By Bob Markus
Since my last column two weeks ago I've had a birthday. You don't need to know how old I am; let's just say that if I were the writer of the musical "Knickerbocker Holiday," Walter Huston would be singing November Song and the famous lyric would read, "and your friends dwindle down to a precious few." Roger Jaynes, who died Saturday a month before his 64th birthday, was more than a friend. He was a comrade in arms. There were many facets to Roger, but the one I knew best was the auto racing writer, a beat we shared for nearly a dozen years. Auto racing was not Roger's only beat on the Milwaukee Journal. He covered Marquette basketball in the heyday of Al McGuire, including the Warriors' 1977 NCAA championship season, and later wrote a well-reviewed biography of the colorful coach and TV analyst. He subsequently published three Sherlock Holmes novels and was working on three or four more when he passed away. But auto racing was the sport he loved above all others, a passion we shared and one that formed the core of our friendship. When Roger left the Journal after 15 years, he stayed closely bonded to the sport, becoming the public relations director for Road America, the twisty four-mile road racing course in Elkhart Lake, Wis. With that move, our relationship changed, but our friendship remained the same. But now, instead of working together for the entire month of May at the Indianapolis 500, we would generally see each other only on racing week-ends at Road America, when Roger would be as busy as the flagman at a race at Talladega. Still, he would always find time to have dinner one night, along with his wife Mary and my wife, Leslie.
When people ask me what sport I liked covering the most I always respond: auto racing, an answer that usually elicits a puzzled look and the question: Why? The answer is simple. The people. They tell me things have changed, but in our day race drivers were the friendliest athletes in the spectrum of sport. If you were one of the regulars they would call you by name and make time to talk with you. There were exceptions, of course, A.J. Foyt being notoriously difficult. When the mood struck him he could be charming, but the mood struck him about as often as the Andretti family won the Indy 500. But it wasn't just the drivers who made covering motor sports a joy; it was the other writers. The Indianapolis 500 is probably the single most difficult event to cover because of the vastness of the physical plant. Pit road is about three quarters of a mile long and on a typical practice day you might walk from one end to the other a half dozen or more times. It's almost impossible for one man to be everywhere he needs to be at any given time. That's one reason racing writers are willing to share their notes, even their ideas. When I first went to Indianapolis for Pole Day in 1968 I was, like most first timers, overwhelmed by the size of the place and daunted by the challenge to cover an event on such a vast stage. I was quickly brought up to speed by two entities--the public relations directors of the teams and tire companies; and other writers. The Indianapolis writers were particularly helpful, most noticeably Ray Marquette and Dick Mittman. I had barely gotten to know Marquette when he died tragically in a plane crash along with several other staff members of the United States Auto Club. Ray had just recently left his paper to join USAC and I still remember vividly being awakened one morning by the clock radio going on during a report of the crash and although no names were mentioned, I said to my wife: "Ray Marquette."
Mittman is still a good friend and he and I and Roger Jaynes were like a Rat Pack covering Indy in the month of May. Sometimes one of the three of us would get on to a story and we would tell the other two, share any quotes we might have and divvy up the work that remained. "You go talk to (Roger) Penske and we'll try to get Rick (Mears)," we might say. There was no suggestion of a conflict of interest. Our papers were not competing against each other and neither were we.
I may have told you this story before and if I have, please forgive me. Memory lapses are part of the joy of reaching the golden years. One Sunday afternoon in May of 1978 or '79, I was talking with someone in a garage in Gasoline Alley when Dick and Roger, accompanied by Mario Andretti, burst in, all excited. "We've got this gadget that tests your lung power," enthused Roger. "Mario will show you how it works." Andretti was holding something that resembled a flute with wings. He took a deep breath and blew into the mouthpiece, causing the wings to whirl like propellor blades. "Now you try it," said Mario. I huffed and I puffed but I couldn't get the wings to budge. Mario took the gadget back and once again got the wings to twirl. I tried again with the same result as before. The three of us then walked out to pit road, where Foyt and Bobby Unser, among others, were preparing to get some practice laps. The moment they saw me they burst out laughing. "Have you seen yourself," asked Bobby, passing me a hand mirror. I looked and saw that I looked like Al Jolson in blackface. Andretti then showed me the secret. When he blew into the mouthpiece he had one finger covering a hole in the side of the pipe. If you didn't cover the blowhole you'd get a face full of carbon. I can't imagine another sport where the players and writers interact like that. Maybe they don't do things like that anymore. I don't know. I only know that as I approach the winter years the world grows colder and one more leaf has fallen from the tree. Your race is over, Roger. Rest in peace.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
By Bob Markus
Where is Bing Crosby now that we need him? Nobody could play a priest like Der Bingle. Well, maybe Pat O'Brien could. But what we're looking for here is a young priest and Crosby defined that role. Going My Way, anybody? Besides, we might need a singing priest here. We could be looking at a musical somewhere down the road. We already have the story. Now we need somebody to write the book and another somebody to produce the movie and a third somebody to adapt the movie into a musical unless Mel Brooks decides to do both. In case you missed it, and I almost did considering that my local paper gave it only two sentences in the daily briefing column, a top minor league prospect in the Oakland A's organization is quitting baseball to become a Roman Catholic priest. Now, it's possible that outfielder Grant Desme was never destined to be a major leaguer. He's 23 years old and played last season in A ball. But he was the only player in the minor leagues to produce a 30-30 season--30 homers and 30 steals--and he finished the year by being named Most Valuable Player in the Arizona Fall League. A second round draft pick in 2007, Desme was ranked as Oakland's 8th best prospect by Baseball America.
Desme is giving up a life that for many young men represents the American dream. If he reached the major leagues and played even for a few years he would be earning a million dollars a year or more in this era of inflated salaries. But he has already informed A's General Manager Billy Beane that he intends to enter a seminary this August and, ultimately, enter the priesthood. Desme said that Beane was "understanding and supportive, but it sort of knocked him off his horse." If so, Beane quickly remounted and issued a statement that must have taken at least 30 seconds to compose: "We respect Grant's decision and wish him nothing but the best in his future endeavors." One reason Desme advanced no higher than A ball in his three years as a pro was that injuries robbed him of a large part of his first two years. He says he spent a lot of time thinking during that period and "those injuries were the biggest blessings God ever gave me." He seemed to be fulfilling his promise as a baseball player last season when, finally healthy, he hit .288 with a combined 89 rbis and 31 homers at Kane County (Il.) and Stockton (Cal.) He hit another 11 homers and knocked in 27 runs in 27 games in the Arizona league. In his final game he struck out twice and hit a home run, "which defines my career a little bit. I was doing well, but I wasn't at peace with where I was at."
Baseball has had its Preacher Roe and Johnny Priest but not since the days of Billy Sunday has it had, to my knowledge, an active player morph into a man of God. And any resemblance between Desme and Billy Sunday is purely coincidental. Sunday was a real life Elmer Gantry and might even have been the inspiration for Sinclair Lewis's novel. An old-time Bible thumper, Sunday made more money as a fire and brimstone evangelist than he ever did in his eight seasons as a major league ball player. A lifetime .248 hitter, Sunday was noted for his speed on the basepaths and in his final year swiped 86 bases in a season split between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia. Sunday had been discovered by Cap Anson, the legendary Chicago Cubs manager and first baseman (they were called the White Stockings at the time), while playing town ball in Marshalltown, Iowa, Anson's home town. He played most of his career with the Chicago team and it was in Chicago that he accepted a job at the YMCA for $83 a month, turning down the Phillies' offer of $3,000 for the 1891 season. He eventually would make a more than comfortable living as the Billy Graham of his day, but that was several years down the road.
