By Bob Markus
Let the punishment fit the crime. It sounds like a lyric from a Gilbert & Sullivan operetta. Instead it is the leit motiff running through a week in sports that, for talk show hosts, was the stuff that dreams are made of. First came Michael Vick's "conditional" reinstatement by the National Football League. Then came the rumor that Commissioner Bud Selig was considering lifting Pete Rose's lifetime ban, the sole impediment keeping baseball's alltime hits leader out of the Hall of Fame. That turned out to be untrue and Rose remains as far from reinstatement as he was 20 years ago when he agreed to the lifetime ban.
It's a close call as to which super star committed the greater transgression. It's closer yet as to which paid the steeper price. Vick spent nearly two years in jail, lost millions of dollars in his cancelled contract with the Atlanta Falcons, millions more in endorsements, and even after his conditional reinstatement by NFL Commissioner Roger Goodall will miss at least five paychecks (about one-third of what figures to be a minimal salary), provided there is a team out there willing to take him at any price. All of this for promoting illegal dog fights and assisting in the killing of some dogs deemed too placid for pit duty. Not that his crimes were not reprehensible, but the former quarterback hardly qualifies as the most sadistic monster since Vlad the Impaler. He didn't murder his wife, after all, and if he did he might not have had to serve any time at all (see Simpson, Orenthal James)
But dog lovers everywhere apparently feel that Vick hasn't suffered enough. They apparently feel that a more appropriate punishment would be to put Vick in a pit with a dozen or so of the more vicious varieties of canines, say a couple of Dobermans, a Rottweiler or two and maybe a few pit bulls thrown in for good measure.
Personally, I'm having trouble getting too worked up about Vick's crimes. I don't condone them but I don't understand the universal rage they inspired. These were not your cuddly lap dog or pet poodle that were involved. They were attack dogs, bred and trained to provide protection. Vick could have put on a suit of lights and carved a bull into cube steaks and be applauded for his efforts. He'd probably receive two ears and a tail. Instead he received two years and a ruined career. I understand that dog fighting is illegal, but other then that I can't see where it much differs, morally, from bull fighting.
(Full disclosure: I have been to several bull fights in Mexico and Spain and probably would go again if the opportunity was presented.) I concede that there is none of the pageantry and drama of the bull ring in a dog fight, but the result is the same. An animal dies.
Dog fanciers claim there are no bad dogs, only bad owners. Hogwash. Dogs are, to my knowledge, the only animals that will attack without provocation or to satisfy hunger. I've been bitten by dogs four times in my life and, believe me, I was not provoking any of them, unless you call attempting to share the same road a provocation.
The first time, I admit, was an accident. I was 6 or 7 years old and playing in the park with an uncle when a huge German shepherd came cantering by and I shied away from him. My uncle assured me there was nothing to fear and proposed we play with the nice doggie. Accordingly, he threw the tennis ball with which we were playing catch as far as he could throw it. The dog happily bounded after it and returned it to my uncle, who repeated the process two or three times. Then he turned to me and said, "You try it," flipping the ball to me. The dog, of course, didn't know the game was between innings and the ball and the dog's teeth reached my hand at the same time. I still have the scar although it has faded considerably over the nearly 70 intervening years.
Many years later I was staying in Orlando Cepeda's house in Puerto Rico while collaborating on the baseball star's autobiography (High and Inside," still available, I believe, at Amazon.com although I don't particularly recommend it). Orlando had three or four dogs, which had the run of the house, and were constantly yapping underfoot. They seemed to take no notice of me and after awhile I forgot about them. Then one morning, late in my one week stay, I was finishing my morning run when one of the little rascals ran over and bit my ankle.
The last two (so far) dog bites I suffered both came while visiting a friend's farm in Michigan. In the first instance I had run past a rather large German shepherd on the outbound leg of my morning jog and the dog had simply barked and stared at me. I was hoping the dog would be somewhere else when I went by on my return trip, but there he was, standing in the middle of the road. With his owner standing a few yards away and saying, "Duke, don't do that Duke," Duke did it. He took a nice chunk from behind my right knee and I had to spend my Sunday afternoon in a hospital. A few years later, same place, different road I was running facing traffic and not even noticing the little dog across the road. He noticed me, however, and bounded gleefully across the road to nip the back of my leg.
Like people there are good dogs and bad dogs. There are dogs that rescue babies from burning buildings and there are dogs that maul babies to death. I don't advocate killing dogs willy-nilly, but I also don't think what Vick did merits punishing him for the rest of his life. But that's what's going to happen unless some NFL franchise will take a chance on him. That seems unlikely, although some one would be getting a multimillion dollar talent for a fraction of that price. The downside, of course, is that whoever hires Vick may be as reviled as much as if they were harboring Dr. Mengele. There will be outrage and there could be boycotts of the team's games and its TV sponsors. The only team I can think of that would risk that much heat is the Oakland Raiders. The Raiders have a history of taking on troubled--and troublesome--players and I imagine Al Davis would enjoy the fuss.
