By Bob Markus

Like trying to decide whether to select the Porterhouse steak or the grilled veal chop for the main course--or perhaps even the char-grilled salmon--this week's sports news has provided me with an embarrassment of riches. Unlike some weeks, when I struggle to come up with a timely subject, there is no end to the possibilities.

I could, for instance, comment on the Players' championship in golf, an event which was notable not only for Henrik Stenson's superb final round on a course with greens so sun-slicked they might have been mistaken for a series of giant greased griddles, but for Tiger Woods' stunning failure to mount even the slightest challenge. Even though he entered the final round five shots behind leader Alex Cjeka, those of us who have followed Tiger's career figured the world's No.1 ranked player had Cjeka right where he wanted him--as playing partner in the final group on Sunday. Had any of us known that Cjeka, whose driving had been metronomically near perfect for three days, was going to start hitting the ball to places few humans had ever visited before and wind up shooting a 79, we'd have conceded the trophy to Woods and started channel surfing for something a little less mundane. At the very least we expected Woods to come down to the final hole with a chance to win. But it became clear from the outset that this was not Tiger's day. Or Tiger's week. Or Tiger's venue. He couldn't drive the ball in the fairway. He couldn't snuggle his iron shots close enough to the diabolically placed pins. He couldn't putt. But he still finished eighth. Think of that. This man is so good that even when he plays poorly he's a miracle shot or two away from winning. There are 150 or so players who start out each week hoping to conquer a given golf course. And every week, whether he plays well or poorly, Tiger Woods is among the top 10. I don't have the data to prove it, but I suspect no golfer ever has played to that level of consistency.

Another angle I might pursue is the revelation that Los Angeles Dodgers super star Manny Ramirez has been suspended for 50 games for failing a drug test. Ramirez reportedly took a female fertility drug and since it is unlikely that the carefree slugger is trying to get pregnant, big league officials could only conclude that he took the banned substance because it is a masking agent for steroids. It no longer surprises me when a baseball player is pinched for a drug indiscretion. Not when megastars like Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, and Alex Rodriguez have been accused of, and in A-Rod's case confessed to, using performance enhancing drugs. I'm not completely convinced that taking steroids enhances performance all that much. For a body builder or weight lifter, yes. But no matter how juiced up a slugger is, he still has to make hard contact with a little white ball thrown by some hulking hurler who might himself be on steroids for all we know. Drugs of some sort have been around baseball almost since its infancy. I've been told, although I've never seen it, that many clubhouses had jars of "greenies" or "uppers" lying around for players to dip into. Considering the length of the season and the constant daily grind of a baseball campaign, it would be surprising if players did not look for something to get them through the dog days. What about so-called energy drinks? Should they be banned, too? Just asking.

A third intriguing story is that Kentucky Derby winning jockey Calvin Borel is giving up his ride on Mine That Bird, forfeiting an admitedly slim chance to ride a Triple Crown winner. Once it was announced that Rachel Alexandra, the filly who romped home 20 lengths ahead of the field in the Kentucky Oaks, was going to challenge the big boys in the Preakness, it would have been surprising if Borel had not decided to switch. Borel had been aboard the filly for the rocket ride in the Oaks the day before his masterly ride on Mine That Bird in the Derby and, asked which of the two horses was the better, unhesitatingly had named Rachel Alexandra. Although it was not 100 per cent guaranteed that the filly would be in the Preakness, she was the early line favorite. Fillies have won Triple Crown races before and as recently as two years ago Rags to Riches won the Preakness. The shortest of the Triple Crown events, the Preakness is probably the least likely venue to produce a calamity, although try telling that to the owners of Barbaro, who broke down at the outset of that 2007 race. Still, there is always an injury concern when a filly challenges male horses. Only last year, Eight Belles had to be destroyed after finishing second in the Kentucky Derby, but going down with two broken front ankles. But the one race that still is the elephant in the living room when it comes to boy-girl horse racing, is the fateful match race between Ruffian and Foolish Pleasure in 1975. Ruffian was the Wonder Woman of horses, undefeated and winner of the Filly Triple Crown. As beloved as any race horse before or since, Ruffian was giving a good account of herself until reaching the mile pole at Belmont Park, where she broke her leg, but attempted to keep running. Emergency surgery was performed in an attempt to save her, but in the end she had to be euthanized.

