Each Tuesday in The Toy Department, veteran Baltimore Sun sportswriter Mike Klingaman tracks down a former local sports figure and lets you know what's happening in his/her life in a segment called, "Catching Up With ... " Let Klingaman know who you'd like him to find and click here to check out previous editions of "Catching Up With ... "

It happens every time Double-A Bowie hosts New Britain (Conn.) in an Eastern League game. Someone in the stands points out the visitors’ stubby hitting coach and the cry goes up.

"Hey there, Sugar Bear!"

Floyd Rayford smiles, saunters over and signs autographs.

More than 20 years after he last played for Baltimore, Rayford remains a crowd favorite.

"Orioles fans never forget," he said.

How could they? In the 1980s, few players won more hearts over than Rayford, the roly-poly, self-effacing utility player who looked like he’d never met a push-up. Yet he stuck in the big leagues for seven years, six of them with the Orioles, who could plug him into four positions – first base, second, third and catcher – without missing a beat.

Floyd Rayford doing a commercial for the Baltimore Symphony in 1984. (Baltimore Sun file photo by Irving H. Phillips)

"I never had a great body, but it was suitable to play everywhere," said Rayford. "I liked catching best. I was too busy back there to be nervous. It wasn’t like playing third base. There’s no time to get butterflies when you’re catching."

His hitting was unremarkable, save for 1985 when he hit 18 home runs and batted .306.

The reason?

"I got divorced in mid-season," Rayford said. "I thought, ‘Hell, I’ve got to pay her every month so I better start hitting.’ Alimony can be a tremendous motivator."

At 5 feet 10 and 210 pounds, Rayford had power. The "Sugar Bear" nickname alludes to his resemblance to a cartoon mascot on a cereal box.

If Rayford resembled the guy next door – OK, maybe two guys – he was worth his weight to the Orioles. At Triple-A Rochester in 1981, he helped a young Cal Ripken who was struggling at the plate.

"Cal complained that (manager) Doc Edwards, who threw batting practice, was too slow," Rayford said. "He asked if I’d come out early and throw to him."

That Rayford did, two hours a day for much of that summer.

"Cal had a great year, thanks to me," he said.

A year later, with the Orioles, they roomed together. For Rayford, those road trips were exhausting.

"Every morning when he woke up, Cal wanted to wrestle and throw you around the room," he said. "Once as he leaned over my bed to see if I was awake, I opened my eyes and punched him right in the chest."

Ripken’s response?

"He got back in bed and went back to sleep."

Rayford swears it was Ripken who once locked him in the bathroom in a hotel in Texas, causing him to miss the team bus.

"I got him back, though," Rayford said. "During a game in Detroit, I snuck into the clubhouse and cut off every button on his shirt.

"When Cal left the ballpark that night, he wore a tie over his (bare midriff) with the shirt flapping open."

Fittingly, perhaps, it was Rayford whom Ripken replaced at third base for a 1982 contest that marked the start of the Iron Man’s 2,632 consecutive games streak.

The Orioles cut Rayford in 1987. Now 52, he has knocked around the bushes ever since, teaching kids how to hit. Do they listen? New Britain, a Minnesota farm team, leads the Eastern League in batting.

Married, Rayford has a daughter in graduate school at Maryland and a home Silver Spring. At 225 pounds, he’s not far off his playing weight, though he longs for the ribs at the Corner Stable in Cockeysville – and the people of Baltimore.

"Even when I was going bad, the fans treated me good," he said. "They liked me. I didn’t have the greatest body type, but I was out there trying to do it."

Rayford, one of the Orioles' most versatile players, holds gloves he used at different positions. (Sun file photo by Irving H. Phillips)

Posted by Mike Klingaman at 8:00 AM in Catching Up With, Orioles, Today's Special | Permalink | Comments (6)
        

I am writing this from Fenway Park at Camden Yards, where 36,000 Red Sox fans and 548 Orioles fans converged for a baseball game.

You have to give credit to the Red Sox for traveling so well. But goodness gracious is this getting out of hand.

It seemed like there were more Red Sox fans watching batting practice than there were Orioles fans attending the game.

So, I figured it’s time for you guys to strike back. Even in a fictional way.

If you could steal one Red Sox player and put him on the Orioles, who would it be?

That has to be hard for many of you, since Boston stars like Kevin Youkilis, Josh Beckett, Jonathan Papelbon and Dustin Pedroia aren’t exactly loved by opposing fans (many of you have voiced that opinion before).

The catch is it has to be someone that fits on the Orioles team. So it probably wouldn’t make sense to grab a center fielder, right fielder or catcher.

Lefty Jon Lester is a solid choice, since he is young and absolutely destroys the Orioles. Papelbon, Beckett and Youkilis are excellent ones as well. Especially Youkilis, who could play either first or third next year for the Birds and bat third or fourth.

I’ll go with left fielder Jason Bay, but that means finding playing time for Nolan Reimold or Luke Scott. It’s worth it to get Bay’s bat – and attitude -- I think.

Daily Think Special: Which Red Sox player would you steal for the Orioles?

Posted by Dan Connolly at 9:53 PM in Connolly's Corner Sports Bar, Orioles | Permalink | Comments (51)
        

Nationals slugger Adam Dunn's fourth-inning bomb against Orioles rookie David Hernandez Sunday was the 50th homer to land on Eutaw Street in Camden Yards' 18-season history. Dunn's blast traveled 442 feet and hit the B&O Warehouse on a bounce.

Click here to view a complete list of all the Eutaw Street homers (and distances), courtesy of the Orioles. Thirty opposing players have hit the ball onto Eutaw Street and 20 Orioles have accomplished the feat.

So, the question is, which Orioles player do you think will be the next Eutaw slugger?

Posted by baltimoresun.com at 4:07 PM in Orioles | Permalink | Comments (2)
        

I had a great weekend, or at least an incredibly strong Saturday.

Went to my favorite annual book sale on Saturday afternoon and picked up about 30 titles for roughly $40. Nice haul.

I got some novels I had been eyeing and a few sports books, including compilations by Red Smith and Shirley Povich.

Then, in the evening, my wife and several of my journalism buddies saw my favorite band, the Old 97s, at the Recher Theatre. Love those guys (the Old 97s, not my journalism buddies).

Sunday, though, it was back to work at the old ballpark. And let’s just say my Saturday was a whole lot better than Orioles catcher Matt Wieters' Sunday.

The phenom went hitless in three at-bats, made his third throwing error in four games and dropped a ball to wipe out what would have been a sure out at the plate.

Afterward, Wieters was typically calm -- saying he’s working on his defense, and he’s not worried about a bad game.

This kid really is the whole package.

But, here’s the funny thing: The way things are going right now, Wieters (.234 average, two homers, six RBIs) is not the Orioles’ best candidate for Rookie of the Year. Outfielder Nolan Reimold (.286, 9 homers, 20 RBIs) is, with pitcher Brad Bergesen (5-2, 3.76 ERA) also ahead of the backstop.

The BBWAA doesn’t vote until the end of the season, however, and Wieters will eventually catch fire at the plate. Count on that.

So here is my question: When the dust settles on 2009, who will be the Orioles’ leading Rookie of the Year votegetter?

Will Wieters make a surge? Will Reimold or Bergesen falter?

Get your prognostication caps on people.

Daily Think Special: Which Oriole will finish highest in AL Rookie of the Year voting?

Posted by Dan Connolly at 7:10 PM in Connolly's Corner Sports Bar, Orioles, Today's Special | Permalink | Comments (24)
        

Orioles first-round draft pick Matt Hobgood, 18, a hard-throwing right-hander out of Norco High in suburban Los Angeles, signed his contract and was introduced at a news conference tonight at Camden Yards. Hobgood, the fifth overall pick in the draft, received a signing bonus of $2.42 million and will report to Rookie-level Bluefield tomorrow. Here are some things you ought to know about him:

•  Hobgood hates to lose. At anything.

"I get competitive playing a game of Monopoly," he said. "When my (younger) sisters and I play this auto racing game on PlayStation 2, I let them get ahead and then I crush ‘em.

"I like to mess with people, let them think they’re beating me and then go after them. Sometimes in baseball I’ll get a little wild, walk a couple of guys and then tell myself, ‘You’ve got to get it done.’ Then I’ll strike out three people."

•  Hobgood likes to eat. Almost anything.

"I’ve seen him take fourth and fifth servings at a buffet," said D.J. Wood, his best friend from high school. "Matt is a big dude and he can freakin’ eat.

"Once, while hanging out at my house, he said, ‘Dude, I’m hungry.’ So he opened a family-sized box of Fruity Pebbles and had a bowl. Then we went upstairs to watch TV.

"A while later, Matt went back downstairs to get a glass of water. When he didn’t come back, I went down to find the cereal box in the trash and the gallon of milk almost empty. He’d scarfed down the whole thing in five minutes."

•  His nickname is "Arizona" because (1.) Hobgood was born there and (2.) friends say that at 6 feet 4 and 250 pounds, he seems about the size of The Grand Canyon State.

•  At Norco High, where pigskins rule, Hobgood took heat for walking away from football in 10th grade to concentrate on baseball. Here, in Friday Night Lights country, was this moose of a prospect who once stood on the 50-yard line and threw a spiral through the goal posts. So how could he choose not to play?

"We told Matt’s family that he was almost guaranteed a college football scholarship," said Todd Gerhart, Norco’s football coach. Hobgood declined.

"I liked football, but I love baseball," Hobgood said. "I took a lot of crap from the football players for that. But I guess it worked out OK."

The day after the Orioles drafted him, Hobgood said, "the football team was all asking for autographs."

•  As a high school freshman, Hobgood didn’t get much playing time. But that didn’t stop him from trying to get into the game.

Once, in a tight contest, an opposing batter lifted a pop fly that drifted toward the Norco dugout.

"Our third baseman was set to catch the ball," Norco coach Gary Parcell said. "All of a sudden this glove comes out of the dugout and takes it away. There was Matt, with a big smile on his face, proudly yelling, ‘I caught it, coach!’

