Pitcher Bob Welch Dies at 57

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Imagine being 21 years old, a rookie pitcher playing for the Los Angeles Dodgers, and you're in the World Series against the New York Yankees.

That was the situation in which Bob Welch found himself on the night of Wednesday, Oct. 11, 1978, when he came in to close out a 4–3 victory for Los Angeles. Starter Burt Hooton had gone six innings and staked the Dodgers to a one–run lead when he left; then reliever Terry Forster pitched 2⅓ solid innings but left after serving up a single and a walk in the ninth.

In came Welch.

In front of more than 55,000 fans in Dodger Stadium — and millions more watching on TV — Welch nailed down the save. He got Thurman Munson to fly out to right, then won an epic showdown with future Hall of Famer Reggie Jackson. Jackson had driven in all of the Yankees' runs that night, and he came to the plate with two outs and runners at first and second.

This was at the time, it should be noted, that Jackson was gaining his reputation as "Mister October." A year earlier, he hit three consecutive home runs to lift the Yankees to their World Series–clinching triumph over those same Dodgers and won the series MVP in the process.

He could have evened the game with a well–hit ball, but the young Welch gunned him down. Jackson struck out swinging, and Welch had preserved the victory for the Dodgers.

Los Angeles would lose the next four games — and the Series — to the Yankees.

The Dodgers ended up trading Welch to Oakland following the 1987 season. The A's faced the Dodgers in the World Series in 1988, and Welch pitched in the only game Oakland won. He didn't get the win — another ex–Dodger, Rick Honeycutt, got the win in relief after Mark McGwire hit a one–out home run in the eighth.

A couple of years later, Welch won the Cy Young Award. He won 27 games that year and remains the last pitcher to win 25 games or more in a single season.

Welch died yesterday at the age of 57. At this point, his cause of death remains undisclosed.

No Triple Crown. Again.

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Once again, horse racing enthusiasts were disappointed by the Belmont.

It's frustrating, this 36–year drought — the longest dry spell ever since the last Triple Crown winner. If you're 40 years old, you weren't even in grade school yet when Affirmed claimed the last Triple Crown — you probably had not even been born when Secretariat ended a then–record 25–year drought in the Triple Crown.

It's so frustrating that Steve Coburn, owner of California Chrome, the latest Triple Crown hopeful to falter in the Belmont, called the owner and trainer of the winner (Tonalist) "cowards" for not running their horse in all three Triple Crown races, as he had done.

That's been an issue with the Triple Crown for a long time. To win the Triple Crown, a horse must win three races in three different states within five weeks' time. The winner of the Kentucky Derby is not compelled to run in the Preakness two weeks later. And, if a horse wins both of those races, he is not compelled to run in the Belmont, either.

But the lure of the Triple Crown almost always brings 'em.

I wouldn't call myself an expert on horse racing, but there are a few things I know, mostly from trying to fall back on my training as a journalist and listening to what others (most of whom are experts) have to say — and most trainers say they prefer to give a horse five weeks (at least) between races. Usually, they will lean more toward six or seven weeks.

Three races in five weeks is an unbelievably grueling pace in horse racing. If that is still hard for you to understand, look at it this way.

We live in an age of sports specialization. In my father's day, there were lots of guys who played both offense and defense in football; I don't know if I can recall such a two–way player in my lifetime. Maybe there has been one, possibly two, probably born more of necessity than of skill.

When I was a boy, it wasn't unusual for pitchers to go the distance in baseball. There were a couple of relievers on most staffs in case the starter really got into trouble. Now, teams have staffs of relievers who have been trained to come in and give an inning or two before giving the ball to the closer. If a starter goes longer than six innings, he's probably pitching a no–hitter — and most likely will be yanked the minute a player from the other team gets on base.

Asking a horse to run in — and win — three races in 35 days is like asking a pitcher to throw three complete games in the space of a week.

That's why winning a Triple Crown is such an impressive accomplishment. Well, it is part of the reason.

The other part is what we saw on Saturday.

The Belmont is longer than either the Kentucky Derby (1¼ miles) or the Preakness (1 3/16 miles). The first two races are much shorter than the Belmont (1½ miles), which is justifiably called the "Test of the Champion." To win the first two races, a horse must possess speed. To win the Belmont, a horse must possess endurance.

Few horses possess both. It takes a special horse to win a Triple Crown. Only 11 horses have done it since 1875, the first year that all three races were run.

