The Derby Draws Nigh

The 137th Kentucky Derby will be run a week from today, and no clear favorite is drawing the media attention — yet.

That's right. The first jewel in the Triple Crown will be awarded to someone in seven days, and we have no real idea who it might be.

It's been more than 30 years since a horse won the Triple Crown. That's the longest dry spell since the Triple Crown came into existence. The last time a horse won the Triple Crown, it was almost routine. It was the third time it had happened in six years, and most people who witnessed it — either in person or on TV — probably expected to see it again.

I know I did.

In many years, the betting public has had a pretty good idea which horse was likely to win the first jewel. A few times, it has seemed to be preordained.

But "[t]his is not one of those years," writes Kevin Van Valkenburg in the Chicago Tribune. "In fact, if you have $2 and a hunch, you might have just as good a shot as the experts ... even if you barely know the difference between a furlong, a furlough and a fur coat."

It is anybody's race, agrees Beth Harris for Associated Press.

"I have been watching the Kentucky Derby avidly for almost 30 years," says T.O. Whenham at Doc's Sports Service. "In that time I don't remember seeing a class as confounding and underwhelming as this one."

When it is like that, gamblers look for anything that will give them an edge, and Richard Linihan of the Tulsa World provides a few "things you may need to know" in pursuit of such an edge.

My guess right now is that a consensus of sorts will begin to form in the coming days as the horses go through their workouts and the observers assess what they have seen.

It probably won't be as wide open next Saturday as it appears today.

But we shall see.

Grete Waitz Dies

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I've heard Grete Waitz called the greatest women's marathoner ever.

That would be a tough point to argue. Waitz won nine New York City Marathons — more than anyone else, male or female.

In a way, it seems that someone who is the best at something, whatever it may be, ought to be immune from death. Of course, that isn't so.

Waitz died of cancer at the age of 57 in her native Norway today, and that really (as a fellow — albeit fictional — runner said) is about all I have to say about that.

I keep thinking that there must be something profound to be said on the occasion of her death, some lesson to be learned.

But there isn't — except that anyone who ever saw Waitz run, with that long graceful stride of hers, will never forget her.

She set the standard for marathoners. Rest in peace.

Fernandomania Revisited

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I've been a Dodger fan most of my life, and it is hard for me to believe that it was 30 years ago this spring that the phenomenon known as "Fernandomania" swept over the land.

I was in college that spring and had to observe what was happening from afar (and that wasn't easy to do in 1981 — nightly cable baseball broadcasts were still years in the future). But, even in northwest Arkansas, I was aware of how Fernando Valenzuela had "radically altered the country's cultural and sporting landscape," as the Los Angeles Times' Dylan Hernandez observed a few weeks ago.

I'll say he did.

Valenzuela went 8–0 to start the 1981 season. The word "dominant" is often overused, but no other word is truly adequate to describe the start of Valenzuela's rookie campaign. Teams just couldn't figure him out. He had five shutouts in his first seven starts.

He also attracted a lot of attention for his unusual delivery, in which his eyes looked skyward just as he was about to throw the ball. He appeared to be looking for divine guidance or inspiration, and, in the first part of 1981, it seemed he was getting it.

But he was never really the same after a midsummer players' strike wiped out nearly 40% of the season. He struggled at times after play resumed. He went on to win both the Cy Young Award and the Rookie of the Year Award (the only pitcher to accomplish that), and he led the Dodgers to victory against their old American League rivals, the New York Yankees, in the World Series that fall.

But he was different after the strike.

In spite of the strike, he started 25 games that year and had 11 complete games. It was the only season that Valenzuela, with a fadeaway screwball that was widely said to be the best since Carl Hubbell pitched for the rival Giants in the 1930s and 1940s, led the league in strikeouts, shutouts, innings pitched and games started.

He had other major league seasons during his career that produced more of everything, but he never had a season like 1981.

"Mania" was the right word for it.

My Last Post (Hopefully) on Barry Bonds

Yesterday, I wrote about Barry Bonds' obstruction conviction (and the mistrial that was declared on the perjury charges).

