By Bob Markus
In 36 years of writing sports for The Chicago Tribune, I covered almost every event imaginable, from World Cup soccer to Davis Cup tennis, from Super bowls to Independence bowls (ghastly weather in Shreveport, La. , in December.) NCAA Final Fours, NIT finals, championship games in all the major pro sports, yeah, been there, done that. Not to mention--and I'd really rather not--archery, handball, squash, weightlifting and bowling. But there's one major event I never covered--the Winter Olympics. That one hole in my curriculum vitae never bothered me much, since I never liked winter, anyway, which is why I moved to Florida as soon as it became expedient to do so. My interest in the Winter Games was never as high as my fascination with the Summer Games and I suspect that is the case with the majority of sports fans. I do like to watch the downhill skiing, but speed skating would leave me cold even if it weren't a cold weather sport. If there's anything more boring than watching a 5,000 meter speed skating event, it's sitting in the newsroom and taking the speed skating results over the phone, a chore that befell me every winter until I was lucky enough to get unchained from the copy desk and become a fulltime writer.
There were a couple of reasons why The Tribune had such an avid interest in speed skating. Most importantly, the paper sponsored a competition called The Silver Skates, named after the children's classic "Hans Brinker or The Silver Skates." In case you're wondering, the book was better than the play. Then, too, the Chicago suburb of Northbrook, where I lived for a few years, was a hotbed of speed skating which, under the guidance of Coach Ed Rudolph, supplied most of the USA's Olympians, including super stars Diane Holum and Eric Heiden. Heiden still stands out as the country's greatest Olympic speed skater even if Apolo Ohno, who in the Vancouver games has so far added two medals to his growing total, could end up with nine pieces of Olympic jewelry. But of his seven medals so far, only two have been gold and one of those was an outright gift from a Korean skater who was disqualified while leading a 2002 race. Heiden's five medals are all gold. Case closed.
There's little doubt that the center piece of the Winter Games, at least among women, is figure skating, particularly women's figure skating. Going all the way back to Sonia Henie in the 1920s and 30s, the Olympic women's champion figure skater is one of the most famous and admired women in the world. I find figure skating only a little less boring than speed skating, although the music is nice and if I just close my eyes and listen it's not too bad. I seldom intentionally watch figure skating. But about a week ago I was passing the living room TV set when I happened to look at the screen and saw what I later described to my wife as "the greatest figure skating routine I've ever seen." Turns out it was the greatest routine anybody has ever seen, a world record performance that would propel the Chinese pair of Shen Xue and Hongbo Zhao to a gold medal. Don't expect Xue and Zhao to become household names, even in China where they know how to pronounce those names. For some reason pairs skaters just don't get the same adulation as the individual winners.
Of course you don't always have to win gold in the Olympics to become a star. Sometimes any old kind of medal will do (see Apolo Anton Ohno above). Where is Vince Lombardi when we need him? There have been several compelling story lines for Bob Costas and friends to delve into, including Lindsey Vonn, she of the sore shin and women's downhill gold medal; speed skater Shani Davis, who may be the only athlete in Vancouver and environs who thinks to win a silver medal is to know the agony of defeat; and the U.S. hockey team that defeated Canada for the first time in a half century. But the story of the Winter Olympics so far has to be Bode Miller. When they make the movie it will be called: Redemption. Seldom has an Olympic athlete been so vilified as was Miller after the 2006 Winter Games in Turin. But as Tiger Woods might say, he brought it on himself. Miller went into those games the world champion and favored to mine more gold than a 49er. The only gold he saw in the entire two weeks was Cuervo Gold. "It's been an awesome two weeks," said Miller at the time. "I got to party at an Olympic level." Unfortunately he did not ski at an Olympic level. He further alienated the skiing estblishment a year later when he quit the U.S. ski team and skiied as an independant for two years. A year later he failed to win a race for the first time in his career and early this year sprained an ankle playing volleyball. Not much was expected of him when the Olympics began, but so far he has won three medals, including the gold medal he was supposed to win four years ago.
