By Bob Markus
There were tears (mine)at the beginning and tears (Helio Castroneves's) at the end and in the middle more wrecks than you'll see at the diciest intersection in your town. I cried because I always do during the ceremonies that lead up to the Indy 500. I'm not sure why, but by the time the cars are lined up in their precise rows of three abreast, 11 rows in all, and some pseudo celebrity sings the National Anthem I can feel the mist beginning to form in the corners of my eyes. When they play taps, in memory of former race drivers who are with us no more, a few drops of moisture will find their way onto a cheek. And when Jim Nabors sings "Back Home Again In Indiana" I almost lose it altogether. Of all the events I covered in 36 years of writing sports for The Chicago Tribune, the Indianapolis 500 was by far my favorite event, the Indianapolis Motor Speedway the only place I wanted to be on, originally, Memorial Day (May 30), but laterly the last Sunday in May. When I die I'd like Mario Andretti to scatter my ashes at the Speedway. I haven't told Mario yet.
Helio Castroneves had a different reason to cry. In the course of a month he had redeemed his Get Out of Jail Free card and ended up on Park Place. He went from facing a 35-year prison sentence to winning the world's most famous race quicker then Marco Andretti could be punted off the course by a 20-year-old rookie. Helio was not the one I wanted to see drink the milk in victory circle, although I have nothing against him. He seems to be an engaging young man and there is little doubt he is a talented driver and dances a mean cha cha cha.. You don't win three times at Indianapolis without talent, even if you are driving for Roger Penske. But driving for Penske does help. The victory was Roger's 15th as a car owner and nobody else comes close to that. Penske is the most organized and success-driven man I know. He is precise and analytical in everything he does. I first met him when he was still a driver. He hasn't changed much except he's a lot richer. I have seen him flustered only once in all the years I've known him. That came in 1987 after he had hired Danny Ongais to be one of his drivers It was a monumental break for Ongais, a man with a ton of talent who was his own worst enemy. He could do anything with a race car except make it talk. Danny was almost as silent as his race car. So it came as no great surprise to me that when I went into his garage hoping for an interview, he declined. I found him sitting in a corner of the garage, eating an orange and said, "Danny, can I ask you a few questions?" "I'd rather not," he politely replied. As I left the garage I serendipitously ran into Penske and told him what had happened. "Let me talk to him," Roger said. He went into the garage and ws back out in under a minute, wearing a quizzical look on his face. "He says he doesn't want to talk," said Roger. I went ahead and wrote the Ongais story anyway and was just about to hit the button sending it to The Tribune when the claxon that signals an accident on the track went off. Looking up at the TV monitor I saw that, as I had feared, it was Ongais in the wall. He was out of the race, Al Unser took his place and won his fourth Indy 500, and I managed to save my story by simply writing a one paragraph insert that said something about his pentient for self destruction biting him again.
I fell in love with the Indianapolis Motor Speedway from the day I first drove up Georgetown road past the half mile of grandstand and entered through the back gate. The Tribune had not covered the race for several years and opposed it editorially. I finally managed to convince the sports editor, George Strickler at the time, that we were going to make it the lead story on the morning after the race so why not have one of our own reporters, namely me, write it. I knew something of the history of the Indy 500 and had done a few columns by telephone; the one with Jimmy Clark after he won in 1965 comes to mind. But I really knew very little about the sport itself. I soon found out something about the Indy 500, something that makes it special. There is an "We're all in this together" attitude at Indy that I found nowhere else in the world of sports. It was to be expected that the public relations people for the teams, the track, and the tire companies would be helpful to an awestruck newcomer. In fact, the Speedway itself offered little guidance outside of the program they gave you with the names and numbers of all the drivers. But the tire company representatives more than made up for it. On my first day at the track the late Dick Ralstin of Goodyear took me around the garage area and introduced me to all the significant players, whether they drove for Goodyear or Firestone. John Fowler of Firestone was equally helpful. What surprised me, however, was how helpful the other writers were, especially the writers for the Indianapolis papers. Guys like Dick Mittman and the late Ray Marquette (pronounced Mar-kwet) were happy to point you in the right direction. As it turned out, Ralstin was the one who saved my bacon, as Roger Penske would put it, that first year. Not knowing any better at the time, I sat in the press box and the view was spectacular and so was the racing. The press box was the place to be--as long as the race was going on. But when I tried to get to the post-race interview room, I had to fight 200,00 other people who were going in the same general direction, utilizing the one narrow tunnel that leads from the main grandstand to the infield. An hour later I reached the interview room just as race winner Bobby Unser was leaving, followed by a mob of admirers. I was in a panic until I spotted Ralstin bringing up the rear of the group. I explained my plight and he said "Don't worry; come on into our office. Bobby's doing some phone interviews and then you can talk to him." So I had a one-on-one interview with the Indy 500 winner, who would go on to win it twice more.
The really great thing about covering Indy is--or at least was--the accessibility of the drivers and their ability to deliver quotes that you could put down on paper unfiltered. There was a good deal of interplay between writers and drivers. One year, I think it was somewhere in the late '70s, Dick Mittman and I were in somebody's garage when Mario Andretti came in holding a curious looking object that appeared to be a pipe with a propeller behind it. "We're using this to test your wind power," explained Mario, who proceeded to blow into the pipe, causing the propeller to spin wildly. "Now you try it," said Mario, handing me the gadget. I took a deep breath and blew as hard as I could. Nothing. "Try it again," urged Mario. Still nothing. Presently the three of us headed for the pits and when we got there, Bobby Unser and A.J. Foyt nearly keeled over from laughing so hard. I didn't get the joke until Bobby handed me a mirror. My entire face was blackened. I looked like Al Jolson. The secret of Mario's success and my humiliation it was revealed to me was that there was a hole on the bottom of the pipe that you had to cover with a finger. Otherwise you'd be blowing black carbon back into your face.
