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General

I Like Sports

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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.

 

 

Quotes, Rocky Mountain News

Year of little good, lots of bad, ugly

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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.

General, Rocky Mountain News

Clones

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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.

General

20th Century

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No ducking it any longer. The millenium bug is everywhere and duty demands it be noticed, as if it could be avoided.

Lists of the 100 greatest this and the 100 greatest that require not agreement, but simply attention, assuming always that 100 is not stretching the definition of greatness beyond the facts.

For example, I defy anyone to find 100 great swimmers or 100 great ski jumpers, or one great fencer, including Zorro.

Even hockey strains to fill the count, beginning confidently with Wayne Gretzky and Gordie Howe at 1 and 2 but finishing with Craig Ramsey at 100. No way to start an argument there. And a top 100 list without disagreement is like a bowling ball without holes, nothing to get a grip on.

Tell me this, how many garages do you have to visit to find anyone who will agree that Ayrton Senna was the greatest auto racer who ever lived? I think this about that. Only those who walked away from their final race should be considered.

Still, in my own scattered research of the topic, I found a general consensus not all that startling. Best baseball player? Babe Ruth. Best football player? Jim Brown. Best basketball player? Michael Jordan. Boxer, Muhammad Ali. Golfer, Jack Nicklaus and so on.

Best baseball team? The 1927 Yankees. Basketball, the 1997 Bulls. Football, the ’78 Steelers. Hockey? Pick a year with Montreal in it.

Best sports TV moment of the century? The gold medal celebration at Lake Placid by the U.S. Olympic hockey team.

(This is where I discovered that the biggest non-sports TV moment was the first JFK funeral. This narrowly beat out Mary Tyler Moore tossing her hat in the air, while man landing on the moon was way down at No. 8. I point this out just to show that sports people aren’t quite the idiots at this as real world folks are.

(And while I’m on the topic, how can any list of the 100 greatest composers not include Fats Domino? Or the 100 greatest books omit “The World According to Garp?” Ah, that’s somebody else’s column. I’ll get on with mine.)

I am here to take issue with the list I saw ranking the greatest years of sport. This has to be the ultimate sorting out of the century, pitting one year against the other. To my surprise I discovered that the greatest year in the 20th century in which to be a sports fan was 1998.

Just last year. If only someone had told me at the time, I would have paid closer attention.

We had Mark McGwire’s 70 home runs and the race with Sammy Sosa. Jordan’s last game and his last shot. The Yankees winning125 games and sweeping the World Series. John Elway finally getting his Super Bowl and France upsetting Brazil for the World Cup.

Impressive. But blurry, especially that Yankee business. And Jordan had done as much five times before.

How do you rate a year of sports being better than another? If your team has done well, it has been a great year, which makes the 90s in Chicago a golden age, because of the Bulls alone.

Here 1985 would very likely be at the top of any list because the Bears were more than just an exceptional football team, they were a team that reflected the image of Chicago, or how Chicago likes to think of itself, tough, defiant, winners. No other Chicago sports team has ever caught that the way those Bears did.

But I must be objective about this, and the greatest single year in a century of sports has to be 1973.

How about Billie Jean King beating Bobby Riggs and changing an entire gender’s opinion of itself? Secretariat winning the Triple Crown while threatening to lap the field in the Belmont? George Foreman winning his first heavyweight title by knocking out Joe Frazier, giving Muhammad Ali a whole new reason to reprove himself.

The only undefeated team in NFL history, the Miami Dolphins, finished 17-0, despite the single greatest blooper in Super Bowl history, Garo Yepremian’s nearly forward pass. UCLA won a seventh consecutive NCAA title behind the single greatest individual game ever played in college basketball, Bill Walton missing only one shot out of 22.

O.J. Simpson became the first running back to gain 2,000 yards. Notre Dame went undefeated to win the national football championship, beating Bear Bryant’s Alabama team by a single point in the Sugar Bowl. the Mets rallied from last place at the end of August to win the National League pennant and Henry Aaron finished the season one home run short of Babe Ruth.

A close call, but 1973 beats out the second best sports year of the century, 1963, the year Michael Jordan was born.

Chicago Tribune, Crime, Track

AT LAST WE HAVE AN INNOCENT ATHLETE

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In this age of the athlete as criminal, it is encouraging to still be shocked by so trivial an incident as a street conversation between a hurdler and a . . . well, let us skip the alliteration in the name of good taste.

Edwin Moses has been found innocent of being human, which is something we have long suspected, since no mere mortal has ever been able to run and jump over portable fences the way he can.

And how fortunate that is, not only for Moses, but for the rest of us as well. We now do not have to believe that Moses is as vulnerable as, say, a common tourist, for such a conclusion would have meant that superior muscle skills have no special value in life, except possibly to change a tire without a jack.

Our illusions are safe because Moses is a certified example that the lessons of competitive sports have not been wasted, or so a jury concluded.

