Swinging in the Rain

The American Ryder Cup team wasn't supposed to win---and it didn't. Although they fell short of a win, even after staging a healthy comeback in the singles matches, a few things (besides the cup itself) can be taken away from the one point defeat...

---Sun Mountain is ShamWow meets Snuggie:  The first hours of the 2010 Ryder Cup provided a wardrobe malfunction that was as publicized as Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson's "Nipple-Gate" during the Super Bowl, and as idiotic as the typo for the Washington "Natinals." 

The press jumped all over the U.S. team's blatant oversight of providing rain gear that actually repelled, not absorbed moisture, and the embarrassment of having to buy European team sponsored gear from the Pro Shop like tourists at Disney World who lost their luggage.  However, to put a positive slant on the faux-pas in a sport that presumable fancies its fashion sense, their blunder may have led to the next great "As Seen on T.V." invention.  Keeping in mind that some of the greatest inventions combine two already useful tools--i.e. the spork, the key-tar, and the Jack and Coke. 

The new Sun Mountain line of Sham-Snuggies is a perfect marriage.  They apparently have the capability to squeegee wine out of white carpet, and are so ugly you'd never want to be caught out of the house with them.  Available in the signature U.S. lavender only.

---Golf with Tiger still is intriguing: The Neilsen ratings won't necessarily say so, but despite any detractors of U.S. Captain Corey Pavin's decision to include Tiger 2.0 (3.0? or 4.0?) as a wild-card pick on this year's roster, or questions regarding whether Woods should accept, the man in any form can still undoubtedly grab your attention.  The stories were endless in only three days of play.  Whether it was Stricker carrying the normally unbeatable team on Day 1, but getting floored by Lee Westwood and Luke Donald thereafter; the new Sean Foley swing; what some call the greatest sports photo ever captured (bologna);

...or Tiger getting buried in the U.S. order and the subsequent dismantling of Francesco Molinari, the intrigue and speculation about the world's number one is stronger than ever--and we didn't even see him lock horns with the young Rory McIlroy.  So despite the awkward break-up of sessions due to the HELLO! forecasted rain in Wales, AND the fact that live coverage primarily aired in the U.S. when even most McDonald's drive-thrus close, AND the tape-delayed coverage battling college and NFL football, the "most boring/old man/would rather watch ice cubes freeze" sport still provided some compelling television that certainly should, but unfortunately won't, outdraw a bunch of spray-tanned Italians getting wasted, fist pumping in clubs, and hooking up on The Jersey Shore. 

---Home Court Advantage:  It's tough to make any concrete conclusions regarding the biases of a home-fairway advantage considering that the recent history of this event has been a little lopsided (Europe has claimed four of the past five and six of the past eight).  The return of the Cup to Uncle Sam in the broadcaster battle between captains Sir Nick Faldo and Paul Azinger at Valhalla in 2008, and the subsequent President's Cup victory held in California featured more raucous "Happy Gilmore" crowds and brought back memories of Justin Leonard waving his hands in the air while stomping cleat marks all over Jose Maria Olazabal's line.  The 2010 victory on Welsh soil marked the 4th straight victory for the European side across the pond, and brought more than the stoic beefeaters, the Queen's bourgeois, and the tea partiers(no, Sarah Palin wasn't there).  The galleries didn't quite reach "Hooligan" status, but among the ambient claps and the fabled pub songs echoed a few digs at Americans Tiger, Phil Mickelson, and Dustin Johnson, only to be drown out by a few pints after the closing hole.

 

---Pros flub chips:  Martin Kaymer thought of one thing standing next to 17th green: "Schadenfreude."  The German termed coined for someone taking pleasure in another's misfortune.   There is something dastardly therapeutic about watching another golfer duff, flub, dip, skull--whatever vernacular you prefer to use for "messing up."  Rooting interests aside, watching the greatest players in the world scoop at a ball and catch it fat can either induce a stomach dropping cringe, a wry smirk, or some emotionally ambiguous combination of the two.  Hunter Mahan suffered from a mishit in the worst possible moment on the second worst stage for a golfer.  The entire Ryder Cup rested on the shoulders of the final singles pairing between U.S. Open champ Graeme McDowell and an otherwise ineffective Mahan.  A slippery birdie putt on 16 gave the Europeans a 1-up lead with two to play, until Mahan went limp around the green. 

