By Bob Markus
The college football season, my favorite season, has already kicked off, baseball is just beginning its sweet September song, and the New York Giants open defense of their Super bowl title in two days. So why am I still writing about the Olympics? Because I promised. And not being the presidential candidate for either party, I tend to keep my promises.
At the end of last week's column (I prefer to think of myself as a columnist rather than a bloggist), I had quoted Mark Spitz as saying that Michael Phelps, who had just eclipsed Spitz's record seven gold medals in Olympic swimming, was "maybe the greatest athlete of all time." No way, I responded, with the promise of explaining myself this week.
I remember years ago, when I was an embryo columnist for The Chicago Tribune, writing that Arnold Palmer could not be Athlete of the Year because golfer's weren't athletes. I had in mind the fact that there were pro golfers with their bellies hanging over their belts and others so skinny they could be mistaken for flag sticks. A few weeks later I happened to be sitting next to Palmer at a luncheon when he broached the subject, gently chiding me and explaining why I was wrong. He emphasized the intense focus required on every shot over a four-day period and the mental stress involved, the ability to perform under pressure.
Thinking it over, I now agree that golfers and race drivers and, yes, even swimmers, have a case for being acclaimed as Athletes of the Year. But that is a transitory honor, and I wouldn't be surprised if Phelps were to be named Male Athlete of the Year for 2008, even though I personally believe that Jamaican sprinter Usain Bolt was the most gifted athlete of the Beijing Games.
But greatest athlete of all-time? That takes more than the ability to swim faster for a short distance than any one in the history of the known world. The Olympic motto is "swifter, higher, stronger," and, for me, you'd have to excel in at least two out of the three to even be considered the greatest athlete of all time.
So, if Phelps had also won gold in, say, the platform dive he could figure in this discussion. If Bolt had added the long jump title to his 100 and 200 meter victories, he could be in the mix. Carl Lewis won four consecutive golds in the long jump and another five in the 100 and 200 meter sprints. Jesse Owens won those same three events in the 1936 "Nazi Olympics." They'd both be on my ballot.
Traditionally, the winner of the Olympic decathlon is recognized as the world's best athlete, which makes sense, inasmuch as all three skills are involved in 10 events over two gruelling days. But, in part because NBC's TV coverage all but ignored track and field, the 2008 decathlon winner, Bryan Clay, has been mostly unappreciated, while earlier decathlon winners like Bob Mathias, Rafer Johnson, Bill Toomey, and Bruce Jenner all were lionized in their day. Legend has it that when King Gustav of Sweden gave Jim Thorpe his gold medal in the 1912 Stockholm Games, he declared, "You, sir, are the greatest athlete in the world."
He was right and not just because Thorpe had won both the pentathlon and decathlon in the same Olympics. Thorpe also was a Hall of Fame football player both as an amateur and a professional. He was a two-time All-America for the Carlisle Indian school, which won the national championship in 1912 after going 11-1 the previous year. In its championship season Carlisle beat Army 27-6 in a game in which Thorpe ran 92 yards for a touchdown on one play and 97 yards the next play when the first run was wiped out by a penalty.
After the Olympics, Thorpe played major league baseball for the New York Giants and Cincinnati Reds. In six years he played in 289 games, batting only .252 with seven home runs. As a baseball player he is best remembered for driving in the only run in the celebrated double no-hit game between Fred Toney and Hippo Vaughn, won by Toney's Reds, 1-0, in 10 innings.
He later played for the Canton Bulldogs in the fledgling National Football League and even barnstormed with an All-American Indian pro basketball team. All of which points to Thorpe as the greatest athlete ever. But, as my friend Lee Corso would say, "not so fast, my friend."
There is one other multi-talented athlete I would present for your consideration. My choice for greatest athlete ever is--the Babe.
No, not Babe Ruth, although had he not gone into the Hall of Fame as the greatest over-all hitter of all-time, he surely would have made it as a pitcher. In the three years in which he was a fulltime starting pitcher he had a 65-33 combined record (18-8, 23-12, 24-13) and in one season completed 35 of his 38 starts. His record of 29 2/3 scoreless innings in the world series, established in 1918, lasted until 1961. Ruth is the only one-sport performer I would even consider for the title World's Greatest Athlete.
The Babe I'm talking about is Babe Didrikson Zaharias. All-America in basketball. Winner of two gold medals and a silver in the 1932 Olympics. One of the top five women golfers--ever. Only woman to make the cut in a men's PGA tournament. And have I mentioned that she once barnstormed with the House of David baseball team, the only woman and the only beardless person on the team? The stuff of legends.
As a basketball player, Babe Didrikson led her AAU team to the 1931 national championship. In the 1932 AAU track championships, then the equivalent of the Olympic Trials, she entered eight events, won five of them, all in world record time, and tied for first in a sixth. The lone entrant for her team, she won the team championship all by herself.
Although she had qualified for the Olympics in six events, the rules of the time permitted her to compete in only three. She won gold in the javelin and 80 meters hurdles, then cleared the high jump at the same height as teammate Jean Shiley, but was awarded only the silver medal because of her head first style, not as readily accepted then as it became in the post Fosbury Flop era.
Then she reinvented herself. Took up a new sport. Took on a new name. Although she won an amateur golf tournament in 1932, she did not get serious about the game until 1935 when she took lessons from a pro for the first time. By then she had lost her amateur status because her name appeared in a car ad. She would get it back in 1943 and at one time won 17 straight amateur tournaments.
In the interim she would play--and fail to make the cut--in the 1938 Los Angeles Open. But she got a consolation prize. One of her playing partners was George Zaharias, a professional wrestler from Colorado known as "The Crying Greek from Cripple Creek." In less than a year they were married and, as Babe Zaharias, she would make the cut in three men's tournaments and take the golf world, women's division, by storm. A founding member of the LPGA, she won 41 LPGA events.
She won 10 of what at the time were major tournaments for women, four of them as an amateur. In 1950 she won all three of them. Her last victory in a major tournament came at the 1954 Women's U.S. Open, which she won only a month after surgery for the colon cancer that would kill her two years later. She was 45 when she died.
There have been athletes good enough in two sports to play and even star as professionals. None in my memory has dominated more sports than The Babe. As for Michael Phelps, congratulations for a job well done. See you in four years. Maybe by then you'll have added to your repertoire, taken up water polo or channel swimming, perhaps. Then we'll have this discussion again.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
By Bob Markus
From the window of my 15th floor condominium apartment in Ft. Lauderdale, I would be able to see the International Swimming Hall of Fame were it not for the intervening beach front hotel. At any rate, for the past 10 years I have walked by it several times a week on my way to my health club. I have never been in it. Probably never will be.
A non-swimmer, I probably haven't been in a swimming pool since the day I had to jump in and rescue my 3-year-old daughter. She recently turned 41. Since then my idea of going swimming is to find a chair poolside, crack open a book, and order a margarita.
Maybe that's why I can't buy into the notion that Michael Phelps' eight gold medals in the Olympic swimming competition represented the greatest feat in athletic history--or even Olympic games history. Certainly, Phelps deserves congratulations for his unprecedented feat. Eight for eight is eight for eight and you can't do any better than that unless you enter nine events. Some day somebody will, but for now eight for eight is as good as it gets.
But lets have some perspective here. First of all, in winning his eight gold medals, Phelps swam a total of 1,500 meters--the metric mile. Emil Zatopek, a Czechoslovakian runner, went 35 times that far in winning the 5,000 meters, 10,000 meters, and marathon races in the 1952 Olympics. Ethiopian runner Abebe Bikila twice won the 26-plus mile Olympic marathon running barefooted. Well, of course, Phelps competed barefooted, too, so call that a wash, so to speak.