The life that Grant Desme has chosen for himself is far different than the one that Billy Sunday lived, but he could become almost as celebrated. All it will take is someone to write the book and then, the movie, and, let's see, would Johnny Depp or Robert Downey Jr. be the best choice for the title role?
-0-
There was a time when I was pretty good at picking the Super bowl winner and the final score. In fact, as far as I know, I'm the only writer to win the Super bowl pool two years in a row (Games VI and VII). Noted Cincinnati writer Tom Callahan even wrote a column about me before Super Bowl VIII. I'd usually pick the AFC champion to win the game. While most major newspapers, including my own Chicago Tribune, all but ignored the upstart AFL, I had covered the last pre-Super Bowl AFL championship game, in which the Buffalo Bills beat the Chargers in a yawner in San Diego. I also covered the Oakland Raiders' victory over the Houston Oilers before Super Bowl II and the Jets' win over the Raiders the next year in wind blown Shea Stadium. I knew the AFC was getting stronger and was one of the few who did not predict a Colts' blowout of the Jets before Super Bowl III. I didn't go so far as to pick the Jets, but I did refute the prevailing notion that the Jets had no chance. One Chicago writer even called it 73-0, which, of course, was the score of the Bears' 1940 NFL championship game win over the Washington Redskins. It's been a long time since I've made a public selection for a Super Bowl and I'm pretty out of touch. I'm probably going to root for the Saints. I can remember covering a game in New Orleans when Hank Stram was coaching and, noting that the King Tut exhibit was in town, I wrote that Saints fans didn't need King Tut because they already had King Strut. This incensed many Saints fans, who didn't know that Hank and I were good friends and in fact I had dinner with the Strams after the game. But, sentiment aside, I'm going with my old tried-and-true method and picking the AFC team. Colts, 31; Saints, 20. No blog next week. See you in two weeks and we'll see if I still have the touch.
Where is Bing Crosby now that we need him? Nobody could play a priest like Der Bingle. Well, maybe Pat O'Brien could. But what we're looking for here is a young priest and Crosby defined that role. Going My Way, anybody? Besides, we might need a singing priest here. We could be looking at a musical somewhere down the road. We already have the story. Now we need somebody to write the book and another somebody to produce the movie and a third somebody to adapt the movie into a musical unless Mel Brooks decides to do both. In case you missed it, and I almost did considering that my local paper gave it only two sentences in the daily briefing column, a top minor league prospect in the Oakland A's organization is quitting baseball to become a Roman Catholic priest. Now, it's possible that outfielder Grant Desme was never destined to be a major leaguer. He's 23 years old and played last season in A ball. But he was the only player in the minor leagues to produce a 30-30 season--30 homers and 30 steals--and he finished the year by being named Most Valuable Player in the Arizona Fall League. A second round draft pick in 2007, Desme was ranked as Oakland's 8th best prospect by Baseball America.
Desme is giving up a life that for many young men represents the American dream. If he reached the major leagues and played even for a few years he would be earning a million dollars a year or more in this era of inflated salaries. But he has already informed A's General Manager Billy Beane that he intends to enter a seminary this August and, ultimately, enter the priesthood. Desme said that Beane was "understanding and supportive, but it sort of knocked him off his horse." If so, Beane quickly remounted and issued a statement that must have taken at least 30 seconds to compose: "We respect Grant's decision and wish him nothing but the best in his future endeavors." One reason Desme advanced no higher than A ball in his three years as a pro was that injuries robbed him of a large part of his first two years. He says he spent a lot of time thinking during that period and "those injuries were the biggest blessings God ever gave me." He seemed to be fulfilling his promise as a baseball player last season when, finally healthy, he hit .288 with a combined 89 rbis and 31 homers at Kane County (Il.) and Stockton (Cal.) He hit another 11 homers and knocked in 27 runs in 27 games in the Arizona league. In his final game he struck out twice and hit a home run, "which defines my career a little bit. I was doing well, but I wasn't at peace with where I was at."
Baseball has had its Preacher Roe and Johnny Priest but not since the days of Billy Sunday has it had, to my knowledge, an active player morph into a man of God. And any resemblance between Desme and Billy Sunday is purely coincidental. Sunday was a real life Elmer Gantry and might even have been the inspiration for Sinclair Lewis's novel. An old-time Bible thumper, Sunday made more money as a fire and brimstone evangelist than he ever did in his eight seasons as a major league ball player. A lifetime .248 hitter, Sunday was noted for his speed on the basepaths and in his final year swiped 86 bases in a season split between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia. Sunday had been discovered by Cap Anson, the legendary Chicago Cubs manager and first baseman (they were called the White Stockings at the time), while playing town ball in Marshalltown, Iowa, Anson's home town. He played most of his career with the Chicago team and it was in Chicago that he accepted a job at the YMCA for $83 a month, turning down the Phillies' offer of $3,000 for the 1891 season. He eventually would make a more than comfortable living as the Billy Graham of his day, but that was several years down the road.
The life that Grant Desme has chosen for himself is far different than the one that Billy Sunday lived, but he could become almost as celebrated. All it will take is someone to write the book and then, the movie, and, let's see, would Johnny Depp or Robert Downey Jr. be the best choice for the title role?
-0-
There was a time when I was pretty good at picking the Super bowl winner and the final score. In fact, as far as I know, I'm the only writer to win the Super bowl pool two years in a row (Games VI and VII). Noted Cincinnati writer Tom Callahan even wrote a column about me before Super Bowl VIII. I'd usually pick the AFC champion to win the game. While most major newspapers, including my own Chicago Tribune, all but ignored the upstart AFL, I had covered the last pre-Super Bowl AFL championship game, in which the Buffalo Bills beat the Chargers in a yawner in San Diego. I also covered the Oakland Raiders' victory over the Houston Oilers before Super Bowl II and the Jets' win over the Raiders the next year in wind blown Shea Stadium. I knew the AFC was getting stronger and was one of the few who did not predict a Colts' blowout of the Jets before Super Bowl III. I didn't go so far as to pick the Jets, but I did refute the prevailing notion that the Jets had no chance. One Chicago writer even called it 73-0, which, of course, was the score of the Bears' 1940 NFL championship game win over the Washington Redskins. It's been a long time since I've made a public selection for a Super Bowl and I'm pretty out of touch. I'm probably going to root for the Saints. I can remember covering a game in New Orleans when Hank Stram was coaching and, noting that the King Tut exhibit was in town, I wrote that Saints fans didn't need King Tut because they already had King Strut. This incensed many Saints fans, who didn't know that Hank and I were good friends and in fact I had dinner with the Strams after the game. But, sentiment aside, I'm going with my old tried-and-true method and picking the AFC team. Colts, 31; Saints, 20. No blog next week. See you in two weeks and we'll see if I still have the touch.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
By Bob Markus
The time is long past when a man's word was his bond and his handshake his troth. We are now living in an age when even a signed contract, as I once was told by my boss at the Chicago Tribune, "isn't worth the paper it's printed on." Nowhere is this more evident than in college sports, where football and basketball coaches have been known to jump ship more readily than a Shanghaied sailor. There is more loyalty in a street gang than in the play pens of academe. That, of course, is a two-way street. For every coach who leaves his team in the lurch to take his "dream job" there is one who is summarily axed with years left on his contract. In most cases, the fired coach at least gets his money. The jilted school gets to hijack some other school's coach.
That's why I think that, with the year less than three weeks old, David Cutcliffe has already locked up the Sportsman of the Year trophy. There are those, of course, who feel that Cutclifffe himself should be locked up. What sane man would turn down the head coaching job at Tennessee to remain in the same capacity at Duke? We're talking football here, not basketball. Duke football has been mainly irrelevant for the past 45 years, dating to Bill Murray's departure in 1965. Cutcliffe is the 10th Blue Devil head coach since then and only one of the previous nine--Steve Spurrier--posted a winning record. At some point in his three-year tenure, I visited with Spurrier in his office to do a story on the Duke revival and found him a little arrogant and brimming with self confidence. He probably could not be blamed for jumping at the Florida job when it became available. He was, after all, a Heisman trophy winner for the Gators.
