While I was watching Ruelas train for what would be an unsuccessful comeback, the gym scuttlebutt turned, inevitably, to another, far more prominent Mexican-American fighter, “Golden Boy” Oscar De La Hoya. He was handsome, even gorgeous, as well as a brilliant ring technician. And he’d pretty much said and done all the right things since winning an Olympic gold medal in Barcelona in honor of his beloved, late mother.
So I was kind of surprised to discover that LA.’s rabid Mexican-American boxing community hadn’t embraced De La Hoya with any real fervor. That they thought he was too much of a pretty boy, a stylist rather than the kind of gritty, slugger they admired. Just a little too American for their taste.
I assumed that such reservations were rendered moot after last year’s ferocious brawl in which De La Hoya hammered another popular Mexican-American, Fernando Vargas. So I wasn’t prepared for a rare moment of clarity I experienced after De La Hoya’s recent and controversial loss to Shane Mosely. Watching De La Hoya’s “I don’t want to be a sore loser, but …” press conference with its threatened investigation and implied lawsuit, it occurred to me that the hometown folks were always right on about Oscar: he is American to the core.
Because when it comes to international athletics, we Americans far too often prove to be the jerks of the world: the drug cheats, the poor losers, the tantrum-throwers, the kings (not as often the queens) of bad sportsmanship and unseemly litigation. If it distresses you that much of the rest of the world views President Bush as the perfect symbol of American arrogance and bad behavior, well … that view is mirrored and then some in athletics. In politics and war, such a perspective on this country is, at the very least, debatable. In sports, it is pretty much regarded as gospel.
Which is ironic because we are gold medalists when it comes to finger-pointing at everyone else. Hell, those commie nations cheated for years and, with all those East German scientists hidden in their labs, it’s hard to know exactly what the Chinese are up to these days in sports–except you can bet it’s to no good. And we damn well know it’s the ruination of sports when foreign officials have their hands out for payoffs, though somehow we don’t muster quite the same level of contempt for those who proffer them. Which may account for why the U.S. and the rest of the world had different perspectives on how the guilt should have been apportioned in the Salt Lake Olympics bribery scandal.
I’m not remotely a flag-waver, yet I’ve got more than a little patriot in me. I bawl like a baby every time I get a glimpse of “The Miracle on Ice.” I can recall the chill running up my spine watching Kerri Strug land a vault on her one good ankle to secure the gold medal for our Magnificent 7 gymnasts in Atlanta. And I had to summon all my strength not to leap out of my seat–no cheering in the press box remains the golden rule for American reporters–when Brandi booted home the winner for our World Cup girls of summer.
So it embarrasses me, as I make the rounds of various championships in preparation for next summer’s Athens Olympics, to note that if some athlete is behaving badly, it is almost certainly one of ours. Biggest drug scandal of the recent Pan Am Games: a gold-medal American sprinter. Biggest drug scandal of last month’s world track and field championships: another gold-medal American sprinter. And the second biggest one, too, which is actually far more significant, suggesting, as the world has always believed, that the U.S. covered up dozens of failed drug tests for its elite stars.
But drugs are only a part of it. It’s those antics that don’t appear to be part of any other nation’s repertoire. Like Jon Drummond laying down in the middle of the track after he was disqualified for an infraction, refusing to exit so that the 100 meters could be competed. So what if the other competitors were stiffening up during his nursery-school routine. If Drummond looked at all familiar, it was because you recall him as part of the U.S. gold-medal relay team that turned stirring victory in Sydney into an act more suitable for a Vegas strip club–preening and prancing and treating the American flag as if it were just a piece of colorful underwear.
Sprinters have always been a wee bit high-strung, with a penchant for trash talk and histrionics. But I expected far better behavior at the world wrestling championships in New York, having always admired American wrestlers as among the brightest and most insightful athletes in our Olympic family. Yet over a few hours in just one evening in Madison Square Garden, I saw two American wrestlers stage public sulks on the mat after controversial calls went against them. Even worse, a third U.S. wrestler, irritated by his loss and his Iranian opponent’s gamesmanship, suffered what can only be called a meltdown. When the bout was over, our distraught lad chased after the Iranian and shoved him off the mat from behind, a slight wrinkle in the traditional postmatch handshake.
There is much debate in this country these days over what constitutes patriotism in a democratic society. I won’t tackle that question. But I do know that, when it comes to athletics, my support for American athletes is not unconditional. I have a simple rule: if they bring honor–and in my world dignity and decency trumps victory–to the red, white and blue, I cheer them on, if only in my heart. If not, I pull for the other guys.
So I have rooted against our men’s hockey team, ever since it trashed the dorm room in Nagano and wouldn’t fess up. Against our Ryder Cup team, ever since it ran across the green in celebration before a European challenger had taken his crucial putt. Against our NBA basketballers, ever since Dream Team II thought it was cool to mock its weaker opponents and to make vulgar gestures on the court. Against our tennis stars whose tantrums are as much a part of their game as the drop shot. Against the track, swimming and other stars who rail about drug cheats from other countries when they know that problem is epidemic here as well.
I truly want to root for the home team. And I will–when our athletes finally grow up.
TALKIN’ PLAYOFFS
There is good reason to hope that baseball’s ultimate rivalry–Yankees-Red Sox–will once again seize baseball’s center stage. Everywhere but in Boston, where nothing good has ever come from hope, let alone a showdown with the Yankees when anything meaningful is at stake.
Still, while that matchup would be fun, I don’t think it’s fated to happen this year. In fact, I don’t think either team will make the American League Championship series. The Red Sox don’t match up well against Oakland’s left-handed pitching; more important, the A’s bullpen is solid while the Red Sox’s is incendiary. A’s win the series 3 games to 1.
New York manhandled the Minnesota Twins this season, winning all seven times they played this season. That’s usually a bad sign. Joe Torre has done a remarkable job, with George Steinbrenner huffing and puffing down on him, steering the Yankees to the best record in the league. Yet something feels slightly off about this version of the Bronx Bombers. And the Twins right now are the hottest team in baseball. They dump the Yankees in a series that goes the limit.
