By Bob Markus
Lets see if I've got this right. The Big 12 has 10 members. The Big 10 has 12 members. The Pac 10 has 11 members, but appears ready to make Utah the 12th member. Whose on first? I dunno. Third base! Perhaps Abbott and Costello could make some sense out of what's happening in college athletics. I sure can't. I graduated from a Big 12 school--Missouri. Only, then, it was the Big Seven. It wasn't until a half dozen years after I left school that it became the Big Eight, or, as pundits of the time called it, Oklahoma and the Seven Dwarfs.
It was about to be called "history" until Monday, when Texas came riding to the rescue, like the Lone Ranger protecting the Wells Fargo stage coach, and saved the payroll. Texas is one of the new kids on the Big 12 block, having led a mass exodus from the Southwest conference that changed the landscape of college football forever. Three other SWC schools joined Texas in the stampede, merging with the Big Eight to form the Big 12. The tradition rich Southwest conference, which had produced the likes of Sammy Baugh and Bobby Layne, Earl Campbell and Ricky Williams, was gone, vanished. Poof!
The same thing was about to happen to the Big 12. The Pac 10, spooked by rumblings from Big 10 country that the conference, already up to 11 members with the 1993 addition of Penn State, was planning to expand by as many as five schools, planned a massive preemptive strike of its own. The target of both conferences: The Big 12. The Pac 10 struck first, picking up Colorado, which boasts one of the prettiest--and most party prone--campuses in the country, but not much in the way of athletic heritage. The Big 10 then tossed out its bait in the direction of Nebraska and succeeded in reeling in the Cornhuskers, a longtime national force in football.
From a personal standpoint that shocked me. First of all, I had covered most of the Nebraska-Oklahoma shootouts of the early 1970s and regretted the fact I'd likely never see another one. But , more importantly, it left my alma mater in a potentially untenable position. Missouri had been rumored as one of the schools being considered by the Big 10. It definitely would not be one of the schools coveted by the Pac 10. Had Texas decided to put on its walking boots there would have been a domino effect, resulting in the demise of the Big 12 and Missouri would have been one of the schools looking through a window at the candy jar. The Pac 10 was poised to offer membership to four other Big 12 teams, including Oklahoma, and with Nebraska and Texas already gone, it's doubtful any of the four could or would refuse. With only six schools remaining, none of them a longterm football power, there would have been an-every-man-for-himself scramble to find a new home. Given their lack of universal appeal, the stranded six could not even go back to their original designation of The Big Six. Missouri's best option in that scenario would be to pair up with ancient rival Kansas in a package deal with either the Big 10 or Big East.
No matter what else happens I have a suggestion that I hope both conferences consider carefully. Swap names. Let the 10-school Big 12 be known as The Big 10 and the 12-team Big 10 as the Big 12. Seems reasonable to me. And it wouldn't even be breaking new ground. Back in the 1950s and 60s, there was a pair of auto racing brothers, Jim and Dick Rathmann, who enjoyed varying degrees of success. Dick made his mark in NASCAR, although he did run in nine Indianapolis 500s, once starting on the pole. Jim was the winner of the 1960 Indy 500, considered by many the greatest race ever run at the Brickyard, with Jim and Rodger Ward battling nose to tail for most of the 200 laps. One day, at a party in Indianapolis, I got to talking with one of the brothers. I think it was Dick. "You know," he told me, "I'm really Jim Rathmann. And Jim is Dick." It's true. Back at the beginning of their careers, Dick, four years younger than his brother, was too young to enter a race. So he switched names with Jim. It was only meant to be temporary, but somehow they never got around to switching back. So, now, if you talk to one of the Rathmann's you can't be sure just whom you're talking to. Hey, Abbott!
Dick Rathmann, by the way, was No.16 on my list of best drivers who never won the Indy 500. That's the list I was going to give you in the aftermath of this year's race, but didn't get around to it. So this is as good a time as any, and how do you like that segue? The top 10:
10--Alberto Ascari. The great Italian Formula One racer only ran at Indianapolis once and finished only 40 laps. But he is considered one of the all-time greats in motor racing. He was Mario Andretti's boyhood hero and inspiration. Mario virtually glowed while telling me of the time he stood in a roadside crowd and cheered each time Ascari came by.
9--Ralph Hepburn. Started as a motorcycle racing champion. Finished 2d in 1937, just 2.16 seconds behind Wilbur Shaw.
8--Jackie Stewart. Winner of three Formula one titles, he led his first of two Indy 500s with eight laps to go before retiring with a mechanical failure. He was voted Rookie of the Year over Graham Hill, who won the race.
7--Lloyd Ruby. Winner of seven champ car races, he had his best chance in 1969. He was leading the race until, on a pit stop, he pulled away too soon while the fuel hose nozzle was still attached, ripping a hole in his gas tank.
6--Tony Bettenhausen. Father of racers Gary, Merle, and Tony Jr., started 14 races with one second and two fourth place finishes. Was killed testing a car for a friend at Indianapolis in 1961.
5--Dan Gurney. An American road racing icon and car builder, he ran nine times at Indy. In his last three races he finished second, second, and third.
4--Eddie Sachs. Known as "the clown prince of auto racing," he won 8 champ car races and 2 Indy 500 poles. Finished second in 1961 and '62, died in first lap crash in 1964. Crash also took the life of rookie Dave MacDonald. Also involved: a couple of guys named Johnny Rutherford and B obby Unser.
3--Rex Mays. Finished second in 1940, 41', years in which he won the series championship. Has a race named after him at Milwaukee Mile.
2--Ted Horn. National champion in 1946, '47, '48, died in crash at DuQuoin, Il. in October of 1948. Had incredible nine-year string of top 4 finishes at Indianapolis.
1--Michael Andretti. Won 42 Indy Car races and one championship. Holds the record for most laps led without a win at Indy. Dropped out of race while leading on five different occasions.
Things I've let go by me while missing a week of blogging: Armando Galarraga loses perfect game on ump's blown call. In baseball parlance, a perfect game is often referred to as an El Perfecto. In this case, close, but no cigar.
Johnny Wooden dies at 99. I'm one of few writers who ever criticized Wooden, mainly because of his penchant for shielding stars Lew Alcindor and Bill Walton from the press. I felt it would have served both better to learn how to deal with media. I may have been wrong, since both turned out to be articulte and outspoken. I also changed my mind about Wooden after having breakfast with him one morning in the Dallas Cowboys' training camp in Thousand Oaks, Ca. He was delightful company.
Blackhawks win Stanley Cup. The Blackhawks were my final beat at the Chicago Tribune. Jeremy Roenick was the star and my go-to-guy. I wasn't surprised when he shed tears of joy after the clinching game. He always was an emotional guy and his greatest years came with the Hawks.
Some of you may have noticed I did not write a column last week. I'll probably go to an every-other-week schedule from now on. But if something strikes my fancy in the interim I'll probably give it a go. One of the advantages of writing for yourself is that you don't HAVE to publish every week.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
By Bob Markus
The Indianapolis 500 is my favorite sporting event of the year. It's the one day that I warn my wife a week in advance not to accept any social engagements. I covered 20 of them for The Chicago Tribune, including the 1988 race when I did double duty, working in Teo Fabi's pit crew and filing a story after the race. It was the most unforgettable day of my professional life. How many times in 36 years of covering sporting events did I stand for the National Anthem? A thousand? Two thousand? Three? And how many times did the singing of "The Star Spangled Banner" move me to tears? Just this once. Standing next to my team's race car just moments before the command to "start yer engines" I felt the tears begin to well up and I just let them go. The day didn't last long for our team. Just 30 laps into the race Fabi brought the Quaker State-Porsche into the pits for his first and, as it turned out, last stop. Using the long-handled stop sign assigned to me, I brought Teo to a tire-screeching halt, then picked up the fire hose with which I was supposed to wash down the fuel cell door after refueling. It was a scary moment for me because my target was located behind the driver's head and I had not been able to practice it. What if I squirted Teo instead of the fuel cell? I thought I had done the job properly, but when I turned my back to hang up the hose I heard cursing and I saw everyone's head turned to the left as in the tennis crowd shots in Hitchcock's "Strangers on a Train." "What happened?" I asked. "Teo crashed," came the laconic response. For a tense irrational moment I thought it was my fault, that Fabi somehow had spun the tires in the water I had laid down. When I learned that Teo had been sent out before a rear tire could be secured and had crashed just a few hundred feet down pit lane when the wheel came off, I was relieved. When two or three of my pit crew mates began pushing the car toward gasoline alley I decided to join them and so there I was, a slightly overweight man in his 50s, running nearly a half mile under a broiling sun, wondering if I was crazy or just plain stupid.