Then there's this. Swimming is a minor sport, NBC and the Chinese government not withstanding. So is gymnastics. The Olympic Games have always been anchored by track and field. Track is the sun and the other sports revolve around it like the planets. If this were not so they'd have put the swimming pool in the middle of the 91,000 seat Birds' Nest stadium.
Throughout the history of the modern games, the great stories have come from the track and field competion. When they coined the Olympic motto, "swifter, higher, stronger," it is obvious they were talking about running, jumping, and throwing--all of whcih, incidentally, are required in the decathlon, an event I have yet to bring to the discussion. So let's discuss it. Whose the greater athlete, Bob Mathias, who won two Olympic decathlons, the first as a teenager, or Phelps? Decathlete Rafer Johnson or Phelps?
Tales of Olympic glory by track and field athletes would fill a book--and have--several times over. Harrison Dillard winning the 100 meters in 1948 after having failed to make the USA Olympic team in his specialty, the high hurdles, and barely coming in third in the 100 meter trials. Native American Billy Mills, shaving 50 seconds off his personal best, to win the 10,000 meters in 1964. Jesse Owens, winning four gold medals to ruin the 1936 Games for host Adolf Hitler. Paavo Nurmi being the first to win the 5,000 and 10,000 meter runs in the same Olympics, and Peter Snell doing the same for the 800-1500 combo.
Until Mark Spitz won seven gold medals in the 1972 Munich Games, the most famous Olympic swimmers were Duke Kahanamoku, Johnny Weissmuller, and Eleanor Holm. Kahanomoku, winner of three gold medals in 1912 through 1920, was most noted for introducing surfing to the world. He put Hawaii on the map a quarter century before Japan tried to bomb it off the map. As the movie's Tarzan, Weissmuller, winner of five gold medals in swimming (1924-1928), became famous by beating himself on the chest long before it became fashionable for athletes to pound their pecs every time they made the routine play they were getting paid to make. As for Holm, her claim to fame ws getting tossed off the 1936 swimming team by Olympic czar Avery Brundage for sipping champagne too copiously on the voyage across the Atlantic.
It's clear to me that the Chinese scheduled the events in which they were the strongest--swimming and diving and gymnastics--in prime television time in the United States. NBC honchos eagerly went along, knowing that they had a compelling story line in Phelps and that gymnastics held great appeal for the female audience. Until Olga Korbut captivated the U.S. television audience in 1972, nobody paid any attention to gymnastics.
In fact, I covered the '72 Olympics for the Chicago Tribune and I never heard of Olga Korbut until I got back home and heard people rave about her. I did see Romanian gymnast Nadia Comenici come as close to perfection as anyone is likely to get in 1976. Nadia, by the way, was 14 years old at the time and nobody made a fuss about it.
The result of the skewed scheduling of events in the just-completed games was that the two hours plus that NBC devoted to the marathon run probably equalled the time they gave the rest of the track meet. For the most part, the little bit of track competition that was shown came at the cost of sitting through endless hours of gymnastic routines or--even worse--platform diving. Although I have always felt that the 1,500 meter run was the glamour event of the Games, I to this day do not know who won the metric mile in these 2008 Games. If anybody out there knows, please let me in on the secret.
I leave you with this gracious quote from Mark Spitz: "Not only is this guy (Phelps) the greatest swimmer of all time and the greatest Olympian of all time, he's maybe the greatest athlete of all time." Not even close, Mr. Spitz, not even close. Next week I'll tell you why.
From the window of my 15th floor condominium apartment in Ft. Lauderdale, I would be able to see the International Swimming Hall of Fame were it not for the intervening beach front hotel. At any rate, for the past 10 years I have walked by it several times a week on my way to my health club. I have never been in it. Probably never will be.
A non-swimmer, I probably haven't been in a swimming pool since the day I had to jump in and rescue my 3-year-old daughter. She recently turned 41. Since then my idea of going swimming is to find a chair poolside, crack open a book, and order a margarita.
Maybe that's why I can't buy into the notion that Michael Phelps' eight gold medals in the Olympic swimming competition represented the greatest feat in athletic history--or even Olympic games history. Certainly, Phelps deserves congratulations for his unprecedented feat. Eight for eight is eight for eight and you can't do any better than that unless you enter nine events. Some day somebody will, but for now eight for eight is as good as it gets.
But lets have some perspective here. First of all, in winning his eight gold medals, Phelps swam a total of 1,500 meters--the metric mile. Emil Zatopek, a Czechoslovakian runner, went 35 times that far in winning the 5,000 meters, 10,000 meters, and marathon races in the 1952 Olympics. Ethiopian runner Abebe Bikila twice won the 26-plus mile Olympic marathon running barefooted. Well, of course, Phelps competed barefooted, too, so call that a wash, so to speak.
Then there's this. Swimming is a minor sport, NBC and the Chinese government not withstanding. So is gymnastics. The Olympic Games have always been anchored by track and field. Track is the sun and the other sports revolve around it like the planets. If this were not so they'd have put the swimming pool in the middle of the 91,000 seat Birds' Nest stadium.
Throughout the history of the modern games, the great stories have come from the track and field competion. When they coined the Olympic motto, "swifter, higher, stronger," it is obvious they were talking about running, jumping, and throwing--all of whcih, incidentally, are required in the decathlon, an event I have yet to bring to the discussion. So let's discuss it. Whose the greater athlete, Bob Mathias, who won two Olympic decathlons, the first as a teenager, or Phelps? Decathlete Rafer Johnson or Phelps?
Tales of Olympic glory by track and field athletes would fill a book--and have--several times over. Harrison Dillard winning the 100 meters in 1948 after having failed to make the USA Olympic team in his specialty, the high hurdles, and barely coming in third in the 100 meter trials. Native American Billy Mills, shaving 50 seconds off his personal best, to win the 10,000 meters in 1964. Jesse Owens, winning four gold medals to ruin the 1936 Games for host Adolf Hitler. Paavo Nurmi being the first to win the 5,000 and 10,000 meter runs in the same Olympics, and Peter Snell doing the same for the 800-1500 combo.
Until Mark Spitz won seven gold medals in the 1972 Munich Games, the most famous Olympic swimmers were Duke Kahanamoku, Johnny Weissmuller, and Eleanor Holm. Kahanomoku, winner of three gold medals in 1912 through 1920, was most noted for introducing surfing to the world. He put Hawaii on the map a quarter century before Japan tried to bomb it off the map. As the movie's Tarzan, Weissmuller, winner of five gold medals in swimming (1924-1928), became famous by beating himself on the chest long before it became fashionable for athletes to pound their pecs every time they made the routine play they were getting paid to make. As for Holm, her claim to fame ws getting tossed off the 1936 swimming team by Olympic czar Avery Brundage for sipping champagne too copiously on the voyage across the Atlantic.
It's clear to me that the Chinese scheduled the events in which they were the strongest--swimming and diving and gymnastics--in prime television time in the United States. NBC honchos eagerly went along, knowing that they had a compelling story line in Phelps and that gymnastics held great appeal for the female audience. Until Olga Korbut captivated the U.S. television audience in 1972, nobody paid any attention to gymnastics.
In fact, I covered the '72 Olympics for the Chicago Tribune and I never heard of Olga Korbut until I got back home and heard people rave about her. I did see Romanian gymnast Nadia Comenici come as close to perfection as anyone is likely to get in 1976. Nadia, by the way, was 14 years old at the time and nobody made a fuss about it.
The result of the skewed scheduling of events in the just-completed games was that the two hours plus that NBC devoted to the marathon run probably equalled the time they gave the rest of the track meet. For the most part, the little bit of track competition that was shown came at the cost of sitting through endless hours of gymnastic routines or--even worse--platform diving. Although I have always felt that the 1,500 meter run was the glamour event of the Games, I to this day do not know who won the metric mile in these 2008 Games. If anybody out there knows, please let me in on the secret.
