All posts by Bernie Lincicome

Donkeys & Balloons

 

My notes are scrambled, taken sideways and with a balky pen on a Starbucks receipt I was keeping for the 2 p.m. cut rate iced frappuccino.

I should have been better prepared, I know, but this came as a surprise to me, and it still is that there is anything at the Democratic National Convention to protest, other than silly hats and balloons.

A guiding rule of any undertaking should be this: where there are balloons, nothing can be taken seriously.

(It might be remembered at the last DNC in Boston, balloons got caught in the rafters as if they were rejecting John Kerry, a signal of things to come. And poor Jimmy Carter, already President, couldn’t get his balloons to even pair up. He lost to Ronald Reagan. My one rule of thumb at conventions is, watch the balloons.)

But more on the balloons anon.

So, there I was in downtown Denver, on not the usual vacant Sunday, trying to wiggle my way to work. One policeman shouted down an almost empty street to another cop, “No more traffic on Colfax!”

Well, now, we certainly all wish for that, but this order was to make way for the most bedraggled looking bunch of souls this side of a sleepwalkers reunion.

This, I thought, deserves a note or two. One protestors’ sign asked, “Who would Jesus bomb?” If he expects to find the answer at the DNC, I could warn him that easier questions than that go unanswered.

There were objections to racism and war, and I think I can safely say that the Democrats are against each. Equal pay for equal work. No dispute there either.

Someone was shouting into a loudspeaker, “Revolution is what we need.” And here I would guess the Democrats might cage their support by offering change.

Still, what it seemed most to be about was a denunciation of Bush, Cheney and the rest, none of whom are in Denver. And it is very likely the Democrats will go along with that, too.

It is very hard to stir up confrontation when the people you are protesting are on your side. Now, it they really wanted an issue, they should have thought about balloons.

That was my sole mission in attending the opening of the DNC, to find an answer to the balloon question. I had heard that there would be no balloons because this is supposed to be the greenest convention ever and outdoor balloons would somehow harm the environment.

(I might suggest that the 25 or 30 buses lined up by the Convention Center turn their motors off, not to sound like an eco-nag, or a Republican.)

But, back to the balloons. My inquiries to assorted press liaisons at the Pepsi Center were passed up the chain of command. I left the building not knowing balloons or no balloons.

And by the way, getting into Stalag Wazee is not an easy thing to do. But basically you’ll know you are on the right track after you pass the condom booth and the fence with the dead roses in it.

It is also as difficult to get out of the place as getting into it, and I know my way around. In trying to exit I found myself in journalistic hell, or what is known as the blogger’s lounge.

I can report that bloggers seem as human as you or I, but I would not feed one.

Where was I? Oh, yes. The balloons.

I have seen balloons often used in celebration at Bronco games and they do waft up towards heaven, which would seem to fit in the general worship of Barak Obama. The Broncos don’t worry. The balloons become Nebraska’s problem.

Whether Barak Obama will have balloons or not on his big night is still, ahem, up in the air. He will be at Invesco Field, maybe a little small for a self-identified “citizen of the world,” but the largest we have.

My balloon question finally got a response by phone as I was once again wriggling my way through the city’s heart. I was told to call a phone number with area code 202, Washington, D.C.

No answer, but I was impressed that my inquiry was being considered in our nation’s capitol, or at least on a cell phone registered there.

Finally, I reached a helpful soul who would give me an answer but only on “deep background”. Really. Not for attribution. So, I can not say balloons or no balloons. But I know which it is.

All I can say is this. Nebraska has nothing to worry about.

 

Here Come the Dems

Welcome to a fixed fight. Political conventions are wrestling without the steroids, though a couple of the delegates from New Jersey look suspicious.

Excuse the sports references, even as the process of choosing the next president of the United States invariably slops over into my world.

Politics could not survive without the sports cliché, most conspicuously the two words that sent us off to our most recent war. Slam dunk.

The Democrats are rounding third and heading home; it’s the two minute drill, the shot clock is running down; he shoots, he scores. We get none of that. We get the postgame interview where Barack Obama shouts, “I’m going to Disney World,” or to the White House, lately filled with cartoon characters.

What went on between Obama and Hillary Clinton was a horse race, with calls at every post, front runner, neck and neck, faded in the stretch. This is not that race.

This is the winner’s circle where the horse gets a wreath of roses and a hard biscuit.

Here Obama gets the free world and a used airplane. That is, provided he can keep from fumbling, or losing the puck, or being called out on strikes, or missing the putt. He has, oh, two or three dozen match points and 30 years on the other guy.

This is history we are constantly reminded, not to drag up a Jackie Robinson reference, even if it does fit.