In that post, I said Bonds should not be enshrined in the Hall of Fame, but I conceded that he would remain eligible. Based on his performances on the field, I believe Bonds stopped talking steroids when baseball inaugurated its anti–steroid policy — and, consequently, was never in violation of the policy.

Even so, it still doesn't seem fair to me that Bonds' records — which were achieved through artificial assistance that is now expressly prohibited and upon which the case for his enshrinement in the Hall will rest — should be allowed to stand.

It seems (at the very least) inconsistent to me that the same sport that would not recognize Roger Maris' single–season home run record without an asterisk (to indicate that it was achieved in 162 games, not 154) will one day welcome Bonds into its Hall of Fame with open arms, well aware that he never would have done most of the things he did if not for steroids.

But that does not bother me as much as it once would have because, as I said, I am indifferent to Bonds now.

I also expressed my hope that I would not feel compelled to write about Barry Bonds again, but, nevertheless, today I read a column by Sports Illustrated's Jon Heyman, who defended Bonds' eventual (and, I presume, inevitable) enshrinement in the Hall.

In general, I have a lot of respect for Sports Illustrated. I'm a football fan, and I enjoy reading Peter King's writings on the subject for SI. And I have enjoyed reading the other writers on the staff over the years as well.

Beyond the writing, I appreciate the quality of SI's photography (no, I'm not talking about the swimsuit issue, although it is hard to ignore the quality of those photographs). It often captures the emotions that SI's writers — as gifted as they are — are unable to express adequately.

And Heyman is no wet–behind–the–ears sports writer, either. He covered the Yankees for Newsday. He was a baseball columnist for The Sporting News. He's been with Sports Illustrated since 2006.

I would not question Heyman's credentials or his knowledge. Thus, when he writes that he believes Bonds compiled enough Hall–worthy numbers before he began taking steroids (Heyman thinks Bonds started taking steroids in 2000; I think it was long before that) to make moot the point that "not all his numbers are legit," I accept that his conclusion is based on facts — and what Heyman believes to be facts.

"Unless a voter makes a moral judgment," Heyman writes, "the question voters need to ask ... is whether those drugs helped transform the player into a Hall of Famer."

In Bonds' case, Heyman doesn't think the drugs transformed him. He believes Bonds was already there. I disagree.

We disagree on some other points, too. For example, Heyman writes that Bonds is "one of the three greatest players I ever saw in his prime, along with Alex Rodriguez and Rickey Henderson."

I guess that surprised me more than anything else because Heyman is close to my age, and I can remember several ball players who I thought were better than any of those three.

Willie Mays and Hank Aaron were both far better home run hitters than Bonds or Rodriguez, and they had to bat against far better pitchers. So, too, did Mickey Mantle.

Lou Brock was a better base stealer than Rickey Henderson — who didn't have to steal against the cannon–armed catchers Brock did.

And I know Heyman is old enough to remember guys like Roberto Clemente, Ernie Banks, Billy Williams, Reggie Jackson, even Pete Rose (who is deservedly banned from baseball but also deserves to be mentioned in this conversation).

I could keep going, but I think the point is made.

As I said yesterday, though — and as I repeated today — I'm indifferent to Bonds now. I don't feel a need to quibble over when he started using steroids. I have my own opinion about that, and it is enough for me. I don't need to persuade others.

I agree when Heyman observes that the standards for enshrinement in the Hall are much lower than they are in a court of law, and that is as it should be. "Scoundrels and cheats are already in," he writes. "So are foul–tempered jerks. Bonds may be all three."

Granted. When the Hall of Fame balloting takes place, it is hardly the College of Cardinals choosing the next pope.

I would like to think, though, that when someone is chosen for a sports hall of fame, he is being chosen in part because he is the kind of person parents would like their children to emulate. He should be honored for his achievements, but it would be nice if he was not a scoundrel, a cheat, a foul–tempered jerk.

Unfortunately, though, if you make that a requirement, you'll have to eject some Hall of Famers like Ty Cobb, who weren't great people but they were great ball players.

So the Hall of Fame isn't ideal. Neither, for that matter, is the criminal justice system.

The difference is that the criminal justice system does keep trying to improve.