When I think about it, I have some regrets over never having covered a Winter Olympics. There are some good stories out there and what more could a sports writer want? Except, perhaps, to cover them without having to wear galoshes and a ski mask.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
By Bob Markus
Frank Thomas a.k.a. The Big Hurt called it a career last week, 18 months after playing his last game in the major leagues as a member of the Oakland A's. Next stop: The Baseball Hall of Fame. When he goes in he'll surely be wearing the cap of the Chicago White Sox, the team with which he started his major league career, even though his departure from the White Sox after 16 mostly memorable seasons, was acrimonious. During his final years in Chicago The Big Hurt really was hurting, physically and emotionally. What hurt the most was that his teammates didn't believe he was hurt. The media took up the cry and, after that, the always approachable Thomas played behind an invisible shield.
Thomas and the White Sox have since reconciled and the team plans to retire his No. 35 unifrom in a ceremony this coming August. For some reason Thomas has been about as unappreciated as a man can be considering his accomplishments. I believe that numbers are often overrated when it comes to rating a player's chances for the Hall of Fame. If all you looked at were the numbers, Sandy Koufax might not be in the Hall of Fame with his 165 big league wins. But Koufax was the greatest pitcher I ever saw and if any of the immortals, the Cy Youngs and the Christy Mathewsons and the Lefty Groves were better they weren't mortal. I've seen all the greats since Koufax's time, your Nolan Ryan, your Tom Seaver, your Steve Carlton, your Randy Johnson and there's not one of them I would rank above Koufax. It was like comparing a matador to a butcher. Both can kill the cow, but one--the matador--is practicing an art and the other is practicing a craft.
I think that when it comes time to judge Thomas, there will be those who deem him unworthy. They will point out that about half of his career was spent as a designated hitter and that even when he played the field--first base--he wasn't very good at it. I'll concede the point. But as a pure hitter, Thomas stands shoulder to shoulder with the greatest who ever played the game. Yes, his lifetime batting average of .301, while it's very good by modern standards, is well shy of the gaudy averages posted by the likes of Babe Ruth, Ted Williams, and Rogers Hornsby. Yet, of all the players in major league history, only Ruth, Williams, Mel Ott and Frank Thomas have combined a lifetime .300 or better average with more than 500 home runs, 1,500 runs batted in, 1,000 runs scored and 1,500 walks. And he's the only player in major league history with seven consecutive seasons where he batted .300 or better with 100 walks, 100 runs, 100 runs batted in and 20 homers. Those were his first seven full seasons for the White Sox and his lifetime batting average at the time stood at .330. He was the Albert Pujols of the day. By that time he had posted three of his five 40 homer seasons.
Inevitably he's going to be compared with Edgar Martinex, the Seattle Mariners third baseman who, like Thomas, morphed into a fulltime designated hitter. I was criticized recently by some fellow bloggers for leaving Martinez off my Hall of Fame ballot. I'm willing to revisit the subject for future years. Martinez did have a higher lifetime average than Thomas --.312 to .301. He put together seven consecutive seasons in midcareer that, as far as batting average is concerned, matched the seven year output with which Thomas began his big league career. But the power numbers are not even close. Martinez finished with 309 home runs to Thomas' 521 and 1,261 r.b.i.s to the Big Hurt's 1,704. I might, some year, reconsider and vote for Martinez. But not until Frank Thomas is safely in the Hall. Numbers can lie. Early Wynn is in the Hall of Fame because he won 300 games, but it took him five or six starts before he finally got the big one on a five-and-fly performance, then promptly retired. Nothing against Wynn, whom I came to know and like when he became a broadcaster, but it took him 23 years to do it and if he had finished with 299 wins I don't think he'd be in the Hall of Fame today.