Instead of reaping the thrill of victory I had been saddled with the agony of defeat, but what mattered most was that I had, in a small way, competed on the biggest stage in the sporting world. But I was besotted by the Indy 500 long before I ever dreamed I could play a part in it. I remember the first time I was really aware of the Indy 500 was Memorial day of 1946 when, sitting in the grand stand in Wrigley Field watching the Cubs play somebody, the P.A. announcer, Pat Pieper, came out with the news that George Robson had won the first Indianapolis 500 since the war started. After that I usually would listen to the race on the radio, never dreaming I would ever actually see a race, let alone participate in it. I was working as a reporter on The Moline (Il.) Dispatch on Memorial Day of 1955 and had gone to my room at the YMCA, which was virtually next door to the newspaper, where I heard on the radio that Bill Vukovich, winner of the two previous Indy 500s, had been killed while again leading the race. I hustled back to the office and told the city editor the news and they managed to get a few paragraphs on a page one replate. I'm not certain when the race was first televised, but I remember that in 1964 it was being shown in a local movie theater. My wife and I went to see it and that was the day that Eddie Sachs and Dave MacDonald were killed in a fiery wreck on the second lap. We didn't wait around for the restart almost two hours later. My only other contact with the Speedway was a telephone interview with Jim Clark from his garage in Gasoline Alley just a few days before the Scotsman won the 1965 race. So I really didn't know what to expect when I went to my first race in 1968. I fell in love with it. All of it. The Purdue band playing "On the Banks of the Wabash", Jim Nabors singing "Back Home in Indiana," "Gentlemen, start your engines," the balloons going up, the jets buzzing by and the incredible rush of adrenalin when those 33 cars scream into the first turn. I've had some bad days at the race track, none worse than in 1973 when Swede Savage, one of my favorite drivers, was fatally injured in a flaming wreck that pretty much summed up the entire month of rain and ruin. Yet, like General Patton's feelings about war, I do love it so. Still.
Obviously, it would take a lot to make me miss seeing the Indy 500. This year it almost happened. Instead of watching the start of the race from the comfort of my living room, I watched it from a hospital emergency room cubicle. Before I go any further let me assure you everyone's all right. But for a moment the Indy 500 didn't seem very important to me. My wife, who had opened a cut over her right eye brow in a fall on Saturday night, decided she'd made a mistake by refusing to go to the hospital and when she called her doctor Sunday morning, he agreed. So off we went to the emergency room where, ultimately, the doctor in charge ordered a cat scan--just in case. I waited in the room, with the TV set tuned to the race and, although I wasn't really into it, saw the start. After awhile I heard a nurse across the hall say, rather excitedly, "the patient in 37 has a cervical fracture." That pretty much went by me until I remembered, "this is room 37." When my wife was wheeled back into the room she wore a cervical collar and we both prepared to hear the worst. But a little while later the ER doctor came in and said, "You're fine. You can go home." It was nearly 3 o'clock and we hadn't had lunch, so we went to the McDonald's right in the hospital. I don't know what went on in the race during tht time, but we got it on the radio on the drive home. We had to leave the car for 10 minutes at the pharmacy, so there went another gap. But being the long-running event that it is, there was still plenty of racing to be seen when we got home. I wasn't thrilled with ABC's coverage--too much, side-by-side coverage which makes it hard to follow the action. I don't really know any of the drivers any more, but I do know all the owners. Roger Penske. Chip Ganassi. Michael Andretti. Those are the big three in Indy car racing. I like them all, but Michael is my favorite. I've known him since he was a rookie and I've known his dad Mario since he won the 1969 race. I remember a long one-on-one interview with Mario the morning after the race. He did not appear to be comfortable and he spoke with a decided accent. Since then Mario has become so fluent in English that whenever any one asks me who my favorite interview subject is, I truthfully answer: "Mario Andretti."
So I was hoping one of Michael's drivers would win the race, although they had all looked so bad in qualifying that it didn't seem likely. But both Tony Kanaan and Michael's son Marco put on enough of a charge to make it interesting at the end and even Danica Patrick stopped complaining long enough to motor to a respectable sixth place finish. Under the circumstances it was a good day for Michael's team. Ganassi had the race winner, Dario Franchitti, and Penske would win the World 600 in Charlotte that night, so everyone should have been happy. I know I was.
-0-
Note to my readers: I've always had a strange method of writing a column--or blog if you insist. I don't always know how a story is going to come out. That's why when I used to go into the sports editor's office and he'd ask me what I was going to write about, I'd have to say, "I don't know." Today's is an extreme example. I did three hours of research for a blog that I had intended to be about the ten greatest race drivers who never won the Indianapolis 500. But I never quite got rolling in that direction. So I'm thinking of doing it next week. Or next year. See you then.
The Indianapolis 500 is my favorite sporting event of the year. It's the one day that I warn my wife a week in advance not to accept any social engagements. I covered 20 of them for The Chicago Tribune, including the 1988 race when I did double duty, working in Teo Fabi's pit crew and filing a story after the race. It was the most unforgettable day of my professional life. How many times in 36 years of covering sporting events did I stand for the National Anthem? A thousand? Two thousand? Three? And how many times did the singing of "The Star Spangled Banner" move me to tears? Just this once. Standing next to my team's race car just moments before the command to "start yer engines" I felt the tears begin to well up and I just let them go. The day didn't last long for our team. Just 30 laps into the race Fabi brought the Quaker State-Porsche into the pits for his first and, as it turned out, last stop. Using the long-handled stop sign assigned to me, I brought Teo to a tire-screeching halt, then picked up the fire hose with which I was supposed to wash down the fuel cell door after refueling. It was a scary moment for me because my target was located behind the driver's head and I had not been able to practice it. What if I squirted Teo instead of the fuel cell? I thought I had done the job properly, but when I turned my back to hang up the hose I heard cursing and I saw everyone's head turned to the left as in the tennis crowd shots in Hitchcock's "Strangers on a Train." "What happened?" I asked. "Teo crashed," came the laconic response. For a tense irrational moment I thought it was my fault, that Fabi somehow had spun the tires in the water I had laid down. When I learned that Teo had been sent out before a rear tire could be secured and had crashed just a few hundred feet down pit lane when the wheel came off, I was relieved. When two or three of my pit crew mates began pushing the car toward gasoline alley I decided to join them and so there I was, a slightly overweight man in his 50s, running nearly a half mile under a broiling sun, wondering if I was crazy or just plain stupid.
