By Bob Markus
When things go wrong, as Humphrey Bogart noted in The Maltese Falcon, "somebody's got to take the fall." In the case of the Chicago Cubs, the fall guy turned out to be hitting coach Gerald Perry. Nothing too unusual about that. When teams with high expectations don't perform, it's usually either the hitting or pitching coach who pays the price, inevitably followed by the manager. In this case the manager, Lou Piniella, is virtually sack proof, having led the Cubs to division championships in each of his two seasons at the helm. Going into this season the Cubs were the consensus choice--along with the New York Mets--to be the National league representative in the world series. How anyone could be so presumptive, at least as far as the Cubs are concerned, is a mystery that Sam Spade himself couldn't solve. With apologies to W.H. Longfellow, hardly a man is now alive who remembers the Cubs of '45, the last Cubs team to reach the world series.
One of the reasons this was supposed to be that mythical "next year" Cubs fans have yearned for for more than a century was an offense that had scored the most runs in the National league a year ago--under the aegis of Gerald Perry. Now they were supposed to be even more potent since general manager Jim Hendry had signed Milton Bradley to a free agency contract. Bradley, who carries more baggage than a hotel bell hop, was coming off a season where he'd hit .321 and a career high 22 home runs. To make room for Bradley, Hendry had traded the versatile Mark DeRosa, who had 21 homers, also a career high, and played three infield positions plus the outfield for the Cubs. He also drove in four runs during the Cubs colossal choke job in the division championship series against the Dodgers. That was four more than the combined number of the Cubs four biggest sluggers--Aramis Ramirez, Derrek Lee, Alfonso Soriano, and Geovany Soto. The two moves, whether related or not, have turned out to be a massive mistake and if it had not been for Hendry's previous record of solid moves in building the team into a contender, it might have been his head that rolled instead of Perry's.
Perry was replaced by Von Joshua, who had performed a similar role for the crosstown White Sox from 1998-2001. More recently, Joshua had been the Cubs minor league hitting instructor, where he had tutored some of the current players like Ryan Theriot and Mike Fontenot. Both, while expressing regret at Perry's dismissal, said they felt comfortable with Joshua and gave him credit for some of their success. Of course, just how important a hitting coach is on a major league team is a matter of conjecture. Certainly they are changed more frequently than Imelda Marcos changed her shoes.
Very few men have made much of an imprint on the game in the role of hitting instructor. Probably the most famous was Charlie Lau, who first made his mark with the Kansas City Royals, where George Brett gave him much of the credit for Brett's becoming a Hall of Fame hitter. Lau's underlying principle was to hit the ball to all fields. Brett reached the 30 mark in home runs only once in his long career, despite possessing enormous power. I once saw him hit a ball almost to the roof of Yankee Stadium. Lau later came to the White Sox during a period when I was covering the team on a daily basis. After a while I could see Lau's influence in the way a hitter swung the bat, with a level stroke, releasing the top hand at impact. Lau himself was only a .255 lifetime batter in 11 major league seasons.
That is fairly typical of hitting instructors. Perr was a .265 hitter over 13 seasons with 59 total home runs. Merv Rettenmund, a well-regarded hitting coach, had just 66 career homers. Tommy McCraw, a classy first baseman for the White Sox when I first covered him was a lifetime .246 hitter with 75 home runs, never more than 11 in one season. Yet, he, too, became a highly regarded batting instructor.
One man who broke the mold, to an extent, was Lew Fonseca, who had a lifetime average of .316 and led the American league in 1929 with a .369 average for the Cleveland Indians. But he, too, was a spray hitter with only 31 lifetime homers, although he did knock in 103 runs in his breakout season of '29. Fonseca was one of the most interesting men I ever met. Born in San Francisco, he vividly recalled the 1906 earth quake. He was a pioneer in the use of film in baseball, the first producer of world series and All-Star game films and among the first to use film study as a batting instructor. He was still coaching Cubs hitters at the age of 82, Rick Monday and Bill Madlock among them. And they listened to him, too.
When he was managing the Washington Senators, Ted Williams was his own hitting coach, but nobody could coach the ability to follow the ball to impact with the bat, nor did Williams have a surfeit of patience. Joe DiMaggio was a spring training instructor for the Oakland A's when I first met him and he was one of the first to spot Reggie Jackson's enormous potential. Whether or not he ever actually coached Jackson, I don't know. "I don't help anyone unless they ask me," he told me. That, I came to understand, was DiMaggio's abiding principal. When I wondered aloud what he was doing in an Oakland uniform instead of the Yankee pinstripes he answered succinctly: "They never asked me."
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
By Bob Markus
Golf is unique among major sports in two ways. First, it's the only sport--except perhaps bowling--where the week-end warrior can, for one hole or one shot, compete with the pros.
I could stand at home plate from now until the Cubs win a world series and not get a hit off the softest tossing pitcher in the major leagues. I could run the football with Bronko Nagurski leading the way and never gain a yard against the NFL's most porous defense. Did someone mention the Detroit Lions? I could play quarterback behind the Seven Blocks of Granite and never complete a pass, even if the opposition was the Four Pillars of Salt. I could never score a basket against Michael Jordan or even Barack Obama and I doubt I could even get a shot off against most NBA players. As for hockey, I can't even skate let alone try to stop a Bobby Hull slap shot or score a goal against the worst net minder in the NFL.
