Sports universe collides with Miss Universe

It's tough to focus on the big game when the Miss Universe pageant is on.

Worse yet, how can we absorb Monday's sports headlines when the Web is plastered with stories (and even more photos) of Zuleyka Rivera Mendoza, the new Miss Universe?

Did you realize Tiger won the British Open again? Of course you didn't. Too busy downloading pics of Puerto Rico's latest celebrity beauty weren’t you?

Ricky Williams broke his arm too. I know—you missed it. Poor Ricky was quietly admitted to hospital while the world was more concerned about Mendoza's recovery after fainting.

The Tour de France finished as well. America's Floyd Landis took the honors, and became the eighth straight US winner. What's that? You didn't have time to scroll down to the sports links? Those photos can take a while to open. I understand.

Did you catch any stats at least?

You did?

Age 18...height 5'9...hair color brown...eye color brow...riiiiiiight.

No, no problem here. Good info—solid stats. Let's talk more tomorrow though...sports might be back on your mind by then.

Made in Japan

Clocking long hours without complaint appears a virtue of Japanese employees. They are the ironmen of the office, but more importantly, on the sporting field. Especially when it's Safeco Field, home of the Seattle Mariners.

Take Mariners catcher, Kenji Johjima, for example, who has logged more hours behind home plate than any catcher in the majors. The team's website recently reported that as of July 16th, Johjima had caught for 681 innings this season, Johjima had caught for 681 innings this season—six more than the next catcher, Oakland's
Jason Kendall at 675. That's more time spent on the knees than in a Boyz II Men music video.

Seattle don't seem too concerned with the "overtime", nor does Johjima. The Mariners star has said he's used to a heavy workload, even though in Japan he played 22 games less than in the American season. He actually twice caught the full 140 games back home, surely exhibiting to Seattle's management an ability to cope with MLB's marathon campaign.

Perhaps an even stronger reassurance of Johjima's endurance, is that his countryman and teammate, Ichiro Suzuki, is one of the most consistent performers in baseball history. In case you've forgotten, the great Ichiro has had at least 200 hits, 100 runs scored and 30 stolen bases in all five of his MLB seasons. (He also holds the team record for consecutive games played).

To put these numbers in context, compare them to one of baseball's most consistent performers ever, Derek Jeter. In his last five seasons, Jeter has logged over 200 runs twice and stolen 30 bases once. He has scored more than 100 runs four of the last five seasons. Not too shabby, but not quite Ichiro's figures.

They certainly make 'em well in Japan; from Sony to Toyota, Suzuki to Johjima.

Bueller? Bueller?

Remember the scene in Ferris Bueller's Day Off where Ed Rooney asks "What's the score?" as a Chicago Cubs game blares in the background?

That shabby cook in the diner responds, "Nothin nothin."

To which Rooney ignorantly inquires, "Who's winning?"

The guy's next line, delievered with a straight face, became a classic. "The Bears!"

Most people watch the scoreboard, but it occurred to me recently that there's a whole other side to sports; those who attend, participate in, cheer for and even gamble on them with no real interest. They're the ones who make up the numbers, or in some cases, take those 100-Level seats you were hoping for.

This isn’t necessarily bad, but it does say something interesting about sports; many enjoy elements outside of the game. I know, I know, there should be a written test before entering the stadium.

But think about it. We all know guys who love anything offering beautiful women dancing: clubs, bars, the American Pie movies, and big surprise, football. It'd be safe to assume that the NFL draws many of its crowd members, due to the sideline entertainment. I mean the Dallas Cowboys have lived by that promotional ploy for decades—heck, they invented it.

The NBA isn't far behind. Lakerland anyone? Oh sure, I go to watch Kobe as well.

I began thinking about this issue when a female friend remarked that she loved watching the Argentineans during the World Cup. Was it their splendid teamwork that took her fancy I wondered? Not quite. I similarly witnessed great female approval for the Italian team during the Cup final, as I sat quietly watching the game at my local bar. Apparently the actual game wasn't intriguing enough a contest for some.

Perhaps the strangest observation we can make about all this, is that the slowest game in sports, baseball, offers little extra-curricular activity for fans; no cheerleaders, no mascots leaping through flaming hoops and certainly less celebrity spotting.

I think this speaks volumes for baseball fans. They know the score, and that’s all that matters.

Zidane deserves better

Zinedine Zidane has apologised for headbutting Marco Matterazzi in the World Cup final—but did we need it?

I didn't. I'd rather an apology from all the players guilty of diving during the tournament. That was a bigger disgrace. Some remorse for several hairstyles wouldn't go a stray either. And while we’re at it, that weird dancing that some teams do when they win—could leave that at home as well.