It is appropriate that this all takes place in the sports arena where the resident NBA team is mostly show, all flash and little finish. The finale will wrap up in a football stadium with the Obamans waving huge No. 1 foam fingers and the Clinton camp asking for instant replay.

Obama is the quarterback, the starting pitcher, the point guard, the anchor leg on the relay. Joe Biden to Obama, would be Pippen to Jordan, Drysdale to Koufax, Rice to Montana. Hillary will show up to accept her silver medal.

The party platform would be the game plan, used until it no longer works, in which case, say, a promise of a national health service becomes whatever the HMO can get away with.

To give it a sports number, this is DNC XLV, the 45th since 1832 when Democrats gathered in Baltimore to choose a playmate for President Andrew Jackson, the historically harmless Martin Van Buren.

For our part, we gave the world William Jennings Bryan, the only other chance we had, a gift so unappreciated that we weren’t given another turn at bat for 100 years.

It is our second convention and the coincidence that the last time the Democrats gathered here the Chicago Cubs won the World Series must not be lost like a sock in the bed clothes.

Omens are to Cubs fans as pillow chocolates are to dieters, always tempting and never enough.

Proud posters greet arrivals at DIA, rendering our virtues for inspection, though there is no explanation for the large blue horse with the fierce red eyes rearing at the approach to the terminal.

This has nothing to do with our most prized civic entity, the Broncos, but is our version of the Eiffel Tower, hated by everyone now but one day to be beloved. It is leftover from a traveling carnival and is no more an indication of our cultural sophistication than our local oysters, which you really must try.

We have swept up and dusted the shelves; we’ve put out the good china but are watching the silverware. We have concocted special holding pens for unruly guests, made of only the finest chain link, our version of the naughty child’s time out.

Clearly we want the Democrats to like us, even if we have not often liked the Democrats. Only once in the last 10 presidential elections has Colorado voted for a Democrat. This state is as red as a blush, except for Boulder, which, as we all know, belongs in California. Twice this very newspaper endorsed George W. Bush. Fool me once…

But we will do what we can, give the Democrats a place to hold the pep rally after the game is already over, maybe even cheer a bit ourselves.

This is easily the biggest thing to happen here since John Tesh played Red Rocks. Not as big as the day Ernest Byner fumbled or the night Matt Holliday slid face first across home plate. Let’s not get carried away here.

 

I Like Sports

There are lots of things I like about sports, though I’ve never made a list of them before. Maybe it’s time I did. Blame it on Valentine’s Day.

I like the lessons taught by sports. Competition. Cooperation. Teamwork. Individual achievement, discipline, fairness, generosity, courtesy. If the sports are good, that’s what they teach.

What bad sports teach will have to wait for another holiday. Halloween, maybe.

This is a valentine to sports.

I love the bases loaded. Or empty.

I can’t look away on first and ten, but I don’t blink on third and long. A slam dunk is overrated, but only those who can’t do it.

I love a shot at the buzzer, match point, going for the green, the 15th round, the last furlong, a walk off homer.

But nothing compares to the first run on fresh snow.

Except maybe Allen Iverson humbling giants.

I like auto racers but not their machines. I admire boxers but not their wounds. I tolerate place kickers but resent their over-importance. Cheerleaders but not mascots.

College football crowds are more fun than pro football crowds but no more sober.

I like the smell of locker rooms.

Clint Hurdle talking. Dan Hawkins, too.

Free agents who outplay draft choices. Club pros who make the cut. Punters who make a tackle.

Watching barbells bounce.

I thank Bob Knight for Mike Krzyewski. Red Holzman for Phil Jackson. Walter Alston for Tommy Lasorda and Lasorda for Bobby Valentine and on and on.

I like an open field tackle more than an open field run.

The long throw from third to first, only slightly more than the 4-6-3 double play.

I like accidental heroes.

Lance Armstrong’s example.

Danica Patrick’s cheek, meaning her nerve as well as the ones with powder.

The sound of biking.

Todd Helton at the plate.

Kobe Bryant with the ball. Or without it.

Goal line stands.

The power play more than the triple lutz. Shoulder pads more than sequins.

I love the common memory sports gives a diverse community.

I root for extra innings and overtimes but not for tiebreakers or shootouts.

I’d pay to see Manny Ramirez under a fly ball. Lou Piniella after a bad call. Barry Bonds get his.

Tiger Woods at work. John Daly at play. George Karl at odds.

Charles Barkley at table.

Carmelo Anthony with the game in his hands or Matt Holliday with the game on his bat.

I like match play golf, but will avoid doubles tennis.

