PARIS—It’s not fair. I followed the rules. So why am I the one who feels cheated?
Tour de France director Christian Prudhomme, at the outset of this year’s race, was doing and saying all the right things to convince the casual sports fan that this was the year that the Tour would break free of the doping scandals that have diminished its reputation over the past ten years.
And then, the Italian star-in-the-making Riccardo Ricco, winner of two stages, holder of the Tour’s polka dot jersey (top-ranked climber) and white jersey (top-ranked rider under 25), a popular rider with a decent chance of finding himself on the podium next weekend in Paris, flunked a drug test. He was later charged by the French gendarmerie with possession of a controlled substance.
And so here we go again. Guess we know why Ricco was so fast in the Pyrenees. (more…)
PARIS—The withdrawal symptoms have graciously abated. It’s been twelve days since I went cold turkey on international football. I’ve been following the advice of my doctor, taking each day as it comes, and keeping in mind that—however strong I might feel in the weeks and months and years to come—it would take me just a careless channel-flick past an ESPN Classic broadcast of the 1970 West Germany-Italy match to fall off the wagon.
Like a smoker who succeeds in quitting, only to find himself addicted to a replacement crutch, Diet Coke or chewing gum or coffee, I’ve found a new fix: the Tour de France. I’ve never been much of a cycling fan, but then again I’ve never lived in France until this year. When I mentioned the other day to an old friend that I was excited for this year’s Tour and he replied, “Oh, yeah, you always loved watching that back in the day” (not true), I realized that my sports obsessions are fertile ground for all kinds of dangerous revisionist history.
For the record, I’ve never:
1. Bet an unborn child of mine on the result of a Kansas City Royals spring training baseball game.
2. Won the New York marathon by cleverly riding the entire race in a yellow taxi cab to within twenty metres of the finish line (as if I’d have the kind of money to pay for a scheme like that—twenty-six miles is a hell of a fare!). (more…)
PARIS—If you play your sport of choice on grass, or on turf, or indoors, or on asphalt, you can usually handle a little precipitation. If it rains, you soldier on and finish what you started. (Usually, yes, but certainly not always.)
But tennis on wet clay? Not so much. (more…)
PARIS—Whoever proclaimed this a city of cool, hip, even-tempered sophisticates (um, that was probably me) obviously had yet to attend a football match alongside the inflamed ultras of Paris Saint-Germain. Well, I’m a PSG virgin no longer, and will wholeheartedly concede that the rowdy fans of the local sports team can lose their minds with the best of them.
Normally, a late-season game between two of a league’s bottomfeeders, in this case Paris and Racing Club de Strasbourg of France’s Ligue 1, holds little significance. Or at least, this was my impression, having been brought up in the world of antitrust-exempt North American sports (really, what’s more sporting than a competition-free business model? Freedom, baby—whoo!). (more…)
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