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* Falling short in Frankfurt
There is nothing more thrilling and captivating in sport, anywhere, than one game for a world championship. Best of 3, 5, 7, 9 or any other number brings with it wonderful drama and great plays. But one game for all the kimchi has no peer. And thus, quite often, brings a sobering truth to the conclusion.
The US National Women’s Soccer roster is dotted with some of the most talented, dedicated and hard working professional athletes this country has to offer. Unlike their male brethren, these players are often denigrated by sporting no-necks as being just a bunch of girls either playing a “man’s game”, or playing a sport no one in America cares about. Of course, wrong and inane on both points.
The US losing to Japan at the Women’s World Cup 3-1 in the penalty kick phase, after having gutted out miraculous leads that were lost not once, but twice, leads to one inescapable and sad conclusion.
Japan did not win the World Cup. America lost it.
This takes nothing away from the dedicated and exceptionally talented players who in one German evening brought hope, cheers and laughter back to a country that has experienced so little of each emotion these past few months. Japan reached down into those athletic recesses so few humans possess, failed to surrender and took advantage of every American mistake when the door was left slightly ajar.
And this outcome was indeed dealt from American mistakes. America had more chances, played a more aggressive game, and had it won. Twice.
Applaud this team for their guts and effort. Thank them for representing America with exceptional grace, style and professionalism, something all too often lacking in the DNA of current amateur and paid jocks.
But this was a rare opportunity kicked away. And should steel the resolve of every American soccer player, men and women, to insure it never happens again.
* Is this jug usable as a beer stein?
There is nothing quite like the British Open. Actually, it’s just “The Open” to those who live and breathe chasing the dimpled demon anywhere on the planet. Only those outside of the UK, we golf “heathens”, still have to mark it as something different.
This year it thankfully reminded us once again there is a lot more to professional golf than Tiger Woods. And by a player who once even bested the indomitable Eldrick.
Darren Clarke has been cannon fodder around professional golf clubhouses in the last ten years. Losing a beloved wife to breast cancer has a way of changing lives. Those who didn’t know his personal story saw him as just another pub loving, cigar smoking, Northern Ireland born club swinger. The last guy one would expect to add a jug to his mantelpiece. Probably right next to his memorabilia showing a passion for soccer and Liverpool FC.
Yet it’s Clarke who bested the so-called world’s best in Sandwich, England this weekend. He won by 3 strokes, should have been 5 or more were it not for those late bogeys down the stretch. Most people would call it nerves. Clarke was probably just in a rush to head for the pub.
Prepare yourself now for the unbridled panic here in the States. Six consecutive Major titles have now gone to someone other than an American. The cry will resound from huddled masses that only Tiger can save from this ignominy.
Rubbish.
Golf doesn’t need a Tiger return. Believe it or not, Woods was never going to win the 2115 US Open. Sooner or later he would no longer be the big stud (so to speak) in golf. There are stars in this current crop of Americans, and they will rise to the fore.
Have patience. And in the meantime enjoy great stories such as Darren Clarke. Hey, you’re more likely to share a pint with him than Tiger.
* Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse booked for Pittsburgh gig.
Icicles hanging from the nose of veteran residents of Hades. Something sensible and intelligent from the gaping jaws of Nancy Grace. A majority of American voters who understand that when talk about a “debt ceiling needing repair” they don’t automatically think that means a large can of spackle and plenty of white paint.
These and more come to mind as the next global dominoes to fall now that the Pittsburgh Pirates have tasted the rarified air of first place as the calendar sneaks up on August.
Actually, the Pirates being in first place after the first of May remains the real first step off the precipice of world changing events.
There they were this week past, nestled not so comfortably atop the National League Central. Granted, it didn’t last long, but the fact one of baseball’s most chaotically owned and operated franchises is in a pennant race with St. Louis, Milwaukee, and even Cincinnati is the stuff real “BREAKING NEWS” should be based on.
It’s a welcome respite from what seems like generation of mismanagement in Pittsburgh, where current shining moments in Pirates history are measured by how many founding members of Sister Sledge are still alive and performing “We Are Family” (all four, thank you very much).
