A Tigers fan reflects: It's easier to take a sweep, but the sting will linger

This is a different kind of pain, a different type of agony.

Just over two weeks ago, I wrote about the end to the Washington Nationals' season — a gut-wrenching conclusion so unpredictable, so cruel in its execution that it left me, and thousands of others inside the ballpark on the night their season came crashing down, stunned, listless and, frankly, heartbroken. That's what happens when you're twice a strike away from advancing in the playoffs but end up losing, giving up a 6-0 lead.

Last night, the Detroit Tigers also relinquished a lead — except that it was the only lead they had during a 37-inning series. They went from being absolutely dominant and unbeatable against the freakin' New York Yankees — turning the great franchise into an embarrassment and relegating $100-million man Alex Rodriguez to a bit bench player — to lifeless against a San Francisco Giants team made up mostly of no-name overachievers. The Tigers went from outscoring the vaunted Yankees 19-6 to being dominated by the third-best regular-season team in the National League, 16-6.

Manager Jim Leyland didn't mince words, grunting, "(They) kicked our ass."

Leyland couldn't have lauded the Giants more after the final nail had been drilled into the Tigers' coffin. You lose four in a row, you're not the better team, he said. Still, he added, "I’m flabbergasted."

So am I. So is Tigers nation. Not even heartbroken, to be honest. Rather, stunned, shocked, appalled, and ... flabbergasted.

How does a team anchored by Triple Crown winner Miguel Cabrera and Prince Fielder hit .159 over the course of four games and score six runs — the third-lowest output by an American League team in World Series history?

How does that Cabrera-Fielder tandem go 4-for-27 (.148), with Fielder hitting 1-for-14 and hitting into two deflating double plays in each home game of the series?

“We never find our game,” Cabrera said. “We never play our best baseball. … It was not the right way to finish. WE try to. WE try hard. But we never find our game.”

That's the cruel truth about our nation's pastime (sorry, football). You can play your absolute hardest. You can put forth maximum effort. You can watch all the film in the world. You can tweak your lineup a thousand ways ... but sometimes, you just can't hit. 

The Tigers picked the worst, most tear-jerking time to stop hitting.

Think about this — in what other sport, do the best teams so rarely end up winning the championship? You would think a 162-game season would mean something come the playoffs, but it doesn't. The Nationals had the best record in the Bigs and blew that lead against the Cardinals. The Reds had the second-best record and couldn't win a single home game in three tries against the Giants. This is more the norm than an anomaly.

Can you imagine the Miami Heat doing that? The baseball postseason is as unpredictable and nutty as the NFL playoffs, except consumed in multiple-game bites. So even nuttier.

There is no doubt that it's easier to get over a sweep than losing a Game 5 or Game 7 in the ninth inning. It's easier to chalk up to, "They were the better team. We stunk." As Leyland reiterated in the Game 4 aftermath, if the Tigers had lost in a rubber game on some fluky play, they could have lamented, "We were the better team." They could have spent days thinking, 'What if.'"

There are 'What ifs?' to take from this sweep, such as: A) What if Fielder doesn't try for home in Game 2 with none out in the second inning?; B) What if Cabrera doesn't pop out with the bases loaded — after Quintin Berry struck out with the bases loaded — in Game 3; C) What if Jhonny Peralta's Game 4 fly ball isn't pushed back and made catchable by the winds? But I find myself uninspired in typing these questions, knowing that this was still a four-game butt-whoopin'. 

Still, it's hard to move on. It's difficult to fathom that just 10 days ago Tigers fans were on Cloud Nine, having put a hitting clinic together against Yankees ace C.C. Sabathia. If the Tigers could put up eight runs in a game started by the left-hander with the dominant postseason resume, surely they could score three or four against the Giants' solid but not dominant staff, right? I was more scared of the Cardinals and their penchant for the impossible — after last year's World Series and witnessing first-hand the improbable comeback at Nationals Park.

The sense of excitement only grew when the National League Championship Series extended to six, then seven games. While the Tigers' starting rotation was set, the winner of the NLCS winner would have to start their series with the lower end of their rotation. Advantage Tigers, right? 

But then the Series finally started, Justin Verlander couldn't keep Pablo Sandoval in the park, and the Giants seized Game 1, 8-3 behind rejuvenated Barry Zito. The Tigers' bats became even more silent the next night, and the result was 2-0. The score didn't change two nights later despite the location and time zone change, as the Giants notched the first consecutive World Series shutouts since 1966. 

I didn't give up hope, though. Mainly because I had seen the Tigers finish off the A's in a must-win Game 5 and then seen them play so well against the Yankees, I tricked myself into thinking the first-ever World Series comeback from down 3-0 was possible. After all, "momentum" isn't as strong in baseball as it is in, say, basketball. One fluky play here, one dropped ball there, and a series can change instantly. One win would mean another start for Verlander, who you could tell was itching to get another shot at Pablo and the Giants. A Verlander outing like his Game 5 Oakland performance would return the series to San Francisco. And from there, you never know. Home-field advantage in baseball isn't much of a deal.

Late Saturday night, I wrote on my Facebook wall: "I know I'll sound redic, but I actually think the Tigers will come back to win four straight (yes, I'm insane)." Surprisingly, two friends responded. One even punched out this scenario: "max (Scherzer) throws 15ks tonight. verlander. furious after his last outing, dominates. fister does his thing ... and we're back in it" before adding, "yeah, i'm probably delusional too." 

But that's the power of sports. It allows you to believe. It gives you hope that incredible things are possible. This belief, this hope, comes from the games, the series, the moments we've seen. If the St. Louis Cardinals could make that incredible, gut-wrenching comeback against the Nationals, why couldn't the Tigers make this a series?