Al Wilson, as good as new.

The old Jack Nicklaus.

I like fish on a plate but not on a wall.

More track than field.

I appreciate but do not understand hockey goalies, sky divers or drag racers.

Roger Clemens’ foolhardiness. Maria Sharapova’s grunts. Mike Shanahan’s eye for talent.

Evander Holyfield refusing to say good-bye. Bill Belichick bothering to say hello.

I love hanging out around the batting cage. Telling lies in the press box. Whipping deadlines.

I am amazed at the instant literature that sports inspires from the best in my business.

I can think of nothing more amazing than the baseball box score.

I like scoreboards.

 

 

Giants spoil the perfect matchup

The New England Immortals v. the New Jersey Scarecrows.

Or some such.

Well, there have been worse Super Bowls going in, I suppose, not that it mattered who the Patriots got to confirm their greatness against.

Only coronation is left, the anointing of the New England Patriots as the greatest team in the history of football and of Tom Brady as the greatest quarterback, mere trifles what with only those improbable New York Giants in the way.

The least the Patriots should have had to do was to beat the better Manning, and yet they get Eli the Lesser. They could have had Cowboys, if just for the quarterback girlfriend matchup, or best of all and what ended in overtime in subzero Green Bay, the last patrol of Brett Favre.

But, no, the Giants survived on the road again, under the weather again, ruining a perfectly good narrative and allowing the world to wallow in Patriot glory for the next two weeks, as if there are enough superlatives to last that long.
Again and again is proved the old reflection of F. Scott Fitzgerald that there are no second acts in American lives.
That’s what we might have gotten with Favre, if his own and old nemesis, the refusal to believe that he can not throw a football through the eye of a needle, had not gotten him in overtime.

Against the Broncos, we recall, he threw a touchdown pass in overtime. Against the Giants, a careless interception.

Where we are now in the acts of Brett Favre’s life is surely somewhere beyond two, or even three, while Tom Brady is still in a very long first act, greater than Favre already, with the same dignity and appeal at the end yet to be managed.
And of all the possible finishes for a season kissing up to history, when someone had to take the last licks from New England, none could have been more intriguing that Favre and Brady at the end.
Not to take the clunky, ugly, freezer football of Sunday in both Green Bay and New England as an indication of anything other than survival of the thermally fitted, the NFL is the one sport that inevitably comes in from the cold, this time in suburban Arizona for Super Bowl XLII.

Things would have turned out as they did in the tropics or indoors, the Patriots outlasting an injured San Diego team and the Giants riding some kind of serendipitous joy wagon, clearly the least likely Super Bowl finalist since the Chris Chandler Flacons, whipping the Packers in their own ice box.

This was going to be Favre’s Super Bowl, not necessarily in victory but in tribute, the clear, dominating story line until Brady and the Patriots confirm the first 19-0 season.

We were ready to admire a career of courage and distinction and presence, and then when it came to a final defeat, a warm round of applause for the perfect warrior.

When all that history is made by New England, when the greatest single season standard in sports is set, there will be only a sense of conclusion rather than great achievement, a begrudging acceptance that Bill Belichick is every bit as great a coach as his more likeable predecessors.

Yet, the sentiment that would so naturally have flowed to Favre does not drift automatically to Brady, and certainly it will not be wasted on Manning either.

This will be a Super Bowl not of uncertainty nor disbelief but of filling in the blanks, dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s as the Patriots confirm the obvious.

What risk there is for New England is that, though they are already the only team to go 18-0, if they do not go 19-0 they will be immortal frauds, the greatest case of false advertising since the free lunch.
Not often does the Super Bowl match quarterbacks who are in the discussion of greatest ever, and that was what was lost when the Giants refused to do the right thing.
Favre against Brady would have been the best matchup since Elway against Joe Montana, at least the equal of Bart Starr and Len Dawson who were in the very first one or when Roger Staubach met Terry Bradshaw.

In fact, Favre lost to Elway when the sympathies were the opposite, Elway then as the well used Favre and Favre as the in-his-prime Brady.

The usual Super Bowl quarterback intrigue is wrung out of a Brad Johnson against a Rich Gannon or a Trent Dilfer against a Kerry Collins.
Brady has matched his Super Bowls against Kurt Warner, Jake Delhomme and Donovan McNabb, and for his most significant one he deserved better than the little brother of the other Manning.

Favre won his Super Bowl over Drew Bledsoe, the predecessor of Brady, and how moving that might have been if Favre could have bookended a career over man and boy.

We sigh for what might have been.