Secretariat was the greatest horse I ever saw, but there were those who questioned whether he could win a long race like the Belmont. His answer was a 31–length victory. Now that is a horse that combines speed and endurance.

Some people say a Triple Crown can't be won again. I say it can. I just can't say when.

Coburn has apologized for his outburst.

And he was right — to an extent. It isn't fair that a rested horse like Tonalist (or Commissioner, the second–place finisher) can run against a horse that has run in the Derby and the Preakness — but it happens nearly every year.

For that matter, Coburn didn't have to enter California Chrome in the Preakness and the Belmont, but he did. That was his choice.

That was his gamble — and it didn't pay off.

If you've ever placed a bet at a race track that didn't pay off, you might know how he felt — except that he didn't lose a mere $2 wager. He lost what may be his only chance to win a Triple Crown.

I understand that he felt it was unfair that Tonalist was able to get the rest Coburn's trainer believes is essential for a horse to give his best performance — while California Chrome was running not one but two races.

But that is the special challenge of the Triple Crown, isn't it? Most horses can't do it.

On the Eve of History?

It is the night before the Belmont.

California Chrome apparently is still scheduled to run for a Triple Crown tomorrow — unlike the last horse to win the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness, I'll Have Another, yanked at the last minute, to the frustration of horse racing fans.

I'll admit it. I would like to see a Triple Crown winner — not the way some folks do, the ones who say they want to see one more Triple Crown winner before they die, but because I think it would be good for horse racing. And I like horse racing.

Forty years ago, the great Secretariat ended a 25–year Triple Crown drought. He breathed new life into his sport, and there were two more Triple Crown winners (and nearly a third) before the decade ended. The drought is much longer this time, and California Chrome is the 13th horse to win the first two jewels of the Triple Crown since Affirmed won the last Triple Crown in 1978.

It has been noted often that attendance at America's tracks has been declining for years — and suggested that even a Triple Crown winner won't be enough to bring those patrons back. The longer fans stay away, the harder it is to bring them back. It isn't impossible, as baseball demonstrated after a strike wiped out the 1994 World Series, but it is difficult to achieve.

Maybe too much time has passed. That happens in sports — and in life. There are windows of opportunity; when they slam shut, it is awfully difficult to open them again. Baseball was fortunate to have two charismatic players, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa, dueling to set a single–season home run record in 1998. Their battle brought fans back to the ballparks, but attendance had been down in the years since the strike.

I have often wondered if baseball had reached a critical point when the McGwire–Sosa home run race captured the public's imagination. If the McGwire–Sosa duel had not materialized, would baseball have remained America's pastime?

Team sports are different from individual sports, though, and a horse is, after all, an animal, not a person who may be able to use his charisma to get back in the public's good graces. Animals have no real charisma — at least none of which they are aware, just the charisma that is generated by a picture or video.

I don't know if winning a Triple Crown can reverse horse racing's fortunes. I get the feeling, though, that, with California Chrome, I have seen this before, and I really expect to see the same kind of outcome tomorrow as we have seen nearly a dozen times since 1978.

This is how it generally seems to play out. A horse wins the Kentucky Derby (OK, that happens every year; nothing special about that, right?), but there are doubts about the horse that persist until he wins the Preakness two weeks later. Most of the time, the Preakness win is convincing enough that the questions about the horse disappear, and momentum for the two–time winner starts to build.

The horse looks great in training and is greeted with lots of hesitant–yet–hopeful hype when he arrives in New York. Now, that kind of attention has been known to turn many an athlete's head. But an animal doesn't have human emotions and can't feel the pressure of high expectations. As time passes, the conventional wisdom becomes the horse is a lock to win. Confidence begets overconfidence; overconfidence begets a belief that it will be different this time.

But it never is.

There are all kinds of ways for this to happen. I thought I had seen them all — until I'll Have Another was pulled out the day before the Belmont in 2012. When that happened, I figured that I hadn't seen them all.

It could be a repeat of something we've seen before. Smarty Jones faded in the stretch in 2004. War Emblem broke badly in 2002 and never recovered. In 1998, Real Quiet looked like he would win it, then lost at the wire. Big Brown, so dominating in the first two races in 2008, was eased out of the money in the third.

Or it might be something new — or, at least, something we have not seen in a long time.

So, in spite of all the enthusiasm about California Chrome, put me down as skeptical.

Perhaps I am wrong. Frankly, I hope I am. It would be nice to see a Triple Crown winner. And I am sincere when I say it would be good for horse racing. I do believe that.