Frank Thomas's numbers don't lie. They aren't even relevant. I'd vote for Thomas if his numbers were half as gaudy, because he was one of the most electrifying performers in major league history. I can count on the fingers of one hand the hitters who have made me stop what I was doing to watch an at bat. Ted Williams. Dick Allen. Frank Howard. And Frank Thomas. If the presence of Howard on that list surprises you, I'll only tell you that Howrd, one of the strongest men to ever play the game, hit the hardest ball I've ever seen in almost 70 years of watching baseball. He was playing for the Washington Senators at the time. In those days the center field wall in what was then Comiskey park was 415 feet away from home plate. Howard hit a line drive past pitcher Hoyt Wilhelm's left ear. Wilhelm, whose nickname was "Tilt" because his head was tilted slightly to one side, ducked and the ball continued on a line all the way to the 415 foot sign. I don't know that anyone ever hit a ball that hard without propelling it out of the park.
Wilhelm, by the way, is another case of why numbers can't always be counted on to tell the whole story. Wilhelm didn't get into the Hall of Fame until his ninth year of elibility, yet I could argue that he was the greatest relief pitcher of all time. Wilhelm had 227 lifetime saves, a number that a modern relief pitcher could put up in five or six good seasons. But the save rules were different then. Many of Wilhelm's saves were three innings or more. I can't tell you how many times he came in with the bases loaded and nobody out and got out of the jam by striking out the side. His knuckleball was difficult to hit and, for some, impossible to catch. One night in Cleveland. must have been in 1966, the Sox's regular catcher, J.C. Martin, was out with an injury and manager Eddie Stanky had to employ good hit, no field John Romano. All was well until Wilhelm entered the game. The flutterballer's first pitch went past Romano to the backstop. His second pitch likewise. After the third pitch had escaped him, the dejected Romano started toward the White Sox dugout, where he threw his glove to the ground and started taking off his chest protector. Stanky, who had no other catcher available, had to physically push the reluctant Romano back onto the field.
Frank Thomas a.k.a. The Big Hurt called it a career last week, 18 months after playing his last game in the major leagues as a member of the Oakland A's. Next stop: The Baseball Hall of Fame. When he goes in he'll surely be wearing the cap of the Chicago White Sox, the team with which he started his major league career, even though his departure from the White Sox after 16 mostly memorable seasons, was acrimonious. During his final years in Chicago The Big Hurt really was hurting, physically and emotionally. What hurt the most was that his teammates didn't believe he was hurt. The media took up the cry and, after that, the always approachable Thomas played behind an invisible shield.
Thomas and the White Sox have since reconciled and the team plans to retire his No. 35 unifrom in a ceremony this coming August. For some reason Thomas has been about as unappreciated as a man can be considering his accomplishments. I believe that numbers are often overrated when it comes to rating a player's chances for the Hall of Fame. If all you looked at were the numbers, Sandy Koufax might not be in the Hall of Fame with his 165 big league wins. But Koufax was the greatest pitcher I ever saw and if any of the immortals, the Cy Youngs and the Christy Mathewsons and the Lefty Groves were better they weren't mortal. I've seen all the greats since Koufax's time, your Nolan Ryan, your Tom Seaver, your Steve Carlton, your Randy Johnson and there's not one of them I would rank above Koufax. It was like comparing a matador to a butcher. Both can kill the cow, but one--the matador--is practicing an art and the other is practicing a craft.
I think that when it comes time to judge Thomas, there will be those who deem him unworthy. They will point out that about half of his career was spent as a designated hitter and that even when he played the field--first base--he wasn't very good at it. I'll concede the point. But as a pure hitter, Thomas stands shoulder to shoulder with the greatest who ever played the game. Yes, his lifetime batting average of .301, while it's very good by modern standards, is well shy of the gaudy averages posted by the likes of Babe Ruth, Ted Williams, and Rogers Hornsby. Yet, of all the players in major league history, only Ruth, Williams, Mel Ott and Frank Thomas have combined a lifetime .300 or better average with more than 500 home runs, 1,500 runs batted in, 1,000 runs scored and 1,500 walks. And he's the only player in major league history with seven consecutive seasons where he batted .300 or better with 100 walks, 100 runs, 100 runs batted in and 20 homers. Those were his first seven full seasons for the White Sox and his lifetime batting average at the time stood at .330. He was the Albert Pujols of the day. By that time he had posted three of his five 40 homer seasons.