True, the vindication of Moses is of no small importance in the marketplace where his image is sold, but to consider that he subjected himself to intense public scrutiny in order to keep wearing free shoes is too cynical. It is more comfortable to imagine that his good name and his excellent example were more important to him than his endorsements, which, after all, are only money and disposable.

Doubting Moses is as unthinkable as challenging the favorite argument of youth sports: It is better for a kid to be stealing second base than to be stealing hubcaps. We would much rather forget that it is possible for him to do both.

We are routinely challenged to keep faith with the world of games. Too many of our heroes are thieves and rapists and drug dealers. The arenas are full of them.

Our innocence unravels at each revelation, until our only immunity is indifference.

We have come too far from the time when Chief Justice Earl Warren could say, “I turn to the sports pages first. There I can read about man’s achievements. On the front page, I only see his failures.”

We should be grateful that when an Olympic champion is accused of soliciting a prostitute we still have the sophistication and the inclination to separate him from the line-up of scoundrels who consistently abuse our applause.

Among the crimes that most offend modern, or even ancient, society, striking a bargain for companionship has never been ranked highly enough to make a respectable post office wall.

In some places, in fact, such commerce is encouraged and taxed. In most places, it is policed with a broad wink.

Now that Moses is one of us again, a certified good citizen, we are left to marvel at the high cost of conversation, which usually does not increase the later the hour gets.

The most encouraging news to emerge from his ordeal is that Moses is ready to run the hurdles again with new enthusiasm. He is ready to go after a world record, which proves that incentive may be found in the oddest places, Sunset Boulevard certainly being one of those.

One can only hope that the next bored athlete seeking to relight his competitive fires does not resort to the Moses method. Getting arrested and standing trial is no substitute for proper diet, sensible training and a good night’s rest.

Plus, whatever achievements may be gained on the playing field must be weighed against the indelible public suspicion that follows, even if not enough of that same public is moral enough to keep the avenues of Hollywood uncluttered.

Let us not make any judgments on Moses, that having been done by the American judicial system, or what passes for it in southern California.

We can appreciate the precious irony of the whole thing. Moses has been certified a much cleaner citizen than he is an amateur athlete, and under older rules.

Justice and the sports fan have much in common. Both have to be blind.

Boxing, Chicago Tribune

BOXING FINALLY MEETS ITS MATCH

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Boxing has never been particularly choosy about its patrons. Nobody checks pedigree, only the color of the money.

Boxing has been run by more crooks than saints and too many of its performers wore numbers before they wore gloves.

The center of boxing used to be New York, until Muhammad Ali took it on a world tour. Ali needed to hustle entire governments to get his millions for his fights.

No longer is any of that true or necessary. You won’t find the big-money fights in a geography book, or in Madison Square Garden, and you don’t really need the approval of either of the Latin American sanctioners who pass along their titles like wrestling promoters.

All you need is the blessing of a casino, or to be within the sight or sound of one.

You know it’s a big fight if the noise of the bell is drowned out by the clanking of the dollar slots.

A distinctive pecking order has emerged to define the importance of fistfights. Atlantic City gets the small ones, Reno gets the medium ones and Las Vegas takes the large and extra large.

Figuring it out is no harder than shopping for men’s undershirts.

Sportsmanship has nothing to do with any casino’s motives. Simple greed is the reason almost every important fight that comes along these days has the blessing of those windowless gambling houses full of people in tuxedos taking money from people in distress, not unlike fight promoters, come to think of it.

Still, there is an honesty to this, not a notion commonly associated with the suspicious world of boxing. Fistfighting is a lure, the come-on for the regular line of business, which is separating gamblers from their money.

Larry Holmes will fight someone named David Bey at the Riviera in Las Vegas next month and Marvelous Marvin Hagler and Tommy Hearns will follow in another month at Caesars Palace.

Caesars is rather the godfather of all of this. It put up $4 million of the purse that put Sugar Ray Leonard against Hearns a few years back. It bankrolled Holmes and Gerry Cooney with $6 million.

Cable and pay TV and closed-circuit marketing jack up the purses beyond all reason.

Promoter Bob Arum figures that Hagler and Hearns will generate a $40 million gate, which would break the record of $36 million that curious witnesses paid to see Holmes and Cooney.

What do the casinos get from all of this? When Holmes fought Ali, Caesars estimated that on the night of the fight alone, just at its own tables, it took in a profit of $1.3 million.

Hagler vs. Hearns is expected to generate an extra $150 million in gambling action.

The Livingstone Bramble-Ray Mancini fight in Reno was fairly small as such things are measured.

The tourism authority paid the promoters nearly $600,000 to have the fight in Reno and crossed their fingers that the town might make a small profit and be spoken kindly of by visiting press. The first was easier to achieve than the second.

Reno looks as if someone took a giant push broom and shoved all the debris of the high desert up against the Sierra Nevada mountains, which are the only redeeming feature of the place and are, to their credit, a safe distance from the mobile home, pickup truck, brown-grass capital of the Western world.

The place is so ugly that even neon is too classy for it, like putting jewelry on a bag lady.

One visitor’s opinion aside, Reno’s chief intention was to lure fresh bodies into town, and enough came to generate around $5 million in business for the weekend.

