STAR DUST

                

The Major League Baseball All-Star Game is tomorrow (Tues., 7/16) and unless wife Susie has other plans for me I’ll probably be watching on TV, a crossword puzzle in my lap. I’m interested enough to tune in and hope to see something memorable, just as I do every time I watch an athletic event, but I don’t care who wins. It’s an evening’s entertainment, nothing more.

                

            I’d guess that most people feel the same way I do about the game, despite the hype that surrounds it. I’d also guess that many of the participants are less than enthusiastic; if that perception didn’t exist MLB wouldn’t spend money running ads to counter it.

The baseball regular season is long, packing 162 games into about 180 days, and while I don’t feel sorry for men who earn princely salaries for playing a kid’s game I can see where the prospect of a four-day holiday might be more attractive than schlepping off to play an exhibition. The players who aren’t picked have all the best of it.

In brief, I’m asking whether tomorrow’s trip—or that for any all-star game in our major spectator sports—is necessary.  While it’s no big deal either way, I suspect we could get along fine without it, or them.

All-star games seem to me to be an idea whose time has passed.  Baseball’s version no doubt sounded dandy in 1933 when Arch Ward, the promotion-minded sports editor of the Chicago Tribune, hatched and brought it to fruition.  The series got off to a grand start in Comiskey Park in Chicago with a 4-2 American League victory sparked by a home run by Babe Ruth, who always rose to the occasion. It’s been held every season since except for the war year of 1945. During four seasons – 1959 through 1962—there were two all-star games, although I can’t imagine why.

The game made sense in the pre-TV dark ages because it brought some of baseball’s stars within reach of fans who otherwise never might see them. The same held true to a lesser extent until 1997, when interleague play began. Now, with an odd number of teams (15) in each league, there is interleague play almost daily, and thanks to the miracle of MLB’s Extra Innings package (to which I subscribe), every game that’s televised anywhere is televised everywhere. I live in a National League city but with a click of my remote any night I can watch Albert Pujols or Miguel Cabrera play in games that count in the standings.  The All-Star Game can’t offer that.

The business about counting also has occurred to baseball’s honchos. Their epiphany came in 2002 when the game ended in a 7-7 tie after 11 innings because the two managers ran out of subs. Boos and beer bottles rained upon the field in Commish Selig’s home town of Milwaukee, and he responded by decreeing that henceforth the league that wins the All-Star Game would have home-field advantage in that season’s World Series, instead of alternating it by year as before. I like Bud, and think he’s been a pretty good commissioner, but that was dumb. Maybe if the ’02 game had been played elsewhere he might have reacted differently.

   Even with something at stake participant zeal for the game often is lacking. Every year a few players beg off, pleading injury, and managers routinely shuffle their pitching rotations so that pitcher-selectees work the Sunday before the game and thus may not be deemed fit for duty on all-star Tuesday.

Putting a question mark on the whole affair is a hokey election system that encourages repeated balloting; when I read that a player has received, say, 6 million fan votes I figure it’s more likely that 6,000 people voted for him 1,000 times each than 6 million picked him once. This month I voted several dozen times on the MLB web site, and I was just fooling around.

Baseball being a non-contact sport at least allows it to stage a real game between its top players; in our other big leagues injury risk dictates that only half a game (offense) ensues. The worst charade is in football, where the annual NFC-AFC contest is played after a typically brutal season from which no one emerges unscathed. Player defections are numerous, rules changes include no blitzing and legal intentional grounding, no one cares about the outcome and participants seek mainly to escape in one piece. Of the 2012 contest one reporter wrote that the two sides “hit each other as though they were having a pillow fight.” Commissioner Goodell threatened to cancel the series after that one, but relented. He should have stuck to his guns.

The NBA All-Star game is a three-day rappers’ convention capped by a game whose only suspense centers on whether the two teams together will top 300 points (they did in 2012, 152-149). NHL star fests run to 12-10 scores in which goalies are changed after each period so none should suffer shellshock.  It is to laugh.

Players like the honor of being selected for the games, so the elections could continue even if the games don’t. They can do just about anything with electronic games these days so maybe they could program ones around the lineups and put the results on TV. Then the players could watch from the comfort of their homes, like we do. After a couple of years no one will notice the difference.

  

                 

GULLED

Dear Fred--  Hi. My name is Marvin and I’m a seagull. Lately I’ve been spending some afternoons hanging out at Wrigley Field, where the Chicago Cubs play.  Maybe you’ve seen me on TV; I’m the one with the black dot over his left eye. People think all us seagulls look alike but they’re wrong. They just don’t look closely enough.