Instead of reaping the thrill of victory I had been saddled with the agony of defeat, but what mattered most was that I had, in a small way, competed on the biggest stage in the sporting world. But I was besotted by the Indy 500 long before I ever dreamed I could play a part in it. I remember the first time I was really aware of the Indy 500 was Memorial day of 1946 when, sitting in the grand stand in Wrigley Field watching the Cubs play somebody, the P.A. announcer, Pat Pieper, came out with the news that George Robson had won the first Indianapolis 500 since the war started. After that I usually would listen to the race on the radio, never dreaming I would ever actually see a race, let alone participate in it. I was working as a reporter on The Moline (Il.) Dispatch on Memorial Day of 1955 and had gone to my room at the YMCA, which was virtually next door to the newspaper, where I heard on the radio that Bill Vukovich, winner of the two previous Indy 500s, had been killed while again leading the race. I hustled back to the office and told the city editor the news and they managed to get a few paragraphs on a page one replate. I'm not certain when the race was first televised, but I remember that in 1964 it was being shown in a local movie theater. My wife and I went to see it and that was the day that Eddie Sachs and Dave MacDonald were killed in a fiery wreck on the second lap. We didn't wait around for the restart almost two hours later. My only other contact with the Speedway was a telephone interview with Jim Clark from his garage in Gasoline Alley just a few days before the Scotsman won the 1965 race. So I really didn't know what to expect when I went to my first race in 1968. I fell in love with it. All of it. The Purdue band playing "On the Banks of the Wabash", Jim Nabors singing "Back Home in Indiana," "Gentlemen, start your engines," the balloons going up, the jets buzzing by and the incredible rush of adrenalin when those 33 cars scream into the first turn. I've had some bad days at the race track, none worse than in 1973 when Swede Savage, one of my favorite drivers, was fatally injured in a flaming wreck that pretty much summed up the entire month of rain and ruin. Yet, like General Patton's feelings about war, I do love it so. Still.
Obviously, it would take a lot to make me miss seeing the Indy 500. This year it almost happened. Instead of watching the start of the race from the comfort of my living room, I watched it from a hospital emergency room cubicle. Before I go any further let me assure you everyone's all right. But for a moment the Indy 500 didn't seem very important to me. My wife, who had opened a cut over her right eye brow in a fall on Saturday night, decided she'd made a mistake by refusing to go to the hospital and when she called her doctor Sunday morning, he agreed. So off we went to the emergency room where, ultimately, the doctor in charge ordered a cat scan--just in case. I waited in the room, with the TV set tuned to the race and, although I wasn't really into it, saw the start. After awhile I heard a nurse across the hall say, rather excitedly, "the patient in 37 has a cervical fracture." That pretty much went by me until I remembered, "this is room 37." When my wife was wheeled back into the room she wore a cervical collar and we both prepared to hear the worst. But a little while later the ER doctor came in and said, "You're fine. You can go home." It was nearly 3 o'clock and we hadn't had lunch, so we went to the McDonald's right in the hospital. I don't know what went on in the race during tht time, but we got it on the radio on the drive home. We had to leave the car for 10 minutes at the pharmacy, so there went another gap. But being the long-running event that it is, there was still plenty of racing to be seen when we got home. I wasn't thrilled with ABC's coverage--too much, side-by-side coverage which makes it hard to follow the action. I don't really know any of the drivers any more, but I do know all the owners. Roger Penske. Chip Ganassi. Michael Andretti. Those are the big three in Indy car racing. I like them all, but Michael is my favorite. I've known him since he was a rookie and I've known his dad Mario since he won the 1969 race. I remember a long one-on-one interview with Mario the morning after the race. He did not appear to be comfortable and he spoke with a decided accent. Since then Mario has become so fluent in English that whenever any one asks me who my favorite interview subject is, I truthfully answer: "Mario Andretti."
So I was hoping one of Michael's drivers would win the race, although they had all looked so bad in qualifying that it didn't seem likely. But both Tony Kanaan and Michael's son Marco put on enough of a charge to make it interesting at the end and even Danica Patrick stopped complaining long enough to motor to a respectable sixth place finish. Under the circumstances it was a good day for Michael's team. Ganassi had the race winner, Dario Franchitti, and Penske would win the World 600 in Charlotte that night, so everyone should have been happy. I know I was.
-0-
Note to my readers: I've always had a strange method of writing a column--or blog if you insist. I don't always know how a story is going to come out. That's why when I used to go into the sports editor's office and he'd ask me what I was going to write about, I'd have to say, "I don't know." Today's is an extreme example. I did three hours of research for a blog that I had intended to be about the ten greatest race drivers who never won the Indianapolis 500. But I never quite got rolling in that direction. So I'm thinking of doing it next week. Or next year. See you then.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
By Bob Markus
There's no whining in auto racing. Danica Patrick learned that the hard way over the week-end when she was booed by fans on pole day for the Indianapolis 500 after qualifying poorly and blaming it on her race car. She undoubtedly was right. Her race car is a piece of junk. An enormously expensive piece of junk, but nevertheless. . . .junk.
It's all right for me to say that, but when a driver throws her team under the bus, it's bad form. Any one who knows anything at all about the sport knows that the driver is just one of the elements that comprise a great race team. Patrick was just one of five drivers who qualified for the Michael Andretti team and none of the five had a good day. In fact, it's been a bad year for the Andretti team, which only a few years ago was winning championships. Teammate Tony Kanaan, who wrecked two race cars before sneaking into the field in the final hour, gently rebuked Patrick, reminding her that these were the same mechanics who prepared the car with which she became the first woman to drive an Indy Car into Victory Lane two years ago. He advised her to lighten up and start having fun again.
It was not entirely out of character for Patrick to deflect blame for her poor showing. She has been involved in several on track incidents and to my knowledge has never taken the rap for any of them. When Patrick drove to victory in Japan, both Michael Andretti and I predicted it was the first of many. We may have been wrong, but it's too early to tell. My opinion had been formed a few years earlier when, in her first Indianapolis 500, Danica made a couple of absolutely brilliant moves and led the race going into the final laps. Appearing puzzled by the reaction to her comments Saturday, which were aired on the Speedway's public address system, Patrick observed, "they used to love me. I'm the same driver I was five years ago." Indeed, they did love her. Ever since she first came to the speedway, Patrick has been far and away the fans' favorite driver.
It is not in the nature of racing fans to boo a driver. The only other race driver I can think of who has been booed on the race track is NASCAR's Jeff Gordon. Gordon's sin was to be too good. The booing was mostly from fans of the late Dale Earnhardt, resentful of the fact that Gordon was about to pass their icon in career victories. The booing has pretty much gone away now that Gordon is struggling to keep up with his teammate, Jimmie Johnson.
Women drivers are no longer a novelty at the Indy 500. When I first started covering the race in 1968 women were not even allowed in Gasoline Alley, let alone in the seat of a race car. Janet Guthrie changed all that when she made the race for the first time in 1977. It was a monumental achievement. As I wrote at the time, it was not a Billie Jean King beating up on old man Bobby Riggs. It was more like Jacky Robinson breaking the color barrier in baseball. Like Robinson, Guthrie heard plenty of gender-based slurs and endured outright hostility from some of her male competitors. The pressure on Guthrie the day she qualified was enormous, although there was not the media attention she would face today. There were perhaps a couple of handsful of reporters interviewing her near the pit entrance after she completed her four-lap run. Later on, I had a one-on-one interview with her in her motor coach that went on for a good hour. That would be impossible in these times.
There have been other women drivers who paved the way for Danica Patrick at Indianapolis. Lyn St. James competed seven times and was Rookie of the Year in 1992 when she finished 11th. Sarah Fisher, who qualified for her 9th Indy 500, was almost as highly touted as Patrick when she made the race for the first time at the age of 19. She had a number of firsts--first woman to win an Indy Car pole, first to make a podium appearance for a third place finish in Kentucky, and first to finish as high as second. But, like Guthrie and St. James before her, Fisher had trouble attracting sponsorship money. That is something that has always mystified me. You'd think there would be plenty of companies that would see the benefit of having a high profile woman athlete as the company spokesman. Didn't happen. Not until Patrick came along and unleashed the power of sex appeal. That is where Danica has the edge. Like the women who came before her, Danica wants to be judged by her performance behind the wheel. Unlike the others, she doesn't mind being seen as a beautiful woman. Some of her spots for her Go Daddy sponsor are border line suggestive.