I leave you with this gracious quote from Mark Spitz: "Not only is this guy (Phelps) the greatest swimmer of all time and the greatest Olympian of all time, he's maybe the greatest athlete of all time." Not even close, Mr. Spitz, not even close. Next week I'll tell you why.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
By Bob Markus
I know it was only yesterday I promised to stay out of your hair for awhile. What I didn't know yesterday was that John Pont was going to die this morning. John was a great football coach, a great friend, and one of the greatest human beings ever to grace this earth. I simply cannot let his passing go unnoted. My wife and I knew John was very ill, because we had planned to visit the Ponts in their Oxford,O., home on our annual summer migration starting tomorrow.
We had stayed with the Ponts on other visits, but with John battling a vicious form of leukemia, we were planning to just stop by for a short visit. We knew it would be the last time. Then, this morning, Leslie called John's wife Sandy for an update and Sandy calmly told her: "John died this morning."
When the sports sections publish John Pont's obituary, they no doubt will make note of the fact that he led Indiana to its only Rose bowl appearance, that before that he had been a very successful coach at Yale, that he was one in a long line of coaches at Miami (O) who went on to fame and inspired the school's nickname: The Cradle of Coaches. They may note, too, that John was both head coach and athletic director at Northwestern, a job at which, by conventional standards, he failed.
But wins and losses do not define a man. What defines a man is character. If my son had played football I would have wanted him to play for John Pont. His players loved him and no further proof is needed than this: When it became apparent that something was terribly amiss with John, a group of his former Indiana players insisted he go to a noted hospital in Houston and flew him down there on a private airplane.
I first met John Pont in the fall of 1965 when his first Indiana team played No.1 ranked Michigan State in what was supposed to be a light tuneup for the Spartans' highly anticipated season-ender at Notre Dame. The Hoosiers put up a tremendous battle before losing 27-13. When I entered the visitors locker Pont was sitting bare-chested on an equipment locker and calmly talking about the disappointing loss. No, he said, coming close did not make losing any easier. "We thought we could win the game," he said.
Two years later John guided the Hoosiers on a fanciful flight to the Rose bowl and I was around for much of the ride. The team was led by three talented sophomores, known collectively as "The Cardiac Kids." They were as unpredictable as they were entertaining. When John sent tailback John Isenbarger back to punt, he never knew if the happy-go-lucky sophomore would kick or run the ball, as he did to help win the Michigan game. Pont never flinched. "That's John," he would say.
Like many head coaches, John would host a small dinner party for friends after the game and, in time, Leslie and I were among the invitees. After dinner, John and Sandy would drive up to Indianapolis where John would film his coach's show. Usually they would be in a friend's customized bus and a coterie of friends would go along for the ride. On one such Saturday night we were seated at the dinner table when John was summoned to the telephone, where he learned his father had died. When he came back all he said was "God damn it!" It's the only time I ever heard him swear.
When he left Northwestern, John went back to Oxford and tried his hand at selling insurance. I played golf with him once during this period and he was obviously unhappy. He tried his hand at coaching a high school team and later started from scratch the football program at Mt. St. Joseph's. Then, now in his 70s, he took on the task of coaching an industrial league team in Japan. Every year he would say this was going to be his last, but it never was. Typically, while in Japan, John, with Sandy's help, immersed himself in the culture.
Last summer, when we visited John and Sandy on our way up north, they took us on a tour of the Miami campus. John pointed out the dormitory where he had stayed when he was an undersized running back for Ara Parseghian, and we saw the statue of John that was going to be in the circle of coaches outside the Stadium.
We looked forward to seeing John and Sandy again this year, but after Sandy told us a few weeks ago that doctors had decided he was not a candidate for a bone marrow transplant and that the only other hope was "a miracle," we knew it was fourth and long for John with no John Isenbarger to punt him out of trouble. Then Leslie made that phone call this morning and although I heard only her end of the conversation, I knew immediately what had happened. All I could say was, "God damn it."
I know it was only yesterday I promised to stay out of your hair for awhile. What I didn't know yesterday was that John Pont was going to die this morning. John was a great football coach, a great friend, and one of the greatest human beings ever to grace this earth. I simply cannot let his passing go unnoted. My wife and I knew John was very ill, because we had planned to visit the Ponts in their Oxford,O., home on our annual summer migration starting tomorrow.
We had stayed with the Ponts on other visits, but with John battling a vicious form of leukemia, we were planning to just stop by for a short visit. We knew it would be the last time. Then, this morning, Leslie called John's wife Sandy for an update and Sandy calmly told her: "John died this morning."
When the sports sections publish John Pont's obituary, they no doubt will make note of the fact that he led Indiana to its only Rose bowl appearance, that before that he had been a very successful coach at Yale, that he was one in a long line of coaches at Miami (O) who went on to fame and inspired the school's nickname: The Cradle of Coaches. They may note, too, that John was both head coach and athletic director at Northwestern, a job at which, by conventional standards, he failed.
But wins and losses do not define a man. What defines a man is character. If my son had played football I would have wanted him to play for John Pont. His players loved him and no further proof is needed than this: When it became apparent that something was terribly amiss with John, a group of his former Indiana players insisted he go to a noted hospital in Houston and flew him down there on a private airplane.
I first met John Pont in the fall of 1965 when his first Indiana team played No.1 ranked Michigan State in what was supposed to be a light tuneup for the Spartans' highly anticipated season-ender at Notre Dame. The Hoosiers put up a tremendous battle before losing 27-13. When I entered the visitors locker Pont was sitting bare-chested on an equipment locker and calmly talking about the disappointing loss. No, he said, coming close did not make losing any easier. "We thought we could win the game," he said.
Two years later John guided the Hoosiers on a fanciful flight to the Rose bowl and I was around for much of the ride. The team was led by three talented sophomores, known collectively as "The Cardiac Kids." They were as unpredictable as they were entertaining. When John sent tailback John Isenbarger back to punt, he never knew if the happy-go-lucky sophomore would kick or run the ball, as he did to help win the Michigan game. Pont never flinched. "That's John," he would say.
Like many head coaches, John would host a small dinner party for friends after the game and, in time, Leslie and I were among the invitees. After dinner, John and Sandy would drive up to Indianapolis where John would film his coach's show. Usually they would be in a friend's customized bus and a coterie of friends would go along for the ride. On one such Saturday night we were seated at the dinner table when John was summoned to the telephone, where he learned his father had died. When he came back all he said was "God damn it!" It's the only time I ever heard him swear.
When he left Northwestern, John went back to Oxford and tried his hand at selling insurance. I played golf with him once during this period and he was obviously unhappy. He tried his hand at coaching a high school team and later started from scratch the football program at Mt. St. Joseph's. Then, now in his 70s, he took on the task of coaching an industrial league team in Japan. Every year he would say this was going to be his last, but it never was. Typically, while in Japan, John, with Sandy's help, immersed himself in the culture.
Last summer, when we visited John and Sandy on our way up north, they took us on a tour of the Miami campus. John pointed out the dormitory where he had stayed when he was an undersized running back for Ara Parseghian, and we saw the statue of John that was going to be in the circle of coaches outside the Stadium.
We looked forward to seeing John and Sandy again this year, but after Sandy told us a few weeks ago that doctors had decided he was not a candidate for a bone marrow transplant and that the only other hope was "a miracle," we knew it was fourth and long for John with no John Isenbarger to punt him out of trouble. Then Leslie made that phone call this morning and although I heard only her end of the conversation, I knew immediately what had happened. All I could say was, "God damn it."
Monday, June 30, 2008
By Bob Markus
Time out! This will be my last posting for awhile. Like the swallows that return to Capistrano, we (my wife Leslie and I) are making our annual return home, leaving our computer behind to do whatever computers do when nobody's looking. We plan to be back in time for me to resume my weekly ruminations Aug. 26.
