Sporting talk
You can keep score by listening to radio
show callers turned celebrities.
By JAMES A. FUSSELL
The Kansas City Star
They’re characters, personalities, minor celebrities.
And love them or hate them, Kansas City sports talk radio wouldn’t be the same
without them. They’re callers, and they call by the thousands, anonymous except
for their colorful handles that have become household names for loyal listeners.
Some use real names (Kenny Kenny, Suburban Sam), others combine a name with a
favorite team or region (Jayhawk Mark, Benton Harbor Marlin). Still others give
themselves self-deprecating monikers (Knucklehead, Main Street Moron, the Guy
Nobody Likes), while a few are more than a little strange.
The Donger?
Don’t ask.
While all-sports talk radio stations — Kansas City has two, WHB-AM (810) and
KCSP-AM (610) — have been around for less than a decade, their influence is
undeniable. They’ve raised food and money for local charities; staged
high-profile walkouts at baseball games; built a sports bar; and led debates
over votes on downtown arenas, a rolling roof, stadium renovations and more. Two
of their reporters — 610’s Rhonda Moss and 810’s Bob Fescoe — recently got their
press credentials revoked by the Royals following tough questions at a press
conference.
What has driven this?
Kevin Kietzman, afternoon host and part owner of WHB (slogan: “Powered by
Fans”), says it’s the people who listen and call.
“It’s kind of like having a second family,” he says. “I can’t tell you what
their religion is, I can’t tell you who they vote for, but I know how they feel
about their teams.”
So who are these radio raconteurs? Why do they call, and do they have lives
outside sports? We cruised sports bars and radio remotes and consulted show
hosts and their producers in an effort to find out. We didn’t find everyone, and
some we did find didn’t want to give up their anonymity. But we did find some.
Here are the stories of seven callers who have made a splash in local sports
talk radio.
ROAD WARRIOR
That name. The Road Warrior. It conjures up images of rugged,
over-the-road tough guys, meting out justice at the end of a fist.
It does not make you think of the Ms. Ashley line of costume jewelry.
Maybe it should, at least when it comes to sports talk radio caller Chris
Browning. That’s what the Olathe man sells out of his car to boutiques and
specialty stores around the region. It’s his family business, and he works hard
at it. Last year he drove throughout the region to sell women’s jewelry,
sunglasses, sterling silver, watches and other fashion accessories.
He listens to sports talk while he drives. Often he calls. His caller handle is
appropriate.
“Last year I drove 63,000 miles,” he says. “I am the road warrior.”
Browning calls because it’s fun. He loves the Royals, Chiefs, the Big 12 and his
Jayhawks.
A Kansas City native, he has three young children and has been married for 13
years. He typically calls when something grinds his gears. Recently he called
after the Royals revoked the credentials of two radio reporters.
“That was a joke,” he says.
Browning has a journalism degree from Kansas University and worked for KJHK, the
KU student radio station, doing a 5-minute sports update in the mornings.
“I tell you what, I’m really jealous of those guys at WHB,” he says. “If they
came up to me and say we need an hour a week to talk about hockey or whatever,
I’d be thrilled! They have a great time. And they’re just regular guys and very
passionate about what they do.”
But he likes what he does, too.
“I just kick the door in and say, ‘This is who I am and what I do,’ ” he says.
He has between 70 and 100 accounts.
His father, Bruce Browning, started the business in the early 1980s and still
works seven days a week at age 63.
Chris Browning doesn’t work as hard as his father. He likes to have fun. That’s
where the Road Warrior comes in.
WHB’s powerful signal makes frequent calling possible.
“I can get them in Des Moines, I can get them in Winfield, I can get them in
Salina and in Columbia,” he says. “And that’s my territory.”
Browning says he brings intelligence to the broadcasts.
“I’m respectful, thoughtful, analytical, not over the top,” he says. “It’s just
cool that we have this forum where we can discuss topics over the air.”
He dislikes stereotypes of callers as pasty-faced losers who live in Mom’s
basement.
“The majority of people listening to sports radio are highly educated and work
in a successful environment. We’re just regular people who love sports.”
