There is a draft blowing in the NBA and it is blowing East. After years of Western supremacy, the tide seems to be shifting, finally, to the Eastern Conference. The Celtics championship romp over the Lakers not only established Boston as the league's top team, but suggested that Detroit, which in the Eastern Conference Finals also fell to the Celts in six games, may have been the runner-up. The Celtics provided further evidence of that--evidence most experts ignored in their playoff predictions--by going a remarkable 25-5 against the West during the regular season. And the Piston's mark of 22-8 against the rival conference represented a higher winning percentage than any Western team managed against its own. (The Lakers' 37-15 was the West's top interconference mark.)

And at last night's draft the only two players regarded as true difference-makers, Memphis' Derrick Rose and K State's Michael Beasley, both landed in the Eastern Conference--and both with teams that are considered far better than their record. Rose went to the Bulls, which got lottery lucky to snare the first pick despite having only the 9th worst record in the league. The Bulls have an impressive array of young talent, even if is mismatched and overlaps too much at the guard position, and was actually expected to contend in the East this past season. The addition of Rose should move Chicago quickly into the East's upper echelon.

Miami, which got Beasley with the second pick, will be three seasons removed (and minus Shaq) since its NBA championship. But the fastest way for any decent team to make a big leap forward is to sink all the way to the bottom because its best player is injured, enabling it to snare a second superstar in the draft. San Antonio did that in 1997 when, after losing center David Robinson for the season, it managed to draft Tim Duncan to twin with Robinson. Two seasons later the Spurs won their first title. With Dwyane Wade returning from injury and Shawn Marion, the key addition from trading Shaq, the Heat has an impressive triumvirate to rebuild around.

Other top teams in the East, like Orlando and Cleveland, are built around young superstars Dwight Howard and LeBron James and should continue to improve. And Toronto appears to have pulled off the coup of draft day by landing a perennial all-star in Jermaine O'Neal to play alongside Chris Bosh at a price of only their second best point guard, the talented, but oft-injured T.J. Ford, and a middling first-round draft pick. Label the Raptors instant contenders. While plenty of talent and talented teams--L.A., New Orleans, Utah--remain in the West (including the two difference-makers out of last year's draft, Greg Oden and Kevin Durant, neither of whom made any difference this past season), contenders like the Spurs with Duncan, the Suns with Steve Nash and Shaq and the Mavericks with Jason Kidd all appear to be be showing signs of age and inevitable decline.

Tides do shift. The East won the NBA Title. The NFC won the Super Bowl. And maybe the National League can finally win an All-Star Game. (Reader warning: Don't bet on the latter.)

There is so much good to write about Euro 2008, starting with the fact that ESPN/ABC's live telecast of every single contest suggests that American soccer fans need remain in the closet no longer.

The games themselves have been stellar. I could write about the robust Germans and the rekindled luster of their captain, Michael Ballack, who, at times, this season had seemed less than himself in Chelsea's star-studded attack. Or I could write about Turkey, the "Cardiac Kids" as the announcers have dubbed them, who have won over the fans with their heart and resilience in last-second, comeback wins over the Czech Republic and Croatia. Or I could write about Russia's relentless, attacking football, defying conventional strategy by keeping the pedal to the metal in overtime to dispatch the heavily favored Dutch. Or I could write about the young Turks of Spain (and one brilliant elder in the goal), who apparently weren't aware that it is always Spain's place to fold in a crucial match, especially against Italy--and outlasted Italy for their first win over the Azzurri in a major tournament since the 1924 Olympics.

But first I really need to rant about the Italians. Italy was my first love in international soccer, the byproduct of a long-ago assignment to profile the great Roberto Baggio. Today there is no trace of the stylish and creative team that won my heart. Indeed the Italians are the most cynical, unappealing squad in the upper ranks of the game. Offense is a secondary (or thirdary) consideration. Sure, Italy will counterattack on occasion and hope Luca Toni can get his head on the ball for a goal. But they are more fearful about getting caught without at least seven men back on defense. Spain outshot Italy by about 3-1, but most were futile, frustrated blasts from too great a distance. Italy's defense clogs the middle and seldom finds itself out of position. From the opening touch against Spain you sensed that Italy has but one mission--to defend for 120 minutes and wait for the penalty shootout. To abet the team's goal, the Italians dive, they flop, they feign injuries, they shove, they grab shirts and anything else within their reach and, of course, as we remember from the 2006 World Cup, they taunt and insult. And they don't care that nobody likes them or their game much any more.