I am, if not the world's worse golfer, at least somewhere in the bottom ten. Yet, one year playing in a sports writer's orientation round at Crooked Stick near Indianapolis, I played in the foursome right behind one headed by Nick Price, the previous year's PGA champion. On a par three hole, perhaps 150 yards over a small creek, I watched Price put his tee shot 12 feet from the pin. I don't know what club he used, probably an eight or nine iron. But when the green cleared, I pulled out a four wood and put it within eight feet. One shot in a lifetime of shanks and topped drives and total misses. But on that one shot I was better than the PGA champion.
The second thing that makes golf unique among sports is that most golf fans will never root for the underdog. How many fans were rooting for Ricky Barnes or Lucas Glover to win the U.S. Open? About as many as wanted Goliath to swat away that pebble and crush the little twerp who slung it.
It's always been that way. Outside of the state of Iowa did anyone want to see Davenport club pro Jack Fleck beat Ben Hogan in their 1955 playoff?
Did anyone who didn't attend Clemson want to see Lucas Glover beat Tiger Woods? Or even Phil Mickelson? Outside of a few thousand crazed New Yorkers how many golf fans would rather see Mickelson win his first U.S. Open than watch Tiger Woods win his fourth? Even counting the sympathy vote inspired by Amy Mickelson's bout with cancer, I'd wager that Tiger would be the people's choice.
I'm as guilty as the next guy. I've been a Tiger Woods fan ever since he won his first Masters by demolishing the field. Why? Because he's the closest thing to perfection the golf world has ever seen and every golfer yearns for perfection, even if it's just one hole or one swing. With Tiger you know that the perfect swing, the perfect hole, the perfect round are right around the dogleg and heading your way.
Even when he was 11 shots behind the leaders entering the fourth round late Sunday night, Tiger fans did not give up hope. Not until he missed birdie putts on the last two holes Monday did most of us count him out. As it was, he fell only four shots shy of forcing a playoff, with a chance to join the short list of four-time Open winners. Bobby Jones. Ben Hogan. Jack Nicklaus. And, inevitably, Tiger Woods.
Woods actually lost the tournament in the first round when he was even par after 14 holes and went four over on the four closing holes. For the rest of the tournament he played Glover dead even. He may even have lost the tournament before it started when he drew an early morning tee time for the first round. He played his first six holes in weather so miserable anyone tuning in would think he was watching a re-run of an old British Open. Most of the field, including Mickelson, Glover and Barnes, did not start play until Friday, a day made for scoring.
After Woods finished his 72d hole and it was clear that only the total collapse of the half dozen or so golfers ahead of him would get him into a playoff, the attention turned to Mickelson. If Tiger couldn't win, let it be Phil. And Phil had his chance. A brilliant eagle on the 13th jumped him to the top of the leader board. As it happened, all he had to do to force a playoff was to par out. But, as usual, he flubbed his big chance, missing makeable par putts on 16 and 17.
With Phil out of it, the focus went to David Duval, once the world's No. 1 player, but ranked No. 882 in the world heading into the Open. Who's No. 883? Your uncle Maury? How the high and mighty Duval fell so far and so fast following his 2001 U.S. Open win is a mystery deeper than why John Daly continues to be so popular after continually throwing an amazing talent into the nearest garbage bin.
Duval bounced into the picture with a run of three consecutive birdies on holes 14 through 16, then immediately bounced right out with a bogey at the par 3 17th. That left Glover, who had only one birdie all day, albeit a timely one at 16, with a two-shot lead going into the final hole. There was no one left except Glover's playing partner, Barnes, who had distinguished himself by falling off the face of the earth after starting the day at seven under and tied for the lead. But wait! What if Barnes, two shots behind, but surging a little, should birdie the 18th while Glover bogeyed? That would force a playoff and wouldn't that make a good story?
Yes it would, but it didn't happen, and so we are left with Lucas Glover, an almost unknown pro with one previous tour victory who has somehow, including the $1,350,000 he earned by winning the Open on Monday, mined about $10,000,000 out of golf's mother load in the last five years. So that's your story. Live with it.
Golf is unique among major sports in two ways. First, it's the only sport--except perhaps bowling--where the week-end warrior can, for one hole or one shot, compete with the pros.
I could stand at home plate from now until the Cubs win a world series and not get a hit off the softest tossing pitcher in the major leagues. I could run the football with Bronko Nagurski leading the way and never gain a yard against the NFL's most porous defense. Did someone mention the Detroit Lions? I could play quarterback behind the Seven Blocks of Granite and never complete a pass, even if the opposition was the Four Pillars of Salt. I could never score a basket against Michael Jordan or even Barack Obama and I doubt I could even get a shot off against most NBA players. As for hockey, I can't even skate let alone try to stop a Bobby Hull slap shot or score a goal against the worst net minder in the NFL.
I am, if not the world's worse golfer, at least somewhere in the bottom ten. Yet, one year playing in a sports writer's orientation round at Crooked Stick near Indianapolis, I played in the foursome right behind one headed by Nick Price, the previous year's PGA champion. On a par three hole, perhaps 150 yards over a small creek, I watched Price put his tee shot 12 feet from the pin. I don't know what club he used, probably an eight or nine iron. But when the green cleared, I pulled out a four wood and put it within eight feet. One shot in a lifetime of shanks and topped drives and total misses. But on that one shot I was better than the PGA champion.