Although I tried not to show it in my writing, I had my favorites among the drivers. Mario and Johnny Rutherford for sure. Rick Mears, Scott Brayton, Tom Sneva. Teo Fabi, certainly, after I spent a month on his pit crew. But, in reality, they all were pretty good guys, even Foyt, who could be cantankerous, but also utterly engaging. It seems a little strange now watching the race and realizing there were only two drivers--John Andretti and Paul
Tracy, who I knew. So I was rooting for them and for Marco Andretti because I knew his dad and grandfather and Danica Patrick because she's Danica. I've never met Castroneves or Dan Wheldon or Tony Kanaan or Danica for that matter. I haven't been to the Indy 500 for seven or eight years now, but it still sings to me. The song is sweet and sentimental and that's why it still has the power to bring me to tears.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
By Bob Markus
When new acquaintances find out that I used to be a sports writer, they almost inevitably ask me one of two questions: What was your favorite sport to cover; what was the single most memorable event you covered? Those were not easy questions to answer, particularly the first one. In 36 years writing sports for The Chicago Tribune I covered every major beat and found something to like in most of them. Aside from writing a daily column, which I did for 11 years, the most fun I had was in being the national college football and basketball writer. Not only did I get to cover some of the most famous games in college sports history--Villanova's upset of Georgetown in the 1985 NCAA tournament final, Texas' victory over Arkansas in the 1969 shootout in the hills, Nebraska's 35-31 win over Oklahoma in one of the many "games of the century"--but I got to see an estimated 100 college campuses, from the University of Washington in the far Northwest to the University of Miami, which is nearly as far Southeast as you can get. One of the best parts of the job was walking--and sometimes running--through the various college campuses on a Saturday morning. On a run through the LSU campus one morning I was brought up short when I came face to face with the live tiger mascot. At Mississippi there was The Grove, the most sophisticated tailgate setting in the country, where the girls wear designer dresses and the men jackets and ties and watch the football team parade by on the way to the stadium. My vote for most beautiful college campus--Pepperdine, which sits high atop a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean at Malibu. So I could have answered: college football and basketball--but I didn't.
Covering baseball fulltime was another beat I found enjoyable--perhaps "satisfying" would be a better word. The baseball beat is hard! It's seven days a week from the middle of February when the pitchers and catchers--and baseball beat writers--report to spring training until the end of October when the World Series ends. Even when the players have all gone home there is work to do for the beat writer, winter meetings to attend, possible trades to be discussed and, generally, in January, a goodwill tour to the hinterlands with the manager and some of the key players. But the beat has its compensations. Although there is a lot of travelling, there is not the frenetic Cleveland today Denver tomorrow ratrace of the NBA. In most cases you stay two to four days in a given town, long enough to send your laundry out and get it back. You're staying at the team hotel, which is usually a four star or better and if you manage your meal money well, you can indulge in the occasional gourmet dinner. Although some people find baseball dull, I agree with the minor league executive who once told me, "the thing I love about baseball is there's an orgasm in every ball game." Think about it. In even the most mundane of games there usually comes a point when a single at bat can change the complexion. The slow pace of the game, while perhaps irritating to some, gives the baseball writer time to plan his story well before the final out and the slow unwinding of the season lets him settle into a rhythm that no other sport permits. But baseball was not my favorite sport, either. In fact, the two sports that I loved covering the most were not fulltime beats.
They are boxing and auto racing. I loved them both for the same reason. The people. I never met an inarticulate boxer or race car driver. Both sports operate under an almost palpable canopy of dread, the danger inherent in each always lurking somewhere beneath the surface, never spoken of, but also never entirely out of mind. A race driver will answer your question if you speak of the life and death aspects of his profession, but he will not dwell on it, nor will he bring up the subject himself. Race drivers are the most honest athletes of all. They never fail to run out the grounders. A driver can be hopelessly out of a race, but he will never stop trying to get his car around the next corner as quickly as possible. Boxers share this trait. The distinction between the two sports is that the race driver knows in the back of his mind he could be hurt, while the boxer knows for an absolute certainty that he is going to get hurt at least to some extent.
Now that you know the answer to question No. 1, it shouldn't be too hard to figure out my answer to question No. 2. Whenever asked about my most memorable event I always come up with a three-part answer. In no particular order they are: The first Muhammad Ali-Joe Frazier fight in Madison Square Garden; The 1972 Munich Olympics; The 1988 Indianapolis 500 when I spent the whole month of May working on Teo Fabi's pit crew and filing a daily story about it. Since this year's Indy 500 is just around the corner I'll focus in on that one. It started with a phone call from Michael Knight, the public relations man--one of the alltime best--for the new Quaker State Porsche team that was bringing the iconic German sports car back to Indianapolis. Knight told me that as part of their p.r. effort they were going to let one writer work in the pits on every race day. He asked me if I'd like to do it for the Indianapolis 500 and I answered, "does it have to be just on race day? Could I do it for the whole month?" He, of course, was delighted at the prospect of having a daily mention of his team in the midwest's largest paper. My sports editor, Gene Quinn, was not quite so sanguine about it. "You can do it on two conditions," he said. "No. 1 you won't do anything to get yourself hurt and No.2 you won't do anything that makes the Tribune responsible for affecting the outcome of the race." I crossed my fingers behind my back and agreed. There's no way I could guarantee either of those demands. Danger is inherent to the sport. I had been in the pits when Wally Dallenbach's car burst into flames not six feet in front of me. In 1973 I had been running from my seat in the stands behind the pits toward the fourth turn where Swede Savage had just crashed--fatally, as it would turn out, when I heard a loud "thump" which I later found out was the sound of a crew member being fatally struck by a fire truck racing the wrong way up pit road. I didn't expect anything like that to happen to me, but I couldn't guarantee it.