But I digress. Amongst the "two cents" commentators and lynch mob media, everyone is forgetting how great an ambassador Zidane has been for the game. He's a soccer icon, above and beyond every player who ran that pitch Sunday. He plays the game with a control and vision rarely seen. His timing, touch and most importantly, his decision making, are almost flawless when it comes to football. It's easy to forget this when you're in the peanut gallery.


Don't we owe him the benefit of the doubt here?

Violence should never be condoned but surely the verbal abuse lobbed at France's No.10 was violent itself. Zidane made his decision, which OK, ranks up there with Iron Mike's "ear snack attack" and Ron Artest's "paper cup retaliation". But let's be reasonable. We don't have to agree with it, yet can we at least acknowledge that the man deserved better than Matterazzi's irreverance? I mean come on, everytime you Google the poor bloke now, you're going to find that headbutt shot. Is that really fair?

This is France's great captain after all, the three-time FIFA player of the year and the best we've seen in the last two decades. For those petty enough to recall Zidane's red card tally, or call him a "monster", how about considering his goal tally. Think about his splendid passing. Study his sublime balance. Replay all of his last minute heroics. Revel in his teamwork. He's a football genius and nothing will change that.

Zidane was fairly awarded the Golden Ball, the best player of the World Cup, and it’d be a travesty to strip him of it. Nobody's perfect and sometimes temperatures peak. But national heroes, like grandparents, surely deserve more respect than they're often shown.

Strange decisions

Too often in pro basketball, size matters. "Take the big man, he'll make us unbeatable." It's the stuff of a kids pick-up game. Other than Shaquille O'Neal, Tim Duncan and maybe Dirk Nowitzki, who else over seven feet currently matters in the NBA?

And even if they do matter, they ain't winning anything.

The Toronto Raptors made Andrea Bargnani their No.1 pick in this year's draft, and I'm still waiting for someone to explain this decision to me. A well-below .500 team and one light-years from reaching the playoffs, had a "community chest" card that could have boosted the guard spot—or at least helped out with a swingman.

So, they opted for a seven-footer instead.

Not only that, but the brains trust over at Raptors Central, just traded away one of their best players in Charlie Villanueva for TJ Ford. What?! Charlie V, one of the club's brightest spots in a mostly darkened 2005-06 season, traded for a flashy and overrated point guard with average numbers. Say it isn't so. Ford was in the top ten turnover makers last season, something the Raptors must be looking to compound even further.

Clearly Bryan Colangelo wants to revamp the Raps—change the face of a struggling organization. While he's certainly re-jigged personnel, he's messing with the foundations of the team. He's chosen an unproven big man, moved one his best young frontcourt talents for a questionable guard, and is likely to lose a lively backcourter in Mike James. Where is this all headed?

As a result of Toronto's decision, Gonzaga All-American Adam Morrison fell to the Charlotte Bobcats at No.3. To my mind, this wasn't right; he should have been one or two. But hey, the Bobcats are the big winners here.

Morrison was the best pick available. Six-foot eight and twenty-eight points a game, he has the necessary numbers to succeed. But more importantly, The Big Moustache has the intangibles. He's a winner, plays with heart and with a superb offensive repertoire, how could you overlook him? He's ready to go for Pete's sake. Plus there's more than a little Larry Legend about the guy. Surely pure skill out-values wishful thinking? Not in the current NBA, however.

I'll never understand the decisions made by some NBA execs. They are often strange and without any real insight.

Feeling blue, turning green…and gold

I just saw my beloved Socceroos lose a World Cup game to a referee. I also just witnessed my Italian Azzuri bravely win the same game with ten men. But I’m neither wallowing in my beer nor celebrating. I’m not reveling in the simple pleasure of an Aussie meat pie, or the zesty flavour of a penne marinara. No, I’m just thinking about how all at once the World Cup can ask you to dance, and leave you alone by the punch bowl in tears.

In a tournament which has united the world unlike any before it, I suddenly feel a little divided. You see, when I heard Australia would meet Italy in Monday’s Round of 16 blockbuster, my heart began splitting like Ricky Williams from Miami.

Like many people living in big metropolitan towns, I have allegiances to other lands, and to sports clubs other than the New York Jets or Toronto Maple Leafs. If you grew up in Australia or have even visited, you’ll understand that there’s no choice—you are part of the Aussie sports fabric. It’s a birth rite—they might as well stamp it on your passport; Australian and sports mad.

It’s not so much local clubs that have you tugging at dad’s sleeve to buy a jersey or a cap, however, but the national teams. Our boringly successful cricket side, forever popular rugby Wallabies and weirdly amphibious swim team are all national treasures. Missing one of their contests can be likened to skipping your nephew’s tenth birthday party. Don’t expect a piece of pavlova cake later on.