In the end, my hope — our hope — ran up against a solid, brick wall exemplified by the Giants' defense. In the postseason, a misplay in the field can make the difference, and while the Tigers weren't bad defensively, they failed to make plays. Cabrera was handcuffed by a roller down the line. Austin Jackson let a ball roll past him in Game 3. The Giants, meanwhile, made every single play. When a ball bounced off pitcher Matt Cain's glove Sunday night, shortstop Brandon Crawford didn't miss a beat in bare-handing it and firing the ball to beat a sliding Berry at first base. 

The Giants, as a team, were perfect on defense, were dominant from the pitching mound, and provided timely hitting. The Tigers were not.

That truth makes the outcome sting just a little bit less, not that it won't linger.

A witness to gut-wrenching sports history — 10.12.12, Nationals Park

I will never forget last night. 

Just like I will never forget the afternoon of Saturday, Sept. 1, 2007. Yes, Michigan fans, that was the afternoon when a small college from the North Carolina mountains whose pronunciation couldn't be agreed upon — you say "Appal-A-chian," I say "Appal-atch-ian" — came into the "Big House" and, in front of 100,000-plus decked out in Maize and Blue, stunned the mighty Michigan Wolverines.

The deathly silence that overtook Michigan Stadium — save for that tiny swath of screaming, incredulous fans of the small school — is forever entrenched in my sports memory bank.

And until last night, the 12th of October, 2012, it was the most salient memory, the most vivid — and heartbreaking — game I'd ever sat, or stood, in a sporting arena or stadium for.

The 2012 St. Louis Cardinals, winners of 11 World Series — the most by any team if you're excluding the Damn Yankees — are a little more well known than the '07 App State Mountaineers, although I'd argue that the average casual baseball fan probably had no clue who Pete Kozma was before these playoffs.

Last night, these Cardinals tore the hearts out of most of the Nationals Park attendance record of 45,966 patrons, almost all clad in red, waving red Nats towels, cheering their hearts out, standing up for every single two-strike pitch, for every Nationals batter with a runner on base. 

By now, I'm sure, you know the numbers, you know the historical significance of the night, such as that:

— Down 6-0 in the fourth inning, the Cardinals' comeback for a 9-7 win was the largest EVER in a winner-take-all playoff game. Baseball has been around a LONG time.

— The Cardinals had two batters down to their final strike of the season. They saw five pitches. They both, somehow, were able to hold off from swinging. They both drew walks.

I sat in Section 136, row DD, seat 20. For more than three hours, the hometown Nationals had held the lead, had been in position to win their first playoff series since moving to the District from Montreal in 2005, had been poised for another champagne celebration — this time just four wins from the World freakin' series. 

In the third inning, after Michael Morse, "Beat Mode," crushed the Nats' third home run of the game, the home team led 6-0, the Cardinals' playoff maestro Adam Wainwright was heading for the showers, and I took the opportunity to escape my seat and skip up the aisle, taking two stairs at a time, headed for the bathroom. On the concourse, everyone was delirious. Forget that it was the third inning, that the Cardinals still had 18 outs to spare — there was, simply, no way this wasn't going to be the greatest night of baseball in the nation's capital since, what, 1933? I ran into my friend Stefan and we, instinctively, bear-hugged. This was awesome! Incredible! Amazing! We ran out of superlatives and parted ways.

From that moment on, the Park calmed down, but only a little. Sure, Nationals Cy Young candidate Gio Gonzalez struggled with his control, the Cardinals chipped away, and the Nationals failed to create any more offense. But I couldn't lose the feeling that this game's conclusion was inevitable, that before the clock struck midnight I would be hugging and high-fiving the group of fans around me in a euphoric moment. I pictured the last pitch, the last out, the crowd's reaction. Even as the Cardinals inched closer, gaining a run on Edwin Jackson in the seventh and Tyler Clippard in the eighth, I pictured that final out and the celebration to follow. 

Not once did I believe the Cardinals would actually come all the way back. Was it possible? Of course. Crazier things had happened. Shoot, just a year ago many of these same Birds had pulled off the most improbable of World Series comebacks. David Freese, the unforgettable hero of that night in  St. Louis, was in the lineup. Even as all the fans around me, myself included, asked why, oh why, wouldn't Davey Johnson pinch hit for the struggling Danny Espinosa with the sure-contact hitter Steve Lombardozzi in the bottom of the eighth with runners on first and third and one out and Espinosa, sure enough, proceeded to pop out ... even as that happened, I was looking ahead, anticipating three more outs. 

When Kurt Suzuki poked a two-out RBI single to give the Nationals that proverbial insurance run, the ballpark erupted for what seemed like the millionth time of the night. Hands were slapped. Fists were pounded. Everybody was on their feet. The woman to the left of my friend Jeremy and me showed us her phone. It read "47 degrees." But nobody was cold. Too much excitement, too much anticipation, warmed the late-night air. This was the night the Nationals had played 162 regular-season games, 98 of them wins, for. At least until the pending NLCS, of course.

Minutes later, Drew Storen jogged to the mound from the right-field bullpen, right in front of us, his eyes bearing a steely focus, staring straight ahead. Not a soul in any section around us was sitting. Storen had been rock-solid of late, as fresh as anyone on the Nationals roster because his season hadn't begun until July 19 following elbow surgery. Down the stretch of the regular season, he had reclaimed his role as closer from Clippard. In the Nats' Game 1 win, he shut down the Cardinals 1-2-3. In the win-or-go-home Game 4, he pitched the scoreless ninth that preceded Jayson Werth's memorable, 13-pitch-at-bat walkoff bomb. 

There was no reason to believe Storen wouldn't put the finishing touches on this magical night in DC, wouldn't send the defending world champions home and book the flight to the District for the Giants, the NLCS opponent in waiting. 

Carlos Beltran led off with a double to center field. Anxiety showed on the faces of everyone around me. Still, there was no lack of belief, there was no doomsday talk — especially after Matt Holliday weakly grounded Storen's next pitch to the Nationals' longest tenured player, sure-handed third baseman Ryan Zimmerman.