Of course, Cutcliffe had some valid reasons to skip to Tennessee after Lane Kiffin's abrupt departure. He was a Vols' assistant coach twice and had the distinction of coaching both Peyton Manning, while at Tennessee, and Eli Manning, during his six years as head coach at Ole Miss. He also mentored Brady Quinn during a brief stint at Notre Dame. As a head coach at Mississippi, Cutcliffe had five winning seasons, culminating in a 10-3 season and a victory in the Cotton Bowl. But after a 4-7 season in 2004 he was told to get rid of his assistants and, in a move foreshadowing his recent decision, refused and was fired. After a stint with Notre Dame he went back to Tennessee and it was from there that Duke plucked him two years ago. He has family in Knoxville and knowledge of the program. He would have been a natural; his hiring would have gone a long way towards salving the wounded feelings of the Rocky Top faithful.
But he turned down Tennessee, one of the top coaching jobs in the country, to remain at Duke, where he went 4-8 and 5-7 in his first two seasons. "The job is not finished here," he explained. In a recent interview with McClatchy newspapers, he referred to Spurrier's three and out: "He came in, threw the ball around, and went on to a job at his alma mater. We're not trying to be a flash in the pan and go on to something else. We're trying to commit to this thing and make it a way of life."
Cutcliffe's approach was 180 degrees from that of Kiffin, who, after going 7-6 in his lone season at Tennessee, stunned the Volunteer nation with his mad dash to the West Coast. The USC job opening, of course, came because Pete Carroll unexpectedly left after nine highly successful seasons to become head coach with the Seattle Seahawks of the NFL. While some Trojan fans may be upset that Carroll left, most of them are pretty sanguine about it. After all, the man left them two national championships, three Heisman winners, and a lifetime of memories. All Kiffin left the folks in Tennessee was the bitter taste of ashes.
The time is long past when a man's word was his bond and his handshake his troth. We are now living in an age when even a signed contract, as I once was told by my boss at the Chicago Tribune, "isn't worth the paper it's printed on." Nowhere is this more evident than in college sports, where football and basketball coaches have been known to jump ship more readily than a Shanghaied sailor. There is more loyalty in a street gang than in the play pens of academe. That, of course, is a two-way street. For every coach who leaves his team in the lurch to take his "dream job" there is one who is summarily axed with years left on his contract. In most cases, the fired coach at least gets his money. The jilted school gets to hijack some other school's coach.
That's why I think that, with the year less than three weeks old, David Cutcliffe has already locked up the Sportsman of the Year trophy. There are those, of course, who feel that Cutclifffe himself should be locked up. What sane man would turn down the head coaching job at Tennessee to remain in the same capacity at Duke? We're talking football here, not basketball. Duke football has been mainly irrelevant for the past 45 years, dating to Bill Murray's departure in 1965. Cutcliffe is the 10th Blue Devil head coach since then and only one of the previous nine--Steve Spurrier--posted a winning record. At some point in his three-year tenure, I visited with Spurrier in his office to do a story on the Duke revival and found him a little arrogant and brimming with self confidence. He probably could not be blamed for jumping at the Florida job when it became available. He was, after all, a Heisman trophy winner for the Gators.
Of course, Cutcliffe had some valid reasons to skip to Tennessee after Lane Kiffin's abrupt departure. He was a Vols' assistant coach twice and had the distinction of coaching both Peyton Manning, while at Tennessee, and Eli Manning, during his six years as head coach at Ole Miss. He also mentored Brady Quinn during a brief stint at Notre Dame. As a head coach at Mississippi, Cutcliffe had five winning seasons, culminating in a 10-3 season and a victory in the Cotton Bowl. But after a 4-7 season in 2004 he was told to get rid of his assistants and, in a move foreshadowing his recent decision, refused and was fired. After a stint with Notre Dame he went back to Tennessee and it was from there that Duke plucked him two years ago. He has family in Knoxville and knowledge of the program. He would have been a natural; his hiring would have gone a long way towards salving the wounded feelings of the Rocky Top faithful.
But he turned down Tennessee, one of the top coaching jobs in the country, to remain at Duke, where he went 4-8 and 5-7 in his first two seasons. "The job is not finished here," he explained. In a recent interview with McClatchy newspapers, he referred to Spurrier's three and out: "He came in, threw the ball around, and went on to a job at his alma mater. We're not trying to be a flash in the pan and go on to something else. We're trying to commit to this thing and make it a way of life."
Cutcliffe's approach was 180 degrees from that of Kiffin, who, after going 7-6 in his lone season at Tennessee, stunned the Volunteer nation with his mad dash to the West Coast. The USC job opening, of course, came because Pete Carroll unexpectedly left after nine highly successful seasons to become head coach with the Seattle Seahawks of the NFL. While some Trojan fans may be upset that Carroll left, most of them are pretty sanguine about it. After all, the man left them two national championships, three Heisman winners, and a lifetime of memories. All Kiffin left the folks in Tennessee was the bitter taste of ashes.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
By Bob Markus
So you thought you could slip one by me. Thought I wasn't paying any attention. The whole football world is up in arms about the Indianapolis Colts pulling their star players in the middle of a game when they still had a chance at a perfect season and you look for my reaction. Might as well ask the Dali Lama what he thinks about American Idol. That's the trouble with writing a weekly column. Some weeks there are five or six big stories and your job then is to decide which is the one that grabs the most readers by the throat. Sometimes weeks go by without a single story that sits up and begs to be addressed. Feast or famine is the name of the game and sports writers have been eating high on the blog these last few weeks. Just look at the pile of tasty treats laid out before us in the past five days alone.
Alabama beats Texas for the national championship in a game that is decided in the first five minutes. That's about how long Colt McCoy lasted before being sent to the infirmary with a shoulder injury. The next day the University of South Florida fires head football coach Jim Leavitt, the only coach the Bulls have had in their 13-year history. His crime: Allegedly grabbing a player by the throat at halftime of the Louisville game, slapping him in the face and lying about it to investigators. Say it isn't so, Jim "It isn't so," Leavitt declares. Leavitt's sacking comes just days after an even higher profile coach, Texas Tech's Mike Leach, is booted out the door under similar circumstances. Leach, who is not the only coach the Red Raiders have had, but is the coach who put the school on the football map, is accused of sending an injured player into solitary confinement for the crime of incurring a concussion. Leach counters that he was fired because he had wrangled too high a salary in contentious contract negotiations last winter. But that's old news. In the meantime, the doors of the Baseball Hall of Fame widen just enough for Andre Dawson to sneak through. Dawson, who played for 21 years, mostly with the Montreal Expos and Chicago Cubs, had been knocking at the Hall of Fame door for nine years before getting the summons. No sooner is Dawson safely inside than the doors slam shut right in the faces of Bert Blyleven and Roberto Alomar. There are 539 ballots returned by members of the Baseball Writers Association of America and, needing 75 per cent (405 votes), Blyleven, in his 13th attempt, falls five votes shy and Alomar, in his first try, misses by eight votes. Mark McGwire, whose presumed dependence on steroids is about to become established fact, gets only 128 votes, one of them mine.