The second thing that makes golf unique among sports is that most golf fans will never root for the underdog. How many fans were rooting for Ricky Barnes or Lucas Glover to win the U.S. Open? About as many as wanted Goliath to swat away that pebble and crush the little twerp who slung it.
It's always been that way. Outside of the state of Iowa did anyone want to see Davenport club pro Jack Fleck beat Ben Hogan in their 1955 playoff?
Did anyone who didn't attend Clemson want to see Lucas Glover beat Tiger Woods? Or even Phil Mickelson? Outside of a few thousand crazed New Yorkers how many golf fans would rather see Mickelson win his first U.S. Open than watch Tiger Woods win his fourth? Even counting the sympathy vote inspired by Amy Mickelson's bout with cancer, I'd wager that Tiger would be the people's choice.
I'm as guilty as the next guy. I've been a Tiger Woods fan ever since he won his first Masters by demolishing the field. Why? Because he's the closest thing to perfection the golf world has ever seen and every golfer yearns for perfection, even if it's just one hole or one swing. With Tiger you know that the perfect swing, the perfect hole, the perfect round are right around the dogleg and heading your way.
Even when he was 11 shots behind the leaders entering the fourth round late Sunday night, Tiger fans did not give up hope. Not until he missed birdie putts on the last two holes Monday did most of us count him out. As it was, he fell only four shots shy of forcing a playoff, with a chance to join the short list of four-time Open winners. Bobby Jones. Ben Hogan. Jack Nicklaus. And, inevitably, Tiger Woods.
Woods actually lost the tournament in the first round when he was even par after 14 holes and went four over on the four closing holes. For the rest of the tournament he played Glover dead even. He may even have lost the tournament before it started when he drew an early morning tee time for the first round. He played his first six holes in weather so miserable anyone tuning in would think he was watching a re-run of an old British Open. Most of the field, including Mickelson, Glover and Barnes, did not start play until Friday, a day made for scoring.
After Woods finished his 72d hole and it was clear that only the total collapse of the half dozen or so golfers ahead of him would get him into a playoff, the attention turned to Mickelson. If Tiger couldn't win, let it be Phil. And Phil had his chance. A brilliant eagle on the 13th jumped him to the top of the leader board. As it happened, all he had to do to force a playoff was to par out. But, as usual, he flubbed his big chance, missing makeable par putts on 16 and 17.
With Phil out of it, the focus went to David Duval, once the world's No. 1 player, but ranked No. 882 in the world heading into the Open. Who's No. 883? Your uncle Maury? How the high and mighty Duval fell so far and so fast following his 2001 U.S. Open win is a mystery deeper than why John Daly continues to be so popular after continually throwing an amazing talent into the nearest garbage bin.
Duval bounced into the picture with a run of three consecutive birdies on holes 14 through 16, then immediately bounced right out with a bogey at the par 3 17th. That left Glover, who had only one birdie all day, albeit a timely one at 16, with a two-shot lead going into the final hole. There was no one left except Glover's playing partner, Barnes, who had distinguished himself by falling off the face of the earth after starting the day at seven under and tied for the lead. But wait! What if Barnes, two shots behind, but surging a little, should birdie the 18th while Glover bogeyed? That would force a playoff and wouldn't that make a good story?
Yes it would, but it didn't happen, and so we are left with Lucas Glover, an almost unknown pro with one previous tour victory who has somehow, including the $1,350,000 he earned by winning the Open on Monday, mined about $10,000,000 out of golf's mother load in the last five years. So that's your story. Live with it.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
By Bob Markus
It's just as well that Joe Buck will have to wait three months before hosting the next "Joe Buck Live" show on HBO. It may take the popular sports caster that long to recover from the sneak attack that nearly derailed his debut early Tuesday morning. I don't make a habit of watching TV after midnight unless there's a boxing match on, so I was just about to turn the set off when up popped Joe Buck on one of HBO's many channels. I don't know Joe Buck, although I knew his dad, Jack Buck, the beloved long-time voice of the St. Louis Cardinals post Harry Caray.
I probably would have hit the off button on my remote except that Buck revealed that his inaugural guest was going to be Brett Favre, making his first public statements since the start of his most recent brouhaha. I was mildly interested in what Favre had to say, although I don't know him, either. The only time I ever interviewed him was at the Green Bay Packers training camp before his first season with the Pack. I had been assigned to do a story on the Packers for The Chicago Tribune's preseason pro football guide. I first talked with Mike Holmgren, who had just gotten the Packers' head coaching job after a successful career as an assistant with the San Francisco 49ers. The big story in camp, other than Holmgren himself, as it is in many training camps, was the battle over who would be the starting quarterback.
