By Bob Markus

This is the week that columnists wait for all year. Please don't analyze that sentence too closely, because if you do you'll realize how absurd it is. Of course it's the week columnists--and everybody else--wait for all year. It's the last week of the year for God's sake. But what makes it special for columnists and other pundits is that they can look in any direction and find gold. They can look back and make lists of the top this or that of the year. Or they can look ahead and make predictions about what next year will bring. It's so easy a caveman could do it. This year we are doubly blessed since New Year's Eve not only will mark the end of the year 2009, but the end of the decade.

Who's the Athlete of The Year? Of the decade? What were the top stories of the year? Of the decade? The answer to all four questions is the same, my friends. Tiger Woods. The AP sports editors named Tiger the top athlete of the decade and I don't see any reason to argue the point. He's so dominated his sport--we're talking about his golf game here--that the only question I have is whether golf is actually a sport and whether golfers are actually athletes. It is a question I resolved in my own mind many years ago. Or, at least, Arnie Palmer resolved it for me. Palmer had just been named Athlete of the Year or the Decade or some such and I, new to columnizing, had written that golfers were not athletes. I had in mind the fact that a golfer could be as pot bellied as Santa Claus or as skinny as the holes opened by the Chicago Bears' offensive line and still win golf championships. A few weeks later I was invited to a luncheon where Palmer was one of the guests. As it happened Arnie was seated right next to me and after the introductions were made, the golfing great said: "Chicago Tribune. There was a guy from The Tribune who wrote an article saying golfers aren't athletes." "Yeah," I confessed, "that was me." "Aw, that's O.K.," said Palmer. "It didn't bother me." He then went on to refute my case, pointing out the tremendous stress involved in playing 72 holes of tournament winning golf, holding one's swing together through fatigue and pressure, knowing if you didn't play well you weren't getting paid that week."

So, conceding that Tiger Woods is an athlete, he gets my vote for the grand slam--best athlete and best story for the year and decade. As far as story of the decade is concerned, Woods could easily be placed one, two. His miraculous one-legged U. S. Open win in 2008 was leader in the clubhouse until Woods' Thanksgiving night nightmare opened a can of worms that are eating him out of house and home cooking.

However, Tiger Woods isn't really the subject of today's column. What I really wanted to discuss was the other half of the equation--the vote for Female Athlete of the Year. I don't pay enough attention to tennis to know if Serena Williams deserved the honor, especially since I don't know her from her sister Venus. Oh, Serena's the one who threatened an official with bodily harm over what she considered a blown call? What I do know is that the runner-up has always been a model of decorum. There are no neigh-sayers when it comes to Zenyatta, whose victory over the best male thorobreds in the Breeders' Cup electrified racing fans and galvanized at least 18 voters into naming her Female Athlete of the Year.

Why the wing-footed mare, who turns 5 on New Year's day, didn't win the whole frittata is beyond me. Somebody must have a prejudice against horses. All Zenyatta did was score the biggest victory for feminism since Billie Jean King turned Bobby Riggs into an old man in the course of a few sets of tennis. This one might have been bigger. Riggs, after all, was 55 years old and had not been a big hitter even in his prime. It was as much a victory of youth over old age as it was of female over male. Zenyatta defeated the best field that could be assembled, albeit not a particularly star-studded one.

We may never know how Zenyatta feels about the slight, because horses are notoriously close-mouthed when it comes to blowing their own manes. But, although it was four decades ago, I do have some experience in talking with horses. I had received an invitation to meet Governor Max, one of the favorites to win a big feature race at Arlington Park. Max was hoping to become the first Governor to win a race in Illinois and not subsequently go to jail. I was a little uneasy about the meeting because I didn't know the etiquette involved. Do you offer to shake hands with a horse or do you wait until he puts his best hoof forward? Emily Post was no help. apparently she had never met a horse, either. I must tell you that Governor Max's trainer was known as the Joe Namath of horse racing, which might account for the conversation that ensued.

Markus: Hi, Max, glad to meet you.

Governor Max: You a sports writer?

Markus: Yeah.

Governor Max: I don't usually talk to sports writers. They always try to put words in your mouth. What did you want to see me about?

Markus: Well, you know, you're one of the bigs stars of this race. I just wanted to find out what kind of guy, er, horse you are.

Governor Max: Well, you just ask the questions and if I feel like answering 'em, I'll answer, 'em.

Markus: O.K. First, how will you prepare for the big race Saturday? I understand you're regarded as somewhat of a playcolt. Do you plan to spend Friday night in bed with a filly and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red?

Governor Max: Neigh!! I don't drink Johnnie Walker Red. Old Overholt's my brand. We horses are partial to rye, you know.

Markus: And how about the filly?

Governor Max. Don't believe everything you hear. After I win on Saturday I'll have all the fillies I can handle. Mares, too. The older women kind of go for me, you know. After I win this race they'll be coming to me. I'll have to beat 'em off with a jockey stick.

Markus: You really think you can win this thing? Some of these horses have run in better company than you have.

Governor Max: I know I'm going to win it. I personally guarantee it.

But horse talk, like any other foreign language, needs to be practiced. So when I decided to give Zenyatta a call, I wasn't too confident about how it would turn out. I needn't have worried. Zenyatta turned out to be a perfect lady, "and that's more than you can say for that Serena Williams,"she snorted into the telephone. "I take it you're a little unhappy about finishing second?" "I've never finished second before in my life. Fourteen starts, fourteen wins."

"Speaking of going unbeaten, how about that Rachel Alexandra beating the boys in the Preakness. She's unbeaten, too." "Yeah, but she's still just a baby. A 3-year-old. Let her get some more races under her saddle cloth and then she can come see me. Besides, she had her chance to run in the Breeders Cup and she chickened out. She knew she couldn't beat me."

"Her trainer says she didn't run in the Breeder's Cup because of the artificial surface at Santa Anita." "Unh huh, and my name is Man 'O War. Tell you what, mister. I'm going to do this again next year and I'm going to be Female Athlete of the Year. I guarantee it." Now where have I heard that before?