Having spent the majority of my first 65 years in the Chicago area, I'm looking forward to seeing old friends like Roy Damer, Cooper Rollow, and Neil Milbert, former colleagues at the Chicago Tribune, not to mention our old neighbors from Winnetka. But that's not the only reason we're going home.
Every year, on the Monday before the All-Star baseball game, an organization called Chicago Baseball Cancer Charities, holds a celebrity golf tournament, with the proceeds--all of them--going to fund cancer research, with a heavy emphasis on the young victims at Children's Memorial Hospital. Everyone involved is a volunteer. Although I donate modest amounts to a number of charities, this is the one with which my heart lies.
I've been a member of the CBCC board since 1982 and I believe I've missed the tournament only once since then. The CBCC was started by Marv Samuel, a former minor league pitcher, and dedicated to the memories of Nellie Fox and Sherm Lollar, two former White Sox stars, who succumbed to the dread disease. Samuel recruited a cadre of retired athletes with ties to Chicago and CBCC was in business. The day before the All-Star game was chosen on the theory that Cubs and White Sox players would be available to participate as celebrity guests during their three-day break.
For awhile it worked that way and it was not unusual for a dozen or so active players to show up for the daylong outing. In recent years that has changed. Fewer players are willing to give up even a day of their family time during the season. Still, every year there are a few active players who show up. Todd Hundley was one of them during the brief, painful period he spent with the Cubs. He brought his dad, Randy, with him, and I got to play with the former Cubs catcher that day.
For the most part, however, the celebrity players are icons of the past from all sports. Billy Pierce, the stylish left hander for the Go Go White Sox of the '50s, has been president of the organization since Samuel's untimely death and that is not an honorary position. Billy works tirelessly all year long for this one day in the sun. Gene Hiser, who played the outfield for both Chicago teams, arranges the foursomes and assigns celebrity golfers to each group, also almost a fulltime commitment. Bob Miller, former Mets' reliever, spends many hours arranging travel packages for auction.
Other old time players who can be counted on to play almost every year include Andy Pafko, Bill Skowron, Al Weis, Paul Popovich, Steve Trout, Carlton Fisk, Ron Kittle and Jim Rivera. I've played with Skowron and Rich Nye, a former Cubs' starting pitcher who is now a veterinarian. I can tell you that on a golf course, Nye is the better slugger of the two.
From basketball, there are Bob Love, Johnny Kerr, and Norm Van Lier, all ex-Bulls (in Kerr's case only as coach) and Dick Schramm, former coach of the New Jersey Nets. Dick travels to Chicago from his home in Boca Raton, Fl. every year just to emcee the live auction. Several former Bears, including Ronnie Bull, Mike Pyle, and George Blanda are yearly participants and, since he moved to the Chicago area a few years ago, Hall-of-Famer Ted Hendricks has played every year.
I've had a nodding acquaintance with Hendricks ever since his rookie year with the Baltimore Colts. In those days I used to cover the first two weeks of the NFL champions' training camp as they prepared to play the College All-Stars in the annual preseason opener that was sponsored by The Tribune. Also at that training camp in Westminster, Md., was author George Plimpton, who was attempting to reprise his Paper Lion success. Unfortunately for Plimpton he was running the infamous Oklahoma drill on the first day of practice when he was nearly dismembered by a ferocious linebacker who apparently wasn't in on the joke.
Before breaking camp each year the Colts, like most teams, had a "rookie show," where the rookies were called on to embarrass themselves in various ways, usually by singing their school fight song. But with Plimpton on board, this rookie show was a bit different, as I was to discover. At some point during the show I was startled to hear my name called out, as being a rookie writer, at least as far as the Colts were concerned. I was summoned to the stage and instructed to lie down. I had no idea what was going to happen, but did as I was told. Presently I saw, shambling toward me, two men disguised as a horse. As this strange creature passed over me, Hendricks, who was the hind end of the horse, unscrewed the cap of a long tape carton, sending a stream of water all over me. The symbolism was unmistakeable. The Colts were using the rookie writer as a urinal. I managed to laugh and take it with apparent good grace, despite my inner embarrassment.
I had interviewed Hendricks a few times during the intervening years and the first time he played in the CBCC tournament we met at the bar after finishing our rounds and had a long conversation. So long that, when everyone else went into the dining room to eat, we stayed at the bar. It was then that Hendricks astounded me by asking me for MY autograph! I have signed a few--very few--autographs from fans over the years, but this was the first and only time an athlete ever requested one. I signed on a bar napkin and heaven knows what Ted did with it.
Time out! This will be my last posting for awhile. Like the swallows that return to Capistrano, we (my wife Leslie and I) are making our annual return home, leaving our computer behind to do whatever computers do when nobody's looking. We plan to be back in time for me to resume my weekly ruminations Aug. 26.
Having spent the majority of my first 65 years in the Chicago area, I'm looking forward to seeing old friends like Roy Damer, Cooper Rollow, and Neil Milbert, former colleagues at the Chicago Tribune, not to mention our old neighbors from Winnetka. But that's not the only reason we're going home.
Every year, on the Monday before the All-Star baseball game, an organization called Chicago Baseball Cancer Charities, holds a celebrity golf tournament, with the proceeds--all of them--going to fund cancer research, with a heavy emphasis on the young victims at Children's Memorial Hospital. Everyone involved is a volunteer. Although I donate modest amounts to a number of charities, this is the one with which my heart lies.
I've been a member of the CBCC board since 1982 and I believe I've missed the tournament only once since then. The CBCC was started by Marv Samuel, a former minor league pitcher, and dedicated to the memories of Nellie Fox and Sherm Lollar, two former White Sox stars, who succumbed to the dread disease. Samuel recruited a cadre of retired athletes with ties to Chicago and CBCC was in business. The day before the All-Star game was chosen on the theory that Cubs and White Sox players would be available to participate as celebrity guests during their three-day break.
For awhile it worked that way and it was not unusual for a dozen or so active players to show up for the daylong outing. In recent years that has changed. Fewer players are willing to give up even a day of their family time during the season. Still, every year there are a few active players who show up. Todd Hundley was one of them during the brief, painful period he spent with the Cubs. He brought his dad, Randy, with him, and I got to play with the former Cubs catcher that day.
For the most part, however, the celebrity players are icons of the past from all sports. Billy Pierce, the stylish left hander for the Go Go White Sox of the '50s, has been president of the organization since Samuel's untimely death and that is not an honorary position. Billy works tirelessly all year long for this one day in the sun. Gene Hiser, who played the outfield for both Chicago teams, arranges the foursomes and assigns celebrity golfers to each group, also almost a fulltime commitment. Bob Miller, former Mets' reliever, spends many hours arranging travel packages for auction.
Other old time players who can be counted on to play almost every year include Andy Pafko, Bill Skowron, Al Weis, Paul Popovich, Steve Trout, Carlton Fisk, Ron Kittle and Jim Rivera. I've played with Skowron and Rich Nye, a former Cubs' starting pitcher who is now a veterinarian. I can tell you that on a golf course, Nye is the better slugger of the two.
From basketball, there are Bob Love, Johnny Kerr, and Norm Van Lier, all ex-Bulls (in Kerr's case only as coach) and Dick Schramm, former coach of the New Jersey Nets. Dick travels to Chicago from his home in Boca Raton, Fl. every year just to emcee the live auction. Several former Bears, including Ronnie Bull, Mike Pyle, and George Blanda are yearly participants and, since he moved to the Chicago area a few years ago, Hall-of-Famer Ted Hendricks has played every year.