I’m contacting you because I hope you’ll help me break into journalism. I’ve read your blog and find it simpatico. By that I mean it’s for the birds, which by me is a good thing.

You might ask what a seagull is doing wanting to write.  Actually, we have a literary history, thanks to that Jonathan Livingston guy. I read his book and it was pretty good, but I never liked him much. He was a pretentious jerk, and a showoff. Lots of us can do the flying tricks he could but they’re too much trouble, so we don’t.  Score a good meal and take the rest of the day off, that’s my motto.

I’ll tell you something else about the so-called Jonathan Livingston: his real name was Sheldon Bernstein. Always wanted to be a WASP, if you can believe it. The name change didn’t help him much, though. The real WASP seagulls chased him away every time he tried to visit the yacht club.

Another question you probably have is about how a bird can write. It’s easy, really, because we have two wings and a beak to work with. Talk about hunt and peck, huh? We even can do upper case, unlike that stupid cockroach archy .  Once I found an old Radio Shack computer in a landfill I was in business. Truth is, I type faster than some sportswriters. I’ve peeked into the Wrigley press box, so I know.

Anyway, I have a regular routine on game days. I show up around 3:30 p.m.—around the seventh inning-- and find a nice perch on top of the upper deck along the right-field line. That gives me a good view of who’s eating what below.  I look mostly for popcorn—it’s the world’s greatest food.  When I first started going I’d eat anything that was left behind, but learned quick not to. Bits of hotdog bun are tasty but if they have even a speck of mustard, they’re trouble. Ditto for pizza crust with tomato sauce. I’ve had cases of heartburn from them you wouldn’t believe.

Other places I avoid like the plague—and I mean that literally-- are the floors of the two teams’ dugouts.  They can be tempting because the players always leave lots of uneaten sunflower seeds behind, but they’re usually mixed with so much spilled Gatorade, tobacco juice and plain old spit that they’re inedible. Mix in the dirt those slobs track in and it’s Typhoid City!

I’ve also learned to wait to make my move until the game is over and the people have begun to leave. Some birds who couldn’t wait have paid dearly for it. My granddad told me Dave Winfield killed one of us playing catch in the outfield between innings during a 1983 game in Toronto, and I’ve seen the video of the poor guy that got in the way of a Randy Johnson fastball in a 2001 spring training game in Arizona. Poof! Brutal.

 Lemme tell you, though, we got even with both those bastards. My Uncle Gus says he bullseyed a huge dump down Johnson’s collar at Wrigley and another guy I know says he saw Winfield wearing a suit downtown one day and nailed him good a couple of times. Got the pigeons after him, too. I bet neither of them still go outdoors without an umbrella.

Things at the park have changed a bit in the time I’ve been coming out. A few years back crowds were bigger and hung around longer than they do now. I even learned the words to that song the people sing when the players in white win, although from what I know it’s supposed to be sung before a game, not after.

 These days the players in white usually bat last, and crowds are smaller and leave earlier. That’s okay because sometimes I can fly into the stands and pick off a morsel or two before a game’s over, but not usually. Not much good can happen from being around people, I’ve learned.

I had a perfect day about a week ago. A woman who sat right underneath my perch left behind about a half a box of popcorn—with butter!  Yum! I was there first and had it all to myself for about 10 minutes before the flock gathered, more than enough time for a swell feed.

 By bird standards that was a great moment in sports, good enough for an ESPN highlights reel for sure. Next time I’m at the landfill I’ll rummage around for a video camera.  I hear there’s a better future in TV than in print anyway, and that I’d be better off putting my efforts there. True?

Best,

Marvin

  

      

NEWS, VIEWS

NEWS: Major League Baseball threatens 100-game suspensions for players caught in Miami drug net.

VIEWS: For a long time (1990-2005) capital B Baseball took a see-no, hear-no, speak-no evil stance toward the PED (performance enhancing drugs) users on its diamonds, an infamous period I call its HITS era, for Heads In The Sand. Now it’s hell-belt to get ’em, leaking possible sentences for alleged wrongdoers before the first gavel has been dropped.

That’s admirable in a way, because it shows a seriousness about the issue heretofore lacking. That’s especially true because the 20 players on its “get” list includes Ryan Braun, Alex Rodriguez, Melky Cabrera, Gio Gonzalez, Nelson Cruz and other bright stars in its current firmament. That means the game is willing to shake up its pennant races to give the cheaters their due, a considerable ante.

Trouble is, justice may prove more elusive than many—perhaps including Bud Selig—may think. That’s because the main witness for the prosecution at the hearings that inevitably will follow any formal accusations is a good deal less than estimable. He’s Tony Bosch, a scruffy-looking sort whom Mike Lupica of the New York Daily News recently described as looking like “some loser on Collins Avenue trying to give you a tip on the third race at Hialeah.” 