My main job during the week before qualifying was to time driver Teo Fabi's speed on the front straightaway. My first radar gun was flawed and so the first day's effort was wasted. As the week went along it was obvious that the new Porsche--actually a March chassis with a Porsche engine--was underpowered and was in danger of failing to make the race. On the eve of the first Saturday of qualifying--pole day--there was an emergency meeting in our garage and one of our consultants mentioned that there was a way to cheat the popoff valve and gain a little extra speed. Did team general manager Al Holbert want to try it? This presented me with a serious dilemma. On one hand I was a newspaperman who had promised to tell all. On the other hand I was a member of the racing team. I solved the problem by walking out of the garage. Knowing the late Al Holbert, I doubt that there was any cheating the next day when Fabi qualified the car, albeit at a speed slow enough that we all were on pins and needles until the final second of qualifying on the following
Sunday. It meant just as much to me as it did for anybody else because if Teo didn't make the race, there went my story. Race day was the most exciting of my life. When I stood behind our car at the starting line during the prerace ceremonies, for the first time in my life I was overcome with emotion at the playing of the National Anthem. Then, after the firing up of our engine, I joined the rest of the crew in the mad dash back to our pits, probably a quarter of a mile sprint.
I had two jobs for race day. One was to hold the stop sign and lower it in front of Fabi to mark his stopping point whenever he entered the pits. The second was to man the water hose and squirt water on the fuel cell after each refueling. This was to prevent any chance of a fuel spill from igniting. I was nervous about this job, because the fuel cell was located behind the driver and with the open cockpit it was possible I could hit Fabi in the face. Teo would not have liked that. I had had no chance to practice, so the first pit stop was a source of great anxiety. Teo came in a little hot, but stopped in time. When the fueler pulled the hose from the cell I managed to wash it down with no problem; then Teo sped on his way. Seconds later I heard a roar and everyone in our pits was looking down pit road. A wheel had come off our car and Teo had crashed in the pits. I put on my writer's hat and ran down to join in the interview with Fabi, then went back to the car and helped push it all the way down pit road and into our garage in Gasoline Alley. My career as a pit crew member was over, but I'll never forget it. And Sunday, when 33 cars come thundering into turn one of the world's most famous speedway, I'll have a pretty good idea of the emotions beating in each competitor's chest, from the drivers to the lowliest crew men. Bless them all.
When new acquaintances find out that I used to be a sports writer, they almost inevitably ask me one of two questions: What was your favorite sport to cover; what was the single most memorable event you covered? Those were not easy questions to answer, particularly the first one. In 36 years writing sports for The Chicago Tribune I covered every major beat and found something to like in most of them. Aside from writing a daily column, which I did for 11 years, the most fun I had was in being the national college football and basketball writer. Not only did I get to cover some of the most famous games in college sports history--Villanova's upset of Georgetown in the 1985 NCAA tournament final, Texas' victory over Arkansas in the 1969 shootout in the hills, Nebraska's 35-31 win over Oklahoma in one of the many "games of the century"--but I got to see an estimated 100 college campuses, from the University of Washington in the far Northwest to the University of Miami, which is nearly as far Southeast as you can get. One of the best parts of the job was walking--and sometimes running--through the various college campuses on a Saturday morning. On a run through the LSU campus one morning I was brought up short when I came face to face with the live tiger mascot. At Mississippi there was The Grove, the most sophisticated tailgate setting in the country, where the girls wear designer dresses and the men jackets and ties and watch the football team parade by on the way to the stadium. My vote for most beautiful college campus--Pepperdine, which sits high atop a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean at Malibu. So I could have answered: college football and basketball--but I didn't.
Covering baseball fulltime was another beat I found enjoyable--perhaps "satisfying" would be a better word. The baseball beat is hard! It's seven days a week from the middle of February when the pitchers and catchers--and baseball beat writers--report to spring training until the end of October when the World Series ends. Even when the players have all gone home there is work to do for the beat writer, winter meetings to attend, possible trades to be discussed and, generally, in January, a goodwill tour to the hinterlands with the manager and some of the key players. But the beat has its compensations. Although there is a lot of travelling, there is not the frenetic Cleveland today Denver tomorrow ratrace of the NBA. In most cases you stay two to four days in a given town, long enough to send your laundry out and get it back. You're staying at the team hotel, which is usually a four star or better and if you manage your meal money well, you can indulge in the occasional gourmet dinner. Although some people find baseball dull, I agree with the minor league executive who once told me, "the thing I love about baseball is there's an orgasm in every ball game." Think about it. In even the most mundane of games there usually comes a point when a single at bat can change the complexion. The slow pace of the game, while perhaps irritating to some, gives the baseball writer time to plan his story well before the final out and the slow unwinding of the season lets him settle into a rhythm that no other sport permits. But baseball was not my favorite sport, either. In fact, the two sports that I loved covering the most were not fulltime beats.
They are boxing and auto racing. I loved them both for the same reason. The people. I never met an inarticulate boxer or race car driver. Both sports operate under an almost palpable canopy of dread, the danger inherent in each always lurking somewhere beneath the surface, never spoken of, but also never entirely out of mind. A race driver will answer your question if you speak of the life and death aspects of his profession, but he will not dwell on it, nor will he bring up the subject himself. Race drivers are the most honest athletes of all. They never fail to run out the grounders. A driver can be hopelessly out of a race, but he will never stop trying to get his car around the next corner as quickly as possible. Boxers share this trait. The distinction between the two sports is that the race driver knows in the back of his mind he could be hurt, while the boxer knows for an absolute certainty that he is going to get hurt at least to some extent.