I've had a nodding acquaintance with Hendricks ever since his rookie year with the Baltimore Colts. In those days I used to cover the first two weeks of the NFL champions' training camp as they prepared to play the College All-Stars in the annual preseason opener that was sponsored by The Tribune. Also at that training camp in Westminster, Md., was author George Plimpton, who was attempting to reprise his Paper Lion success. Unfortunately for Plimpton he was running the infamous Oklahoma drill on the first day of practice when he was nearly dismembered by a ferocious linebacker who apparently wasn't in on the joke.
Before breaking camp each year the Colts, like most teams, had a "rookie show," where the rookies were called on to embarrass themselves in various ways, usually by singing their school fight song. But with Plimpton on board, this rookie show was a bit different, as I was to discover. At some point during the show I was startled to hear my name called out, as being a rookie writer, at least as far as the Colts were concerned. I was summoned to the stage and instructed to lie down. I had no idea what was going to happen, but did as I was told. Presently I saw, shambling toward me, two men disguised as a horse. As this strange creature passed over me, Hendricks, who was the hind end of the horse, unscrewed the cap of a long tape carton, sending a stream of water all over me. The symbolism was unmistakeable. The Colts were using the rookie writer as a urinal. I managed to laugh and take it with apparent good grace, despite my inner embarrassment.
I had interviewed Hendricks a few times during the intervening years and the first time he played in the CBCC tournament we met at the bar after finishing our rounds and had a long conversation. So long that, when everyone else went into the dining room to eat, we stayed at the bar. It was then that Hendricks astounded me by asking me for MY autograph! I have signed a few--very few--autographs from fans over the years, but this was the first and only time an athlete ever requested one. I signed on a bar napkin and heaven knows what Ted did with it.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
By Bob Markus
For most of my adult life I have considered myself a political conservative, a little to the left of Rush Limbaugh, but considerably to the right of Oprah Winfrey. I was already leaning in that direction when I met Arizona Senator Barry Goldwater at a Christmas party long before most of America knew of him. I was in the army at the time, a lowly PFC serving as the public information specialist at Yuma Test Station, a facility that tested military ordnance under desert conditions. The only reason I was at the party, in the officers' club, was that I was dating the daughter of the base dentist, a major, who was coerced into inviting me.
I was introduced to the Senator, spent quite a bit of time in a group conversation, and came away enormously impressed. Impressed enough that I read his book, "The Conscience of a Conservative," wrote in his name in the 1960 Presidential election, and offered to work for him in 1964. But that was then and this now and if you asked me today about my political leanings I couldn't give you a one-word answer. Conservative? No. Liberal? No. Libertarian? Maybe.
One thing I am certain of, however, is that I am a Luddite. Don't know what a Luddite is? In the immortal words of the Smothers Brothers, "Look it up in your Funk & Wagnall's." The term originally referred to a group of workers in England in the early 19th century, who went around destroying farm machinery, reasoning that the new-fangled implements were the root cause of unemployment. It since has come to mean anyone who resists modern advances in technology.
That certainly describes me. We owned a microwave oven for 10 years before my son finally explained to me how to use it to warm up leftovers. By the time I learned how to use a video tape machine, they were already being replaced by DVDs. It was only a few Christmases ago that my daughter and son-in-law gave me a compact disc player and taught me how to use it.
Which brings us to the subject of computers and closer to the real subject of today's essay. My introduction to computers came in the fall of 1977 when the sports editor of the Chicago Tribune told me that we were going to start writing and transmitting our stories via computer and that if I didn't learn how to use one by the end of the year I was not going to the Super bowl. I was issued a stone age computer called a Teleram, an evil monstrosity that was so heavy it required two Romanian weight lifters to transport it.
It barely fit under an airplane seat and certainly left no room for any other carry-on luggage. It featured a screen so tiny you could barely get 200 words on it and here's the best part--when you filled the screen you had to send it to the office computer before continuing. This required dialing the proper number, listening for the tone, then inserting the telephone into two rubber couplers, making sure of a snug fit. Then you pressed a button and away went your copy. Sometimes it even went to the office. More frequently it went to Afghanistan or Marrakesh. Any nearby noise would send the machine into a hissy fit. It could be the guy next to you pounding on the table and cursing because his own computer had just gone wacko. If you were covering a basketball game at Purdue, where the press row was right in the middle of the maniacal fans, you had no shot. Eventually, after four or five failures, you might manage to get through to the home computer. Then you had to call up a new screen and try to remember how you had ended the previous screen so you could resume writing the story without its looking as if it had been written by a committee of idiots.
Over the years, the computers became more sophisticated and easier to use, but when I retired, almost 20 years later, I still couldn't do anything other than write and transmit a story via computer. When I retired and moved to Florida I finally got a home computer, but I still couldn't use if for anything other than writing a Christmas letter or an indignant letter to a usurious credit card firm. Finally, after much coaxing and cajoling from my now grownup children, I learned how to send and receive e-mail, and at long last to actually get on the internet.
That's where I discovered the subject ot today's text. Exactly a year ago today, Mike Freeman, national columnist for CBS SportsLine, posted a story titled, "Presenting the Top 50 Sports Jerks of All Time." It must have been well received because, as of yesterday, it was still there on the sports home page. In the interest of brevity and avoiding a possible plagiarism suit I won't reveal too much of it except to say that the top two jerks are murderers, one convicted, one not; that Dale Earnhardt is on it and A.J. Foyt isn't; and that Dave Kingman is way too far down the list at No. 48.
But where in the name of Leo Durocher is Alex Johnson? In 36 years of covering sports for The Tribune I ran into several athletes who refused to talk to me. That never bothered me, as long as they didn't talk to other writers, either. A silent Steve Carlton never bothered me. He didn't talk to writers, so what? His privilege. What did bother me was when an athlete would refuse to talk to me in the post game locker room and then whisper something into the ear of a competing writer. Tony Esposito did that to me after a tough loss in the Stanley Cup finals and that infuriated me.
It wasn't until years later, when I found myself sitting next to him on an airplane, that I found out he's really a pretty good guy. Veteran pitcher Ron Reed went straight to the top of my personal jerk list one night when I wasn't even talking to him. I was covering a White Sox game and, after a tough loss, I went to the locker room to talk to Carlton Fisk. Fisk was riding an exercise bike and I interrupted to ask him if he could talk. Reed, sitting in front of his locker a few feet away told me, "Don't bother him; he's busy." I informed Reed that Fisk was an adult and could speak for himself. Fisk did get off the bike and answered a few questions in his usual articulate manner.
But of all the athletes I ever tried to interview Alex Johnson was the only one who threatened me with bodily harm. Johnson, who had won the American League batting title the previous year, had so alienated his California Angels teammates with his blatant lack of hustle that, by midseason of 1971, they ostracised him and his manager refused to play him. I wrote a column saying that Johnson had great talent, was doing what he loved to do, but was throwing it all away. He had, I said "a private devil inside him" which was depriving him of enjoying the fruits of his talent. All in all I thought it was a sympathetic column. Up until then I had rather liked him. He had a reputtion for not talking to writers but I had interviewed him once when he was with Cincinnati and he was cordial enough.
I wasn't sure which Alex Johnson I'd be dealing with when, in spring training with the Cleveland Indians the next year, I approached him and introduced myself again as a writer for the Chicago Tribune. "Chicago Tribune," he repeated. "There was a writer for the Chicago Tribune last year who wrote an article I didn't like. He called me a devil." I confessed that I was the writer, but couldn't recall calling him a devil. I offered to look up the offending article and bring it to him the next time we met. "You do that," he said.
Before the Indians' first visit to Chicago that year I looked up the column and, although I hadn't exactly called him a devil, I wasn't going to argue the point. I admit I was extremely nervous when I went, column in hand, to Comiskey Park the next night. As I crossed the diamond to enter the visitor's dugout and locker room down the first base line I kept thinking of the old Indian in the movie "Little Big Man," who kept saying 'It is a good day to die."