 Bosch owned the now-defunct Biogenesis Anti-Aging Clinic in Miami that allegedly served as the conduit between the players and their PEDS. That ought to tell you something right away because rejuvenation is Florida’s oldest scam, dating from Ponce de Leon’s visit to the state in 1513. Bosch previously had been connected with a few other such outfits, but they, too, went bust.

Published reports say that at various times Bosch has claimed to be a physician, which he isn’t. One story had it that before he agreed to turn state’s evidence for Baseball he sought a “loan” of several hundred thousand dollars from ARod, but was refused. Can you spell S-H-A-K-E-D-O-W-N?

Probably worse is the deal Baseball is said to have made to obtain Bosch’s cooperation. That includes dropping its own civil lawsuit against him, indemnifying him against judgments resulting from other related suits and putting in a good word for him if he’s held to account for the criminal aspects of his drug-dealing.  I’m not a lawyer but I’ve seen lots of episodes of “Law and Order” and know the prosecution always takes a hit when a defense attorney asks a witness if he’d been promised anything for his testimony, and the answers is, um, yes.

It’s usually true that it takes a crook to catch a crook, and it’s said that Baseball has evidence to back up Bosch’s words. It had better because in this litigious era everyone has a lawyer and I’s must be crossed and T’s dotted before convictions can stand. Baseball’s drug-enforcement efforts suffered a setback when Braun’s lawyers successfully challenged an earlier suspension ruling on grounds that chain-of-custody rules for his urine samples had been violated. If it swings and misses again future cases will be hard to bring.

 NEWS: Serena Williams wins big in Paris.

VIEWS: No doubt about it, Serena is at the top of her game. At age 31 she buzzed through the French Open field like an army barber with his clippers, cementing her world No. 1 ranking.  I’ve seen a lot of tennis but never have witnessed a more dominating performance than her 6-0, 6-1 victory over Sara Errani at Roland Garros. This wasn’t a first-round match against a qualifier but a Grand Slam semi against the world’s No. 5. Serena served at 120 mph.—Pete Sampras’s speed in his heyday—and hit her ground strokes with similar power. No woman out there can beat her except herself.

But the good news for American tennis ends with Ms. Williams. You have to drop to No. 17 (Sloane Stephens) to find the next American woman in the world rankings, and on the men’s side only three Yanks (Sam Querry, 19; John Isner, 21; and Mardy Fish, 43) are among the top 50. All are known quantities with little chance of substantial improvement, and no young U.S. phenoms lurk beneath them. 

The situation is much the same in golf. There, Asians dominate the women’s game and behind Tiger Woods a thoroughly international male pack skirmishes. Europe has won seven of the nine Ryder Cups contested since 1995, reversing long-time U.S. hegemony.

Tennis and golf are middle-class sports in this land so it’s tempting to ascribe the recent U.S. declines in them to societal factors; to wit, well-off American kids today would rather twitter, tweet or text than put in the long hours of individual labor required for playing-field excellence.  I’ve said that myself. Trouble is, young Americans of both sexes and various economic strata do fine in international team sports as diverse as soccer, basketball, hockey and volleyball, so something else must be up.  Maybe it’s that the “me” generation really wants to be part of an “us” and, thus, its members thrive best in social situations.

Just sayin’.

NEWS: Horse racing’s Triple Crown events are won by three different horses.

VIEWS: It’s no news that the Triple Crown is tough to win; it hasn’t happened since 1978. Indeed, in this space and elsewhere I’ve  argued that because of long-term changes in breeding and racing horses today lack the stamina to win three grueling, competitive races in a five-week span, and that the sport is ill served by placing so many of its promotional eggs in such a leaky basket.

But now it seems that just trying the TC can put in jeopardy a horse’s career, or life. Barbaro won the 2006 Kentucky Derby but died trying to win the Preakness two weeks later. Big Brown won the Derby and Preakness in 2008 but came in last in the Belmont and was retired soon afterward. Last year I’ll Have Another was scratched from the Belmont after winning the Derby and Preakness, and never raced again. Union Rags won the ’12 Belmont, but it was to be his last race.