The week-end brings the wildcard rounds of the NFL playoffs and although three of the games are walkovers, the lone exception makes up for it. The Green Bay Packers and Arizona Cardinals engage in an epic shootout between the grizzled gunslinger, Kurt Warner, and the new kid on the block, Aaron Rodgers. When the dust settles, both are still standing and the score is tied at 45-all. It is obvious to everyone in the stadium and millions watching on television that whichever team wins the coin flip will win the game. NFL playoff rules vary greatly from college rules. In the college game both teams have an opportunity to score and the game can go on for as many overtime periods as is required. In the NFL it's strictly sudden death. First team that scores wins and if it turns out to be the other guy you're out of luck. The Chicago Bears once won a game in Detroit by returning the overtime kickoff for a touchdown. The Lions never even sniffed the ball. Something similar appears inevitable here. Neither defense seems capable of stopping the opponents' offense or even slowing it down. So when the Packers win the flip, Green Bay fans rush to telephone their travel agents to make arrangements for the next round. Then comes the jaw-dropping conclusion. As expected, the Cardinals' offense never does see the ball again. But its beleaguered defense does. On third and six in the first series after the kickoff, Rodgers is stripped of the ball, inadvertently kicks it to Cardinal linebacker Karlos Dansby and, 17 yards later--touchdown. Arizona wins 51-45.
So now everyone is talking about the NFL playoffs, right? Well, maybe for a few hours, until rumors start bubbling out of Los Angeles that USC Coach Pete Carroll is going to take the head coaching job with the Seattle Seahawks. By Monday the story goes well beyond the rumor stage and eventually is confirmed. But by that time everybody is talking about McGwire's confession that he, indeed, took steroids during his glory years.
So what's a guy supposed to write about? Warner? O.K. Many are saying his near-perfect performance Sunday almost assures his enshrinement in the NFL Hall of Fame. I'm saying he didn't need any reaffirmation. He's already a first ballot Hall of Famer. Carroll? How's this? Some are saying he's running away from possible NCAA sanctions against his USC team. I'm saying this: He went for the money (about 6 1/2 million a year) and the challenge. And I'll further say that he will fail this time, just as he did the first time around. And the second. McGwire? Some are saying his confession and apparent contrition will eventually lead him into the Hall of Fame. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I voted for McGwire in the latest election and I'll continue to vote for him as long as baseball sees fit to put him on the ballot. But I'm in the minority and our numbers are shrinking.
So those are some of the things I could comment on this week, but I've got unfinished business to attend to first. Now about those Indianapolis Colts, who pulled quarterback Peyton Manning and several other starters in the third quarter of a game they were leading 15-10 and would eventually lose 29-15. The Colts justified the decision by pointing out that they risked injuries to their star players when they already had secured home field advantage throughout the AFC playoffs. They may have felt justified when the New England Patriots, who did not sit any of their star players, lost receiver Wes Welker to a devastating injury in a game that basically was meaningless. But, hey, listen up. Football is a physical game. Guys get hurt. But there is no such thing as a meaningless game. It's not a meaningless game to the guy who pays $80 a seat, $80 that he probably can't afford, and thinks he's going to see a professional football team. The NFL has rules about hiding injuries. There are deadlines for reporting injuries that might keep a player out of the game. There are substantial fines for failure to honestly report such injuries. I propose this: mandate that any team that intends to keep a non-injured player off the field on Sunday, report it to the league by Thursday of game week. And let the poor sap who paid the 80 bucks have the option of returning his ticket and getting his money back.
So you thought you could slip one by me. Thought I wasn't paying any attention. The whole football world is up in arms about the Indianapolis Colts pulling their star players in the middle of a game when they still had a chance at a perfect season and you look for my reaction. Might as well ask the Dali Lama what he thinks about American Idol. That's the trouble with writing a weekly column. Some weeks there are five or six big stories and your job then is to decide which is the one that grabs the most readers by the throat. Sometimes weeks go by without a single story that sits up and begs to be addressed. Feast or famine is the name of the game and sports writers have been eating high on the blog these last few weeks. Just look at the pile of tasty treats laid out before us in the past five days alone.
Alabama beats Texas for the national championship in a game that is decided in the first five minutes. That's about how long Colt McCoy lasted before being sent to the infirmary with a shoulder injury. The next day the University of South Florida fires head football coach Jim Leavitt, the only coach the Bulls have had in their 13-year history. His crime: Allegedly grabbing a player by the throat at halftime of the Louisville game, slapping him in the face and lying about it to investigators. Say it isn't so, Jim "It isn't so," Leavitt declares. Leavitt's sacking comes just days after an even higher profile coach, Texas Tech's Mike Leach, is booted out the door under similar circumstances. Leach, who is not the only coach the Red Raiders have had, but is the coach who put the school on the football map, is accused of sending an injured player into solitary confinement for the crime of incurring a concussion. Leach counters that he was fired because he had wrangled too high a salary in contentious contract negotiations last winter. But that's old news. In the meantime, the doors of the Baseball Hall of Fame widen just enough for Andre Dawson to sneak through. Dawson, who played for 21 years, mostly with the Montreal Expos and Chicago Cubs, had been knocking at the Hall of Fame door for nine years before getting the summons. No sooner is Dawson safely inside than the doors slam shut right in the faces of Bert Blyleven and Roberto Alomar. There are 539 ballots returned by members of the Baseball Writers Association of America and, needing 75 per cent (405 votes), Blyleven, in his 13th attempt, falls five votes shy and Alomar, in his first try, misses by eight votes. Mark McGwire, whose presumed dependence on steroids is about to become established fact, gets only 128 votes, one of them mine.
The week-end brings the wildcard rounds of the NFL playoffs and although three of the games are walkovers, the lone exception makes up for it. The Green Bay Packers and Arizona Cardinals engage in an epic shootout between the grizzled gunslinger, Kurt Warner, and the new kid on the block, Aaron Rodgers. When the dust settles, both are still standing and the score is tied at 45-all. It is obvious to everyone in the stadium and millions watching on television that whichever team wins the coin flip will win the game. NFL playoff rules vary greatly from college rules. In the college game both teams have an opportunity to score and the game can go on for as many overtime periods as is required. In the NFL it's strictly sudden death. First team that scores wins and if it turns out to be the other guy you're out of luck. The Chicago Bears once won a game in Detroit by returning the overtime kickoff for a touchdown. The Lions never even sniffed the ball. Something similar appears inevitable here. Neither defense seems capable of stopping the opponents' offense or even slowing it down. So when the Packers win the flip, Green Bay fans rush to telephone their travel agents to make arrangements for the next round. Then comes the jaw-dropping conclusion. As expected, the Cardinals' offense never does see the ball again. But its beleaguered defense does. On third and six in the first series after the kickoff, Rodgers is stripped of the ball, inadvertently kicks it to Cardinal linebacker Karlos Dansby and, 17 yards later--touchdown. Arizona wins 51-45.
So now everyone is talking about the NFL playoffs, right? Well, maybe for a few hours, until rumors start bubbling out of Los Angeles that USC Coach Pete Carroll is going to take the head coaching job with the Seattle Seahawks. By Monday the story goes well beyond the rumor stage and eventually is confirmed. But by that time everybody is talking about McGwire's confession that he, indeed, took steroids during his glory years.
So what's a guy supposed to write about? Warner? O.K. Many are saying his near-perfect performance Sunday almost assures his enshrinement in the NFL Hall of Fame. I'm saying he didn't need any reaffirmation. He's already a first ballot Hall of Famer. Carroll? How's this? Some are saying he's running away from possible NCAA sanctions against his USC team. I'm saying this: He went for the money (about 6 1/2 million a year) and the challenge. And I'll further say that he will fail this time, just as he did the first time around. And the second. McGwire? Some are saying his confession and apparent contrition will eventually lead him into the Hall of Fame. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I voted for McGwire in the latest election and I'll continue to vote for him as long as baseball sees fit to put him on the ballot. But I'm in the minority and our numbers are shrinking.