The hell it was. When I reached the locker room, I was told that Johnson had arrived in a good humor. "He was smiling," I was informed. He was sitting facing his locker and reading a book, still smiling--until he saw me. I said, "I'm . . ." and that's as far as I got before he leaped off his chair and screamed, "I know who you are you blankety blank,blank,blanker." He then suggested that I get out of his face before he inflicted severe damage on mine. I agreed this was probably the best course of action and that was my last conversation with Alex Johnson. Does all this make Alex Johnson a jerk? I'm not certain. After all, one man's jerk is another man's idol.
For most of my adult life I have considered myself a political conservative, a little to the left of Rush Limbaugh, but considerably to the right of Oprah Winfrey. I was already leaning in that direction when I met Arizona Senator Barry Goldwater at a Christmas party long before most of America knew of him. I was in the army at the time, a lowly PFC serving as the public information specialist at Yuma Test Station, a facility that tested military ordnance under desert conditions. The only reason I was at the party, in the officers' club, was that I was dating the daughter of the base dentist, a major, who was coerced into inviting me.
I was introduced to the Senator, spent quite a bit of time in a group conversation, and came away enormously impressed. Impressed enough that I read his book, "The Conscience of a Conservative," wrote in his name in the 1960 Presidential election, and offered to work for him in 1964. But that was then and this now and if you asked me today about my political leanings I couldn't give you a one-word answer. Conservative? No. Liberal? No. Libertarian? Maybe.
One thing I am certain of, however, is that I am a Luddite. Don't know what a Luddite is? In the immortal words of the Smothers Brothers, "Look it up in your Funk & Wagnall's." The term originally referred to a group of workers in England in the early 19th century, who went around destroying farm machinery, reasoning that the new-fangled implements were the root cause of unemployment. It since has come to mean anyone who resists modern advances in technology.
That certainly describes me. We owned a microwave oven for 10 years before my son finally explained to me how to use it to warm up leftovers. By the time I learned how to use a video tape machine, they were already being replaced by DVDs. It was only a few Christmases ago that my daughter and son-in-law gave me a compact disc player and taught me how to use it.
Which brings us to the subject of computers and closer to the real subject of today's essay. My introduction to computers came in the fall of 1977 when the sports editor of the Chicago Tribune told me that we were going to start writing and transmitting our stories via computer and that if I didn't learn how to use one by the end of the year I was not going to the Super bowl. I was issued a stone age computer called a Teleram, an evil monstrosity that was so heavy it required two Romanian weight lifters to transport it.
It barely fit under an airplane seat and certainly left no room for any other carry-on luggage. It featured a screen so tiny you could barely get 200 words on it and here's the best part--when you filled the screen you had to send it to the office computer before continuing. This required dialing the proper number, listening for the tone, then inserting the telephone into two rubber couplers, making sure of a snug fit. Then you pressed a button and away went your copy. Sometimes it even went to the office. More frequently it went to Afghanistan or Marrakesh. Any nearby noise would send the machine into a hissy fit. It could be the guy next to you pounding on the table and cursing because his own computer had just gone wacko. If you were covering a basketball game at Purdue, where the press row was right in the middle of the maniacal fans, you had no shot. Eventually, after four or five failures, you might manage to get through to the home computer. Then you had to call up a new screen and try to remember how you had ended the previous screen so you could resume writing the story without its looking as if it had been written by a committee of idiots.
Over the years, the computers became more sophisticated and easier to use, but when I retired, almost 20 years later, I still couldn't do anything other than write and transmit a story via computer. When I retired and moved to Florida I finally got a home computer, but I still couldn't use if for anything other than writing a Christmas letter or an indignant letter to a usurious credit card firm. Finally, after much coaxing and cajoling from my now grownup children, I learned how to send and receive e-mail, and at long last to actually get on the internet.
That's where I discovered the subject ot today's text. Exactly a year ago today, Mike Freeman, national columnist for CBS SportsLine, posted a story titled, "Presenting the Top 50 Sports Jerks of All Time." It must have been well received because, as of yesterday, it was still there on the sports home page. In the interest of brevity and avoiding a possible plagiarism suit I won't reveal too much of it except to say that the top two jerks are murderers, one convicted, one not; that Dale Earnhardt is on it and A.J. Foyt isn't; and that Dave Kingman is way too far down the list at No. 48.
But where in the name of Leo Durocher is Alex Johnson? In 36 years of covering sports for The Tribune I ran into several athletes who refused to talk to me. That never bothered me, as long as they didn't talk to other writers, either. A silent Steve Carlton never bothered me. He didn't talk to writers, so what? His privilege. What did bother me was when an athlete would refuse to talk to me in the post game locker room and then whisper something into the ear of a competing writer. Tony Esposito did that to me after a tough loss in the Stanley Cup finals and that infuriated me.
It wasn't until years later, when I found myself sitting next to him on an airplane, that I found out he's really a pretty good guy. Veteran pitcher Ron Reed went straight to the top of my personal jerk list one night when I wasn't even talking to him. I was covering a White Sox game and, after a tough loss, I went to the locker room to talk to Carlton Fisk. Fisk was riding an exercise bike and I interrupted to ask him if he could talk. Reed, sitting in front of his locker a few feet away told me, "Don't bother him; he's busy." I informed Reed that Fisk was an adult and could speak for himself. Fisk did get off the bike and answered a few questions in his usual articulate manner.
But of all the athletes I ever tried to interview Alex Johnson was the only one who threatened me with bodily harm. Johnson, who had won the American League batting title the previous year, had so alienated his California Angels teammates with his blatant lack of hustle that, by midseason of 1971, they ostracised him and his manager refused to play him. I wrote a column saying that Johnson had great talent, was doing what he loved to do, but was throwing it all away. He had, I said "a private devil inside him" which was depriving him of enjoying the fruits of his talent. All in all I thought it was a sympathetic column. Up until then I had rather liked him. He had a reputtion for not talking to writers but I had interviewed him once when he was with Cincinnati and he was cordial enough.
I wasn't sure which Alex Johnson I'd be dealing with when, in spring training with the Cleveland Indians the next year, I approached him and introduced myself again as a writer for the Chicago Tribune. "Chicago Tribune," he repeated. "There was a writer for the Chicago Tribune last year who wrote an article I didn't like. He called me a devil." I confessed that I was the writer, but couldn't recall calling him a devil. I offered to look up the offending article and bring it to him the next time we met. "You do that," he said.
Before the Indians' first visit to Chicago that year I looked up the column and, although I hadn't exactly called him a devil, I wasn't going to argue the point. I admit I was extremely nervous when I went, column in hand, to Comiskey Park the next night. As I crossed the diamond to enter the visitor's dugout and locker room down the first base line I kept thinking of the old Indian in the movie "Little Big Man," who kept saying 'It is a good day to die."
The hell it was. When I reached the locker room, I was told that Johnson had arrived in a good humor. "He was smiling," I was informed. He was sitting facing his locker and reading a book, still smiling--until he saw me. I said, "I'm . . ." and that's as far as I got before he leaped off his chair and screamed, "I know who you are you blankety blank,blank,blanker." He then suggested that I get out of his face before he inflicted severe damage on mine. I agreed this was probably the best course of action and that was my last conversation with Alex Johnson. Does all this make Alex Johnson a jerk? I'm not certain. After all, one man's jerk is another man's idol.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
By Bob Markus
It was early in the week-end of the 108th U.S. Open golf tournament when commentator Johnny Miller was asked the question: Who's the greatest U.S. Open golfer in history? With no hesitation at all, Miller replied: Ben Hogan. This, of course, was before Tiger Woods' angst-ridden Houdini act, which brought him his third national championship, leaving the golf world in awe and Tiger just one Open victory short of the record.