Inevitably he's going to be compared with Edgar Martinex, the Seattle Mariners third baseman who, like Thomas, morphed into a fulltime designated hitter. I was criticized recently by some fellow bloggers for leaving Martinez off my Hall of Fame ballot. I'm willing to revisit the subject for future years. Martinez did have a higher lifetime average than Thomas --.312 to .301. He put together seven consecutive seasons in midcareer that, as far as batting average is concerned, matched the seven year output with which Thomas began his big league career. But the power numbers are not even close. Martinez finished with 309 home runs to Thomas' 521 and 1,261 r.b.i.s to the Big Hurt's 1,704. I might, some year, reconsider and vote for Martinez. But not until Frank Thomas is safely in the Hall. Numbers can lie. Early Wynn is in the Hall of Fame because he won 300 games, but it took him five or six starts before he finally got the big one on a five-and-fly performance, then promptly retired. Nothing against Wynn, whom I came to know and like when he became a broadcaster, but it took him 23 years to do it and if he had finished with 299 wins I don't think he'd be in the Hall of Fame today.
Frank Thomas's numbers don't lie. They aren't even relevant. I'd vote for Thomas if his numbers were half as gaudy, because he was one of the most electrifying performers in major league history. I can count on the fingers of one hand the hitters who have made me stop what I was doing to watch an at bat. Ted Williams. Dick Allen. Frank Howard. And Frank Thomas. If the presence of Howard on that list surprises you, I'll only tell you that Howrd, one of the strongest men to ever play the game, hit the hardest ball I've ever seen in almost 70 years of watching baseball. He was playing for the Washington Senators at the time. In those days the center field wall in what was then Comiskey park was 415 feet away from home plate. Howard hit a line drive past pitcher Hoyt Wilhelm's left ear. Wilhelm, whose nickname was "Tilt" because his head was tilted slightly to one side, ducked and the ball continued on a line all the way to the 415 foot sign. I don't know that anyone ever hit a ball that hard without propelling it out of the park.
Wilhelm, by the way, is another case of why numbers can't always be counted on to tell the whole story. Wilhelm didn't get into the Hall of Fame until his ninth year of elibility, yet I could argue that he was the greatest relief pitcher of all time. Wilhelm had 227 lifetime saves, a number that a modern relief pitcher could put up in five or six good seasons. But the save rules were different then. Many of Wilhelm's saves were three innings or more. I can't tell you how many times he came in with the bases loaded and nobody out and got out of the jam by striking out the side. His knuckleball was difficult to hit and, for some, impossible to catch. One night in Cleveland. must have been in 1966, the Sox's regular catcher, J.C. Martin, was out with an injury and manager Eddie Stanky had to employ good hit, no field John Romano. All was well until Wilhelm entered the game. The flutterballer's first pitch went past Romano to the backstop. His second pitch likewise. After the third pitch had escaped him, the dejected Romano started toward the White Sox dugout, where he threw his glove to the ground and started taking off his chest protector. Stanky, who had no other catcher available, had to physically push the reluctant Romano back onto the field.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
By Bob Markus
Since my last column two weeks ago I've had a birthday. You don't need to know how old I am; let's just say that if I were the writer of the musical "Knickerbocker Holiday," Walter Huston would be singing November Song and the famous lyric would read, "and your friends dwindle down to a precious few." Roger Jaynes, who died Saturday a month before his 64th birthday, was more than a friend. He was a comrade in arms. There were many facets to Roger, but the one I knew best was the auto racing writer, a beat we shared for nearly a dozen years. Auto racing was not Roger's only beat on the Milwaukee Journal. He covered Marquette basketball in the heyday of Al McGuire, including the Warriors' 1977 NCAA championship season, and later wrote a well-reviewed biography of the colorful coach and TV analyst. He subsequently published three Sherlock Holmes novels and was working on three or four more when he passed away. But auto racing was the sport he loved above all others, a passion we shared and one that formed the core of our friendship. When Roger left the Journal after 15 years, he stayed closely bonded to the sport, becoming the public relations director for Road America, the twisty four-mile road racing course in Elkhart Lake, Wis. With that move, our relationship changed, but our friendship remained the same. But now, instead of working together for the entire month of May at the Indianapolis 500, we would generally see each other only on racing week-ends at Road America, when Roger would be as busy as the flagman at a race at Talladega. Still, he would always find time to have dinner one night, along with his wife Mary and my wife, Leslie.