"I could have killed him."

Norco won the game but his teammates teased Hobgood no end.

"Even this year, every time a pop-up came toward the dugout, they grabbed me to make sure I’d be nowhere near it," he said. "They’ll never let me live that down."

Posted by Mike Klingaman at 4:00 PM in Orioles, Today's Special | Permalink | Comments (15)
        

Just watched the Orioles play the Washington Nationals on Friday night.

And know this Orioles fans: You don’t have it the worst. Not even close.

Puff out your chests and feel good about your old ballclub for a moment.

The Nats really do look as bad as advertised. Heading into Saturday, they are 21-50, that’s a .296 winning percentage. That’s under .300 ball, people.

The Nats are no longer on pace to challenge the 1962 New York Mets, who finished 40-120. But they are still within striking distance.

Some of you may not like Washington DC – you’ve mentioned that on occasion -- but you have to feel a little bad for the Nats’ fan base. I know I feel terrible for Manny Acta, the Nationals manager and one of the classiest men in a baseball uniform. He just doesn’t have a chance with this roster.

Empathy aside, we can still speculate on just how bad the Nats will be come September. I say they end up losing 112. Putting their record at a clean 50-112.

What’s your call?

Daily Think Special: What will the Nationals’ final record be this season?

Posted by Dan Connolly at 11:54 PM in Connolly's Corner Sports Bar, Today's Special | Permalink | Comments (17)
        

Where were you when Michael Jackson died?

I'm not sure, less than 24 hours after his passing, that this question will have the same kind of cultural relevance in 10 years that it is currently being assigned. Michael Jackson was not John F. Kennedy or even, arguably, Elvis, in part because, in this age of 24-hour celebrity, our fondest memories of him can't erase the strange and complex narrative that was the last 20 years of his life. We watched it unfold in real time, and it was messy. Jackson, though, is easily one of the most influential people of my youth, and long before he was a punchline, he was the most electric entertainer alive, other than, perhaps, Michael Jordan.

I was driving to Washington D.C. with my friend Gerry, to attend a Nationals vs. Red Sox game, when the news came over the radio that he was dead, and we spent the first few innings of the baseball game trying to wrap our heads around the idea that the man who made "Thriller" and "Billy Jean" really was gone. Between every inning, the Nationals played various songs from his catalogue, and although it initially felt strange, possibly even in poor taste, eventually it felt like the proper tribute. Baseball seemed only mildly interesting anyway. The King of Pop was on everyone's mind. There are very few people who can have the kind of impact on an entire stadium. Nothing grinds our collective culture to a halt anymore, but I guess we can measure someone's influence by how long their memory lingers in our minds even when there is something else right in front of our face to distract us.

Jackson had very little to do with sports, other than putting on one of the most memorable Super Bowl halftime shows in history. But there was a fluidity to the way he physically moved that no athlete, except Jordan, could ever touch. In 1992, Jackson hadn't yet tumbled down into the rabbit hole of weirdness that would define his later years, and so when he released a video for the song "Jam" that featured Jordan, it's hard to describe how big of a cultural moment it was for people in my generation. Jackson wasn't my favorite artist and Jordan wasn't my favorite player, but I remember feeling absolutely riveted when the video debuted on MTV (back when MTV showed videos instead of scripted narcissistic claptrap like The Hills.)

The song "Jam" isn't particularly good -- even then, before I understood anything about music criticism, I remember feeling like Jackson had just added the word "jam" to the chorus of a song about something else entirely simply so Jordan, Heavy D and Kris Kross could be added to the video to help market his comeback -- but seeing the two MJs together on screen was, and still is, a little surreal.

There's absolutely nothing you could possibly compare it to today, especially in this era when entertainers and athletes like Jay-Z and LeBron James are regular friends and business partners. Here were two of the most influential people of the 1980s, two African-American men who transcended race and become global icons, clowning around in a poorly-lit gym. They influenced everything and everyone who came after them in their respective fields, and yet somehow, no one managed to do it as well as they did. Muhammad Ali's famous meeting with the Beatles is probably the closest cultural comparison there is.

My favorite part of the video, though, has nothing to do with the music. And you can only catch it in the outtakes at the very end of the extended cut. It's Jackson teaching Jordan some of his dance moves.

There's never been an athlete who understood the way that his body moved in tight spaces like Jordan did. ESPN's Bill Simmons mentioned it the other day when talking about Kobe Bryant, but we forget how cool Jordan was in his prime. He was always the coolest guy in every room, and he moved like there was a soundtrack playing at all times that only he could hear. The same way that Justin Timberlake (and countless others) can never truly nail Michael Jackson's moves, Bryant (and countless others) can never quite duplicate Jordan.

When you watch the end of that video, though, it's funny to see how awkward Jordan looks compared to Jackson. One of the most graceful men on the planet is reduced to that clumsy guy who stumbles around the dance floor at every wedding you've ever been to. He's not the guy who scored 63 against the Celtics in the playoffs. He's the guy who can't quite pick up the beat to Kool and the Gang.

What I love, though, is that there is a tenderness to the way Jackson keeps giving him instruction, laughing every time Jordan claims "I've got it!" Maybe it seems weird or creepy to you, considering all we would come to know about Jackson in time, but I love the way Jordan's deep baritone voice and huge silhouette stands in contrast to Jackson's skinny frame and his effeminate squeak. Jackson, for all his oddities, was one of only a handful of people who could make Michael Jordan seem graceless, but seem kind doing it.

True artistry comes in such different packages that it's a little disarming to see it juxtaposed this way. But like Jordan, Jackson was an American original, a man whose talent and fame made an impact that is impossible to quantify.

It's unlikely I'll remember where I was when I heard that he died, but like millions of people, I won't ever forget that he was one of those rare people who reminds us, with every note and every move, what it is to be alive. 

Posted by Kevin Van Valkenburg at 10:13 AM in The Endorsement, Today's Special | Permalink | Comments (11)
        

They tooted horns, rang bells and blew sirens. On a warm April night in 1963, nearly 11,000 playoff-crazed hockey fans shoe-horned into the spanking new Baltimore Civic Center to watch their beloved Clippers win their first postseason game.

The crowd cheered every shot by the Clippers’ high-scoring center, Dave Creighton, and every save by goalie Marcel Pelletier. They whooped when the public address announcer asked that a doctor go to the dressing room of the Hershey Bears, the Clippers’ opponent in the American Hockey League Calder Cup quarterfinals.

Baltimore won the game, 5-3, but lost the best-of-three series to Hershey. The Clippers would play 14 more years in the AHL but no team captured the city’s heart like the first one. Noel Price. Jean Ratelle. Duane Rupp. Who can forget?

Baltimore Sun file photo by Paul Hutchins

***

Click here to view past Through the Looking Glass posts

Posted by Mike Klingaman at 9:25 AM in Through The Looking Glass, Today's Special | Permalink | Comments (0)
        

So Wednesday will never be confused with the busiest day in bar history.

We opened in a pseudo-new location and some of you may have gotten lost in the Transformers aisle of the Toy Department on your way to Connolly’s.

But I can say Wednesday was one of the more entertaining days in a while. The topic was goofiest Baltimore sports memorabilia. And boy did the customers come up big.

Please check it out if you haven’t already. Some cool stories and items, including a hot dog wrapper and beer-vendor apron from the last game at Memorial, a Ripken-signed Sunday school paper and a steroids jersey. Free drink chips for Randall, Bruce, Josh and Ron.

But JD gets an open tab all week for his Reggie Jackson barf bag story. You ask for entertainment, people, and we provide it here.

Let’s stick with the memorabilia line for another day. If you could have any piece of Baltimore sports history, what would it be?

I am not a collector, wasn’t one before I became a sportswriter. I have saved some things for my children from my career – my scorecard from Hideo Nomo’s no-hitter, my press pass from Ripken’s final game, etc. – but I don’t seek out anything. Not only does it cross an important line for a sportswriter, but it places people on a higher pedestal simply because of their profession. And I’m not a huge fan of that.

That said, there are some things that are just cool, and remind us of simpler times. I once interviewed Billy Bob Thornton, an Arkansas native and baseball fan, at Camden Yards. He told me he has a Brooks Robinson glove with a personal inscription sitting on a shelf next to his Academy Award for Slingblade. It’s that important to him, because Brooks was that important to him as a child.

So, in that spirit, I’d love to have a Johnny Unitas signed Colts helmet or a pair of his high-top shoes. Not to re-sell, just to have. And the funny thing is I never saw Unitas play. But he was a hero to my dad and my brothers who, in turn, were my heroes. And so that’s the sentimentality behind that.

Daily Think Special: What piece of Baltimore sports memorabilia would you love to have? Not for resale, but for sentimental purposes.

Posted by Dan Connolly at 4:21 PM in Today's Special | Permalink | Comments (21)
        

Welcome back to Connolly's Corner Sports Bar. Like what we did with the place?

We had a little hiatus and you probably thought I was being lazy and didn’t feel like doing much around Father’s Day.

Not a bad theory; not completely accurate.

While you were gone, we have shifted some things around. We now have a different entrance. You can now find new posts and visit the bar via the Toy Department.

Seriously.

If Wal-Mart can include a barbershop, a McDonald’s and a grocery store, the Toy Department can encompass a corner sports bar.

If you don’t think a toy store and a bar are compatible, you’ve obviously never shopped for a Wii with a 10-year-old. It is reason No. 1 for a stiff drink.

Anyway, what does this change mean for my loyal customer? Nothing, really.

We’ll still be a click away on The Sun’s baseball and sports site pages. You’ll still see my smiling face most of the time (a real attraction, I know) and we will still be serving up the same daily questions with a dash of attempted humor.

The bonus is that I’ll be joining some of my fine Sun colleagues in a larger collaborative effort and you’ll get one-stop shopping. And, on the occasion in which I am not blogging, you’ll have other cool things in the Toy Department to check out.

