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Friday’s Foaming Rant: Printing the legend
"Sports could go down the road of the performance principle, where all that matters is success, by whatever means, at what cost. If we continue on that track, sports will become spectacle; and some people like that. But I think most of us who love sports will lose interest in it."
— Thomas Murray, a bioethicist at the Hastings Center think tank and chairman of WADA's Ethical Issues Review Panel, in a story on ESPN.com
Wave bye-bye, Thomas old boy. Sport — our sport, anyway — has already raced down that long and winding road, driven by a superhuman pair of legs powered by a godlike cardiovascular system, the best money can buy. And I’ll bet you a six-pack of Spanish human growth hormone that a million pop-eyed fans will still be lining the 21 switchbacks of L’Alpe d’Huez on July 18, if only to see which doper has the best doctor.
Who needs sport when spectacle is for sale? It’s like reading somber old William F. Buckley when TV delivers Rush Limbaugh jacking his jaw with a bellyful of Viagra (see, without Viagra, he’d be this little-bitty, droopy dude).
Same goes for cycling. It’s not enough that Joe Pro be able to climb La Toussuire faster than we mere mortals — he has to do it in the big ring, after the Col du Galibier, the Col de la Croix de Fer and the Col du Mollard, with three broken bones, a cerebral aneurysm and a bunch of fellow medical mutants chasing him like he stole their stashes.
No, sir, we don’t need puny humans compromising the quality of our entertainment. Tyra Banks defending the integrity of her superstructure on UPN, si. Robert Byrd defending the integrity of the Constitution on C-Span, no.
Thoughts such as these can be distressing for members of the reality-based community, who are more concerned about the boobs running the country than the, um, assets Ms. Banks manages so successfully. And for long-suffering cycling fans, many of whom still cling endearingly to belief in the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and Tyler Hamilton, any further evidence that their heroes take more shit than Keith Richards may be what finally drives these innocents to trade their bikes for golf clubs (Phil Mickelson is distressingly human, as he demonstrated during the recent U.S. Open).
Indeed, as Operación Puerto continues to yield rotten fruit, thanks to a vigorous tree-shaking by the Spanish media, it seems painfully obvious that our beloved sport is home to more dopers than a Rainbow Family gathering.
All appearances to the contrary, we in the cycling press don’t like this bitter harvest any better than you do. Some doubt our genuine enjoyment of the sport, suggesting that cycling scribes are cynical PR flacks who (a) generate controversy in order to sell ads and subscriptions, or (b) suppress controversy in order to sell ads and subscriptions. Neither is strictly true, although there are days when we wish Tyra Banks raced for Victory Brewing, if only for the skinsuit pix from Graham Watson.
The truth is, we’re sportswriters. Fans, just like you, but with better laptops and expense-account bar tabs. Sure, we want the facts — but we also want to believe these guys when they tell us they’re clean, the same way you want to believe your cousin when he tells you he works for the United Way and to forget all about the sawed-off shotgun and stocking mask you found in the trunk of his car, under that big sack of cash.
Our idea of a good day's work is watching an exciting race, then lobbing the victor a few softball questions:
Reporter: So how’s it feel to win?
Racer: Better than losing.
But lately, instead of chilling in the VIP tent at the Victoria’s Secret Team Time Trial, we squat in our cheerless offices, translating Spanish police reports from French into English and pitching beanballs . . .
Reporter: Nice tracks there, Smacky. Y’know, if you save the amphetamines for last, you’ll have a steadier hand with the old iron butterfly. That polka-dot motif looks less like the mountains jersey and more like probable cause, if we were in Compton instead of Carcassone. Do you even bother to train anymore?
Racer: I have never tested positive. But my attorney has. For rabies.
And now comes word that Jan Ullrich, Ivan Basso, Francisco Mancebo, and Oscar Sevilla have been ejected from the Tour. Three of last year’s top five will watch the race on TV. That’s assuming there is a race, of course. It seems more ousters can be expected.
If this Tour actually starts as scheduled on Saturday and manages to limp all the way to the Champs-Elysées on July 23, the results will be stamped with an asterisk the size of the Place de la Concorde. In the meantime, my colleagues in France seem fated to spend the next three weeks playing hardball, asking the tough questions that none of us — athletes, journalists or fans —really wants answered.
"When the legend becomes fact, print the legend," said Carleton Young, playing Maxwell Scott in "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance."
Seems we’ve been printing the legend. And now, as in 1998, it’s time for a few unpleasant facts.
As Tour director Christian Prudhomme told Sam Abt: "There are so many names on the list, and so many of them are here."
Just the facts, ma’am? Or merely another disappointing fiction? Send your editorial review to webletters@insideinc.com. Include your full name, city and state/nation.