In light of that I was especially intrigued by the behavior of Claude “Shug” McGaughey, the trainer of Orb, the recent Derby winner. He’s widely praised as an “old-school” sort who cares about his horses, and before the Derby he fretted openly about the danger of putting his tender charge into such a long (1 ¼-mile), difficult race so early in life (the TC is contested only by three-year-olds, who are equivalent to 16-year-old humans). But after Orb won the Derby he was sent back for the Preakness, and after finishing fourth to Oxbow there he was sent back again for the longer (1 ½-miles), harder Belmont, even though no Triple Crown was in prospect.  (He finished third to a rested Palace Malice, who skipped the Preakness.)  It’ll be interesting to see if we see Orb again, or the winners of the other two TC legs, for that matter.

 Racing needs its Triple Crown celebs to remain in action for its big summer and fall races, and that hasn’t been happening of late. Maybe the entrance forms for the races should carry a health warning, like cigarette packs do.

      

 

LUCHAR

                New freshmen didn’t have much clout at the University of Illinois in Champaign when I was there. Among other things we had to register last, after everyone else had picked over the course offerings. That meant we got more than our share of undesirable classes, meaning those that began at 8 a.m. or 4 p.m.

                

              We also had last crack at courses in P.E.-- short for physical education-- which every freshman and sophomore had to take. That was why I wound up taking wrestling in my first semester at the school, in the fall of 1955.

               

              Wrestling was a drag from a couple of standpoints. One was that it was a sweaty and unwelcome intrusion on the school day. Another was that it was taught only at Men’s Old Gym (which we scholars naturally called Old Men’s Gym), on Springfield Avenue at the edge of the main campus.

  My wrestling class met at 2 p.m. on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. On those days I also had a three o’clock class at Lincoln Hall, about three-quarters of a mile away, and the 15-minute class break allowed no time to shower. Once there I had to stew in my own juices, feeling about as welcome as a skunk.

The bad news continued on the Old Gym’s mats. You’d never guess it to see me now but I was a little guy as a frosh, standing about 5-feet-8 and weighing about 135 pounds. The next smallest kid in the class was a good 10 pounds heavier than I, and stronger. We were made workout partners, which meant that I spent just about every class with my head in his armpit or similarly offensive juncture as we acted out the moves of the sport. I counted the days until the end of the semester.

Near the end, though, a funny thing happened. The course’s finale was a tournament among the wrestling classes, and for the first time I got to fight people my own size. I won my first two matches with pins, got a decision in the third, and found myself in the finals of my weight group, one win from glory. Trouble was, the whole tournament took place the same day, and by match four I was pooped. I went for a quick pin and missed it, then was reversed and saw the lights myself. 

Still, I came away from the experience with a tad more self-confidence than previously, and an understanding of and liking for real wrestling, as opposed to the theatrical variety. Once I got a sports column I devoted occasional but regular space to the sport, something few of my big-paper peers did. I got to know some of its top-level performers over five Olympiads and found them to be praiseworthy examples of the athletic virtues, and nice guys to boot. That was in keeping with my general observation that the more obscure the sport, the nicer the participants.

Wrestling isn’t important enough at U.S. colleges to justify institutional cheating, so the wrestlers I knew were or had been actual students. Most had occupational goals beyond their sport and one of them—the 1988 Olympian Jim Scherr—got to be CEO of the U.S. Olympic Committee in 2003 at age 42. Most could converse about things other than themselves, a rare attribute in jockdom.

That’s why I was dismayed in February when the International Olympic Committee voted to kick wrestling off the Olympic schedule after 2016.  The grapplers had been part of the Games since 708 B.C., and longer if you include the tussles among the gods on the sacred Greek mountain. The sport is about as close to pure athletics as you can get and as democratic, pursued as it is by many thousands of people in hundreds of lands, including women since the start of the new century.  That last thing is in contrast to such elite pastimes as sailing and dressage, which the titled (and entitled) twits who make up the IOC consider sacrosanct.  

 Wrestling can’t entirely plead not guilty to its exclusion. In recent years the sport has enacted so many scoring changes that even aficianados find it hard to follow, and high-level matches tend to be low-scoring and technical as evenly matched contestants maneuver for the tiny edge in leverage that can swing the outcome.  Published accounts hint that its international leadership has been poor, meaning, I guess, that its honchos haven’t been kissing the right butts in Lausanne. If true that’s inexcusable. What else do those guys have to do?

Happily, the sport’s emergency has kicked its supporters into action, and the results have been impressive. Last month wrestlers from the U.S., Iran and Russia, showing amity notably lacking in other spheres, joined at the United Nations in New York to state wrestling’s case, and staged a well-attended exhibition the next day at Grand Central Station. Indeed, one of the best things about covering wrestling at the Olympics was seeing its audience of thick-necked types from usually hostile lands, including Cuba and North Korea in addition to the above-named three, joining in pursuit of non-lethal interests. It looked like the bar scene from “Star Wars” but was uplifting nonetheless.