So when the Socceroos qualified for the Cup after beating past champions, Uruguay, the Roos stirred the Aussie psyche. They finally mattered. And for the first time, I was confused about my position, like a goalkeeper uncertain of whether to charge the striker or sit on his line.

Italy or Australia?

Top be honest, I never thought they’d meet in the World Cup. I mean, come on, what were the chances of the Aussies escaping their group? Brazil, Japan, Croatia—it never looked likely. Yet the soccer gods were ready with a cruel joke on this occasion. Testing the willpower of every Italian-Australian going round must rank as one of Soccer Heaven’s best. Nice work Offsideon.

So, there I was Monday, in a sports bar on an early lunch, watching my Aussies—I mean Azzuri, battle for a place in the quarter finals. It was tough. I could hardly watch, and certainly couldn’t eat.

The game’s uneven tempo didn’t help. The ball bounced around Fritz-Walter Stadium in Kaiserslautern, like a plate of sauerkraut being passed down a row—slowly and unsteadily. It was a mess of a match, with loosely-timed tackles and more almost-sort-of hand balls than I can recall in one game. Shots were consistently wayward and passing was about as accurate as a game of pub darts. The whole disjointed spectacle, begged a draw and a fresh thirty minutes.

Plus, I needed the extra time to make my mind up on whom to follow?

Suddenly a changing moment. A red card to Italy’s Marco Materazzi sent a surge of Aussie pride up my spine. How dare that clumsy bastard take down one of our men! But twenty minutes later, as the Italians protected their turf so valiantly, the olive oil in my blood began to seep through my pores. I was sweating marinara sauce. Crikey! Plus my dark hair, and five o’clock shadow that sprung up before halftime would surely giving me away in this Anglo-centric establishment.

Time to yell some Aussie expletives at the screen. “You flamin’ mongrel! Keep your eye on he ball you bloody gallah!” (Generally slang words for a dog or the names of native Australian birds will do in this situation). “You f#@$ stupid cockatoo!”

The Italians made a surprising substitution with about fifteen minutes left, bringing on attacker, Francesco Totti. My nerves began unraveling. History told me that the Italians love to defend, so summoning an offensive maestro was either a special new tactic, or those damn soccer gods were pulling the prank strings just for kicks.

As we now know, Totti won the game for Italy with a penalty and I almost spat my meat pie all over the screen. Ok, so I didn’t have a meat pie, but I wished that I did because that last minute penalty to Italy was one of the worst World Cup decisions I’ve ever seen. More importantly, though, it left me (and I’m sure many others) feeling empty about the final result. The game’s struggle had earned a better finish and both teams deserved a more decisive victory.

I returned to the office with my heart still in tact; half green and gold, half blue. Happily divided. And so, I guess, it will always be. Plenty more games to watch—kangaroo steak pizza anyone?

Shortstop showstopper

I realized this week that New York Yankees shortstop, Derek Jeter, is truly a legend.

I'll admit I'm a pretty new baseball fan, and while I don't cheer for the Yanks or live in the Big Apple, I love watching Jeter.

Besides the numbers, he has that Michael Jordan quality—you just have to watch him. He's exciting because he can influence a game single-handedly, like Bird or Gretzky or The Babe. Something not many can claim.

These days, athletes are propped up and torn down in a blink, but some just continue at a steady, brilliant pace. Some—a few, really.

Then there are, of course, the numbers. Through his last 10 games, just for example, Jeter has 14 hits in 40 at-bats for a tidy .350 average. It was also his bat last night against the Atlanta Braves—as it is nearly every night—that sparked the Yankee offense to yet another win. All in a day's work.

How about in his career's work?


There are too many Jeter stats that wow but take a look at these Hall of Fame-type figures. Jeter is only the second player in Yankee history to have as many as four 200-hit seasons, joining Lou Gehrig (who had eight). He ranks fifth on the all-time Yankees list with a .314 batting average behind only Hall of Famers Babe Ruth (.349), Lou Gehrig (.340), Earle Combs (.325) and Joe DiMaggio (.325).

Just for good measure, he played 1,400 games with 1,775 career hits, the most by any player through that many games since Kirby Puckett had 1,830. Over 1,500 games he amassed 1,906 hits and 1,140 runs. The last player in the Major Leagues with as many hits and runs in his first 1,500 games was Joe DiMaggio.