Should be a win-win. So, first Toy Department beer is on me.

As for today's question. It comes from my buddy and electronic sports media guru Mark Viviano, who recently asked his listeners about their strangest piece of Baltimore sports memorabilia.

Basically we are looking for something goofy that you collected presumably because you thought it would have some worth or special meaning, And you held on to it for no particular reason. (If you don’t have something local, I’ll take something national. Just make it random and bizarre).

I have one: More than a decade ago, before my baseball-writing career began, I was given a Calvin Pickering autographed baseball – back when he was starting out as a minor leaguer. It seemed cool at the time. I figured how could a guy that big, that strong and that super-hyped fail?

The answer: Pretty quickly and easily.

Honestly, I have no idea where that baseball is, but I didn’t intentionally get rid of it, so I am sure it is around somewhere.

My guess is that was my last autographed piece of memorabilia. What a way to go out.

So what’s yours?

Daily Think Special: What’s your strangest piece of Baltimore sports memorabilia? How about national sports memorabilia?

Posted by Dan Connolly at 6:29 AM in Connolly's Corner Sports Bar, Today's Special | Permalink | Comments (59)
        

Each Tuesday in The Toy Department, veteran Baltimore Sun sportswriter Mike Klingaman tracks down a former local sports figure and lets you know what's happening in his/her life in a segment called. "Catching Up With ... " Let Klingaman know who you'd like him to find and click here to check out previous editions of "Catching Up With ... "

On one wall of Ray Brown’s office hangs his law diploma and other professional awards. Across the room are a different set of treasures – team photos of the 1958 and 1959 world champion Baltimore Colts, for whom Brown played.

Guess where his visitors head first.

"It’s always football," said Brown, 72, a Mississippi attorney who helped put the Colts on the NFL map.

Don’t remember Ray Brown? He played three seasons in Baltimore, then quit the game to join the bar. Yet he had a big role in the team’s first title run 51 years ago.

A rookie safety in 1958, Brown started every game for the Colts, the only first-year player to do so that season. His eight interceptions tied for the club lead. He also punted, and his lofty 51-yard average in the Colts’ 23-17 sudden-death victory over the New York Giants remains an NFL championship game record.

His secret that day?

"Adrenalin," Brown said.

All of this, he achieved while also attending law school at the University of Maryland in Baltimore.

"I’d get up every morning, grab a brown-bag lunch from my wife and go to classes," he said. "Then I’d zip up to Memorial Stadium and eat lunch while studying films. After practice, I’d go home and work on my law briefs."

Did he ever sleep?

"It wasn’t that bad," Brown said of the regimen. "Those were great times with the Colts. We were grateful to be playing, and there were no prima donnas or (sports) agents or drugs. It was a different game."

In 1959, besides his defensive chores, Brown became understudy to quarterback to John Unitas.

"John called most of his own plays, but occasionally Weeb (Ewbank, the coach) would send one in," Brown said. Once, he recalled, Ewbank relayed to Unitas these directions: "Just score."

The Colts repeated as champs.

Brown played one more year and then, at age 25, he walked away. Why? The Colts had slipped to fourth place. Brown needed knee surgery. And he was near to getting that law degree, which came in 1962.

His diligence paid off. That summer, he took a coveted job as law clerk to U.S. Supreme Court Justice Tom Clark. Two years after leaving football, Brown walked those hallowed halls in Washington, D.C. But it couldn’t match the thrill of stepping on the field at Yankee Stadium for the ’58 title game, he said.

"What a fantastic time we had," said Brown. "I remember driving home from New York with my family after the game, stopping for dinner at a Howard Johnson’s and having the waitress say, ‘Mr. Brown, your family’s meal has been paid for by a Colts’ fan (who’d already left the restaurant).’

"The guy hadn’t even asked for autographs. That’s how grateful people were that we’d won."

A practicing attorney for 46 years, Brown started his own law firm in 1987 and still works from his home in Gautier, Miss. Married 51 years, he has three children, eight grandchildren and a cranky right knee that is giving him fits "from kicking thousands of punts as a player."

Past president of the Mississippi Bar, Brown wears his ’58 Colts championship ring and, on occasion, the blue-and-white team jacket that the club gave him. At 195 pounds, he hasn’t gained an ounce.

Two years ago, the Wall Street Journal selected an all-time law football team including, among others, former President Gerald Ford, the late Supreme Court Justice Byron (Whizzer) White . . . and Brown, the Colts’ fifth-round draft pick from Mississippi.

"When I saw that article, I thought, ‘My goodness,’ " Brown said. "Then I framed it and hung it on the wall with the rest."

Top photo: AP; Bottom photo: George C. Cook / Baltimore Sun

Posted by Mike Klingaman at 7:00 AM in Baltimore Colts, Catching Up With, Today's Special | Permalink | Comments (8)
        

At one point during the U.S. Open telecast on Monday, NBC showed a series of pictures of Phil Mickelson hugging his wife, Amy, over the years. And then the network played the audio of Phil telling reporters earlier this week that, prior to the tournament, Amy had left him a series of notes mentioning that she hoped to have a big silver trophy next to her in the hospital when she goes in for breast cancer treatment early next month. 

I'd heard that clip a few times already, so it didn't really affect me, but my wife had not heard it. And so I wasn't surprised to look down toward the other end of the couch and see tears running down her face. And because of that, I got a little choked up, too. How do you not get sucked in, even if you're a cynic, to pulling for the guy whose wife has cancer? Mickelson said after after his wife was diagnosed, he'd sometimes be driving in his car, alone, and burst into tears for reasons he couldn't quite explain. And when I heard him say that, I understood completely. I thought to myself, "That's exactly how I'd react."

I didn't want to tell my wife that, deep down, I knew we were only being set up for disappointment. Mickelson was leading at the time, having just made an eagle to pull into a tie for the lead, and our hearts were racing, but there was no way he was going to win that trophy. I wanted so desperately to believe it was going to be different this time, but I knew it wouldn't be. Mickelson is forever destined to be Charlie Brown to the U.S. Open's Lucy. Every time it looks like he's going to finally kick that football, it get snatched away at the last second, often in agonizing fashion.  

Watching the U.S. Open together has become a bit of a tradition for my wife and I in recent years. I root for the players that I like based on their personalities and their games, and she roots for players based on how they're dressed and how nice their wives seem, while at the same time rooting against those she feels are dressed poorly. (Despite my pleading, she refused to pull for Rocco Mediate last year over Tiger Woods and his impeccably tailored shirts.) Mickelson sort of represents the perfect storm for us. He's my favorite golfer, and she thinks he's become a much better dresser in recent years. (She liked his pants this year.) The way his kids run onto the green to hug his leg after victories also makes her infectiously happy. (I confess, I have daydreams about my own kids doing the same, to me, at our family golf tournament some day.)

I think, though, that I've realized this about Mickelson today: Just like my wife and I, he can't really bottle up his emotions. At least not long enough to win a U.S. Open. This is the fifth time he's finished second in this tournament, and in every instance, he'd made just enough mistakes to let it slip away at the end. Golf is such an emotional game, and that's the main reason why Tiger Woods, when he's all finished, will probably have more than 20 majors. (He's practically an  android under pressure.) You can't get too excited, and you can't get too upset.

Lucas Glover played that role perfectly Monday. Even when he rolled in a 3-foot putt on 18 to win, he looked like a guy who had just won a Nationwide Tour event, not the United States Open. He raised his right hand, waved to the crowd, and barely smiled. I thought, "What a surprise. The most boring guy won the tournament." 

But the more I heard and read about Glover, the more I realized how wrong I was. During the numerous rain delays this week, Glover spent his time reading books, and polished off four of them in as many days. He told reporters he usually reads about a book a week, which pretty much blows my mind. (I can count on one hand the number of professional athletes I've encountered who are big readers, although David Duval is one.) And Glover is also a big Seinfeld addict, having seen every episode multiple times.

As Glover came off the 18th green, he made a beeline for his wife -- his high school sweetheart -- and then hugged her for a good, solid minute before finally moving on to sign his scorecard. My own wife had already left the room, eager to attend to some tomato plants in her garden, so she didn't see their embrace, which was too bad.

Because while Mickelson will always be our guy, Glover was just a cool pair of pants, and a couple of little kids away, from being the kind of golfer we could both root for in future U.S. Opens.  

Posted by Kevin Van Valkenburg at 4:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)
        

It's difficult to remember, all these years later, that long before golf was about Tiger Woods, Phil Mickelson and everyone else, David Duval was arguably the best golfer in the world. Tiger Woods was in the middle of a swing change, Mickelson hadn't yet figured out how to win anything outside the Hartford Opens on Tour, and Duval was the guy shooting 59 and threatening to emerge as Woods' true rival.

What happened next was one of the most remarkable falls in sports. Duval won a British Open, but then completely lost his game and has never really been anything close to the player he once was. But in the first round of the U.S. Open today at Bethpage Black, Duval shot a pretty remarkable 67 and is one shot off the lead.

I write a lot about the reasons I became a sports writer, but this Gary Smith story about Duval, and the death of his brother from cancer, is one of those stories I read 10 years ago in complete awe. It always stuck with me. 

Who knows what tomorrow will bring, but it would be a pretty remarkable story to see Duval remain competitive through the weekend.

(You also can't help but wonder: Is Tiger Woods going to make the cut after shooting a 74 in round one? Weather or not, he didn't look very sharp, especially with his short game, in Round 1.)

Posted by Kevin Van Valkenburg at 3:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)
        

The news that Ravens beat writer Jamison Hensley broke yesterday, that the team was evaluating whether or not they'd be interested in Broncos wide receiver Brandon Marshall, got me thinking about something I've wanted to ask die-hard fans for awhile:

At what point do you care about an athlete's off-the-field behavior?