Barry Bonds

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"Doctors ought to quit worrying about what ballplayers are taking. What players take doesn't matter. It's nobody else's business. The doctors should spend their time looking for cures for cancer. It takes more than muscles to hit homers. If all those guys were using stuff, how come they're not all hitting homers?"

Barry Bonds
2002

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I feel kind of indifferent to Barry Bonds.

There was a time, not too long ago, when Bonds was still playing — and being referred to, at every at–bat and often when he was in the field, as the home run king — and I wished the worst things I could for him.

No, I did not wish that he would die. I don't judge people for deciding to take their own lives, but if a person is alive (and, presumably, wishes to remain that way), I do not wish for his/her life to end.

But I did wish that his career would end, which it did.

And I did wish that he would be exposed for what he is — and he has.

Well, kinda sorta.

Bonds has been convicted of obstructing justice, but mistrials were declared on the perjury charges — all stemming, of course, from his use of steroids in his pursuit of the all–time home run record.

I never thought for a second that Bonds didn't take steroids.

OK, I admit I never liked him personally — but that is only because he is not likable. I have rarely, if ever, seen a professional athlete who was as universally disliked as Bonds. The only people who ever seemed to like him were the people in the cities where he played — and they always stopped liking him when he stopped wearing their team's uniform.

He started his major league career in Pittsburgh, kind of a scrawny fellow, but he was still something of a power hitter. His numbers weren't eye–popping — average for a power hitter, I'd say.

But he never had a season like the one he had in 2000. He was in his mid–30s at the time, and he became only the second man to hit 70 home runs in a season. Actually, he smashed that record.

In seven seasons in Pittsburgh, Bonds' best home run output in a season was 34. But in the next seven years in San Francisco, that was just about his low point. In fact, in every season from 1993 to 2005 (including the strike–shortened 1994 season), Bonds hit at least 33 home runs — and in eight of those seasons, he hit at least 40 home runs.

He followed the 2000 season with three consecutive seasons of 40–plus homers — at the point in a baseball career when just about any other power hitter you'd care to name experiences a sharp decline in production. The guys he passed on the way to the all–time home run crown — Hank Aaron, Babe Ruth, Willie Mays — saw their numbers tumble in their 30s — although, to be fair, Aaron did have some great seasons in his late 30s.

But Aaron was consistent. He never had a pro season in which he hit 50 or more home runs — and rarely had a 40–homer season. He passed Babe Ruth primarily through sheer endurance.

Bonds, on the other hand, only experienced a dropoff in productivity starting in the 2005 season — the same season in which baseball put its current anti–steroid policy in place.

I never saw how anyone could believe that Bonds hadn't taken steroids — or hadn't been aware that he had.

I was glad when his career was over, and I wish major league baseball would put an asterisk (or a little hypodermic needle) next to his name in the record books because I believe his single–season and career home run records were obtained fraudulently.

What's more, I think Bonds should be banned from baseball and kept out of the Hall of Fame because his use of performance–enhancing drugs is a more blatant form of cheating than gambling.

But none of that will happen — because steroid use didn't even lead to brief suspensions before 2005. It wouldn't be fair to penalize him for violating a policy that didn't exist.

Pete Rose and Shoeless Joe Jackson will remain barred from Cooperstown because gambling was and is explicitly against baseball rules.

But Bonds will continue to be eligible for the Hall, even if baseball adopts an even tougher policy.

And his records will stand indefinitely.

But, as I say, I'm pretty much indifferent to Barry Bonds these days. He's yesterday's news.

And, for Bonds, that may be the worst punishment possible.

A Memorable Masters

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"If you could read Adam Scott's lips when he shook fellow Australian Jason Day's hand as they walked off the 18th green as runners–up, it summed up a day unlike any other in Masters history.

" 'That was awesome; that was unbelievable; that was great,' said Scott in a flurry of superlatives about a day that was all of that and then some."

Scott Michaux
Augusta (Ga.) Chronicle
April 11, 2011

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I don't usually watch golf on TV.

I don't play the game so I don't understand many of its subtleties.