Now that you know the answer to question No. 1, it shouldn't be too hard to figure out my answer to question No. 2. Whenever asked about my most memorable event I always come up with a three-part answer. In no particular order they are: The first Muhammad Ali-Joe Frazier fight in Madison Square Garden; The 1972 Munich Olympics; The 1988 Indianapolis 500 when I spent the whole month of May working on Teo Fabi's pit crew and filing a daily story about it. Since this year's Indy 500 is just around the corner I'll focus in on that one. It started with a phone call from Michael Knight, the public relations man--one of the alltime best--for the new Quaker State Porsche team that was bringing the iconic German sports car back to Indianapolis. Knight told me that as part of their p.r. effort they were going to let one writer work in the pits on every race day. He asked me if I'd like to do it for the Indianapolis 500 and I answered, "does it have to be just on race day? Could I do it for the whole month?" He, of course, was delighted at the prospect of having a daily mention of his team in the midwest's largest paper. My sports editor, Gene Quinn, was not quite so sanguine about it. "You can do it on two conditions," he said. "No. 1 you won't do anything to get yourself hurt and No.2 you won't do anything that makes the Tribune responsible for affecting the outcome of the race." I crossed my fingers behind my back and agreed. There's no way I could guarantee either of those demands. Danger is inherent to the sport. I had been in the pits when Wally Dallenbach's car burst into flames not six feet in front of me. In 1973 I had been running from my seat in the stands behind the pits toward the fourth turn where Swede Savage had just crashed--fatally, as it would turn out, when I heard a loud "thump" which I later found out was the sound of a crew member being fatally struck by a fire truck racing the wrong way up pit road. I didn't expect anything like that to happen to me, but I couldn't guarantee it.
My main job during the week before qualifying was to time driver Teo Fabi's speed on the front straightaway. My first radar gun was flawed and so the first day's effort was wasted. As the week went along it was obvious that the new Porsche--actually a March chassis with a Porsche engine--was underpowered and was in danger of failing to make the race. On the eve of the first Saturday of qualifying--pole day--there was an emergency meeting in our garage and one of our consultants mentioned that there was a way to cheat the popoff valve and gain a little extra speed. Did team general manager Al Holbert want to try it? This presented me with a serious dilemma. On one hand I was a newspaperman who had promised to tell all. On the other hand I was a member of the racing team. I solved the problem by walking out of the garage. Knowing the late Al Holbert, I doubt that there was any cheating the next day when Fabi qualified the car, albeit at a speed slow enough that we all were on pins and needles until the final second of qualifying on the following
Sunday. It meant just as much to me as it did for anybody else because if Teo didn't make the race, there went my story. Race day was the most exciting of my life. When I stood behind our car at the starting line during the prerace ceremonies, for the first time in my life I was overcome with emotion at the playing of the National Anthem. Then, after the firing up of our engine, I joined the rest of the crew in the mad dash back to our pits, probably a quarter of a mile sprint.
I had two jobs for race day. One was to hold the stop sign and lower it in front of Fabi to mark his stopping point whenever he entered the pits. The second was to man the water hose and squirt water on the fuel cell after each refueling. This was to prevent any chance of a fuel spill from igniting. I was nervous about this job, because the fuel cell was located behind the driver and with the open cockpit it was possible I could hit Fabi in the face. Teo would not have liked that. I had had no chance to practice, so the first pit stop was a source of great anxiety. Teo came in a little hot, but stopped in time. When the fueler pulled the hose from the cell I managed to wash it down with no problem; then Teo sped on his way. Seconds later I heard a roar and everyone in our pits was looking down pit road. A wheel had come off our car and Teo had crashed in the pits. I put on my writer's hat and ran down to join in the interview with Fabi, then went back to the car and helped push it all the way down pit road and into our garage in Gasoline Alley. My career as a pit crew member was over, but I'll never forget it. And Sunday, when 33 cars come thundering into turn one of the world's most famous speedway, I'll have a pretty good idea of the emotions beating in each competitor's chest, from the drivers to the lowliest crew men. Bless them all.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
By Bob Markus
Like trying to decide whether to select the Porterhouse steak or the grilled veal chop for the main course--or perhaps even the char-grilled salmon--this week's sports news has provided me with an embarrassment of riches. Unlike some weeks, when I struggle to come up with a timely subject, there is no end to the possibilities.
I could, for instance, comment on the Players' championship in golf, an event which was notable not only for Henrik Stenson's superb final round on a course with greens so sun-slicked they might have been mistaken for a series of giant greased griddles, but for Tiger Woods' stunning failure to mount even the slightest challenge. Even though he entered the final round five shots behind leader Alex Cjeka, those of us who have followed Tiger's career figured the world's No.1 ranked player had Cjeka right where he wanted him--as playing partner in the final group on Sunday. Had any of us known that Cjeka, whose driving had been metronomically near perfect for three days, was going to start hitting the ball to places few humans had ever visited before and wind up shooting a 79, we'd have conceded the trophy to Woods and started channel surfing for something a little less mundane. At the very least we expected Woods to come down to the final hole with a chance to win. But it became clear from the outset that this was not Tiger's day. Or Tiger's week. Or Tiger's venue. He couldn't drive the ball in the fairway. He couldn't snuggle his iron shots close enough to the diabolically placed pins. He couldn't putt. But he still finished eighth. Think of that. This man is so good that even when he plays poorly he's a miracle shot or two away from winning. There are 150 or so players who start out each week hoping to conquer a given golf course. And every week, whether he plays well or poorly, Tiger Woods is among the top 10. I don't have the data to prove it, but I suspect no golfer ever has played to that level of consistency.