But harsh as Vick's penalties have been I think Pete Rose suffers more. His lifetime banishment from the game he loves for betting on the Cincinnati Reds to win games while he was managing the team is like a death sentence for Rose. His whole life is baseball and he desperately wants to get into the Hall of Fame, where he belongs. But it now appears that will never happen. Although there are some Hall of Famers, most notably Hank Aaron, who are lobbying Commissioner Bud Selig to reinstate Rose--at least to the extent where he would be Hall of Fame eligible, there are even more, with Bob Feller being the most adamant, who insist Rose should never get in.
Rose has spent 20 years pleading his case and at 68 may go to his grave still knocking futilely at the Hall of Fame's door. Rose has his talking points. He is, after all, baseball's alltime hits leader and he played the game with unparalleled passion. He argues that, while he did bet on Reds games, he never bet on them to lose. If he were strictly a player, that might be a mitigating factor. But as manager he was entrusted with decisions that go beyond today's ball game. Supposing he has a closer who clearly needs a night off, but Pete has a bet on tonight's game and he needs that closer, even with a tired arm, to nail it down. I doubt that Rose would succumb to the temptation, but the temptation is there. This issue goes to the very core of the game,the public's assurance that every game is on the up-and-up. Ever since the Black Sox scandal, the game has protected its integrity with the vehemence of a mama bear sheltering her cubs (that's cubs with a small c). Betting on baseball, in the eyes of the game's keepers, is a sin far worse than doctoring a baseball with spittle or doctoring the player himself with steroids. The former will get you tossed from the game, the latter will cost you 50 games. But placing bets on your own team? That will get you a life sentence with no chance of parole.
Does the punishment fit the crime? Probably. But if I had a vote I'd still put Pete Rose in the Hall of Fame. I don't know, the place just doesn't seem complete without him.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
By Bob Markus
In the heyday of the Chicago Stockyards, the public used to be able to tour the slaughterhouse and watch how cows and hogs became steaks and ham, both of which could be ordered at the adjacent Stockyards Inn. Once you got past the smell, it made for an interesting outing. What I remember from my last visit to the stockyards, about a half century ago, was the sight of muscular men, mostly black men, bare to the waist and wielding heavy sledge hammers, which they used to bludgeon the cows as they were led to their inevitable demise.
Tom Watson wore that same stunned look as those doomed cows throughout his four hole playoff with Stewart Cink in Sunday's British Open. It would be easy to label Cink as the villain of the piece, the Grinch who stole the story of the year from Watson and golf lovers everywhere. I'd be surprised if, outside his immediate family and coterie of friends, there was a person in the universe who was rooting for Cink to win the tournament. But don't blame Cink for destroying the 59-year-old Watson's dream of becoming the oldest man, by nearly a dozen years, to win one of golf's four major championships. Cink, like one of those old time cattle bashers, was simply a man doing his job. Kind of like the guy who lopped off Anne Boleyn's head. It was a job that any competent golf professional could have handled at that point. Because as soon as Watson missed that nine-foot putt for par on the 72d hole at Turnberry, it was clearly evident the dream was over. Watson had given the last full measure of his talent and tenacity over the 72 holes and it wasn't enough. He had nothing left to give and hacked his way around the playoff holes as if he were an eight-handicapper on a Sunday outing with his golfing buddies.
Any golfer, even the great ones, is going to lose more tournaments than he wins. But there are losses and there are losses. This one was of historic proportions. For 71 holes Watson had seemed headed for the biggest miracle since the parting of the Red Sea. Indeed, it appeared that Watson would not have needed heavenly intervention to cross the sea. He was a man who looked as if he could walk on water.
When the week began, with Watson shooting a lights-out 65 in the opening round, it appeared unthinkable that a man his age could beat all those young guns over four days in the oldest and most prestigious golf championship in the world. Hadn't Greg Norman proved that only last year when, at 53, he shared the lead going into the final round but finally, inevitably it appeared, bowed to the pressure and disappeared?
Not so Watson. He did not play his best golf on Sunday, but neither did anyone else and despite the constant ebb and flow and the inherent drama of the situation it was not a scintillating day on the links. Watson was in and out of the lead all afternoon, but one by one the other contenders dropped out. Finally, as he strode down the 18th fairway with a one-shot lead, Watson knew that the tournament was his. The only other man still standing was Cink, who had not been on top of the leader board all day. The only times the average TV viewer would be aware of Cink was when the leader board was flashed on the screen and there, near the bottom of page one, was Cink -1. He finally got on the screen by holing a birdie putt on the last hole to finish at two under par. That tied him with Watson, but Watson still had the 17th, an easy par five, to play and seemed certain to at least birdie it to regain the lead. Which he did.
