(3 of 3)
Money in the Press. Sanderson's value to the Bruins, both as a player and a character, will earn him at least $50,000 in salary and bonuses this year; another $60,000 will come in from endorsements and other outside interests. Though Sanderson, of course, is a genuine star, showmanship pays even more handsome dividends for Ken ("Hawk") Harrelson, the Cleveland Indians outfielder. "I'm a .242 lifetime hitter," he says. "Have you ever seen a .242 hitter who makes $100,000? To me, money is not so much getting base hits. Money is getting my name in the paper."
In 1968 he earned his clippings legitimately, batting .275 and clouting 35 home runs for the Boston Red Sox to become the American League's Player of the Year. Traded to Cleveland in 1969, he continued to command coverage —even though his average dropped to .221. As always, he traded on a "hot dog image" that centers around a beaklike nose and a shaggy head "that looks," he says, "like something that caught fire and was put out with a baseball bat." And wherever he went, he made a splash by wearing the gaudiest getups this side of the circus.
Harrelson, who has spent as much as $10,000 on clothes in one six-month period, turned out for a White House dinner in a lavender dinner jacket, lavender bell bottoms, lavender sunglasses, lavender cuff links and lavender shoes. He calls his suits, many of them $500 brocade silk creations of his own design, "mind benders." He has 250 pairs of slacks and buys his sweaters by the dozen. His digs in suburban Boston (he also has residences in Cleveland and Miami) are straight out of Playboy: red velvet walls, a $7,500 bar with a fountain, stereo all around, psychedelic lighting, and the inevitable round bed with tigerskin covers.
It all sounds very Hollywood—at least the rich, gaudy Hollywood of yesterday. But then, why not? In this increasingly complex world, the spectacle of sport, carried instantly by TV to millions of enthralled fans, is one of the few remaining simple pleasures of life. And its personalities—the Namaths, the Muhammad Alis and their fellows—take on the stature of yesteryear's movie stars. Indeed, in an era of such Hollywood anti-heroes as Peter Fonda, it is the athlete who comes on strong. "I am the greatest" was not, after all, a cry from the MGM lot. It came from ringside.