There were five women who attempted to qualify for Sunday's Indy 500 and four of them made it. Two of them, Ana Beatriz of Brazil and Swiss-born Simona de Silvestro qualified just ahead of Danica, while Fisher qualified 29th. Milka Duno of Venezuela, who made the field three times before, failed to qualify this time. None of the women drivers is likely to be competitive Sunday, although it is possible to come from the back of the pack to the front. In the 1980 race Tom Sneva went from 33d to second and Gary Bettenhausen from 32d to third. If anyone makes that kind of charge Sunday it is likely to be Kanaan, although his luck in the Indy 500 has not been the greatest. Sunday should be an interesting test for Patrick. She has shown what she can do with a good handling race car, but has yet to demonstrate that, like a Rick Mears for example, she can turn an ill-handling car into a winner over the course of 500 miles. If she can, she'll turn those boos back into cheers in a hurry.
There's no whining in auto racing. Danica Patrick learned that the hard way over the week-end when she was booed by fans on pole day for the Indianapolis 500 after qualifying poorly and blaming it on her race car. She undoubtedly was right. Her race car is a piece of junk. An enormously expensive piece of junk, but nevertheless. . . .junk.
It's all right for me to say that, but when a driver throws her team under the bus, it's bad form. Any one who knows anything at all about the sport knows that the driver is just one of the elements that comprise a great race team. Patrick was just one of five drivers who qualified for the Michael Andretti team and none of the five had a good day. In fact, it's been a bad year for the Andretti team, which only a few years ago was winning championships. Teammate Tony Kanaan, who wrecked two race cars before sneaking into the field in the final hour, gently rebuked Patrick, reminding her that these were the same mechanics who prepared the car with which she became the first woman to drive an Indy Car into Victory Lane two years ago. He advised her to lighten up and start having fun again.
It was not entirely out of character for Patrick to deflect blame for her poor showing. She has been involved in several on track incidents and to my knowledge has never taken the rap for any of them. When Patrick drove to victory in Japan, both Michael Andretti and I predicted it was the first of many. We may have been wrong, but it's too early to tell. My opinion had been formed a few years earlier when, in her first Indianapolis 500, Danica made a couple of absolutely brilliant moves and led the race going into the final laps. Appearing puzzled by the reaction to her comments Saturday, which were aired on the Speedway's public address system, Patrick observed, "they used to love me. I'm the same driver I was five years ago." Indeed, they did love her. Ever since she first came to the speedway, Patrick has been far and away the fans' favorite driver.
It is not in the nature of racing fans to boo a driver. The only other race driver I can think of who has been booed on the race track is NASCAR's Jeff Gordon. Gordon's sin was to be too good. The booing was mostly from fans of the late Dale Earnhardt, resentful of the fact that Gordon was about to pass their icon in career victories. The booing has pretty much gone away now that Gordon is struggling to keep up with his teammate, Jimmie Johnson.
Women drivers are no longer a novelty at the Indy 500. When I first started covering the race in 1968 women were not even allowed in Gasoline Alley, let alone in the seat of a race car. Janet Guthrie changed all that when she made the race for the first time in 1977. It was a monumental achievement. As I wrote at the time, it was not a Billie Jean King beating up on old man Bobby Riggs. It was more like Jacky Robinson breaking the color barrier in baseball. Like Robinson, Guthrie heard plenty of gender-based slurs and endured outright hostility from some of her male competitors. The pressure on Guthrie the day she qualified was enormous, although there was not the media attention she would face today. There were perhaps a couple of handsful of reporters interviewing her near the pit entrance after she completed her four-lap run. Later on, I had a one-on-one interview with her in her motor coach that went on for a good hour. That would be impossible in these times.
There have been other women drivers who paved the way for Danica Patrick at Indianapolis. Lyn St. James competed seven times and was Rookie of the Year in 1992 when she finished 11th. Sarah Fisher, who qualified for her 9th Indy 500, was almost as highly touted as Patrick when she made the race for the first time at the age of 19. She had a number of firsts--first woman to win an Indy Car pole, first to make a podium appearance for a third place finish in Kentucky, and first to finish as high as second. But, like Guthrie and St. James before her, Fisher had trouble attracting sponsorship money. That is something that has always mystified me. You'd think there would be plenty of companies that would see the benefit of having a high profile woman athlete as the company spokesman. Didn't happen. Not until Patrick came along and unleashed the power of sex appeal. That is where Danica has the edge. Like the women who came before her, Danica wants to be judged by her performance behind the wheel. Unlike the others, she doesn't mind being seen as a beautiful woman. Some of her spots for her Go Daddy sponsor are border line suggestive.
There were five women who attempted to qualify for Sunday's Indy 500 and four of them made it. Two of them, Ana Beatriz of Brazil and Swiss-born Simona de Silvestro qualified just ahead of Danica, while Fisher qualified 29th. Milka Duno of Venezuela, who made the field three times before, failed to qualify this time. None of the women drivers is likely to be competitive Sunday, although it is possible to come from the back of the pack to the front. In the 1980 race Tom Sneva went from 33d to second and Gary Bettenhausen from 32d to third. If anyone makes that kind of charge Sunday it is likely to be Kanaan, although his luck in the Indy 500 has not been the greatest. Sunday should be an interesting test for Patrick. She has shown what she can do with a good handling race car, but has yet to demonstrate that, like a Rick Mears for example, she can turn an ill-handling car into a winner over the course of 500 miles. If she can, she'll turn those boos back into cheers in a hurry.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
By Bob Markus
Dale Tallon has done just about everything a man can do if he's a hockey lifer--except sip from the Stanley Cup. Now, just as the Chicago Blackhawks, the team he served for 36 years, are likely going to sip the wine, Tallon has gone to the last place you'd expect to find hockey's holy grail. Heck, the Florida Panthers not only have never won the Stanley Cup, they haven't even made the playoffs for nine years. Of course, there's many a slip between the Cup and the lip, and the Blackhawks were still seven wins away going into Tuesday night's Western Conference Final Series game in Vancouver. But they already have seized home ice advantage for the remainder of the playoffs. This is a team that, when Tallon took over as general manager four years ago, had missed the playoffs for six of the seven preceding seasons.
The Blackhawks were my beat for the final two of my 36 years writing sports for the Chicago Tribune. At the time, they still routinely filled the United Center for every home game and had done so for many years. But it also had been 35 years since the Hawks won the Stanley Cup and another 13 seasons have slipped by since then. Now, thanks to Tallon's coup of drafting Jonathon Toews and Patrick Kane in successive years, trading for Patrick Sharp and Kris Versteeg, and signing free agent Marian Hossa, the Blackhawks may be bound for glory. Tallon's thanks for turning the team around in just three years, was to be fired last summer just after signing Hossa, the final piece in the puzzle. Tallon, who was named general manager on Monday, on Wednesday will be bound for Germany to meet with Panthers coach Pete DeBoer. Although he has had no success in breaking the chains of apathy that have bound the Panthers for nearly a decade, DeBoer seems likely to survive, at least until Tallon has a chance to evaluate his work. "I've got to give him some tools to work with," Tallon observed.
While I was covering the Blackhawks I knew Tallon first as a player, then as the color man on the Hawks' radio and TV broadcasts, a job he held for 16 years. He also was a scratch golfer, who won the 1969 Canadian Junior Championship and served as the head pro at Highland Park Country Club in suburban Chicago. Tallon became assistant to general manager Bob Pulford a couple of years after I retired and became the main man in 2005. There are many in Chicago who believe Tallon was undermined by Scotty Bowman, who had been brought in earlier as a "senior advisor." Not too much a leap in logic is required to believe that, given that Bowman's son, Stan, moved up from assistant GM to replace Tallon.