The relationship between boxing–or any sport–and casinos is a fascinating one. Football is deathly afraid of gambling. Baseball kicks out Hall of Famers like Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays for playing golf with preferred casino customers. Bobby Knight thinks that anyone who disagrees with him has a bet on the game and believes that published point spreads are proof of journalism’s pact with the devil.

Boxing, true to its roots, takes the money up front and would even deal a little blackjack if asked.

There is something overwhelmingly evil about gambling on the scale on which it is done in Nevada, but the state would simply not exist unless people wanted such a place.

Neither would boxing exist, especially after so many attempts at suicide, unless people wanted such a sport.

In the end, the two deserve each other. Maybe boxing has found a marriage that will work.

Chicago Tribune, Professional

ATHLETES JUST NOT THE RETIRING TYPES

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The most difficult thing any athlete has to face is that moment when he knows he is no longer able to play the game. Few walk away on top. Some are carried away. Most are simply excused. Occasionally one is ignored into retirement, which is pretty much what happened to Greg Luzinski.

Retirements are, at the same time, not unlike vaccinations. We have to wait a while to see if they take. Any one of us could retire ourselves if we had just had the ice concession for all of Muhammad Ali’s retirement parties. Or half of Billie Jean King’s.

I do not believe we have seen the last of Luzinski, not only because he is visible from so great a distance, but because some American League team will find a hole in its right-handed power before May and remember Luzinski’s roofers instead of his dribblers to second base. Maybe even the White Sox.

For now, let us concede Luzinski’s collision with the inevitable, however it came about.

Great athletes who have quit in their prime can be counted on one hand. Rocky Marciano. Sandy Koufax. Jim Brown. Bob Cousy. That’s it. Think of another one and the next Lite beer from Miller is on the house.

Pete Rose had to beg, take a pay cut and then a second job to keep chasing Ty Cobb. Julius Erving soars only when absolutely necessary these days and is often a fourth-quarter decoy. Franco Harris allowed his glory to be tarnished by strangers. Gordie Howe, for all we know, may still be playing hockey somewhere.

Aging athletes disturb our memories. We would much rather see Arnold Palmer make his first putt than his fourth. Franz Klammer should never have skied again in public after his 1976 Olympic downhill. Reggie Jackson and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar ought to always have more hair than the rest of us. Horses have the right idea. Win the Triple Crown and go to bed.

Not all athletes will admit being aware of the exact moment that the end came, but they all know. I remember talking to Bubba Smith and other Lite beer salesmen about this very thing, and Smith nearly broke into tears recalling the end.

“I was only 27 years old,” Smith said. “I went down on a yard marker in Tampa (and tore up a knee). It was so unfair. I never played a full game again. I ended up in Houston as a substitute for my little brother.”

Bernie Geoffrion first left hockey at age 32. He wanted to be a coach, and he said Montreal promised he would take over the Canadiens after some schooling in the minors. “They never called me back,” said Geoffrion, who unretired to play in New York, and did, in fact, coach the Canadiens. “I see they were just pushing me aside for young kids.”

Impatient youth can shove harder than the calendar.

Ray Nitschke is in football’s Hall of Fame. He played 15 years in Green Bay, his last one as a substitute linebacker. “I was cut in training camp (by Dan Devine in 1973),” Nitschke said. “Most of Lombardi’s boys were already gone and I knew it had to happen to me sometime, but it didn’t make it any easier.

“The hardest thing any athlete has to do is realize you’re only on stage for a little while. But, oh, it is so hard to resist taking one more bow.”

Len Dawson was past 40 when he stopped playing quarterback for Kansas City.

“When do you get out?” he asked. “The only guy who can decide is the athlete himself. It’s never a question of how much you’ve done or what you’ve achieved. There’s always something you still have to prove, even if it’s only to prove you can recapture something.

“Then there’s the question of still believing you have the skills. It’s no different for anyone who ever played a game. Everyone plays like that.”

No one put this in better perspective for me than Rocky Graziano, the old middleweight champ, who was explaining at the time why Ali kept fighting.

“A fighter, a champeen,” Graziano said, “he fights maybe 10 fights after he’s through. He fights them for the money.

“Then if he’s smart, or lucky, he gets out. I see old champs all the time. Whadda they doing? They’re caddies, shoeshine boys. I see old champs all the time. Bette”

Bob Lilly, the great defensive tackle for Dallas, admitted he played two years too long.

“I left because I didn’t want to be on the sidelines, waving at the crowd,” Lilly said. “The thing I didn’t want to do was to have a good career and then wind up with people laughing at me and running over me. There’s so much money out there, but money has nothing to do with it, finally. We all have to quit.”

I always believed that Chris Evert Lloyd, for seven years the uncontested best female tennis player on the planet, would walk away on top. The first year she slipped from No. 1, we talked about her choices.

“What I have to decide,” she said, “is if I want to make a million dollars a year but be No. 3 in the world.”

She took the money. They all do. So would we.

Keywords: ANALYSIS