Much like the NBA's famed "Bad Boys" in Detroit, Italy defies the ref to blow his whistle all match long and count on him, as he grows accustomed to the Italians' high level of mischief and mayhem, not to make any decisive calls against them. In Sunday's quarter-final, the German ref did, in fact, blow the whistle all match long. But he never dared penalize Italy for their worst offenses; he certainly missed one penalty kick for Spain and possibly a few more. And for some reason, he was willing to halt Spanish attacks to tend to Italian players faking an injury back downfield. (Credit to ESPN's Andy Gray for noting this wretched officiating performance as it was happening.) One notable faker, Antonio Di Natale, was jeered by the crowd for the rest of the match and some kind of justice was served when he missed his penalty kick in the shooout. When Spain survived, thanks to some heroics by its goalkeeper captain Iker Casillas, my elation far exceeded that of a few hours later when Kevin Youkilis smashed a walkoff home run for the Red Sox in the 13th inning. Viva Espana!

The officiating has been the spottiest part of the tournament and, particularly in group play, there were a host of botched calls--offsides missed both ways, questionable penalties, dubious cards both yellow and red. That is more the rule than the exception in these big soccer tournaments. The European like their game the way it is and are more tolerant or at least understand that bad officiating is an inevitable byproduct of soccer's refusal to avail itself of modern technology. If some of these games were NBA playoff contest, a fullscale Congressional investigation would already have been launched.

Now that I have all that off my chest, on to the Final Four, though it is hard to imagine the semi-finals Wednesday and Thursday, Germany vs. Turkey, Spain vs. Russia, matching the excitement of those riveting quarter-finals.

Yesterday afternoon I told all my Boston buddies that Game 4 was the Celtics' best hope to win a game in L.A. because the "fix" was in.

Not the kind of fix alleged by disgraced ex-ref Tim Donaghy, himself a convicted fixer for gambling interests, who said that some refs affected the outcome of games at the behest of the NBA--prolonging series, favoring marquee teams and protecting star players. But rather the kind of fix that is repair or damage control.

Earlier in the week NBA commissioner David Stern had hoped to make the embarrassment that was the Donaghy mess go away with his trademark, withering glower and a few dismissive "consider the source" remarks. But a few days later Stern was still playing defense, if only because every NBA fan believes, at the very least, that league's officiating is often inept and biased and too many believe there is some core truth in Donaghy's charges.

The result of all that was advantage Boston. The NBA clearly preferred the Lakers to win Game 4, tying the Finals at two games apiece and setting up a ratings blockbuster Sunday night. But with Donaghy's allegations hovering, you just knew that the the officials would do everything in their power to call a fair game, unlike the previous two games where--first in Boston, then in L.A.--the refs appeared to be wearing home uniforms and produced huge free-throw discrepancies in favor of the home side. In fact, before the game I bet a pal that the two teams would wind up shooting an identical number of free throws and I consider L.A. 29 attempts, Boston 28 well within the margin of error.

With as much attention on the refs as on Kobe and KG, the Lakers lost the biggest part of the home-court advantage--it isn't having Jack Nicholson and Dyan Cannon courtside--at the Staples Center, where the team hadn't lost since March. Of course, my homecourt disadvantage theory looked pretty foolish in the first half when the Lakers went up by as many as 24 and walked off the court with an 18-point lead. The Lakers got most of the calls in that half too, but deservedly so as the far more aggressive team. But when the Celtics went on a second-half tear and a few ill-timed whistles or marginally bad calls might have derailed them, the calls went their way--again to the more aggressive team. And a fair shake from the refs turned out to be just enough for Boston to produce the greatest comeback in NBA Finals and take a 3-1 lead in the Series.

In 1973 I fell in love for the first time--with a horse that is. I had never even been to a racetrack when my newspaper sent me to cover the Kentucky Derby. When I watched "Big Red", aka Secretariat, work out for the first time, well it was love at first sight. To this day, I  have never seen a horse with more intelligence and character in his face. On Derby Day, I backed my guy to the hilt, which back then meant a $10 play on the nose. I knew this was no place or show kind of animal.

That may seem obvious looking back, but not so that day. Secretariat had stumbled in his prep race, losing the Wood Memorial. And a lot of the smart money was on the great Sham, who would challenge Secretariat all the way to the wire in both the Derby and the Preakness. (Sham's time in the Derby would stand as the second fastest ever for another 28 years.) I confess I was so small-time that I even cashed my winning ticket.