And I've always been of the opinion that, if someone wanted to market a truly effective cure for insomnia, all that person needed to do was sell video tapes of golf tournament broadcasts. The announcers always speak in hushed tones, as if they are standing just behind the golfers, and the imagery is always pastoral and soothing.

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Especially the Masters — with the coma–inducing theme music it has been using as long as I can remember.

But I watched much of Sunday's final round of the Masters — and I was never tempted to doze off.

There were too many stories unfolding, as Scott Michaux wrote in the Augusta Chronicle.

Now, I don't know anything about Michaux. I presume that, if he has been writing for the Augusta paper for awhile, he has covered more than his share of Masters tournaments — and he speaks from experience when he calls yesterday "a day unlike any other in Masters history."

What I do know is this.

I've watched bits and pieces of most of the Masters broadcasts in my life. Occasionally, I have felt compelled to watch a bit more than that.

But I can't remember the last time I sat in front of my TV for hours, watching the Masters' final round unfold.

I was alternately astonished by Tiger Woods' remarkable comeback (for awhile on Sunday afternoon, he was actually tied for the lead), Rory McIlroy's equally amazing final–round collapse (thanks to a still–hard–to–fathom triple bogey from a guy who had been shooting under par all week) and the rapid ascent of three Australian golfers.

It was like golf's version of the Olympics. Something dramatic was happening at every hole.

And when the dust settled, South African Charl Schwartzel birdied the final four holes and won the tournament by two strokes.

When Tiger Woods won the Masters 14 years ago, he changed golf. He became its star — an unreachable star, in the eyes of many who played the game. Hard as it may be to remember, there were actually managers of some golf courses in America who wanted to extend some of their holes to make them more challenging for any golfers who could hit drives as far as Tiger could.

Tiger has fallen on hard times, and golf no longer has a dominant personality — but, as Michael Hiestand observes for USA TODAY, there was no absence of star power in Augusta on Sunday.

Even when it became clear that Tiger's comeback would come up short.

Tiger Blood

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Someone is going to win the Masters today.

It ain't gonna be Tiger Woods, writes Gene Wojciechowski for ESPN.com.

But it might be Rory McIlroy, who staked out his advantage in the first round and has built it into the "largest lead Augusta National has seen since that remarkable day 14 years ago," writes John Romano of the St. Petersburg Times.

Anyone who is old enough to remember the 1997 Masters remembers the way Tiger Woods dominated the field. He was the youngest golfer ever to win the Masters, a mere 21, but that was probably the least of his accomplishments on the day he won his first green jacket.

He's won three more since then, and he's won every other major multiple times.

Tiger continues to cast an enormous shadow over this tournament — even though he has only won it once in the last eight years — but that shadow seems to be receding.

Tiger goes into today's final round trailing by seven strokes. He had a seven–under round one day in 1997 en route to his record–setting triumph in the Masters, and he flirted with it the next day so he is — or, at least, has been — capable of that.

But, in order for a 65 to result in at least a tie with the current leader, that leader would have to do something he hasn't done in the first three days of this tournament — break even.

In fact, even if the leader duplicates his worst round of the tournament (yesterday's two–under 70), Tiger would need to shoot a nine–under 63 to match him — and he would have to hope that the other golfers who stand between him and McIlroy don't have record–smashing afternoons of their own.

It just seems to me that there are too many obstacles between Tiger and a fifth green jacket. And even if there were no other golfers between Tiger and McIlroy, the greatest of the obstacles would remain: If Tiger ever shot a 63 (in a major or even a non–major), he hasn't done it recently.

So I would have to conclude that Wojciechowski was right — but we won't know that for sure until later today.

We'll also have to wait until later today to find out if Sports Illustrated's Joe Posnanski was right a couple of days ago when he observed that first–round leaders seldom win it all.

"In the last 25 years, there have been a total of 41 first–round leaders, including ties," he wrote. "One won the Masters. One. More first–round leaders over the last quarter century have finished in 21st place than first. Only 17 of the 41 first–round leaders even finished in the Top 10."

Let me amend what I just said. Posnanski clearly is right about the tournament's recent history. What remains to be seen is whether McIlroy will overcome it.