Now it was all there for him. Just one more par and it was all his. Not only would he have defeated the ravages of time, he would have turned back the clock to that glorious day in 1977, when, on this very same golf course, he defeated Jack Nicklaus by a single stroke to win one of his five British Open championships. This would be his sixth and it would tie him with the legendary Harry Vardon for the most in Open history. What happened next was as troubling to watch as a dog fight. Watson appeared to have it wrapped up when his second shot bounced onto the green, seemingly leaving him two putts from sporting immortality. Everyone watching had the sense of being an eye witness to history. Many were calling it the greatest sports story ever. Then the ball rolled off the back of the green barely into the rough and stomachs around the world began to clench. Now victory was a chip and a putt away, but Watson, once one of the best chippers in history, opted to putt on his third shot. When it went left of the hole and slid to nine-feet away the sense of impending doom was palpable. I don't know about you, but I expected him to miss the putt. He knew from the instant he hit it that he had indeed missed it, jabbing it off to the right where it never had a chance.
He must have known, too, that it was all over. His body language said so and his poor play on the first playoff hole confirmed it. By the third hole, which he absolutely butchered, Watson appeared to be fighting back tears, just as he had the previous afternoon when he appeared to be overcome with emotion at the waves of love that were radiating fgrom the gallery as he came to the final green tied for the lead. Watson has always been loved in Scotland and there were more fans cheering for him than for British golfer Lee Westwood. This was not surprising if you understand the history of Scotland's relationship with England. It was obvious now that there would be no miracle. It was still a good story, maybe even a great story for a few days. But it could have been a story for the ages.
But wait! Upon further review there was a miracle at Turnberry Sunday. Tiger Woods didn't play and nobody noticed. Never heard his name mentioned. That in itself should tell you what a compelling story was unfolding--and ultimately unravelling-- before our eyes.
In the heyday of the Chicago Stockyards, the public used to be able to tour the slaughterhouse and watch how cows and hogs became steaks and ham, both of which could be ordered at the adjacent Stockyards Inn. Once you got past the smell, it made for an interesting outing. What I remember from my last visit to the stockyards, about a half century ago, was the sight of muscular men, mostly black men, bare to the waist and wielding heavy sledge hammers, which they used to bludgeon the cows as they were led to their inevitable demise.
Tom Watson wore that same stunned look as those doomed cows throughout his four hole playoff with Stewart Cink in Sunday's British Open. It would be easy to label Cink as the villain of the piece, the Grinch who stole the story of the year from Watson and golf lovers everywhere. I'd be surprised if, outside his immediate family and coterie of friends, there was a person in the universe who was rooting for Cink to win the tournament. But don't blame Cink for destroying the 59-year-old Watson's dream of becoming the oldest man, by nearly a dozen years, to win one of golf's four major championships. Cink, like one of those old time cattle bashers, was simply a man doing his job. Kind of like the guy who lopped off Anne Boleyn's head. It was a job that any competent golf professional could have handled at that point. Because as soon as Watson missed that nine-foot putt for par on the 72d hole at Turnberry, it was clearly evident the dream was over. Watson had given the last full measure of his talent and tenacity over the 72 holes and it wasn't enough. He had nothing left to give and hacked his way around the playoff holes as if he were an eight-handicapper on a Sunday outing with his golfing buddies.
Any golfer, even the great ones, is going to lose more tournaments than he wins. But there are losses and there are losses. This one was of historic proportions. For 71 holes Watson had seemed headed for the biggest miracle since the parting of the Red Sea. Indeed, it appeared that Watson would not have needed heavenly intervention to cross the sea. He was a man who looked as if he could walk on water.
When the week began, with Watson shooting a lights-out 65 in the opening round, it appeared unthinkable that a man his age could beat all those young guns over four days in the oldest and most prestigious golf championship in the world. Hadn't Greg Norman proved that only last year when, at 53, he shared the lead going into the final round but finally, inevitably it appeared, bowed to the pressure and disappeared?
Not so Watson. He did not play his best golf on Sunday, but neither did anyone else and despite the constant ebb and flow and the inherent drama of the situation it was not a scintillating day on the links. Watson was in and out of the lead all afternoon, but one by one the other contenders dropped out. Finally, as he strode down the 18th fairway with a one-shot lead, Watson knew that the tournament was his. The only other man still standing was Cink, who had not been on top of the leader board all day. The only times the average TV viewer would be aware of Cink was when the leader board was flashed on the screen and there, near the bottom of page one, was Cink -1. He finally got on the screen by holing a birdie putt on the last hole to finish at two under par. That tied him with Watson, but Watson still had the 17th, an easy par five, to play and seemed certain to at least birdie it to regain the lead. Which he did.
Now it was all there for him. Just one more par and it was all his. Not only would he have defeated the ravages of time, he would have turned back the clock to that glorious day in 1977, when, on this very same golf course, he defeated Jack Nicklaus by a single stroke to win one of his five British Open championships. This would be his sixth and it would tie him with the legendary Harry Vardon for the most in Open history. What happened next was as troubling to watch as a dog fight. Watson appeared to have it wrapped up when his second shot bounced onto the green, seemingly leaving him two putts from sporting immortality. Everyone watching had the sense of being an eye witness to history. Many were calling it the greatest sports story ever. Then the ball rolled off the back of the green barely into the rough and stomachs around the world began to clench. Now victory was a chip and a putt away, but Watson, once one of the best chippers in history, opted to putt on his third shot. When it went left of the hole and slid to nine-feet away the sense of impending doom was palpable. I don't know about you, but I expected him to miss the putt. He knew from the instant he hit it that he had indeed missed it, jabbing it off to the right where it never had a chance.