Year of little good, lots of bad, ugly

Before we get too far into the new year, we must ask ourselves what have we learned from the last one. Wisdom is worth writing down.
A true football fan is one who can make a fifth last four quarters.
A high heel is either a woman’s shoe or a Los Angeles Laker.
Expensive wine will still stain the carpet.
What this country needs is an old fashioned gas war, you know, where they slashed prices at the pump instead of each other at the source.
People will believe anything that is whispered.
If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, why isn’t there a Rand McNally cook book?
Jose Canseco is baseball’s Nostradamus.
Would portable murals be called Murbles?
As soon as you get on easy street, someone starts repaving it.
A major league city is one where it costs more to park the car than to rent it.
The Boston Red Sox were more lovable as losers.
Women who wear too much make up should.
I never take candy from a strange child.
With medical costs the way they are, how can anybody be ill at ease?
Why is the IRS the only one who knows when you are well off?
Any marriage that begins with a proposal on the stadium scoreboard will last only as long as the quarterback does.
Did you ever think that maybe a humming bird just does not know the words?
Credit cards and boomerangs were invented by the same guy.
Unemployment isn’t working.
If you think nobody cares if you are alive, miss a couple of car payments.
It’s always off season at nudist camps.
The three happiest words in the English language are not “I love you,” but “I’ll play these.”
My favorite get well card is a fourth ace.
Zucchini tastes like it sounds.
Coffee always smells better than it tastes.
The bravest man in history was the first one to eat an oyster.
The New England Patriots still are not as perfect as raspberry jam.
Repairmen must all keep their watches on Greenwich Mean Time.

If today’s pop music were food it would be a spinach casserole.
Being over the hill is better than being under it.
Any salary cap in sports ought to really be called salary sombrero.
A rare book is one that is returned.
The economy must be better. I can’t afford steak again.
Boxing may not be dead, but it is coughing up blood.
Modern man is defined by drinking decaffeinated coffee with non-fat milk and artificial sweetener from a recycled paper cup.
Global warming should be given a chance.
Reality TV ought to require testing, both drug and IQ.
Playing hockey outdoors in the snow only makes the puck more invisible.
If at first you don’t succeed, use the short form.
Cats are smarter than dogs but that is no reason to like them.
Horses are dumber than dogs but easier to give a bath.
After I collect my garbage, separate paper from glass, assign each to its proper container, bundle it and tie it and carry it to the curb, it looks so nice I want to keep it.
Airplane seats were never made for sitting.
Traveling requires removing your jacket, your shoes, your laptop and your dignity.
You really, really have to want to go to Shreveport.
Cell phones are more annoying than second hand smoke.
A basketball player without a tattoo is as hard to find as a Frenchman with a breath mint.
The Bronco season was like a teenagers hair cut; you knew it was going to be bad but you had no idea it would look like that.
Self-service means it’s your fault.
The best way to get someone to return your call is to get into the shower.
Car trouble is when the engine won’t start and the payments won’t stop.
Fast food is faster fat.
The year ahead has to be better.

No, Michael

Bernie Lincicome
Rocky Mountain News
10-31-01

NEW YORK — Who was that unmasked man? Michael Jordan? No, way. No, sir.

Please tell me that was, oh, Danny Glover pretending to be Michael Jordan. Or Billy Bob Thornton having a wicked Halloween laugh. Or the Maytag repairman killing time.

That thick-necked, heavy legged, wide backed, play trailing, jump shooting, game dawdling, stationary, inflexible traffic cone wearing No. 23 was not Michael Jordan. What’s that on his shirt? Wizards? Figures. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

This was Ali in the Bahamas, Mays mystified by fly balls, Unitas running out the clock.

“I feel good about myself and I feel good about my game tonight,” said Jordan.

We had to look. Now we do not have to look any more. We have seen what Jordan is, just another player, without magic, without expectation. We look away and wish it were not so.

We do not want to see seven of 21 for 19 points, playing more minutes than any other Wizard. We do not want to see him with the ball in his hands, with a chance to win, and not win.

“The shot was kind of rushed,” Jordan said. “I didn’t have a real good look. It could have been a great situation.”

We still applauded Sinatra when his voice was a murmur and he couldn’t remember the words, but we had his records at home. We tried not to notice Elvis’ pot belly. We will take what Jordan has left and always weigh it against what was.

We have Jordan, too, I guess, on tape, in memory, where he belongs. We’ll always have Utah, the last shot, the perfect ending.

And the shot that started it all in Cleveland, Jordan’s tears on the first trophy in LA and the carcasses of Patrick Ewing and Charles Barkley and Clyde Drexler and Karl Malone and Gary Payton and the all the rest who had the misfortune of occupying Michael’s time.

