A Fabulous Sports Babe Who’s Actually a Babe

A few months ago, in the middle of Elise Woodward's weeknight broadcast, she happened to glance down at her left hand. For nearly 10 years, the ring finger on that hand had displayed the engagement ring from her husband, Troy. The band still sat snugly against her skin, but the diamond was gone. Her breath caught in her throat.

"We gotta take a break," she barked into the microphone. "950 KJR." She cut her mike—and freaked out.

It's not that Woodward thinks the diamond was stolen. Rather, the rock was probably lying in the Clear Channel parking lot in Seattle, or perhaps in the produce aisle of a grocery store she shops at in Sammamish, or maybe on the sideline at Husky Stadium. Nevertheless, it was gone. But Troy presented her with a new one when the couple snuck in a weekend trip to Vancouver, B.C., for their 10th anniversary. Now the diamond on her left hand is about the size of a hold on the climbing wall that stands across from Husky Stadium, where, in autumn, Elise spends many a Saturday.

She's recounting this story for Steve Kelley one Tuesday evening during a commercial break from The Seattle Times columnist's weekly appearance on Woodward's show. "So you know how much the minibars cost, right?" she says to Kelley. "Well, I didn't want to pay that, so Troy went down to the liquor store and bought me a fifth of rum. I'm like, 'Baby, you're so sweet.' Isn't he sweet? And he also bought a liter of Diet Coke. So we're not paying attention and we're mixing, and pretty soon I realize that we've been using the Diet Cokes from the minibar, and I'm like, shit, do you know how much those cost? Ten bucks! For two Diet Cokes! I coulda bought another fifth for that."

Therein lies Woodward's appeal for the traditionally male sports-junkie set: She's a guy's gal if there ever was one. How's the adage go? Never trust a woman who says she likes football until she demonstrates the ability to eat a plate of hot wings clean. You can trust Woodward; she loves football and hot wings—although she'd prefer nachos. She also chugs beers, gambles, rides Harleys, has flown in a Blue Angel, knows more about sports than you do, and can school your ass on the basketball court to boot.

She's also an absolute babe, but doesn't act like it. In one of the most stubborn old-boys' clubs left in the professional world, the 32-year-old Woodward is the only female sports-radio host at the only sports-radio station in the 14th-largest market in the nation. And she's thriving.

Back in the studio, the commercial break is winding down. "I'm not much of a jewelry girl," she tells Kelley. "I couldn't even fit a ring on this hand; it's all warped from jamming it too many times playing hoops. I'd rather go on a trip or something."

She clicks on the mike: "950 KJR. We're back with Steve Kelley of The Seattle Times."

Tyrone Willingham is late. His weekly press conference with the Seattle media is set to begin at noon, just as it does every Monday at Hec Edmundson Pavilion, but the Washington football coach is nowhere to be found.

You can hardly blame him. At the time of this press conference, the Dawgs are—and still are—winless, which will eventually lead Willingham to resign his post (he will stay on through season's end) weeks later after a devastating home loss to his former employer, the University of Notre Dame. Nevertheless, he steps in about 10 minutes past noon, perhaps 30 seconds after Woodward buzzes in fashionably late herself. She's looking a little bleary-eyed this morning, the product of a weekend in Arizona, where the Huskies suffered a thorough drubbing by the University of Arizona Wildcats (final score: Arizona 48, UW 14).

So how was Tucson?

"Shitty," she replies.

Someone begins by asking Willingham how he plans to use the extra practices generated by the coming bye week. Number one, he says, the team needs to get healthy. Other than that, he adds, "I'll evaluate what this team needs."

"What does this team need?" Woodward asks.

"We need success, a win," Willingham answers. "Winning is a habit. But also, losing can be a habit."

"They're not getting the job done," Woodward says of the Huskies. "But it's unfair to criticize Tyrone's character."

Willingham, she notes, is a man who inherited a program in shambles—the Dawgs were 1-10 the year before he took the helm. He's a man who goes to bat for his players, drags them to study tables, has earned the respect of their parents, and has cleaned up the program in all ways except—most conspicuously—on the field.

At press conferences and interviews, Willingham is stiff and uptight, and fans equate his emotionless face with an emotionless man, says Woodward. Willingham, who's "so cool and open" when he's talking to Woodward one-on-one, she says, maintains a poker face in front of the cameras.

"Ty just doesn't get it," Woodward concludes.