Obviously, we all care at some point, no matter how talented said athlete is. Unless your priorities are completely out of whack, you're not going to support someone who beats their spouse or attempts to murder people in the offseason. But sports allegiances often force us into that weird gray area where, even though we might not want said professional athlete dating our sister or babysitting our kids, we're still OK with rooting for them as long as they suit up for the home team and get the job done.  

I've been a Lakers fan all my life, a fact that many of my friends feel is my greatest flaw as an individual. Magic Johnson was my guy growing up, the first professional athlete who filled me with awe and wonder, and because I grew up in Western Montana where the closest city with a professional franchise was a 9-hour drive to Seattle, the Lakers became my team.

This of course meant, many years later, being put in the uncomfortable position of rooting on Kobe Bryant while he was scheduled to go on trial for sexual assault.

Now, whatever you think about Kobe Bryant -- that he's a ball hog (debatable), that he ran Shaq out of town (false), that he once quit on his team when they were whining he shot too much (true, but I'm not sure I blame him), that he's a phony (I'll concede this one) -- he wasn't convicted of rape. Just like Ray Lewis wasn't convicted of murder, and Brandon Marshall hasn't been convicted of assaulting his girlfriend. (He goes on trial this summer.) But something happened in each case that makes everyone a little uncomfortable, and individually, we all have to decide at what point we're no longer OK with rooting on someone who acted outside society's standards and laws.  

I'm curious, though: Where is the line for you?

I'm not sure there is a definitive line for me. Maybe all we have to go on is the classic comment by Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart about pornography: "I know it when I see it." A person's ability to catch a football or throw a baseball has absolutely no connection to whether or not they're a decent human being, but we do tend to convince ourselves that our franchise "won't tolerate certain behavior" and that it holds itself to a higher standard that other teams.

I think it's rare that you meet someone who simply doesn't care at all. The only thing they want is for their team to score more runs or points than the opposing team, and if they have to do it by fielding a team of criminals and jerks, so be it. Most of us care, at least a little bit. We want to feel some connection to the people out there on the field or the court, some commonality. We'll forgive a lot, but not everything. At some point, bad behavior makes it impossible to enjoy the entertainment that person provides.

This approach isn't even limited to sports. For example, I love Ryan Adams, the musician. I think "Come Pick Me Up" is one of the best break-up songs ever written, and "Jacksonville Skyline" is one of the most poetic and honest pieces of music ever penned about growing up in a small town. But I also understand that Ryan Adams is kind of a flake. He spent the first half of his career snorting insane amounts of drugs and calling up rock critics to curse them out over bad reviews. Before he got sober, he would mumble his way through shows some nights, not giving a damn if anyone cared that he was phoning in a bad performance. It isn't necessarily criminal behavior, and I could still enjoy his older stuff without getting caught up with what's going on with him in the present, but for so many people, his bad behavior -- which included flipping out a person who heckled him at a concert when he refused to play Bryan Adams' "Summer of '69" -- makes it impossible to enjoy his art.

The easy answers, and ones that I think are a bit of a cop out from a fan's perspective when it comes to sports, are:

1. Everyone innocent until proven guilty!

2. Doesn't he deserve a second chance?

I never heard non-Laker fans apply these two standards to Kobe Bryant, mostly because Kobe Bryant just doesn't seem like a very likeable person, and even though I believe he's still the best basketball player on the planet, his entire personality seems a little contrived. (His Hannibal Lecter Face in Game 1 of the NBA Finals was one of the most ridiculously forced acts I've ever seen a professional athlete engage in and I wondered how long he spent practicing it in the rear view mirror of his Ferrari on his way to Staples Center.) But fans of whatever team decides to take a chance on Plaxico Burress will trot out these two aphorisms as justification for why it's OK to cheer for Burress. And some Ravens fans will do the same if, on the off chance, the team trades for Marshall.

That doesn't make you a bad person. I'm the one, after all, who continued to pull for Kobe Bryant and rationalize it 30 different ways in my mind. But where the line is (Leonard Little? Mike Vick? Pete Rose?), I'm not sure.   

Posted by Kevin Van Valkenburg at 3:08 PM in Ravens | Permalink | Comments (8)
        

Quick note: Every now and then, instead of some lengthy post telling you why I think some story matters, I'm just going to toss it up here on the Toy Department in a feature I'm calling Recommended Reading. Since I'm not really sure what to use Twitter for other than passing along links that I like, but everyone insists that "Tweeting" is a must, I generally do this about two or three times a day on Twitter, and if you like, you can follow me on @KVanValkenburg.

Today in Recommended Reading, ESPN senior writer Wright Thompson, takes a look inside the new culture of Washington D.C. pick-up basketball in a lengthy, but excellent Outside The Lines piece for ESPN.com. I'm a big fan of stories that use sports as a backdrop for larger issues, so I liked this one for the simple reason that it shows you how shamelessly people will use sports to get face time with important people. With Clinton and Bush, it was golf. With Obama, it's basketball.

One thing I can't help but wonder though every time I read one of these pieces about Obama and his love of hoops is just how much -- or how little -- game the president has. I played a ton of pick-up hoops in high school and college, and all due respect to the President of the United States, but anyone who showed up wearing pants had better have some serious skills, or he was going to be quietly mocked every time up the court. I assume he wears pants because he doesn't like to show off his skinny legs, but I have no idea.

One of my favorite writes working, S.L. Price of Sports Illustrated, played hoops against Obama back when he was still just candidate Obama, and got beat twice by the graceful lefty. So maybe he isn't half bad. But I'm still skeptical about the pants.

Posted by Kevin Van Valkenburg at 5:18 PM in Recommended Reading | Permalink | Comments (0)
        

When the New York Times broke the news yesterday that Sammy Sosa tested positive for performance-enhancing drugs in 2003, that he was one of the 103 names on a list that was supposed to be kept secret but continues to leak out, it probably struck you as just about the least surprising development in sports this year. I'm not sure anyone at this point still believed Sosa's mid-career home run explosion was anything but the product of copious amounts of chemicals swallowed or injected, just like nearly every elite slugger of his era.

I go back and forth about whether I really care about any of this. Most people I know have similar feelings. On some level, what happened happened. Moral judgments, in retrospect, are silly. Baseball created an environment where drug culture was allowed to flourish and instead of spending our time arguing about who does and does not deserve to be in a Cooperstown museum, all I really want is to have rules established and enforced going forward. I don't even care if Sosa, Mark McGwire, Rafael Palmeiro and Roger Clemens make it into the Hall of Fame. They probably should be in, if you view it objectively. They were the best hitters and pitcher of their era. Nonsense like, "How can we look our children in the eye if we let Sammy Sosa in the Hall of Fame?" is laughable. Any person invoking the innocence of children in an argument about the Hall of Fame, from this point forward, needs to be flogged with a thousand rosin bags.

I bring this up, however, not to have another tired Hall of Fame and steroids discussion, but to fondly remember Sammy Sosa as the most unlikeable professional athlete I've ever briefly encountered. And to explain why the next time you hear about a professional athlete acting like a jerk to someone in the media, you should realize that what they're really doing is acting like a jerk to you, the fan. If they hate the media, there is a good chance they don't like you either. The rest is just spin. They'd just prefer you didn't know that. Because they crave your love and attention, even if they would prefer not to offer much for it in return.

When Sosa was traded to the Orioles 2005, I was assigned to write a long profile of him by sports editor Randy Harvey, which meant flying to the Dominican Republic to spend time interviewing his family and trying to understand what he meant to a country that had begun to feel indifferent to him. (This was after the corked bat incident, and his comical testimony in front of Congress.) Sosa's mother and brother were very kind and generous with their time, inviting me into their home and telling stories about their family, and how Sosa shined shoes in a square in San Pedro de Macoris for mere pesos.  

I sort of assumed Sosa would be accommodating enough to grant an interview for the story. This was after all, as I explained to his agent, a chance for him to introduce himself to Baltimore fans. The story certainly wasn't going to be a rip job. It was mostly biography, because while Chicago fans were familiar with his remarkable rise from poverty, I'm not sure Baltimore fans were. Sosa wanted out of Chicago so he could have a fresh start, because the fans had soured on him for a dozen different reasons, and he said all the right things in news conferences about how much he loved the people of Baltimore and couldn't wait to be the old, beisbol-loving Sammy Sosa again. So when Sosa changed his plans and didn't come to the Dominican Republic, where I was told I'd get to talk to him by one of his friends, I was a little perturbed but ultimately thought nothing of it. I'd simply catch him in Fort Lauderdale for spring training.

I spent five days begging for 20 minutes of Sosa's time in Fort Lauderdale. I offered to do it in the morning, at night, on a drive to the park, over coffee, at the Orioles complex. Anywhere. He answered the same way each time. "Tomorrow, guy. Ask me tomorrow," and then seemed annoyed when I showed up the following day to renew my request. Finally, on a day when the Orioles were traveling without him and he had quite literally nothing to do, he agreed to be interviewed.

The interview lasted roughly four minutes and 12 seconds. I know because I looked at my digital recorder in astonishment when Sosa waved his arm and playfully dismissed me after the fifth question, saying he should not be expected to sit there all day. I explained I'd spent five days hoping to talk to him, but that was irrelevant to him. Orioles fans who weren't diehards were still in the initial stages of understanding just how rudderless their franchise had become, and so Sosa was going to be cheered Opening Day regardless of what I did or did not write. And he knew this. I was a nobody to him.

Months later, I spent four hours waiting outside the Orioles clubhouse, where he was allegedly rehabbing an abscess on his foot while the team was on a West Coast road trip. All I wanted to do was ask him how the rehab was coming and when he expected to be back (since the Orioles were essentially saying it was up to him) but a clubhouse guy had tipped him off that I was waiting for him, and so Sosa refused to come outside the clubhouse, where I was not allowed. It was essentially a four-hour childish standoff. After the fourth hour, I went outside to the players parking lot, and decided to wait for him there. And because my brilliant military-esque strategy of falling back but cutting off his escape route did not occur to him, I was there waiting when he walked toward his car.  