The thing that impresses me most, however, is that numbers mean little to this guy. He just wants to win the game. He'll sprint, scoop, twist, contort, or throw an arm out just to collect a ground ball. He focuses every at-bat, running through the same routine like a photocopier. And he plays with a sense of joy. It's simply nice to watch.

Yesterday's game, on Jeter's 32nd birthday, was nothing out of the ordinary. But his career, as easy as it is to take for granted, continues to excel. Why pine for MJ, when we've still got DJ?

Summer Storm

It's all about crazy weather this week - Hurricanes and Heat.

I'm not sure whether to don a raincoat or Bermuda shorts in celebrating two of the more unlikely pro sports champions ever.

Monday night, the Carolina Hurricanes showed they had enough puff to outlast the Edmonton Oilers in a thrilling finale to the NHL season. The Canes earned the Stanley Cup with a 3-1 Game 7 victory, against a resilient and slippery Oilers side. It's been a long time coming for Hurricane fans, who endured limited success with the team in Hartford. Remember "The Whale"?

Then there's new NBA kings the Miami Heat, the sea-sawing expansion outfit from down south, with as star-studded a history as any NBA team going round. Glen Rice, Steve Smith, Billy Owens, Tim Hardaway, Alonzo Mourning, Harold Miner, Dan Marjerle—need I go on? Winning ain't easy folks but Sherriff Pat Riley and his boys finally outgunned the wiley Dallas Mavs in Game 7. Magnificent.

And now these two champs have proven everyone wrong, showing that teamwork and determination are not just overused sports cliches. Like their rollercoaster pasts, both clubs went down before roaring back up. They may not be Cinderella stories—on account of the fact nobody seemed to want their wins—but they are fairytale finishes nonetheless.

Perhaps like Rapunzel, they can now let their hair down.

Brazil-mania

It's interesting to see the love for Brazil's soccer team from fans who aren't even Brazilian. Everywhere you walk, people are wearing canary yellow jerseys and lime green track tops. They're painting they're faces like a lemon and lime ice-cream, and investing in those sparkly tinsel wigs—you know the ones.

Fanaticism for Brazil is this year's World Cup must-do. (You may recall that in 2002 it was mohawking your hair like David Beckham). Boy did that die quickly.

Certainly Brazil has the personnel to back-up the attention. Ronaldinho alone could steal a press gallery away from a bikini-clad Heidi Klum. Ok, not quite—but almost.

There's nothing wrong with jumping on the bandwagon of the most successful World Cup sides in history, or cheering for the clear-cut favourites, or dumping your only bet on the owners of the world's finest player; but I beg of you, where's the fun in it?

There are 31 other nations on the leaderboard folks, each with a chance of winning something—even if it isn't the Cup. So here are my top 5 "other teams" to support during the 2006 World Cup, should you feel all Braziled-out.

5. France - they have skill, style, intellect and great wine, but perhaps not the staying power anymore.

4. USA - can talk the talk, especially with Bruce Arena at the helm, but can they really walk the walk?

3. Trinidad and Tobago - they're the quintessential underdog and their captain, Dwight Yorke, is cool. He dated, um, er, a model…Jordan.

2. Portugal - they're always in the trophy mix and have some of the most passionate fans you'll ever meet. Trust me, crash this party.

1. Germany - c'mon, they're the host—they know where the best bars are, and where to find a decent schnitzel. Plus, I was wrong; Heidi Klum can steal a press gallery away from absolutely anyone.

The Cup is cool

After enduring boring NBA finals', several one-sided tennis slams, steroids in baseball and a cancelled hockey season in recent years, soccer fans now get their chance to celebrate. World Cup month has finally arrived!

While the Cup's enormity has no equal in European and South American sport particularly, it's pleasing that nations with less "football" experience also choose to party. Take the U.S., for example, who dominate the baseball and basketball universe traditionally, get no bigger audience than on Super Bowl Sunday, and who are now in the 2006 World Cup to compete. Yes, compete.

Perhaps more importantly to U.S. TV execs and advertisers, America has the chance to win over a whole new generation of fans. If soccer can grow its popularity further in the States, there's no telling where the game can go in this part of the world. For soccer’s sake, I'm rooting for a few red, white and blue wins.

Australia is in a similar position. Having missed Cup qualification the last 32 years, the Aussies are taking a giant Adidas boot forward in battling the likes of Brazil and Croatia. A single victory in the strong Group F, also featuring Japan, will only lift the Aussie's profile at home where rugby historically dominates.

Canada, without a qualifying team and still focused on the Stanley Cup Finals, has its World Cup interest buoyed by a potent multicultural base. In Toronto alone, national flags from every corner of the globe are waving atop cars, and local pubs have been preparing Cup events for weeks. World Cup fever knows no borders.