The crowd roared. Two fingers shot up in the cool, crisp air all around me. Two outs to go. 

Storen worked the count on cleanup hitter Allen Craig to 2-2. Craig wasn't in the Cardinals' lineup a year ago. His spot was occupied by the great Albert Pujols. Now that guy's presence might have frightened me, might have made fans cross their fingers. But not Craig's. He whiffed at a nasty, signature Storen slider in the dirt. Strike three.

The crowd around me erupted, waving those red towels almost violently, sensing the kill, ready for that moment they'd come to the park more than three hours ago hoping for. Single fingers were pointed toward the sky. No, there wasn't a shooting star. No, there wasn't a full moon. Just as good, this team, this franchise mired in losing for so long, was on the brink. 

The bandbox only got louder after a foul ball made the count 2-2 on Yadier Molina. One. More. Strike. The Cardinals' big-hitting catcher almost — almost — committed to the next pitch low and away. How he held up, in that situation, is an incredible feat in itself. It's why he's one of the best hitters in the game today. And then he watched another pitch just miss — this time a tad high. 

"Not Freese," I said to the loquacious man decked out in red a row below me. Before the inning, we had discussed the possibility of the situation. Freese, the man as clutch as they come, in the batter's box with the game on the line. My voice had expressed nervousness, but I still inwardly couldn't comprehend anything other than the end result I had expected ever since that three-run barrage on Wainwright's first seven pitches of the game, and especially following Bryce Harper's crush job to the right field seats in the third followed by Morse's bomb to left. 

Storen worked two Freese foul balls sandwiched around a ball, and, again, we were one strike away. One freakin' strike. Again, towels were waved ferociously. The cheerleader guy who was working his 84th home game of the season ran back and forth yelling and waving 30 rows below us, exhorting the fans to, somehow, reach a new decibel level.

Ball three.

Ball four.

The stadium gasped, but quickly caught its breath. The Nationals were still ahead.

But before I could even process the situation and assure myself that this ending would just make the Nationals' playoff run that more memorable — who remembers a 6-0 game? — David Descalso laced Storen's first offering up the middle. Ian Desmond, Washington's best player in these playoffs and arguably the top shortstop in the National League after a stellar season, got a glove on the searing ball but couldn't stop it from rolling into center field. Cardinals pinch runner Adron Chambers easily followed Beltran home. 

The unthinkable had happened. The game was tied. And 45,966 were stunned, but not silent. After all, we had the bottom of the ninth. And we had that Werth guy coming up, followed by that Harper guy, then that Zimmerman guy. They'd each hit a home run over the previous nine innings. Yeah, this is crazy, but how un-freakin'-forgettable would back-to-back walk-off wins be for this team new to the playoffs, new to the big stage, be?

And that's when the dagger was inserted into us, when the stadium went deathly, disturbingly silent. Kozma, the no-name, fill-in shortstop for the injured Rafael Furcal had punched a shallow line drive to right field in front of the charging Werth. Two runs had scored. The 'board in center field read 9-7. There was no looking away.

For seemingly forever, I had never doubted the game's result. Sure, these were the never-die-easily Cardinals — now winners of six consecutive elimination games — but they were facing a team that had overcome plenty of odds itself, a team that had dealt with so many injuries, a team that had taken the ball from its ace — the right move, by the way — in September and taken heat from all corners of the universe for it. And still won a Major League-best 98 games. 

Shock was the only feeling that could be felt. Not anger, no. Not sadness, no. Shock. Utter shock. 

What had just happened? And why? Why were sports so cruel?

The game wasn't over, but it was. The balloon had been mercilessly popped. Werth flied out to right field on the third pitch of his at bat. Harper looked like a 19-year-old for the first time of the night, striking out on three pitches. Zimmerman provided a little more resistance against flame-throwing Cardinals closer Jason Motte, but on the sixth pitch of the at bat hit a morbid popout to the shallow right-field grass not far from our seats. 

And that, just like that, was it. The three middle-aged guys to my right who had walked in front of us at least nine times to make beer runs couldn't have been more sober. It was the ultimate sobering moment, the moment when you, as a baseball fan — as someone who has closely followed a team since February, since pitchers and catchers reported — realize that it's all over. That there will be no more games, no next round. 

The sports world moves so fast these days. It's always onto the next game, the next season. One day, a championship is won; the next, preseason rankings for the following year are out. Moments are quickly forgotten. Questions are asked prematurely. Blame is placed too soon. 

As 1 a.m. approached, it didn't feel right to leave the stadium, to make a quick exit among the hordes of angry, sad, shellshocked patrons. It didn't feel right to move onto an activity other than watching a baseball game. Much the same way as I had sat on the bench in Michigan Stadium a little over five years prior, I found a seat — this one in Section 138 — and stared at the empty seats. The only noise came from across the field, where maybe 50 Cardinals fans behind the visitor's dugout were serenading their heroes with raucous applause.

Full disclosure: I am not a "die-hard" Nationals fan. This isn't my team. I'm from Michigan and will always be a Detroit Tigers fan. So I had a game to look forward to in 19 hours. The Tigers would be taking on those Damn Yanks in Game 1 of the ALCS. But at that moment, and still a day later, I didn't want to move on, I couldn't. Living in DC, I had closely followed the Nationals for the better part of two seasons. With the Washington Post's and Associated Press' excellent sports coverage combined with attending more than a dozen regular-season games, I knew this team as well as I know the Tigers. So I would closely watch every pitch — until, of course, they played Detroit in the World Series. That was the hope, and I thought it would be just eight wins from fruition.

For that, I — and everyone else who followed and was enamored by this resilient bunch — will have to wait until 2013. And while there will be a new focus come the spring, a refreshed excitement about a baseball season anew, this night will never be forgotten by those of us who witnessed it.

For better. And then, ultimately, for worse.