When people ask me what sport I liked covering the most I always respond: auto racing, an answer that usually elicits a puzzled look and the question: Why? The answer is simple. The people. They tell me things have changed, but in our day race drivers were the friendliest athletes in the spectrum of sport. If you were one of the regulars they would call you by name and make time to talk with you. There were exceptions, of course, A.J. Foyt being notoriously difficult. When the mood struck him he could be charming, but the mood struck him about as often as the Andretti family won the Indy 500. But it wasn't just the drivers who made covering motor sports a joy; it was the other writers. The Indianapolis 500 is probably the single most difficult event to cover because of the vastness of the physical plant. Pit road is about three quarters of a mile long and on a typical practice day you might walk from one end to the other a half dozen or more times. It's almost impossible for one man to be everywhere he needs to be at any given time. That's one reason racing writers are willing to share their notes, even their ideas. When I first went to Indianapolis for Pole Day in 1968 I was, like most first timers, overwhelmed by the size of the place and daunted by the challenge to cover an event on such a vast stage. I was quickly brought up to speed by two entities--the public relations directors of the teams and tire companies; and other writers. The Indianapolis writers were particularly helpful, most noticeably Ray Marquette and Dick Mittman. I had barely gotten to know Marquette when he died tragically in a plane crash along with several other staff members of the United States Auto Club. Ray had just recently left his paper to join USAC and I still remember vividly being awakened one morning by the clock radio going on during a report of the crash and although no names were mentioned, I said to my wife: "Ray Marquette."
Mittman is still a good friend and he and I and Roger Jaynes were like a Rat Pack covering Indy in the month of May. Sometimes one of the three of us would get on to a story and we would tell the other two, share any quotes we might have and divvy up the work that remained. "You go talk to (Roger) Penske and we'll try to get Rick (Mears)," we might say. There was no suggestion of a conflict of interest. Our papers were not competing against each other and neither were we.
I may have told you this story before and if I have, please forgive me. Memory lapses are part of the joy of reaching the golden years. One Sunday afternoon in May of 1978 or '79, I was talking with someone in a garage in Gasoline Alley when Dick and Roger, accompanied by Mario Andretti, burst in, all excited. "We've got this gadget that tests your lung power," enthused Roger. "Mario will show you how it works." Andretti was holding something that resembled a flute with wings. He took a deep breath and blew into the mouthpiece, causing the wings to whirl like propellor blades. "Now you try it," said Mario. I huffed and I puffed but I couldn't get the wings to budge. Mario took the gadget back and once again got the wings to twirl. I tried again with the same result as before. The three of us then walked out to pit road, where Foyt and Bobby Unser, among others, were preparing to get some practice laps. The moment they saw me they burst out laughing. "Have you seen yourself," asked Bobby, passing me a hand mirror. I looked and saw that I looked like Al Jolson in blackface. Andretti then showed me the secret. When he blew into the mouthpiece he had one finger covering a hole in the side of the pipe. If you didn't cover the blowhole you'd get a face full of carbon. I can't imagine another sport where the players and writers interact like that. Maybe they don't do things like that anymore. I don't know. I only know that as I approach the winter years the world grows colder and one more leaf has fallen from the tree. Your race is over, Roger. Rest in peace.