My love affair never abated. When Secretariat won the Belmont Stakes by the still take-my-breath away 31 lengths to become the first Triple Crown winner since the great Citation back in 1948, I began weeping with several furlongs to go. A portrait of Secretariat by the wonderful photographer Henry Horenstein hangs in an honored place in my home, far bigger and more prominently displayed than any family picture.

I was and remain for "Big Red" forever. And, frankly, I admit I was a little distressed when both Seattle Slew and Affirmed won Triple Crowns so soon after, as if that made it seem too easy and somehow depreciated Secretariat's accomplishment. Of course the next three decades have disabused us of that notion. Since Affirmed in '78, 11 horses have won the first two legs only to come up short in the Belmont. I confess I rooted against some of those lovely horses in the '70s and '80s--Spectacular Bid, Pleasant Colony, Alysheba and Sunday Silence. But by '97, with Silver Charm, I was ready for another horse to pull of the feat and I have rooted fervently for them all--Real Quiet, Charismatic (especially Charismatic, a horse in Secretariat's family tree), War Emblem, Funny Cide and Smarty Jones. Of course, to no avail.

But I draw the line at rooting for Big Brown, who is not only going for the glory in tomorrow's Belmont Stakes, but eliciting--for my taste--far too many comparisons to Secretariat. I knew Secretariat and Big Brown is no "Big Red". His winning time at the Derby would have had him too far back even to eat Secretariat's dust. His opposition has been especially undistinguished. Secretariat not only beat the great Sham, but a fine horse in Our Native; Forego, who would go on to be Horse of the Year three years in a row in the mid-70s, finished fourth in that race.

Big Brown appears to be a fine horse, but every revelation about the horse and his team is a turnoff. I understand that steroids are legal. Still, the revelation that Big Brown ran on steroids in the first two legs is dismaying, given what we have learned about the advantages they provide human runners. His trainer, Rick Dutrow, has a checkered past, with a number of racing violations on his record, and for some reason he feels compelled to show his confidence with the kind of trash-talking that has even gone out of fashion in the NBA. His ownership team, which includes a principal with a background of financial irregularities on Wall Street, has appears so anxious to cash in on a champions that some expect Big Brown may never race again after the Belmont--retiring to stud after only six races without invigorating the sport as only a Triple Crown winner can.

While the Big Brown team has said they intend to race the horse in the Travers at Saratoga and in the Breeders Cup Classic this fall, a cracked heel provides plenty of retirement excuses. One can understand the lure of easy money at stud. Smarty Jones, even after losing the Belmont, commands six-figure fees. for his services. But a rapid retirement for Big Brown would further damage a wounded sport, confirming what many already feel--that the sport has become all about investment rather than racing and the fans. Even if Big Brown wins and goes on to fulfill the commitment with two more races, nobody expects the horse to race past his three-year-old season. Affirmed, by contrast, raced after the Belmont, losing twice to the older Triple Crown winner, Seattle Slew. And in his four-year-old season, Affirmed would win his last seven races, capping his career by defeating the great Spectacular Bid to capture Horse of the Year honors.

As I said, Big Brown is no Secretariat. And he's no Affirmed either. I can wait another year, or even ten, for a Triple Crown. With Secretariat's place in the pantheon secure, I am happy to share the glory. It's just that I prefer the horse and his team to be truly worthy.

To the Honorable Sen Arlen Specter:

However ridiculous it may appear, given all the critical issues facing our government, you are, of course, entitled to pursue your solo crusade against the National Football League and its handling of the New England Patriots "Spygate" drama. And, of course, to bluster all you want, to threaten the league's treasured anti-trust exemption for its television contract, even though there is no indication that you have any support in this matter.

But what struck me recently, as you faced down your critics in this matter, was your sanctimonious insistence to the New York Times that "I've been at this line of work for a long time and no one has ever questioned my integrity." Frankly, Sen. Specter that is hogwash. I know for a fact because I personally questioned your integrity in this matter the last time I addressed it.

I recall those days when you were a member of the now extinct "moderate" tribe of the Republican Party. The GOP's new ruling class, steamed that you had joined the Democrats in sinking the nomination of Robert Bork to the Supreme Court, threatened your political future if you didn't get behind the Clarence Thomas nomination. And get behind it you did--with a vengeance, going after Anita Hill just like one of the Republican pit bulls you had previously appeared to disdain. "Attaboy Arlen" they surely called you in certain discreet chambers of the White House and the Capital.