Losing a battle to win the war? Not in badminton

If you haven't seen the video of some of the worst Olympic badminton ever played, it's worth 3 minutes of your time. It's startling how blatantly the Chinese and Korean teams are trying to fail — or don't want to exert energy — in their round-robin match in London. 

(In all, eight athletes representing three countries took part in the debauchery.)

The crowd rightfully booed them, and they were rightfully disqualified from the Games for such behavior. 

But us Americans shouldn't dismiss such an incident as such a bizarre occurrence in a sport that, at a professional level at least, is bizarre to us. 

After all, every year we witness intentional losing, in an effort to win later, at the highest levels of our most professional sports. Just not nearly as obvious. And impossible, really, to discipline.

Each spring, at least a handful of NBA teams call it a season and do the following in an unintentional effort to give themselves more lottery balls for the upcoming draft:

1) Sit "injured" players who would undoubtedly be in the lineup if a playoff berth were on the line.

2) Sit their best players to give the "young guys" some run, as if an early April game is really going to determine a player's roster position the next season. 

3) Simply not give a crap. 

Oh, and let's not forget the teams (err, Boston Celtics) that rest their players throughout a decent portion of the regular season to save them for the playoffs. Intentionally losing? Nope. But decreasing their chance at winning those games? Yep.

Moving to America's most popular sport, what do we say when a team has clinched home-field advantage and sits its entire first string offensive and defensive players in the last week — or even the final two weeks — of the NFL season. 

"Resting the starters."

It's a controversial decision in the media and alongside water coolers, but only because we can't agree on whether we like the tactic. The mixed results demonstrate that it's a hit-or-miss type deal.

But fine to do. I, for one, would love to see the Patriots (or whoever; I'm not picking on you, Belichick) "disqualified" from the playoffs for playing a real stinker with QB No. 2 in there Week 17.

Every day, a sports situation comes up where a losing play or a "resting" move is discussed. I applauded those very same Patriots for letting the Giants score a touchdown late in the Super Bowl. It gave them the best chance to win. While I didn't agree with the move, coach Mike Krzyzewski won his fourth national championship after he instructed center Brian Zoubek to intentionally miss a free throw in the 2010 title game against Butler (remember that classic?). 

Maybe the most similar "tanking" incident to "BadmintonGate" occurred in my favorite sport of tennis. In 1980, the great Ivan Lendl lost a quickie set to Jimmy Connors so he could gain an easier draw in the round-robin tournament (thankfully, all ATP events are now single-elimination). 

Lendl's punishment?

He had to deal with Connors calling him "chicken."

If you have watched the video by now, it's pretty clear that nothing in American sports — at least as far as my mind stretches — comes within 12 badminton courts of being as egregious and ridiculous as that display of giving up was. I don't pretend to know the sport, but even I know that was some awful badminton by the world's best.

So there's no defending the competitors' actions.

However, there's also no supporting a round-robin format that implicitly encourages such a thing. Unless you place teams or individuals in situations where losing has little to no benefits, there will always be, at some level, a small temptation to lose or not try as hard — which, let's be honest, at the highest level of competition is tantamount to throwing up the white flag. 

I put this into tennis terms to try to gain some semblance of understanding the players' ludicrous actions. What if, in a round-robin format, Juan Martin del Potro could lose a match and face Andy Murray instead of Rafael Nadal? And let's say this was a year ago, before Murray came ohsoclose to winning his first major? 

Not to pick on Murray, but what if Roger Federer could drop a match intentionally —yes, the Greatest of All Time — and play the Scotsman instead of Nadal or Novak Djokovic? 

I wouldn't ever anticipate such a happening, and there's no inane format, to my knowledge, that might encourage such an action.

Thankfully, badminton's international rules don't permeate American sports. But we all are aware that nuanced forms of losing or not giving 110 percent are a part of our sports landscape. 

Whether we care to admit it or not.

With best serve ever, Serena Williams will continue to win well into her 30s

Serena Williams has won so many Grand Slam titles, several of them in dominant fashion, that they all blend together like the blueberries, orange juice, hemp powder and spinach I mix when I decide a healthy breakfast is needed. 

The result is that there aren't too many moments that stand out, there aren't many stills that I can picture when thinking of her dominance in women's tennis.

I'm pretty sure, however, that a moment — or, rather, 49 seconds — from Williams' 6-1, 5-7, 6-2 Wimbledon final victory over Agnieszka Radwanska will last with me and many tennis fans for years to come.

It came in the pivotal third set, a set no one on this earth except, maybe, Radwanska thought possible after Williams exerted her power and will during a one-sided first set. Trailing 2-1, Williams stepped up to the baseline and dropped in a powerful serve.

Radwanska didn't move. 

Williams received a new ball from the ball boy or girl — I wasn't monitoring that too closely — and stepped to the ad side of the baseline and uncorked another enormous serve.

Radwanska barely twitched.

You get the point (or, more accurately, Williams grabbed four straight points without Radwanska coming close to making any kind of contact with the ball). The game had commentator and 18-time grand slam winner Chris Evert gushing from ESPN's box. It had other tennis greats wondering, via Twitter, if such a thing had EVER been done on the lady's tour (which, remember, has been around a long time — since Billie Jean King created it in 1973).

She might not admit it, but those 49 seconds, that sense of helplessness she must have felt on Centre Court, finally broke the very-game Radwanska. In the next game, Williams finally got the critical break of serve. She didn't come close to losing a game the rest of the way.

When Williams powered a final backhand winner to close out the match, she fell to the court in jubilation. It's easy for the casual sports fan to think that with those missile-sized biceps and athleticism, tennis and winning comes easy for Williams. 

They're, of course, forgetting or ignoring all the obstacles she's overcome and how much work she's put into the sport that she loves and the opportunity to be the best of her generation on the one surface in life where she feels completely comfortable. 