The three candidates were Don Majkowski a.k.a. The Majik Man, who had been a starter for the Packers before suffering a serious injury two seasons earlier; Ty Detmer, a Heisman Trophy winner from BYU, who, deemed too small to play quarterback in the NFL, had been drafted in the ninth round that year; and Favre, who had thrown exactly four passes in his one year with the Atlanta Falcons, completing none, before being traded to the Packers that spring. I talked with all three quarterbacks, but frankly don't recall much of what any of them said. I did get the impression that Favre was confident of his ability despite his lack of experience. He had not been Falcons Coach Jerry Glanville's choice and the feisty coach once was quoted as saying it would take a plane crash before he'd put Favre in a game. When he did finally call Favre's number, it was more like a train wreck. The future Hall-of-Famer's first pass was intercepted and returned for a touchdown. Nevertheless, Favre, who had played his college ball at Southern Mississippi, was regarded well enough for the Packers to give up a first round draft choice. Smart move. By the time that 1992 season was three games old, Majkowski had been injured twice and Favre became the starting quarterback. He would start 269 consecutive games, one of his many NFL records.
I had covered many Packer games in the past and was quite familiar with Bart Starr and Lynn Dickey, two of Favre's predecessors, although they usually aren't linked in the same sentence. I had even covered Dickey in college, after he led Kansas State to a stunning upset over Oklahoma and I was sent to cover his next game, at Missouri, which he nearly pulled out, too. The point is that Dickey was no Bart Starr, but he was no Bart Simpson, either. However, by 1992 I was in the twilight of my Tribune career and no longer covering even the occasional pro football game. But I was well aware of Favre's brilliant career and was watching live from my hotel room in Hongkong the day he led the Packers to a Super Bowl victory over the New England Patriots.
Lately, Favre has been more roasted than toasted. His brilliant 16-year Packer career had ended sadly. The last pass he threw as a Packer was intercepted, in overtime, setting up the winning field goal for the New York Giants in the NFL championship game. Then, after a tearful retirement speech, Favre changed his mind and wanted to come back to the Pack. By that time the Packers had already decided on their new quarterback and offered Brett only the chance to compete for a backup role. The rest of the story is well-known. The trade to the Jets, the fast start, the ugly finish; another retirement, another comeback. Maybe. Despite all the reports circulating that Favre would come back once more and play for the Minnesota Vikings, there was no confirmation--or denial--from Favre. Now he was going to open himself up to questions and I was curious to hear the answers, curious, too, to see if Joe Buck would be a hardball or softball interviewer.
I thought Buck did a professional job with Favre, who confirmed that he had spoken with the Vikings, revealed he'd had surgery on his torn right biceps from noted orthopod James Andrews, and said his final decision was more or less out of his hands. It all depends on how and when his right arm heals. "If it's like it was last year," he said. "I won't play." Favre admitted he'd played the last half dozen games when he probably shouldn't have. "I could throw the ball," he said, "but instead of throwing it here," gesturing to his left, "I'd throw it there (about five yards further right)" Later, while discussing the reaction of fans to his ongoing saga, Favre postulated that there are those who will love him no matter what he does, those who will hate him no matter what he accomplishes, "and a lot of guys who don't give a shit." After a moment of silence Favre added: "This is HBO; I've wanted to do that for a long time."
The scatalogical remark was a mere prelude of things to come. After a dual interview with former Cowboys receiver Michael Irvin and current Bengals pass catcher Chad Ochocinco, during which Buck continued to ask the hard questions, the show blew up in his face when he brought in three comedians. I'd never heard of any of them, but I'll remember one of them--Artie Lange--for a long time. This may be HBO, where sex and crude language are staples, but I haven't heard so many F bombs since my golfing buddy hit three balls out of bounds on the same hole. He also insinuated that Buck might have something in common with his namesake, the boy toy character played by Jon Voight in the movie "Midnight Cowboy." Buck tried to steer the conversation back to a more civil discourse, but Lange, in essence, hijacked the remainder of the show.
In his preamble, Buck said the show would be produced only four times a year. That gives him until September to line up his next subjects--and to recover from the after shock of his debut show. Should you watch it? If you're a sports fan, definitely. But if you're a parent, please make sure that the little ones are out of earshot.
It's just as well that Joe Buck will have to wait three months before hosting the next "Joe Buck Live" show on HBO. It may take the popular sports caster that long to recover from the sneak attack that nearly derailed his debut early Tuesday morning. I don't make a habit of watching TV after midnight unless there's a boxing match on, so I was just about to turn the set off when up popped Joe Buck on one of HBO's many channels. I don't know Joe Buck, although I knew his dad, Jack Buck, the beloved long-time voice of the St. Louis Cardinals post Harry Caray.
I probably would have hit the off button on my remote except that Buck revealed that his inaugural guest was going to be Brett Favre, making his first public statements since the start of his most recent brouhaha. I was mildly interested in what Favre had to say, although I don't know him, either. The only time I ever interviewed him was at the Green Bay Packers training camp before his first season with the Pack. I had been assigned to do a story on the Packers for The Chicago Tribune's preseason pro football guide. I first talked with Mike Holmgren, who had just gotten the Packers' head coaching job after a successful career as an assistant with the San Francisco 49ers. The big story in camp, other than Holmgren himself, as it is in many training camps, was the battle over who would be the starting quarterback.