He must have known, too, that it was all over. His body language said so and his poor play on the first playoff hole confirmed it. By the third hole, which he absolutely butchered, Watson appeared to be fighting back tears, just as he had the previous afternoon when he appeared to be overcome with emotion at the waves of love that were radiating fgrom the gallery as he came to the final green tied for the lead. Watson has always been loved in Scotland and there were more fans cheering for him than for British golfer Lee Westwood. This was not surprising if you understand the history of Scotland's relationship with England. It was obvious now that there would be no miracle. It was still a good story, maybe even a great story for a few days. But it could have been a story for the ages.
But wait! Upon further review there was a miracle at Turnberry Sunday. Tiger Woods didn't play and nobody noticed. Never heard his name mentioned. That in itself should tell you what a compelling story was unfolding--and ultimately unravelling-- before our eyes.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
By Bob Markus
There is a famous scene near the end of the movie "Sunset Boulevard" where Gloria Swanson, portraying the delusional and faded silent screen star Norma Desmond, is slowly descending a staircase when she hears a reporter say:"That's Norma Desmond; she used to be big." "I am big," asserts Desmond. "It's the pictures that got small."
The same may be said of the All-Star Baseball game. Except the game is not quite as big as it used to be. And it's the players who've gotten small. While everyone acknowledges that baseball's midsummer classic is the best of all the All-Star games and the only one in which the averge fan cares who wins, the game has long since lost its place among the elite sports happenings of the year. In my view there are several reasons for this. One is interleague play. One of the All-Star game's basic appeals was that, the world series aside, it provided the only opportunity to find out how a Willie Mays would do against an American league pitcher like Billy Pierce or Camilo Pasqual or how Sandy Koufax might fare against Mickey Mantle or Al Kaline. Now the cloak of mystery has been lifted. With interleague play Albert Pujols has battled, in qames that count, all or most of the pitchers he was likely to see Tuesday night.
A second reason is expansion. Back in the days of two eight-team leagues, a fan quite likely would know the starting lineup of every team and he certainly would know the super stars. Now there are 30 teams and unless you are a die-hard fan or have a brain like Einstein's you are unlikely to know more than a few players on most teams. It was much easier to keep track of players back in the day when they didn't move around more than a belly dancer in a Greek restaurant.
Although I've been a baseball fan all my life, I have to confess that I could not have told you who Adrian Gonzalez was, what team he played for, or even that he played at all. In short, I had never heard of Adrian Gonzalez. Likewise, until he started this season as hot as a Florida summer, I had never heard of Kansas City pitcher Zack Greinke. There were several "All-Stars" in Tuesday's games with whom I was only vaguely familiar. I know that most of you readers are probably more up on the modern game than I am. But it isn't as if I had stopped following baseball completely after retiring from my job as a sports writer. I do still read the sports pages every morning and I follow both the Marlins and Cubs on TV whenever my wife isn't watching Turner Classic Movies or re-runs of "Dexter." Still, there are simply too many players to keep up with. In addition--and please don't interpret this as being racist--there are so many Hispanic named players that I can't keep them straight. I have trouble distinguishing Carlos Beltran from Carlos Delgado. As for all the Rodriguezes, Ramirizes, and Gonzalezes, fuhgedaboudit.
I once entered a sports-themed quiz contest on a cruise and could tell you that Roberto Clemente was the only player in big league history who ended up with exactly 3,000 hits. I easily answered questions about Jack Nicklaus and Martina Navratilova. But when asked to name that season's Philadlephia Phillies starting infield, I could come up with only one.
With the rule, introduced in 2003, that the winning league in the All-Star game gets home field advantage in the World Series, the All-Star game should be more relevant than ever. Somehow, it doesn't seem that way. Still, despite all the above, the All-Star game somehow retains the power to provide enthralling baseball. In fact, two of the games on my list of the top 10 alltime All-Star games were played in the last three years.
The list: No. 10--1995. The N.L. gets only three hits, but all three are solo homers by Craig Biggio, Mike Piazza and Jeff Conine, giving the N.L. a 3-2 win in Arlington, Tex.
No.9--1971. There are six home runs in the A.L.'s 6-4 win in Detroit but the one that is still remembered is Reggie Jackson's epic blast off the light towers in right field off Dock Ellis. The other homers are by Johnny Bench, Hank Aaron, Roberto Clemente, Frank Robinson and Harmon Killebrew, Hall of Famers all.
No.8--1946. How in the world, you are asking, could a 12-0 blowout by the American League be on this list? There's a two word answer. Ted Williams. The returning war hero, playing before his hometown Red Sox fans, had four hits, including two homers. The home run that's remembered to this day is the second one, off Rip Sewell's famous Ephus ball. For you youngsters, the Ephus ball, a.k.a. the blooper pitch, came to the plate on a high, slow arc and dropped down over the plate like a pitch in a slow-pitch softball game. According to legend, Williams challenged Sewell to throw the pitch and the veteran Pirates pitcher obliged. Williams whiffed on it, but Sewell then announced that he was going to throw it again. This time Williams launched it into orbit.