WOLVERINE WILLIE
(Pictured on cover)
You love him. You hate him. You love to hate him. You hate to love him.
But you can’t help yourself. Every time he calls, he grabs you by the nerve
endings and makes you want to smile, laugh or throw something at the radio.
There’s no middle ground with arguably the most articulate and controversial
caller in the history of local sports talk. Wolverine Willie, aka William J.
Currie of Leawood, is your classic, smart-aleck radio provocateur. He’s not only
fine with being the proverbial pebble in the shoe, he revels in it. He
entertains with a combustible combination of pithy put downs, humorous asides
and edgy, out-of-tune songs that occasionally devolve into poor judgment and bad
taste.
At one time or another, the 39-year-old technology salesman has been banned from
more sports shows — locally and nationally — than any other local caller.
Whether you consider him a jerk or a jewel of local sports talk radio, one thing
is clear: He’s impossible to ignore.
Currie’s quick and acerbic wit has built him a following and burned some
bridges. Many callers cite him as their favorite; some hosts promise they will
never take his calls again.
His response to anyone offended by his calls?
Get over it. It’s all in fun. There are exceptions, of course. He has used
ethnic stereotypes before and sang a song about a local radio host being stopped
by the police that got too personal. That was wrong, he says. But then he has
been attacked, too. He doesn’t take it personally. Why should anybody else?
He was banned from the nationally broadcast “Jim Rome Show” after using a Jewish
stereotype and some Yiddish slang.
Poor taste? Yes, he says. Racist, no.
“If I really had a grand imperial wizard or neo-Nazi agenda, I would have chosen
a different format than ‘The Jim Rome Show’ to reveal myself,” he says.
But considering his salty radio persona there are some things about KC’s radio
bad boy that people may be surprised to learn. He has been married for 18 years
and has three daughters, his wife is a marriage therapist, and he lists God as
the first priority in his life. He doesn’t take his radio persona seriously and
worries about the “social misfits and societal rejects” who do.
It “makes me wonder why I would ever want to pick up a telephone and call sports
talk radio,” he said.
But he does and has for years. Currie moved here 10 years ago from Chicago. He
called there as Buffalo Bill and has also used the name Windy City Willie. While
he’s a big Michigan fan, he graduated from Southern Illinois, prompting some
hosts to suggest he should more appropriately call as Saluki Bill, referencing
SIU’s mascot. No luck. He’s Michigan all the way, often comparing local teams to
the Wolverines, sparring with hosts or spurring a flurry of agitated callers.
“The battle is against complacency,” the former broadcasting major says. “If you
either love me or hate me, then the battle is won.”
HURRICANE
Larry Van Zandt, finance manager at Lee’s Summit Mitsubishi, is upset. He pays
little attention to the visitor who has entered his small office, preferring to
stare daggers at his cell phone. He fiddles with the buttons, looks up at his
computer screen, then back at the phone. Oh, this won’t do. His new phone won’t
download his favorite ringtone. Minutes go by. He barely moves. His focus is
laserlike. What ringtone has him so transfixed?
What else? The hard-rock anthem “Rock You Like a Hurricane.”
Van Zandt, a blond 36-year-old from Grain Valley — and one of the most prolific
callers in Kansas City sports talk history — is obsessed by Hurricanes, namely
the Miami Hurricanes college football team. The ’Canes are an enormous part of
who he is.
There’s a green-and-orange Hurricanes mini-helmet on his filing cabinet, ’Canes
vanity plates on his truck and a Hurricanes tattoo on his left shoulder. He has
Miami Hurricanes shower curtains, soap dishes, toothbrush holders, two Hurricane
watches, a Hurricane slow cooker and a Hurricane cover for his central air
conditioner. He even has his own custom-made Miami Hurricanes pop machine.
A three-year Army veteran who once guarded Dick Cheney and Colin Powell at
Checkpoint Charlie when the Berlin wall opened in 1989, Van Zandt has been a
Miami fan since 1983, when he saw the team get off a plane in fatigues.
He was 13 at the time.