The three candidates were Don Majkowski a.k.a. The Majik Man, who had been a starter for the Packers before suffering a serious injury two seasons earlier; Ty Detmer, a Heisman Trophy winner from BYU, who, deemed too small to play quarterback in the NFL, had been drafted in the ninth round that year; and Favre, who had thrown exactly four passes in his one year with the Atlanta Falcons, completing none, before being traded to the Packers that spring. I talked with all three quarterbacks, but frankly don't recall much of what any of them said. I did get the impression that Favre was confident of his ability despite his lack of experience. He had not been Falcons Coach Jerry Glanville's choice and the feisty coach once was quoted as saying it would take a plane crash before he'd put Favre in a game. When he did finally call Favre's number, it was more like a train wreck. The future Hall-of-Famer's first pass was intercepted and returned for a touchdown. Nevertheless, Favre, who had played his college ball at Southern Mississippi, was regarded well enough for the Packers to give up a first round draft choice. Smart move. By the time that 1992 season was three games old, Majkowski had been injured twice and Favre became the starting quarterback. He would start 269 consecutive games, one of his many NFL records.
I had covered many Packer games in the past and was quite familiar with Bart Starr and Lynn Dickey, two of Favre's predecessors, although they usually aren't linked in the same sentence. I had even covered Dickey in college, after he led Kansas State to a stunning upset over Oklahoma and I was sent to cover his next game, at Missouri, which he nearly pulled out, too. The point is that Dickey was no Bart Starr, but he was no Bart Simpson, either. However, by 1992 I was in the twilight of my Tribune career and no longer covering even the occasional pro football game. But I was well aware of Favre's brilliant career and was watching live from my hotel room in Hongkong the day he led the Packers to a Super Bowl victory over the New England Patriots.
Lately, Favre has been more roasted than toasted. His brilliant 16-year Packer career had ended sadly. The last pass he threw as a Packer was intercepted, in overtime, setting up the winning field goal for the New York Giants in the NFL championship game. Then, after a tearful retirement speech, Favre changed his mind and wanted to come back to the Pack. By that time the Packers had already decided on their new quarterback and offered Brett only the chance to compete for a backup role. The rest of the story is well-known. The trade to the Jets, the fast start, the ugly finish; another retirement, another comeback. Maybe. Despite all the reports circulating that Favre would come back once more and play for the Minnesota Vikings, there was no confirmation--or denial--from Favre. Now he was going to open himself up to questions and I was curious to hear the answers, curious, too, to see if Joe Buck would be a hardball or softball interviewer.
I thought Buck did a professional job with Favre, who confirmed that he had spoken with the Vikings, revealed he'd had surgery on his torn right biceps from noted orthopod James Andrews, and said his final decision was more or less out of his hands. It all depends on how and when his right arm heals. "If it's like it was last year," he said. "I won't play." Favre admitted he'd played the last half dozen games when he probably shouldn't have. "I could throw the ball," he said, "but instead of throwing it here," gesturing to his left, "I'd throw it there (about five yards further right)" Later, while discussing the reaction of fans to his ongoing saga, Favre postulated that there are those who will love him no matter what he does, those who will hate him no matter what he accomplishes, "and a lot of guys who don't give a shit." After a moment of silence Favre added: "This is HBO; I've wanted to do that for a long time."
The scatalogical remark was a mere prelude of things to come. After a dual interview with former Cowboys receiver Michael Irvin and current Bengals pass catcher Chad Ochocinco, during which Buck continued to ask the hard questions, the show blew up in his face when he brought in three comedians. I'd never heard of any of them, but I'll remember one of them--Artie Lange--for a long time. This may be HBO, where sex and crude language are staples, but I haven't heard so many F bombs since my golfing buddy hit three balls out of bounds on the same hole. He also insinuated that Buck might have something in common with his namesake, the boy toy character played by Jon Voight in the movie "Midnight Cowboy." Buck tried to steer the conversation back to a more civil discourse, but Lange, in essence, hijacked the remainder of the show.
In his preamble, Buck said the show would be produced only four times a year. That gives him until September to line up his next subjects--and to recover from the after shock of his debut show. Should you watch it? If you're a sports fan, definitely. But if you're a parent, please make sure that the little ones are out of earshot.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
By Bob Markus
Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the prettiest one of all. First it was the Wicked Queen, then it was Snow White. But who knows which celebrated beauty came after that. Snow White, after all, must be a little long in the tooth by now. Is she still lovelier than Jean Harlow? Brigitte Bardot? Marilyn Monroe? Elizabeth Taylor? Bo Derek? We know the magic mirror was inclined to be fickle, apparently giving its blessing to every rosy-cheeked ingenue who came along.
In the immediate aftermath of Roger Federer's French Open championship Sunday, there were those who would swear they saw the young swiss star's face in the magic mirror. Roger Federer, they said, was the greatest tennis player of them all, having tied Pete Sampras' record of 14 Grand Slam titles and claiming, at long last, the career Slam.
But when I look into the magic mirror, the reflection is fuzzy. Is that the face of Rod Laver I see? The left-handed Aussie, nicknamed The Rocket, after all won all four Grand Slam events--the Australian, French, Wimbledon, and U.S. Opens--in the same year twice, once as an amateur, once as a professional. He won 11 in all and who knows how many he might have won had he not been banned for five years after turning pro in 1962 immediately after claiming his first Slam?