Miller may have to change his mind some day. But not yet. There is no doubt that Woods' victory over a valiant Rocco Mediate was grand guignol theater at its best. It may be that this was the greatest U.S. Open ever and it may be that Tiger Woods is the best U.S. Open player of all time. But not yet.
Time is on Tiger's side. He is only 32 and so far ahead of the current mediocre field they'd have to cut off both his knees to catch him. Certainly he proved that, on one knee, he could take everything they threw at him and throw it right back. He was only 24 when he won his first U.S. Open and his three Open titles have come in an eight year span.
Ben Hogan didn't win his first professional tournament until he was 28 and he was 36 before he won his first Open. But anything you can say about Tiger Woods you can say about Ben Hogan. Play through pain? Huh! Hogan survived a headon collision with a Greyhound bus, a crash so severe he suffered a double fractured pelvis, fractured collar bone, fractured left ankle and life-threatening blood clots which were to torment him the rest of his life. Sixteen months later he won the U.S. Open for the second time, won it in a three-way playoff. And in those days he had to limp his way into a playoff through a pain-wracked 36-hole final on Saturday.
Tiger wins three Opens in eight years? Huh! Hogan won all four of his Opens in a six-year span and one of those years he was in the hospital recovering from the accident. If you discount that lost season, he won three in a row and four out of five. Like Tiger, Hogan was obsessed with the majors. In 1951 he played in only five tournaments, winning three of them and finishing second and fourth in the other two. Two of the victories were in the Masters and U.S. Open. In 1953 he won five of the six tournaments he entered, including all three of the majors in which he teed it up. He passed up the P.G.A. that year to play in--and win--his only British Open, at Carnoustie in Scotland. The Scots adored him, called him The Wee Ice Man, and by that time all of America adored him, too.
Before the accident Hogan was, as the actor Laurence Harvey says of his character in The Manchurian Candidate, "not loveable." The accident didn't change him, but it changed the public's perception of him. More specifically, it was the movie Follow The Sun, released in 1951, that wrought the change. Glenn Ford played Hogan and the physical resemblance was uncanny. The movie covered Hogan's career through the crash and up to his dramatic comeback victory in the 1950 Open. I remember seeing the movie with a couple of my golfing buddies and, like most of the rest of America, became a Ben Hogan fan. Arnold Palmer is generally given credit for golf's rise in popularity. But Hogan set the table for what was to become a moveable feast.
After his fourth Open win in '53, Hogan became obsessed with winning his fifth. He came close in 1955, losing in a playoff to unheralded Jack Fleck, even more of an unknown in his day as the journeyman Mediate was until this week-end. Fleck was from Davenport, Iowa, just across the Mississipi River from Moline, Il., where I was working at The Moline Dispatch at the time. I think I was the only guy rooting against Fleck in the entire Quad Cities.
The next year Hogan finished in a tie for second and, in 1960, was in a three way battle with Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus, then still an amateur, until spinning his approach at the 17th back into the water in the final round. Palmer won his first--and only--U.S. Open that day and Nicklaus finished second. An era was ended and another one was about to begin.
Nicklaus, too, has four U.S. Open wins and certainly belongs in the discussion. Until Nicklaus came along Hogan was considered by many as the greatest golfer ever if you discount the amateur Bobby Jones. Jack has succeeded Hogan in most minds by the sheer numbers of his victories. But if you're talking strictly about the U.S. Open, it took Jack 18 years to garner his four Open championships, 12 more than it took Hogan.
Now, it appears Tiger Woods is going to erase most of Nicklaus' records in the fullness of time. It is entirely likely that he will win five or even six U. S. Opens before he retires. When that happens it may be time for Johnny Miller--and me--to change our minds. But not yet.
It was early in the week-end of the 108th U.S. Open golf tournament when commentator Johnny Miller was asked the question: Who's the greatest U.S. Open golfer in history? With no hesitation at all, Miller replied: Ben Hogan. This, of course, was before Tiger Woods' angst-ridden Houdini act, which brought him his third national championship, leaving the golf world in awe and Tiger just one Open victory short of the record.
Miller may have to change his mind some day. But not yet. There is no doubt that Woods' victory over a valiant Rocco Mediate was grand guignol theater at its best. It may be that this was the greatest U.S. Open ever and it may be that Tiger Woods is the best U.S. Open player of all time. But not yet.
Time is on Tiger's side. He is only 32 and so far ahead of the current mediocre field they'd have to cut off both his knees to catch him. Certainly he proved that, on one knee, he could take everything they threw at him and throw it right back. He was only 24 when he won his first U.S. Open and his three Open titles have come in an eight year span.
Ben Hogan didn't win his first professional tournament until he was 28 and he was 36 before he won his first Open. But anything you can say about Tiger Woods you can say about Ben Hogan. Play through pain? Huh! Hogan survived a headon collision with a Greyhound bus, a crash so severe he suffered a double fractured pelvis, fractured collar bone, fractured left ankle and life-threatening blood clots which were to torment him the rest of his life. Sixteen months later he won the U.S. Open for the second time, won it in a three-way playoff. And in those days he had to limp his way into a playoff through a pain-wracked 36-hole final on Saturday.
Tiger wins three Opens in eight years? Huh! Hogan won all four of his Opens in a six-year span and one of those years he was in the hospital recovering from the accident. If you discount that lost season, he won three in a row and four out of five. Like Tiger, Hogan was obsessed with the majors. In 1951 he played in only five tournaments, winning three of them and finishing second and fourth in the other two. Two of the victories were in the Masters and U.S. Open. In 1953 he won five of the six tournaments he entered, including all three of the majors in which he teed it up. He passed up the P.G.A. that year to play in--and win--his only British Open, at Carnoustie in Scotland. The Scots adored him, called him The Wee Ice Man, and by that time all of America adored him, too.
Before the accident Hogan was, as the actor Laurence Harvey says of his character in The Manchurian Candidate, "not loveable." The accident didn't change him, but it changed the public's perception of him. More specifically, it was the movie Follow The Sun, released in 1951, that wrought the change. Glenn Ford played Hogan and the physical resemblance was uncanny. The movie covered Hogan's career through the crash and up to his dramatic comeback victory in the 1950 Open. I remember seeing the movie with a couple of my golfing buddies and, like most of the rest of America, became a Ben Hogan fan. Arnold Palmer is generally given credit for golf's rise in popularity. But Hogan set the table for what was to become a moveable feast.
After his fourth Open win in '53, Hogan became obsessed with winning his fifth. He came close in 1955, losing in a playoff to unheralded Jack Fleck, even more of an unknown in his day as the journeyman Mediate was until this week-end. Fleck was from Davenport, Iowa, just across the Mississipi River from Moline, Il., where I was working at The Moline Dispatch at the time. I think I was the only guy rooting against Fleck in the entire Quad Cities.
The next year Hogan finished in a tie for second and, in 1960, was in a three way battle with Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus, then still an amateur, until spinning his approach at the 17th back into the water in the final round. Palmer won his first--and only--U.S. Open that day and Nicklaus finished second. An era was ended and another one was about to begin.
Nicklaus, too, has four U.S. Open wins and certainly belongs in the discussion. Until Nicklaus came along Hogan was considered by many as the greatest golfer ever if you discount the amateur Bobby Jones. Jack has succeeded Hogan in most minds by the sheer numbers of his victories. But if you're talking strictly about the U.S. Open, it took Jack 18 years to garner his four Open championships, 12 more than it took Hogan.