Wrestling got a boost Wednesday when an IOC subcommittee voted to include it among the sports eligible to fill the schedule void left by its absence (goofy, huh?), but the final decision won’t come until the full committee meets in September.  Sending wrestlers to clamp headlocks on IOC members might help persuade them to do the right thing, but putting together a bribe fund probably would help more.

 I’d contribute.

    

   

                   

ARF

                As an old dog, the old line about tricks has special meaning for me. That’s why I’m glad to report I’ve learned a new one.

                

             It’s a fondness for a team I’d guess few of you will recognize offhand—Tottenham Hotspur. It plays soccer (football to the rest of the world) in the English Premier League. Although I know none of its songs, don’t have a white-and-blue scarf and never have been to its White Hart Lane home in North London, I’m a fan.

 I prove that by knowing that the team’s name is not plural but singular, as in “Miami Heat.”  Collectively, however, they’re the Spurs. Curious, what?

Although I didn’t grow up with the sport, I’ve enjoyed soccer for some years now. My mild affection turned stronger when I covered the 1994 World Cup on these shores, and stronger yet during my attendance at the 1998 edition in France. The color, excellence of the games and passion of the crowds made that event the best I ever covered. The fact that wife Susie and I got to spend five weeks in Paris on the Wall Street Journal’s dime, with side trips to Lyon, Marseilles and Nantes, didn’t hurt, either.

Americans tend to scoff at soccer, finding it low-scoring and dull and and objecting to its numerous tied outcomes. Europeans and others tend to scoff at Americans, believing that our desires for action and finality are evidence of our national immaturity. “Life is a tie,” they’re fond of saying, and I can’t disagree.

But I think we Yanks would like soccer more if we’d glue ourselves down long enough to watch a top-level game from beginning to end. It’s played by average-sized men and thus emphasizes speed and agility, and the players’ skills are nothing short of marvelous. Soccerists can do with their feet almost what basketball players can do with their hands, even though it’s a lot harder. If you don’t believe me, try kicking a ball of any size with your “off” foot. 

Soccer goals may be rare but good passes and goal-threatening situations such as corner kicks are frequent. Action is continuous, with little of the stop-and-go (mostly stop) that bogs down our Big Three team sports.  Once you’re into the flow of a game it’ll start making sense. If you’re a typical, know-it-all American sports fan you’ll be hollering “Work the flanks!” in no time.

 Liking a sport is one thing, though, and rooting for a team is another. I got to the Spurs through my son Michael, an ex-pat who now lives in Copenhagen and works in Amsterdam but lived in England long enough to become a subject of the Queen, and my Scottsdale pal Mike Levy, who has familial ties to fair Albion.  

 Assists go to ESPN and the Fox Soccer Channel, which broadcast most Premier League games into the U.S. “live.”  The eight-hour time difference between London and Phoenix makes for 6 a.m. starts, but through the miracle of TIVO I can tape the games for anytime viewing. I’ve been reserving Sunday mornings for watching Spurs’ replays.

 Son Michael generally phones later on Sunday, and we rehash the action. As he puts it, it’s a “quality bonding experience.” Friend Mike and I also compare Spurs notes. He’s more critic than lover—often down on the team even when it wins—but I enjoy his contrarian viewpoints on many subjects. I mean, how many left-wing gun nuts do you know?

 I have a further bond with the Spurs through religion. That’s because much of the London neighborhood in which they’re based is (or was) Jewish, as am I, and Jews make up such a large part of the team’s fan base that it calls itself the “Yid Army.” Europe isn’t PC the way we are, so that sort of thing goes over there.  Still, like Levy’s rye bread (no relation to Mike), you don’t have to be Jewish to love the Spurs and many goyim do, including actor Kenneth Branagh, rocker Phil Collins, basketballer Steve Nash and WWE wrestler John Cena. My heroes all.

 What really defines Spurs fans, though, is their tolerance for failure. In that way they’re like fans of my Chicago Cubs, so I suppose it was fated that I’d join them eventually. Like the Cubs, the team has been in existence for a long time (since 1882) but has little to show for it. Its last Premier League championship came in 1961, when the circuit was called the First Division. The title before that came in 1951, and its previous history wasn’t more illustrious.

English soccer is like American baseball in that both have a monarchy. In baseball it’s the New York Yankees and in soccer it’s Manchester United. Actually, the Yankees wish they were Man U because that outfit rules as well as reigns, having won 13 crowns in the 21 seasons since the 20-team Premier League was rebranded in 1992-93.  Chelsea and Arsenal each have won thrice in that span, leaving little hardware for the rest.