But wait. could it be Bjorn Borg's face I see? Borg has neither an Australian nor a U.S. Open on his resume, but he won on the clay at Roland Garros six times and on the grass at Wimbledon five times, demonstrating sufficient versatility to squeeze into the picture. Only Sampras, with his seven Wimbledon titles, has won more times there than Borg. And what about Sampras himself? He never won the French Open, but in addition to his domination at Wimbledon won the U.S. Open five times.
Looking deeper into the mirror I think I can see, just barely, the face of Bill Tilden, winner of a record seven U.S. Opens and three Wimbledon titles. He was considered the alltime greatest during his time, a time when the Australian and French Opens were not a factor and there was no Grand Slam, only the Double Whammy.
The mirror reflection gets murkier yet. Can that be who I think it is? Yes, it's clearing up now. And there seem to be two of them. Why, it's Jack Kramer and Pancho Gonzales. They don't have the multiple major tournament victories of the other claimants, but they have a good excuse. They didn't play very long as amateurs and they played in an era when professionals were barred from playing the major tournaments. Kramer won the U. S. Open back-to-back in 1946 and '47 after serving three years in the military in World War II. Then he turned professional, leaving him ineligible to play either Wimbledon or the U.S. Open (a name that lives in irony since it was open only to amateurs). Gonzales won the next two U.S. Opens before, he too, turned pro.
Professional tennis in that period was nothing like it is today. There were no tournaments per se, merely a series of matches between the top players. It should come as no surprise that Bobby Riggs promoted the first big money match long before anyone ever herd of Billie Jean King. It featured a cross-country barnstorming tour against the powerful Kramer, who easily dispatched the soft-balling Riggs, 69 matches to 20. Strengthening his claim to being the alltime best, Kramer then annihilated Gonzales, 96 to 27. Kramer retired and took over promotion of the pro tennis tour and Gonzales became the biggest star. He was the No. 1 ranked professional player for eight consecutve years in the 50s and 60s and in 1970, at 41, was still good enough to beat Laver in five sets in a heralded winner-take-all match in Madison Square Garden.
Ten years ago, Sports Illustrated magazine ranked its 20 favorite athletes of all time and Gonzales placed 15th. "If earth was on the line in a tennis match," the magazine noted, "the guy you'd want serving to save mankind is Pancho Gonzales."
Tony Trabert, who was decimated by Gonzales on one tour, once said of his tormentor: "Gonzales is the greatest natural athlete tennis has ever known. The way he can move that 6-foot 3 inch frame around the court is almost unbelievable; he's just like a big cat."
But Frank Sedgman, one of the top stars of their era, called Kramer the greatest of all time, ranking Gonzales second. But that was then and this is now. Tennis in the Kramer-Gonzales era was dominated by players from the United States and Australia, with an occasional Frenchman in the mix. The game has since gone global, with Ivan Lendl of Czechoslovakia, Ilie Nastase of Hungary, and the Swedish born Borg among those bridging the gap to the present day international array of stars that includes Federer, Spain's Rafael Nadal and Marat Safin of Russia. The United States, which had pretty much kept pace with the rest of the world when the likes of Arthur Ashe, Jimmy Connors, and John McEnroe were waving the flag, has fallen out of the picture. Why? Perhaps the few legitimate U.S. hopefuls like Andy Roddick will have to look at themselves in a mirror. But they might not like what they see.
Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the prettiest one of all. First it was the Wicked Queen, then it was Snow White. But who knows which celebrated beauty came after that. Snow White, after all, must be a little long in the tooth by now. Is she still lovelier than Jean Harlow? Brigitte Bardot? Marilyn Monroe? Elizabeth Taylor? Bo Derek? We know the magic mirror was inclined to be fickle, apparently giving its blessing to every rosy-cheeked ingenue who came along.
In the immediate aftermath of Roger Federer's French Open championship Sunday, there were those who would swear they saw the young swiss star's face in the magic mirror. Roger Federer, they said, was the greatest tennis player of them all, having tied Pete Sampras' record of 14 Grand Slam titles and claiming, at long last, the career Slam.
But when I look into the magic mirror, the reflection is fuzzy. Is that the face of Rod Laver I see? The left-handed Aussie, nicknamed The Rocket, after all won all four Grand Slam events--the Australian, French, Wimbledon, and U.S. Opens--in the same year twice, once as an amateur, once as a professional. He won 11 in all and who knows how many he might have won had he not been banned for five years after turning pro in 1962 immediately after claiming his first Slam?
But wait. could it be Bjorn Borg's face I see? Borg has neither an Australian nor a U.S. Open on his resume, but he won on the clay at Roland Garros six times and on the grass at Wimbledon five times, demonstrating sufficient versatility to squeeze into the picture. Only Sampras, with his seven Wimbledon titles, has won more times there than Borg. And what about Sampras himself? He never won the French Open, but in addition to his domination at Wimbledon won the U.S. Open five times.
Looking deeper into the mirror I think I can see, just barely, the face of Bill Tilden, winner of a record seven U.S. Opens and three Wimbledon titles. He was considered the alltime greatest during his time, a time when the Australian and French Opens were not a factor and there was no Grand Slam, only the Double Whammy.