As he walked slowly toward me, I asked him several polite inquiries about his foot, and his eyes narrowed. He then did something that still makes me laugh when I think about it. He put his hand in my face, which made me duck out of the way as he continued walking. Had I not moved, I would have been on the receiving end of the Heisman. I'm not even sure if Posh Beckham or Paris Hilton would have been snotty enough to pull that move on me.

It's become fairly easy in modern sports to play the "media is out to get us" card, and the "reporters are the enemy" theme. It's probably the most tired rallying cry in sports, in my opinion. Brian Billick played it brilliantly for several years, using it as a shield to deflect legitimate criticism, until even the true diehards began to realize it wasn't the media's fault his offensive game plans and strategy were so poor for so long. The idea that negative news sells is another falsehood usually trumpeted by people who don't read very much and don't have a real understanding of the way the world works. Approximately 99 percent of sports writers don't search for scandal, they're just interested in telling the truth, not some rosy version of it. And at that point, the truth was that Sammy Sosa was an aging, selfish, injury-prone slugger. Except I didn't even really view him that way at the time. I just wanted to write an Orioles notebook about his foot injury because I thought the fans might want to know when his awful bat might return to the lineup.

Former Sports Illustrated writer-turned-book author Jeff Pearlman got me thinking about Sosa recently when he authored this post on his own blog about how a mutual reporter friend couldn't believe he'd been blown off by Jayson Werth of the Phillies. (Jayson Werth!) What made me shake my head in dismay, though, wasn't Werth's alleged Sosa-esque blow off, but the comments on Pearlman's blog, which were overwhelmingly in favor of Werth. I'm not sure if it's the mentality of politics creeping into sports, where the media has become the bogeyman everyone blames when their behavior comes into question, but in general, professional athletes who treat the media with contempt tend to view fans the same way. Their sense of entitlement doesn't go away when notebooks aren't there. It's sort of remarkable that fan loyalty blinds people to this so frequently. Sometimes I think this is the most compelling case for the rise of baseball stat geeks. If viewing the game like an imperfect, but beautiful math equation brings you joy, what does it matter that Player X gives the Heisman to reporters in the parking lot because he thinks they're beneath contempt?

This isn't to say every professional athlete feels this way. Not even close. There are plenty of Orioles, like Brian Roberts and Adam Jones and Jeremy Guthrie, just to name a few, who I think are good people who understand the media is the best way for them to communicate how they go about their profession to the fans, in good times and bad. And there are plenty of Ravens I'd throw on that list as well, like Trevor Pryce and Kelly Gregg and Haloti Ngata, among others.

But mull that the next time you see a clip of a professional athlete treating someone like dirt. Sammy Sosa isn't a jerk because he most likely took steroids, and then failed to tell the truth about it. And he isn't a jerk because he feuded with the media, both in Chicago and Baltimore. He's a jerk because in the second half of his career, he treated people poorly, media and teammates included. He'd have given you the Heisman too, if given the opportunity.

Just like steroids, you probably shouldn't let that ruin the way you watch sports. But don't be naive about it either.

Posted by Kevin Van Valkenburg at 12:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (19)
        

It would not be inaccurate to say the Ravens' history of quarterbacking misfortune turned decisively one day two years ago when Joe Flacco strode into K.C. Keeler's office and said he wanted to play baseball.

This is relevant because Flacco at the time was a junior quarterback at the University of Delaware, playing for Keeler, the coach, and spring practice was imminent. He was not quitting the football team, just investing himself in another sport.

Keeler didn't think twice.

"Do you realize you're going to be a draft choice in football?" he said to Flacco.

According to Keeler, Flacco said he didn't.

Just to make sure he didn't lose his quarterback to baseball, Keeler told his offensive coordinator to call Flacco's father and tell him that Joe would not be playing baseball. End of discussion.

Flacco went to spring football practice, where he wowed a number of NFL scouts with his arm, and then took the Blue Hens to the Division I-AA championship game. By late April, he was the Ravens' first-round draft pick and, well, you know the rest of the story.

It's a story that bears repeating because the Orioles just drafted Flacco's 22-year-old brother Mike, a power-hitting third baseman who slugged 14 homers and drove in 51 runs in 46 games at CCBC-Catonsville.

Who knows what might have happened had Joe gone over to baseball?

"He could have been a possible draft choice in baseball," Keeler said Tuesday after visiting Flacco at the Ravens' complex in Owings Mills. "But I knew he'd be a draft choice in football. Spring practice was going to be too important for us as a team, and the scouts were all going to come then, so it just didn't make any sense to do it at that time."

It was a decision that keeps paying dividends, both for the Ravens and for Keeler, who enjoyed the best recruiting season of his eight at Delaware. Even though Delaware won a national championship in 2003, Keeler believes the program has gotten a bigger jolt from Flacco's success than from their national titles.

"The national championships are impressive," Keeler said. "But all the notoriety Joe brought our program in such a positive way, the way he handles himself, the fact he was a first-round pick ... all those things made a major impact on our recruiting."

What really registers with recruits is the fact Flacco landed at Delaware after an unhappy two years at Pittsburgh. Delaware may not have been the upper echelon of college football, but it was the right place for Flacco to build his foundation.

 "Joe just needed the opportunity," Keeler said. "He's not a first-round draft choice if he doesn't play. So bigger's not better, better is better. We use Joe's story in our recruiting. Joe had to go someplace to play, he came to our place and he found out that better was better."

 And everybody won.

Posted by Ken Murray at 6:06 PM in Ravens, Today's Special | Permalink | Comments (10)
        

Each Tuesday in The Toy Department, veteran Baltimore Sun sportswriter Mike Klingaman tracks down a former local sports figure and lets you know what's happening in his/her life in a segment called, "Catching Up With ... " Let Klingaman know who you'd like him to find and click here to check out previous editions of "Catching Up With ... "

Every year during the NBA playoffs, Don Ohl’s eyes brighten, his step quickens and his heart beats a little faster -- but not dangerously so for Ohl, 73, a survivor of six-way bypass surgery.

The playoffs always brought out the best in the onetime star of the Baltimore Bullets. More than 40 years later, the man nicknamed "Waxie" for his crewcut still holds the Washington Wizards’ franchise record for highest postseason scoring average.

In 13 playoff appearances for Baltimore in 1965 and 1966, Ohl averaged 26.2 points per game, stellar work for a 6-foot-3 guard who practically carried those upstart Bullets on his back at crunch time.

"I always played best in big games," Ohl said from his hometown of Edwardsville, Ill. "But I was proudest of my defense against top guards like (Cincinnati’s) Oscar Robertson, (Los Angeles’) Jerry West and (Boston’s) Sam Jones."

He paused in thought.

"I wasn’t a terrible player, was I?"

In a 1965 game at the Civic Center, Bullets guard Don Ohl makes a shot over New York's Willis Reed. (Sun file photo by Paul Hutchins)

A 10-year pro, Ohl spent 3-1/2 seasons in Baltimore, arriving in 1964 by trade from Detroit. The city embraced the sure-handed Ohl, who cut his hair like Johnny Unitas, stepped up in the clutch and for two years averaged more than 20 points per game. He rallied fans with his 20-foot jump shot and offset the inside moves of musclemen Walt Bellamy and Gus Johnson.

His first year here – the Bullets’ second season in town – Ohl led them to the Western Division finals where they fell to L.A., 4 games to 2.

"We were good but we couldn’t stop West," he said. "I worked as hard as I could but, in one game, he scored 50 points. Well, I guaranteed that West wouldn’t get 50 the next game. He didn’t. He got 51."

A five-time All-Star, Ohl recalled arriving in San Francisco one year for that classic and spotting Philadelphia’s 7-foot-1 Wilt Chamberlain in the hotel lobby. How could one miss him?

"Wilt was dressed to the nines and checking in with one hand while holding the two biggest dogs I’ve ever seen, on leashes, with the other hand," he said.

"I thought the world of Wilt. Once, on a breakaway, he was the only player between me and the basket. When I got to the free throw line, I pulled up to take a jump shot and he came out to block it. I went up and let it go just over his outstretched hand."

The ball floated home.

"As I came down, Wilt growled, ‘What makes you so (bleeping) good?’ " Ohl said. "That was quite a compliment, coming from him."

Ohl earned $30,000 in his best year in Baltimore and had to hold out to get that. Finally, he said, owner Abe Pollin told him, "If you sign for $25,000, I’ll make up the difference."

Midway through the 1967-68 season, he was dealt to St. Louis. The Bullets were nuts over rookie guard Earl Monroe, who’d already panned out. Ohl played a couple more years with the Hawks, scored his 10,000th point and retired in 1970.

Eight years ago, he retired from a career in the bank insurance business to care for his wife, Judy, who was stricken with Alzheimer’s disease. Ohl has had both hips replaced and several knee operations, as well as bypass surgery. Still, he dotes daily over his mate of 49 years, dressing, bathing and feeding her.

"Sometimes, when I talk to her, there’s a little gleam in her eyes and I think, maybe she understands," he said. "Yes, she has changed – but she’s the soul of my life and I still love her deeply."

Posted by Mike Klingaman at 6:00 AM in Catching Up With, Today's Special | Permalink | Comments (6)
        

Brooks Robinson’s expression is matched by that of his four-year-old son, Brooks David, during the Orioles’ annual Father and Son game at Memorial Stadium in 1965. The youngster went on the play baseball at Loyola High and is now an investment banker living in La Grange, Ga. His dad’s likeness hangs in Cooperstown.

Sun file photo by Paul Hutchins

Posted by Mike Klingaman at 9:00 AM in Orioles, Through The Looking Glass | Permalink | Comments (5)
        

It’s September 11, 1970 and the Orioles are a cinch to win the American League East -- much to the chagrin of the New York Yankees, their opponent that night. Some weeks earlier, New York outfielder Curt Blefary had told his teammates that they could still catch Baltimore because the Orioles weren’t supermen. Here, Orioles slugger Frank Robinson suggests otherwise, ripping open his shirt as Blefary roars with laughter.