Williams' fifth Wimbledon win matched her sister Venus' handful of championships and gave her 14 grand slam singles — just four shy of Evert and Navratilova's 18. Steffi Graf's 22 majors still seems untouchable. 

Williams is capable of eclipsing Evert and Navratilova's number even playing in her 30s, but more on that in a second. First, it needs to be mentioned why Williams was so emotional after the final ball had been hit in London. 

As polished as her tennis resume is, Williams' career has been bumpier than most Washington, DC roads (if you can't picture the comparison, come visit). Missing a pair of majors during the 2006 season due to a serious knee injury, falling completely out of the rankings and needing a wild card to compete at the U.S. Open couldn't have been easy for a seven-time major champion.

It was nothing compared to Williams' past two years. After a masterful performance at Wimbledon in 2010 — a tournament during which she didn't drop a set — Williams was again on top of the sport, No. 1 in the world.

Then, in a freak, accident, she cut her foot at a restaurant and needed 18 stitches. Still sidelined in early 2011, Williams confirmed she suffered hematoma and a pulmonory embolism while on a flight from New York to L.A. I won't get into the medical details, but the seriousness of the injury boils down to one sentence:

Serena Williams could have died from it.

Thankfully, Williams made a full recovery, returned to tennis almost a year after her world nearly shattered, and now here she is, today, a major champion again — the first 30-year-old grand slam women's winner since Navratilova 22 years ago.

Which brings me back to that serve.

Evert said blatantly that it's better than half of the serves on the men's tour. Williams easily set a Wimbledon women's record for aces, with over 100. Ask Radwanska about it.

And that serve — so precise every time, the ball reaching the same apex before Williams' racket thunders through it; poor ball — will allow Williams to remain a force on a weakened, who's-turn-is-it-today? women's tour for quite sometime. 

(Fun fact: Each of the past seven grand slam tournaments have been won by a different woman. On the men's side, there have only been four finalists!.)

Williams isn't the best mover on tour. Her net game leaves something to be desired. And she's not getting younger (although when asked during the trophy presentation if 30 is the new 20, she responded, "Oh my GOD, of course, hello!."). But with the best serve by a woman ever, with that ability to win games solely on her serve, Williams can continue to win majors — if not as smoothly as in 2010.

Then again, nothing has come easily for her since that last major. 

Which only makes celebrations like Saturday's that much more enjoyable and rewarding. 

I suspect we'll be seeing more of them for another handful of years.

Can Andy Murray deliver on the biggest of stages?

Andy Murray is only 25. If healthy, the Brit will likely play in dozens of more majors — well after the great Roger Federer has laced up his shoes for a final time. 

But 25 in tennis isn't 25 in baseball; Rafael Nadal, 26, and Novak Djokovic, 25, aren't going anywhere; and from somewhere, you have to figure, new young hotshots are close to bursting through on the tour to, at the very least, win a few big matches and put a scare into the big boys.

Which is why, this Wimbledon is Murray's LeBron James moment. 

(I promise: This won't be a post full of Murray-LeBron comparisons, because that would be nonsensical; a basketball and tennis player only have so much in common.)

With each major that Murray fails to win, the pressure only grows. By now, any tennis fan knows what's at stake — despite being the birthplace of tennis, Great Britain hasn't produced a Grand Slam winner since the great Fred Perry (eight titles) won at the All England Club in 1936. 

That's 76 years and counting.

Murray, at the moment, is the country's greatest — and lone — hope. Like LeBron (oops, rule broken), he's shouldered incredible pressure since emerging on tour about five years ago. Unlike LeBron, he can't take his talents to South Beach.

Rather, Murray is faced with the challenge of believing in himself against the world's best; of pushing himself to a place he's never been. The physical tools are there — the powerful serve, the consistent ground strokes, the ability to finish points at the net.

But to this point, Murray has wilted on the biggest of stages.

He's played in three Grand Slam finals and failed to win a set, succumbing to Federer twice and Djokovic once. He didn't show much life in any of the three matches. Similarly, he's lost in six major semifinals to the Big Three, and only once — in this year's Aussie Open, when he fell to Djokovic — has he pushed his opponent to the brink.

In Wednesday's quarterfinal victory (6-7, 7-6, 6-4, 7-6) over the "Little Beast" David Ferrer, Murray showed the type of resolve he'll absolutely need for the entirety of a match if he's to break through this weekend and win that elusive Grand Slam over Federer or Djokovic (first, of course, he has to face Jo-Wilfried Tsonga Friday in the semifinals). 

Murray displayed toughness, grit and a bounce-back ability that, to be frank, has usually been the separating factor between the Big Three (32 major titles between them) and him. 

After dropping the first set in a tiebreaker, which had me groaning, "Oh, typical Murray; can't win the big points," the Brit found himself down 5-2 in the second set tiebreaker. He stood two points from being down two sets against a player in Ferrer whose motor never slows down. 

Instead, Murray responded with aggressive shot-making to take the tiebreaker 8-6. Match on.

The third set appeared headed for yet another tiebreaker, but with Ferrer serving at 4-4, Murray unleashed a pair of killer groundstrokes to break the Spaniard then served out the set at love. 

Killer instinct.

Against an opponent like Ferrer, Murray knew there would be no easy final set, and the players battled back and forth until the usual London rain delay halted play at 4-4. Leading up to the stoppage, Murray showed the let's-get-this-done attitude that he's carried all tournament, not wasting a second between points and throwing 130-mph serves to the inside and wide of Ferrer.

He wasn't in the mood for messing around, even up a set. A couple rounds earlier, Murray had done the same thing to finish off Marcos Baghdatis just a couple minutes after an 11p.m. "curfew" to finish play for the day.

In the final set tiebreak — what else? — Murray used all the strength he had left in his body, firing back-to-back aces up the middle to take a 4-3 lead. Leading 5-4, he then set up match point brilliantly with an array of groundstrokes to Ferrer's baseline before a steaming forehand winner up the line.