The mirror reflection gets murkier yet. Can that be who I think it is? Yes, it's clearing up now. And there seem to be two of them. Why, it's Jack Kramer and Pancho Gonzales. They don't have the multiple major tournament victories of the other claimants, but they have a good excuse. They didn't play very long as amateurs and they played in an era when professionals were barred from playing the major tournaments. Kramer won the U. S. Open back-to-back in 1946 and '47 after serving three years in the military in World War II. Then he turned professional, leaving him ineligible to play either Wimbledon or the U.S. Open (a name that lives in irony since it was open only to amateurs). Gonzales won the next two U.S. Opens before, he too, turned pro.
Professional tennis in that period was nothing like it is today. There were no tournaments per se, merely a series of matches between the top players. It should come as no surprise that Bobby Riggs promoted the first big money match long before anyone ever herd of Billie Jean King. It featured a cross-country barnstorming tour against the powerful Kramer, who easily dispatched the soft-balling Riggs, 69 matches to 20. Strengthening his claim to being the alltime best, Kramer then annihilated Gonzales, 96 to 27. Kramer retired and took over promotion of the pro tennis tour and Gonzales became the biggest star. He was the No. 1 ranked professional player for eight consecutve years in the 50s and 60s and in 1970, at 41, was still good enough to beat Laver in five sets in a heralded winner-take-all match in Madison Square Garden.
Ten years ago, Sports Illustrated magazine ranked its 20 favorite athletes of all time and Gonzales placed 15th. "If earth was on the line in a tennis match," the magazine noted, "the guy you'd want serving to save mankind is Pancho Gonzales."
Tony Trabert, who was decimated by Gonzales on one tour, once said of his tormentor: "Gonzales is the greatest natural athlete tennis has ever known. The way he can move that 6-foot 3 inch frame around the court is almost unbelievable; he's just like a big cat."
But Frank Sedgman, one of the top stars of their era, called Kramer the greatest of all time, ranking Gonzales second. But that was then and this is now. Tennis in the Kramer-Gonzales era was dominated by players from the United States and Australia, with an occasional Frenchman in the mix. The game has since gone global, with Ivan Lendl of Czechoslovakia, Ilie Nastase of Hungary, and the Swedish born Borg among those bridging the gap to the present day international array of stars that includes Federer, Spain's Rafael Nadal and Marat Safin of Russia. The United States, which had pretty much kept pace with the rest of the world when the likes of Arthur Ashe, Jimmy Connors, and John McEnroe were waving the flag, has fallen out of the picture. Why? Perhaps the few legitimate U.S. hopefuls like Andy Roddick will have to look at themselves in a mirror. But they might not like what they see.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
By Bob Markus
I'm a little like the Robert Duvall character in "Apocalypse Now" who exults, "I love the smell of napalm in the morning." I've never smelled napalm at any hour and I doubt that a sniff of the lethal stuff would send me into peals of ecstacy. What I love is boxing and a good many people think that's just as bad. I know it's not politically correct to enjoy watching two men trying to club each other senseless. But I can't help it. I've loved boxing since I was a small boy and I love it still. I know that boxing is brutal. I've seen two men die in the ring, one on television and one up front and personal. I've sat at ringside often enough to know it's not a good idea to wear your best clothes because there's a good chance they'll be blood-spattered before the night is over. Yes, boxing is brutal, but apparently not brutal enough for some. By all indications, the so-called sweet science is losing out to the more pungeant sport of mixed martial arts, in all its forms. Personally, I can't watch it. Whenever I inadvertently tune in a bout where the contestants are barefooted I immediately switch channels. Sharon Robb, the boxing writer for my local paper, the South Florida Sun-Sentinel, does an excellent job, especially considering the fact that in addition to boxing she covers participant sports in all its permutations. There are days when her byline fills out half the sports section. But increasingly, her Sunday columns are more about kung fu style fighting than classic boxing. That may be because the martial arts shows are consistently outdrawing the local boxing cards. Perhaps that is just the natural order of things in these times when movies and television dramas assault us with ever increasing violence. On the other hand I have to admit that despite the bloody mayhem that characterizes MMA and ultimate cage fighting, there have been far more fatalities in the ring than in the cage. In fact I'm not sure if anyone has ever died as the result of an MMA fight. There is some hope for us boxing fans. Legendary promoter Don King, he of the electric hairdo, has joined forces with a local tribe of Indians to try to revive the dying sport in South Florida. His most recent effort drew a near capacity crowd to the Seminole Hardrock Hotel and Casino and was televised live on HBO.
Put a boxing match on TV, any boxing match, and I'll watch it. I'll watch the Friday night fights on ESPN2, the sporadic live boxing shows om Showtime and HBO; I'll even watch reruns of fights that were held months ago. Since I've never heard of any of the fighters involved and don't know who won the fight, I'm perfectly content. I'm not sure how this passion for boxing came about. Most likely it's because my father and I used to watch televised boxing matches together. It was one of the few things we shared at that time of my life. He even took me to some live fight shows and I can remember seeing local Chicago favorites like Johnny Bratton (who briefly was a world champion) and Bob Satterfield, a light heavyweight who had a punch like a mule and a chin like rare crystal. When you went to a Satterfield fight you knew somebody was going down. That was the golden age of boxing. There were televised bouts every Wednesday night and every Friday night, one sponsored by Gillette, the other by Ballantine's beer. And the best fighters of that era were featured. Willie Pep and Sandy Saddler squared off four or five times for the featherweight championship, nasty fights all. A welterweight championship fight between Bratton and Charlie Fusari remains one of the best fights I've ever seen. There was Sugar Ray Robinson vs. Jake LaMotta several times. Robinson vs. Bobo Olson, Robinson vs.Carmen Basilio. There were Tony Zale, Marcel Cerdan, two Rockys, Graziano and Marciano (but not Balboa). Unfortunately Joe Louis was past his prime and I never saw him at his best. Back then the most recognizable voice in boxing was that of Don Dunphy, the ringside blow-by-blow announcer. Today it's Michael Buffer, whose ubiquitous, throaty "Uh, let's get ready to r-u-u-u-m -m-m-b-l-e" is more famous than most of the fighters he introduces. There were only eight world champions back in the day and I knew who they all were, with the possible exception of the flyweight champion, who was usually from some exotic place like Thailand.