Tallon's task in South Florida will be infinitely more difficult than it was in Chicago, which has a hard core of dedicated fans and a long line of great players, stretching from Bobby Hull and Stan Mikita in the '60s through the likes of Tony Esposito, Denny Savard, Chris Chelios and Jeremy Roenick. The Panthers have one Stanley Cup Finals appearance on their team resume, a team noted more for slap-shotting rats off the dressing room wall than for reaching the door to Valhalla. Their lone super star, Pavel Bure, is long gone. Nor is Tallon the first high profile GM to take on the task of making the Panthers relevant in an area where ice normally is found only at the bottom of a cocktail glass.
First there was Mike Keenan, who had led the Blackhawks to the Stanley Cup finals and the Rangers to a championship among many stops in his peripatetic career. Keenan's main claim to infamy was to trade goalie Roberto Luongo to Vancouver in the worst hockey trade since the Blackhawks sent future Hall of Famer Phil Esposito to the Boston Bruins. When Keenan slunk out of town he was succeeded by Jacques Martin, who had turned around the Ottawa Senators, but could work no wonders for the Panthers.
Now it's Tallon's turn. I wish him well. And if things don't work out on the ice, there are plenty of good golf courses down here.
Dale Tallon has done just about everything a man can do if he's a hockey lifer--except sip from the Stanley Cup. Now, just as the Chicago Blackhawks, the team he served for 36 years, are likely going to sip the wine, Tallon has gone to the last place you'd expect to find hockey's holy grail. Heck, the Florida Panthers not only have never won the Stanley Cup, they haven't even made the playoffs for nine years. Of course, there's many a slip between the Cup and the lip, and the Blackhawks were still seven wins away going into Tuesday night's Western Conference Final Series game in Vancouver. But they already have seized home ice advantage for the remainder of the playoffs. This is a team that, when Tallon took over as general manager four years ago, had missed the playoffs for six of the seven preceding seasons.
The Blackhawks were my beat for the final two of my 36 years writing sports for the Chicago Tribune. At the time, they still routinely filled the United Center for every home game and had done so for many years. But it also had been 35 years since the Hawks won the Stanley Cup and another 13 seasons have slipped by since then. Now, thanks to Tallon's coup of drafting Jonathon Toews and Patrick Kane in successive years, trading for Patrick Sharp and Kris Versteeg, and signing free agent Marian Hossa, the Blackhawks may be bound for glory. Tallon's thanks for turning the team around in just three years, was to be fired last summer just after signing Hossa, the final piece in the puzzle. Tallon, who was named general manager on Monday, on Wednesday will be bound for Germany to meet with Panthers coach Pete DeBoer. Although he has had no success in breaking the chains of apathy that have bound the Panthers for nearly a decade, DeBoer seems likely to survive, at least until Tallon has a chance to evaluate his work. "I've got to give him some tools to work with," Tallon observed.
While I was covering the Blackhawks I knew Tallon first as a player, then as the color man on the Hawks' radio and TV broadcasts, a job he held for 16 years. He also was a scratch golfer, who won the 1969 Canadian Junior Championship and served as the head pro at Highland Park Country Club in suburban Chicago. Tallon became assistant to general manager Bob Pulford a couple of years after I retired and became the main man in 2005. There are many in Chicago who believe Tallon was undermined by Scotty Bowman, who had been brought in earlier as a "senior advisor." Not too much a leap in logic is required to believe that, given that Bowman's son, Stan, moved up from assistant GM to replace Tallon.
Tallon's task in South Florida will be infinitely more difficult than it was in Chicago, which has a hard core of dedicated fans and a long line of great players, stretching from Bobby Hull and Stan Mikita in the '60s through the likes of Tony Esposito, Denny Savard, Chris Chelios and Jeremy Roenick. The Panthers have one Stanley Cup Finals appearance on their team resume, a team noted more for slap-shotting rats off the dressing room wall than for reaching the door to Valhalla. Their lone super star, Pavel Bure, is long gone. Nor is Tallon the first high profile GM to take on the task of making the Panthers relevant in an area where ice normally is found only at the bottom of a cocktail glass.
First there was Mike Keenan, who had led the Blackhawks to the Stanley Cup finals and the Rangers to a championship among many stops in his peripatetic career. Keenan's main claim to infamy was to trade goalie Roberto Luongo to Vancouver in the worst hockey trade since the Blackhawks sent future Hall of Famer Phil Esposito to the Boston Bruins. When Keenan slunk out of town he was succeeded by Jacques Martin, who had turned around the Ottawa Senators, but could work no wonders for the Panthers.
Now it's Tallon's turn. I wish him well. And if things don't work out on the ice, there are plenty of good golf courses down here.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
By Bob Markus
There is a scene early in the musical "1776", in which George Washington implores Congress to send him more food, more clothing, more guns and ammunition for his suffering army and, receiving only silence, plaintively asks: Is anybody there? Does anybody care? I think I understand how he felt. I'm into my third year of writing this weekly column and, due entirely to my computer illiteracy, have no idea how many people have read it. I know for sure I have three or four faithful readers. There's Ted, the big noise from Winnetka, where I lived for most of my 36 years writing sports for the Chicago Tribune. Ted's the guy who, whenever I start thinking it may be time to say good night, says "don't do it." There's Charles, my golfing partner, who generally is supportive, always points out my mistakes, and will tell me when he thinks a column sucks. Then there is Paula, my doctor's Girl Friday, who, whenever she sees me, never fails to ask what I'll be writing about next. "Just so you don't write about NASCAR," she says. I try to keep her happy, but this week I'm going to have to at least mention auto racing. Because NASCAR is responsible for adding another reader to my list. That makes four and I know there is a blogger in Chicago who reads me, because he's written a few times to comment and I'd like to write him back but don't have the slightest idea how to do so. See what I mean about computer illiteracy?
The reason I have to mention auto racing this week is that a few days ago I got a phone call out of the blue from Lancaster, Pa. Neither my wife nor I could think of anyone we knew who would be calling us from Pennsylvania Dutch country so we let the call go to voice mail. A little while later my wife listened to our messages and found one from an old friend we hadn't spoken to for years. Back in the early '90s, when I was covering a lot of auto racing for The Tribune, one of the races I usually covered was the Winston Cup (as it was known by then) June race in Michigan. The track is situated in the middle of nowhere. It's official postal designation is Brooklyn, Mich., but the nearest city you've probably heard of is Jackson. There were no really convenient places to stay and we had tried several places when somebody suggested a bed and breakfast right there in Brooklyn. When I called to try to make a reservation for race week-end I was told they were filled up. But they did give me the phone number of a B & B in Homer, some 25-30 miles west of the track. I was able to get a room there and, location aside, it was all you could ask for. The proprietor, Judy, was on the faculty at Michigan State. She couldn't have been nicer. She loaned my wife her car to go antique shopping in nearby Allen while I was at the track. She served terrific breakfasts and when I told her we couldn't have breakfast on Sunday morning because we had to leave early for the track, she got up early to send us off with full stomachs. It was only later that she told us she had hesitated to rent to us because, "I've had trouble with race fans. But I thought I'd try it and see." Evidently we passed the test because the next year Jeff and Wanda Wiker joined us at the breakfast table. They were diehard stock car racing fans from Lancaster, Pa., and we hit it off immediately. In addition to meeting annually in Michigan, I was able to help them get tickets to the brickyard 400 in Indianapolis. But the last time we went to the Michigan race we discovered, to our dismay, that Judy had sold her B & B and moved to Texas.
For awhile we exchanged Christmas cards with the Wikers but, as happens all too often, we somehow stopped communicating and it had probably been 10 years since we had last heard from them. Jeff's message said they were going to go to the Indy 500 for the first time and my immediate thought was they needed help with tickets. Then I remembered that, thanks to Tony George's heavy-handed operation of the world's most famous race, the golden goose had been cooked and tickets were no longer that hard to come by. In fact, Jeff explained, what he wanted was the name of the restaurant the four of us had dined at before the Brickyard 400. He left a number and when I called to tell him he must be thinking of St. Elmo's, he told me that Wanda had discovered My Life in Sports while browsing on her computer and that's how they were able to get in touch. No, he didn't need tickets; a friend had given them his own seats in the grandstand and was going to show them around on race week-end. I hope he'll let me know how they enjoyed their first Indy 500 and that this time we'll stay connected. Under the circumstances I'd hate to lose a single reader.
