In the exurbs of Charlotte, Paul Finebaum walks outside his ESPN office and drives to Smoothie King. He has only thirty-five minutes before The Paul Finebaum Show begins live on the SEC Network, and in a purple blazer and polka-dot tie, he stands in line. Someone there recognizes him— Are you ready for the show? Finebaum chuckles and says: “Do I look nervous?” No. He’s been one of the leading voices of college football for forty years, first as a radio loudmouth in Birmingham, then for his own network, and for the decade the SEC Network has existed, for ESPN. He returns to the studio with just minutes to spare, to entertain callers named “the Jim Reaper,” “Bash,” and “G,” who describes the ordeal of dialysis, Finebaum listening and encouraging. Callers bicker—“Moron!”—and taunt him. No fewer than four have been to prison. Humoring those who love to hate him, Finebaum says, is “like conducting an orchestra.”
Callers pronounce your name with a w: Pawl. Or: Pawwwl.
That comes from a caller years go. It may have been Tammy. When she would get upset, she would blurt out, Pawl! And it stuck. If I ever did another book, that would be a good title. I just don’t know exactly how many w’s to put in.
What was your childhood like?
I was born in Baptist Memorial Hospital, in Memphis; I wear that on my sleeve. Same hospital where Elvis died. But my mother was from Brooklyn. My father was from the Bronx. I had that sound of New York every day. So from the early days, I somewhat resented being from the South. If you could possibly live in a New York state of mind in Memphis, I did.
I grew up a sports fanatic. I was a Yankees fan, but I also became a Cardinals fan. When I was nine, the 1964 Cardinals—with Harry Caray and Jack Buck as broadcasters—won the pennant on the final day of the season. I would hide the transistor radio under the covers during that race. Then they ended up playing the Yankees, and my mother allowed me to stay home from school during the World Series. Then I went to [the University of] Tennessee, and this thing called college football took over.
How did you get on radio?
In 1984, as the first sports columnist for the Birmingham Post-Herald, I got a job on a station called WERC, a show called Fussin’ with Finebaum. It happened to coincide with Alabama’s first losing season in twenty-five years. I was on from 5:00 p.m., and [head coach Ray Perkins’s] show came on at 7:00. Every call was Fire the coach. Finally, [Perkins, who had succeeded Bear Bryant] went to Alabama and said, “He goes, or we go.” They fired me.
I got an offer from another station. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. I knew people wanted to hear something they’d never heard before. I didn’t think I’d be around long, so I was a hot-take artist. I hear from older callers all the time: You were crazy back then.
What’s it like to have callers stick with you for decades?
I’ve given half a dozen eulogies at callers’ funerals. Those occasions have probably meant the most to me. We had the caller Tammy. She died five or six years ago in a terrible accident. This guy named Shane used to call our show. He used to joke about me being his brother-in-law. At the grave site, I said, “I hope Shane will forgive me for finally telling the truth on this terrible day: that he really wasn’t my brother-in-law.” It got a snicker.
My wife, Linda, is an internist. A lady came to her once and said she had a very distant relationship with her father. “After my mother died, I would go see [my father] once a week on a Friday afternoon,” she told Linda. “Every time I walked in, he was listening to the show. So I started listening. Suddenly, every Friday I’d go talk to him, and all we talked about were the callers. And it brought me closer to my father for the first time in my life.” That was meaningful, to hear something like that.
How has the show evolved?
The pandemic changed my life. [The show] never left the air. But we weren’t on TV in the studio, we were in my upstairs bedroom. And that connection, during the darkest days, I felt maybe the callers really do lean on you. Maybe there’s more to it than This coach oughta be fired. In the 2019 football season, I was gone five nights a week. By the end of the season, I was sick, burned to a crisp. It was a blessing we got to the other side of [the pandemic] in one piece, so when someone calls in to the show down on their luck, or has lost someone, I try to be a sounding board now. For the first time in my existence, here at ESPN, I was genuinely appreciative of what I was doing and where I was.
You’ve become a compass for navigating the radical evolution of college football.
The amount of change in three years has been stupefying. We’ve gone from the idea of NIL [name, image, and likeness] to Can we afford to spend a million dollars for an interior lineman? Fans don’t really care. Fans care about winning.
When I first became an investigative reporter in the eighties, I believed that by breaking a story that showed that a coach used illegal money to buy a player, I was changing the world. I felt like I had to keep this sport pure. I recently spoke to a group called the Red Elephant Club. Alabama boosters. I said, “Forty years ago, I investigated every one of you. Now what you’re doing—and what I was spending every hour trying to expose—is perfectly legal.”
Now I’m in favor of the players getting everything. They have been held back for so long by other people making money. You’re still going to watch the game. It’s still one of the most exciting things in the world. People are waiting for Saturday.
What’s the most Southern you’ve ever felt?
My wife wanted to see Barbra Streisand. A friend ends up getting us tickets at Barclays in Brooklyn. Six seats down from us, Bill and Hillary Clinton show up. I go to one of the Secret Service guys—turns out he’s an LSU fan—and I say, “You think there’s any chance?” I walk over. “You don’t know me, Mr. President. I’m Paul Finebaum.” There was a tinge of recognition. I figure, I gotta hit him hard. I say, “How do you think the Razorbacks are gonna do this year?” Thirty minutes later, we are still talking about the Razorbacks. The most Southern I’ve felt was in Brooklyn, talking about Arkansas football with Bill Clinton.
What’s life like outside of football?
Our dog, Rocco, is a big part of our weekends. He’s a pit Lab—a five-time rescue loser. Five families got rid of him. I also read spy novels at night. It’s an escape. I certainly don’t want to read about football.
