Great sportswriting, old and new

I've enjoyed the posts from Joe Posnanski as he lends his analysis to the world cup. Usually he writes sophisticated analysis about baseball (unlike his hack associate, Tom Verducci, who is a god-awful moron), but for now he's writing unsophisticated analysis of the the greatest sporting spectacle in the world. He did a nice summary of the Nike commercial:

*The commercial in full is actually quite brilliant, I think, but it has doomed every major player involved. The first star in the full-length commercial, the Ivory Coast’s Didier Drogba, fractured his arm just before the World Cup began and was not much of a factor.

Fabio Cannavaro, Italy’s great star (and a former FIFA World Player of the Year), was the one watching the swinger guy singing his name while women did a dance in his honor after he cleared the ball out of the goal. Italy, defending champions, did not even make it to the Round of 16.

Wayne Rooney came next — he was the big star of the commercial. He hugged the queen. He had babies named for him. He beat Roger Federer in ping-pong. Um, not so much. Rooney did not score at this World Cup and England was destroyed by Germany (and a spectacularly bad referee decision) in the first knockout round.

Next, Ronaldinho, a two-time FIFA Player of the Year, did the dance that inspired a Kobe Bryant celebration. He didn’t even MAKE the Brazilian World Cup Team.

Actually there was also Franck Ribery, who was not much of a factor for a French team that stunk up the place on and off the field. Still, it's a good summary.

In a nod to sportswriters of old, I tracked down this column from 1979. It's probably my favorite column ever. I'm reproducing it here because I don't know if I'll be able to find it again.

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The Los Angeles Times; Los Angeles, Calif.; Aug 18, 1998; JIM MURRAY;

(Copyright, The Times Mirror Company; Los Angeles Times 1998 all Rights reserved)
Original Article printed in 1979 - it was reprinted in 1998 when Murray died

OK, bang the drum slowly, professor. Muffle the cymbals and the laugh track. You might say that Old Blue Eye is back. But that's as funny as this is going to get.

I feel I owe my friends an explanation as to where I've been all these weeks. Believe me, I would rather have been in a press box.

I lost an old friend the other day. He was blue-eyed, impish, he cried a lot with me, saw a great many things with me. I don't know why he left me. Boredom, perhaps.

We read a lot of books together, we did a lot of crossword puzzles together, we saw films together. He had a pretty exciting life. He saw Babe Ruth hit a home run when we were both 12 years old. He saw Willie Mays steal second base, he saw Maury Wills steal his 104th base. He saw Rocky Marciano get up. I thought he led a pretty good life.

One night a long time ago he saw this pretty girl who laughed a lot, played the piano and he couldn't look away from her. Later he looked on as I married this pretty lady.

He saw her through 34 years. He loved to see her laugh, he loved to see her happy.

You see, the friend I lost was my eye. My good eye. The other eye, the right one, we've been carrying for years. We just let him tag along like Don Quixote's nag. It's been a long time since he could read the number on a halfback or tell whether a ball was fair or foul or even which fighter was down.

So, one blue eye missing and the other misses a lot.

So my best friend left me, at least temporarily, in a twilight world where it's always 8 o'clock on a summer night.

He stole away like a thief in the night and he took a lot with him. But not everything. He left a lot of memories. He couldn't take those with him. He just took the future with him and the present. He couldn't take the past.

I don't know why he had to go. I thought we were pals. I thought the things we did together we enjoyed doing together. Sure, we cried together. There were things to cry about.

But it was a long, good relationship, a happy one. It went all the way back to the days when we arranged all the marbles in a circle in the dirt in the lots in Connecticut. We played one-old-cat baseball. We saw curveballs together, trying to hit them or catch them. We looked through a catcher's mask together. We were partners in every sense of the word.

He recorded the happy moments, the miracle of children, the beauty of a Pacific sunset, snowcapped mountains, faces on Christmas morning. He allowed me to hit fly balls to young sons in uniforms two sizes too large, to see a pretty daughter march in halftime parades. He allowed me to see most of the major sports events of our time. I suppose I should be grateful that he didn't drift away when I was 12 or 15 or 29 but stuck around over 50 years until we had a vault of memories. Still, I'm only human. I'd like to see again, if possible, Rocky Marciano with his nose bleeding, behind on points and the other guy coming.

I guess I would like to see Reggie Jackson with the count 3-and-2 and the series on the line, guessing fastball. I guess I'd like to see Rod Carew with men on first and second and no place to put him, and the pitcher wishing he were standing in the rain someplace, reluctant to let go of the ball.

I'd like to see Stan Musial crouched around a curveball one more time. I'd like to see Don Drysdale trying to not laugh as a young hitter came up there with both feet in the bucket.

I'd like to see Sandy Koufax just once more facing Willie Mays with a no-hitter on the line. I'd like to see Maury Wills with a big lead against a pitcher with a good move. I'd like to see Roberto Clemente with the ball and a guy trying to go from first to third. I'd like to see Pete Rose sliding into home headfirst.

I'd like once more to see Henry Aaron standing there with that quiet bat, a study in deadliness. I'd like to see Bob Gibson scowling at a hitter as if he had some nerve just to pick up a bat. I'd like to see Elroy Hirsch going out for a long one from Bob Waterfield, Johnny Unitas in high-cuts picking apart a zone defense. I'd like to see Casey Stengel walking to the mound on his gnarled old legs to take a pitcher out, beckoning his gnarled old finger behind his back.

I'd like to see Sugar Ray Robinson or Muhammad Ali giving a recital, a ballet, not a fight. Also, to be sure, I'd like to see a sky full of stars, moonlight on the water, and yes, the tips of a royal flush peeking out as I fan out a poker hand, and yes, a straight two-foot putt.

Come to think of it, I'm lucky. I saw all of those things. I see them yet.