The Brits keep interest up in the face of such hegemony partly by awarding consolation prizes. The top four Premier League finishers get to play in the Champions League, a lengthy tournament matching the best European clubs, and the top five qualify for the Europa League, a less prestigious go-round. With fourth-place finishes in 2012 and 2010 and a fifth in 2011, Tottenham has been in the mix for such places in recent years, pleasing its fancy.

This season promised to be a good one for the Spurs, but results have been mixed. The year’s highlight has been the blossoming into stardom of Gareth Bale, a tall, 23-year-old Welshman whose specialty is curling long kicks into small corners of the net. His goals have made up a one-man highlight reel and propelled him into election as the Premier League’s Player of the Year, a signal honor. With help from American National Team forward Clint Dempsey and Jermaine Defoe, a flashy but self-regarding scorer (I admire him more than Mike Levy does), the Spurs staged a mid-winter run that gained them a heady third place, behind only Man U and Manchester City, last year’s 2-1 finishers. A third would have been the Spurs’ best standing since the BPL was formed.

Sadly, they’ve staggered since, rallying to beat Man City with an awesome three-goals-in-seven-minutes flourish in April but coming up short against lesser foes.  With one game left to play (Sunday against Sunderland) they’re in fifth place, needing a win and a loss or tie by fourth-place Arsenal to land a Champions League spot. It’s a dim possibility.

Bale’s emergence presages better things ahead for the Spurs, but only if he sticks around. Middle-and lower-level Premier League teams long have made a living by developing young stars and selling their contracts for big bucks to the likes of Man U and rich continental powers such as Barcelona and Real Madrid, but the Spurs say they’ll pay up to keep the young man.  Stay tuned.

 Meantime, I’m adopting a favorite saying of Spurs’ supporters: Wait ‘til next year.

Sounds familiar, huh?

20--COUNT 'EM-- 20

                Playing the horses is out of fashion these days, and for good reason. Doing it seriously requires a degree of study that few wish to expend on a pastime, and the sort of obsessive mind that brings one back to a subject again and again despite good evidence that one should leave it alone.

              

             We horseplayers do it, I guess, because the problems involved—picking winners at the racetrack and coming out ahead financially (they’re not the same)—are just so darned interesting.  Every race presents a puzzle with more layers than an onion, requiring calculations of the speeds and running styles of the contestants, their pole positions, the distance of the race, the characteristics and condition of the racing surface and the abilities of the human actors, to name a few.

 Then one must figure out how to bet, a matter which, like all financial choices, concerns the balancing of risks and rewards. Throw in the fact that track-and-tax “takeouts” remove between 15% and 25% of every betting pool before winnings are distributed and you have an equation that has stumped many rocket scientists and other brainy types.

The plus side is the pleasure one gets when one cashes a nice-sized ticket, a glow that exceeds anything that can be felt when one’s card or number comes up in a game of chance. Racing’s challenge is intellectual, not statistical, and in the moment of victory you’re the smartest guy in the room, with the applause no less real for being internal.  

  The cause of the above is that on Saturday the 139^th Kentucky Derby will be run at old Churchill Downs in Louisville. It’s the one race to have when you’re having only one meaning that many civilians will have money on the outcome, if only because of a post-position number drawn in a pool.  A few even will try their hand at handicapping, an exercise that, usually, will satisfy the urge for at least another year.

We regulars look forward to the Derby, too. That’s partly because public attention to the race expands bragging rights (people listen up when they heard you’ve picked a Derby winner), but mostly because the race presents unique handicapping questions that, when answered, increase the joy of winning.

Many non-fans are aware of the main analytical test that the Derby presents-- that the contestants will be running 1 1/4 miles, 1/8-mile longer than they’ve run before.  A good deal of research has gone into determining which have the capacity to go that extra distance, the main one being Dosage Theory, which attempts to quantify how a horse’s ancestry affects his ability to win at various distances. Such info is part of the Daily Racing Form’s Derby-day coverage and, as such, can be perused by the plungers. Trouble is, most horses in every Derby field broadly qualify to win at 1 ¼ miles, so we’re back to relying on the stats and evidence of our senses.

Equally important, I think, is the impact of the size of the Derby field, which this year as in the past several will number 20 horses, barring late scratches. That’s a real herd, one so big that when it leaves the starting gate (two gates, actually) one expects to see John Wayne leading the charge, with bugles blowing. 

One upshot is that post position in the Derby is more important than it is in just about any other race. The horses in positions 1 and 2 are at particular risk; if they can’t beat the field over the first 200 or so yards they’ll become penned between the rail and the horses outside them, and might not escape. No horse starting from PP1 has won the race since Ferdinand in 1986. No PP2 has scored since Affirmed in 1978.

