By Joel Warner
By Michael Roberts
By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
They say we're living in the new Golden Age of Sports. Michael Jordan is the greatest basketball player ever to lace up a pair of sneakers, they say, and Jerry Rice is the best pass receiver who's ever run a post pattern. Young Tiger Woods won his first Masters as a pro by an astounding twelve strokes and promises to revolutionize a 500-year-old game long thought to be ossified and exclusionary. If Ken Griffey Jr. doesn't break Roger Maris's season home-run record--Griffey is already the second coming of Willie Mays--then Mark McGwire will. Or Larry Walker. Walker, who works just across the street, is assembling possible Triple Crown numbers this year and could also become the first major-league batter to hit .400 since Ted Williams did it in 1941. If the peerless Padre Tony Gwynn doesn't beat him to it.
Little matter, they say, that Wayne Gretzky, Jack Nicklaus and Dale Earnhardt have all entered the twilight. Or that a revived Roger Clemens has lost a little heat off his fastball. Or that Super Mario has just hung up his skates. Little matter that divisional realignment, hockey brawls, AstroTurf injuries, labor strife, outright greed and the several disguises of Dennis Rodman now and then hang a cloud over our games. In this, the new Golden Age of Sports, the sky's the limit, and the sky is blue. Just look at Martina Hingis, the sixteen-year-old tennis phenom bent on rewriting the record book, or stock-car racing's swift, handsome boy-next-door, Jeff Gordon. They've got decades of triumph ahead of them. At least that's what people say.
So what can they say about Mike Tyson? About Bitin' Mike.
The easy thing to say--one of the things that's being said--is that boxing long ago lost its place at the table. Boxing has degenerated into a freak show so crude and disreputable, this view holds, that any American sports fan who wears a moral compass underneath his or her official John Elway jersey needn't worry much about the depredations of the Don Kings and the Mike Tysons of this world. These guys are outcasts to start with, okay? They're not even in the big, happy family of sports anymore. So don't worry about them. Nowhere on hardwood or gridiron or ice do their low motives and outrageous behavior prevail. On the green lawns of Wimbledon, no one carries a gun. In the New York Yankees clubhouse, even meddlesome George Steinbrenner finally knows when to shut up. The fiercest defensive tackle, buried in the deepest player pile of the biggest game of the year, wouldn't think of biting another man's ear off.
Aside from Mike Tyson and his fellow thugs in the ring, sports are better than ever, they say.
Why doesn't somebody ask the photographer the illustrious Mr. Rodman kicked in the groin about that? Ask Monica Seles, who has never regained her form after a lunatic Steffi Graf fan stabbed her in the back more than three years ago. Want to research sub-Tyson behavior amid the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat? Look no further than Tonya Harding's rap sheet. Or the social philosophies of Cincinnati Reds owner Marge Schott, who refers to some of her players by racial epithets, lets her dog defecate on the playing field and believes, deep down, that Hitler really wasn't such a bad guy after all. Would you buy a car from this woman?
How about fun-loving Fuzzy Zoeller? His fried-chicken-and-watermelon comments about Tiger Woods may have been "innocent" in a Neanderthal kind of way, but the guy couldn't shut up. Couple of days later Zoeller stuck his other Foot-Joy in his mouth. Of course, in the Golden Age of Sports, it's also just fine for a Yankees pitcher or a Miami Dolphins linebacker to give the finger to the boo-birds in the crowd.
As further evidence that prizefighters--and only prizefighters--operate out of bounds, assorted commentators point to the ring style of heavyweight Andrew Golota, who was disqualified in two straight bouts with Riddick Bowe for repeated low blows. They talk about how Oliver McCall had an apparent nervous breakdown in the middle of his WBC title fight with Lennox Lewis, dropped his gloves and stopped fighting. A sewer of a sport, they say.
It's hard to argue with that. But what does it say about the Golden Age that Roberto Alomar, the Baltimore Orioles second baseman who spit in the face of an umpire last year, was voted onto the 1997 American League All-Star team? Apparently, baseball fans love statistics but don't give a damn about history.
As for the Tyson-Holyfield biting incident, what will you bet that Nevada's boxing "regulators"--a contradiction in terms that rivals "baseball's acting commissioner"--slap Tyson on the wrist ($3 million is peanuts to him), suspend him just long enough to get back into shape and let him slug on? Given the gate-building inherent in Evander's missing cartilage, a third Holyfield-Tyson bout would be the biggest moneymaker of all. There's no doubt that it, too, would be staged in good old Las Vegas, where memories are short and the fix is always in. Who's to say that the two million pay-per-view viewers who forked out fifty bucks each to watch the Saturday Night Bite won't be even more eager to get taken again?