No.7--1955. Stan Musial's walkoff homer in the 12th gives the N.L. a 6-5 victory. The game is the first All-Star gme played in Milwaukee's County stadium, following the Braves' move from Boston.
No.6--1934. In only the second All-Star game, Giants pitcher Carl Hubbell strikes out a murderer's row of Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Jimmie Foxx, Al Simmons and Joe Cronin in succession. All five were future Hall of Famers. Despite Hubbell's sensational turn on the mound, the N.L.loses, 9-7. Losing pitcher is Van Lingle Mungo, a fact that I mention solely because it is my favorite baseball name and how else would I get to use it?
No.5--2006. With the N.L. leading 2-1 in the ninth and seemingly on its way to breaking a long All-Star game losing streak, Trevor Hoffmman is called upon to seal the victory. He retires the first two batters easily on comebackers to the mound. Then, a Paul Konerko single, Troy Glaus double and Michael Young triple make the A.L. 3-2 winners.
No.4--2008. Michael Young does it again, this time waiting until the 15th inning before driving in the winning run on a sacrifice fly. The 4-3 American league victory is its 12th in a row and takes a record 4 hours, 50 minutes to complete.
No.3--1950. Ralph Kiner ties the game with a ninth inning homer and a more unlikely source, Red Schoendienst, wins it for the National league with a homer in the 14th. Unfortunately, Ted Williams suffers a broken elbow catching a fly ball against the wall in Comiskey Park.
No. 2--1970. Pete Rose knocks the ball out of catcher Ray Fosse's glove with a vicious rolling block to score the winning run for the N.L.on Jim Hickman's single in the 12th. There is still debate on whether Rose went too far in his quest for victory. It is a seminal play in Rose's career.
No. 1--1941. Ted Williams, that man again, hits a walkoff three run homer off Claude Passeau to give the A.L. a 7-5 comeback victory in Detroit. The Pirates Arky Vaughan earlier had hit two home runs.
There have been other epic events along with some oddities. In 1961 diminutive relief pitcher Stu Miller was blown off the mound in Candlestick park by a sudden gust of wind. In 1981 the game was held a month late, Aug. 9, because of a players strike that had begun in June. The All-Star game, played in Cleveland, was the first game following the settlement of the strike and attracted a record crowd of more than 72,000. When Derek Jeter was named MVP of the 2000 All-Star game in Atlanta, he became, believe it or not, the first Yankee to be so honored. In 2007 Ichiro Suzuki hit the first inside the park homer in All-Star history.
What about Tuesday's game? By the time you read this you likely will know the result. Know this too. The All-Star game like the old gray mare may not be what it used to be. But for baseball fans--even ones who don't know which team Carlos Pena plays for (or Tony Pena for that matter)--the All-Star game is still must see TV.
There is a famous scene near the end of the movie "Sunset Boulevard" where Gloria Swanson, portraying the delusional and faded silent screen star Norma Desmond, is slowly descending a staircase when she hears a reporter say:"That's Norma Desmond; she used to be big." "I am big," asserts Desmond. "It's the pictures that got small."
The same may be said of the All-Star Baseball game. Except the game is not quite as big as it used to be. And it's the players who've gotten small. While everyone acknowledges that baseball's midsummer classic is the best of all the All-Star games and the only one in which the averge fan cares who wins, the game has long since lost its place among the elite sports happenings of the year. In my view there are several reasons for this. One is interleague play. One of the All-Star game's basic appeals was that, the world series aside, it provided the only opportunity to find out how a Willie Mays would do against an American league pitcher like Billy Pierce or Camilo Pasqual or how Sandy Koufax might fare against Mickey Mantle or Al Kaline. Now the cloak of mystery has been lifted. With interleague play Albert Pujols has battled, in qames that count, all or most of the pitchers he was likely to see Tuesday night.
A second reason is expansion. Back in the days of two eight-team leagues, a fan quite likely would know the starting lineup of every team and he certainly would know the super stars. Now there are 30 teams and unless you are a die-hard fan or have a brain like Einstein's you are unlikely to know more than a few players on most teams. It was much easier to keep track of players back in the day when they didn't move around more than a belly dancer in a Greek restaurant.
Although I've been a baseball fan all my life, I have to confess that I could not have told you who Adrian Gonzalez was, what team he played for, or even that he played at all. In short, I had never heard of Adrian Gonzalez. Likewise, until he started this season as hot as a Florida summer, I had never heard of Kansas City pitcher Zack Greinke. There were several "All-Stars" in Tuesday's games with whom I was only vaguely familiar. I know that most of you readers are probably more up on the modern game than I am. But it isn't as if I had stopped following baseball completely after retiring from my job as a sports writer. I do still read the sports pages every morning and I follow both the Marlins and Cubs on TV whenever my wife isn't watching Turner Classic Movies or re-runs of "Dexter." Still, there are simply too many players to keep up with. In addition--and please don't interpret this as being racist--there are so many Hispanic named players that I can't keep them straight. I have trouble distinguishing Carlos Beltran from Carlos Delgado. As for all the Rodriguezes, Ramirizes, and Gonzalezes, fuhgedaboudit.