So those are some of the things I could comment on this week, but I've got unfinished business to attend to first. Now about those Indianapolis Colts, who pulled quarterback Peyton Manning and several other starters in the third quarter of a game they were leading 15-10 and would eventually lose 29-15. The Colts justified the decision by pointing out that they risked injuries to their star players when they already had secured home field advantage throughout the AFC playoffs. They may have felt justified when the New England Patriots, who did not sit any of their star players, lost receiver Wes Welker to a devastating injury in a game that basically was meaningless. But, hey, listen up. Football is a physical game. Guys get hurt. But there is no such thing as a meaningless game. It's not a meaningless game to the guy who pays $80 a seat, $80 that he probably can't afford, and thinks he's going to see a professional football team. The NFL has rules about hiding injuries. There are deadlines for reporting injuries that might keep a player out of the game. There are substantial fines for failure to honestly report such injuries. I propose this: mandate that any team that intends to keep a non-injured player off the field on Sunday, report it to the league by Thursday of game week. And let the poor sap who paid the 80 bucks have the option of returning his ticket and getting his money back.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
By Bob Markus
Remember when Slippery Rock was every college football fan's favorite team? In stadiums across the country, fans used to listen for the scores of other teams to be announced and the largest cheer of all would be when the P.A. announcer would intone ". . .and Slippery Rock, 28; Susquehanna, 13." If you asked them, few fans would be able to tell you why they rooted for Slippery Rock. I once went to the Slippery Rock campus in western Pennsylvania and tried to find out. It was a mystery to the folks at Slippery Rock, too.
Boise State is the new Slippery Rock. Except that Boise State is more than just a funny name. Boise State is one heckuva football team and we may never find out just how good it is, this Little Team That Could. I marvelled, along with most college football fans who live outside the state of Oklahoma, when the Broncos beat the smug Sooners, 43-42, in the 2007 Fiesta Bowl in what has to be one of the five best college football games ever played. I took note of their unbeaten regular season a year ago, a season marred only by a 17-16 loss to Texas Christian in the Poinsettia bowl. I was impressed by Boise State's opening night 19-8 victory over Oregon to start this season and rooted for it to go unbeaten again. But last night I was hoping that Texas Christian would do it again, spoil the Broncos' perfect season. Here's why: Because if TCU had added Boise State's pelt to its string of 13 straight victories, going back to last year's bowl game, the Horned Frogs would have had a legitimate claim to at least half of the national championship that now will go, unencumbered, to the winner of Thursday night's Texas-Alabama game. Certainly, Boise State supporters will now make that claim for their own school. But it's not going to happen. Too bad. A little chaos is not necessarily a bad thing and chaos there might have been had TCU prevailed.
There are two reasons that Boise State has no shot at any part of the national championship. One--The winner of the No.1 vs No.2 matchup in the Rose bowl Thursday night is the automatic winner of the BCS championship trophy. Two--Cincinnati. When the bowl season began, there were five unbeaten teams, all with a shot of at least getting the Associated Press i.e. sports writers version of the championship. Sure, the chances were slim that anyone but Texas or Alabama would ascend the throne. That became "none" when Florida blew the 13-0 Cincinnati Bearcats out of the water in the Sugar bowl. The Gators' 51-24 walkover served to remind voters of the gulf between the traditional gridiron powers and the Johnny-come-latelies like Cincinnati, Boise State and TCU. So TCU's hopes probably were crushed even before Monday night's 17-10 loss to Boise State in the Fiesta bowl. Chances are, they probably were gone the moment TCU and Boise State were slated to play each other, leaving neither team the chance to prove they were as good as the teams from the BCS (Bowl Championship Series) conferences.
But going in, the Horned Frogs still had a better chance than Boise State to crash the BCS victory parade. TCU could make a case that it's schedule was every bit as tough as either Texas' or Alabama's. Yes, TCU plays in the Mountain West conference and that's supposed to be playing not only in a different league but a different galaxy from the leagues the Crimson Tide (SEC) and Longhorns (Big 12) preside over. But TCU's schedule included six teams that have won their bowl games this season. And until TCU itself was beaten, the Mountain West had a perfect 4-0 bowl record. Now let's look at Alabama's schedule. Do North Texas, Tennessee-Chattanooga and Florida International scare you? Didn't scare 'Bama fans, either. How about Texas' nonconference schedule. Louisiana-Monroe. Wyoming. UTEP. Central Florida. The Longhorns struggled in the first half before overpowering Wyoming 41-10. TCU beat the Cowboys 45-10.
Boise State, on the other hand, played in the weak Western Athletic Conference and had just one signature victory going into the Fiesta Bowl--the opening nighter over Oregon. But that one was a beauty. The Broncos squeezed the life out of the Ducks, holding them without a first down in the entire first half. That defensive masterpiece looked better and better as Oregon began to not only pile up victories, but massive scoring totals. Had Oregon won its Rose Bowl game against Ohio State, Boise State might yet have had a good argument for its title claim. After holding TCU to 10 points, the Broncos' unheralded defense has now humbled two of the top offensive teams in the country. What that proves is that, if you give them a few weeks to prepare, Boise State can beat any team in the country. Maybe they could do it without extra preparation. We'll probably never know.
SOME QUESTIONS THAT DESERVE ANSWERS:
Can anyone tell me why spiking the ball to stop the clock is not intentional grounding? You're supposed to be penalized if you're in the pocket, throw the ball where there is no apparent receiver, and don't get the ball to the line of scrimmage. And don't tell me the quarterback does get the ball to the line of scrimmage. They invariably take a step backwards before grounding the ball.
Can anyone tell me why they always make the button hole smaller than the button?
Just asking.
Remember when Slippery Rock was every college football fan's favorite team? In stadiums across the country, fans used to listen for the scores of other teams to be announced and the largest cheer of all would be when the P.A. announcer would intone ". . .and Slippery Rock, 28; Susquehanna, 13." If you asked them, few fans would be able to tell you why they rooted for Slippery Rock. I once went to the Slippery Rock campus in western Pennsylvania and tried to find out. It was a mystery to the folks at Slippery Rock, too.
Boise State is the new Slippery Rock. Except that Boise State is more than just a funny name. Boise State is one heckuva football team and we may never find out just how good it is, this Little Team That Could. I marvelled, along with most college football fans who live outside the state of Oklahoma, when the Broncos beat the smug Sooners, 43-42, in the 2007 Fiesta Bowl in what has to be one of the five best college football games ever played. I took note of their unbeaten regular season a year ago, a season marred only by a 17-16 loss to Texas Christian in the Poinsettia bowl. I was impressed by Boise State's opening night 19-8 victory over Oregon to start this season and rooted for it to go unbeaten again. But last night I was hoping that Texas Christian would do it again, spoil the Broncos' perfect season. Here's why: Because if TCU had added Boise State's pelt to its string of 13 straight victories, going back to last year's bowl game, the Horned Frogs would have had a legitimate claim to at least half of the national championship that now will go, unencumbered, to the winner of Thursday night's Texas-Alabama game. Certainly, Boise State supporters will now make that claim for their own school. But it's not going to happen. Too bad. A little chaos is not necessarily a bad thing and chaos there might have been had TCU prevailed.
There are two reasons that Boise State has no shot at any part of the national championship. One--The winner of the No.1 vs No.2 matchup in the Rose bowl Thursday night is the automatic winner of the BCS championship trophy. Two--Cincinnati. When the bowl season began, there were five unbeaten teams, all with a shot of at least getting the Associated Press i.e. sports writers version of the championship. Sure, the chances were slim that anyone but Texas or Alabama would ascend the throne. That became "none" when Florida blew the 13-0 Cincinnati Bearcats out of the water in the Sugar bowl. The Gators' 51-24 walkover served to remind voters of the gulf between the traditional gridiron powers and the Johnny-come-latelies like Cincinnati, Boise State and TCU. So TCU's hopes probably were crushed even before Monday night's 17-10 loss to Boise State in the Fiesta bowl. Chances are, they probably were gone the moment TCU and Boise State were slated to play each other, leaving neither team the chance to prove they were as good as the teams from the BCS (Bowl Championship Series) conferences.