Hand plenty of this credit to first year skipper Clint Hurdle. As manager of the Colorado Rockies, Hurdle had what was a roster featuring some of the best hitters in the game, and some of the more questionable pitching castoffs available. In seven seasons plus, he reached the playoffs only once as a wild-card team. But there was always a reason to believe that given the right circumstances and athletes he could be the guy who shocks a lot of so-called baseball experts. This might just be the year.
Pittsburgh’s pitching staff has a lower ERA and much better bullpen that the Cardinals or Brewers.
By the way, I understand Sister Sledge is available for special dates in late September and most of October.
* Kyle Busch compared to Richard Petty. “Twilight Zone” open for business.
He is the easiest athlete to despise. Cocky to the point of setting new standards for arrogance. Disrespectful to the point of convincing anyone who will listen that he lends credence to the adage about the mouth being in motion before the brain is in gear.
That makes it painful for more than a few NASCAR faithful to give Kyle Busch his due. He is without a doubt one of the grittiest racers on any circuit. Smack dab in the middle of the Chase standings following his 100th career NASCAR victory this weekend in New Hampshire. That makes him the youngest driver in history of the sport to nail down that century mark.
Impossible to ignore. Necessary to notice and applaud, even if you’d rather his driving skills were being used to deliver bovine excrement.
But to mention Kyle Busch in the same sentence as Richard Petty is sacrilege, bordering on criminal in the sports of auto racing.
The most ludicrously laughable statement showed up in more than a few verbal comments, written opinions and headlines. The one about Busch now “setting his sights on the all-time record of Richard Petty”.
A bit of an insult to Richard Petty, actually.
Busch’s 100 victories are a compilation of his wins in all three of the NASCAR National Series. That’s Cup, Nationwide and Truck. In the Cup Series, he has a mere 22 checkered flags.
King Richard ended his run with 200 career victories. All in the Cup Series. There was no junior circuit in his era. And while there is no contesting the fact competition is fierce in Nationwide and Truck, they are both still a lower level of racing than Cup. From equipment to the drivers and team themselves. And that’s not meant as an insult to anyone who takes part in any Series. But in every sport, there remains a difference between the majors and the minors.
At 26 years of age, Busch does indeed have plenty of time to roll up hundreds more starts and perhaps, one day, get within tobacco spitting distance of Petty. But until that number hits 150, KB remains one of many outstanding drivers in what might be the toughest racing Series in the world. Hyperbole unnecessary.
* Sound heard is bookies breathing sigh of relief about NFL 2011 season.
Now don’t you all feel silly about being emotionally roped in and hog-tied by National Football League owners, players and the media? Go ahead and admit it. You were snookered so easily when that fleeting thought entered your mind about not being able to hunker down on a snowy December afternoon surrounded by suds, buds and thuds.
There was never one single chance the NFL would not have a 2011 season. Not one. Nary an inkling. A large, fat, tailgating deviled food goose egg.
Owners knew it. Players knew it. Even the smart and informed football media knew it. And it all centered on the easiest and most well known part of this lockout and lockstep.
Money. Piles and piles of filthy, able to be washed and enjoyed lucre. Both sides had their grandstand moments to bluster and filibuster. But in the end, those who truly make the decisions about such heady matters, (James Harrison, you’re not even a gnat in the ocean when it comes to being involved in intellectual discussions), buckled down, let the media wander in the vast darkness of speculation, and made the tough calls to hammer out a new deal. One that will insure new and improved methods of happily and easily transferring large amounts of your cash into their pockets.
Which is just fine. Noting wrong with that. They perform a service as entertainers, and fans are willing to pay whatever it takes to insure the show goes on.
But for those who actually thought there was a shot at a rise in therapy sessions with no fantasy football to wager on, don’t feel bad. As former football great Alex Karras so perfectly verbalized in the classic film “Blazing Saddles”, playing the part of a mentally deficient brute whose only job was to wreak havoc and mayhem on the citizens of Rock Ridge, “Mongo only pawn in game of life”.
Please do not go out and sucker punch a horse in celebration.
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