Well, we'll find out in 24 hours.

By the way, if you're looking for something to kill some time between now and post time, USA Today reprinted a Belmont Stakes horse name generator that apparently originated in the Reno Gazette–Journal.

Give it whirl. My Belmont Stakes horse's name was Reno Prince.

There's No Such Thing as a Sure Thing

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When I worked on a sports copy desk in Little Rock, I became friends with the sportswriter who covered horse racing for us.

I learned a lot from him. I remember most of the things he told me, and I will never forget what may have been the most important thing he told me: There is no such thing as a sure thing. That's why they call it gambling.

In a week and a half, California Chrome will become the 12th horse to enter the Belmont Stakes with a chance to win the Triple Crown since Affirmed became the most recent Triple Crown winner in 1978. (Well, I presume he will run in the Belmont. He might not have if he hadn't been permitted to wear the nasal strip that helped him breathe easier in the first two races — and he still might not compete. I guess we won't know for sure until the Belmont is run on June 7.)

Obviously, we've been here before — and, just as obviously, success in the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness does not mean success in the Belmont Stakes.

It's a point every Triple Crown winner must reach en route to achieving the goal, of course, and 11 horses have won all three races for 3–year–old thoroughbreds that comprise it.

That's 11 Triple Crown winners in 95 years — since Sir Barton won the first Triple Crown back in 1919. But we's have had that many horses win the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness and fail to win the Belmont since Affirmed's Triple Crown in 1978 — starting with Spectacular Bid in 1979.

There had never been three consecutive Triple Crown winners when Spectacular Bid ran in the Belmont, but, if Spectacular Bid had won that race, it would have made three straight Triple Crown winners.

On the morning of the 1979 Belmont, it was discovered that Spectacular Bid had stepped on a safety pin, and it was lodged in his hoof. He didn't appear to be lame, though, so he was allowed to run the race, and he appeared to be doing well, holding the lead at the midway point. However, he began to falter and finished third.

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Since then, 10 other horses have won the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness but failed to win the Belmont — and it might have been 11, but we'll never know. I'll Have Another won the first two races in 2012 but did not run in the Belmont.

Winning the first two races and losing the third wasn't a new thing in 1979. In the years before Spectacular Bid's Triple Crown attempt, eight other horses won the first two races but came up short in the third and last one. But it has been happening with greater frequency in the last 35 years.

Why is that? Well, I could be wrong, but I think it is because of the age of specialization that permeates sports these days.

Take baseball, for example. When I was growing up, it wasn't uncommon for a pitcher to throw a complete game. In fact, it was routinely expected that starting pitchers would go the distance — and relievers were called upon only when things got out of hand.

Now, baseball teams carry staffs of relief specialists who are called on (ideally) when the starter has gone six or seven innings, long enough to receive credit for the win, starting with the middle reliever and (again, ideally) proceeding to the closer.

I don't breed horses, but I gather — from my own observations and comments from those whose evaluations on such things I trust — that horses are bred for either speed or endurance, not both. To a degree, I suppose it has always been that way; I have always heard certain horses referred to as speed horses and other horses referred to as endurance horses.

I've heard some people suggest that, based on the times of the first two races, California Chrome is an endurance horse. I'm not sure about that. These assessments are made on the basis of times that differ by fifths of seconds. Sports are often described as being games of inches, though, so judging distances by fifths of seconds may not be all that different. I'm just not entirely sure it is the way to differentiate between a speed horse and an endurance horse.

Essentially, I suppose, a horse that can win all three races of the Triple Crown is both.

They call the Belmont the "test of the champion," and it really is. It is the longest of the three races by at least a quarter of a mile, thus emphasizing endurance over speed. If a horse can win the Triple Crown, he really has proven himself as an all–around champion.

In an interesting piece in The Atlantic last week, Henry Fetter wrote that even a Triple Crown winner won't be enough to save horse racing.

"[H]oping that a Triple Crown for California Chrome can jump–start a turnaround in the fortunes of the erstwhile sport of kings is almost certainly a hope too far," Fetter wrote.

I hope he's wrong.

Hail to the Beothuks

What's in a name?

Shakespeare asked that question in "Romeo and Juliet" more than 400 years ago. His answer ("That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet") may have mollified folks in his own time, but it isn't adequate for most modern discussions on the subject.

(I have long believed that George Carlin made an excellent point about a company's name needing to be appropriate for the product it makes. "If Janitor in a Drum made a douche," he pointed out, "no one would buy it" — and, I might add, with good reason.)

