It’s All a Matter of Perspective . . .


Every so often, I feel the urge to revive a literary device of the late, great Jimmy Cannon. He called it “Nobody asked me but . . .” and it was cathartic for him. Also, gave him the day off. Good enough for that Jimmy, good enough for this one. Nobody asked me either, but . . .

No matter what time you return to your hotel room during the day, the maid will be there cleaning the room.

All Tiger Woods has to do to top himself is win the Grand Slam--the Masters, U.S. Open, British Open and PGA Championship in the same year. The fact that nobody ever has shouldn’t bother him. He’s already done lots of things nobody ever has.


Are Bill Cowher and Dave Wannstedt the same person? If not, which is which?

Also, which ones are the Jacksonville Jaguars and which the Carolina Panthers? Or is it the Carolina Jaguars and the--oh, never mind.

I find it hard to root for anybody with that long-shafted putter. I feel like yelling, “Miss it like a man, for cryin’ out loud!”

I never thought I’d ever root for the New York Yankees, but when they play the Cleveland Indians, I do.

I wish the U.S. Open were anywhere but Washington. I had a great-uncle, my grandfather’s brother, who died of heatstroke building a railroad, but I’m damned if I want to do it watching guys putt.

Does anybody besides me notice network television is becoming all promos and commercials?

I know why they call Karl Malone the “Mailman.” Because he walks a lot. With the ball. On the other hand, doesn’t everybody?

There are 365 days a year, but ever notice how two events you absolutely must attend fall on the same day?


Seem to you there were an awful lot of empty seats in the crowd shots of opening day in baseball?

Is everyone in the Dominican Republic a major league-caliber baseball player?

I make Captain Bodgit odds-on to win the Kentucky Derby and even money to be the 12th Triple Crown winner in history. I’m happy for Alex Solis.

Bert Sugar’s a fight man, but he has written a good baseball book, “The Great Baseball Players From McGraw to Mantle.” In 1956, Dale Long hit home runs in eight consecutive games. So, they tore up his old contract and gave him a new one. For $16,500 a year. Albert Belle makes that in half a day.

I don’t hold with the guys who say Mike Tyson will never fight Evander Holyfield again. Tyson would fight a Doberman pinscher for $20 million. So would you.

You know you’re in big trouble when your wife says, “We have to talk.”

I don’t know whether the SuperSonics’ Shawn Kemp drinks too much as charged, but I always remember what President Lincoln said when he was told Gen. Grant drank too much. “Find out what he’s drinking and serve it to the rest of my generals.”

If Wayne Lukas isn’t in the Kentucky Derby, is it official?

Whatever happened to Andre Agassi? As if I care.

Somehow I’m glad Albert Belle wasn’t traded to Colorado. The ball doesn’t curve much a mile up. But it carries a lot. Tiger Woods would have trouble keeping it in the state.


Jim Carrey makes me nervous. But then so does Sharon Stone.

Roberto Clemente might have been, pound for pound, or play for play, the best ballplayer I ever saw. I don’t ever remember his making an error or throwing to the wrong base. He swung at a lot of bad pitches. Trouble was, he hit them.

Reggie Jackson was the most approachable superstar I ever saw.

Joe DiMaggio was the most graceful athlete I ever saw in the outfield. Willie Mays was more exciting, but Mays, on the track of a long drive, made it look like Dempsey vs. Firpo out there. DiMaggio would be waiting for it.

Jackie Robinson would have made a great point guard if he came up in a different era.

I found “The English Patient” confusing.

The life of John Barrymore is a big Broadway hit. No living man knew John Barrymore better than my friend, Will Fowler.

What makes anybody think I’d go to a movie starring a snake?

I like to get a human being when I make a phone call. For one thing, I have no idea what a “pound key” is or where it is on the phone dial. If there’s anything to evolution, by the year 3000 we’ll all look like the Tin Man from Oz.

Why don’t they write songs like “Moonlight and Roses” anymore? Or anything by Berlin?

I think I better leave now before they want to put me in the Smithsonian.