Nice Guys Finish . . . First? : Good News Has Been Traveling Fast for Crenshaw, O’Bannon, Osborne, Et Al.

After a couple of months’ reflection, we confess that you, the readers, were right when you told us that we fed you an overdose of bad news on Jan. 28. Darryl Strawberry’s guilty plea to tax evasion charges, Art Schlichter’s conviction for bank fraud, Shawn Jefferson’s brother a convicted murderer on death row. It was SportsWorld as seen by Quentin Tarantino.

What can we say?

What we always say.

We don’t make the news, pal. We just report it.

In that spirit, it is incumbent upon us to note, against our cynical natures, the recent preponderance of news that is, uh, happy. There, we’ve said it.

Perhaps it is astrological, Pluto moving into Sagittarius after 10 years at Shawshank. Or something like that. Or perhaps it is the season. This being the weekend of Easter and Passover, could it be that sports has gotten religion?

We were struck by this while watching Ben Crenshaw--”Gentle Ben,” mind you--strolling up the 18th fairway last Sunday with the Masters championship in his grasp.

Crenshaw has made appearances on our pages since the early ‘70s, when he became one of the first to shoulder the burden as “the next Nicklaus.” Crenshaw, always the gentleman, handled it about as well as anyone could at that age. But there also was a swagger about him, a cockiness that came with his three NCAA individual titles at Texas and a victory in his first professional tournament. Who was he to argue with those who said he would be as golden as the Golden Bear?

Over the next two decades, he persevered through the death of his mother, the breakup of his first marriage and health problems, while seeing the foreign invasion of players such as Greg Norman, Nick Faldo, Nick Price, Seve Ballesteros and Bernhard Langer, and the rise of new next Nicklauses such as Phil Mickelson turn him into just another very good player on a tour full of them.

So the man who knelt before us after sinking the winning putt last Sunday at Augusta National, his hands covering his eyes to hold back the tears, was a humbled, and humble, Ben Crenshaw, who later gave thanks to his longtime caddie, Carl Jackson, and his friend and mentor, Harvey Penick, whom he had helped bury only four days earlier.

If there was a sense that Penick somehow oversaw Crenshaw’s triumph, there also was a feeling of emptiness that he did not actually see it.

Most poignant about UCLA’s victory over Arkansas for the NCAA basketball championship was that 84-year-old John Wooden, the coach of UCLA’s previous 10 title teams, was among the crowd at Seattle’s Kingdome, and you didn’t have to be a Bruin fan or even from L.A. to feel it. When Wooden left the arena a few minutes before the end, so as not to detract from UCLA’s moment of glory, CBS’ Billy Packer cried like a baby.

One week earlier, Tom Hanks, genuinely--from all accounts--one of the nicest persons in Hollywood, won his second straight best-actor Oscar, and although that is not a sports item, we did recognize some years ago that he was destined for greatness when he played drinking, cussing, spitting, scratching baseball manager Jimmy Dugan in “A League of Their Own.”

Remember when he told one of his errant players: “Are you crying ? Are you crying ? There’s no crying in baseball.”

Well, now he’s right. There is no crying in baseball. Or at least not as much as there was during the 232-day strike. Now, instead of listening to a former Baltimore shortstop, players’ union exec Mark Belanger, give us a daily update on labor negotiations, we can finally concentrate on the current Baltimore shortstop, Cal Ripken Jr., as he approaches Lou Gehrig’s consecutive-game streak.

When we think back, our cup runneth over with good news this year.

Nebraska Coach Tom Osborne finally won college football’s national championship, erasing the ghosts of opportunities lost. San Francisco 49er quarterback Steve Young finally won a Super Bowl, erasing the ghost of Joe Montana. We learned that Deion Sanders really isn’t such a bad guy. Neither is Andre Agassi, who recently donated $1 million to the Boys & Girls Club in Las Vegas. And the Lakers’ Nick Van Exit became Nick Van Excellent.

Detroit Piston Grant Hill was the leading vote-getter for the NBA All-Star game, not because he was the best player but apparently because he was considered the nicest guy. UCLA’s Ed O’Bannon won the Wooden Award. Speedskating’s Dan Jansen won the Sullivan Award. Nice guys, too.

Michael Jordan came back. So did another legend, Jim Murray, after heart surgery. Paul Azinger came back from cancer. USC basketball Coach Charlie Parker is coming back. So is swimmer Summer Sanders, whose personality is as delightful as her name. Sheryl Swoopes became the first woman basketball player to have a sneaker named for her. And Mary Lou Retton had a baby girl, whom she called--what else--”a perfect 10.”

What’s next?

Larry The Legend, the little horse that could, wins the Kentucky Derby?

Mighty Mary, the almost all-woman crew, wins the America’s Cup?

Tanya--with an a,’ not an o--Harding pitches UCLA to the NCAA women’s softball championship?

Oscar De La Hoya and Rafael Ruelas go the distance, end in a draw and get to do it all over again?

Maybe. But it’s even more likely that we also have not heard the last of Donald Fehr and Bud Selig, Bruce McNall and Darryl Strawberry, Maradona and Dennis Rodman, Georgia Frontiere and Jerry Jones, etc., etc.

Until then, smile.

Happy Easter. Happy Passover.