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Now, as long as we've broached the dreaded NASCAR topic, Paula, I'd like to make a few simple predictions. First, Dale Earnhardt Jr. will win a race this year. He's been in the ballpark a few times and, with his Rick Hendricks backing, he's going to hit one out of the ball park eventually. Second, I think this may be Jeff Gordon's year to win that fifth championship. He hasn't won a race yet but he's finishing pretty consistently in the top five and stands fourth in the standings. He should easily finish in the top 12 and qualify for the Chase. But nothing is ever for certain. Just look at Tiger Woods. How certain are you now that Tiger will catch and pass Jack Nicklaus' record 18 major championships? And have you thought about the similarity in the lives and careers of the two athletes? Both became super stars at an early age. There was a time when it appeared just as certain that Gordon would catch Richard Petty and Dale Earnhardt, who each won seven series championships, as that Woods would supplant Nicklaus as the alltime majors winner. Both married beauty queens and both marriages failed. I had lunch once with Gordon and his first wife. She was a beautiful girl and seemed nice. But their divorce was a particularly bitter one. Now, Woods appears headed for the same fate. Gordon is remarried and appears happy. Perhaps Tiger, too, will get a second chance. If I were to guess right now, which of these two would have the happiest ending, I'd pick Gordon.
There is a scene early in the musical "1776", in which George Washington implores Congress to send him more food, more clothing, more guns and ammunition for his suffering army and, receiving only silence, plaintively asks: Is anybody there? Does anybody care? I think I understand how he felt. I'm into my third year of writing this weekly column and, due entirely to my computer illiteracy, have no idea how many people have read it. I know for sure I have three or four faithful readers. There's Ted, the big noise from Winnetka, where I lived for most of my 36 years writing sports for the Chicago Tribune. Ted's the guy who, whenever I start thinking it may be time to say good night, says "don't do it." There's Charles, my golfing partner, who generally is supportive, always points out my mistakes, and will tell me when he thinks a column sucks. Then there is Paula, my doctor's Girl Friday, who, whenever she sees me, never fails to ask what I'll be writing about next. "Just so you don't write about NASCAR," she says. I try to keep her happy, but this week I'm going to have to at least mention auto racing. Because NASCAR is responsible for adding another reader to my list. That makes four and I know there is a blogger in Chicago who reads me, because he's written a few times to comment and I'd like to write him back but don't have the slightest idea how to do so. See what I mean about computer illiteracy?
The reason I have to mention auto racing this week is that a few days ago I got a phone call out of the blue from Lancaster, Pa. Neither my wife nor I could think of anyone we knew who would be calling us from Pennsylvania Dutch country so we let the call go to voice mail. A little while later my wife listened to our messages and found one from an old friend we hadn't spoken to for years. Back in the early '90s, when I was covering a lot of auto racing for The Tribune, one of the races I usually covered was the Winston Cup (as it was known by then) June race in Michigan. The track is situated in the middle of nowhere. It's official postal designation is Brooklyn, Mich., but the nearest city you've probably heard of is Jackson. There were no really convenient places to stay and we had tried several places when somebody suggested a bed and breakfast right there in Brooklyn. When I called to try to make a reservation for race week-end I was told they were filled up. But they did give me the phone number of a B & B in Homer, some 25-30 miles west of the track. I was able to get a room there and, location aside, it was all you could ask for. The proprietor, Judy, was on the faculty at Michigan State. She couldn't have been nicer. She loaned my wife her car to go antique shopping in nearby Allen while I was at the track. She served terrific breakfasts and when I told her we couldn't have breakfast on Sunday morning because we had to leave early for the track, she got up early to send us off with full stomachs. It was only later that she told us she had hesitated to rent to us because, "I've had trouble with race fans. But I thought I'd try it and see." Evidently we passed the test because the next year Jeff and Wanda Wiker joined us at the breakfast table. They were diehard stock car racing fans from Lancaster, Pa., and we hit it off immediately. In addition to meeting annually in Michigan, I was able to help them get tickets to the brickyard 400 in Indianapolis. But the last time we went to the Michigan race we discovered, to our dismay, that Judy had sold her B & B and moved to Texas.
For awhile we exchanged Christmas cards with the Wikers but, as happens all too often, we somehow stopped communicating and it had probably been 10 years since we had last heard from them. Jeff's message said they were going to go to the Indy 500 for the first time and my immediate thought was they needed help with tickets. Then I remembered that, thanks to Tony George's heavy-handed operation of the world's most famous race, the golden goose had been cooked and tickets were no longer that hard to come by. In fact, Jeff explained, what he wanted was the name of the restaurant the four of us had dined at before the Brickyard 400. He left a number and when I called to tell him he must be thinking of St. Elmo's, he told me that Wanda had discovered My Life in Sports while browsing on her computer and that's how they were able to get in touch. No, he didn't need tickets; a friend had given them his own seats in the grandstand and was going to show them around on race week-end. I hope he'll let me know how they enjoyed their first Indy 500 and that this time we'll stay connected. Under the circumstances I'd hate to lose a single reader.
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Now, as long as we've broached the dreaded NASCAR topic, Paula, I'd like to make a few simple predictions. First, Dale Earnhardt Jr. will win a race this year. He's been in the ballpark a few times and, with his Rick Hendricks backing, he's going to hit one out of the ball park eventually. Second, I think this may be Jeff Gordon's year to win that fifth championship. He hasn't won a race yet but he's finishing pretty consistently in the top five and stands fourth in the standings. He should easily finish in the top 12 and qualify for the Chase. But nothing is ever for certain. Just look at Tiger Woods. How certain are you now that Tiger will catch and pass Jack Nicklaus' record 18 major championships? And have you thought about the similarity in the lives and careers of the two athletes? Both became super stars at an early age. There was a time when it appeared just as certain that Gordon would catch Richard Petty and Dale Earnhardt, who each won seven series championships, as that Woods would supplant Nicklaus as the alltime majors winner. Both married beauty queens and both marriages failed. I had lunch once with Gordon and his first wife. She was a beautiful girl and seemed nice. But their divorce was a particularly bitter one. Now, Woods appears headed for the same fate. Gordon is remarried and appears happy. Perhaps Tiger, too, will get a second chance. If I were to guess right now, which of these two would have the happiest ending, I'd pick Gordon.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
By Bob Markus
Sometimes you have to look behind the news to find the news. Headline: McIlroy Shoots 62; Wins Quail Hollow. Subhead: Phil Second. Everyone knew that the precocious McIlroy, who was two days shy of his 21st birthday when he fired the shots heard 'round the world Sunday, was going to win a PGA event sooner or later. That he would win it in such spectacular fashion, nobody could have foreseen. McIlroy, who had failed to make the cut in the Masters, had returned to his home town in Northern Ireland in an attempt to freshen up his game. It didn't appear to have done much good for the first two rounds of the Quail Hollow tournament in Charlotte, N.C. Until a late rally on Friday, it appeared that he was going to miss the cut again. With three holes to play, he was two shots away from the cut line--on the wrong side. He took care of that with an eagle, thanks to what he called the most important shot of his season, his second to the par five hole. He made the cut right on the number and shot a 66 on Saturday, which is known in the golf world as "moving day." But even though he had managed to escape the outhouse, the penthouse seemed out of his reach. Then came one of the greatest final round comebacks within memory. His victory margin over Mickelson was four shots. Johnny Miller was the standard setter for final round heroics when he posted a 63 on a Sunday to win the U.S. Open. Miller built an entire career on that one memorable day. McIlroy may never shoot another 62, but he seems destined to be a force de tour for many years to come.