Then there's the matter of Comcast's support of your campaign. You dismissed that issue by lumping the company with 50,000 other contributors. But in 2004, 2006, 2008, Comcast donated more than $300,000 to your coffers, exceeded only by the $600,000-plus contributed by Blank Rome LLP, which happens to be the law firm that lobbies for Comcast. You know how it is--a million here, a million there, pretty soon you're talking about real money. And given that Comcast is feuding with the NFL over its desired fee structure for the NFL Network, what you have is, if not a clear conflict of interest, at the very least an appearance of one.

Beyond busting the NFL's chops, which must give Comcast pleasure, there simply doesn't appear to be a compelling public interest--certainly not one that mandates a governmental role--like the health issues that were an undercurrent at the baseball steroids hearings. In Matt Walsh, you may hope you've found your Brian McNamee. But McNamee was an admitted intimate of Roger Clemens, an employee that Clemens said he treated like family. And his testimony was, in critical parts, corroborated by Andy Pettitte, who despite straying on use of HGH, is respected as an honest, even righteous athlete. Walsh was a fringe employee who was fired years ago and appeared to violate law in both taping conversations with other Patriots employees and by stealing films. He sat on these films for years, was even quiet when Spygate first erupted, then hinted against the backdrop of the upcoming Super Bowl that he had dynamite in his hands. What he showed the NFL, only after receiving immunity, apparently wasn't dynamite, but just more of the same. So now he's letting drop these random tidbits of conversation for which he apparently has no evidence at all except his honorable word.

If the Comcast connection is not sufficient motivation for your interest, you have let it be known that you're still distressed by the loss of your hometown Eagles to the Patriots in Super Bowl XXXIX. It was as if in the second half they knew Philly's plays, you have been heard to gripe. Which doesn't exactly explain how Philly scored twice as many points in the second half as it did in the first and how Greg Lewis caught a 30-yard TD pass with less than two minutes to go when, it seemed, all the Patriots needed to do to win was to keep the Eagles from a quick scoring strike. Pretty shoddy defense from a team that apparently knew what was coming.  If you really want to understand what went wrong in the end game, you might go back to the tape and how spent Donovan McNabb was from eluding Patriots rushers and how inefficient Andy Reid was in getting plays from the sideline with any dispatch.

Meanwhile, if the integrity of our games is of such paramount interest to you, I have a bigger Spygate scandal you might care to investigate. For many years Bobby Thomson's "Shot Heard Round the World", the home run that rallied the New York Giants over the Brooklyn Dodgers in the 1951 National League playoff was regarded as baseball's greatest moment. There is now compelling evidence that Thomson's achievement was tainted, that the Giants were spying from a perch in center field and signaling their hitters what pitch was coming. Time is running out on this miscarriage, but both principals are still alive--Bobby Thomson is 84 while Ralph Branca, the pitcher he victimized is 82. Don't worry about Guantanamo, government eavesdropping or any of the other critical issues of justice in our times. You make your stand on the fields of justice. I'm sure we will all sleep better knowing you are on the case.

Respectfully yours,

Mark Starr

Newsweek Magazine

Nobody, least of all the Boston Celtics, could explain why it took the team with the NBA's best regular season record a full seven games to dispatch Atlanta in the first round of the NBA playoffs--how the Celtics kicked the Hawks, the only sub. 500 team to reach the postseason, by an average margin of 25 in its four wins at the Boston Garden, but lost all three games in Atlanta. The Celtics, who had the best road record (31-10) in the NBA this past season, are at it again: they smothered LeBron James and his Cleveland Cavaliers two straight at home, but last night suffered a second double-digit defeat in a row in Cleveland to square the series.

The home court is supposed to be an advantage--worth three points in most bookmaking operations, just like in football--but the Celtics are hardly alone in making it seemed even more conspicuous this 2008 playoff season. New Orleans ran defending champ San Antonio off the court in the opening pair at home, then were routed two straight by the Spurs when they crossed west into Texas. The Los Angeles Lakers are even up with the the Utah Jazz after losing both games in Salt Lake City, where the Jazz were a league-leading 37-4 this season. Home teams in this second round are 15-1, with only Detroit winning on the road, a one-point squeaker in Orlando.

