Best Sports Can Be, Worst Sports Can See - All in 24 Hours

It’s amazing the kind of different emotions 24 hours can elicit – particularly in sports.

April 14, 2013 was a day that represented everything sports, and life for that matter, should be all about.

April 15, 2013 was a day that represented something completely opposite. Something that should be unthinkable, but here we are thinking about it. Something so ghastly, so horrific it seems like it should only exist in a nightmare or a really bad action movie.

The final round of the Masters Tournament on Sunday afternoon was a sports fan’s euphoria.

You had about 10 different golfers with a decent chance of victory, great stories (like the three Australians: Adam Scott, Jason Day and Marc Leishman, trying to win the nation’s first Masters and Tiger Woods still attempting to win his first major in five years), great characters (Angel Cabrera, who’s the everyman golfer, and past champion, affectionately called “El Pato” or “The Duck” for his waddling gait) and a leaderboard that wouldn’t stand pat for more than 10 minutes at a time with golfer after golfer making a run to the top, only to fall back down to the rest of the oncoming pack.

Like so many Augusta Sundays before this year’s Masters was the definition of nerve-wracking. Even though I’d see many a close Final Round Sunday before this one seemed to be the tops, the best, the most nail-biting … particularly when it came down to the 18th and final hole and the ensuing two-hole, sudden-death playoff for the coveted Green Jacket, one of sport’s most enchanting and visible honors. Adam Scott, one of the game’s best without a major championship, and Angel Cabrera, a former Masters and U.S. Open champ who seems to step up his game when the trophy’s mean the most, went mano-a-mano and hit some of the best and most beautiful golf shots that you’ll ever see – and all of this with incredible pressure on their backs. The final holes and sudden-death playoff at the Masters this year was among the most intense sporting moments I’d ever witnessed – the kind of good intense where you’re heart beats rapidly, like when you experience your first kiss. In the end, Scott made two incredible putts that fell in and Cabrera made a few equally incredible shots that just missed. I, admittedly, was rooting (and very hard, in fact) for Cabrera so a slight disappointment crept over me, but it vanished almost immediately as it set it, because this tournament, these last few holes were just too damn good to feel upset about.

And, then after all the shots had been hit for the weekend and just before the patrons shuffled to their cars to head home came the moment that truly summed it all up – the moment that represents everything sports and life should be all about. Cabrera doffed his hat, walked over to a celebrating Scott and the Argentine, who doesn’t speak much English, if any, embraced the newly crowned Aussie champion in a hug. It was a moment where two warriors of the ultimate gentleman’s game showed what true class and sportsmanship is all about. Grace both on and off the golf course – fitting for Augusta, fitting for the sport, fitting for the world.    

The final round of this year’s Masters was truly magical – something I won’t soon forget – something that I’ll go out on a limb and say won’t be topped by any other sporting event this entire year, as far as sheer excitement goes.            

Magic sometimes vanishes as quickly as it appears.

Monday morning started off glorious for those competing in the 117^th Boston Marathon, one of the world’s oldest and most prestigious marathons. From explanations given by participants both in the marathon and within the marathon community – this event is one of true communal spirit and celebration, ideals that should pervade throughout the sports world.

It was going to be a good day – then came 2:50 p.m. Boston time. Two bomb blasts, 15 seconds and reportedly about 550 feet apart, ripped through the celebration right where spectators gathered near the finish line cheering on family and friends. Billowing smoke filled the sunny skies and an appalling amount of blood covered the ground – something that undoubtedly and unfortunately will remain embedded in my memory for as long, if not longer, than those enchanting golf shots from the day before. The nightmarish image on television couldn’t even possibly measure up to the scenes experienced by those at Copley Square, where the bombings took place.  The lives that are changed forever now – whether dead, maimed, only slightly injured or just witnesses of the horror.

 

We all knew it could happen. After 9/11, I know it sounds cliché to bring up every time something incredibly tragic happens, but it’s our generation’s tragedy measuring stick, we knew that sporting events – whether large or small – could be targeted for terrorist attacks, either foreign or domestic. Surely it was bound to happen. But, in the almost dozen years since 9/11 there hadn’t been any tragic incidents at sporting events involving terrorism in this country. Maybe that’s why the bombing of the Boston Marathon seemed so surprising, so out-of-the-blue, so heinous. Maybe we had told ourselves it wouldn’t happen here – it wouldn’t happen someplace where people gathered for celebration, for enjoyment, for relaxation from their everyday lives. Maybe they would only target high rises and government building and monuments.

That was too naïve.

The evil want to inflict maximum pain and joyous occasions turning to chaotic terror accomplishes that. Whoever did this to the Boston Marathon, to this country, to the world – may they be brought to justice – essentially made a sport out of terror. They took something that many hold as sacred and destroyed it, but only for a little while. Sports fans, Americans, most of the world’s people are resilient. We won’t forget, but we’ll experience that joy again.  

Whoever did this turned a sporting event into a catastrophic news event. They brought sadness and pain to where joy and comfort belong.                   

The best thing sports could be took place on Sunday afternoon. The worst thing sports could see took place on Monday afternoon. Thank God when it comes to sports there’s an awful lot more Sundays than Mondays.