I once entered a sports-themed quiz contest on a cruise and could tell you that Roberto Clemente was the only player in big league history who ended up with exactly 3,000 hits. I easily answered questions about Jack Nicklaus and Martina Navratilova. But when asked to name that season's Philadlephia Phillies starting infield, I could come up with only one.
With the rule, introduced in 2003, that the winning league in the All-Star game gets home field advantage in the World Series, the All-Star game should be more relevant than ever. Somehow, it doesn't seem that way. Still, despite all the above, the All-Star game somehow retains the power to provide enthralling baseball. In fact, two of the games on my list of the top 10 alltime All-Star games were played in the last three years.
The list: No. 10--1995. The N.L. gets only three hits, but all three are solo homers by Craig Biggio, Mike Piazza and Jeff Conine, giving the N.L. a 3-2 win in Arlington, Tex.
No.9--1971. There are six home runs in the A.L.'s 6-4 win in Detroit but the one that is still remembered is Reggie Jackson's epic blast off the light towers in right field off Dock Ellis. The other homers are by Johnny Bench, Hank Aaron, Roberto Clemente, Frank Robinson and Harmon Killebrew, Hall of Famers all.
No.8--1946. How in the world, you are asking, could a 12-0 blowout by the American League be on this list? There's a two word answer. Ted Williams. The returning war hero, playing before his hometown Red Sox fans, had four hits, including two homers. The home run that's remembered to this day is the second one, off Rip Sewell's famous Ephus ball. For you youngsters, the Ephus ball, a.k.a. the blooper pitch, came to the plate on a high, slow arc and dropped down over the plate like a pitch in a slow-pitch softball game. According to legend, Williams challenged Sewell to throw the pitch and the veteran Pirates pitcher obliged. Williams whiffed on it, but Sewell then announced that he was going to throw it again. This time Williams launched it into orbit.
No.7--1955. Stan Musial's walkoff homer in the 12th gives the N.L. a 6-5 victory. The game is the first All-Star gme played in Milwaukee's County stadium, following the Braves' move from Boston.
No.6--1934. In only the second All-Star game, Giants pitcher Carl Hubbell strikes out a murderer's row of Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Jimmie Foxx, Al Simmons and Joe Cronin in succession. All five were future Hall of Famers. Despite Hubbell's sensational turn on the mound, the N.L.loses, 9-7. Losing pitcher is Van Lingle Mungo, a fact that I mention solely because it is my favorite baseball name and how else would I get to use it?
No.5--2006. With the N.L. leading 2-1 in the ninth and seemingly on its way to breaking a long All-Star game losing streak, Trevor Hoffmman is called upon to seal the victory. He retires the first two batters easily on comebackers to the mound. Then, a Paul Konerko single, Troy Glaus double and Michael Young triple make the A.L. 3-2 winners.
No.4--2008. Michael Young does it again, this time waiting until the 15th inning before driving in the winning run on a sacrifice fly. The 4-3 American league victory is its 12th in a row and takes a record 4 hours, 50 minutes to complete.
No.3--1950. Ralph Kiner ties the game with a ninth inning homer and a more unlikely source, Red Schoendienst, wins it for the National league with a homer in the 14th. Unfortunately, Ted Williams suffers a broken elbow catching a fly ball against the wall in Comiskey Park.
No. 2--1970. Pete Rose knocks the ball out of catcher Ray Fosse's glove with a vicious rolling block to score the winning run for the N.L.on Jim Hickman's single in the 12th. There is still debate on whether Rose went too far in his quest for victory. It is a seminal play in Rose's career.
No. 1--1941. Ted Williams, that man again, hits a walkoff three run homer off Claude Passeau to give the A.L. a 7-5 comeback victory in Detroit. The Pirates Arky Vaughan earlier had hit two home runs.
There have been other epic events along with some oddities. In 1961 diminutive relief pitcher Stu Miller was blown off the mound in Candlestick park by a sudden gust of wind. In 1981 the game was held a month late, Aug. 9, because of a players strike that had begun in June. The All-Star game, played in Cleveland, was the first game following the settlement of the strike and attracted a record crowd of more than 72,000. When Derek Jeter was named MVP of the 2000 All-Star game in Atlanta, he became, believe it or not, the first Yankee to be so honored. In 2007 Ichiro Suzuki hit the first inside the park homer in All-Star history.
What about Tuesday's game? By the time you read this you likely will know the result. Know this too. The All-Star game like the old gray mare may not be what it used to be. But for baseball fans--even ones who don't know which team Carlos Pena plays for (or Tony Pena for that matter)--the All-Star game is still must see TV.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
By Bob Markus
The most extraordinary sports result over the week-end was not Roger Federer's epic five set victory over Andy Roddick at Wimbledon. Nor was it Tiger Woods' one shot victory over Hunter Mahan at the Congressional Country Club in Washington, D.C. Sure, Federer's hard-earned triumph was his record-setting 15th Grand Slam win, reigniting the controversy over whether he is the greatest tennis player ever. And Woods' workmanlike triumph was his third of an abbreviated season, one which catapulted him into the lead for the FedEX Cup.