We do not need, as Doug Collins was trying to explain, Paul Pierce and Antwon Walker challenging the old legend, stealing with their youth what time has taken from Jordan.

“Guys will measure themselves against Michael,” Collins said. “He’ll be under pressure every night. Everyone will be coming at him.”

This night it was Laetrell Sprewell, if half-heartedly, looking more like Michael than Michael, allowing Michael to look like the muffin man.

Some 30 seconds to play, Jordan’s team down to the Knicks by three. Jordan has the basketball. Jordan loses the basketball. He loses the ball, his third turnover of the game.

The Wizards get the ball back. Sixteen seconds to play. Providence has a sense of humor. Jordan will get another chance to win the game. He used to need only the one. Jordan has the ball. Jordan shoots the three. The ball dares to clank off the rim. The ball did not used to do that.

“When he threw that trip up,” said Knicks coach Jeff van Gundy, “I thought it was in.”

Knicks win. Jordan has chipped the first chunk out of his statue.

I did not expect His Airness to come back as his acrobatic, gravity defying, breath stealing self, but I also did not expect him to come back as Will Perdue. Jordan is going to have to change his logo, from all soaring, long arms and spread legs to someone leaning on his elbow.

“Six assists, four steals, five rebounds, he makes a few more shots and we say, wow, what a game,” said Collins.

No, we do not say that. We say not bad for an old man, or not bad for a rookie, or not bad for Nick Van Exel. We do not now need to stretch the standard that Jordan invented.

This was not the third coming. This was the Antiques Road Show. What am I bid for this floor lamp? I skipped the World Series to see Michael Jordan return to us as a potted plant.

This was like Picasso coloring inside the lines, Pavarotti in biofocals reading the words, Baryshnikov in sequins moon walking. This was Sir Edmund Hillary going back up Everest on an ATV.

“I was trying to get my teammates involved,” said Jordan, and it sounded more like an alibi than a tactic.

I have seen more air under a garden gnome than under Jordan. I’ve seen better defense from a head waiter. And they move faster, too.

“Teams are not playing us,” said Collins. “They’re playing to beat Michael.”

It is very much in fashion, especially here where the nose if not the eyes reminds us of a world changed forever, to wish to turn back the clock. We can not turn it back to Sept. 10 and we can not turn it back to 1997.

Nor can Jordan. He can only indulge whatever impulse has brought him back. He can only do what he can do and it is not longer what it was he did. He will have his moments, he will have nights like Tuesday night.

“If he plays well,” said Collins, “he’ll be the old Michael. If he doesn’t, he’ll just be old Michael. That’s just the way it is.”

Today’s vote is old.

9/11 +1

This was the day to scold Michael Jordan, to tell him to face reality. This was the day to tell Colorado running back Marcus Houston to grow up, for Gary Barnett to get a grip. This was the day to rebuke the Avalanche for wandering off to Scandinavia, stupidly distancing themselves from Denver, the day to wonder how many Swedes were hanging off Denver lightpoles screaming to see the Stanley Cup.

This was to be a day like all days in sports, silly and crucial, full of choices for smug columnists, full of folderol and fans full of themselves, happy and angry, eager to defend Barry Bonds as well as Sonny Lubick.

It was not that day. It was the worst day. It was the day that everything changed.

Back here in sports, back behind the horrific pictures and accounts of death and destruction, of the most horrible day in America, we are safe. And we are more important than ever. We are needed because we are not needed at all.

We are the toy department, so said a crotchety old columnist named Jimmy Cannon. We are the place, so said a chief justice of the United States, the place where man’s triumphs are recorded and not his failures.

There is only some truth in any of that. This is where we call a coach an idiot and let irony carry the tone. This was the day to write the anti-idiot column and call the Colorado State coach a genius for winning a football game and see if anyone gets the joke this time.

That’s the column to write today. This was the lead, already written. “Michael Corleone allowed one question about his business and I will allow one about mine.” Mockery comes easy when the stakes are hollow.

Oh, we can be very taken with our own cleverness, we columnists. We get to stir a world that doesn’t matter, provoke opinion from vapors. None of this matters, never has, never will, and that is exactly why it does.

We are the distraction. We are the relief. Reality should always be as harmless as Michael Jordan’s ego, his boredom, his pugnacity, his desire to get out of the house, whatever it is that seems now to force Jordan to mess with our memory of him.

That’s the column to write. How dare Jordan do that to us, to ruin the perfect ending, the last shot, to win the last game, to become just another creaky schlub who can’t face tomorrow or dribble drive like he used to.