Is this the Messiah that the royal order of Tiger bashers has long awaited? After all, McIlroy on Sunday became the first golfer since Tiger Woods to win a PGA event before his 21st birthday. But before you get too carried away, remember it was only a year or so ago that Anthony Kim was going to be the anointed one. That is, if Camilo Villegas didn't pull Tiger's tail first. Before that there was Justin Rose and before him was Lee Westwood. They're all still young enough to challenge Woods, although Westwood is beginning to take on that unwanted burden of being labelled the best player never to win a major.
Westwood can take comfort in the fact that it wasn't too many years ago that Mickelson was carrying that load all by himself. Now it appears that Lefty may be ready to take on the Tiger taming role himself. Not that he'll ever match Woods for tour victories and majors won. He starts from too far behind and he's five years older than the 34-year-old Woods. But the best story to come out of Quail Hollow might well have been Mickelson's stellar showing just two weeks after his Masters victory. Mickelson shot a final round 68 and had McIlroy been merely brilliant, shot a 66, there would have been a playoff. The kid shoots a 67 and Phil wins. This is the kind of consistency Phil fanatics have long awaited. With the Players' championship right around the corner and Woods coming off the worst round of golf since he was a two-year-old, Mickelson is in position to snatch the World's No.1 ranking out of Tigers' hands.
All of a sudden this is beginning to look like Palmer vs. Nicklaus redux. Like Palmer, Mickelson is the crowd pleasing go-for-broke everyman who never met a shot he wouldn't take. Woods is the mega-talented, aloof shot maker who makes the golf purists swoon, just as Jack was in his day, although Nicklaus was never as stand-offish as Tiger tends to be. Woods vs. Mickelson may well be the face of golf for the next four or five years. But, inevitably, there will be a changing of the guard . Who will be the new face of golf? McIlroy? Kim? Villegas? Goodness, I've forgotten all about Sergio Garcia, haven't I? Well, Sergio is yesterday's news. Tomorrow's news makers likely will come from the trio mentioned above. But keep an eye on Ryo Ishikawa. Ishikawa is even younger (he's 18) than McIlroy and on Sunday he one-upped the Irishman by shooting 58--that's 58, folks--to win a professional tournament in Japan. How do you say "Hold that Tiger" in Japanese?
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Is there a better story in sports right now than that of Calvin Borel? Borel, who worked in obscurity for most of his first 40 years, is horse racing's new super star. His victory on Super Saver in Saturday's Kentucky Derby was his third in the last four Derbies and nobody had ever done that. Not Eddie Arcaro, not Willie Shoemaker, not Bill Hartack, not even that handy little guy named Sande made famous by a Grantland Rice lead. Borel's newfound fame seems well deserved. Before Saturday's race, cameras caught him with tears rolling down his cheeks during the playing of "My Old Kentucky Home." After he'd guided Super Saver to the finish line in his usual hug-the-rail style, Borel could be seen weeping again. Well, after all, the lyric is "weep no more my lady," not "weep no more my jockey." If I had a Derby horse I'd put him--or her--in Borel's hands. Then, after we'd won, we'd all go out and have a good cry.
Sometimes you have to look behind the news to find the news. Headline: McIlroy Shoots 62; Wins Quail Hollow. Subhead: Phil Second. Everyone knew that the precocious McIlroy, who was two days shy of his 21st birthday when he fired the shots heard 'round the world Sunday, was going to win a PGA event sooner or later. That he would win it in such spectacular fashion, nobody could have foreseen. McIlroy, who had failed to make the cut in the Masters, had returned to his home town in Northern Ireland in an attempt to freshen up his game. It didn't appear to have done much good for the first two rounds of the Quail Hollow tournament in Charlotte, N.C. Until a late rally on Friday, it appeared that he was going to miss the cut again. With three holes to play, he was two shots away from the cut line--on the wrong side. He took care of that with an eagle, thanks to what he called the most important shot of his season, his second to the par five hole. He made the cut right on the number and shot a 66 on Saturday, which is known in the golf world as "moving day." But even though he had managed to escape the outhouse, the penthouse seemed out of his reach. Then came one of the greatest final round comebacks within memory. His victory margin over Mickelson was four shots. Johnny Miller was the standard setter for final round heroics when he posted a 63 on a Sunday to win the U.S. Open. Miller built an entire career on that one memorable day. McIlroy may never shoot another 62, but he seems destined to be a force de tour for many years to come.
Is this the Messiah that the royal order of Tiger bashers has long awaited? After all, McIlroy on Sunday became the first golfer since Tiger Woods to win a PGA event before his 21st birthday. But before you get too carried away, remember it was only a year or so ago that Anthony Kim was going to be the anointed one. That is, if Camilo Villegas didn't pull Tiger's tail first. Before that there was Justin Rose and before him was Lee Westwood. They're all still young enough to challenge Woods, although Westwood is beginning to take on that unwanted burden of being labelled the best player never to win a major.
Westwood can take comfort in the fact that it wasn't too many years ago that Mickelson was carrying that load all by himself. Now it appears that Lefty may be ready to take on the Tiger taming role himself. Not that he'll ever match Woods for tour victories and majors won. He starts from too far behind and he's five years older than the 34-year-old Woods. But the best story to come out of Quail Hollow might well have been Mickelson's stellar showing just two weeks after his Masters victory. Mickelson shot a final round 68 and had McIlroy been merely brilliant, shot a 66, there would have been a playoff. The kid shoots a 67 and Phil wins. This is the kind of consistency Phil fanatics have long awaited. With the Players' championship right around the corner and Woods coming off the worst round of golf since he was a two-year-old, Mickelson is in position to snatch the World's No.1 ranking out of Tigers' hands.
All of a sudden this is beginning to look like Palmer vs. Nicklaus redux. Like Palmer, Mickelson is the crowd pleasing go-for-broke everyman who never met a shot he wouldn't take. Woods is the mega-talented, aloof shot maker who makes the golf purists swoon, just as Jack was in his day, although Nicklaus was never as stand-offish as Tiger tends to be. Woods vs. Mickelson may well be the face of golf for the next four or five years. But, inevitably, there will be a changing of the guard . Who will be the new face of golf? McIlroy? Kim? Villegas? Goodness, I've forgotten all about Sergio Garcia, haven't I? Well, Sergio is yesterday's news. Tomorrow's news makers likely will come from the trio mentioned above. But keep an eye on Ryo Ishikawa. Ishikawa is even younger (he's 18) than McIlroy and on Sunday he one-upped the Irishman by shooting 58--that's 58, folks--to win a professional tournament in Japan. How do you say "Hold that Tiger" in Japanese?
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Is there a better story in sports right now than that of Calvin Borel? Borel, who worked in obscurity for most of his first 40 years, is horse racing's new super star. His victory on Super Saver in Saturday's Kentucky Derby was his third in the last four Derbies and nobody had ever done that. Not Eddie Arcaro, not Willie Shoemaker, not Bill Hartack, not even that handy little guy named Sande made famous by a Grantland Rice lead. Borel's newfound fame seems well deserved. Before Saturday's race, cameras caught him with tears rolling down his cheeks during the playing of "My Old Kentucky Home." After he'd guided Super Saver to the finish line in his usual hug-the-rail style, Borel could be seen weeping again. Well, after all, the lyric is "weep no more my lady," not "weep no more my jockey." If I had a Derby horse I'd put him--or her--in Borel's hands. Then, after we'd won, we'd all go out and have a good cry.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
By Bob Markus
The NFL draft has become a cottage industry--except it's gotten so big you'd probably have to call it a mansion industry. There were 45 million viewers for the three-day extravaganza which ended Saturday and here's what they saw. Nothing. No dazzling runs. No crunching blocks. No thunderous hits. Not live, anyway. What they saw was a bunch of guys sitting around a desk and arguing about which player would be taken next and which player should be taken next and then explaining why they all turned out to be wrong. Invariably, whoever was selected, according to the panel, had a lot of "upside" and was an excellent choice. Apparently, Mel Kiper never met a player he didn't like, except Tim Tebow, whom he absolutely hated. Not personally, you understand, but as an NFL quarterback. A lot of people agreed with him, a glaring exception being Denver Broncos' coach, Josh McDaniels, who has gambled his career on Tebow.