Today the divorced father of three loves all sports. That’s why he calls sports
radio. He has found a place he belongs. When people ask him, “Hey, aren’t you
Hurricane?” he proudly says, “Yeah.”
Van Zandt is loyal to 810. He has not only called every show on the station, he
has co-hosted them, too. He has played in WHB-sponsored charity football games,
paid $800 to take part in a celebrity home run derby contest, and $1,400 for an
810-sponsored trip to Canton, Ohio, where he saw former Chiefs coach Hank Stram
and running back Marcus Allen inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame.
He’ll do almost anything to stay connected to the station. One time he told 810
host Frank Boal he’d bring him and fellow broadcasters Tim Grunhard and Bill
Maas breakfast every Wednesday until the Miami football team lost. They didn’t
lose for a year and a half. Van Zandt kept his promise, bringing bagels or
breakfasts from Denny’s. It cost him $1,200. But he’d do it all again.
“I’ve been lucky,” he says. “I’ve been part of a lot of cool stuff with these
guys.”
COMBINE BILLY
As Billy Carter walked into his machine shed, his boots left deep prints in the
4-inch powdery brown dirt. He stopped just short of a red, 30,000-pound, 1993
Case International Axiel Flow 1666 combine.
“This is it,” he declared in his St. Joseph drawl.
Indeed it was. This is where Carter, 45, became famous, at least in the sports
radio universe. This is where he became Combine Billy.
In 1999, WHB went on the air for the first time with its beefy 50,000-watt
signal. Kietzman, curious about the reach of his new station, remembers asking
listeners how far away they could hear him. Carter called to report that he was
in a soybean field six miles south of St. Joe in his combine.
The novelty of a caller in a combine calling from a far-flung farm field was
irresistible. Combine Billy became one of the early stars of 810. Kietzman went
up to Carter’s farm, drove the combine and called the station. Later Billy won
trips from the station to see the Chiefs and Royals. He was such a hit he even
cut a radio commercial for MFA “More Soy” Soybeans. Before long fellow farmers
were asking him if he was the famous Combine Billy.
Carter played all sports growing up. His favorite was baseball. Every morning he
would grab the newspaper and study the box scores.
“I knew every player on every team,” he says. “I knew what they were batting,
their ERAs, everything.”
He watched the Royals win the seventh game of the 1985 World Series from 10 rows
behind home plate. He likes to tell the story.
In early September of ’85 Carter worked as a computer programmer. While the
Royals were in third place, they were within striking distance of the division
crown. Carter wanted to make sure he was at the games if the Royals made it to
the series. The only problem: To get the seats he wanted, he had to buy 12
tickets to each playoff game in an enormous package. He swallowed hard and wrote
a check for $3,400, knowing his account held just $100.
Within an hour he’d sold the extra tickets to co-workers and made enough to
cover the check.
“I wanted to see them games,” he says emphatically.
And he did.
Today Carter grows corn and soybeans and raises hogs on a 1,500-acre ranch he
shares with his father-in-law and brother-in-law. He has been married for 23
years, and his daughter recently got engaged. But some things stay the same.
Billy’s still out, on long days, riding in his combine, harvesting corn or
soybeans. And most days he has his radio on to keep him company.
And most days it’s tuned to sports.
TOMMY MO
Tom Lester has met some interesting characters in jail.
No, he’s not a convict. He’s a bail bondsman. He meets people in trouble at the
jail to help get them out (for a 20 percent fee, of course). But it’s not the
only way the divorced father of two and longtime caller to local sports talk
radio makes his living. He’s also an assistant track coach at Raytown South High
School.
Lester is 41 now. But in the mid-’80s the Lee’s Summit man was an all-American
track athlete for Northwest Missouri State University in Maryville in 400 and
800 meters. He ran so fast on the team’s 4x100 meter relay team that it finished
third in the nation in Division II. Twenty-two years later, the time is still a
school record.
He also coaches an AAU team called the KC Sprinter’s Elite. But his love of
sports doesn’t stop on the track. He loves all the local teams, as well as
Syracuse in college basketball and the New York Jets in pro football. He calls
sports radio to have a laugh and stay connected to the world he loves.