And Houston, the young man in Boulder being abused by an insensitive coach. Words sting. Try 110 stories of rubble.

Grow up, grow old, what precious and welcome commands to anyone still buried under the ruins of the World Trade Center.

In sports all of the wars are phony, all of the violence voluntary, the greatest ego no more dangerous than the length of an arm.

This was the day to look for cracks in the Broncos, now McCaffreyless, to take the temperature of poor Olandis Gary, suddenly saving his own seat behind Mike Anderson and Terrell Davis, through no fault of his own.

We ache for the innocence of just yesterday when disagreement over who starts at running back for the Broncos can consume an evening and ruin a meal.

Whine, Mark McGwire, that you are injured and should be stepping along side Bonds, homer for homer. That’s what to write. How foolish can be a man whose pride pushes the irrational? That question should only be asked in sports.

Sure, if Bonds had McGwire to pressure him, or if Bonds had to break a 37-year-old record instead of one barely three seasons young, how much harder would it be? These are the questions to fight over.

May an athlete’s arrogance always be laughable. Please. It is the arrogance of tyrants that is treacherous.

Sports will stop, as sports should. You do not cheerlead at funerals. There is time to mourn, to grieve, to applaud and cherish the real courage and great sacrifice of the human spirit. Baseball took a week after the ’89 earthquake. No less should be taken for terrorism.

Football should not be played this weekend, not college, not pro. And maybe the Avalanche blundered into something, safe off there in Sweden.

That’s the column to write. Tell sports to step back and let the emergency vehicles through, give the mourners space and the avengers encouragement. But do not go too far.

The world is too hard without you.

Clones

Before the politicians legislate a perfectly good idea out of business, we shall need to hurry if we are to ever find the next Terrell Davis, all joints working and scandal free, of course.

I speak in defense of human cloning, scoffed at as mad science, which is the only kind of any interest.

Here is an update from the wonderful world of cloning: Not just sheep, but mice and monkeys, too. See what I mean? I’m selling shares while this thing is still on the venture side of Vince Carter.

Yes. Consider this the initial public offering for Jock Duplicates Unlimited, or as we call it around the shop, Hoops Dupes, although we don’t plan to stop merely at basketball players.

It just seems that the NBA is where the money is, so that is the best place to start. We’ll get around to Tiger Woods eventually, if Nike hasn’t beaten us there already.

As an infant industry, we’re pretty much playing this by ear, ours at the moment, but, hey, Dikeme Mutombo’s are there if we need them.

We see sports cloning as the grown up version of kids trading bubble gum cards. When offering three Antonio McDyesses for two Tim Duncans, that’s exactly what the exchange is, actual McDyesses and actual Duncans. Dan Issel can’t see himself in Raef Lafrentz? Our way, he can see himself in himself.

We do not assume that there will be only, say, Kobe Bryants in the NBA, though we think every team should have his own. How dull would basketball be with only Kobes and no Allen Iversons?

We understand budgets and know that not everyone could afford five Kobes anyhow, so our scale pretty much starts with a waiting list for a Kobe and bring your own wheel barrow for a Nick Van Exel.

Nor are we limited to contemporary players. Michael Jordan can come back and meet Michael Jordan. Wilt Chamberlain meet Kareem Abdul Jabbar. Bill Russell, stuff them both.

Oscar Robertson? Magic Johnson. Meet you at the baseline.

Our catalog is not yet complete and our price sheet is presently being Xeroxed, as a matter a fact, so is our small forward, but we can tell you this, one Dennis Rodman was enough.

We do not know how far this can go, but we do know this. Had such strange science been available back a few years ago, not only would we have not cared whether Brian Griese is or is not going to become the next John Elway, we could have just ordered up the next John Elway.

We are also unsure how great the demand will be for baseball clones, so what we are going to do is just recompose the 1976 Cincinnati Reds, including Sparky Anderson as manager, only this time we’re going to call him A-Spark.

If this team can not beat any present baseball team and have more fun doing it, we won’t bother with baseball any more. While we are hopeful, we are not taking any bets that the next Pete Rose will get into the Hall of Fame.

We deal only in franchise sports. There is no profit for us in individual games, so we will not be making any Maurice Greenes, even if Greene places the order himself. Well, maybe a Lance Armstrong or two, just for the competition.

It might be interesting to see Mike Tyson fight Muhammad Ali but another Don King is not worth it.

And no soccer. It’s my company. It’s my rule.

Maybe eventually we will tinker and put, oh, Rick Barry’s wrists onto Shaquille O’Neal or Steffi Graf’s forearm on Martina Hingis, but we are getting ahead of ourselves, and Steffi and Andre Agassi might beat us to it the natural way.