But these were expected results. What was totally unexpected, like a lightning bolt out of a clear blue sky, was Dale Coyne's first victory as a race car owner after a drought of almost Biblical proportions. As a driver and car owner Coyne had never won a race in 25 years of trying. For most of that quarter century of endless, grinding defeat he never even came close. He was like a Christian thrown into the arena with the lions, a guppy standing up to a shark. The gap between Dale Coyne Racing and the elite teams like Penske, Ganassi, Newman-Haas and Michael Andretti was bigger than the gulf that separates Woods from a two handicapper.
As a driver-owner Coyne raced for almost nine years in the CART series and scored a total of 3 points on the basis of three 12th place finishes. The owner of a landscape company in Plainfield, Il., a distant suburb of Chicago, Coyne would work all spring to earn enough money to race in the summer. Things improved a little financially when Hall of Fame football player Walter Payton became a partner in what was called Payton-Coyne Racing. Payton had dabbled in race car driving himself after his retirement from the NFL and I was there in 1993 at Road America when he swerved into the woods, his car turning upside down and catching fire. Payton was lucky to suffer only minor burns, but the incident cooled his passion for speed. He never raced again. But he still loved the sport, hence his partnership with Coyne. Two years later, Payton was dead, victim of a rare liver disease, and Coyne was on his own again.
Each year became a battle for survival. "Our budget then was the size of our tire budget today," says Coyne, speaking from his race shop in Plainfield Tuesday morning. "It was tough. You're trying to find sponsors. Drivers spend all winter wondering if they're going to have a ride. Owners do the same thing, wondering if they're going to find a sponsor."
And so it went on, year after year of scuffling, sending his drivers out in equipment he knew was not competitive with the elite teams. But, he says, he never thought of quitting. Long before Jim Valvano made the phrase famous, Coyne was telling himself, "never give up. The measure of a man is not what he does on a good day. The down years made you come back stronger." Coyne has come back more years than all but two of the owners in what is now the Indy Car series. "Look at all the teams that have come and gone," Coyne says. "We're the third oldest team. There's Penske and Carl Haas. Haas started one year before us."
Coyne knows that the Penskes and Ganassis of the world have an enormous advantage over him. "We're not in that league," he acknowledges. The first eight races of the current season had been won by a driver from either the Penske or Ganassi stables. Coyne had gone 558 races without a win until his latest driver, Justin Wilson, gave him an early birthday present (Coyne turns 55 tomorrow) by winning convincingly at Watkins Glen, pulling away from Ryan Briscoe (Penske) after a late restart. "That's what makes it even more satisfying," says Coyne. "We didn't win it on fuel strategy or tires. Justin just outdrove them."
"To dominate like we did is fantastic," Wilson had said after his second career victory. "It just felt so good to do that for Dale." Wilsom's previous victory, also on a road course, came last year when he was driving for Newman-Haas, as part of a two-man effort with Graham Rahal. With Paul Newman gone, "They were going to cut back to one car," Coyne says. "So Justin was available. We ran Bruno Junqueira the last two years and Bruno came very, very close for us a couple of times."
In fact, Junqueira scored three straight podium finishes for Coyne back in 2007. Included was a second place finish in Zolder, Belgium. Until Sunday that was Coyne's best finish ever. Coyne went into Sunday's race "cautiously optimistic." Wilson had qualified in the front row, but pole sitter Briscoe "was so strong in qualifying," Coyne says. "We thought if Ryan could run that pace in the race it would be very, very difficult to beat him."
But early on, Wilson, who is, "very good under braking," according to Coyne, passed Briscoe and remained in front the rest of the way. But Coyne had one more heart stopping moment before taking his first trip to Victory Lane. Earlier this year, in the season opener at St. Petersburg, Wilson had qualified second , "and he took the lead in the first corner and just dominated the race. Then there was a late yellow and he had a bad restart and finished third." So when a late full course yellow caution came out, "Yes, tht did give us a sense of deja vu going back to St. Petersburg," Coyne acknowledged. "We got on the radio two laps before the restart and reminded him of what had happened. All he said, very quietly, was 'Yeah.'"
When the green flag was unfurled, "he disappeared," Coyne said. So did a lifetime of disappointments and defeat. "This was a victory for anyone who ever touched the team," said Coyne. A victory for Walter Payton and drivers like Paul Tracy and Oriol Servia and Bruno Junqueira and Roberto Moreno and all the scores of men who have changed tires and fueled the car and sent it on its way to seemingly endless defeat. But above all it was a victory for a man who never stopped trying, who kept getting knocked down and always got back up. After all, what else could he have done? "The down years make you come back stronger," he says. "If you have a passion for what you do, you'll come back stronger."