The local host he enjoys the most?
Soren Petro on 810.
“He’s come the furthest,” he says.
But that doesn’t stop Tommy Mo from calling other shows.
Oh, yeah. Where did the nickname Tommy Mo come from?
Mo was his junior high nickname. Then, in 1994, a U.S. skier named Tommy Moe won
gold at the Olympics.
Tommy Mo was born.
BIG BLACK JEFF
Jeff DuPree didn’t give himself the nickname. Neither did the sports radio
stations he loves to call. It came from a group of friends who wanted to avoid
confusion with another friend they called Big White Jeff.
Today the 37-year-old Olathe ink technician answers to BBJ as much as he does
Jeff.
“Some of my new friends don’t even know my real name,” the single father
quipped. He even put the letters on his car’s vanity plate.
But there are other things that set DuPree apart from your average Joe, er,
Jeff.
For one, he’s a huge country music fan who sometimes dons a black cowboy hat he
got at a Brooks & Dunn concert. He used to work for a movie lighting company in
Las Vegas, has a tattoo of a Jayhawk on his left arm, has a 13-year-old son and
loves his brewskis so much his slogan is “No beer, no here.”
BBJ calls a variety of sports shows but has a special spot in his heart for the
personalities on 610 (even though 810 gave him a used gold Thunderbird one year
during a Cars-for-Christmas promotion). Now he calls virtually every day — not
bad considering when he called the first time in 2000, Star columnist Jason
Whitlock — a former host on 610 — disagreed with his take and promptly hung up
on him. A lesser man would have given up. DuPree took it as a challenge. He has
been calling ever since.
In a way it’s appropriate DuPree is involved with sports on the radio. He
learned to be a baseball fan from his grandfather, who never watched a game on
TV but listened to them on the radio. Today DuPree still has his grandfather’s
old radio as a keepsake.
He also has a radio persona that makes him proud. On a recent trip to a radio
remote, a driver pulled up beside him and started honking his horn.
“Hey, you’re BBJ!” he yelled. “I hear you on the radio. You’re awesome!”
“Thanks, dude,” DuPree called back with a wide smile.
LOBOS
“Buenos dias, mi
hermano!”
“Good morning, my
brother.”
Lobos is on the line again. His voice is lively and infectious. You can almost
see his smile through the radio. And you can count on his call virtually every
morning as Chato Villalobos takes a break from his duties as a police officer to
call the D.A. show on 610 AM. He might be calling about sports or pretty women,
the Brangelina baby or just to razz his favorite host, Damon Amendolara, with an
inside joke.
Villalobos, 33, of Kansas City, North, works in community policing. But for
years he was a homicide detective, seeing things no one should have to see.
“A lot of police officers seek refuge from the job, and sports radio is one
thing I turn to,” he says.
He has found more than a radio show in D.A. He has found a friend who makes him
laugh and helps him cope.
Sitting in his car one morning, Officer Villalobos takes a break from his
morning rounds and holds his cell to his head while waiting for his turn on the
radio. He has jotted down several things he wants to talk about. He smiles as
D.A. riffs on the morning news, citing a Shawnee burglar who broke into an
apartment in the buff.
“It’s so hot burglars are robbing people naked,” D.A. says. “Everybody’s got to
have a shtick these days. You just can’t rob somebody anymore. Now you’ve got to
be naked!”
And then it’s Lobos’ time.
“Buenos dias, mi hermano!” Villalobos says excitedly into the phone.
“Buenos dias, Lobos,” D.A. shoots back.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Villalobos says, referring to the naked burglar
story. “That’s why you listen to the D.A. show. That’s why you’re my boy!”
The call drifts easily into other topics, including curvaceous model Vida Guerra
and a pitcher the Royals let go who just won a game with another team. After a
few minutes of spirited banter, the call winds down and Lobos signs off.
Duty calls.
But if you want to catch him again, you know where he’ll be. ★
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To reach James A. Fussell,
call (816) 234-4460 or send e-mail to [email protected].