But you have to be careful depending on nature. Andre’s hair, Steffi’s nose? Never happen our way.

But, speaking of heads, we might try Kirby Puckett’s on Barry Bonds as long as somebody else pays for the tailoring.

A line of Gretzky, Hull and Richard? Possible. A backfield of Unitas, Brown and Payton? It can be done. We have the technology.

But we have a larger purpose. We can answer every sports bar bet.

Could Bill Romanowksi wear Tom Jackson’s shoes? Romo can try them on. And give them back to Jackson when they do not fit.

The ’01 Lakers and the ’96 Bulls? Jump ball.

Here’s Sandy Koufax into the wind up. The pitch to Todd Helton…

Not only is the sky the limit, if we don’t like it, we’ll just make another one.

Send check or money order. Cash is too easy to copy.

British Open

LYTHAM ST. ANNES, England — The Scots have never shown any obvious regret for inflicting golf upon the world, though it is hard to tell how hard they may be laughing behind their thick stone walls and their blank stone faces.

Golf is, in civilized climates, played upon the choicest real estate, in overplanted nurseries and among manicured gardens, through tall trees and over blue water, upon lawns and landscaped terraces.

On this tormenting island it is played in neglected pastures and on barren waste, unfit for hiking or hiding. Golf does not improve the neighborhood, it interrupts it. Golf, without scenery, might as well be bowling.

The game here is played in places where the sky hides on the horizon and the endless gray is broken by patches of living brown. When the wind blows, and it has howled so far, the game becomes torture to even the most accomplished golfer, as the guardians of the oldest tournament mean it to be.

Such a place is Royal Lytham & St. Anne’s, the royal part being added just in case the odd prince drops by and not because it is a royal pain in the, uh, elbow, though it is. I’m guessing that the ampersand is just to make the club stationery look more English.

When Hale Irwin first came here he thought he had landed on the moon. One small step for man, one giant leap from pot bunker to pot bunker. Such despair pleased the locals immensely for it proved that they had got it right. Golf is not meant to be a game, it is a persecution.

Royal Lytham & St. Annes is the shortest of the courses used for the British Open, or, to indulge a common conceit, The Open, which is to say that any other but this one must have a first name.

This is the 130th Open and the 10th time this place has hosted the tournament. Its champions list includes Bobby Jones, in the very first one held here in 1926, Gary Player later, Seve Ballesteros twice and Tom Lehman the last time, five years ago. Tiger Woods is expected to replace Lehman here and himself just last year.

Said the Danish golfer Thomas Bjorn, “There are 155 good players here and one that’s out of this world.”

That is the usual pre-tournament Tiger talk, of course, and the bookies all agree, making Woods 3-2 to win and nobody else (meaning Sergio Garcia and Phil Mickelson) any better than 16-1.

As for Woods, he swears to love being the favorite and is looking forward to suffering the variety of new torments.

“You try shots you don’t normally try,” Woods said. “I had a 100-yard putt at St. Andrews last year. You could never do that in the States.”

Woods mortified the Royal & Ancients last year, shooting 19 under par, the most under ever in any major golf tournament. So, the fact that the weather prospects for the week include the sort of conditions that wrecked the Hesperus is being taken as a sign that order is about to be restored.

As the Scots say, “Nae rain, nae wind, nae golf.”

On the last practice day Wednesday, there was a lot of the first two and little of the last. The place looked like a chorus of lost souls stuck in the rain, shivering in ski caps and turtle necks, unable to find a taxi.

The gabled and Gothic old brick heap that serves as the clubhouse, shone in the syrup like some horror prop in a vampire movie, which, more often than not, the British Open turns out to be.

Pot bunkers, 196 of them, are scattered like open sores across the course, some six feet deep and doorless. Ordinarily the rough is a bath mat. Due to the rude, wet weather, it is waist high.

The course is disarmingly designed to tease a golfer into thinking he is in charge, starting with a par three, playing downwind the front nine and then turning into the expected gale off the Irish Sea, unseen but unmistakably, according to my nose, close by, somewhere beyond the row houses and corporate tents.

Doug Sanders defined British Open golf forever. “In Britain,” he said, “you skip the ball, hop it, bump it, run it, hit under it, on top of it and then hope for the right bounce.”

Golf, without pain, might as well be walking.

Because of the damp summer, moss has grown on some of the greens. It may never be known if a rolling stone gathers no moss, but may find out if a Titleist does. Yet, not wind nor rugged rough, strategic sand nor fairways that are shockingly green instead of their usual rusty orange may provide the real test here.