The plight of the far-outside horses isn’t as bad, but anyone who bets on them does so knowing they’ll have farther to run than the others.  Big Brown prevailed from PP20 in 2008 but he was souped up on steroids that were banned for the race the next year. I’ll Have Another won from 19 last year but also won the Preakness, showing he was a lot better than he looked in the Derby form.

The Derby’s length tempts many bettors into favoring late-running horses that have made up ground toward the ends of their previous races, whether or not they prevailed. This reasoning neglects the factor of “trip.” The banging around that’s part of just about every horse race is accentuated in the big Derby field, and any horse that runs from the middle or rear of the pack figures to encounter more of it than those up front.  To win from off the pace an animal must be lucky as well as good, a tough combination.

The good news about a big field is that it usually spreads the wagering around to create a good betting race, meaning that good odds can be had on very good horses. Most Derby favorites in recent years have gone off in the 3-to-1 to 4-to-1 range, and in 2010 Lookin At Lucky was the betting choice at a whopping 6-to-1. Much the same thing promises to be the case in a Saturday field that includes four horses that appear to be outstanding: Orb (7-to-2 in the morning line), Verrazano (4-to-1), Goldencents (5-to-1) and Revolutionary (10-to-1). Each has a top-heavy win record and excellent recent form that includes a major Derby prep-race victory.

 I don’t think there’s 10 cents worth of difference among the four of them, putting other factors into play.  One is value, meaning trying to get more bang for the buck, so I’ll be taking the two longest shots of the top four, Goldencents and Revolutionary.  Goldencents likes to run up front so he’ll have a good trip if he can do that. Revolutionary is a mid-packer, which could be a problem, but he’ll be in good hands because his jockey is Calvin Borel, a three-time Derby winner who is something of a Churchill Downs specialist. Additionally, rain is in the forecast for Saturday and Revolutionary has an off-track win on his record. Post position shouldn’t be a problem for either animal.

The Derby is a good place for longshots and I have two: Overanalyze and It’s My Lucky Day, both at 15-to-1. They look to be about a step slower than the top four on form but that’s more than balanced out by their odds and solid records. It’s My Lucky Day is especially attractive because of an off-track win and the experience he’s gained in 10 previous starts, more than any other entrant.  While I reserve the right to have late inspirations I’ll be taking a $2 exacta box of 3-8-9-12, a $24 bet. It’ll pay off nicely if my horses finish 1-2 in any order.

NOTE: For my take on racing’s Triple Crown series generally check out my Thursday piece on the website chicagosidesports.com. The link is above. There’s other good stuff there, too.  

PROVING 'EM WRONG

                On opening day of the baseball season I retrieved my Arizona Republic from my front walk, took it inside my house and opened it to the sports pages, as usual. The main headline made me want to throw the darned thing away. It read “Kennedy Driven By Detractors.”

             

                I didn’t have to read the piece that followed to know what it would say, but did so anyway. Sure enough, it aped the “critics as motivators” theme that’s impossible to escape in the echo-chamber world of sports. In it, players strive to excel to “show” the people who doubted them, whomever they may be (they’re rarely identified). Teams strive to win on the same ground.

                As you may or may not know, the Kennedy in the headline was Ian Kennedy, who would be the Arizona Diamondbacks’ starting pitcher that day against the St. Louis Cardinals. Kennedy has been the D’Backs’ top starter for three seasons now. He’s a baseball golden boy-- a high-school star in his native California, a PAC-10 pitcher of the year at USC, a first-round draft choice of the New York Yankees (in 2006) and a 21-game winner and Cy Young Award candidate with Arizona in 2011. At age 28 he will have collected some $9 million in salary and bonuses through this season, with his best earnings years ahead.

                Yet what does Kennedy think about when he takes the mound according to Republic baseball writer Nick Piecoro? That somebody once said he was too small to succeed in the Bigs (he stands 6 feet tall and weighs 190 pounds), that he “didn’t throw hard enough” and that he was a “back-end starter at best.”  My goodness, in the face of such obloquy it’s a wonder the young man can muster the courage to appear in public.

                Kennedy no doubt knows the “detractors” stuff is bunk but mouths it because he thinks it adds the touch of adversity that makes his professional odyssey seem more heroic. Writer Piecoro knows it, too, but better knows an easy story when he sees one. Multiple that by a couple thousand and you have the stuff that fills our daily newspaper and TV sports menus, to the betterment of few.