Another angle I might pursue is the revelation that Los Angeles Dodgers super star Manny Ramirez has been suspended for 50 games for failing a drug test. Ramirez reportedly took a female fertility drug and since it is unlikely that the carefree slugger is trying to get pregnant, big league officials could only conclude that he took the banned substance because it is a masking agent for steroids. It no longer surprises me when a baseball player is pinched for a drug indiscretion. Not when megastars like Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, and Alex Rodriguez have been accused of, and in A-Rod's case confessed to, using performance enhancing drugs. I'm not completely convinced that taking steroids enhances performance all that much. For a body builder or weight lifter, yes. But no matter how juiced up a slugger is, he still has to make hard contact with a little white ball thrown by some hulking hurler who might himself be on steroids for all we know. Drugs of some sort have been around baseball almost since its infancy. I've been told, although I've never seen it, that many clubhouses had jars of "greenies" or "uppers" lying around for players to dip into. Considering the length of the season and the constant daily grind of a baseball campaign, it would be surprising if players did not look for something to get them through the dog days. What about so-called energy drinks? Should they be banned, too? Just asking.
A third intriguing story is that Kentucky Derby winning jockey Calvin Borel is giving up his ride on Mine That Bird, forfeiting an admitedly slim chance to ride a Triple Crown winner. Once it was announced that Rachel Alexandra, the filly who romped home 20 lengths ahead of the field in the Kentucky Oaks, was going to challenge the big boys in the Preakness, it would have been surprising if Borel had not decided to switch. Borel had been aboard the filly for the rocket ride in the Oaks the day before his masterly ride on Mine That Bird in the Derby and, asked which of the two horses was the better, unhesitatingly had named Rachel Alexandra. Although it was not 100 per cent guaranteed that the filly would be in the Preakness, she was the early line favorite. Fillies have won Triple Crown races before and as recently as two years ago Rags to Riches won the Preakness. The shortest of the Triple Crown events, the Preakness is probably the least likely venue to produce a calamity, although try telling that to the owners of Barbaro, who broke down at the outset of that 2007 race. Still, there is always an injury concern when a filly challenges male horses. Only last year, Eight Belles had to be destroyed after finishing second in the Kentucky Derby, but going down with two broken front ankles. But the one race that still is the elephant in the living room when it comes to boy-girl horse racing, is the fateful match race between Ruffian and Foolish Pleasure in 1975. Ruffian was the Wonder Woman of horses, undefeated and winner of the Filly Triple Crown. As beloved as any race horse before or since, Ruffian was giving a good account of herself until reaching the mile pole at Belmont Park, where she broke her leg, but attempted to keep running. Emergency surgery was performed in an attempt to save her, but in the end she had to be euthanized.
But I'm not going to write any of those stories this week. Instead I'm going to concentrate on an event that has personal meaning for me. My last fulltime beat as a sports writer for The Chicago Tribune was the Blackhawks. I had been a Hawks' fan since the late forties, a time when there was so little interest in hockey in Chicago that a 13-year-old boy could go the The Stadium by himself on a game night and, when asked if he was by himself, be given a seat in the front row of the balcony, squarely on the red line. By the time I started writing for The Tribune, things had changed. Tommy Ivan had been brought in from the Detroit Red Wings to put together the team that, in 1961, would win the Stanley Cup, ironically over Ivan's former team. Although they have not won the Cup since then, by the time I started writing a column for The Tribune, the Blackhawks were the hottest thing in town, filling the Stadium nightly with their charismatic stars like Bobby Hull, Stan Mikita, and goalie Glenn Hall. I got to know Hull and Mikita fairly well. Hull in particular was a dream to cover, always willing to spend time with a writer, often to the dismay of his teammates who were waiting on the bus for the Golden Jet to join them. In the old Stadium the press box was behind one goal at mezzanine level and one night Mikita rocketed a slap shot that skipped off a stick and flew into the press box, where I reflexively tried to catch it. Afterwards in the dressing room, Stan looked at me and said, "are you crazy?" It had never occurred to me that he would follow the puck all the way to its final resting place. After I was replaced as a columnist in the winter of 1978, I lost touch with hockey until one day about 15 years later I got a call at home from our sports editor, who told me to get out to The Stadium because the beat writer had some domestic problem and would not be back for awhile. And, by the way, give us a feature story for Sunday on Wayne Gretzky. So I covered the Blackhawks for the final month of that season and found out I liked it. Hockey players seemed to be more accessible and more congenial than the other athletes I had been dealing with. Besides, at the time, I was at the mercy of an assistant sports editor who kept giving me assignments that made me want to throw up. One I recall was about the Korean-American Olympics, a story that required me to head for the Korean-American enclave on Chicago's North side and throw myself on the mercy of the event's p.r. man. I asked him to get me an interview with any athlete who spoke English. He gave me a bowler who was almost inarticulate. That is the only time in my career that I just mailed it in. Didn't give a damn. So, when the hockey beat opened up I asked for it and got it. It was a good decision. The Hawks were coached at the time by Daryl Sutter, a good guy if a little sardonic. Their best players were Jeremy Roenick, Chris Chelios,and Tony Amonte, all fairly easy to get along with. Roenick, in particular, was a "go to" guy and remains so to this day. Only goalie Ed Belfour gave me any problems and that was only sporadically. Once he stopped speaking to me for weeks after I wrote a story insinuating that he and backup goalie Jeff Hackett were near-equals. Then, out of the blue, he called me at home and asked if I needed anything from him. The Blackhawks got all the way to the conference finals that year, but lost to the Red Wings in a tough series. After one more season I left The Tribune and forgot about the Blackhawks along with most of their fandom. A building which used to be alive with 20,000 screaming fans, became almost tomblike when the fans deserted them. They had not even been in the playoffs since 2002. Then last night (Monday) I realized that the Hawks were playing in the Western Conference semi-finals and had a chance to wrap up the series on home ice. I knew none of the players, but I got wrapped up in the game. The Hawks were leading 2-1 when I tuned in in the second period. Then another Chicago goal made it 3-1 and I thought it was going to be a lock. But two quick goals by Vancouver tied the game and the Canucks went ahead twice in the third period before the Blackhawks, led by their young guns, Patrick Kane and Jonathon Toews, scored three quick goals to wrap up a 7-5 victory and advance to the conference final, where they expect to play their longtime antagonists, the Red Wings. I'll know at least one of the players in that series since Chelios, who was a graybeard when I was covering more than a dozen years ago, is still performing for Detroit. I like Chelly and wish him the best, but my heart will be with the Blackhawks this time.