But I'm not going to write any of those stories this week. Instead I'm going to concentrate on an event that has personal meaning for me. My last fulltime beat as a sports writer for The Chicago Tribune was the Blackhawks. I had been a Hawks' fan since the late forties, a time when there was so little interest in hockey in Chicago that a 13-year-old boy could go the The Stadium by himself on a game night and, when asked if he was by himself, be given a seat in the front row of the balcony, squarely on the red line. By the time I started writing for The Tribune, things had changed. Tommy Ivan had been brought in from the Detroit Red Wings to put together the team that, in 1961, would win the Stanley Cup, ironically over Ivan's former team. Although they have not won the Cup since then, by the time I started writing a column for The Tribune, the Blackhawks were the hottest thing in town, filling the Stadium nightly with their charismatic stars like Bobby Hull, Stan Mikita, and goalie Glenn Hall. I got to know Hull and Mikita fairly well. Hull in particular was a dream to cover, always willing to spend time with a writer, often to the dismay of his teammates who were waiting on the bus for the Golden Jet to join them. In the old Stadium the press box was behind one goal at mezzanine level and one night Mikita rocketed a slap shot that skipped off a stick and flew into the press box, where I reflexively tried to catch it. Afterwards in the dressing room, Stan looked at me and said, "are you crazy?" It had never occurred to me that he would follow the puck all the way to its final resting place. After I was replaced as a columnist in the winter of 1978, I lost touch with hockey until one day about 15 years later I got a call at home from our sports editor, who told me to get out to The Stadium because the beat writer had some domestic problem and would not be back for awhile. And, by the way, give us a feature story for Sunday on Wayne Gretzky. So I covered the Blackhawks for the final month of that season and found out I liked it. Hockey players seemed to be more accessible and more congenial than the other athletes I had been dealing with. Besides, at the time, I was at the mercy of an assistant sports editor who kept giving me assignments that made me want to throw up. One I recall was about the Korean-American Olympics, a story that required me to head for the Korean-American enclave on Chicago's North side and throw myself on the mercy of the event's p.r. man. I asked him to get me an interview with any athlete who spoke English. He gave me a bowler who was almost inarticulate. That is the only time in my career that I just mailed it in. Didn't give a damn. So, when the hockey beat opened up I asked for it and got it. It was a good decision. The Hawks were coached at the time by Daryl Sutter, a good guy if a little sardonic. Their best players were Jeremy Roenick, Chris Chelios,and Tony Amonte, all fairly easy to get along with. Roenick, in particular, was a "go to" guy and remains so to this day. Only goalie Ed Belfour gave me any problems and that was only sporadically. Once he stopped speaking to me for weeks after I wrote a story insinuating that he and backup goalie Jeff Hackett were near-equals. Then, out of the blue, he called me at home and asked if I needed anything from him. The Blackhawks got all the way to the conference finals that year, but lost to the Red Wings in a tough series. After one more season I left The Tribune and forgot about the Blackhawks along with most of their fandom. A building which used to be alive with 20,000 screaming fans, became almost tomblike when the fans deserted them. They had not even been in the playoffs since 2002. Then last night (Monday) I realized that the Hawks were playing in the Western Conference semi-finals and had a chance to wrap up the series on home ice. I knew none of the players, but I got wrapped up in the game. The Hawks were leading 2-1 when I tuned in in the second period. Then another Chicago goal made it 3-1 and I thought it was going to be a lock. But two quick goals by Vancouver tied the game and the Canucks went ahead twice in the third period before the Blackhawks, led by their young guns, Patrick Kane and Jonathon Toews, scored three quick goals to wrap up a 7-5 victory and advance to the conference final, where they expect to play their longtime antagonists, the Red Wings. I'll know at least one of the players in that series since Chelios, who was a graybeard when I was covering more than a dozen years ago, is still performing for Detroit. I like Chelly and wish him the best, but my heart will be with the Blackhawks this time.