The Orioles won 108 games that season, swept Minnesota to win the American League flag and then defeated Cincinnati, four games to one, to win their second World Series.

Posted by Mike Klingaman at 9:10 AM in Orioles, Through The Looking Glass | Permalink | Comments (1)
        

Keep this circled on the calendar, figure skating fans: midnight, Sept. 1.

That's the drop-dead date for five-time world and nine-time U.S. champion Michelle Kwan to decide whether she's going to make a comeback or not.

Then keep this in mind: Skate America. Lake Placid, N.Y. TBD.

There's an opening in the U.S lineup in the penultimate Grand Prix event, Nov. 12-15.

All of the other top women have their two GP assignments. The last spot could be for a youngster or it could be for...Kwan???

Think of it, a showdown between Kwan and 2006 Olympic silver medalist Sasha Cohen, also on the comeback trail, on the ice made famous by the "Miracle on Ice" 1980 U.S. hockey team.

Kwan is skating again. Although she's been accepted at Tufts University for graduate work in international studies, she could delay her start. Who would deny her a chance at the Olympic gold medal, the only color to elude her.

If not Tufts, Sasha?

Kwan will have to compete in regional championships. If she chooses Artesia, Calif., her long-time training site and home of the Los Angeles Figure Skating Club, she'll have to register for the Southwest Regionals, to be held in Scottsdale, Ariz., Oct. 23-27. 

Although she has until midnight, Sept., 1, to tell U.S Figure Skating officials if she's in comeback mode, they have asked her to tell them before the end of July, so that they can prepare for the expected tidal wave of fan and media interest.

Kwan hasn't named a coach yet, but continues to practice on her own. She says she's pain free following hip surgery. She admits she still loves to skate.

By the time the flame is lighted at the Olympics in February, however, she'll be 29--ancient by figure skating standards.

Her agent, Shep Goldberg, says unlike Cohen, his client has not asked for a Skate America spot and he doesn't know which way she's leaning.

"It's not like 60-40 or 70-30," he says. "She hasn't made any decision. I'm waiting just like everyone else."

It's worth the wait.

Getty Images

Posted by Candus Thomson at 6:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (9)
        

Change has come to the LPGA in the four years since Carolyn Bivens took over as commissioner, the first woman hired for the job in the organization's then 55-year history. Bivens was president and CEO of a media planning and buying company. Before that, she was the associate publisher of USA Today, where she also had been senior vice president of advertising.

Bivens made headlines last August when it was announced the LPGA would require all international players to speak conversational English or risk losing tour status. The backlash required the tour to modify its stance and announce that it would push language proficiency courses. She also took some heat last month for suggesting that pros should Twitter during competition to reach younger fans.

But she scored some hits, too. Earlier this year, the organization inked a 10-year deal with the Golf Channel worth a reported $3-4 million, and a five-year deal worth at least that much with a South Korean media conglomerate with TV, digital and magazine platforms. The tour will go to Asia twice and will unveil new venues for some events.

One of those is the LPGA Championship, being played for the final time at Bulle Rock Golf Course in Harford County. Long-time sponsor McDonald's is getting out of the tournament game as a means to make money for Ronald McDonald House Charities. The LPGA will own the Championship, with a new home to be announced in November.

Taking control of the Championship, one of the tour's signature events, allows the LPGA to choose the site, set eligibility criteria and reap all the revenue. In other words, the commissioner says, a chance to control the organization's destiny for years to come.

Here's what else Bivens had to say to Toy Department:

TD: Do you consider the LPGA's time at Bulle Rock to be a success?

Bivens: It has been a wonderful home for the McDonald's LPGA Championship. It helped raise a lot of money for a lot of kids. Fortunately for the LPGA, the owner, Herb Lotman, has agreed that after this year he will turn the Championship over to us and we will own one of our majors. We will be one of the only professional tours to do that. It is exciting and it's one of the things I believe years from now will be very transformational.

But you're taking a step in this economy, without a sponsor or a venue, into a huge black hole. No one can predict when things will turn around.

Bivens: The fact that a sports league or association would own one of its own championships and be able to illustrate and display their best of class of their brand, to set the eligibilty criteria and own all the revenue streams for that event is huge. Yes, it is high risk and high reward, but the opportunities for that to make a difference from a brand standpoint ... over the next 50 years is very big.

After you settled into the job, did you have a 'what was I thinking' moment?

Bivens: I think the biggest challenge for those of us who come from corporate America, which works differently than the sports leagues and associations, is how public doing the business of sports tours and associations is.

Have you made the adjustment or have others adjusted to you?

Bivens: We've all sort of made the adjustment. The LPGA is not a traditional golf association and I say that because we are more of an emerging brand inside golf. We are not the product or service that we were five to seven years ago. Nor are we what we will be five to seven years from right now. As many other women's sports strive for more solid footing financially and more recognition and opportunities around the world, sometimes the sport has to break some china.

That reminds me of the famous Ann Richards quote when she said that Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did except backwards and on heels. Is it harder for the LPGA to get traction and do what you need to do for the future?

Bivens: I would rather be in our position or in our shoes than in anyone else's right now. I believe that there's more upside. I believe that it is still more challenging for women's sports leagues and associations.

Do you feel that you have to set yourself on fire to get noticed and make marketing deals or is recognition coming more naturally?

Bivens: I think that corporate America is much more responsive than the inside-the-sports world is. The corporate world for us is much easier. No. 1, there are more women who have broken into the decision-making ranks, but also the generation of men that are making decisions are very different than the commissioners and LPGA staff before had to deal with. We have to make our case that we are a brand worth investing in, that we pay back more than just hospitality and we can be integral to their business and help generate new business and/or retain business. That we can do. Inside the sports world and inside the world of media, I still do believe that it is more of a challenge for woman. One has to do no more than thumb through the small news holes of most local newspapers right now and just count the number of articles over the course of a week on women athletes vs. men athletes.

The Golf Channel contract signaled a "look at me" moment for the LPGA, that things for the organization were turning. Is that how you feel?

Bivens: I absolutely believe that. One of the biggest challenges for the LPGA over the course of the last 15, 20 years is getting these remarkable athletes exposed to the rest of the world. When one doesn't have a television or media home ... it's hard for fans to follow -- even avid fans. It's challenging to know how to find us. Are we on this weekend? And if we are, what time and where? Thursday is often different than Friday and different from Saturday and Sunday, too. You can't be that hard to find. Even avid fans get discouraged. To have a consistent home helps your avid fans and allows you to reach out and grow your fan base and turn casual fans into avid fans and avid fans into advocates.

You are trying different things -- a rookie blog and Twitter -- not always well received. It must be hard to be part of something as traditional as golf and try to get traction in whatever the new world of communications is.

Bivens: The opportunities with media, I believe, are important to all sports. Everybody's experimenting right now. No. 1: How can we use social media to reach out and create new fans and connections. The next step -- and we're nowhere close to this -- is can you monetize it and how might you do that. Whether it's Facebook or Twitter isn't so important. Six months from now there might be something else. The issue that all sports have is that we don't compete just with sports. We compete with any other way fans spend the little bit of free time they have. Clearly, we are entertainment, which means we have to be reaching out to young people. We have to be generating and creating this interest when they're 12, 13, 14 years old. The 12-, 13-, 14-year-olds aren't into appointment viewing. They'll follow the leader boards while they're skateboarding or doing whatever else they're doing and they're going to do it on their hand-held devices. So how do we reach them and how do we connect with them? It may be a little bit more challenging in golf because golf is traditional, but it is something that cuts across all sports right now -- the NBA, the NFL -- it's how you keep and grow your fan base.

Do you need to have American players to attract U.S. sponsors and fans?

Bivens: That is a question we get asked so often. The conventional answer is yes, we do. And that may be true for the next few years. The reality is that the face of the United States, who we are and our demographic makeup, is not what it was 20 to 25 years ago. I would contend that the LPGA, with 121 international members, looks much more like the United States than the traditional demographic. The white, Anglo-Saxons are not going to be the majority much longer and there are many major markets where they aren't right now.

How many years into the future are you looking? You talk about a focus of five to seven years, but you also talk about 50 years. Where, as an executive, is your focal point?

Bivens: For the long term, dealing with the base of the platform, you look out 10 years. Most of the rest of the planning you do for five years out. A good example of planning and marketing is the NBA. [Commissioner] David Stern began investing in China 12 years ago. They started taking teams over and started doing some of recruiting, looked for partners. Twelve years later, they're seeing some rewards.

So your deal with J Golf, South Korean television, that's looking 10 years out, maybe more?

Bivens: The deal is a five-year deal and the big news about that ... is that it's multi-platform. It's not just cable television rights for South Korea. They own multiple magazines, they have a partnership deal with CNN, they have multiple digital platforms. It's a way of cross generation to introduce current and future members of the LPGA to a very important part of the world.

Getty Images

Posted by Candus Thomson at 10:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)
        

Each Tuesday in The Toy Department, veteran Baltimore Sun sportswriter Mike Klingaman tracks down a former local sports figure and lets you know what's going on in his/her life in a segment called "Catching Up With ... " Let Klingaman know who you'd like him to find and click here to check out previous editions of "Catching Up With ..."

He won 209 games in the big leagues, pitched one no-hitter and played in two All-Star Games as an Oriole. Yet Milt Pappas’ legacy will always be the part he played in the biggest trade in team history -- the one that brought Frank Robinson to Baltimore.

Never mind that in nine years here, Pappas never had a losing season. Or that he won 25 games for the Orioles before his 21st birthday. That Pappas was the bait that hooked F. Robby from Cincinnati in 1965 is what baseball fans remember.

Nearly half a century later, Pappas shrugs it off.

"That doesn’t bother me," the 70-year-old right-hander said of the deal. "There’s nothing I could have done to prevent it. What frosted me was that, two days before I was sent to the Reds, the Orioles told me I wouldn’t be traded. It rained that day, so I took my wife to the movies."