The 17th hole was conceded giving the Euros the 14 1/2 points needed for victory.  What's lost in t.v. land is the fact that, despite being the most talented golfers in the world, pressure, circumstance, and humanity still factor into everything from a 350 yard tee shot to a 2 foot putt.  Just like the World Series of Poker t.v. coverage, not everything is a spade on the river to cooler a flush over a straight.  Most of it is mucking your Jack-Deuce while you listen to an iPod.  Likewise, it can't be called a "common occurrence," but sometimes it takes two swings in the sand, or sometimes the brutal rough is a little too thick, or sometimes the nerves just get in the way.  Football fans think icing a kicker is pressure, but instead of those extra thirty seconds of practice kicks before a field goal, try walking 200 yards thinking about your next shot. 

Granted, there weren't 80,000 screaming Raiders fans ignoring the "Quiet Please" signs, but also consider that Adam Vinatieri, Ryan Longwell, and Scott Norwood don't have fans breathing on them and trampling the grass around their ball.  A pro can flub a chip, and a 20-handicapper can hole-out from 80 yards; that's the beauty and agony of golf.  But before you weekend warriors get too much encouragement, Hunter and the rest of the PGA tour have the slogan for a reason: "These Guys Are Good." 

---Americans aren't team players?:  Ask the P.R. firm in charge of managing the U.S.A. Basketball Olympic Committee how to field criticism like: Too many individuals.  Not enough interest anymore.  Isolation play can't win.  Not a cohesive or balanced TEAM.  They really should have been called, "The Dream Guys," or "The Redeem People that All Happen to Wear the Same Red-White-and-Blue Uniforms."

The same barbs were always hurled towards the rosters of NBA All-Stars that would stand and watch as each player took turns slashing through five Serbian defenders.  Winning mitigated a lack of commitment towards "team" play, that is, until the Americans weren't winning anymore.  The Ryder Cup has seemingly never lacked in patriotic motivation (Hunter Mahan's tear-filled press conference proved that), and players don't necessarily mortgage their future sponsorships or earnings on an event that doesn't even have a purse, but is it possible there is something distinctly individual about being American?  Capitalism, Invisible Hand (although, Adam Smith was Scottish), Hollywood, Michael Jordan wearing a U.S. flag to cover up Reebok logo...all have contributed to creating a culture of self. 

That said, well, golf is one of the most uniquely individual sports and outside of weekend gambling scrambles, most of these players aren't used to an "I" in "TEAM," and have to have more of a subconscious confidence with that seven iron in their hands, not someone else's.  The U.S. has always fared well in the singles matches, and made up the majority of their points this year on that final day as well.  The best performances from the world's number one (Tiger) and number two (Phil) ranked golfers, unquestionably came during the day when it was "mano a mano."  Unfortunately, they would not have been in such a hole if not for the 5 1/2 to 1/2 point defeat they suffered in the previous TEAM session.  During last year's President's cup, there seemed to be a strong sense of camaraderie that appeared to be absent this go-around, but that also conveniently coincided with Michael Jordan's presence, accusations Anthony Kim played a match hungover, and pre-Thanksgiving Tiger.  Maybe there was something to their "team building exercises," that they claimed were only ping-pong matches between Tiger and Phil, but apparently someone stole the life of the party. (Cough) Elin (Cough). 