Case in point would be the current debate over whether the Washington Redskins should change their team nickname. (I italicize the word current because this really isn't a new debate. I've heard it all before.)

Incredibly, in an election year in which polls clearly indicate that Americans are focused on the economy and jobs, 50 senators signed a letter to team owner Daniel Snyder urging him to change the nickname.

Really? Don't they have more important things to do — like passing legislation that encourages job creation and doesn't restrict it? Or maybe figuring out a way to make the health care policies they are forcing all Americans to buy truly affordable — and making sure Americans don't die while waiting for the care they need, like the veterans in Phoenix? Or coming up with plans that really do make America less dependent on foreign oil?

And that just scratches the surface.

If I were a politician running against one of the senators who signed the letter, I would be sure to point out that, with all the problems facing this country, my opponent had been obsessing about a football team nickname — and, unless he/she represented Washington, D.C., in the Senate (which is impossible because D.C. has no senators), the nickname has no bearing on his/her constituents (unless, of course, they happen to be Redskins fans).

This obsession is a knee–jerk reaction because, unlike the word nigger or similar words that are known to offend most members of a demographic group, there exists considerable doubt about whether redskin really does offend native Americans.

The knee–jerk reaction is that Redskins is a racial term and/or a reference to the blood that was spilled. The latter is a little closer to the truth, but it isn't precise. In fact, it was a reference to the red paint that the warriors from a particular tribe put on themselves prior to battle.

Not really different from the colonists' use of the term redcoats to describe British soldiers — which is much less offensive, in my opinion, than some of the terms that were used by soldiers in 20th–century wars to describe their foes.

Why not tell the Kansas City Chiefs to change their nickname?

That one is a little tricky. While their onfield mascot is an Indian, and they play their games in Arrowhead Stadium, the fact is that the Chiefs got their name because the Kansas City mayor, Harold Roe Bartle, was instrumental in getting the team moved there from Dallas. The mayor's nickname was Chief (a name he acquired, apparently, from his habit of responding to all two–alarm fires wearing firefighter's garb — hat, coat and boots — when he was mayor).

Can you handle a little more history? I'm talking about the real stuff here, not the stuff that folks have manufactured to support their political biases, and I know that most people have an aversion to history (i.e., facts) so, if you need to take a breather, feel free to do so. Get yourself a cup of coffee. Take a deep breath. Then come back. I'll still be here.

Ready? Good. Let's proceed.

It is ironic to me that the term redskin is believed to be offensive to native Americans — because it doesn't refer to a tribe that lived on American soil. It referred to a tribe called the Beothuks, who lived in Canada on the island of Newfoundland.

Their story really is a sad one. When the Beothuks came in contact with European settlers in the 15th and 16th centuries, they relocated to other coastal areas on the island to avoid contact with the Europeans, who set up their fishing camps in ever–increasing numbers.

Eventually, the Beothuks moved to inland Newfoundland, which created new problems. The biggest one was that their main sources for food were fish, seals and caribou. Moving inland robbed them of two, and the caribou population declined due to overhunting. That, in turn, led to a severe food shortage.

Eventually, many of the Beothuks starved to death, but many also fell victim to diseases they acquired through exposure to the Europeans, and others were killed in violent conflicts with the Europeans — conflicts in which, no doubt, many of the Beothuks painted themselves with red war paint.

I've heard some people argue that Redskins is an offensive word. Such an argument needs proof to support it. America, after all, is a land of laws, one of which is that proof is necessary to support an allegation. While it doesn't qualify as the kind of proof that could be offered in a courtroom, the only proof of whether the term offends native Americans seems to be available through surveys.

Surveys aren't 100% reliable, I know, but, nevertheless, last year CBS conducted a survey of native Americans asking them if they were offended by Redskins; nine out of 10 were not.

In the current debate, I suppose it would be a good idea to find out how the Beothuks feel about the Redskins nickname, but that isn't possible. The last known living member of the tribe died of tuberculosis almost 185 years ago.

What I and anyone else may think — or even what those 50 senators may think — has no real bearing on it. As far as I know, none is descended, even partially, from native Americans (Elizabeth Warren's claim notwithstanding).

Team nicknames are typically things that evoke pride in fans. Sometimes it is a name that has historic or regional significance — nicknames like Seminoles, Utes, Warriors, etc., fall in this category.