Since my last column two weeks ago I've had a birthday. You don't need to know how old I am; let's just say that if I were the writer of the musical "Knickerbocker Holiday," Walter Huston would be singing November Song and the famous lyric would read, "and your friends dwindle down to a precious few." Roger Jaynes, who died Saturday a month before his 64th birthday, was more than a friend. He was a comrade in arms. There were many facets to Roger, but the one I knew best was the auto racing writer, a beat we shared for nearly a dozen years. Auto racing was not Roger's only beat on the Milwaukee Journal. He covered Marquette basketball in the heyday of Al McGuire, including the Warriors' 1977 NCAA championship season, and later wrote a well-reviewed biography of the colorful coach and TV analyst. He subsequently published three Sherlock Holmes novels and was working on three or four more when he passed away. But auto racing was the sport he loved above all others, a passion we shared and one that formed the core of our friendship. When Roger left the Journal after 15 years, he stayed closely bonded to the sport, becoming the public relations director for Road America, the twisty four-mile road racing course in Elkhart Lake, Wis. With that move, our relationship changed, but our friendship remained the same. But now, instead of working together for the entire month of May at the Indianapolis 500, we would generally see each other only on racing week-ends at Road America, when Roger would be as busy as the flagman at a race at Talladega. Still, he would always find time to have dinner one night, along with his wife Mary and my wife, Leslie.
When people ask me what sport I liked covering the most I always respond: auto racing, an answer that usually elicits a puzzled look and the question: Why? The answer is simple. The people. They tell me things have changed, but in our day race drivers were the friendliest athletes in the spectrum of sport. If you were one of the regulars they would call you by name and make time to talk with you. There were exceptions, of course, A.J. Foyt being notoriously difficult. When the mood struck him he could be charming, but the mood struck him about as often as the Andretti family won the Indy 500. But it wasn't just the drivers who made covering motor sports a joy; it was the other writers. The Indianapolis 500 is probably the single most difficult event to cover because of the vastness of the physical plant. Pit road is about three quarters of a mile long and on a typical practice day you might walk from one end to the other a half dozen or more times. It's almost impossible for one man to be everywhere he needs to be at any given time. That's one reason racing writers are willing to share their notes, even their ideas. When I first went to Indianapolis for Pole Day in 1968 I was, like most first timers, overwhelmed by the size of the place and daunted by the challenge to cover an event on such a vast stage. I was quickly brought up to speed by two entities--the public relations directors of the teams and tire companies; and other writers. The Indianapolis writers were particularly helpful, most noticeably Ray Marquette and Dick Mittman. I had barely gotten to know Marquette when he died tragically in a plane crash along with several other staff members of the United States Auto Club. Ray had just recently left his paper to join USAC and I still remember vividly being awakened one morning by the clock radio going on during a report of the crash and although no names were mentioned, I said to my wife: "Ray Marquette."
Mittman is still a good friend and he and I and Roger Jaynes were like a Rat Pack covering Indy in the month of May. Sometimes one of the three of us would get on to a story and we would tell the other two, share any quotes we might have and divvy up the work that remained. "You go talk to (Roger) Penske and we'll try to get Rick (Mears)," we might say. There was no suggestion of a conflict of interest. Our papers were not competing against each other and neither were we.
I may have told you this story before and if I have, please forgive me. Memory lapses are part of the joy of reaching the golden years. One Sunday afternoon in May of 1978 or '79, I was talking with someone in a garage in Gasoline Alley when Dick and Roger, accompanied by Mario Andretti, burst in, all excited. "We've got this gadget that tests your lung power," enthused Roger. "Mario will show you how it works." Andretti was holding something that resembled a flute with wings. He took a deep breath and blew into the mouthpiece, causing the wings to whirl like propellor blades. "Now you try it," said Mario. I huffed and I puffed but I couldn't get the wings to budge. Mario took the gadget back and once again got the wings to twirl. I tried again with the same result as before. The three of us then walked out to pit road, where Foyt and Bobby Unser, among others, were preparing to get some practice laps. The moment they saw me they burst out laughing. "Have you seen yourself," asked Bobby, passing me a hand mirror. I looked and saw that I looked like Al Jolson in blackface. Andretti then showed me the secret. When he blew into the mouthpiece he had one finger covering a hole in the side of the pipe. If you didn't cover the blowhole you'd get a face full of carbon. I can't imagine another sport where the players and writers interact like that. Maybe they don't do things like that anymore. I don't know. I only know that as I approach the winter years the world grows colder and one more leaf has fallen from the tree. Your race is over, Roger. Rest in peace.
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