---U.S.A.=A.O.K:  In what was predicted to be a blowout, and midway through looked as though the tea leaves were clear as day, the U.S. team managed to claw their way back and forced the final pairing within two holes of deciding whether they could retain the Ryder Cup as strangers in a strange land.  On paper, the Euros brought four of the top ten ranked players in the world, as well as the two other major winners this year.  Despite the American's vets, their young guns were thought to be promising, but generally untested talent and no match for their underaged European counterparts.  The American side proved that the British Invasion may only be a phase, however, rookie Jeff Overton showed some shot making brilliance, and Ricky Fowler didn't need his typical flashy attire to draw a crowd when he went on a birdie tear late on Monday.  Jim Furyk, fresh off of his win in the Fed-Ex cup struggled, and Lefty, Matt Kuchar, and Hunter Mahan never really found their stride.  Our big hitters, Dustin Johnson and Bubba Watson, never seemed like their bombs would help on the course and couldn't quite find the home-run swings the U.S. needed.  All that and a terrible third session resulted in only a one point loss.  Coming close never feels good, but after the dust settled, the Yankees old and new showed that the Euro-American rivalry wouldn't only be a three-day event.

De- Bunkered

Inches above this text is a series of images.  Each individual pictured is an unwilling spokesperson for "Three From the Tee." They are a visual representation of the mistakes that people, in this case golfers, inevitably make and wish they could take back.  The guy in the middle, gazing over one of the many scenic Pebble Beach bluffs, is the man that burned his three-stroke final round lead at the U.S. Open in three holes; he's the man that ended said U.S. Open with an 82, the highest for the 54-hole major leader in nearly a century; he's the man that lost his chance at another major by an unfortunate inability to par/bogey the 72nd hole of this year's PGA championship with a one stroke lead.

And he is the man that I have an endless amount of empathy for.  He is one of America's rising young superstars, and managed to hold his composure while a PGA rules official informed him of a two-stroke penalty for grounding his club in a hazard, thereby eliminating him from a three-hole playoff.  He is an athlete that was fully accountable for his mistake, and never once questioned the legitimacy of his pennance.

He is Dustin Johnson; a guy I refuse to bash after one of the more catastrophic mishaps in recent sports history.

There is a lot to like about D.J.  He stamps golf balls of the tee, so much so that it seems like he could whack a ball at breakfast and the thing wouldn't land until Happy Hour.  His athleticism is well-documented.  Anyone who claims golfers aren't athletes, probably couldn't palm and dunk a basketball in seventh grade, like "Air Johnson." A spot on the Ryder Cup team solidifies D.J. as a top tier golfer; one that clearly has a (unwanted) knack for the dramatic.

After the U.S. Open, many commented on how the Dustin Johnson "wet the bed," but it really can't be considered unusual for this youngster to join a long list of golfers that have spoiled a lead or shot an 80+ at Pebble.  The series of events leading up to "Bunker-Gate" though, have provided more debate fodder than Glenn Beck wanting to give an "I Have a Dream" speech at the Lincoln Memorial.

To be clear, Dustin did break a rule.  That rule was clearly posted.  After his four-iron scraped the sand (trap), the penalty strokes HAD to be assessed.  He admitted that, his caddy admitted that, and the rules officials admitted that.  Also, penalty or not, he was by no means a lock to take down Kaymer or Bubba in the three-hole playoff.  That said.........

If you don't feel sorry for Dustin Johnson, you probably enjoy knocking ice cream cones out of kids' hands at the zoo.  If you don't feel sorry for Dustin Johnson, you probably didn't tear up at the end of The Notebook.  If you don't feel sorry for Dustin Johnson, you probably spend weekends at the batting cage with a couple baby seals and a splintered Louisville Slugger.

In the early summer of 2008, I watched an overmatched, overweight, overaged, and overperspirated Rocco Mediate stare at a tiny Magnavox screen in the scorers' tent and exasperate, "I knew he'd make it."  As much as I loved rooting for a one-legged Tiger, Rocco was the prey this time.  The phrase, "Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy," was never more apt---but there was no sarcastic tone behind it.  I never thought I could feel worse for a golfer after that 19-hole playoff on Monday.  That was until...

British Open, Turnberry:  2009.  Only a year after Greg Norman became the oldest 54-hole leader in a major championship, Tom Watson bested him by becoming the oldest 71-hole leader.  He poetically chased that little white ball around the fescue and lighthouses on Scotland's windy shore for damn near four rounds, only to have his ninth major abdicated by a perfectly stroked eight-iron that skidded a few yards too far.  What would've been one of the greatest feats in sports history was ruined by a gust of wind and a firm patch of grass.  Sorry Rocco---Tiger was tough, but even he can't match up with Mother Nature.  But there is one unwavering force that even overpowers a determined Tiger; stronger than the forces of our earth (gravity, wind, the tides), and that force is none other than the rules of golf.