Like trying to decide whether to select the Porterhouse steak or the grilled veal chop for the main course--or perhaps even the char-grilled salmon--this week's sports news has provided me with an embarrassment of riches. Unlike some weeks, when I struggle to come up with a timely subject, there is no end to the possibilities.
I could, for instance, comment on the Players' championship in golf, an event which was notable not only for Henrik Stenson's superb final round on a course with greens so sun-slicked they might have been mistaken for a series of giant greased griddles, but for Tiger Woods' stunning failure to mount even the slightest challenge. Even though he entered the final round five shots behind leader Alex Cjeka, those of us who have followed Tiger's career figured the world's No.1 ranked player had Cjeka right where he wanted him--as playing partner in the final group on Sunday. Had any of us known that Cjeka, whose driving had been metronomically near perfect for three days, was going to start hitting the ball to places few humans had ever visited before and wind up shooting a 79, we'd have conceded the trophy to Woods and started channel surfing for something a little less mundane. At the very least we expected Woods to come down to the final hole with a chance to win. But it became clear from the outset that this was not Tiger's day. Or Tiger's week. Or Tiger's venue. He couldn't drive the ball in the fairway. He couldn't snuggle his iron shots close enough to the diabolically placed pins. He couldn't putt. But he still finished eighth. Think of that. This man is so good that even when he plays poorly he's a miracle shot or two away from winning. There are 150 or so players who start out each week hoping to conquer a given golf course. And every week, whether he plays well or poorly, Tiger Woods is among the top 10. I don't have the data to prove it, but I suspect no golfer ever has played to that level of consistency.
Another angle I might pursue is the revelation that Los Angeles Dodgers super star Manny Ramirez has been suspended for 50 games for failing a drug test. Ramirez reportedly took a female fertility drug and since it is unlikely that the carefree slugger is trying to get pregnant, big league officials could only conclude that he took the banned substance because it is a masking agent for steroids. It no longer surprises me when a baseball player is pinched for a drug indiscretion. Not when megastars like Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, and Alex Rodriguez have been accused of, and in A-Rod's case confessed to, using performance enhancing drugs. I'm not completely convinced that taking steroids enhances performance all that much. For a body builder or weight lifter, yes. But no matter how juiced up a slugger is, he still has to make hard contact with a little white ball thrown by some hulking hurler who might himself be on steroids for all we know. Drugs of some sort have been around baseball almost since its infancy. I've been told, although I've never seen it, that many clubhouses had jars of "greenies" or "uppers" lying around for players to dip into. Considering the length of the season and the constant daily grind of a baseball campaign, it would be surprising if players did not look for something to get them through the dog days. What about so-called energy drinks? Should they be banned, too? Just asking.
A third intriguing story is that Kentucky Derby winning jockey Calvin Borel is giving up his ride on Mine That Bird, forfeiting an admitedly slim chance to ride a Triple Crown winner. Once it was announced that Rachel Alexandra, the filly who romped home 20 lengths ahead of the field in the Kentucky Oaks, was going to challenge the big boys in the Preakness, it would have been surprising if Borel had not decided to switch. Borel had been aboard the filly for the rocket ride in the Oaks the day before his masterly ride on Mine That Bird in the Derby and, asked which of the two horses was the better, unhesitatingly had named Rachel Alexandra. Although it was not 100 per cent guaranteed that the filly would be in the Preakness, she was the early line favorite. Fillies have won Triple Crown races before and as recently as two years ago Rags to Riches won the Preakness. The shortest of the Triple Crown events, the Preakness is probably the least likely venue to produce a calamity, although try telling that to the owners of Barbaro, who broke down at the outset of that 2007 race. Still, there is always an injury concern when a filly challenges male horses. Only last year, Eight Belles had to be destroyed after finishing second in the Kentucky Derby, but going down with two broken front ankles. But the one race that still is the elephant in the living room when it comes to boy-girl horse racing, is the fateful match race between Ruffian and Foolish Pleasure in 1975. Ruffian was the Wonder Woman of horses, undefeated and winner of the Filly Triple Crown. As beloved as any race horse before or since, Ruffian was giving a good account of herself until reaching the mile pole at Belmont Park, where she broke her leg, but attempted to keep running. Emergency surgery was performed in an attempt to save her, but in the end she had to be euthanized.