Granted, home teams won more than 60 percent of the home games during the regular season and only 8 of 30 NBA teams had losing records at home. Still, the discrepancy in the numbers--home and away--in this playoff round has been mind-boggling. Look what happened when the the two teams that met in the 2007 Finals, the Spurs and the Cavaliers, arrived home trailing 0-2: San Antonio, having shot 41.6% from the field on the road, shot 49.7% at home. The Cavs jumped from 33.1 percent shooting in Boston to 49.3 percent. Even the superstars weren't immune to road woes: LeBron James shot 8 for 42 in Boston; Tim Duncan went 1 for 9 and scored just five points in the opener in New Orleans: and Kobe Bryant was 13 for 33 in the Laker loss Sunday.

So what exactly is the homecourt advantage? The comforts of home--familiar food, your own bed-- as well as knowing the court and the rim (and in the old Boston Garden, Red Auerbach used to play nasty tricks with the temperatures and conditions in the cramped visitors locker room) must play some part. And as the game has become increasingly emotive--more fist-pumping and chest-thumping--the crowd frenzy may have more effect, up and down, on today's players. Of course, there is also the critical question of whether the home crowd has an impact on the officiating. A likely case in point would be the key three-pointer scored by Detroit at the end of the third period of Game 2 against Orlando, where a clock snafu forced officials to guess whether the Pistons got the shot off within 5.1 seconds. Watching the game and guessing along with the officials it seemed unlikely to me and one inevitably wonders if the path of least resistance was dealing with an angry coach rather than Detroit's famously angry crowd.

Still, I confess I look hard for what I perceive to be official bias and--besides the consideration given superstars like James and Bryant, a time-honored NBA tradition--didn't see much clear evidence of it. The Cavs, for example, were awarded 53 free throws to Boston's 56 in the two games at the Garden, 51 to Boston's 50 at home. New Orleans shot 39 free throws to the Spurs 40 in New Orleans, 33 to the the Spurs 41 in San Antonio. Or to put it in human terms, I've seen LeBron lower his shoulder into a defender and actually get called for charging at both home and way in this series.

Whatever accounts for the discrepancy is a pretty good advertisement for David Stern's rejuvenated NBA. The oft-repeated complaint is that the season is too long, the players can't get up for 82 games and, thus, too many games are meaningless. Obviously, there is some truth in that. But this year's playoffs are demonstrating that playoff positioning counts a great deal and some good teams that had to open on the road may have been doomed from the start. The Celtics, by virtue of the best record in the league this year, are in position to pull of an unprecedented, if very unlikely, trick--winning the NBA championship without a single victory on the road.

By William Jempty of OTB Sports

By William Jempty of OTB Sports

Young Kim calls her headgear a‘bucket hat’. When asked after today’s round why she wears different hats,Young said. “I like this bucket hat because it's good for the strong sun. Still I don’t want to change my hat.” As a malignant melanoma survivor, I’m glad to hear Young is conscientious about her skin care. I’ve had too many friends die of skin cancer.

Young’s hat is made by Bogner,one of the golfer’s sponsors. If you’re superstitious, it's the same type of hat Young wore when winning last year’s Corning Classic, and she is atop the leaderboard of the Stanford International after round two.

A second round 67, which is tied for the best round of the day and featuring six birdies, has Young at seven under par and leading by one shot. In second place at minus six is  Annika Sorenstam who also shot a 67. 

Gusty winds made scoring difficult today. Only six players are under par for the tournament. Also equaling Young and Annika for the best round of the day, was Seon Hwa Lee. Seon Hwa’s 67 has her one over par for the tournament and in a tie for sixteenth.

By William Jempty of OTB Sports

"Either he's dead or my watch has stopped."

Having passed to his eternal reward in 1977, Groucho Marx was not paired with any of the pros at the Stanford International Pro-Am. So it only seemed like eternity out there on the course today. With many of the celebrity amateurs doing their own impersonations of Marx's "Dr. Hackenbush", play went from slow to downright glacial here in South Florida. Suffice to say, its been no day at the races in Aventura with the pile ups on the course more reminiscent of a Mack Sennett film than a Marx Brothers comedy.

By William Jempty of OTB Sports
 
The inaugural Stanford International Pro-am began Thursday at the Fairmont Turnberry Isle Resort & Club in Aventura, Fla. 112 of the finest women golfers in the world are teeing it up for the 72-hole LPGA event. Whoever wins this weekend will take home a $300,000 winner’s check. Other than the year-ending ADT Championship, this is the first time the LPGA has played a tournament in South Florida since 2001.