You want to find out if Rod Blagoevich is guilty?  Take him to a golf course and see how he takes relief from a sprinkler head.  J.P. Hayes? He turned himself in post-mortem for using the wrong kind of Titlelist for TWO HOLES, thereby eliminating him from contention for a full-time Tour Card in Q-school.  Maybe he should be the new C.E.O. of B.P.  Then we'd really know how many oil-slicked sea turtles are floating shell-down in the Gulf.

But, like your parents always said, "When you are on my fairways, you will abide by my rules!"

If they think dusting the locker room with fliers covered in 12 pt. Times New Roman font is "clearly posting" the rule, then they might want to call the Surgeon General and ask how well the skull and cross-bones work on a pack of Marlboro Lights.  Call the State troopers and ask them if, "SPEED LIMIT 55 FINES DOUBLED" really slows that many cars down.  If they really want to get the message across, take a page--from Bethpage Black--and really let 20 handicappers know that they don't belong.

If they want to call all 1000 of those landscaping disasters a hazard, then so be it; but calling that litterbox a real sandtrap is like calling Paris Hilton a real celebrity.  Calling an on-deck circle a real sandtrap is like Emeril Lagasse calling a can of Starkist and some Miracle Whip tuna tartare.  A real sand hazard is one of the hypodermic needles sticking upward on the Atlantic City boardwalk.  A real sand hazard is the pit Jaba the Hut wanted to throw Luke Skywalker in.  Or maybe just the road bunker at St. Andrews.

Until Dustin Johnson overshadows his latest mishap, either by finally claiming a major or by some other collapse greater in magnitude or obscurity--feel sorry for the guy.  Have the bottom of your heart drop a little, just like it did when you saw Jim Joyce incorrectly wave the 27th runner safe; a missed call on the last out that broke up Armando Gallaraga's perfect game .  Cringe a little knowing that Bud Selig, or in this case Tim Finchum, could not give a pass on the rules, could not change a call....just this one time.  Yes, feel sorry for a multi-millionaire, goodlooking guy that works four days a week playing golf.  Fate, circumstance, and absentmindedness led to Dustin Johnson's mishap; but at the same time, you gotta love a guy that plays by his own set of rules.

Trip Kings

You know “the feeling.” I’m almost sure of it. The craze was too viral, too mainstream, too tempting. It started with an improbable win by Chris Moneymaker at the 2003 World Series of Poker; a historic accomplishment that convinced a nation full of cable guys, little-league coaches, and CEO’s that they too could be gun-slinging, icy-veined, riverboat gamblers.

As the flurry of weekday home-games popped up across the nation, that same lot of “fish” would soon learn that success in the card-shark tank is not as simple as having a decent hand. Your first high stakes pot was how you learned "the feeling"; that’s when your tells kicked in; and that’s why a savvy opponent can walk you around in circles like marionette, controlling your every move without the slightest bit of resistance or knowledge that YOUR hand is walking eyes closed into an ambush.

Fancy Pat Riley as much of a gambler?

The Miami Heat GM may look like DeNiro's stunt double in Casino ("You can either have the money and the hammer, or you can walk outta here."), but the best hair in the league should still have balmy palms squeezing his hole cards on the green felt.

The man has won six championships as a coach (tack on an extra one as a player), and now is having deja vu down in South Beach.  Wade, Lebron, and Bosh are NOT Magic, Kareem, and Worthy, but the first trio in the start of the "(colluded) super team era" bears the same three-peat expectations.  Riley has tried draw the right cards again, but now Coach Eric Spolstra and he need to play their hand right.