Granted, sometimes nicknames are absurd; sometimes they make no sense (unless you know the whole story behind them).

But, unless the name is truly offensive, this is carrying political correctness to an extreme.

Save your outrage for teams called the Terrorists or the Klansmen.

The Return of Calvin Borel

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Does the name of Calvin Borel sound familiar to you?

He's a jockey from Louisiana, and, even if you only pay attention to horse racing in the five weeks of the Triple Crown, Borel's name should sound familiar to you. He's a Hall of Famer, a three–time winner of the Kentucky Derby; in 2009, he won the Preakness as well and became the first jockey to win the first two races of the Triple Crown on different horses.

In fact, when he won the Preakness (exactly five years ago this Friday), Borel rode a filly, Rachel Alexandra. It wasn't the first time that a filly won the Preakness, but it was the first time in 85 years.

It is important to know that because Borel apparently will be trying to duplicate horse racing history in this Saturday's running of the Preakness. It was reported yesterday that Borel will be riding another filly, Ria Antonia.

The immediate plans for the filly, who recently changed owners, were uncertain initially, but Jennie Rees of USA Today reports that "[a]n impressive workout Sunday under Calvin Borel seemed to seal the deal."

Meanwhile, Kentucky Derby winner and presumptive Preakness favorite California Chrome arrived in Baltimore Monday. He seemed to enjoy the attention he received, writes Childs Walker in the Baltimore Sun.

He's getting plenty of attention from other owners who would like to puncture the Triple Crown balloon. As I observed following the Kentucky Derby, the comparatively leisurely pace of the Kentucky Derby might encourage the owners of speed horses to challenge California Chrome in Baltimore.

Is that what is happening? Is Ria Antonia a speed horse who might be capable of challenging California Chrome?

Her new trainer isn't saying, only that he see the Preakness as being California Chrome vs. the field. If he is able to run the race his way, he will win. But if he is thrown off by something or someone, all bets are off.

Speaking of bets, according to the odds posted yesterday, the pending odds against Ria Antonia are 32–1. If the odds are unchanged Saturday afternoon, and Borel rides Ria Antonia to victory, it will be a big story — but it won't be the biggest story in Borel's career. Two weeks before he rode Rachel Alexandra to victory in the Preakness, he rode Mine That Bird, a 50–to–1 shot, to a huge upset win in the Kentucky Derby.

Borel rode Ride On Curlin in this year's Kentucky Derby on May 3, finishing seventh. Ride On Curlin will be in the Preakness field this Saturday, but Joel Rosario, who rode General A Rod to an 11th–place finish at Churchill Downs, will replace Borel.

(General A Rod has been confirmed for the race, too. Javier Castellano, who rode the winner in the 2006 Preakness, will be on board.)

The Brown Bomber's 100th Birthday

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"This was an hour before midnight of October 26, 1951. It was the evening of a day that dawned July 4, 1934, when Joe Louis became a professional fistfighter and knocked out Jack Kracken in Chicago for a $50 purse. The night was a long time on the way, but it had to come."

Red Smith

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I've been following boxing most of my life, and I have come to the conclusion that selecting the best who ever fought in a division is a matter that — for the most part — is in the eye of the beholder.

It is easier for me to compare fighters from different eras than it is to compare teams or individual athletes in other sports, though, because boxing is largely unchanged since the introduction of gloves. There have been some rule changes, and bouts typically aren't scheduled for as many rounds as they once were, but the length of those rounds hasn't changed, and the ring is the same size as it has been for God knows how long.

In other sports, the equipment has changed — and perhaps the playing surfaces are different. That is especially true, I believe, of baseball, which has seen the introduction of indoor games, artificial turf and protective batting helmets, among other things, as well as changes in rules designed to level the playing field for hitters or pitchers.

Comparatively, boxing is unchanged, and, when you look at Joe Louis' career, it is difficult for any beholder to say that anyone else was better.

Most Americans of the 21st century probably regard Louis as a figure from a bygone era — like Babe Ruth or Jim Thorpe — someone they know only through flickering images on movie screens. If they think of someone breaking racial barriers, they probably think of baseball's Jackie Robinson.

But Louis was more than a barrier buster. The Florida Times–Union writes that Louis, who was born 100 years ago tomorrow, was an American hero.

So he was.

Louis didn't break the racial championship barrier in professional boxing's heavyweight division. That distinction belonged to Jack Johnson, the "Galveston Giant" who won the heavyweight title more than a decade before Louis was born and lost it when Louis was a toddler but never really won over white Americans.