My personal view is that McDaniels wins that gamble and if Tebow isn't the next John Elway he at least could be the next Joe Kapp.
So who is Mel Kiper and why should anyone care what he thinks? Kiper is the self-proclaimed draft guru and his greatest talent appears to be the ability to make people believe they should listen to him. Before there was Mel Kiper there was Jimmy the Greek, who was not a draft expert, but an oddsmaker. Actually, what he was was a very good p.r. man for Jimmy the Greek, who made more than a decent living with himself as the only product. Kiper has taken it to the next level. He has been producing a draft related magazine for nearly 30 years and has been a part of ESPN's draft coverage since 1984. He works hard at what he does, appears to have a lot of contacts among NFL scouts and executives and often is spot on in his evaluations. Then again he picked Notre Dame quarterback Jimmy Clausen to go fourth in the first round and the Irish star ended up being a second round pick, the 48th player chosen. Maybe what Kiper said was that Clausen would go forth. And he could always point out that, since the Carolina Panthers had no first round pick and they grabbed Clausen at the first opportunity, he was in a sense a first rounder.
Kiper was by no means alone in the high value he placed on Clausen. Just about everyone had him rated much higher than Tebow. So did I. In fact I thought Clausen was the best pro quarterback prospect in the draft, better than Sam Bradford, who was the first man chosen, despite having missed most of last season with a shoulder injury. Presumably, the draft evaluators of the 30 teams that passed on Clausen at least once (the Bears didn't draft until the third round and Clausen was long gone by then) knew something I don 't. In fact, I'm sure they know a lot of things that I don't. It's their business to know. Well, it used to be my business, too, even though I didn't bring the depth of football knowledge to the task that the pro football people possess. Yet I do know this much: the pros can be wrong. Horribly wrong. Think Ryan Leaf, a No.2 pick who ended up being a total bust as a pro quarterback. In fact, Leaf is the poster boy for NFL picks gone wrong, so much so that he was quoted this week as saying he's glad he wasn't chosen No.1 (over Peyton Manning) or the outcries would have been much worse. There is hope for Leaf, yet, however as DeMarcus Russell, the LSU quarterback the Oakland Raiders took with the No.1 pick a few years back, has been, well, not a flameout, more like a slowly dying ember.
I don't expect Bradford to be totally useless, but I don't expect him to become a super star either. The St. Louis Rams obviously do. We'll wait and see but my guess is as good as theirs. Think the NFL teams all know what they're doing? Then how did Tom Brady go til the fifth round before being drafted. Why did Kurt Warner never get drafted at all? In the late 1980s I was covering the Bears for the Chicago Tribune when they made a linebacker/defensive end from Ohio State their No. 1 draft pick. I was shocked. I had covered three or four Ohio State games in my previous role as national college sports writer and I had never seen this man make a tackle. Never heard his name called. But he could run a 4.6 40 and jump through the roof. He just couldn't do it when there was anyone standing in front of him.
For every high draft pick who fails, there's an unheralded late round pick who emerges as a star. Figuring out which is which is the challenge. For instance, I expect Golden Tate, the Notre Dame wide receiver taken with the 60th pick by Seattle, to be a star. The Dallas Cowboys obviously feel Dez Bryant will be better. We'll see. Maybe that's why the draft has become such a big deal. It's a game anyone can play. All you need is a TV set and an opinion.
The NFL draft has become a cottage industry--except it's gotten so big you'd probably have to call it a mansion industry. There were 45 million viewers for the three-day extravaganza which ended Saturday and here's what they saw. Nothing. No dazzling runs. No crunching blocks. No thunderous hits. Not live, anyway. What they saw was a bunch of guys sitting around a desk and arguing about which player would be taken next and which player should be taken next and then explaining why they all turned out to be wrong. Invariably, whoever was selected, according to the panel, had a lot of "upside" and was an excellent choice. Apparently, Mel Kiper never met a player he didn't like, except Tim Tebow, whom he absolutely hated. Not personally, you understand, but as an NFL quarterback. A lot of people agreed with him, a glaring exception being Denver Broncos' coach, Josh McDaniels, who has gambled his career on Tebow.
My personal view is that McDaniels wins that gamble and if Tebow isn't the next John Elway he at least could be the next Joe Kapp.
So who is Mel Kiper and why should anyone care what he thinks? Kiper is the self-proclaimed draft guru and his greatest talent appears to be the ability to make people believe they should listen to him. Before there was Mel Kiper there was Jimmy the Greek, who was not a draft expert, but an oddsmaker. Actually, what he was was a very good p.r. man for Jimmy the Greek, who made more than a decent living with himself as the only product. Kiper has taken it to the next level. He has been producing a draft related magazine for nearly 30 years and has been a part of ESPN's draft coverage since 1984. He works hard at what he does, appears to have a lot of contacts among NFL scouts and executives and often is spot on in his evaluations. Then again he picked Notre Dame quarterback Jimmy Clausen to go fourth in the first round and the Irish star ended up being a second round pick, the 48th player chosen. Maybe what Kiper said was that Clausen would go forth. And he could always point out that, since the Carolina Panthers had no first round pick and they grabbed Clausen at the first opportunity, he was in a sense a first rounder.
Kiper was by no means alone in the high value he placed on Clausen. Just about everyone had him rated much higher than Tebow. So did I. In fact I thought Clausen was the best pro quarterback prospect in the draft, better than Sam Bradford, who was the first man chosen, despite having missed most of last season with a shoulder injury. Presumably, the draft evaluators of the 30 teams that passed on Clausen at least once (the Bears didn't draft until the third round and Clausen was long gone by then) knew something I don 't. In fact, I'm sure they know a lot of things that I don't. It's their business to know. Well, it used to be my business, too, even though I didn't bring the depth of football knowledge to the task that the pro football people possess. Yet I do know this much: the pros can be wrong. Horribly wrong. Think Ryan Leaf, a No.2 pick who ended up being a total bust as a pro quarterback. In fact, Leaf is the poster boy for NFL picks gone wrong, so much so that he was quoted this week as saying he's glad he wasn't chosen No.1 (over Peyton Manning) or the outcries would have been much worse. There is hope for Leaf, yet, however as DeMarcus Russell, the LSU quarterback the Oakland Raiders took with the No.1 pick a few years back, has been, well, not a flameout, more like a slowly dying ember.
I don't expect Bradford to be totally useless, but I don't expect him to become a super star either. The St. Louis Rams obviously do. We'll wait and see but my guess is as good as theirs. Think the NFL teams all know what they're doing? Then how did Tom Brady go til the fifth round before being drafted. Why did Kurt Warner never get drafted at all? In the late 1980s I was covering the Bears for the Chicago Tribune when they made a linebacker/defensive end from Ohio State their No. 1 draft pick. I was shocked. I had covered three or four Ohio State games in my previous role as national college sports writer and I had never seen this man make a tackle. Never heard his name called. But he could run a 4.6 40 and jump through the roof. He just couldn't do it when there was anyone standing in front of him.
For every high draft pick who fails, there's an unheralded late round pick who emerges as a star. Figuring out which is which is the challenge. For instance, I expect Golden Tate, the Notre Dame wide receiver taken with the 60th pick by Seattle, to be a star. The Dallas Cowboys obviously feel Dez Bryant will be better. We'll see. Maybe that's why the draft has become such a big deal. It's a game anyone can play. All you need is a TV set and an opinion.
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