G21 SPORTS K.O.'s CALLS

Kris "K.O." Olson

G21 Sports Writer

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Version 4.0, Event #127 TABLOID HART: THOMAS HART takes in the Jerry Springer Show, and delivers more of the dish. But that's not all: After reading the article, visit Tom's new TRAILER PARK, a place for chat, link listings, and even more of the Gossip & Innuendo you've grown to love. G21 SPORTS: KO's CALLS. KRIS OLSON on Marv Albert, Mike Tyson, Justin Rose and Predictions. In DON'T READ ME FIRST! ROD AMIS' first Publisher's Note from sweltering Santa Rosa, CA. YOUR HOUSE OF CARDS has another new JOKE OF THE DAY! Drop into the G21-WEBTRIPS Satellite Network for great animated cartoons. (28.8 Modem or Faster Recommended.) HIGHLIGHTS OF LAST WEEK's EDITION: BARE KNUCKLES: JEFF WINBUSH comes home to talk about The Media. RADIO ACTIVE: RADIO RAHEEM gets the last word on the GENERATOR 21's two-plus years as a San Francisco magazine.... YOUR VOX POPULI page is updated with all-new Reader e-mails! IRISH EYES: A Special Editorial on the murders of Jason, Mark, and Richard Quinn. POWERSSOUND looks at new music from Jimmy Witherspoon, Benny Golson, and Jorge Pardo. LONDON CALLING! FLISS USSHER, the magazine's Muse, reports from London on our greater CHOICE. ON DRUGS: ADAM J. SMITH exhorts us all to stick to our sense of rationalism during the coming $2 Billion Prohibitionist media blitz. BarnesandNoble SEARCH: Every writer here still reads offline. We support Barnes and Noble and hope you will, too. This is the place to find the best and brightest! For rapid response, use The Message Board HOME

Just when you thought it was safe to crack open the sports page again, when it seemed that talk of the Maris chase, golf prodigies and the opening of football camps would dominate the sports landscape... THEY'RE BA-A-ACK.

Marv and Mike. Mike and Marv. The marauding masticators whose menacing mandibles and misbehaving molars forced us sports fans to consider matters best left to a daytime talk show audience.

Perhaps the two have had occasion to chat during their year of exile from their respective professions. You know, to discuss which "cut" of human flesh is more delectable.

Now, Albert will return as the radio voice of the New York Knicks basketball team and also anchor a nightly talk show for the Madison Square Garden Network.

Tyson's future plans are a bit more cloudy. However, he has applied for a boxing license in New Jersey, which at least indicates a willingness to hustle a few pay-per-view dollars by stepping through the ropes in a capacity other than as a special referee in a "Stone Cold" Steve Austin-Shawn Michaels wrestling match.

Forgive me if I don't welcome them both back with open arms (and not just out of a fear that I'd lose a finger.)

Oh, I admit it's hard to turn my back on these guys (Mine are spent. Insert your favorite Marv pun here).

Albert's cadence was sorely missed at this year's NBA finals. But the man's credibility is shot. As a colleague of mine pointed out, every word Albert utters from this point forward will be scrutinized in barrooms and living rooms for double-entendre potential. It's simply impossible to hear the man's voice without it bringing to mind the smarmy allegations that came to light in the days leading up to Albert's guilty plea to misdemeanor assault. In a word, the man's become a joke.

Add in the lack of remorse Albert has directed towards the victim of his crime, and you can see why I'm hoping Albert's comeback goes no further than New York City.

Tyson, meanwhile, was as much a part of coming of age as a young man in the 80's as was listening to hair bands and squealing the tires on the Buick Skylark your parents allowed you to beat on as you left the high school parking lot.

A group of us would all gather in my friend Chuck's basement for each Tyson pay-per-view or HBO appearance. We'd suffer through the undercard, but then Tyson would come marching down the aisle.

Ring announcer Michael Buffer would bring goosebumps with his "Let's get ready to..." (Whoops, better not finish that phrase. Buffer has that phrase copyrighted and has proved quite litigious over its unauthorized use.)

In about 90 seconds, the carnage would be over and Tyson's hand would be raised. Someone would then throw a zebra carcass into the basement and we'd all tear into it greedily, rehashing the fight between bites (ok, so it was pizza, but you get the point.)

Now Tyson is not only a convicted rapist (which is reason enough not to throw him Nickel One) but a lousy fighter and this century's most disgusting example of a lack of sportsmanship to boot.

Still, there will be that bloodthirsty little devil that will appear over my shoulder on the night of Tyson's return to the ring, beckoning me to go to a bar where the fight just happens to be on or at the very least follow its round-by-round progress on Sportscenter. You know, the same one that tries to get you to gaze at the car wreck on the other side of the highway. I pray for the strength to resist.

ROSE SMELLING SWEET: When I first saw "J. Rose" on the British Open leaderboard, I thought a former member of Michigan's Fab Five basketball team had made a surprisingly smooth career change.

Then, I found out the truth, which was only slightly less shocking. J. Rose was actually Justin Rose, a 17-year-old English amateur.

When I think back to what I was trying to "accomplish" at 17, winning one of golf's four majors was not exactly on the landscape. (I believe "getting the courage up to ask someone to the prom" was near the top of the list).

First the male Se Ri Pak (a/k/a Tiger Woods) wins the Masters at 21. Then, Pak and another 20-year-old battle for the U.S. Women's Open at 20. Now, a 17-year-old contends for all four days at the British.

What's next? A Casey Martin-esque controversy over whether the next prodigy's mom will be able to push him down the fairway in a stroller between shots?

PROPS, PLEASE : Gee thanks, Mr. Editor, for pointing out how wrong my World Cup prediction was.

But if you're going to point out my shortcomings, you should also give me my due for my accurate predictions as well.

Thanks for reading to the bottom. See you next week.

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