The attentive protectors of golf’s dignity, though still allowing Jasper Parnevick’s up turned cap, will be especially alert this year for the kind of disturbances that marred last year’s Open. That would be the presence of streakers, a fad in England that was passe in America a generation ago.

Five streakers made it to the sacred greens of St. Andrews last year, one young lady close enough to give Woods a naked hug.

The Lytham folks swear they are ready. Explained Hugh Campbell, chairman of the championship committee, “All of the marshals will be well briefed so they know what to look for.”

Some things you just can’t make up.

Centre Court

WIMBLEDON — The Wimbledon groundskeeper, Eddie Seward, was asked how the ordinary homeowner might have a lawn like the one on Centre Court.

“Simple,” Seward said. “All you need is 100 years of roots.”

Indeed.

It is possible to trace Roy Reigels’ wrong-way run in the Rose Bowl, and you can stand where Babe Ruth stood and call your home run at Wrigley Field. You can make the putt that Bobby Jones made to win the U.S. Open at Winged Foot.

But the hallowed grounds of sports are disappearing, as disposable as the witnesses and as the heroes who passed through them. Soon the spot where Ernest Byner fumbled the Broncos into a Super Bowl will be a parking spot, for limos, no doubt.

Where Bill Tilden stood to serve, now stands Pete Sampras. And where Susan Lenglen darted, now dashes Serena Williams, a teenager and one of a brace of the most fearsome forces in women’s tennis.

“To be against the green lush grass in a white dress,” gushed Williams, lapsing into the kind of imagery not inspired by many sweat sites, “it feels like home. I love it here.”

Young American Andy Roddick was allowed to debut on Centre Court, an honor he has decades to digest. Privilege, like soft food, is more welcome the older you get.

Wistfully, Chris Evert said, “It is hard to walk into Centre Court and not see yourself as you were. Until you are removed from it, you do not realize how special it all is.”

Centre Court is a place not gained by luck nor by whim, but earned. It is the old Carnegie Hall joke made British. How do you get to Centre Court?

Practice. Practice.

Wimbledon referee Alan Mills identifies the honor as “pride of place.” Boris Becker, who called Centre Court his house, so misses the place that he is threatening to return in doubles next year just to feel the muscle memory of when he was the youngest winner and England’s favorite German.

Since Becker left the place, his life has longed to reconnect as his marriage, his reputation and his sense of self have become scattered out of reach.

“Sunday afternoon, you’re in a Wimbledon final, it’s the third set, you’re about to win,” mused Becker, “this is something I miss. Even with a great business deal, it is not the same sensation. Match point and then all the celebrations.”

When Martina Navratilova left Centre Court after her last singles final she reached down and pulled up some of those 100-year-old roots.

“I still have it,” she said.

Virginia Wade identified stepping onto Centre Court as “the threshold of an irretrievable moment.” And it must be done properly.

Walk to a spot parallel with the service line, turn to the Royal Box and bow or curtsy. Pause to do the same as you exit.

You may not leave Centre Court for any reason other than nature’s call (once in three sets, twice in five). And you must take a witness with you. When Becker also did a couple minutes of stretching in the men’s toilet, he was fined $1,000.

“You can find out anything you want to know about a person by putting him on Centre Court,” said John Newcombe.

The way the grass is mowed affects the bounce of the ball. A ball hit with the grain will skid and stay low and move faster. A ball hit into the grain holds more and bounces higher.

“There’s a different echo of the ball,” said Sampras, “the way it sounds in the stadium.”

Centre Court is a devious place, according to no less than Fred Perry, the late Englishman whose statue guards the grounds.

“It looks inviting,” he warned the generations. “You feel you could walk out there and in your mind’s eye play your dream game without any problems at all. It looks comparatively small and benign.”

They have hired a hawk named Hamish to keep the pigeons away. Poison is out of the question. The natural order of things is preferred. Women are listed as “Miss” or by their married names on the scoreboard.

Because of the roof, spectators are in the shade and there are no advertising signs. This makes an ideal hitter’s background.

“I never have a problem picking the ball up,” said Andre Agassi. “But on a hot day, the English are not used to the heat and have all those fans going. So, it kind of evens out.”

“There is only one Centre Court,” Navratilova said. “I feel this place in my bones. I feel all those champions out there–dead and alive. There is no other place, no other tennis event, no other sporting event that has this kind of history.”

“I like being part of history,” Agassi said.

Parked in one corner of Centre Court is a huge, old-fashioned lawn roller. No door is large enough for it to fit through, so there it has remained, unmotorized and unremovable, still used to smooth the most honored lawn in sports.

It will be there even when Andre Agassi is not.