But going in, the Horned Frogs still had a better chance than Boise State to crash the BCS victory parade. TCU could make a case that it's schedule was every bit as tough as either Texas' or Alabama's. Yes, TCU plays in the Mountain West conference and that's supposed to be playing not only in a different league but a different galaxy from the leagues the Crimson Tide (SEC) and Longhorns (Big 12) preside over. But TCU's schedule included six teams that have won their bowl games this season. And until TCU itself was beaten, the Mountain West had a perfect 4-0 bowl record. Now let's look at Alabama's schedule. Do North Texas, Tennessee-Chattanooga and Florida International scare you? Didn't scare 'Bama fans, either. How about Texas' nonconference schedule. Louisiana-Monroe. Wyoming. UTEP. Central Florida. The Longhorns struggled in the first half before overpowering Wyoming 41-10. TCU beat the Cowboys 45-10.
Boise State, on the other hand, played in the weak Western Athletic Conference and had just one signature victory going into the Fiesta Bowl--the opening nighter over Oregon. But that one was a beauty. The Broncos squeezed the life out of the Ducks, holding them without a first down in the entire first half. That defensive masterpiece looked better and better as Oregon began to not only pile up victories, but massive scoring totals. Had Oregon won its Rose Bowl game against Ohio State, Boise State might yet have had a good argument for its title claim. After holding TCU to 10 points, the Broncos' unheralded defense has now humbled two of the top offensive teams in the country. What that proves is that, if you give them a few weeks to prepare, Boise State can beat any team in the country. Maybe they could do it without extra preparation. We'll probably never know.
SOME QUESTIONS THAT DESERVE ANSWERS:
Can anyone tell me why spiking the ball to stop the clock is not intentional grounding? You're supposed to be penalized if you're in the pocket, throw the ball where there is no apparent receiver, and don't get the ball to the line of scrimmage. And don't tell me the quarterback does get the ball to the line of scrimmage. They invariably take a step backwards before grounding the ball.
Can anyone tell me why they always make the button hole smaller than the button?
Just asking.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
By Bob Markus
This is the week that columnists wait for all year. Please don't analyze that sentence too closely, because if you do you'll realize how absurd it is. Of course it's the week columnists--and everybody else--wait for all year. It's the last week of the year for God's sake. But what makes it special for columnists and other pundits is that they can look in any direction and find gold. They can look back and make lists of the top this or that of the year. Or they can look ahead and make predictions about what next year will bring. It's so easy a caveman could do it. This year we are doubly blessed since New Year's Eve not only will mark the end of the year 2009, but the end of the decade.
Who's the Athlete of The Year? Of the decade? What were the top stories of the year? Of the decade? The answer to all four questions is the same, my friends. Tiger Woods. The AP sports editors named Tiger the top athlete of the decade and I don't see any reason to argue the point. He's so dominated his sport--we're talking about his golf game here--that the only question I have is whether golf is actually a sport and whether golfers are actually athletes. It is a question I resolved in my own mind many years ago. Or, at least, Arnie Palmer resolved it for me. Palmer had just been named Athlete of the Year or the Decade or some such and I, new to columnizing, had written that golfers were not athletes. I had in mind the fact that a golfer could be as pot bellied as Santa Claus or as skinny as the holes opened by the Chicago Bears' offensive line and still win golf championships. A few weeks later I was invited to a luncheon where Palmer was one of the guests. As it happened Arnie was seated right next to me and after the introductions were made, the golfing great said: "Chicago Tribune. There was a guy from The Tribune who wrote an article saying golfers aren't athletes." "Yeah," I confessed, "that was me." "Aw, that's O.K.," said Palmer. "It didn't bother me." He then went on to refute my case, pointing out the tremendous stress involved in playing 72 holes of tournament winning golf, holding one's swing together through fatigue and pressure, knowing if you didn't play well you weren't getting paid that week."
So, conceding that Tiger Woods is an athlete, he gets my vote for the grand slam--best athlete and best story for the year and decade. As far as story of the decade is concerned, Woods could easily be placed one, two. His miraculous one-legged U. S. Open win in 2008 was leader in the clubhouse until Woods' Thanksgiving night nightmare opened a can of worms that are eating him out of house and home cooking.
However, Tiger Woods isn't really the subject of today's column. What I really wanted to discuss was the other half of the equation--the vote for Female Athlete of the Year. I don't pay enough attention to tennis to know if Serena Williams deserved the honor, especially since I don't know her from her sister Venus. Oh, Serena's the one who threatened an official with bodily harm over what she considered a blown call? What I do know is that the runner-up has always been a model of decorum. There are no neigh-sayers when it comes to Zenyatta, whose victory over the best male thorobreds in the Breeders' Cup electrified racing fans and galvanized at least 18 voters into naming her Female Athlete of the Year.
Why the wing-footed mare, who turns 5 on New Year's day, didn't win the whole frittata is beyond me. Somebody must have a prejudice against horses. All Zenyatta did was score the biggest victory for feminism since Billie Jean King turned Bobby Riggs into an old man in the course of a few sets of tennis. This one might have been bigger. Riggs, after all, was 55 years old and had not been a big hitter even in his prime. It was as much a victory of youth over old age as it was of female over male. Zenyatta defeated the best field that could be assembled, albeit not a particularly star-studded one.
We may never know how Zenyatta feels about the slight, because horses are notoriously close-mouthed when it comes to blowing their own manes. But, although it was four decades ago, I do have some experience in talking with horses. I had received an invitation to meet Governor Max, one of the favorites to win a big feature race at Arlington Park. Max was hoping to become the first Governor to win a race in Illinois and not subsequently go to jail. I was a little uneasy about the meeting because I didn't know the etiquette involved. Do you offer to shake hands with a horse or do you wait until he puts his best hoof forward? Emily Post was no help. apparently she had never met a horse, either. I must tell you that Governor Max's trainer was known as the Joe Namath of horse racing, which might account for the conversation that ensued.
Markus: Hi, Max, glad to meet you.
Governor Max: You a sports writer?
Markus: Yeah.
Governor Max: I don't usually talk to sports writers. They always try to put words in your mouth. What did you want to see me about?
Markus: Well, you know, you're one of the bigs stars of this race. I just wanted to find out what kind of guy, er, horse you are.
Governor Max: Well, you just ask the questions and if I feel like answering 'em, I'll answer, 'em.
Markus: O.K. First, how will you prepare for the big race Saturday? I understand you're regarded as somewhat of a playcolt. Do you plan to spend Friday night in bed with a filly and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red?
Governor Max: Neigh!! I don't drink Johnnie Walker Red. Old Overholt's my brand. We horses are partial to rye, you know.
Markus: And how about the filly?
Governor Max. Don't believe everything you hear. After I win on Saturday I'll have all the fillies I can handle. Mares, too. The older women kind of go for me, you know. After I win this race they'll be coming to me. I'll have to beat 'em off with a jockey stick.
Markus: You really think you can win this thing? Some of these horses have run in better company than you have.
Governor Max: I know I'm going to win it. I personally guarantee it.
But horse talk, like any other foreign language, needs to be practiced. So when I decided to give Zenyatta a call, I wasn't too confident about how it would turn out. I needn't have worried. Zenyatta turned out to be a perfect lady, "and that's more than you can say for that Serena Williams,"she snorted into the telephone. "I take it you're a little unhappy about finishing second?" "I've never finished second before in my life. Fourteen starts, fourteen wins."