The feature? The Cincinnati Kid.

"I should’ve known," Pappas said.

Robinson led the Orioles to a world championship in 1966. Pappas won 12 games for the seventh-place Reds.

"That season was hard," he said.

In an odd twist of fate, Pappas returned to Baltimore that fall to open a restaurant -- during the Orioles’ World Series run. At "Milt Pappas’ Scotch And Sirloin" on Howard Street, he watched all four games on television but never set foot in Memorial Stadium.

A year later, Pappas’ establishment burned to the ground.

Nowadays, Pappas resides in Beecher, Ill. His home is on a golf course, though he has never played golf. The father of three, he lives with his second wife, Judi.

His first wife, Carole, disappeared in 1982, touching off a nationwide search. Five years later, police found her body in her car which had plunged into a pond near their home.

"It was just so sad," Pappas said.

He chats regularly with former President George H.W. Bush, an acquaintance since Bush singled off the pitcher in an old-timers game in 1984. ("We’ve been friends ever since," Pappas said.)

Seldom now does he play any ball.

"I could probably throw it and run a few feet and catch it myself," he said.

Though he pitched for four teams over 17 years, the Orioles still matter most to Pappas, signed out of high school in 1957.

"They gave me my big shot," he said. "Baltimore had good fans, too, though not a lot of them came to games. Of course, the Orioles were the city’s step-children. The Colts were the cat’s meow."

He vividly recalls his debut at age 18, a brash rookie summoned in relief to face the heart of the New York Yankees’ lineup: Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Enos Slaughter and Moose Skowron.

"My first warm-up pitch went 50 feet over [catcher] Gus Triandos’ head," Pappas said. "Mickey got a hit -- I heard it go by my ear, but I never saw the ball. It probably would have killed me."
He then retired the side.

When not pitching, the hungry youngster would sneak into the Orioles’ clubhouse for hot dogs despite manager Paul Richards’ ban on eating during contests.

"Paul would leave the game and come in determined to catch me," Pappas said. "But each time I’d eat in a different place -- the training room, shower or groundskeeper’s office. He (Richards) never found me."

As a rookie, many teammates thought him cocky and refused to speak to him, Pappas said. Two exceptions in 1958 were Triandos and pitcher Billy Loes, both of whom shared his Hellenic heritage.

"Imagine -- three Greeks on one team," Pappas said. "That will probably never happen again."

Milt Pappas will appear at Sports Legends Museum at Camden Yards at 1 p.m. Saturday to discuss his playing days with the Orioles. Admission is $5 for museum members and $13 for non-members.

Posted by Mike Klingaman at 5:00 AM in Catching Up With, Orioles, Today's Special | Permalink | Comments (13)
        

Those Baltimore Colts who played with him will tell you: There was no one tougher than Bill "Iron Horse" Pellington, here tackling the New York Giants’ Bob Schnelker by the head during the Colts’ 1959 NFL championship victory at Memorial Stadium. Pellington played 12 years here (1953-64), compiled 21 interceptions and punished everyone he tackled.

How tough was he? In his autobiography, "Fatso," the Colts’ Art Donovan wrote that "Pellington once tried to clothesline [Pittsburgh running back] Tom Tracy, but he missed his throat and caught him square on the helmet. Tracy was lying unconscious for a good 15 minutes. Pellington said ‘Geez, I hurt my arm on that bleepety-bleep.’ He played five more plays before coming to the realization that his arm was broken in two."

Pellington died of Alzheimer's disease in 1994. He was 66.

Also see: Through the Looking Glass archive

Sun file photo by Joe DiPaola Jr.

Posted by Mike Klingaman at 9:13 AM in Baltimore Colts, Through The Looking Glass, Today's Special | Permalink | Comments (1)
        

When the Orioles dealt for Luis Aparicio in 1963, they sealed the left side of their infield for years to come. Few balls got past future Hall of Famers Aparicio, the go-go shortstop, or unerring Brooks Robinson at third. For five seasons here, the airborne Venezuelan turned double plays like this one, against Cleveland (and base runner Max Alvis) in 1967.

Aparicio had perhaps his best year in Baltimore in 1966, when he had hitting streaks of 17 and 14 games. Three times that summer, he hammered five hits in one game to help the Orioles to a World Series championship.

"I disappointed vice president, though," he said afterward. "(Hubert) Humphrey told me to hit home run for him and I didn’t."

Now 75, Aparicio resides in his native land.

Sun file photo

Also see: Through the Looking Glass archive

Posted by Mike Klingaman at 12:50 PM in Orioles, Through The Looking Glass, Today's Special | Permalink | Comments (2)
        

In a game of heroes, Mike Woods stood out for his courage under adversity.

When the former Baltimore Colts linebacker died last week at age 54, he was not so much a victim of the 1982 shooting that left him a quadriplegic as he was a monument to the human spirit when confronted with the worst of situations. His career in the NFL over at 27, he taught the rest of us for the next 27 years not to bemoan our piddling disappointments.

If Mike could handle his cruel fate, then we certainly should be able to handle ours. That was the message that so many who knew him came to realize, delivered ever so eloquently by a man who refused to quit or be bitter.

"Mike was destined to be heroic in a different way," Jim Irsay, owner of the Indianapolis Colts, said Wednesday. "We deal in the business of heroes in the NFL. We all know some of the incredible heroes that exist in day-to-day life, and Mike was destined to be one of those inglorious heroes.

"I say inglorious only because [his life] was not a reality show, and he didn't have Monday Night Football covering him every day of his life. He woke up each day wanting to stay positive. That's what it's about."

Irsay had just started working full-time for his father's team in 1982, when Woods was shot by a 17-year-old assailant in a seedy part of Cleveland. Woods, who just completed his fourth season in the NFL, was picking up his father from an all-night poker game. While doctors fought to save his life over the next few days, Woods told new Colts coach Frank Kush, "Don't give up on me, coach" when Kush and general manager Ernie Accorsi visited him at Cleveland's Mount Sinai Hospital.

He meant that he wasn't finished as a player. But of course he was.

"Mike always thought he could beat this paralysis," said close friend and teammate Ron Fernandes.

And even when he knew he couldn't, he soldiered on, getting married, raising a family, earning his degree, creating a new life after the old one had been ripped away by a bullet in the neck.

"It had tremendous impact on me," Irsay said of the shooting. "It was very difficult to see someone so big and so strong like that. He literally represented the upper echelon of NFL talent in terms of raw ability. He was like the Lawrence Taylors, the Chip Banks. He never ascended to that All-Pro level, but he was that kind of talent."

He was a hero to everyone who knew him, but especially to his oldest son Shaun, who played football briefly at Bowie State under another of Woods' Baltimore teammates, Sanders Shiver.

"He is definitely and truly my hero," Shaun Woods, 36, said. "When he was playing football, I was here in Cleveland. After he was shot, he could've given up. But for well over 25 years, he stuck in there and supported me and was my greatest cheerleader, my best friend. I could feel his support in everything I've done and been able to accomplish in my life.

"I'm proud I was able to have him in my life all these years. He watched me grow up and was there every step of the way."

Maybe it's best for us to remember Mike as Accorsi remembers him. Accorsi was continuously amazed at the inner strength Woods displayed throughout his ordeal.

"I don't remember Mike without a smile," Accorsi said.

Baltimore Sun photo by Irving H. Phillips Jr.

Posted by Ken Murray at 6:00 AM in Baltimore Colts, Today's Special | Permalink | Comments (1)
        

AP photo

Pancakes. Orioles Hall of Famer Jim Palmer had to have them for breakfast every time he took the mound. Here, the 20-year-old right-hander digs into a stack of 41 (by our count) flapjacks prior to pitching Game 2 of the 1966 World Series. When Palmer defeated the Los Angeles Dodgers, 6-0, for his first big-league shutout, his nickname was for keeps -- Jockey shorts or no.

***

Through the Looking Glass archive

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Posted by Mike Klingaman at 12:30 PM in Orioles, Through The Looking Glass | Permalink | Comments (5)
        

I love Sam Zell, owner of the Tribune, guardian of my career.

Direct. Funny. Articulate in his own way.

Born to Jewish immigrant parents who fled Poland before the Nazi invasion. Worked his way to the top.

Blah, blah, blah.

That's the sound of an employee with lips to boss's cheeks. Doesn't sound much different than former Oriole Brady Anderson's defense of Peter Angelos in yesterday's Baltimore Sun.

Anderson, major league heartthrob and one of the rocks on which the 1996-97 playoff teams were built, took exception to a recent Sports Illustrated piece that named Angelos the worst owner in baseball.

"He is the son of Greek immigrants who came to America with little more than their aspirations for a better life," wrote Anderson, as if that has anything to do with fielding a franchise with a record of 11 consecutive losing seasons.

What a head scratcher. If Anderson is mad at SI, why is he writing to The Sun? That's like complaining about a bad Domino's pizza to Papa John.  

But the weirdness goes beyond the forum he chose.

First of all, it's somewhat comical that Anderson rushed to the defense of a millionaire lawyer. Like Peter G. Angelos needs help. Quite frankly, if I needed help, I'd be praying for Angelos to ride to my defense.

Second, there's some of Anderson's questionable arguments. Sure the owner has the right to stock his club with anyone he wishes, and if he wishes to load up with with minor-league characters and stand-up guys like Rafael Palmeiro, Sammy Sosa and Miguel Tejada, that's his business. Just don't expect fans to show up.

Yes, unlike mean owners, he allows us to bring our own soft drinks and snacks into the ballpark. But most of us would rather have a 20-game winner and blowtorch closer.

And please don't give credit to Angelos for Camden Yards. He took over in August 1993, more than a year after the ballpark opened. (By all means, however, give thanks for not having a field named Enron or Hooters).

Debating the Davey Johnson "firing" or "resignation" is like picking sides in a squirting contest between two skunks. Everyone's gonna smell bad when it's over. Curiously, Anderson seems to have forgotten what Angelos said at the time: "The timing [of Johnson's resignation] might not be accidental."