Now, it appears Tiger Woods is going to erase most of Nicklaus' records in the fullness of time. It is entirely likely that he will win five or even six U. S. Opens before he retires. When that happens it may be time for Johnny Miller--and me--to change our minds. But not yet.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
By Bob Markus
As the King of Siam once said to Anna, "is a puzzlement." How in the name of all that's Holy Bull did Big Brown go so Real Quiet in the Belmont? Big Brown may rhyme with Triple Crown, but there appears to be neither rhyme nor reason for his stunning failure in what may be remembered as horse racing's biggest Upset since, well, Upset upset Man o' War way back in 1919.
In the immediate aftermath of Saturday's race, no one could offer an explanation for the previously unbeaten and virtually untested Big Brown's astonishing performance--or lack of same. "I have no idea," was the answer de jour, the response given by jockey Kent Desormeaux, trainer Rick Dutrow Jr., and Dr. Larry Bramlage, the on-call veterinarian. All three insisted that the colt was as sound as the dollar. Oops, wrong simile.
Dutrow was particularly unforthcoming, given his pre-race verbosity. The outspoken trainer, who had boldly been predicting a Triple Crown since before Big Brown's impressive Kentucky Derby victory, apparently was unaware of Joe Louis's famous adage: "He can run but he can't hide." In this instance it was Big Brown who couldn't run and Dutrow who couldn't hide, although both tried.
If there are no answers to be had there are certainly some questions to be asked. For instance, what's next for Big Brown? The colt's breeding rights already have been sold for $50 million, so an obvious option is to turn him into a racing Romeo, a decision that would doubtless please the S.P.C.A., not to mention Big Brown himself. But that begets another question or series of questions. How much has Saturday's debacle diminished Big Brown's value as a studly stallion? Can his reputation be rehabilitated by running in--and winning--the Travers Stakes and/or the Breeder's Cup Classic? And what if he enters the Travers or Classic and suffers another meltdown? One thing is fairly certain. Given the economics of the game, there is little chance that Big Brown will race beyond this year.
I've saved the best question for last. Name the winner of the 2008 Belmont Stakes. Let's see, is it De' Niro? Di' Tore? Da' Tara. That's it, Da' Tara. You may have noticed that halfway through this column the only one of the nine Belmont entrants discussed was the one that finished ninth. Da' Tara was and remains the Rodney Dangerfield of the turf world. Look him up on the internet and you will find 109,000 mentions. But 108,997 of them are more about Big Brown losing than Da' Tara winning.
In the weeks leading up to the Belmont, Da' Tara's owner, Robert LaPenta, was like Marjorie Main at the senior prom, waiting for someone to ask him a question about his horse. Any question. That is understandable. Da' Tara, after all, finished 23 1/2 lengths behind Big Brown in the Florida Derby and at 38-1 was the highest priced betting choice in the Belmont. What isn't quite as understandable is why so few people have expressed curiosity about the Belmont winner.
Was there any indication that this son of Tiznow, with only one career victory in seven starts could lead a mile and a half classic race from wire to wire? Well, there was, but you had to look mighty hard to find it. First of all, his sire had won the Breeder's Cup Classic on the same Belmont track, one of his two consecutive Classic victories. Then there was the fact that Da' Tara had finished second in his only appearance at Belmont in his first start as a 2-year-old.
Lastly there was this: On the same day and at the same Pimlico track where Big Brown was winning the Preakness, Da' Tara was finishing a strong second to Roman Emperor in the Barbaro Stakes. Six years earlier a horse named Savara won the same race, then called the Sir Barton Stakes, and followed it up by winning the Belmont as a 70-1 shot, foiling War Emblem's Triple Crown hopes. Throw in trainer Nick Zito, whose Birdstone had knocked off Smarty Jones, the last previous Triple Crown candidate to get that far, in the 2004 Belmont, and there is reason to at least pause before dismissing Da' Tara as a potential Belmont winner.
To be sure, that is rather convoluted thinking, but that, as the song "Fugue for Tinhorns" in the musical "Guys and Dolls" indicates is the way some people pick winners. "I've got the horse right here, his name is. . . ." what? Da' Tara? Tiz a puzzlement.
As the King of Siam once said to Anna, "is a puzzlement." How in the name of all that's Holy Bull did Big Brown go so Real Quiet in the Belmont? Big Brown may rhyme with Triple Crown, but there appears to be neither rhyme nor reason for his stunning failure in what may be remembered as horse racing's biggest Upset since, well, Upset upset Man o' War way back in 1919.
In the immediate aftermath of Saturday's race, no one could offer an explanation for the previously unbeaten and virtually untested Big Brown's astonishing performance--or lack of same. "I have no idea," was the answer de jour, the response given by jockey Kent Desormeaux, trainer Rick Dutrow Jr., and Dr. Larry Bramlage, the on-call veterinarian. All three insisted that the colt was as sound as the dollar. Oops, wrong simile.
Dutrow was particularly unforthcoming, given his pre-race verbosity. The outspoken trainer, who had boldly been predicting a Triple Crown since before Big Brown's impressive Kentucky Derby victory, apparently was unaware of Joe Louis's famous adage: "He can run but he can't hide." In this instance it was Big Brown who couldn't run and Dutrow who couldn't hide, although both tried.
If there are no answers to be had there are certainly some questions to be asked. For instance, what's next for Big Brown? The colt's breeding rights already have been sold for $50 million, so an obvious option is to turn him into a racing Romeo, a decision that would doubtless please the S.P.C.A., not to mention Big Brown himself. But that begets another question or series of questions. How much has Saturday's debacle diminished Big Brown's value as a studly stallion? Can his reputation be rehabilitated by running in--and winning--the Travers Stakes and/or the Breeder's Cup Classic? And what if he enters the Travers or Classic and suffers another meltdown? One thing is fairly certain. Given the economics of the game, there is little chance that Big Brown will race beyond this year.
I've saved the best question for last. Name the winner of the 2008 Belmont Stakes. Let's see, is it De' Niro? Di' Tore? Da' Tara. That's it, Da' Tara. You may have noticed that halfway through this column the only one of the nine Belmont entrants discussed was the one that finished ninth. Da' Tara was and remains the Rodney Dangerfield of the turf world. Look him up on the internet and you will find 109,000 mentions. But 108,997 of them are more about Big Brown losing than Da' Tara winning.
In the weeks leading up to the Belmont, Da' Tara's owner, Robert LaPenta, was like Marjorie Main at the senior prom, waiting for someone to ask him a question about his horse. Any question. That is understandable. Da' Tara, after all, finished 23 1/2 lengths behind Big Brown in the Florida Derby and at 38-1 was the highest priced betting choice in the Belmont. What isn't quite as understandable is why so few people have expressed curiosity about the Belmont winner.
Was there any indication that this son of Tiznow, with only one career victory in seven starts could lead a mile and a half classic race from wire to wire? Well, there was, but you had to look mighty hard to find it. First of all, his sire had won the Breeder's Cup Classic on the same Belmont track, one of his two consecutive Classic victories. Then there was the fact that Da' Tara had finished second in his only appearance at Belmont in his first start as a 2-year-old.
Lastly there was this: On the same day and at the same Pimlico track where Big Brown was winning the Preakness, Da' Tara was finishing a strong second to Roman Emperor in the Barbaro Stakes. Six years earlier a horse named Savara won the same race, then called the Sir Barton Stakes, and followed it up by winning the Belmont as a 70-1 shot, foiling War Emblem's Triple Crown hopes. Throw in trainer Nick Zito, whose Birdstone had knocked off Smarty Jones, the last previous Triple Crown candidate to get that far, in the 2004 Belmont, and there is reason to at least pause before dismissing Da' Tara as a potential Belmont winner.
To be sure, that is rather convoluted thinking, but that, as the song "Fugue for Tinhorns" in the musical "Guys and Dolls" indicates is the way some people pick winners. "I've got the horse right here, his name is. . . ." what? Da' Tara? Tiz a puzzlement.
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