As their roster rounded out with decent kickers (Haslem, Juwan Howard, Ilgauskas, and Mike Miller), the three cards the Heat must play are absolutely a strong contending hand.  However, the gambling capital of the world has labeled the tandem as a slight favorite over defending champion Los Angeles Lakers.  Heads-up against any team, most wonder how anyone could match-up against D-Wade, King James, and whatever new moniker is given to Chris Bosh (besides Avatar)?

There are other "satellite bracelet" players in the game.  The Celtics proved their own three-of-a-kind was good enough to win the pot a few years ago with Garnett, Pierce, and Allen, but an aging set has left them hoping that upcoming superstar Rajon Rondo and the new addition of Shaq will help them hit on a full-house.  The Orlando Magic have a solid two-pair with All-Stars, Dwight Howard and Jameer Nelson, and aging veterans, Vince Carter and Rashard Lewis.  And the Chicago Bulls drew a couple new cards this summer completing at least premium suited-connectors with Derrick Rose and Carlos Boozer, and the chance to draw a gut-shot straight with guys like Luol Deng, Kyle Korver, Joakim Noah, and Ronnie Brewer.

So you gotta ask yourself, "DO I FEEL LUCKY?"...WELL, DO YA LEBRON?

Not to say Lady Luck is the only means for the Miami Heat to win a championship next year, but even despite their considerable advantage over the contenders in the East, there's still one team at the NBA round table that has the cards, the game, and the nerve to shove all-in.

The Los Angeles Lakers are the givers of "the feeling," not the "feeling-ers."  They don't flinch.  They don't need the theatrics.  They don't need "Decisions," deception, or--ironically for Hollywood--distracting debuts.  Their presence and proven success is enough to tilt even the calmest players.  They're the Phil Iveys, Doyle Brunsons, Stu Ungers, Daniel Negraneus, and Johnny Chan's of the NBA.  Not to mention that, although they may not have the most "talented" cards in the deck, their owner (Jerry Buss--a real professional poker player) has probably assembled the strongest hand to turn over.

They aren't quite yet royal, but the two-time defending champions are at least a straight flush.  The Lakers have the calmest coach in the league (with 11 rings) and their five strongest pieces fall in sequential order, all in spades.  A stacked deck that includes a young and long center, crafty and now grizzled power forward, lock down (lunatic) defender, veteran point guard, and their Ace at the top--the best player in the past 10 years with a killer instinct and 5 championship rings.  Bench guys like Lamar Kardashian, sharp-shooter Steve Blake, and a thorny Matt Barnes seemingly should be enough to convince the Miami Threesome, and everyone else, that another Three-Peat could be heading to Malibu Beach, not South Beach quite yet.

Jeff Van Gundy (ex-coach, current commentator, still ankle grabber, and brother of the Magic's current coach, Stan) went on record claiming that the Heat can absolutely break the Bulls' record of 72 games and won't have back-to-back losses all season.  Sounds like he think's Wade and Co. (...Lebron and Co.?) will have a nice run.  But the Heat's real tell on next season, proof that they have "the feeling," came just days after Hurricane Confetti and Smoke Machine hit South Florida. 

During their introduction, Lebron decided to count off the number of championships they "would" be winning (he trailed off after 8 I think....), and immediately the next day, Dwyane Wade corrected his teammate by saying that titles go through Kobe and through L.A.  That's the nostril flare, the finger twitch, the subtle gulp of a tell the Laker's were looking for.  Whether he actually believes that, or it was more calculated gamesmanship by one the the Heat's Trio does not really matter, because the L.A. knows it's true.  Matt Damon said in Rounders that,"if you look around the entire table and don't see the sucker, then the sucker is you."  Look around Miami, the Lakers are not suckers.  The Heat are looking at their Trip Kings with either a racing heartbeat or a false confidence.  Either way, when the all the chips are in the middle, bluffs won't win this pot; the best hand will.

Tainted Love

In 1961, Roger Maris toppled baseball's most hallowed record.  That year, the Yankee outfielder's 61st home run was seven more than the beloved icon standing only paces to his right, and one more than the greatest single-season home run performance up to that point.  His blue-collar swing managed to force more seamed leather balls into the stands than every player who'd ever laced up, stepped between the chalk in a major league ballpark, and waved the wooden stick--including a peer pin-striped legend, "The Great Bambino."