                Indeed, to hear our scribes and commentators tell it top athletes have just two major sources of inspiration: the abovementioned desire to prove “critics” wrong and dedication to a teammate, relative or homey who is ill or deceased. The fact that just about every adult can identify someone in that last list, and the nobility inherent in a memorial quest, makes it that story irresistible to teller, newsman and audience, ensuring its perpetuation.

                The dedicated-victory line probably predates the Trojan Wars but on these shores traces mostly to a tale involving Knute Rockne, the famous Notre Dame football coach. Trailing Army at halftime in a 1928 game, Rockne told his players that he’d been present at the premature-death bed of George Gipp, an ND football hero of several years before, and that Gipp’s dying wish was that, when things looked dark, Rockne should ask his team to “win one for the Gipper.” He did and so did they, pulling off what has come to be regarded as a monumental upset. The legend was burnished by the 1940 movie in which Pat O’Brien, who made his acting bones playing saintly Catholic priests, was Rockne, and darlin’ Ronald Reagan was an angelic Gipp.

                A bit of research casts doubt on the story. While Army was favored in that long-ago clash ND was a not-bad 4-2 in wins and losses going in, and had enough talent to win national titles the next two seasons, so it wasn’t exactly corned beef hash.  Further, contemporary accounts had it that Rockne wasn’t present at Gipp’s death and that his teams well knew his habit of ignoring the truth in his halftime orations. For example, he once told his troops to win one for his hospitalized son even though the lad was hale and home at the time.

                Gipp died in 1920, so the players whom Rockne exhorted didn’t know him. That probably was good because history has it Gipp was a card sharp and pool shark better known in South Bend’s after-hours clubs than around campus. The fact that he was an almost-26-year-old undergrad at the time of his death from strep throat, and had been expelled from school for poor attendance (later reinstated), attests to his lack of diligence as a scholar.

 He resurfaced in the news in 2007 when his body was exhumed, and his DNA taken, to check rumors he’d fathered an out-of-wedlock child with a teenaged girl. He beat that rap, meaning that in that case, at least, the Gipper hadn’t been a dipper.

 The latest manifestation of the “win-one-for” syndrome involved the University of Louisville team in last week’s NCAA men’s big-school basketball tournament and Kevin Ware, one of its players. When Ware went down with a horrendous broken leg during a quarterfinal game with Duke the cry immediately went up that L’ville was on a crusade to succeed for him. One radio guy I heard on Semifinal Saturday declared that the fallen teammate gave L’ville a “huge motivational edge” in the games to come, meaning, I suppose, that Ware, a useful reserve guard, was worth more on the bench with his leg in a cast than healthy and on the floor. That doubtful premise was repeated throughout Louisville’s triumphal march.

Let’s try that again, though. Louisville entered the tournament No. 1 in the national polls and as the top overall seed. It was favored in every game it played. It had a deep, athletic roster and an A-List coach. It was leading Duke when Ware was injured late in the first half of a game it won, 85-63, so it must have been otherwise motivated to get that far. But—hey!—never let the facts get in the way of a good story.    

                 So what really motivates top jocks? One thing is that winning feels better than losing, something every weekend athlete knows.  Another is that on the pro level winning pays better, and if money is an abstraction to an athlete (it often is after a certain point) it’s very real to many of the people around him.

                The best description of what makes a champion came to me from my friend Carmen Salvino, the Hall of Fame bowler with whom I wrote a 1988 book (Fast Lanes; Bonus Books).   “It takes a big ego and tunnel vision,” said he, adding “neither of those things go over big around the house.” He might have added that those attributes also don’t look good in print, which is why they’re not often part of the journalistic jockographies we read.

                Given the way athletes are lionized, the big-ego part should be obvious. Just about every player in every big-time sport is a physical genius, having grown up as the best athlete in his school, town or maybe even state, and petted, pampered and protected from age 10 or 11. That’s not the kind of background that breeds humility. It’s a miracle any of them turn out to be fit to live with.

                Tunnel vision is what turns that ability into victories on a field full of others similarly endowed. Lots of people are good at games but few can perform them at a high level amid the myriad distractions presented by any athletic venue, hostile or friendly.  Such concentration is an intensely selfish skill that must be ruthlessly developed. The memory of a departed loved one or a carping naysayer can spur greater effort, but this usually comes when the athlete is alone at the end of a hard workout, debating whether to run that extra lap or complete the extra round of shots or lifts. When the clock is winding down, and the fans are screaming, and the opponent is in his face, any extraneous thought can be ruinous.

                Athletes say they’re at their best when they are “in the zone”—so engrossed in the tasks at hand that they’re unaware the rest of the world exists. Time slows, sound blurs and focus narrows to a laser-like dot.

 It’s world without other people.

             Perfect.