It's also curious -- or not -- that while discussing labor relations, Anderson did not mention one Jon Miller, best broadcaster to call Orioles games, who was uninvited by the Angelistas. Huge loss.

Aside No. 1: As a union member, I'm very appreciative of Angelos's strong commitment over the years to organized labor.

Aside No. 2: I'm amused by the fact that SI knocked Angelos for "burning through ... five managers," but placed "Boss" Steinbrenner and family on the best owner list. How many employees did the Boss humiliate and fire? He picked on Yogi Berra, for chrissakes. 

Finally, there's the issue of $41 million. That's about what Angelos, the owner, paid Anderson, the employee, from 1993 until 2001. (Anderson was on the roster from 1988 on, but Edward Bennett Williams and Eli Jacobs paid the tab). That buys a lot of loyalty. I'd be a lot more impressed if fired managers Phil Regan or Ray Miller penned the defense.

Zell, who acquired my rights two years ago, pays me considerably less. But just to be on the safe side, I repaid him with today's compliments.

That's how it works, right? 

Posted by Candus Thomson at 6:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (35)
        

By total accident, my spouse and I saw Nolan Ryan win No. 324, his last victory in an amazing career.

It's no accident that we'll be in the upper deck, behind home plate Wednesday night, when Randy Johnson of the San Francisco Giants takes the mound against the Washington Nationals in search of win No. 300.

In this age of tiny ballparks and miniscule strike zones, how often does a fan get to see two pitching milestones? And given the fact that no other pitcher is even close to 300, it seems more important than ever.

In other words, you should go.

Here's our story. We were in Cleveland to attend three games at Municipal Stadium, the "Mistake By The Lake," with 74,000 seats both cavernous and cramped to say nothing of cold and damp. The old ballpark, opened in 1932, was scheduled to be abandoned at the end of the season in favor of Jacobs Field (now Progressive Field). So before 1993's Opening Day, we booked a weekend trip.

It wasn't until we got to Cleveland that we learned Ryan, in the final year of his baseball career, would face Jose Mesa, two years before his league-leading 46-save season.  

The 46-year-old Ryan was 4-3, with an ERA over 4.00. Mesa was about half his age but equally mediocre. Two games already in hand at the old ballpark, we thought about returning to Baltimore early.

But before a crowd of 60,000, Ryan shined over seven innings. He quieted the bats of Carlos Baerga and Albert Belle and gave up two hits and one run. Striking out two and walking two, Ryan left to an ovation, tipping his hat before reaching the dugout.

The Rangers won, 4-1.

Ryan would lose two more games that season to finish at .500. His ERA was 4.88, the worst in his career with the exception of his two games with the 1966 Mets (15.00 ERA).

But the game remains a keeper in the memory banks, like Flanagan being the last Orioles pitcher on the mound at Memorial Stadium and Ripken breaking Gehrig's consecutive games streak.

Johnson is 44. His record is 4-4 and his ERA is 5.71 (sound familiar?). He gave up four runs, but beat the Nationals on May 11. In his last start, he beat Atlanta by holding batters to one run on three hits.

He's up against Jordan Zimmerman, who has lost his last four starts and has an ERA of 6.07.

The planets are in alignment. Nationals Park is an hour away. Tickets are available. See history.

Posted by Candus Thomson at 6:00 AM in Today's Special | Permalink | Comments (2)
        

Each Tuesday in The Toy Department, veteran Baltimore Sun sportswriter Mike Klingaman tracks down a former local sports figure and lets you know what's going on in his/her life in a segment called "Catching Up With ..." Let Klingaman know who you'd like him to find and click here to check out previous editions of "Catching Up With ..."

The Oriole hitter with the hurricane swing turns 75 on Wednesday.

Happy birthday, Diamond Jim. What’s the best gift for someone your age?

"To live to be 76," Jim Gentile said.

In the early 1960s, he was Baltimore’s tempestuous slugger, a fiery first baseman with a whip-like cut that battered the air and roused the crowds, contact or no. Watching Gentile flail was as entertaining as seeing his home runs soar out of Memorial Stadium. Strikeouts begat tantrums, broken bats, smashed water coolers and ejections. But if Gentile’s ire prepared the city for the coming of Earl Weaver, his muscle lay the groundwork for Frank Robinson’s arrival.

For four seasons (1960-63), Gentile’s lefthanded stroke powered the Orioles, including the monster year of 1961 when he hit .302 with 46 home runs (including five grand slams) and 141 RBI. Though he placed third in voting for American League MVP behind New York’s Roger Maris (61 homers) and Mickey Mantle (54), Gentile’s prowess barely dented the Orioles’ purse. He held out for a $10,000 raise to $30,000.

His rips were so fierce that Gentile was once fitted with a sponge on his hip to keep from hurting himself on his backswing.

"I looked like the hunchback of Notre Dame," he said. "One time I took a swing and the bat hit the sponge, bounced back and hit the catcher in the mask."

The sponge came off.

He still receives stacks of mail from youngsters who write, My grandfather says you were the greatest. Gentile signs gratis, though he now tweaks his signature so he can tell the fans from the schemers.

"I don’t like sending someone an autographed picture and have it show up on eBay," he said.

His prize keepsake: a photo from the first 1961 All-Star Game showing Gentile and five other AL sluggers: Maris, Mantle, Rocky Colavito, Harmon Killebrew and Norm Cash. All of them signed the picture, which hangs in Gentile’s home in Edmond, Okla.

He made history that year, hitting grand slams in back-to-back innings at Minnesota. First time up, Gentile drove a Pete Ramos fastball over the center field fence. Moments later, he parked a Paul Giel screwball into the stands in right.

"When I returned to the dugout, (manager) Paul Richards -- who never talked much -- looked at me and said, ‘Son, I don’t think that’s ever been done.’ "

Later, Gentile added a sacrifice fly, giving him nine RBIs for the game -- an Orioles record matched only by Eddie Murray in 1985.

"The thing is, I got no sleep the night before that game," he said. "In St. Paul, I knew three brothers who owned six bars between them and we stayed out until 6 a.m. When we got to the ballpark, I thought, ‘God almighty, I don’t know if I can do this.’ "

He did. Gentile’s 34-ounce bat now hangs in the National Baseball Hall of Fame. The man nicknamed by Brooklyn Dodgers’ catcher Roy Campanella, who called him "a diamond in the rough," is part of the lore of Cooperstown.

Now retired, Gentile spent the last three years managing and coaching in an independent minor league. Married 43 years, he has five kids, three grandchildren and good health.

"I never hurt myself with that swing, which someone once compared to that of a Cuban worker cutting down banana stalks with a machete," Gentile said.

Coaxed into a batting cage by his granddaughter last month, he took a few swings for old time’s sake.

"I hit a couple, then put the bat down," Gentile said. "I’d just as soon say, ‘Well, we used to ...’ "

Posted by Mike Klingaman at 6:00 AM in Catching Up With, Orioles | Permalink | Comments (28)
        

Was there a more exciting player for the Baltimore Bullets than high-flying Gus Johnson? A 6-foot-6 power forward with a kangaroo leap, "Honeycomb" played nine years in Baltimore (1963-72), averaging 17 points and 13 rebounds. His patented dunk shot shattered several backboards at the Civic Center. A five-time NBA All-Star, he is seen here in 1964, outmuscling Philadelphia’s Ben Warley (left) and Chet Walker for a rebound. In 1987, Johnson died of brain cancer at age 48.

Posted by Mike Klingaman at 1:10 PM in Through The Looking Glass | Permalink | Comments (4)
        

Chances are, you never heard of Austin Wood, a pitcher for the Texas Longhorns.

But what an outing he had Saturday. And Sunday. In a game that started in 96-degree heat, the lefty reliever from Kingwood, Texas, punched the clock for 13 shutout innings, including 12 1/3 no-hit innings, to help his team beat Boston College, 3-2, in the NCAA Division I tournament.

And get this: he did it one night after throwing two scoreless innings against Army to open regional competition.

The 25-inning game -- the longest in NCAA history -- consumed seven hours, three minutes. It was so long that it deserved three seventh-inning stretches. The Longhorns and the Eagles combined to throw 683 pitches. The benches were depleted and three players played three different positions.

Wood came on in the seventh inning with the score tied, 2-2, and kept going out until he was relieved in the bottom of the 20th. He faced 41 batters (two over the minimum) and threw 169 pitches, 120 for strikes. He walked just four and struck out 14.

At one point, coach Augie Garrido said he discussed with assistant coach Skip Johnson whether to leave Wood in or take him out. "[Wood] walked by both of us and said, 'I’m not coming out of this game,'" Garrido said.

His Eagles' counterpart, closer Mike Belfiore, entered the game in the ninth inning and kept pitching for 9 2/3 innings. He threw 129 pitches, shutting out Texas on three hits and striking out 11.

If the two had started, the game would have been scoreless into the 10th.

The game ended in the top of the 25th, more than an hour past midnight, when Texas second baseman Travis Tucker stroked an RBI single through a drawn-in infield.

"We never doubted that we weren't going to win that game," said Wood, a senior.

Garrido called the effort, "the best pitching performance by an individual pitcher in the 41 years that I’ve coached. Austin Wood did unbelievable."

The coach should know. According to Kirk Bohls of the Austin American-Statesman, Wood has thrown twice on the same day three different times and pitched on back-to-back days five times.

Wood had impressive numbers this season (5-1, 2.03 ERA, 66 strikeouts, 15 walks, 15 saves in 75.1 innings) and was rated by Bryan Smith of Baseball Prospectus as "the most dependable closer in the nation" and the Longhorns' best pro prospect.

With the amateur draft coming up this week, Wood's performance should make teams sit up and take notice. In an age where young pitchers are coddled, Wood is an iron man.

Posted by Candus Thomson at 9:47 AM in The Endorsement | Permalink | Comments (0)