Going into today's final round, McIlroy has a chance to make that two first–round leaders in the last quarter century who have made their leads hold up long enough to win a championship.

We'll find out if he is able to do it later today.

Duel in the Sun

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It may not always seem like it, especially when you look at the scores, but there are dramatic moments — turning points — in a tennis match.

I was reminded of that today when I watched the women's final of the Sony Ericsson Open in Miami between Maria Sharapova and Victoria Azarenka. If Sharapova won, Susan Miller Degnan of the Miami Herald reminded her readers, it would be her first title since last May.

I don't know why, but I always tended to view tennis as a women's sport, even though I knew that some pretty talented male athletes played tennis.

When I was a teenager, I followed women's tennis because I had a crush on Chris Evert — and she was almost always in the finals of every tennis tournament. In fact, it was almost routine to see Evert (or Evert–Lloyd, as she was known after marriage) face Martina Navratilova in championships.

Frankly, it was so routine that I always thought it was a waste of time to play the earlier rounds — except on those occasions when one or both did not survive them (which rarely happened).

I didn't really follow men's tennis too closely. I admired Jimmy Connors — mostly because he had won Chris Evert's heart — and I kind of followed McEnroe and Borg, but mostly I followed women's tennis.

I gravitated away from women's tennis after Evert and Navratilova retired. But I started to feel myself being drawn back to it when Sharapova won Wimbledon in 2004 at the age of 17. I knew about her tendency to shriek every time she hit a tennis ball, and that may have been a bit upsetting for some people, but I kind of liked it. When I watched Sharapova play, I knew she was giving everything she had.

And, OK, I'll admit it. I thought she was cute, too. Who didn't?

Sometimes, promoters have tried to manufacture momentum for female athletes who had succeeded mostly because they were cute and not because they were talented. But some female athletes who were cute also happened to be talented. Sharapova was one of those, and she was deceptive. There was a lot of power in her slender physique.

She suffered a shoulder injury in 2008, though, and disappeared from professional tennis for nearly a year. Her appearance in today's championship was seen by some as a hopeful sign.

But it was not to be. Not quite yet.

Remember those turning points I mentioned earlier? There were two of those in today's match, both in the second set.

Azarenka handled Sharapova fairly easily in the first set, winning 6–1, then led 3–0 when the two got into battle over the fourth game. Sharapova took the lead, then held on as Azarenka rallied to force it to deuce.

(Since I don't watch tennis very often, it was a little difficult to orient myself. I remembered that Sharapova was blonde and shapely so I decided to watch for the one who was blonde and shapely — but it turned out that Azarenka is blonde and shapely, too.

(So I decided to look for the shrieker. But that was no help, either. Azarenka is a shrieker, too. And they wore similar headgear. From a distance, they looked remarkably similar. But I quickly discovered, through the brief closeup shots, that Azarenka was dressed in white and Sharapova was dressed in blue. Kind of a North Carolina Tar Heel blue.)

The two exchanged the advantage several times before Azarenka finally prevailed and led 4–0. At that point, I thought Sharapova was finished. I had seen similar matches when one contestant was dominated until a critical point, when everything turned around, and that contestant rallied for an improbable victory.

But I had seen other matches in which the contestant had a chance to turn things around but failed to seize the opportunity — and I feared that what I had just seen was an example of the latter.

Well, it was — and it wasn't.

It wasn't because, a few minutes later, Sharapova had rallied to win two games since losing the deuce and trailed 4–2 when the two were deadlocked again.

Again, it went back and forth, but finally Sharapova broke the tie and trailed only 4–3. Momentum seemed to be on her side, and I could imagine her rallying for a dramatic victory.

But it turned out that it was one of those times when the contestant fails to seize the opportunity after all.

Azarenka won two of the next three games and took a two–set victory in the final.

Sharapova has said that she hopes to retire early, that her plans for life include marriage and children. I hope those plans work out. It would be nice to see her win Wimbledon again, though.

And Azarenka showed me today that she has a lot of talent. I'm inclined to think she will win a few Grand Slams herself before she is through.

And I'm inclined to think the future of women's tennis is in good hands.