NBA Draft: Back when I was a civilian, I used to sneak out for a long lunch and, with my best basketball pal Dennis, stroll down to Madison Square Garden and revel in the future as it unfolded at the NBA Draft. (That, of course, was back when “future,” “basketball” and “Madison Square Garden” could still be used in the same sentence without provoking laughter.) And maybe, if I was a fan of the Portland Trailblazers or the Seattle Supersonics and had Greg Oden or Kevin Durant in my sights, I’d be a little more excited about the future as it is unveiled tonight on this now prime time basketball circus. But the NBA has ceased to be a place where the future is truly now. A couple players, Tim Duncan and Shaquille O’Neal, have dominated the NBA landscape for more than a decade. Few of the kids selected Thursday night will have a meaningful impact next season or be able to propel their teams very far very fast. In fact, most of the teams picking high in this 2007 draft will be back in the lottery next year. I respect the talent it takes to win in the NBA. But that only makes me less inclined to want to watch the evening’s celebration of false hope.
The America’s Cup: Nobody who has read my column faithfully would accuse me of being an American provincial. Any criticism would more likely be the opposite, an inclination to flaunt my knowledge of international athletics. Actually, I’m not all that sophisticated. For example, I can’t understand how is it possible that our nation—with all its riches, technological know-how and coastline—cannot muster a competitive bid to bring home our namesake trophy. Yet the land-locked Swiss can climb this mountain. Perhaps it’s because Swiss precision is exactly what is required (even if none of the crew are actually Swiss). Or per-haps it’s because “team” has ceased to be an American thing. There are lessons to be learned here and I wouldn’t mind hanging out on the coast of Spain for several months to learn them. But NEWSWEEK doesn’t seem disposed to that sojourn. Even though this Cup challenge by New Zealand is proving to be one of the tensest in recent memory, I—never a denizen, not even an invited guest of yacht clubs—am not disposed to dwell on this rich man’s game.
The Tour de France: The record run of Lance Armstrong gave American sports fans a taste for this most stirring and demanding event. But the truth is Americans never really loved cycling; what they loved was the man, his compelling comeback from cancer and the fact that he not only beat the French at their own game, he rubbed their noses in it. Last year the glory turned hollow. American Floyd Landis, who won the first Tour of the post-Lance era, is likely to be the first rider ever stripped of his title because of doping. Landis’s saga is only one of the many seamy tales that have ensnared a host of elite riders in scandal. What’s left of the field is being bombarded with surprise drug tests and being ordered to sign a pledge to forfeit a year’s salary if caught doping.
That sounds like a great idea for baseball. But for the Tour it comes a little late. The only consolation is that no American figures to do well enough to embarrass our country this year. Au revoir, peleton!
The Major League Baseball All-Star Game: Talk about an event of mismatched parts. Baseball tried to make this a meaningful game by awarding the winning league the home-field advantage in the World Series, to maintain it as a popularity contest by giving fans the vote and to give it the pizzazz of NBA All-Star weekend with a home-run contest and other festivities. The home-run contest has been compelling viewing, but more and more sluggers are withdrawing—not, as the NBA superstars did from the slam-dunk competition, because it was beneath them, but because they have discovered it messes with their swing. And if the game is going to count—and a seventh game at home in the World Series is certainly meaningful, given that the last seven teams to host one have won the Series—then each league should put its genuinely best team forward. That will never happen as long as fans control the vote, allowing rabid Red Sox, Yankees and Mets supporters to sway the outcome. A game in which Miguel Cabrera can’t start at third base because the Florida Marlins have too few fans that care is not an All-Star game that should determine anything consequential. I’ve already made dinner plans for that particular Tuesday night.
Wimbledon: It remains a gem, if a faded one, kind of like the start of a Gordon Brown government rather than the cool of early Tony Blair. Unlike the French Open, Americans should be able to linger a bit longer than the first day. Still, there’s a lot of meaningless tennis to be gotten through before the Roger Federer-Rafael Nadal final that everyone is anticipating for Sunday breakfast a few weeks hence. I have nothing but admiration for Federer’s quest for a historic fifth title in a row, which would tie him with Bjorn Borg. But brilliant as Federer is—here comes another of those Swiss- watch analogies—he has none of Bjorg’s style or personal flair.
On the women’s side, I confess to having grunting issues. Still, Serena and Venus Williams remain intriguing. I genuinely respect that they had sufficiently diverse interests that they never become slaves to tennis. At the same time, I wonder where they would stand today had they dedicated themselves to the sport, as the greatest champions have always done, with a single-minded passion. The compromise has clearly rendered a shadow of what might have been.
The sports landscape offers so little that I am already having nightmares that Tiger Woods will decide to stay home with little Sam Alexis next month rather than tee off at Carnoustie. Tiger, I hate to beg, but …
