Every New Orleanian has a short list. That is to say we all keep at the ready a list of assignments any first time visitor or transplant must accomplish in order that they be properly introduced to the local lifestyle. Such lists include a favorite bar, favorite restaurant, essential book to read (this book is required to be A Confederacy of Dunces for all lists, there can be no argument about this), neighborhood to visit, etc. My list always included an exposure to the Buddy D show. Of course many cities have their own local color or accent or what have you. But New Orleans is one of the few places left where we can, in fact prefer to, see and hear our parochial manner in our daily media consumption. Even for non sports enthusiasts, Buddy served as a prime example of old “Where y’at, Where’s ya Mom an’ dem, Let’s go get some ersters” New Orleans. But Buddy was also more than that. He was one of the last of the old school journalists; the have a few drinks, bet a few horse races, don’t kiss anyone’s ass, “tell it like it is” kind. Today’s broadcast world is populated by two kinds of animal. One camp, the Brokaw-Williams-Costas faction, houses the blow dried, smooth voiced, lipo-sucted bobbleheads. The other, the Limbaugh-Coulter-Name-any-hack-sports-talk-radio-guy wing, is the home of the shrill, attention seeking blowhards who shout whatever they think might be controversial enough to land them their next book deal. All of this is much more about show business than it is about reporting the news. Whatever Buddy Diliberto was, he was a completely alien figure to the current universe of phony journalism. Buddy spent over fifty years as a sports reporter in New Orleans. During the course of his long career, he worked in print, television, and radio all in New Orleans.
There are stories upon stories to tell about Buddy, and if you have been around here this week, by now you have heard them all. Buddy famously was banned from traveling on the team plane as a result of his drawing the ire of former Saints owner John Mecom who was perhaps the worst owner in all of professional sports at the time. Buddy was the father of an untold number of misstatements and malapropisms such as “They’re doing a pretty hell of a good job,” or, “It’s like an arrow right between the forehead,” or “Donte’ Stallpepper.” He is also credited with inventing the now commonplace practice of attending the home games of a poorly performing team with a paper bag over one’s head. Most importantly, Buddy got into broadcasting at almost the same time as the Saints arrived in New Orleans. Over the years, the two became players in a familiar routine. The Saints provided the frustration and heartbreak, Buddy provided the laughter and catharsis made so necessary by the team’s performance. His caustic manner and honest criticism of the team led some portions of his audience to brand him a “Saint hater.” I don’t think these people ever quite got it. I always considered their point of view analogous to the one which states that one cannot question the actions of one’s government and still be patriotic. Sports fans, like any consumers of the news, need the media to ask hard questions of the powerful and to honestly critique them when they fail to answer those questions. God knows, we could use a few more Buddy D’s in grown up (non-sports) journalism today.
During my childhood in New Orleans, the city seemed to really come to life at two times during the year; Carnival season and football season. The passion and excitement that permeated the city during football season, always centered around Buddy. Buddy D was an indispensable part of the experience of being a Saints fan. For many of us he was the Saints. At a time when we may soon have to say goodbye to the Saints, it seems that saying goodbye to Buddy is as appropriate a way as any to begin that sad process.