2008 LPGA leading money winner and 2006-07 Player of the Year Lorena Ochoa is not playing this week but the Stanford still has a strong field. Cristie Kerr, Annika Sorenstam, Karrie Webb, Paula Creamer, Juli Inkster, Seon Hwa Lee, Morgan Pressel and Suzann Pettersen are all here at Fairmont Turnberry Isle.
 
One thing that makes the Stanford International unique on the LPGA tour is its Pro-Am format. All 112 professionals this week are playing with an amateur partner. Celebrities teeing it up Thursday included tennis star James Blake, Stone Phillips of NBC News, former Miami Dolphin Jay Fiedler, current Dolphin kicker Jay Feely and celebrity chef Ming Tsai.
 
The weather was sunny, with a couple of brief drizzles in the late morning. A cool breeze has kept scores from going too low.

While the NFL draft is this weekend and the NBA draft not for another two months, it's the basketball version, with recent news indicating that most of the top college freshman players will enter the draft, that has attracted more of my attention.

For the second straight year since a minimum age of 19 was instituted in the NBA, freshman will almost certainly be the top picks in the draft. Last year it was Ohio State's Greg Oden and Kevin Durant who went one-two--to Portland and Seattle respectively--in the draft. This year the cream of the freshman crop are again choosing the one-and-out route at college, with Kansas State forward Michael Beasley and a pair of guards, Memphis's Derrick Rose and USC's O.J. Mayo likely to be the three top picks in some order. Insiders are predicting that more than half the lottery picks, which should include high-profile players like UCLA's Kevin Love and Indiana's Eric Gordon, will be frosh.

Obviously, this NBA rule change has been a win-win for college basketball and the NBA. The nation's elite high-school players are now doing a campus drive-by, giving the NCAA tournament more star power. And as a result, the NBA gets to draft players who are presumably more mature on and off the court with the added benefit of some March Madness exposure that helps promote them. NBA Commissioner David Stern has obviously been delighted with how his brainstorm has worked for his league and he would like to push it even further, raising the entry-age to the NBA to 20, though it's not clear that the union will accede to this proposal.

But just because the higher entry age bolsters basketball at two levels doesn't mean it's a good idea for society. Sure there were high-school players who opted to go straight to the NBA and whose games weren't ready and who weren't mature enough to handle the rigors of the pro league. But just a superficial glance at this past season, certainly the NBA's most entertaining and untroubled in many a year, reveals that of the consensus top candidates for MVP--Kobe Bryant, Kevin Garnett, LeBron James, Dwight Howard and Chris Paul--four entered the league directly from high school, with only Paul playing two years of college ball at Wake Forest.

But if the premise of the immature player and his difficult adjustment is overstated, the result of the new rule is far more egregious. It's a complete academic sham. Players who would have gone straight to the NBA now spend one reluctant year taking a scholarship spot from a kid who might really want to be there. And, of course, one year may be a slight exaggeration since these gilded kids can pretty much stop going to class as soon as they've served their school by demonstrating their wares in the NCAA tournament. The graduation rates for so many of the elite basketball schools are already so embarrassing that it's hard to see how adding a layer of one-and-outs does anything but exacerbate the problem.

It may be a bit too facile to touch on how we treat youth in our broader society. But it seems ludicrous that we deem 18--year-olds mature enough to enlist in the military, with potentially dire consequences, yet are hellbent on protecting them against the consequences of not being ready for prime-time NBA basketball. If the pros want to backstop the kids, why not make a provision of every contract with a high-schooler guaranteed money that would be reserved for a college education if the NBA thing didn't work out. I understand why the NBA, with its public relations problems in recent years, prefers more mature players. And I understand why the NCAA wants to exploit the talent to boost its TV ratings before turning the kids loose. But what that adds up to in those places where basketball is not life's paramount concern is nothing short of a fraud.

Once an American passion as the "sport of kings", horse racing, today the sport of sheiks, can no longer claim much of a hold on the average American sports fan. But the Kentucky Derby remains one of those events that transcends its sport, still a destination date--the first Saturday in May--for many of us who can't be bothered with the Santa Anita Derby or the Florida Derby or the Wood Memorial.

