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.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
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.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
By Bob Markus
This is how cynical we've all become: When golfer Brian Davis called a two-stroke penalty on himself on the first hole of a sudden death playoff Sunday there were fans calling into talk shows scoffing at the notion the Englishman had any credit coming to him for his act of sportsmanship. "He might have been worried that someone taping the tournament at home had spotted the infraction and would report it to the USGA," was one caller's suggestion. If that would have happened and Davis had signed an incorrect score card, he would have been disqualified and, instead of the $615, 600 he earned as runner-up to winner Jim Furyk, would have gone home with nothing but a ruined reputation.
That is possible. In today's world of ubiquitous electronic devices, not only is Big Brother watching us, but a whole bunch of nieces, nephews, and total strangers, too. But Davis would have had to be mighty quick-witted to instantly run through his options and come up with the honorable solution. Having birdied the 72d hole to tie Furyk for the lead, Davis had hit a horrid second shot from just about the same distance he had nailed a six iron to within 15 feet moments earlier. The ball landed in a rock-studded ravine and, although marginally playable, was sitting in a nest of vegetation--grass, twigs, reeds, you name it. By the rules of golf, Davis was not permitted to ground his club nor clear away any of the impediments before striking the ball.
Clearly, he was in trouble. Furyk was sitting two putts away from a routine par, so Davis likely would have to get the ball up and down in two strokes to prolong the playoff. The CBS announcers were speculating that he might be better off taking a penalty for an unplayable lie and hoping to chip in for his par. Instead, Davis went for it and hit an amazing shot that found the putting surface, although he would have had to drain a lengthy putt--or hoped Furyk would three putt--to halve the hole. It would have been a slim chance, but at least it would have been a chance. As it turned out, Furyk never had to use his putter. Davis had barely completed his follow through when he called for a tour official and reported that he thought he might have touched a blade of grass on his back swing. After watching the replay several times, the official ruled that Davis, indeed, had touched a tiny reed as he drew his wedge back. The reed barely moved before settling back in place and the ball didn't move at all. It's highly unlikely a viewer at home would have caught the slight motion without the benefit of a replay. Davis could have kept quiet and possibly have recorded his first Tour victory.
But golfers are taught to follow the rules of golf and most of them do so, without question and without fail. Sometimes golfers cheat whether it be overtly or accidentally. Both Vijay Singh and Colin Montgomerie have been accused of cheating at some point in their careers. Both have denied it. Golf is supposed to be a self policing sport. From their first lesson, whether it be by a golf pro or a friend or relative, golfers are taught to revere the game and respect its rules. Most of us try and most of us fail. In my regular foursome there is one of us who concedes himself five foot putts if he has already taken two or three. Another one frequently forgets penalty strokes. I admit I don't count whiffs if nobody is watching, although I do count them in a sand trap, providing I at least take some sand. I'm not proud of it, but there you are.
Golf is a beautiful game and part of its beauty lies in its adherence to an ethical code that is not present in other sports. Baseball players do not tell the umpire they trapped that sinking liner and basketball players don't tell the referee they stepped in front of their opponent in order to draw a charge. Football players don't tell the officials they stepped on the out of bounds line before coming back to make a catch. Even boxers will climb the ring ropes and throw both arms in the air--the universal victory gesture--in a futile attempt to influence a decision that has already been rendered. Some call-in fans have wondered why Davis is being commended for doing what the rules and mores of the game require. To them my suggestion is: take $410, 400 (the difference between first and second place money in the Heritage Classic) out of the bank and give it to your next door neighbor. Then maybe you will start to understand.
This is how cynical we've all become: When golfer Brian Davis called a two-stroke penalty on himself on the first hole of a sudden death playoff Sunday there were fans calling into talk shows scoffing at the notion the Englishman had any credit coming to him for his act of sportsmanship. "He might have been worried that someone taping the tournament at home had spotted the infraction and would report it to the USGA," was one caller's suggestion. If that would have happened and Davis had signed an incorrect score card, he would have been disqualified and, instead of the $615, 600 he earned as runner-up to winner Jim Furyk, would have gone home with nothing but a ruined reputation.
That is possible. In today's world of ubiquitous electronic devices, not only is Big Brother watching us, but a whole bunch of nieces, nephews, and total strangers, too. But Davis would have had to be mighty quick-witted to instantly run through his options and come up with the honorable solution. Having birdied the 72d hole to tie Furyk for the lead, Davis had hit a horrid second shot from just about the same distance he had nailed a six iron to within 15 feet moments earlier. The ball landed in a rock-studded ravine and, although marginally playable, was sitting in a nest of vegetation--grass, twigs, reeds, you name it. By the rules of golf, Davis was not permitted to ground his club nor clear away any of the impediments before striking the ball.