A point later, Murray left no doubt with his third ace of the tiebreak. 

After 4 hours on Centre Court, Murray raised his hands in triumph, but only for a fleeting moment. He'll save any big celebrations for Sunday.

Can he do it? That answer is impossible to know.

But with the pressure not going anywhere, Murray, an avid boxing fan, has displayed signs this fortnight of the package of jabs he needs to bring to center stage if he's going to knock out one of the Big Three and be toasted in England for many fortnights to come.

We are a witness to the Golden Age of men's tennis

Novak Djokovic doesn't have an explanation for it.


When asked how and why he's able to play his best tennis in the absolute most critical moments — those match points for the other guys — he smiles and often shakes his head.


"There really isn't any rational explanation or a word that can describe what you're supposed to do when you're match points down or when you're losing or very close to losing," Djokovic said Tuesday after rallying from down two sets to one to defeat Jo Wilfried-Tsonga. "It's trying to be mentally tough and believing in your shots. So, I don't want to be wise now and say, 'OK, I know how to play when I'm match points down,' because I said, there's no explanation."


Several players on tour can hit the shots that Djokovic unleashed to stave off match point not once, not twice but four times — on the practice court. Or during the middle of matches on relatively inconsequential points. 


But how many guys can completely unleash their best forehands, their hardest backhands, and their most punishing overhead rallies when if they're off by just a few inches, they're done, their tournament is over?


Not many.


What the world's No. 1 ranked player did on Tuesday is called greatness. 


But he wasn't the only one to show an incredible will and fortitude at Roland Garros. On the same chilly, rain-threatening day, Roger Federer, the man of 16 grand slam titles, found himself down two sets to none against the powerful, spry Juan Del Potro. 


Surely the 30-year-old wouldn't have enough energy — wouldn't have the legs — to win three consecutive sets from the 23-year-old, right? Del Potro had clearly outplayed him, taking the first set 6-3 and the second in a tiebreaker. 


Time to let the young gun have one, right? (Although a 20-year-old Del Potro did shock Federer in the 2009 U.S. Open final.) 


Instead, as we've seen on so many occasions, the Greatest of All Time (GOAT) responded with equal portions of poise and tenacity, giving the match a 180-degree turn and cruising to three straight sets, 6-2, 6-0, 6-3.


Greatness.


It's not a word that should be tossed around. It should be reserved for the very best in sports. And right now, in men's tennis, we are so lucky to be witnessing it. In fact, we've been a witness to it for the past seven or so years — when Rafael Nadal, who is putting together the most dominant French Open in tournament history, joined Federer on the podium of tennis' best winners, just elevated a few feet above the rest of the lot.


And that's the thing. Yes, the Big Three as I'll call them — after all, that's the theme this NBA postseason — are all very good, right now, at tennis. At the X's and O's, if you will. 


Federer's serve. Djokovic's killer forehand and drop-shot ability. Nadal's lateral movement and penchant for reaching any ball. 


But a lot of guys on tour can do those things. Especially when you talk about the aging Federer, who has been written off by many tennis folks at different junctures during the past two years. 


What separates the trio of men who have 32 Grand Slam titles between them is an innate ability to do exactly what Djokovic and Federer did, in different fashions, to stay alive on the clay Tuesday — perform at their highest level when their backs are against the wall. 


Think of Jordan's 1998 game-winner. Think of the Cardinals' two, two-out rallies in last year's Fall Classic (a World Series that actually deserved the name.) Think of Eli Manning's last-minute Super Bowl heroics.


Federer, Nadal and Djokovic have come up that big on myriad occasions. When trying to think of a "choke" job by any of them, all that comes to mind is when Federer slapped that easy forehand into the net, giving Nadal the 2008 Wimbledon title in arguably the greatest match ever played. 


How else can you explain Federer making an unreal 28 consecutive Grand Slam quarterfinals? In other words, winning at least four matches at tennis' biggest tournaments for seven years running. 


Until a year and a half ago, this greatness was a trait only shared by Federer and Nadal. There was no other way to explain why the extremely talented and hard-working Djokovic, almost Nadal's age, had just one grand slam to his name. 


But then he found it — greatness — and matured in front of our eyes, becoming even more clutch in the biggest moments than we'd ever seen Federer or Nadal. His forehand winner against Federer in the 2010 U.S. Open semifinal, while facing match point, was fearless, the stuff of legends, and laid the groundwork for his three grand slam wins in 2011 followed by this year's epic Australian Open victory over Nadal.


Now, we get to see Federer-Djokovic, again, in Thursday's first French Open semifinal. 


We're so lucky.


In so many sports, we, as fans, love the upset. The unpredictability of it. The excitement that comes with the goliath being stoned down. But in tennis, I root for the Big Three to reach the final rounds and eventually face off against each other, because their greatness under pressure, their shotmaking ability, is unmatched. And it makes for incredible theater.


It's the Golden Age of men's tennis. And we should relish it while it lasts. 

Tim Duncan: The last great, never-talked-about superstar

Tim Duncan.

Ever heard of him? 

Four-time NBA champion. Three-time NBA Finals MVP. Two-time NBA MVP. 

Greatest. Power forward. Ever. (GPFE).

Ever heard the name?

As the ageless, wonderful, impossible-to-dislike San Antonio Spurs make this incredibly impressive run through the playoffs — seven wins, zero losses — I'm reminded that Tim Duncan is, indeed, still playing. And still playing very well.

At age 36, Duncan collected 19 points and 13 rebounds in the Spurs' comeback from down 24 points Saturday night to demoralize the Clippers in L.A., 96-86, and all but seal their advancement to the Western Conference Finals.

Which got me thinking, What Tim Duncan memories stand out to me? What games, what moments will I never forget about the NBA's GPFE.

I'll admit it — my memory is flawed. I don't have the gift of remembering specific plays from 10, 12 and 15 years ago. I'm no Bill Simmons and his encyclopedic NBA memory.