But I'm not going to write any of those stories this week. Instead I'm going to concentrate on an event that has personal meaning for me. My last fulltime beat as a sports writer for The Chicago Tribune was the Blackhawks. I had been a Hawks' fan since the late forties, a time when there was so little interest in hockey in Chicago that a 13-year-old boy could go the The Stadium by himself on a game night and, when asked if he was by himself, be given a seat in the front row of the balcony, squarely on the red line. By the time I started writing for The Tribune, things had changed. Tommy Ivan had been brought in from the Detroit Red Wings to put together the team that, in 1961, would win the Stanley Cup, ironically over Ivan's former team. Although they have not won the Cup since then, by the time I started writing a column for The Tribune, the Blackhawks were the hottest thing in town, filling the Stadium nightly with their charismatic stars like Bobby Hull, Stan Mikita, and goalie Glenn Hall. I got to know Hull and Mikita fairly well. Hull in particular was a dream to cover, always willing to spend time with a writer, often to the dismay of his teammates who were waiting on the bus for the Golden Jet to join them. In the old Stadium the press box was behind one goal at mezzanine level and one night Mikita rocketed a slap shot that skipped off a stick and flew into the press box, where I reflexively tried to catch it. Afterwards in the dressing room, Stan looked at me and said, "are you crazy?" It had never occurred to me that he would follow the puck all the way to its final resting place. After I was replaced as a columnist in the winter of 1978, I lost touch with hockey until one day about 15 years later I got a call at home from our sports editor, who told me to get out to The Stadium because the beat writer had some domestic problem and would not be back for awhile. And, by the way, give us a feature story for Sunday on Wayne Gretzky. So I covered the Blackhawks for the final month of that season and found out I liked it. Hockey players seemed to be more accessible and more congenial than the other athletes I had been dealing with. Besides, at the time, I was at the mercy of an assistant sports editor who kept giving me assignments that made me want to throw up. One I recall was about the Korean-American Olympics, a story that required me to head for the Korean-American enclave on Chicago's North side and throw myself on the mercy of the event's p.r. man. I asked him to get me an interview with any athlete who spoke English. He gave me a bowler who was almost inarticulate. That is the only time in my career that I just mailed it in. Didn't give a damn. So, when the hockey beat opened up I asked for it and got it. It was a good decision. The Hawks were coached at the time by Daryl Sutter, a good guy if a little sardonic. Their best players were Jeremy Roenick, Chris Chelios,and Tony Amonte, all fairly easy to get along with. Roenick, in particular, was a "go to" guy and remains so to this day. Only goalie Ed Belfour gave me any problems and that was only sporadically. Once he stopped speaking to me for weeks after I wrote a story insinuating that he and backup goalie Jeff Hackett were near-equals. Then, out of the blue, he called me at home and asked if I needed anything from him. The Blackhawks got all the way to the conference finals that year, but lost to the Red Wings in a tough series. After one more season I left The Tribune and forgot about the Blackhawks along with most of their fandom. A building which used to be alive with 20,000 screaming fans, became almost tomblike when the fans deserted them. They had not even been in the playoffs since 2002. Then last night (Monday) I realized that the Hawks were playing in the Western Conference semi-finals and had a chance to wrap up the series on home ice. I knew none of the players, but I got wrapped up in the game. The Hawks were leading 2-1 when I tuned in in the second period. Then another Chicago goal made it 3-1 and I thought it was going to be a lock. But two quick goals by Vancouver tied the game and the Canucks went ahead twice in the third period before the Blackhawks, led by their young guns, Patrick Kane and Jonathon Toews, scored three quick goals to wrap up a 7-5 victory and advance to the conference final, where they expect to play their longtime antagonists, the Red Wings. I'll know at least one of the players in that series since Chelios, who was a graybeard when I was covering more than a dozen years ago, is still performing for Detroit. I like Chelly and wish him the best, but my heart will be with the Blackhawks this time.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
By Bob Markus
What's in a name? That is the question. Having, quite neatly I think, tied together two Shakesperian soliloquys by two different characters from two different plays, I have to admit I don't know the answer. I've spent the last three days wondering what in the world his owners were thinking of when they named the 2009 Kentucky Derby winner "Mine That Bird." Surely, had they known their horse was going to become world famous one day, they'd have named it something a little more fathomable. But who knew? Certainly if you or I had any inkling that Mine That Bird was going to win the Kentucky Derby we'd have at the very least put a couple of bucks on his nose.
Most race horses' names are pretty easy to figure out. You just look at the names of the sire and the dam and find a combination that makes sense. War Admiral was the son of Man 'O War, for instance. Granted that naming a foal of Birdstone-Mining My Own is a bit of a challenge, surely they could have come up with something that makes sense. Something like Birdsong. Or Stone Mountain. Or Etched in Stone. Or Bye Bye Birdie. Or even Charlie Parker. (You jazz fans will get that one, I'm sure)
But Mine That Bird? What could it possibly mean? The only thing that springs to mind is that it is a command to send a canary into a coal mine in order to detect any toxic particles in the air. When the canary stops singing, the miners had better be looking for the fastest way out.
Mine That Bird's jockey, Calvin Borel, certainly was looking for the fastest way out when he found himself trailing the entire 19-horse field at the head of the stretch. He found it where he usually does, on the rail, and he produced one of the most astonishing finishing kicks in the history of horse racing. I'm not a racing expert. During my 36 years writing sports for the Chicago Tribune I probably covered a dozen or fewer horse races. A couple of Kentucky Derbies, one Preakness, a few Florida spring races and a handful of major stakes at Arlington Park. But it doesn't take an expert to know that what we saw Saturday was something extraordinary.
I watched the race with some friends who live downstairs from us in a condominium apartment. The scratching of I Want Revenge, the prerace favorite, had made an already cloudy picture almost unreadable, not to mention that it screwed up a lot of Derby pools. So there we were watching some horse with no name leading from the start to the head of the stretch when out of the corner of my eye I saw a blur streaking through an opening no larger than a broom closet door and passing horses left and left. It was as if Jeeves the Butler had opened the door and held it ajar for a visitor. I knew immediately that the race was over and tried to yell, "look at that horse on the rail," but by that time everyone in the room knew the horse was going to win. What none of us knew was the name of the horse.
Ebullient jockey Calvin Borel, who had won two years earlier in almost identical fashion with Street Sense, said what must have been obvious to anyone who watched the second biggest upset in Kentucky Derby history. "At the end, mine was the only horse still running," he said. Mine That Bird is a small horse as race horses go and that, explained Corel, was why he was able to glide through such a narrow opening. "He's such a small horse," Corel added, "that he just skipped along the track where I thought some of the other horses were digging into it."
The unexpected victory by the little horse that could sent racing writers, who had completely ignored Mine That Bird in the week preceding the race, scrambling for information and what they found made a pretty good yarn. The horse had been purchased for $9,500 at a yearling sale. His only two races as a 3-year-old had been run in New Mexico and he hadn't won either of them. His trainer, Benny "Chip" Woolley, had driven the gelding in a pickup truck all the way from New Mexico to Louisville, a 21-hour journey. Woolley looked as if he'd inherited his wardrobe from Johnny Cash and, after answering a few questions for a TV interviewer, stomped off the way that other Man in Black, Dale Earnhardt, once did when I asked him a question he thought was stupid.