Clearly, he was in trouble. Furyk was sitting two putts away from a routine par, so Davis likely would have to get the ball up and down in two strokes to prolong the playoff. The CBS announcers were speculating that he might be better off taking a penalty for an unplayable lie and hoping to chip in for his par. Instead, Davis went for it and hit an amazing shot that found the putting surface, although he would have had to drain a lengthy putt--or hoped Furyk would three putt--to halve the hole. It would have been a slim chance, but at least it would have been a chance. As it turned out, Furyk never had to use his putter. Davis had barely completed his follow through when he called for a tour official and reported that he thought he might have touched a blade of grass on his back swing. After watching the replay several times, the official ruled that Davis, indeed, had touched a tiny reed as he drew his wedge back. The reed barely moved before settling back in place and the ball didn't move at all. It's highly unlikely a viewer at home would have caught the slight motion without the benefit of a replay. Davis could have kept quiet and possibly have recorded his first Tour victory.
But golfers are taught to follow the rules of golf and most of them do so, without question and without fail. Sometimes golfers cheat whether it be overtly or accidentally. Both Vijay Singh and Colin Montgomerie have been accused of cheating at some point in their careers. Both have denied it. Golf is supposed to be a self policing sport. From their first lesson, whether it be by a golf pro or a friend or relative, golfers are taught to revere the game and respect its rules. Most of us try and most of us fail. In my regular foursome there is one of us who concedes himself five foot putts if he has already taken two or three. Another one frequently forgets penalty strokes. I admit I don't count whiffs if nobody is watching, although I do count them in a sand trap, providing I at least take some sand. I'm not proud of it, but there you are.
Golf is a beautiful game and part of its beauty lies in its adherence to an ethical code that is not present in other sports. Baseball players do not tell the umpire they trapped that sinking liner and basketball players don't tell the referee they stepped in front of their opponent in order to draw a charge. Football players don't tell the officials they stepped on the out of bounds line before coming back to make a catch. Even boxers will climb the ring ropes and throw both arms in the air--the universal victory gesture--in a futile attempt to influence a decision that has already been rendered. Some call-in fans have wondered why Davis is being commended for doing what the rules and mores of the game require. To them my suggestion is: take $410, 400 (the difference between first and second place money in the Heritage Classic) out of the bank and give it to your next door neighbor. Then maybe you will start to understand.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
By Bob Markus
I'm sitting here trying to think of something different to say about Tiger Woods and all that keeps running through my mind, like the ribbon that runs at the bottom of your screen when you're watching Sports Center, is book titles. When I think about Tiger Woods I think "An American Tragedy" or "Paradise Lost." Portraying Woods as a tragic figure on the face of it seems a stretch. The man, after all, is still a billionaire, and, as he proved once again on Sunday, still one of the world's best golfers. But, as they say, the bigger they come "The Harder They Fall." Woods' plunge from grace was spectacular because of the distance he had to fall. That is the essence of Greek tragedy is it not? The fall of the Gods, the fatal flaw (see Achilles); only the mighty need apply.
Tiger's performance in the Masters was difficult to quantify. For three rounds he did what he always says is his goal: He gave himself a chance. He sometimes didn't look good doing it, but Sunday found him in the next to last pairing, four strokes out of the lead, but with only two men to catch. Even after three early bogeys dropped him seven shots back he wasn't through. An improbable eagle two on the par four seventh hole was the launching pad for one of those runs that used to send chills through his fellow competitors. Not this time. His bid for a fifth green jacket came to an end on the 14th when he turned what looked like a sure birdie into a bogey by three putting from 4 1/2 feet. A god no more, but merely a mortal. Still, he eagled the next hole and birdied the last--and fished his ball out of the cup with a gesture of disgust that told us all we needed to know about his mental state. For most golfers who had gone through what Woods had gone through, a tie for fourth in the Masters would seem to be a positive result. But for Tiger Woods these days there are no moral victories (pun very definitely intended).