But I must have memories of a guy who's reached the pinnacle of professional basketball four times, right?

Still thinking...

And I've got nothing. 

(In fact, the one Spurs moment that I'll never forget is when Robert Horry hit that dagger 3-pointer to bury my Pistons in Game 5 of the 2005 Finals — by the way, the greatest never-talked-about Finals of the last 20-plus years.)

But no Tim Duncan memories come to mind. This from a 13-time All Star who is a career double-double (20.3 ppg, 11.3 rpg, 50.7 percent shooting). 

That speaks exactly to who Tim Duncan is, somehow, in this age of relentless, unapologetic media coverage; endless sound bites and highlights; and overexposure (see: Griffin, Blake).

The last great superstar under the radar. 

Even during the peak of his greatness, Duncan never received the bulk of the headlines (see — in chronological order — Iverson, Allen; O'Neal, Shaquille; Bryant, Kobe; McGrady, Tracy; Wade, Dwyane; Bryant, Kobe (again); Garnett, Kevin ...).

He just continued to produce stellar game after stellar game, banking in those 15-footers, grabbing every rebound within his reach, playing with that stoic demeanor whether up 20 or down 20 (a reflection of his steady coach Gregg Popovich).

And now, finishing his 15th season, Duncan is considered, unarguably, the best player to ever take the court at his position. And, I'd posit, a top-10 player of all time. 

All while avoiding the spotlight. 

We will never see another player like Duncan. No, I'm not referring to his actual game. There will be more power forwards banking in jumpers, spinning into the lane to hit jump hooks, and overcoming just average athleticism to be defensively rock solid to the tune of 12 all-defensive NBA awards.

No, I'm referring to Duncan's ability to avoid the spotlight. 

The current or future NBA superstar won't be able to slip through the cracks — they won't be able to avoid Twitter (except for a seven-Tweet experience in 2010). They'll be so overexposed that you'll come to think they're overrated just because of the attention they get (see, again: Griffin, Blake). 

Tim Duncan is a dinosaur. 

Now go watch his continued greatness before he's gone and completely forgotten — at least to the masses. 

If you don't know about the Washington Nationals, you will soon

Whether you're in North Bend, Oregon, or Augusta, Maine, you might have heard about what that kid Bryce Harper did last night. 


The Washington Nationals phenom threw a bat off a wall on the way to the clubhouse, and the bat didn't like it, caroming off the wall into Harper's face. Ten stitches later, he retook the field with a bloodied face.


What a brash, young fool!


You might have also tuned in last Sunday night and seen the kid steal home before the Phillies exerted their will during a 9-3, nationally televised thumping of the Nationals. 


So, if you live in the Bay Area or Gary, Indiana, what do you think of the Washington Nationals?


Well, you're entitled to your opinion, but from living just a couple miles from Nationals Park here in the District and from following the club even more closely than the team, you know, that I like — that would be my hometown Tigers — I can tell you that the Nationals are the present and future of baseball. 


The Nationals will be in the playoffs this year.


They'll likely be in the playoffs next year.


And they'll be in contention for the playoffs probably for the next decade.


No hyperbole here.


No other team can match what the Nationals have, assembled by the brash GM Mike Rizzo:


The best starting rotation in baseball — not a single starter older than 28 (that would be Edwin Jackson), with four of them 26 or younger.


A middle of the infield, in Ian Desmond and Danny Espinosa, which has struggled but is young and promising — Desmond is 26, Espinosa is 25.


And speaking of middles, a middle of the batting order in Ryan Zimmerman, Michael Morse, Jayson Werth and Adam LaRoche that packs plenty of punch — when healthy.


Oh, and that Harper kid.


(Not to mention what many consider to be one of the best farm systems in the game.)


And the Washington Nationals are winning now. This isn't, as many have posited, a team of the future, a team we'll see in contention two to three years from now. This is a team ready to win the division and compete in the playoffs this year. 


Consider this: The Nationals have been without their slugger Morse the entire year and their best hitter Zimmerman for the last few weeks. The Nationals lost Werth on Sunday for at least a couple months and were without LaRoche for almost a week. The Nationals haven't had their closer Drew Storen all season and lost Brad Lidge, their closer No. 2, a couple weeks back. The Nationals are scoring the 26th most runs in the majors.


The Nationals are 20-12 and in first place.


If these guys all get healthy, I have a hard time seeing the Nationals losing any particular game. In other words, if I were in Vegas and betting on baseball (don't worry; I've never been to the Vegas), I'd take the Nationals every time. 


Every night, a Nationals starter gives the team a chance to win. All the offense has to do is score three, maybe four runs. When they put up seven against the Reds last night, it was over — and 26-year-old Gio Gonzalez didn't even pitch that well, giving up two runs in five innings. By this rotation's standards, that's not a quality start.


When you have that luxury, a burden is lifted from the offense. There's not a pressure to score a certain amount of runs each game. Just do what you can do.


Enter Harper, a 19-year-old who doesn't seem to feel pressure or even realize he's in the big leagues. In his first game under the national spotlight, he only stole home, turned a single for any other major leaguer into a double, and made a diving catch in left field.


After the game, he wasn't at all fazed by the fact that Phillies starter Cole Hamels admitted to pegging him before that theft of home. 


Harper isn't a rising star — he's a star. He'll go through his struggles, like yesterday's 0-for-5, bat (err, face) bashing performance, but he'll get better, more mature and flat-out dangerous every time he's at bat or on the base paths. 


As people who know a lot more about baseball than I have opined, Harper isn't a hitter or a fielder, he's a "hellbent ball player." That ought to scare plenty of opposing teams. 


Speaking of scary, that's what the Nationals are. 


This is a team built perfectly for now, five years down the road and 10 years away. This is a team with an owner in Ted Lerner willing to spend, a GM in Mike Rizzo who's made the right moves, and a manager in Davey Johnson who's handling his hungry club the right way. 