It all made for a good story, but it was not the whole truth and nothing but the truth. True, the horse was sold as a yerling for $9,500, but the man who bought him won four races and more than $300,000 racing him in Canada, where he was proclaimed 2-year-old champion. That owner then sold him for $400,000 to two men from Roswell, N. M. The new owners entered him in the Breeder's Cup Juvenile, where he rewarded them by finishing 12th in a 12-horse field. Then came the two losses at Sunland Park, N.M. So, obviously, there was nothing to do but enter him in the most famous race in the world. It will be interesting to see what the betting odds will be at The Preakness, where the Kentucky Derby winner usually is among the favorites
and often is regarded as a potential Triple Crown winner. Mine That Bird a Triple Crown winner? Not likely. The name doesn't resonate like Whirlaway or Citation. Yet Mine That Bird's 6 3/4 length was the largest margin in the Kentucky Derby since Assault in 1946. Assault later became the seventh Triple Crown winner. So go ahead. Take a chance. Put a few bucks on the Derby winner to capture the Preakness and Belmont, too. Maybe that's the way to mine that Bird.
What's in a name? That is the question. Having, quite neatly I think, tied together two Shakesperian soliloquys by two different characters from two different plays, I have to admit I don't know the answer. I've spent the last three days wondering what in the world his owners were thinking of when they named the 2009 Kentucky Derby winner "Mine That Bird." Surely, had they known their horse was going to become world famous one day, they'd have named it something a little more fathomable. But who knew? Certainly if you or I had any inkling that Mine That Bird was going to win the Kentucky Derby we'd have at the very least put a couple of bucks on his nose.
Most race horses' names are pretty easy to figure out. You just look at the names of the sire and the dam and find a combination that makes sense. War Admiral was the son of Man 'O War, for instance. Granted that naming a foal of Birdstone-Mining My Own is a bit of a challenge, surely they could have come up with something that makes sense. Something like Birdsong. Or Stone Mountain. Or Etched in Stone. Or Bye Bye Birdie. Or even Charlie Parker. (You jazz fans will get that one, I'm sure)
But Mine That Bird? What could it possibly mean? The only thing that springs to mind is that it is a command to send a canary into a coal mine in order to detect any toxic particles in the air. When the canary stops singing, the miners had better be looking for the fastest way out.
Mine That Bird's jockey, Calvin Borel, certainly was looking for the fastest way out when he found himself trailing the entire 19-horse field at the head of the stretch. He found it where he usually does, on the rail, and he produced one of the most astonishing finishing kicks in the history of horse racing. I'm not a racing expert. During my 36 years writing sports for the Chicago Tribune I probably covered a dozen or fewer horse races. A couple of Kentucky Derbies, one Preakness, a few Florida spring races and a handful of major stakes at Arlington Park. But it doesn't take an expert to know that what we saw Saturday was something extraordinary.
I watched the race with some friends who live downstairs from us in a condominium apartment. The scratching of I Want Revenge, the prerace favorite, had made an already cloudy picture almost unreadable, not to mention that it screwed up a lot of Derby pools. So there we were watching some horse with no name leading from the start to the head of the stretch when out of the corner of my eye I saw a blur streaking through an opening no larger than a broom closet door and passing horses left and left. It was as if Jeeves the Butler had opened the door and held it ajar for a visitor. I knew immediately that the race was over and tried to yell, "look at that horse on the rail," but by that time everyone in the room knew the horse was going to win. What none of us knew was the name of the horse.
Ebullient jockey Calvin Borel, who had won two years earlier in almost identical fashion with Street Sense, said what must have been obvious to anyone who watched the second biggest upset in Kentucky Derby history. "At the end, mine was the only horse still running," he said. Mine That Bird is a small horse as race horses go and that, explained Corel, was why he was able to glide through such a narrow opening. "He's such a small horse," Corel added, "that he just skipped along the track where I thought some of the other horses were digging into it."
The unexpected victory by the little horse that could sent racing writers, who had completely ignored Mine That Bird in the week preceding the race, scrambling for information and what they found made a pretty good yarn. The horse had been purchased for $9,500 at a yearling sale. His only two races as a 3-year-old had been run in New Mexico and he hadn't won either of them. His trainer, Benny "Chip" Woolley, had driven the gelding in a pickup truck all the way from New Mexico to Louisville, a 21-hour journey. Woolley looked as if he'd inherited his wardrobe from Johnny Cash and, after answering a few questions for a TV interviewer, stomped off the way that other Man in Black, Dale Earnhardt, once did when I asked him a question he thought was stupid.
It all made for a good story, but it was not the whole truth and nothing but the truth. True, the horse was sold as a yerling for $9,500, but the man who bought him won four races and more than $300,000 racing him in Canada, where he was proclaimed 2-year-old champion. That owner then sold him for $400,000 to two men from Roswell, N. M. The new owners entered him in the Breeder's Cup Juvenile, where he rewarded them by finishing 12th in a 12-horse field. Then came the two losses at Sunland Park, N.M. So, obviously, there was nothing to do but enter him in the most famous race in the world. It will be interesting to see what the betting odds will be at The Preakness, where the Kentucky Derby winner usually is among the favorites
and often is regarded as a potential Triple Crown winner. Mine That Bird a Triple Crown winner? Not likely. The name doesn't resonate like Whirlaway or Citation. Yet Mine That Bird's 6 3/4 length was the largest margin in the Kentucky Derby since Assault in 1946. Assault later became the seventh Triple Crown winner. So go ahead. Take a chance. Put a few bucks on the Derby winner to capture the Preakness and Belmont, too. Maybe that's the way to mine that Bird.
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