(There was more to it, of course — mostly having to do with allegations of Johnson violating the Mann Act, allegations that were clearly racially motivated — but that is a subject for another discussion. My point is, Louis was not the first black heavyweight champ.)

Louis was a popular figure from coast to coast, though, and he was talented. Among the heavyweights of all time, ESPN ranks him behind only Muhammad Ali, just ahead of Johnson and a couple of slots ahead of Rocky Marciano, who knocked Louis out in 1951 in his final fight.

Marciano, of course, is the only heavyweight champion in history to retire undefeated. But when Marciano met Joe Louis in 1951, Louis was 37 years old. Marciano was nearly 10 years his junior. One can only wonder what might have been if they had been the same age when they faced each other.

The year that Louis was 28 (Marciano's age when he fought Louis), Louis successfully defended the heavyweight title twice within a couple of months, winning the first in a one–round knockout, the second in a six–round TKO.

The year before, he defended his title four times — including the famed bout with Billy Conn, the "Fight of the Year" in 1941.

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He didn't fight in 1943 or in most of 1944 because he served in World War II, but he experienced a surge in popularity when he was quoted as saying, "We'll win (the war) 'cause we're on God's side."

I've seen several lists that have Louis rated the best heavyweight of all time. That is appropriate, considering that his reign as the heavyweight division's champion was longer than any other.

At times, he was criticized for the quality of his opposition. The lineup of his opponents was known as the "Bum of the Month Club" when he was defending his title (in spite of their nickname, most of those fighters were ranked in the top 10 among heavyweights). But he did face some very good fighters, too, some of the best of his day — Conn (twice), Max Schmeling (twice), Jersey Joe Walcott (twice), Ezzard Charles, James J. Braddock.

In many ways, Louis was produced and presented for mass consumption. His image was tightly managed — he had certain rules he had to live by, one of which was that he could not be photographed with white women — and his handlers were even responsible for coming up with his nickname, the "Brown Bomber."

(Several other nicknames were floated, but "Brown Bomber" seemed to be preferred by most.)

Louis' triumphs in the ring were greeted as symbolic strides for the black community. There weren't many black figures for black Americans to admire in those days, but they didn't admire him just because of his race. He was a heroic figure for all Americans.

"Each time Joe Louis won a fight in those depression years, even before he became champion, thousands of black Americans on relief or W.P.A., and poor, would throng out into the streets all across the land to march and cheer and yell and cry because of Joe's one–man triumphs," wrote noted author Langston Hughes.

"No one else in the United States has ever had such an effect on Negro emotions — or on mine. I marched and cheered and yelled and cried, too."

"What my father did was enable white America to think of him as an American, not as a black," said his son, Joe Jr. "By winning, he became white America's first black hero."

And paved the way for those who followed.

Can California Chrome Win the Triple Crown?

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As expected, California Chrome won the Kentucky Derby yesterday.

I watched the race, as I always do. I enjoyed the spectacle of the thing. I reminded myself that someday I would really like to go to Churchill Downs to watch the Kentucky Derby in person.

It isn't a Bucket List kind of thing. I know that you've probably got to have connections with people who have connections to people who have connections to the Derby merely to be able to watch from the grandstand. During my days as a sports copy editor, I knew a handicapper rather well, and he might have been such a connection for me then. But that was many years ago, and my friend is now deceased. The odds against my ever going to the Kentucky Derby must be incredible.

So it will remain the sort of thing I would like to do, but it isn't the sort of thing I absolutely positively must do, before I die. And that's OK.

Anyway, as I say, I enjoyed the spectacle of the race. It's always exciting for me to watch those horses running around that track, but each year it seems I care less about who wins — and more about whether he can win the other two races in the Triple Crown, the Preakness in two weeks and the Belmont in early June.

It has been nearly 36 years since Affirmed became the most recent horse to win the Triple Crown. Since I'll probably never get to see a Kentucky Derby in person, I would like to witness a Triple Crown winner.

There are those who follow horse racing who will tell you that a Triple Crown can not be won — but they have been saying that for decades, whenever there is a gap between Triple Crown winners. Thirty–six years and counting is the longest such drought in Triple Crown history, which encourages the naysayers all the more.

The Kentucky Derby is the clean slate for the Triple Crown. Once it is over, there is only one horse that can win the Triple Crown that year. But before the Run for the Roses, the number of horses that could win the Triple Crown is however many horses are running at Churchill Downs.

