The Sniper

C.C. Sabathia is dressing after a loss to the White Sox. The Jacobs Field locker room is almost bare, save for huge leather couches and state-of-the-art electronics. Yet the meaty ace-in-waiting is in no mood for reflection. And he surely doesn't want to speak about Plain Dealer columnist Roger Brown.

His beef goes back to a game last summer. Sabathia, on one of his more combustible outings, had been lifted for a reliever. The pitcher responded by throwing his glove against the dugout wall and screaming obscenities.

After the game, Brown asked Sabathia about the outburst. "I wanted to know what he was so angry about, because he had made such a public display," Brown says.

Sabathia provided only curt responses. When it became clear the interview was going nowhere, Brown walked away.

As soon as the columnist was out of earshot, Sabathia skewered him before the remaining reporters, saying he'd like to whip Brown's ass.

"I guess he made some menacing remarks," Brown says, no hint of worry in his voice.

So on a recent afternoon, the hefty hurler is asked for his thoughts on Brown's column. "I don't read it," Sabathia says. "Whenever I'm in it, it's something bad."

A reporter tries to get him to elaborate, but Sabathia politely dodges the questions.

Bob Wickman, the Indians' All-Star reliever, is eavesdropping. As Sabathia pulls on an Oakland Raiders jersey, Wickman inserts himself into the conversation. "Sir," he tells the reporter, "the interview is basically over. The guy answered the question."

The reporter informs Wickman that he's not the one being interviewed.

"I just don't see why you are picking at him. He answered the question," Wickman says.

A feeling of tension fills the room. Sabathia says nothing. Wickman's eyes begin to widen, as he and the reporter briefly stare each other down. Then the 240-pound reliever waddles toward the shower.

It turns out that Wickman has his own beef with Brown. It's not an uncommon circumstance in the world of Cleveland sports.

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Brown took a circuitous route to his present job. He worked for a now-defunct Northeast Ohio daily, then joined The Plain Dealer as a metro reporter. He would later become its radio and TV critic before finally landing a sports column.

Viewed from the outside, it was a risky move -- one that PD sports editor Roy Hewitt won't discuss. Brown was being asked to write an insider's column, a series of brief quips, rumors, tough opinions, and behind-the-scenes info. It's a job usually reserved for veterans, those owning a Rolodex thick with the phone numbers of coaches, agents, players, and general managers. But Brown was coming from entertainment, generally considered the flyweight division at most papers.

To say the least, it wasn't a popular move among the more senior sports writers.

Hewitt was hoping to replicate a column by Charley Walters that appears in the Pioneer Press of St. Paul, where Hewitt once worked. Brown was dispatched to Minnesota to learn the ropes.

But he was at a distinct disadvantage. "I've got 3,000 unlisted numbers in my cell phone," brags Walters, a 20-year-veteran. "I make 100 phone calls a day, which only requires me to push 10 numbers into my phone and ask, 'What do you know?'"

Brown, by contrast, was a novice. He was also a loner, often working from home. When he does go to games, he usually stakes out a place off by himself in the press box to watch in solitude. (He agreed only reluctantly to be interviewed for this story, then promptly cut off all contact with Scene.)

But Brown's biggest challenge would be writing in Cleveland. Gunning for players and coaches is considered everyday sport by the Minneapolis-St. Paul press. The Cleveland media, timid even by heartland standards, appeared more like a cheerleading squad, where shots are usually reserved for after the target has been either traded or fired, when there's no fear of recourse.

One need only hark back to last fall for an example of those see-no-evil, speak-no-evil ways. Though more than a dozen reporters cover Berea daily, it was ESPN that broke the story about the near-open rebellion of Browns players against coach Butch Davis. Comically, the Cleveland media was forced to quote superior reporting from Connecticut.

Brown, however, quickly showed that he harbored no such caution. If there's a shot to be had in Cleveland sports, be assured that Roger Brown is taking it.

Over the years, he's called Wickman fat. He's labeled radio host Mike Trivisonno "your beacon of buffoonery, your icon of inarticulate comment." He's implied that former Cavs assistant coach Stephen Silas was as valuable as an empty Gatorade bottle, and he's repeatedly blasted Cavs center Zydrunas Ilgauskas for his erratic play.

While he's not really venomous, he doesn't pull punches. And that, in Cleveland, is a rare thing.

"What I'll say about Roger is, he has a lot of guts to do what he does," says a writer from a rival paper.