"
The most extraordinary sports result over the week-end was not Roger Federer's epic five set victory over Andy Roddick at Wimbledon. Nor was it Tiger Woods' one shot victory over Hunter Mahan at the Congressional Country Club in Washington, D.C. Sure, Federer's hard-earned triumph was his record-setting 15th Grand Slam win, reigniting the controversy over whether he is the greatest tennis player ever. And Woods' workmanlike triumph was his third of an abbreviated season, one which catapulted him into the lead for the FedEX Cup.
But these were expected results. What was totally unexpected, like a lightning bolt out of a clear blue sky, was Dale Coyne's first victory as a race car owner after a drought of almost Biblical proportions. As a driver and car owner Coyne had never won a race in 25 years of trying. For most of that quarter century of endless, grinding defeat he never even came close. He was like a Christian thrown into the arena with the lions, a guppy standing up to a shark. The gap between Dale Coyne Racing and the elite teams like Penske, Ganassi, Newman-Haas and Michael Andretti was bigger than the gulf that separates Woods from a two handicapper.
As a driver-owner Coyne raced for almost nine years in the CART series and scored a total of 3 points on the basis of three 12th place finishes. The owner of a landscape company in Plainfield, Il., a distant suburb of Chicago, Coyne would work all spring to earn enough money to race in the summer. Things improved a little financially when Hall of Fame football player Walter Payton became a partner in what was called Payton-Coyne Racing. Payton had dabbled in race car driving himself after his retirement from the NFL and I was there in 1993 at Road America when he swerved into the woods, his car turning upside down and catching fire. Payton was lucky to suffer only minor burns, but the incident cooled his passion for speed. He never raced again. But he still loved the sport, hence his partnership with Coyne. Two years later, Payton was dead, victim of a rare liver disease, and Coyne was on his own again.
Each year became a battle for survival. "Our budget then was the size of our tire budget today," says Coyne, speaking from his race shop in Plainfield Tuesday morning. "It was tough. You're trying to find sponsors. Drivers spend all winter wondering if they're going to have a ride. Owners do the same thing, wondering if they're going to find a sponsor."
And so it went on, year after year of scuffling, sending his drivers out in equipment he knew was not competitive with the elite teams. But, he says, he never thought of quitting. Long before Jim Valvano made the phrase famous, Coyne was telling himself, "never give up. The measure of a man is not what he does on a good day. The down years made you come back stronger." Coyne has come back more years than all but two of the owners in what is now the Indy Car series. "Look at all the teams that have come and gone," Coyne says. "We're the third oldest team. There's Penske and Carl Haas. Haas started one year before us."
Coyne knows that the Penskes and Ganassis of the world have an enormous advantage over him. "We're not in that league," he acknowledges. The first eight races of the current season had been won by a driver from either the Penske or Ganassi stables. Coyne had gone 558 races without a win until his latest driver, Justin Wilson, gave him an early birthday present (Coyne turns 55 tomorrow) by winning convincingly at Watkins Glen, pulling away from Ryan Briscoe (Penske) after a late restart. "That's what makes it even more satisfying," says Coyne. "We didn't win it on fuel strategy or tires. Justin just outdrove them."
"To dominate like we did is fantastic," Wilson had said after his second career victory. "It just felt so good to do that for Dale." Wilsom's previous victory, also on a road course, came last year when he was driving for Newman-Haas, as part of a two-man effort with Graham Rahal. With Paul Newman gone, "They were going to cut back to one car," Coyne says. "So Justin was available. We ran Bruno Junqueira the last two years and Bruno came very, very close for us a couple of times."
In fact, Junqueira scored three straight podium finishes for Coyne back in 2007. Included was a second place finish in Zolder, Belgium. Until Sunday that was Coyne's best finish ever. Coyne went into Sunday's race "cautiously optimistic." Wilson had qualified in the front row, but pole sitter Briscoe "was so strong in qualifying," Coyne says. "We thought if Ryan could run that pace in the race it would be very, very difficult to beat him."
But early on, Wilson, who is, "very good under braking," according to Coyne, passed Briscoe and remained in front the rest of the way. But Coyne had one more heart stopping moment before taking his first trip to Victory Lane. Earlier this year, in the season opener at St. Petersburg, Wilson had qualified second , "and he took the lead in the first corner and just dominated the race. Then there was a late yellow and he had a bad restart and finished third." So when a late full course yellow caution came out, "Yes, tht did give us a sense of deja vu going back to St. Petersburg," Coyne acknowledged. "We got on the radio two laps before the restart and reminded him of what had happened. All he said, very quietly, was 'Yeah.'"
When the green flag was unfurled, "he disappeared," Coyne said. So did a lifetime of disappointments and defeat. "This was a victory for anyone who ever touched the team," said Coyne. A victory for Walter Payton and drivers like Paul Tracy and Oriol Servia and Bruno Junqueira and Roberto Moreno and all the scores of men who have changed tires and fueled the car and sent it on its way to seemingly endless defeat. But above all it was a victory for a man who never stopped trying, who kept getting knocked down and always got back up. After all, what else could he have done? "The down years make you come back stronger," he says. "If you have a passion for what you do, you'll come back stronger."
"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