The Preakness is always important in the quest for the Triple Crown, but it can be misleading. Since Affirmed won the Triple Crown, a dozen horses have won both the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness, but none won the Belmont.

(In fact, it has been 10 years since a horse won the Derby and the Preakness and even finished the Belmont. Big Brown didn't finish in 2008, and I'll Have Another was scratched in 2012.)

Why is that so? Well, the Derby and the Preakness are shorter races. They're practically the same distance, and they favor speed. The Belmont is considerably longer, and it favors endurance.

Few horses combine both. The legendary Secretariat did, coming from behind to win the first two jewels but seizing control of the Belmont and winning it by 30 lengths. The video tape of that race is the most amazing thing you will ever see at a race track.

Judging from the somewhat pedestrian pace of yesterday's Kentucky Derby, which was run on a warm, sunny day and a dry track, this year's field may lean toward endurance. That could encourage owners of speed horses to challenge California Chrome at Pimlico on May 17, and he may wind up facing horses he hasn't seen before.

If you are mostly unfamiliar with horse racing and don't really follow it until this five–week period in May and June, you probably don't think of two weeks as being short rest, but for nearly all horsemen, it is probably the equivalent of sending your ace pitcher back out to the mound a couple of days after his last start.

It simply isn't done.

Well, except during the run for the Triple Crown — three races, three states, five–week period. That's like an Iron Man Triathlon for horses.

"I'm not real comfortable with running him back in two weeks, but I know that's what we're bound to do," California Chrome's trainer told Reuters. "I'm more the kind of guy who likes to wait seven or eight weeks between races. These horses run hard and they need time to recover."

No records were set in yesterday's race. Don't expect any two weeks from now.

Intriguing Stories at Kentucky Derby

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The 2014 edition of the Kentucky Derby will be run in a few hours, and there are some interesting story lines to follow. Of course, part of that is due to the pressure on sportswriters to produce compelling copy in the days before the big race (when the only newsworthy developments are likely to be bad).

Somewhere out there someone must have written a piece that lays out all the reasons why the longest longshot on the board (and, currently, that is 48–to–1 pick Vinceremos) is the smart pick.

That doesn't mean the stories aren't good — but take it from an ex–sports copy editor. Take each with as many grains of salt as you need.

Joe Drape of the New York Times reports that the Kentucky Derby is an opportunity for two sons to do something their fathers weren't able to do.

Allen Jerkens is a Hall of Fame trainer. He trained horses that beat Secretariat and Kelso (who did not win the Triple Crown because his 3–year–old season began after the Triple Crown had been decided) — but his horses never won the Kentucky Derby. His son Jimmy is the trainer of Wicked Strong, a 7–to–1 shot as of 2 p.m. Central time today — second only to prerace favorite California Chrome (2–1 after opening at 5–to–2).

Similarly, Don Little Jr., the owner of Wicked Strong, comes from old thoroughbred racing stock. In the 1980s, his father (now deceased) founded Centennial Farms, which has produced some pretty good horses (including a Belmont Stakes winner), but none of them has ever won the Run for the Roses.

Today may be their best chance, but Danza, a 9–to–1 shot after opening at 10–1, could have something to say about it. Named for actor Tony Danza (who once played a part–time boxer on TV's Taxi), the Arkansas Derby winner seems to be a legitimate contender. His jockey, Joe Bravo, is the latest branch in a family tree full of jockeys and has won quite a few major races, but he has yet to win a Kentucky Derby.

Still, California Chrome appears to be everyone's pick.

(Jay Privman of the Daily Racing Form writes that California Chrome is a working–class–hero in the sport of kings. He definitely has been working more than the other horses. He has started more races than any of his rivals.)

Cindy Boren claims in the Washington Post to provide everything you need to know about betting on the race — and she does ... except for how to pick the winner.

That, my friends, is why they call it gambling.

At the moment, 19 horses are in the race. Twenty–one were entered originally, but two have been scratched. The Derby field is always like that; the field is less crowded for the other two races in the Triple Crown. But at Churchill Downs on the first Saturday in May, every contender and pretender is on the track.

(Sometimes, it seems to me, a bet in the Kentucky Derby would be just as likely to produce a winner if the pick was made by throwing a dart at a dartboard in which the horses' names replaced numbers.)

Handicapper Liam Durbin writes in the Chicago Tribune that he can save you all the trouble of wading through each horse's track record.