Get used to seeing the Washington Nationals at the top of the standings, because they're not going anywhere anytime soon.

Why I struggle with my football fandom these days

Here's a disturbing statistic:

Of the San Diego Chargers 1994 Super Bowl team, eight players are dead before the age of 45.

Think about that. 

Disturbing.

This one isn't as exact, but I'm not exaggerating:

Almost every month, we hear a tragic story about a former NFL player taking his own life.

Disturbing. 

I'm just getting started. And so is the bounty-gate story, which continues to slam down on the New Orleans Saints with more force than any NFL hit you've ever gotten out of your seat about. 

Jonathan Vilma, whom I always heard was a classy, hard-working player who did things the right way, offered teammates $10,000 to take out Kurt Warner and/or Brett Favre. 

He was far from the only one. Here in Washington, the Redskins are being investigated for a bounty program. They're not the lone other team.

Sickening. 

And yet, despite everything that's come out about this troubled league, the American public eats it all up. That is why 365 days a year, we are inundated with NFL chatter. ESPN's Mike & Mike in the Morning radio show doesn't go a day without a segment on some NFL story. I'm not kidding. 

There hasn't been a SportsCenter in the last two years devoid of an NFL mention — and there won't be one anytime soon. ESPN now employs more NFL analysts than there are players in the league (slight exaggeration ... slight). 

The NFL Draft is on the verge of becoming a national holiday and will be a week, and then a month, before we know it...

There are certain things I love about football, and the NFL in particular. The game takes so much smarts. The average fan has no idea how many schemes and plays each player has to memorize. I certainly can't imagine having to remember all that while lining up across from a guy who wants to rip my head off. And when a play is executive by all 11 guys, it's a beautiful, harmonic thing to watch. 

Quarterback is the most difficult position in all of sports, and those at the top of the profession make it look easy. That's incredible, and a sports feat I'll always appreciate. 

And then there's the parity. No league has had more of it than the NFL, and it creates some great drama each season and particularly in the playoffs.

But, I'm sorry, that's not enough for me to be able to forgot about football's evils and just sit back as a fan and watch. 

Every week, we hear about more and more players involved in lawsuits against the league for not properly protecting them against concussions. Of course, Commissioner Roger Goodell has implemented strict measures to try to prevent players with concussions from playing, but there's nothing he can do from stopping concussions from initially happening (who knows if there's an evolutionary helmet out there that would make a noticeable difference).

As I've learned more about the traumatic effects this injury has on players soon after their careers are complete, I'm turned off. I can't just enjoy the players while they're on my TV screen and forget about them when they retire into a life of shrinking brain size, mental illness and, sadly, sometimes suicide. 

Other studies are widespread that simply detail the trauma caused by repetitive hitting from football — not even to the head. Again, this leads to players losing their minds after the glory days are over. 

Am I boycotting the NFL? Am I going to stop watching football completely? 

No. Absolutely not. I'm too big of a sports fan, too much of a lurch for drama, to do that. But now I watch and see the game through a different lens. I cringe each time I see a huge hit (often now illegal). I wonder how that hit might affect that player 10, 12 or 15 years from now. And I wonder how many of those hits were, just a few years ago, ordered up through bribery by the other team.

It's America's most popular sports league. And in the past 12 months, it has survived a protracted work stoppage, a bounty scandal (still ongoing), an increasing number of former player lawsuits and tragic deaths. 

It dominates our airwaves. 

But these days, I usually change the channel or hit mute. 

It's simply too much for me to stomach. 

NBA tanking: It's no exact science

Do you have writer's block? In need of an idea on a blog post to write? 

Simply turn on sports talk radio for a few minutes while driving back from a tennis match (or whatever you may be doing on a Friday evening), and you'll likely hear an opinion that you completely disagree with. 

Then start punching the keys.

Tonight, I got my inspiration from a couple of buffoons on ESPN Radio who kept talking about the issue of NBA teams tanking. For a good three minutes, the hosts pounded home the point that NBA teams can't possibly tank because it would just take too much effort and planning.

I didn't record the conversation, but I think I heard something about how it would be so difficult to "coordinate the effort" between players, coaches, and, yes, the "GM."

At which point I chuckled, switched over to my favorite classic rock station, rolled down the window of the Civic, and got on with my life.

But now I need to correct these guys. So here's my brief take on "NBA tanking."

1. It exists.

2. There are no "coordinated efforts."

3. It's simple, really. 

Hey, I love the NBA. The collection of talent you see during a given game is incredible. The things players can do, from hanging in the air for an eternity to dropping 81 points to taking over a game (a la LeBron, Game 5, 2007 Eastern Conference Finals — sorry Pistons fans) are incredible.

But it's not hard to see when players aren't, well, completely into a game. There are simply games that players care less about than others. That's reflected in their effort, in sloppiness. 

That's tanking. 

An even easier-to-track tanking occurs when players are "shut down" for the season. 

Do you think LaMarcus Aldridge would have gotten hip surgery immediately if the Blazers were in the playoff race? Meanwhile, Derrick Rose practically had to be handcuffed by management to be kept from playing in the Bulls' pivotal game against the Heat last night despite several ailments.

Players who could play, who are being paid to play the full season, not playing?

That's tanking. 

So, no, tanking doesn't involve Byron Scott or Mark Jackson standing in front of their team and saying, "Guys, we need to lose the rest of our games!! I talked to the GM earlier and we decided it's the right thing to do."

(Although that would be highly entertaining and, I'm sure, would somehow leak onto Twitter.)

No, tanking is a bit more subtle.

But still very alive. And as long as the league retains the current lottery system with the fun ping pong balls, I don't see it going by the wayside anytime soon.

Maybe that'll be my next topic: the lottery system. 

I'll wait until I hear a dumb opinion on it...