...but it took 162 games...
...8 games more than Ruth had...
...and therefore,  at the time, it was viewed as a tainted record...

And now, as Alex Rodriguez swatted another historical baseball benchmark, many have pigeonholed his initiation into the 600 club as a tainted and fraudulent membership into the elite six-man fraternity; like an 18-year-old with a flimsy piece of lamented construction paper trying to convince the bouncer to let him into Pure at Caesar's Palace.

The verifiable 'Roid Boys have brought a new kind of skepticism to the record books.  Their chemical advantage is new ammunition in the ever-present battle regarding the subjectivity about supposedly objective numbers.

True: Roger Maris did need the full 162 games.  Bobby Jones had to play with clubs that looked more like gardening tools hanging in a groundskeeper's shed at St. Andrews.  "Pistol" Pete Maravich had no three point line.  Babe Ruth never faced off against one African-American or Latin ballplayer.  Wayne Gretzky lit up goalies that looked and played more like "Tin Men", rather than the limber, fluid, and padded octipi guarding the pipes now.  Kareem Abdul-Jabbar's hook shot was the result of a prohibition on dunking from 1967-76.  The pitcher's mound has been raised and lowered like a Chesapeake tide.  Augusta has been lengthened.  The 1972 Dolphins went 17-0; the 2007 Patriots went 18-0....but lost in the 19th game (Super Bowl XLII).  Barry Bonds, Sammy Sosa, Mark McGwire, and Alex Rodriguez just happened to play at a time when performance enhancing drugs were viewed as accepta....'BITE YOUR TONGUE!'

These cheaters, and liars, and criminals--these anti-heroes; they have to be different...right...maybe???  Didn't they have a choice: integrity or infamy?  Didn't they succumb to temptation and peer-pressure?  Bjorn Borg couldn't have gone to his bag and pulled out a Wilson graphite racket.  Wilt Chamberlain couldn't jump into a DeLorean with Doc Brown and Mcfly to a time when 7-footers are more commonplace (as much as a 7-footer can be).  Even a modern workhorse like Cliff Lee or C.C. can't ask for the ball every third of fourth day (like grandpa Nolan could) in order to pad the career numbers a little more.  Any presumed criticisms surrounding the circumstances of their greatness make them true products (or victims) of their generations, not beneficiaries.

So what should be done about those that were bitten by Balco's version of a radioactive spider?  How can history categorize players in HGH purgatory--especially an admitted steroid user that will potentially edge out an incumbent indicted steroid user in career home runs?

With tainted love.  The same given to the late "King of Pop" Michael Jackson; a reserved and bittersweet reminder of part triumph and part tragedy.  A permanent scar, barely fading with time, of what was, what is, what might have been, what could have been.

A tidal wave of 80's and 90's juicers is nearing the Hall of Fame, increasing in size as it barrels towards the shoreline.  Will the levees at Cooperstown hold strong or crumble?  Hold them all out and leave a generation of great ballplayers staring through the gates, emblazoned with Scarlet Letters on their uniforms; punishing the few like Jim Thome, Ken Griffey Jr., and even players like Cal Ripken--those who tried to play the game the right way.  Or let them all in.  Devalue the efforts of every single copper bust with inflated statistics.  Deface the true legends.  Drawing mustaches and devil horns on a Mt. Rushmore with the faces of Mays, Ruth, Aaron, Robinson, Young, Ryan, and Gibson.

A-Rod should hope for some compromise.  As public and professional opinion stands, it looks unlikely that an era of guys with faux first ballot statistics, will in fact make it in on the first, second, third, fourth, (2x+5)^2....ballots.  Mark McGwire, the savior of baseball in 1998, has never received more than 24% of votes from the baseball sportswriters.  Even despite four years on the ballot and a slew of other players' admissions (including Big Mac's own), his "George W" approval rating is nowhere near the 75% needed for election into the Hall of Fame.  Although Alex is at least a solid decade away (more like a baker's dozen worth of calendars), some serious circumstantial evidence would have to be released in his favor....but who knows?