Everyone’s invited to the Cup party and predicting the finalists is part and parcel of the celebration—and you thought Idol was addictive. Everybody's an expert during these tournaments, everyone has a tip. I particularly love the media "experts" who pick winners based on international profile. England-with Captain Beckham-has a high profile, for instance, so is a popular bet. Italy, with its calendar models, has an inflated profile too, so we know that at least females are backing them. Brazil, based on a powerful soccer brand has a high profile as well, and is thus the most heavily backed competitor since Seabiscuit.

But where this prediction method fails, is in recognising teamwork. Many pundits are suggesting, for example, that teams such as Japan and the USA won't get past the first round. Surely, "team unity" will carry these sides in good stead?

Conversely, while squads like France and Spain have had great success in recent Cups, is this enough to make a semi-final prediction for either? I’d suggest no. Experience is one thing, but age, and ageing stars are another. It's every four years, after all, anything can happen. And usually anything and everything does. Bring it on!

Bonding with the record books

So Barry Bonds, forever on our sports pages chasing 714, will forever be on our minds at 715. We just can't escape his melodramatic existence or melon-shaped head, and this was never more apparent than Sunday afternoon after 2.14pm. The 41-year-old slugger surfaced in the fourth inning to smack a 445-foot homer at AT&T Park to not only bump The Babe down the home run list, but further smudge the record books.

If you're a Giants fan it doesn't get much better. Just when you couldn't get enough Barry at 714, he trumped Ruth’s record to create a new benchmark; 715-and-counting—a new "magic" number—a new answer to a Trivial Pursuit question. But it's also a number that leaves a sour taste in the mouth—one that doesn't elicit the joy or great respect it should. It’s a number with so much doubt it barely feels like a milestone.

After all, a record is more than a numerical figure; it's a significant moment in time, an affirmation of achievement and most importantly, the fulfillment of someone’s dream. On Sunday afternoon we should have all been celebrating a new number for these reasons. Instead we're left with emptiness. We’re left wondering about the future of the game and how it will deal with the predicament Bonds has helped build—“tainted numbers”.



Who really knows what these home runs mean to the combative Bonds? If he apologised would it make it easier? If he retired now, preserving at least Hank Aaron's record, would it make it alright?

The build up to today has been arduous. There have been so many questions around Bonds; it's hard to know what to think anymore. Perhaps if we just leave Barry be, miring in his own ugly circumstance, we can move on. Perhaps the asterisk next to 715-and-still-counting will be punishment enough. Perhaps by clinging to the numbers we hold dear, the real records won’t fade and the great memories will always prevail.

No need to go Jurassic

Scoring the No.1 draft pick this week saved the Toronto Raptors from NBA extinction. Let's face it, they were quickly going the way of the dodo, the Tasmanian tiger or more precisely, the dinosaur. Suddenly, as if Sam Neil’s Dr. Grant was sent to investigate the state of the Raptors on Basketball Island, the club made a vital discovery; luck.

The question is, will general manager, Bryan Colangelo, use his good fortune wisely or squander it on an Italian giant nobody's heard of?

Andrea Bargnani, a 7-foot centre with Benetton Treviso of the EuroLeague, is a name being thrown around Toronto with the indifference of a Raptors skip pass. The spaghetti-limbed Italian, who averages 11 points and six rebounds a game, has oddly been touted by Colangelo as the team's top prospect.

While the GM has big Converse sneakers in his eyes, maybe he should ponder the "playmaker" position first. By this I mean the guy who can change a game—something the raptors don’t have—be it with a pass, shot or just flat out hustle. The Raptors desperately lack the latter.

Mike James and Morris Peterson have speed and style, but not the composure to lead the team. James' sharp shooting together with Peterson's steal and dunk routine will draw fans in the interim, but another 27-55 season should promptly end that attraction. And though Toronto's forwards are tough and active they're not exactly crafty, so how can more physical presence help this squad?

What the Raps need is a Larry Legend, an Earvin Magic, a Short Shorts Stockton, a Big Game James, a Joe D--you get my point. That a No. 1 pick has physical potential is a given, but hustle and leadership are not. So when handed a rare opportunity to improve their entire ball club—not just make it taller—you assume Toronto’s management will take it. Instead, June 28th’s draft day has a Sam Bowie incident written all over it.

With all-rounders such as Gonzaga's Adam Morrison, Duke’s J.J. Reddick and Washington's Brandon Roy in the draft mix, surely the Raptors are tossing and turning at night more than they’re letting on. After all, here’s a chance for a nightmare team to make a dream selection. Ok, so there's no Larry or Earvin, but if you're Colangelo you have to at least try for the next best think right?