"Speaking of going unbeaten, how about that Rachel Alexandra beating the boys in the Preakness. She's unbeaten, too." "Yeah, but she's still just a baby. A 3-year-old. Let her get some more races under her saddle cloth and then she can come see me. Besides, she had her chance to run in the Breeders Cup and she chickened out. She knew she couldn't beat me."
"Her trainer says she didn't run in the Breeder's Cup because of the artificial surface at Santa Anita." "Unh huh, and my name is Man 'O War. Tell you what, mister. I'm going to do this again next year and I'm going to be Female Athlete of the Year. I guarantee it." Now where have I heard that before?
This is the week that columnists wait for all year. Please don't analyze that sentence too closely, because if you do you'll realize how absurd it is. Of course it's the week columnists--and everybody else--wait for all year. It's the last week of the year for God's sake. But what makes it special for columnists and other pundits is that they can look in any direction and find gold. They can look back and make lists of the top this or that of the year. Or they can look ahead and make predictions about what next year will bring. It's so easy a caveman could do it. This year we are doubly blessed since New Year's Eve not only will mark the end of the year 2009, but the end of the decade.
Who's the Athlete of The Year? Of the decade? What were the top stories of the year? Of the decade? The answer to all four questions is the same, my friends. Tiger Woods. The AP sports editors named Tiger the top athlete of the decade and I don't see any reason to argue the point. He's so dominated his sport--we're talking about his golf game here--that the only question I have is whether golf is actually a sport and whether golfers are actually athletes. It is a question I resolved in my own mind many years ago. Or, at least, Arnie Palmer resolved it for me. Palmer had just been named Athlete of the Year or the Decade or some such and I, new to columnizing, had written that golfers were not athletes. I had in mind the fact that a golfer could be as pot bellied as Santa Claus or as skinny as the holes opened by the Chicago Bears' offensive line and still win golf championships. A few weeks later I was invited to a luncheon where Palmer was one of the guests. As it happened Arnie was seated right next to me and after the introductions were made, the golfing great said: "Chicago Tribune. There was a guy from The Tribune who wrote an article saying golfers aren't athletes." "Yeah," I confessed, "that was me." "Aw, that's O.K.," said Palmer. "It didn't bother me." He then went on to refute my case, pointing out the tremendous stress involved in playing 72 holes of tournament winning golf, holding one's swing together through fatigue and pressure, knowing if you didn't play well you weren't getting paid that week."
So, conceding that Tiger Woods is an athlete, he gets my vote for the grand slam--best athlete and best story for the year and decade. As far as story of the decade is concerned, Woods could easily be placed one, two. His miraculous one-legged U. S. Open win in 2008 was leader in the clubhouse until Woods' Thanksgiving night nightmare opened a can of worms that are eating him out of house and home cooking.
However, Tiger Woods isn't really the subject of today's column. What I really wanted to discuss was the other half of the equation--the vote for Female Athlete of the Year. I don't pay enough attention to tennis to know if Serena Williams deserved the honor, especially since I don't know her from her sister Venus. Oh, Serena's the one who threatened an official with bodily harm over what she considered a blown call? What I do know is that the runner-up has always been a model of decorum. There are no neigh-sayers when it comes to Zenyatta, whose victory over the best male thorobreds in the Breeders' Cup electrified racing fans and galvanized at least 18 voters into naming her Female Athlete of the Year.
Why the wing-footed mare, who turns 5 on New Year's day, didn't win the whole frittata is beyond me. Somebody must have a prejudice against horses. All Zenyatta did was score the biggest victory for feminism since Billie Jean King turned Bobby Riggs into an old man in the course of a few sets of tennis. This one might have been bigger. Riggs, after all, was 55 years old and had not been a big hitter even in his prime. It was as much a victory of youth over old age as it was of female over male. Zenyatta defeated the best field that could be assembled, albeit not a particularly star-studded one.
We may never know how Zenyatta feels about the slight, because horses are notoriously close-mouthed when it comes to blowing their own manes. But, although it was four decades ago, I do have some experience in talking with horses. I had received an invitation to meet Governor Max, one of the favorites to win a big feature race at Arlington Park. Max was hoping to become the first Governor to win a race in Illinois and not subsequently go to jail. I was a little uneasy about the meeting because I didn't know the etiquette involved. Do you offer to shake hands with a horse or do you wait until he puts his best hoof forward? Emily Post was no help. apparently she had never met a horse, either. I must tell you that Governor Max's trainer was known as the Joe Namath of horse racing, which might account for the conversation that ensued.
Markus: Hi, Max, glad to meet you.
Governor Max: You a sports writer?
Markus: Yeah.
Governor Max: I don't usually talk to sports writers. They always try to put words in your mouth. What did you want to see me about?
Markus: Well, you know, you're one of the bigs stars of this race. I just wanted to find out what kind of guy, er, horse you are.
Governor Max: Well, you just ask the questions and if I feel like answering 'em, I'll answer, 'em.
Markus: O.K. First, how will you prepare for the big race Saturday? I understand you're regarded as somewhat of a playcolt. Do you plan to spend Friday night in bed with a filly and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red?
Governor Max: Neigh!! I don't drink Johnnie Walker Red. Old Overholt's my brand. We horses are partial to rye, you know.
Markus: And how about the filly?
Governor Max. Don't believe everything you hear. After I win on Saturday I'll have all the fillies I can handle. Mares, too. The older women kind of go for me, you know. After I win this race they'll be coming to me. I'll have to beat 'em off with a jockey stick.
Markus: You really think you can win this thing? Some of these horses have run in better company than you have.
Governor Max: I know I'm going to win it. I personally guarantee it.
But horse talk, like any other foreign language, needs to be practiced. So when I decided to give Zenyatta a call, I wasn't too confident about how it would turn out. I needn't have worried. Zenyatta turned out to be a perfect lady, "and that's more than you can say for that Serena Williams,"she snorted into the telephone. "I take it you're a little unhappy about finishing second?" "I've never finished second before in my life. Fourteen starts, fourteen wins."
"Speaking of going unbeaten, how about that Rachel Alexandra beating the boys in the Preakness. She's unbeaten, too." "Yeah, but she's still just a baby. A 3-year-old. Let her get some more races under her saddle cloth and then she can come see me. Besides, she had her chance to run in the Breeders Cup and she chickened out. She knew she couldn't beat me."
"Her trainer says she didn't run in the Breeder's Cup because of the artificial surface at Santa Anita." "Unh huh, and my name is Man 'O War. Tell you what, mister. I'm going to do this again next year and I'm going to be Female Athlete of the Year. I guarantee it." Now where have I heard that before?
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
By Bob Markus
Christmas brings memories. Memories of childhood and sleepless nights, waiting for Santa. Memories of fatherhood, anticipating the looks on the childrens' faces when they found the gifts piled all around the tree. And for a sports writer who was there, memories of one of the greatest games in National Football League history. It was Christmas day, 1971, and instead of watching my kids open their presents, I was sitting in the press box in Kansas City's old ball park, watching what was, at the time, the longest game in football history. The game had everything: The Chiefs' Ed Podolak producing an individual tour de force that should have been enough to produce a victory; Chiefs' kicker Jan Stenerud, a future Hall of Famer, missing the chip shot field goal that should have won the game in regulation time; and, finally, Garo Yepremian, a balding, 27-year-old Cypriot who had never even seen a football game until five years earlier, kicking the game-winner for Miami 8 minutes into the second overtime.