California Chrome is probably the logical choice, he writes, but the best value might be — and here we introduce a fourth horse to watch — Dance With Fate.

Dance With Fate is something of a sleeper, currently 14–1 after opening at 20–1. Corey Nakatani will be riding Dance With Fate, and he, too, is looking for his first Kentucky Derby victory.

Teresa Genaro of Forbes has tips for gamblers as well.

And she actually does pick the winner — Ride On Curlin, a 15–to–1 pick.

USA Today reports that the experts' picks are all over the place.

So who will win? You can see the race for yourself on NBC in less than two hours — at 5:32 p.m. (Central).

The End of Lou Gehrig's Consecutive Games Streak

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Lou Gehrig, baseball's "Iron Horse," played in his final baseball game 75 years ago today.

Appropriately, the game was played in Yankee Stadium, and more than 23,000 people were on hand to see it. It was a Sunday afternoon — no one was playing hookey from work or school — and the Yankees were facing the Washington Senators.

Gehrig was hitless in four at–bats, and his batting average fell to .143. He wasn't the only Yankee who struggled that day. New York had only four hits — all singles.

It wasn't as if the Senators had a future Hall of Famer on the mound that day, either. The starting pitcher for Washington was Joe Krakauskas, a 24–year–old southpaw whose major–league career would be over only a few years later.

But no one knew it was Gehrig's final game. He was such a fixture in the lineup that my guess is no one could imagine a Yankee game without him.

I suppose everyone knew he had been playing poorly in spring training and through the first week of major–league play. It was probably the worst–kept secret of all time, and it was perplexing. But few, if any, thought his career would soon be over. They probably figured he would shake it off at some point.

"I have seen ballplayers 'go' overnight, as Gehrig seems to have done," wrote James Kahn in the New York Sun. "But they were simply washed up as ballplayers. It's something deeper than that in this case, though. I have watched him closely and this is what I have seen: I have seen him time a ball perfectly, swing on it as hard as he can, meet it squarely — and drive a soft, looping fly over the infield. ... He is meeting the ball, time after time, and it isn't going anywhere."

The next day, Monday, May 1, 1939, was an off day for the Yankees. On Tuesday, May 2, Gehrig came up to manager Joe McCarthy just before a game in Detroit and announced that he was benching himself — after playing in 2,130 consecutive games — "for the good of the team."

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McCarthy went along with Gehrig and inserted Babe Dahlgren in his place in the lineup but told Gehrig the job was still his whenever he was ready. When it was announced to the Detroit fans that Gehrig had removed himself from the lineup after playing in more than 2,100 games, they gave him a standing ovation.

(Dahlgren went two for five with a home run and a double as New York crushed Detroit, 22–2.)

Most folks probably thought Gehrig's absence would only be temporary. Friend and teammate Lefty Gomez said, "It took them 15 years to get [him] out of the game. Sometimes I'm out of there in 15 minutes."

Gehrig's wife, Eleanor, observed, "[The public] had marveled for 13 years at his sublime strength; now they were marveling at his stunning weakness."

A month and a half later, on his 36th birthday, Gehrig was diagnosed with the disease that would kill him two years later — amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, also known as Lou Gehrig's disease.

Bill Dickey, Gehrig's best friend and teammate, said, "I knew there was something seriously wrong with him. I didn't know what it was, but I knew it was serious."

On the Fourth of July, an appreciation day was held for Gehrig (who had retired after the diagnosis) at Yankee Stadium. It was on that occasion that he said he was the "luckiest man on the face of the earth."

It came out later that sometimes Gehrig kept the streak going because he made a pinch–hitting appearance or through sheer luck (when an off day happened to coincide with an illness or an injury); other times he played when he probably shouldn't have.

On one occasion, he was hit in the head by a pitch but remained in the game. He was hit in the head on another occasion and was knocked unconscious for five minutes. He left the game but played the next day.

Yet another time, Gehrig was having problems with his back. He singled and was replaced by a pinch runner so he could rest his back.

Moreover, X–rays revealed that he had suffered several fractures during his playing days, but, in his stoic way, he played through the pain.

It probably seemed to most that Gehrig's streak would never be equaled — but Cal Ripken Jr. finally matched Gehrig in September 1995. Ripken played 500 more games before retiring in 1998; his record of 2,632 consecutive games played really might never be matched.

Well, probably not in my lifetime.

Prince Fielder of the Texas Rangers has the closest active streak, and the 29–year–old would need to play every game for the next 13 years to pass Ripken.