For those who can't wait another few weeks for this year's top crop of three-year-olds to convene at Churchill Downs, the perfect spring movie--"The First Saturday in May" by brothers John and Brad Hennegan--opens at theaters around the country today. It is a charming documentary about the run for the "Run for the Roses", as seen through the eyes of six hopeful trainers and their horses, each man hellbent on making it to Louisville on that special Saturday. While several of the trainers are quite successful, none command the mega-stables that can count on an entry or evenj several entries in the Kentucky Derby each year. For some of them, the Derby is at best a very occasional privilege and,for others, just getting to the starting gate of America's preeminent horse race is a once-in-a-lifetime dream. "I'm 48 and I want to go to the Derby before I die," says one of the trainers whose horse....well, let's not ruin it, since not all the horses make the Derby cut.

Given that the year is 2006 and one of the six horses is Barbaro, there is not much suspense about the outcome of the Derby itself--the largest winning margin in 60 years--and, of course, the tragic end when the great horse breaks down at the start of the Preakness two weeks later. But even the death of Barbaro--after an eight-month struggle that captivated the nation and broke its collective heart--can't obscure the beauty and joy surrounding these magnificent animals, the folks who love them and their Derby quests. As one woman owner of a certain age explains about the winner's circle, "When you get to my age, you don't have to go to the plastic surgeon. It's an instant facelift."

So's the film.

Frankly I'm still reeling from my sorry showing in the March Madness pool, compounded by the fact that my pal Michael, a shrink whose every breath is deeply considered, won because on a random road trip more than 30 years ago, he stopped in Lawrence, Kansas and bought a Jayhawks T-shirt.

I have a slightly better chance in my Masters pool, a two-man affair where my golf-crazy pal gets Tiger and I take the field. The odds are slightly in my favor, since Tiger has won 13 majors in the 11 seasons since he romped to his first Masters title in 1997--and only four Masters, or slightly better than one in three. Still, nobody feels smart betting against Tiger, not when he is at the top of his game as he is now and not when he is well-positioned--tied for 19th and four strokes back after a par 72 first round--with the course almost certain to play harder the rest of the weekend.

Side bets aside, there is certainly a part of me that would prefer to see Tiger win Sunday and prolong the season's only suspense--no, not the FedEx Cup, but his odds-against shot at the Grand Slam. Because even though the talent on the tour is unquestionably deeper than at any time in the game's history, Tiger feels like the only game in town. At least the only one that generates sustained interest.

It is not hard to understand why the tour honchos and the sporting press have tried desperately through the years to drum up a legitimate rival for Tiger, but--from David Duval to Sergio Garcia to Ernie Els to Vijay Singh to Phil Mickelson--none have been able to rise to the challenge and most have slipped back at the very thought of it. Mickelson came closest and looked to be on the cusp of genuine rivalry until he imploded on the final hole at the 2006 U.S. Open. His 2007 decline, injuries aside, was inevitable: Mickelson's best finish in a major last year was 24th at the Masters and he failed to make the cut at both the British and U.S. Opens.

The arrival of Ian O'Connor's "Arnie & Jack" is a welcome reminder of how the power or rivalry serves not only the sport, but both men. And while nothing may derail Tiger from supplanting Jack Nicklaus as the greatest golfer of all time, six more major triumphs is hardly a mortal lock. But Nicklaus' legacy of greatness will always be enhanced by the fact that he had to go through "The King," Arnold Palmer, to reach the top.

For those of us old enough to remember those days and duels, O'Connor's book is a vivid stroll down memory links. For those Tigerphiles who believe Woods invented the game at the end of the 20th century, it is a welcome elucidation of a golfing golden era. As O'Connor writes: "Arnie and Jack represented the perfect conflict in personality, background and style at the perfect time--just as TV was starting to plant larger-than-life figures in America's living room and dens"

By the time most current fans met Nicklaus, he was the beloved "Golden Bear". But in his early days, he was an unwelcome usurper, a pudgy kid--the legions of Arnie's Army called him "Fat Jack"--subject to catcalls and other rude behavior on the course. And while nothing could stop his game and he would soon surpass Palmer, Nicklaus could never match his style--at best a staid Perry Como to Arnie's Sinatra flash. But the rivalry made both men bigger than they would ever have been standing alone.

Golf is hardly the only sport where that is apparent. Tiger may be the greatest, but "The Greatest", Muhammad Ali, never wore that mantle as surely as after his three classic fights with Joe Frazier. It's too bad for Tiger and for us that he will likely never face that test.