Then there was Phil Mickelson. For all the hand wringing over poor Tiger's problems and the mental stress they caused, it must not be overlooked that he brought it all on himself. Mickelson's inner concerns ran much deeper than Tiger's, which made his ultimate triumph that much sweeter. While Woods was worrying about which sleeping partner would slither out from underneath the bed next, Mickelson was fearing for his wife Amy's life. The contrast between the two men could not have been any clearer than it was on this magnificent Masters Sunday. While Amy Mickelson, still fighting breast cancer, greeted her husband with an emotional embrace after his popular victory, Tiger's wife Erin was an ocean away, both physically and symbolically, leaving Woods (I hope) alone to deal with what he considered failure. As it turned out, Woods would have needed a 64 on Sunday to even tie Mickelson, who pretty much wrapped up the tournament with his audacious approach through a gap in the trees to within eagle range on the par five 13th. That he missed the short eagle putt is irrelevant.
What is relevant is that Mickelson, at least for now, is Woods' equal. He appears, at last, to have enough confidence in his game to take on Tiger at any venue. He still has to prove it, however. Sunday's victory left him still 10 major titles behind Woods, although his third green jacket is only one fewer than Woods has in his closet. Mickelson quite likely won some of Woods' former fans with his Masters performance. Many of Woods' fans, however, are standing by their man. I have to confess I'm one of them. Does that mean I condone his indiscretions? No, but it's not up to me to condemn them, either. I'm a Tiger Woods fan because he's the closest thing to perfection that we've seen on a golf course. I root for the story. I admire talent. Frank Sinatra was not a very nice man, I've been told, but I'd still rather listen to him sing than to Perry Como.
I'm sitting here trying to think of something different to say about Tiger Woods and all that keeps running through my mind, like the ribbon that runs at the bottom of your screen when you're watching Sports Center, is book titles. When I think about Tiger Woods I think "An American Tragedy" or "Paradise Lost." Portraying Woods as a tragic figure on the face of it seems a stretch. The man, after all, is still a billionaire, and, as he proved once again on Sunday, still one of the world's best golfers. But, as they say, the bigger they come "The Harder They Fall." Woods' plunge from grace was spectacular because of the distance he had to fall. That is the essence of Greek tragedy is it not? The fall of the Gods, the fatal flaw (see Achilles); only the mighty need apply.
Tiger's performance in the Masters was difficult to quantify. For three rounds he did what he always says is his goal: He gave himself a chance. He sometimes didn't look good doing it, but Sunday found him in the next to last pairing, four strokes out of the lead, but with only two men to catch. Even after three early bogeys dropped him seven shots back he wasn't through. An improbable eagle two on the par four seventh hole was the launching pad for one of those runs that used to send chills through his fellow competitors. Not this time. His bid for a fifth green jacket came to an end on the 14th when he turned what looked like a sure birdie into a bogey by three putting from 4 1/2 feet. A god no more, but merely a mortal. Still, he eagled the next hole and birdied the last--and fished his ball out of the cup with a gesture of disgust that told us all we needed to know about his mental state. For most golfers who had gone through what Woods had gone through, a tie for fourth in the Masters would seem to be a positive result. But for Tiger Woods these days there are no moral victories (pun very definitely intended).
Then there was Phil Mickelson. For all the hand wringing over poor Tiger's problems and the mental stress they caused, it must not be overlooked that he brought it all on himself. Mickelson's inner concerns ran much deeper than Tiger's, which made his ultimate triumph that much sweeter. While Woods was worrying about which sleeping partner would slither out from underneath the bed next, Mickelson was fearing for his wife Amy's life. The contrast between the two men could not have been any clearer than it was on this magnificent Masters Sunday. While Amy Mickelson, still fighting breast cancer, greeted her husband with an emotional embrace after his popular victory, Tiger's wife Erin was an ocean away, both physically and symbolically, leaving Woods (I hope) alone to deal with what he considered failure. As it turned out, Woods would have needed a 64 on Sunday to even tie Mickelson, who pretty much wrapped up the tournament with his audacious approach through a gap in the trees to within eagle range on the par five 13th. That he missed the short eagle putt is irrelevant.
What is relevant is that Mickelson, at least for now, is Woods' equal. He appears, at last, to have enough confidence in his game to take on Tiger at any venue. He still has to prove it, however. Sunday's victory left him still 10 major titles behind Woods, although his third green jacket is only one fewer than Woods has in his closet. Mickelson quite likely won some of Woods' former fans with his Masters performance. Many of Woods' fans, however, are standing by their man. I have to confess I'm one of them. Does that mean I condone his indiscretions? No, but it's not up to me to condemn them, either. I'm a Tiger Woods fan because he's the closest thing to perfection that we've seen on a golf course. I root for the story. I admire talent. Frank Sinatra was not a very nice man, I've been told, but I'd still rather listen to him sing than to Perry Como.
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