Today there are at least twice as many divisions and an infinite number of sanctioning bodies and I probably couldn't name more than three or four legitimate champions. I know that the most recognized heavyweight champion and the next four highest ranked heavyweights are all from the former Soviet Union. Since two of the heavyweight title holders are brothers who refuse to fight each other I doubt there will be a unified heavyweight champion in my life time.
I'm a little like the Robert Duvall character in "Apocalypse Now" who exults, "I love the smell of napalm in the morning." I've never smelled napalm at any hour and I doubt that a sniff of the lethal stuff would send me into peals of ecstacy. What I love is boxing and a good many people think that's just as bad. I know it's not politically correct to enjoy watching two men trying to club each other senseless. But I can't help it. I've loved boxing since I was a small boy and I love it still. I know that boxing is brutal. I've seen two men die in the ring, one on television and one up front and personal. I've sat at ringside often enough to know it's not a good idea to wear your best clothes because there's a good chance they'll be blood-spattered before the night is over. Yes, boxing is brutal, but apparently not brutal enough for some. By all indications, the so-called sweet science is losing out to the more pungeant sport of mixed martial arts, in all its forms. Personally, I can't watch it. Whenever I inadvertently tune in a bout where the contestants are barefooted I immediately switch channels. Sharon Robb, the boxing writer for my local paper, the South Florida Sun-Sentinel, does an excellent job, especially considering the fact that in addition to boxing she covers participant sports in all its permutations. There are days when her byline fills out half the sports section. But increasingly, her Sunday columns are more about kung fu style fighting than classic boxing. That may be because the martial arts shows are consistently outdrawing the local boxing cards. Perhaps that is just the natural order of things in these times when movies and television dramas assault us with ever increasing violence. On the other hand I have to admit that despite the bloody mayhem that characterizes MMA and ultimate cage fighting, there have been far more fatalities in the ring than in the cage. In fact I'm not sure if anyone has ever died as the result of an MMA fight. There is some hope for us boxing fans. Legendary promoter Don King, he of the electric hairdo, has joined forces with a local tribe of Indians to try to revive the dying sport in South Florida. His most recent effort drew a near capacity crowd to the Seminole Hardrock Hotel and Casino and was televised live on HBO.
Put a boxing match on TV, any boxing match, and I'll watch it. I'll watch the Friday night fights on ESPN2, the sporadic live boxing shows om Showtime and HBO; I'll even watch reruns of fights that were held months ago. Since I've never heard of any of the fighters involved and don't know who won the fight, I'm perfectly content. I'm not sure how this passion for boxing came about. Most likely it's because my father and I used to watch televised boxing matches together. It was one of the few things we shared at that time of my life. He even took me to some live fight shows and I can remember seeing local Chicago favorites like Johnny Bratton (who briefly was a world champion) and Bob Satterfield, a light heavyweight who had a punch like a mule and a chin like rare crystal. When you went to a Satterfield fight you knew somebody was going down. That was the golden age of boxing. There were televised bouts every Wednesday night and every Friday night, one sponsored by Gillette, the other by Ballantine's beer. And the best fighters of that era were featured. Willie Pep and Sandy Saddler squared off four or five times for the featherweight championship, nasty fights all. A welterweight championship fight between Bratton and Charlie Fusari remains one of the best fights I've ever seen. There was Sugar Ray Robinson vs. Jake LaMotta several times. Robinson vs. Bobo Olson, Robinson vs.Carmen Basilio. There were Tony Zale, Marcel Cerdan, two Rockys, Graziano and Marciano (but not Balboa). Unfortunately Joe Louis was past his prime and I never saw him at his best. Back then the most recognizable voice in boxing was that of Don Dunphy, the ringside blow-by-blow announcer. Today it's Michael Buffer, whose ubiquitous, throaty "Uh, let's get ready to r-u-u-u-m -m-m-b-l-e" is more famous than most of the fighters he introduces. There were only eight world champions back in the day and I knew who they all were, with the possible exception of the flyweight champion, who was usually from some exotic place like Thailand.
Today there are at least twice as many divisions and an infinite number of sanctioning bodies and I probably couldn't name more than three or four legitimate champions. I know that the most recognized heavyweight champion and the next four highest ranked heavyweights are all from the former Soviet Union. Since two of the heavyweight title holders are brothers who refuse to fight each other I doubt there will be a unified heavyweight champion in my life time.
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