The game was swaddled in controversy before it was even played, because it was also the first NFL game played on Christmas day. Commissioner Pete Rozelle was roundly criticized for scheduling the game on one of organized religion's two most sacred holidays. He was either Scrooge or The Grinch, take your pick. I didn't see it that way. In a column I wrote before boarding a plane on Christmas Eve day, I pointed out most of the criticism was coming from fans in the two cities involved--the NFC playoffs were opening in Minneapolis the same day--and that nobody was water boarding them to force them to attend the games. The only ones who had no choice were the teams, the officials, and the media. As a member of the last-named group I couldn't find it in my heart to complain. I pointed out there were worse places one could wake up on Christmas morning. Viet Nam, for instance.
Although this was the first year I can recall missing Christmas Day itself with the family, in most years we'd have our gift opening in the morning, have a festive midafternoon meal, and I'd be on a plane to the Rose Bowl or an NFL playoff by Christmas night. Once, in the days when The Tribune not only allowed but mandated that its employees fly first class, I was the only passenger in the front section on a Christmas night flight to Baltimore.
Missing out on holidays is an occupational quid pro quo for a sports writer. I almost never was at home on New Year's Eve. I can recall Thanksgivings in Dallas, covering the Cowboys, and in College Station, covering Texas at Texas A M. , and in Norman, Okla., covering the 1 vs. 2 showdown between Nebraska and Oklahoma. That was especially bitter sweet, because while the game was one for the ages, it came during a week when my wife's beloved aunt Grace died and I barely made it home for the funeral.
When my wife's alma mater, Illinois, went to the Rose bowl after the 1983 season, the whole family flew out to Pasadena. I went early, arriving a few hours after the Illini landed at the John Wayne Airport in Orange County. After reaching the team's hotel I immediately got into a screaming match with an assistant athletic director, who turned down my request for an interview with Head Coach Mike White on grounds that he had given a mass interview at the airport. White happened by in the middle of the ruckus and, obviously upset, grumbled, "Hey, we've got a big ball game coming up here." He eventually agreed to meet with me a few hours later, but the tension he displayed was not a good omen. Illinois, which had won its last 10 games after an opening game loss to Missouri, was a heavy favorite against a UCLA team that went into the game with a 6-4-1 record. What everyone overlooked was the fact that the Bruins, after an 0-3-1 start, had won six of their last seven games. No one expected them to even be in the Rose Bowl game, let alone win it. In fact, on the final week-end of the Pac 10 season, with Illinois having already clinched the Big 10 title, I had gone to Seattle to interview several Husky players for a special Rose Bowl section. After arch-rival Washington State produced a shocking upset on Saturday, I threw away my interview notes, placed a call to UCLA's athletic department and advised them I'd be in Westwood by Monday morning to interview some of their players.
Because New Year's day was a Sunday, the 1984 Rose Bowl was played on Jan.2, a date that will live in infamy in Champaign-Urbana. Illinois was never in the game. In a complete reversal from the 1947 Rose bowl when Illinois (7-2) had dismantled an unbeaten UCLA team that had lobbied to play Army (of Blanchard and Davis fame) instead, the Bruins returned the favor. They tore apart a young Illinois secondary in a 45-9 spanking that gave me the once in a lifetime chance to write: "Illinois has seen 1984 and it is more horrible than anything George Orwell could have imagined."
It's been many years since I last left hearth and home for Christmas. But it's also been many years since the entire family has celebrated the holiday together. I miss the old days. Still, I have my memories. I imagine you do, too. Merry Christmas, everyone.
Christmas brings memories. Memories of childhood and sleepless nights, waiting for Santa. Memories of fatherhood, anticipating the looks on the childrens' faces when they found the gifts piled all around the tree. And for a sports writer who was there, memories of one of the greatest games in National Football League history. It was Christmas day, 1971, and instead of watching my kids open their presents, I was sitting in the press box in Kansas City's old ball park, watching what was, at the time, the longest game in football history. The game had everything: The Chiefs' Ed Podolak producing an individual tour de force that should have been enough to produce a victory; Chiefs' kicker Jan Stenerud, a future Hall of Famer, missing the chip shot field goal that should have won the game in regulation time; and, finally, Garo Yepremian, a balding, 27-year-old Cypriot who had never even seen a football game until five years earlier, kicking the game-winner for Miami 8 minutes into the second overtime.
The game was swaddled in controversy before it was even played, because it was also the first NFL game played on Christmas day. Commissioner Pete Rozelle was roundly criticized for scheduling the game on one of organized religion's two most sacred holidays. He was either Scrooge or The Grinch, take your pick. I didn't see it that way. In a column I wrote before boarding a plane on Christmas Eve day, I pointed out most of the criticism was coming from fans in the two cities involved--the NFC playoffs were opening in Minneapolis the same day--and that nobody was water boarding them to force them to attend the games. The only ones who had no choice were the teams, the officials, and the media. As a member of the last-named group I couldn't find it in my heart to complain. I pointed out there were worse places one could wake up on Christmas morning. Viet Nam, for instance.
Although this was the first year I can recall missing Christmas Day itself with the family, in most years we'd have our gift opening in the morning, have a festive midafternoon meal, and I'd be on a plane to the Rose Bowl or an NFL playoff by Christmas night. Once, in the days when The Tribune not only allowed but mandated that its employees fly first class, I was the only passenger in the front section on a Christmas night flight to Baltimore.
Missing out on holidays is an occupational quid pro quo for a sports writer. I almost never was at home on New Year's Eve. I can recall Thanksgivings in Dallas, covering the Cowboys, and in College Station, covering Texas at Texas A M. , and in Norman, Okla., covering the 1 vs. 2 showdown between Nebraska and Oklahoma. That was especially bitter sweet, because while the game was one for the ages, it came during a week when my wife's beloved aunt Grace died and I barely made it home for the funeral.
When my wife's alma mater, Illinois, went to the Rose bowl after the 1983 season, the whole family flew out to Pasadena. I went early, arriving a few hours after the Illini landed at the John Wayne Airport in Orange County. After reaching the team's hotel I immediately got into a screaming match with an assistant athletic director, who turned down my request for an interview with Head Coach Mike White on grounds that he had given a mass interview at the airport. White happened by in the middle of the ruckus and, obviously upset, grumbled, "Hey, we've got a big ball game coming up here." He eventually agreed to meet with me a few hours later, but the tension he displayed was not a good omen. Illinois, which had won its last 10 games after an opening game loss to Missouri, was a heavy favorite against a UCLA team that went into the game with a 6-4-1 record. What everyone overlooked was the fact that the Bruins, after an 0-3-1 start, had won six of their last seven games. No one expected them to even be in the Rose Bowl game, let alone win it. In fact, on the final week-end of the Pac 10 season, with Illinois having already clinched the Big 10 title, I had gone to Seattle to interview several Husky players for a special Rose Bowl section. After arch-rival Washington State produced a shocking upset on Saturday, I threw away my interview notes, placed a call to UCLA's athletic department and advised them I'd be in Westwood by Monday morning to interview some of their players.
Because New Year's day was a Sunday, the 1984 Rose Bowl was played on Jan.2, a date that will live in infamy in Champaign-Urbana. Illinois was never in the game. In a complete reversal from the 1947 Rose bowl when Illinois (7-2) had dismantled an unbeaten UCLA team that had lobbied to play Army (of Blanchard and Davis fame) instead, the Bruins returned the favor. They tore apart a young Illinois secondary in a 45-9 spanking that gave me the once in a lifetime chance to write: "Illinois has seen 1984 and it is more horrible than anything George Orwell could have imagined."
It's been many years since I last left hearth and home for Christmas. But it's also been many years since the entire family has celebrated the holiday together. I miss the old days. Still, I have my memories. I imagine you do, too. Merry Christmas, everyone.
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