Asterisks should be acceptable*.  A separate steroid wing on the Hall would be welcomed by Alex.  Let alone a "Get Out of Jail Free Card" and the $270 Million Dollars he got for passing "GO" and the potential home runs 600, 660, 714, 755, and 762.  If Bud Selig told Rodriguez his only ticket in was to have a bust decorated like "Ex-Rod" Madonna, he should be giddy to slap on a lace glove and Vogue all the way to upstate New York.

(*for 'roid users, not Roger Maris)   

Tainted love from fans and history should be enough for this new class of guys that are on the record; certifiably blacklisted.  Time will determine whether the excuse that, "everyone was doing it," or "I didn't know what it was," is enough to convince three-quarters of sportswriters to enshrine them into baseball's house of immortality.  Are the primetime interviews and the tears enough to garner sympathy?  Or is a tainted legacy, still legacy all the same?

Alex Rodriguez will find out.  Whether his career could improbably end after this home run or his next 175 home runs, judgement day is inevitable.  Journalists, fans, peers, and legends will determine what image of A-Rod appears in their minds.  But as Alex takes a step back and looks in the mirror, what reflection stares back and him: dirty, clean, or just tainted?

We're Going Streaking!

When is the last time a 78-game win streak went relatively unnoticed? Was it that dreaded Costa Rican little league team filled with “thirteen year olds,” that just happened to have facial hair, tattoos, and driver’s licenses? Could it have been that high school football team in rural Idaho that had its seven best athletes line up against the owner of the general store, four of the players’ dads, and two cows thrown into the secondary? Or was it that infamous run from 2002-07, when your grandma cleaned up in the traditional holiday Gin Rummy games? The sports media has always had a love affair with streaks. Whether it’s Joe DiMaggio’s 56-game hit streak, the New England Patriots’ most recent attempt at a perfect season, or the New Jersey Nets losing 18 straight games to open up this 2009-10 season, the sports world has always managed to shine its lights on the overly repetitious. So which of its entities could be so inane that a 78-game win streak is merely another frivolous statistic?

To most of us, it’s no surprise that the answer to this question is The University of Connecticut’s women’s basketball team. Unfortunately, it is the sad but true aspect of our current sports landscape. When the Nathan’s Famous Hotdog competition or the 100th replay of the 2004 World Series of Poker is squeezing you out of the ratings, it’s tough to register on the minds of the broadened casual sports fan. The current streak in Storrs, Connecticut is something of note however. Legendary coach John Wooden said recently that Geno Auriemma’s team can threaten his record of 88 straight wins in a row. As a sports fan-- no matter what--when John talks, you listen (he only won the 88 straight games, made 9 straight final four appearances, and won 7 national championships in a row).

The streak currently stands at 78 games: 8 games more than the previous women’s record of 70 (held by the 2001-03 UConn team) and 10 games off UCLA’s all-time mark of 88. This year alone, the Huskies have beaten #2 ranked Stanford (twice), #3 ranked Notre Dame (thrice), #4 ranked Baylor, and #7 ranked Duke. After the loss on April 6, 2007, Connecticut has won every game but one by double digits. They are also the first women’s program to achieve back-to-back undefeated campaigns; each ending with a national championship. The last time a men’s team completed just one undefeated season was the 1976 Indiana Hoosiers. And we thought Butler was a good story.

As with any streak, each game becomes magnified. The media snowball is starting that treacherous roll, and even though the women’s game may not draw ratings like the NFL, the sports world will train its lens on the Huskies as they get closer to the summit (unless Tiger gets measured for another green jacket). ESPN’s College Gameday did a live broadcast from Storrs before they faced Notre Dame, the first time ever for a women’s basketball game. With one foot hanging off my sports soap box, I can admit to a historical lack of enthusiasm for women’s basketball. However, if I can sit and watch Lance Armstrong ride a bike or take that ten minutes to watch someone try and eat 65 hotdogs, I should and will start to give the University of Connecticut’s women’s basketball team my immediate attention. They might just be the greatest college basketball team ever…and they aren’t that far away from proving it.