Tiger-Phil 'rivalry' finally lives up to the hype (kind of)

ON GOLF

Finally, Sunday afternoon, the network execs at CBS got exactly what they wanted.

Tiger Woods. Phil Mickelson. Going head to head on the back nine for a major championship.

Well, kind of.

But first, let's backtrack for a minute...

Anyone who follows golf even a little bit — or knows who Tiger Woods is — is aware that there is no one on the PGA Tour with his resume, no modern golfer who will ever be considered on the same level as Woods.

However, that doesn't mean that people haven't tried to create a rival, doing something to spike interest in the sport. (As if watching likely the greatest golfer of all time isn't enough.)

Some "recruits" for this position have come and passed. There was David Duval, who famously flamed out years ago. There was the young, inflammatory Sergio Garcia, who gave Woods one good challenge — and lost. There have been a couple others.

But the one name that has always been linked to Woods since he more than "burst onto the scene" at the 1997 Masters is Mickelson.

Why? Well, Phil is a likable guy. And he's a great talent. Not a Tiger talent, but a talent capable of great things. He proved that early on with his knack for making impossible chip shots seem routine.

He was the perfect guy to be Bird as Tiger acts Magic.

So, thus, a rivalry was born. Except that it really wasn't.

And instead of Bird-Magic, we've gotten more like Shaq-Chris Webber.

Yeah, you get the point.

Don't get me wrong — Mickelson has had his moments. He finally won his first major at the '03 Masters, after Woods had accumulated eight, and has since added another Green Jacket and a PGA championship.

But he is C-Webb while Woods is O'Neal.

And besides the difference in championships and personal accomplishments (O'Neal has four NBA titles and an MVP, Webber has none of either), what else stands out about the two No. 1 draft picks?

Well, nothing. They battled back and forth in one great Western Conference finals playoff series in 2001, which was won by O'Neal and the Lakers. Besides that, no rivalry.

That, basically, is what the connection between Woods and Mickelson was before Sunday afternoon at August. Believe it or not, it's the truth.

The major networks would have you thinking otherwise, considering the hype they give to the world's top two golfers — although Mickelson hasn't always been No. 2 during Woods' reign atop the sport— before every major.

There's always talk about a final pairing on Sunday featuring the two of them. The talking heads love to romance about the possibility of a Tiger-Phil head-to-head battle.

Yet, that was never really the case until Sunday.

At the 2002 U.S. Open, Mickelson was the runner-up behind Woods. But he finished three strokes back of him and wasn't even in the final group with him.

And in golf, there can't really be a "rivalry" on the course unless the golfers are paired together, walking the 18 holes alongside each other and watching each other's every single shot.

Finally, Sunday, that came to fruition.

And Woods and Mickelson put on quite the show. They both began the round at 4-under par, a whopping seven shots behind the leaders. They played about five holes ahead of said leaders.

Mickelson didn't waste any time in playing himself into contention, setting a Masters record for the final round by shooting 30 on the front nine. Woods didn't have his touch early, but he got himself into consideration with an eagle on the eighth hole.

And, waddya know, by the time they made the turn, there was a mob of fans the size of a small country following them — the guys atop the leader board be damned.

I don't blame the fans one bit. They were watching the world's top two golfers playing near the top of their games.

If only it had lasted.

The story had far from a perfect ending. "Lefty" got within a shot of the lead only to hit an awful tee shot into the water at the par-3 12th and miss two short putts down the stretch. Woods couldn't knock in a putt longer than 10 feet all day and killed any last chance he had by whacking his approach shot into a tree on the 18th.

Soon thereafter, Woods and Mickelson's day on the course was complete — with Phil finishing a shot better but still three back of the leaders.

And for a minute at least, I felt like turning off the TV. I felt like all the adrenaline had left the tournament.

Of course I didn't do that, and ended up viewing quite a hectic, dramatic finish that ended with Angel Cabrera winning his second major in a two-hole playoff.

But the excitement on the course, in the gallery, was never more palpable than during the height of Woods and Mickelson's attack on Augusta.

It was a taste of what a "rivalry" could actually be like.

Not that I'm calling it that at this point.

Letting a name and tradition fool you

ON BASEBALL

It's an easy trap to fall into, so I won't laugh at a friend for the text messages he sent me after Boston's wins over Tampa Bay in Game 5 of the ALCS Thursday night and Game 6 Saturday night.

After Boston's improbable 8-7 comeback for the ages Thursday: "Well that sucks that might break the Rays."

During Boston's hotly contested 4-2 win Saturday, when I texted him that I smelled a Game 7: "It will happen and tampa will probably lose which sucks."

My friend wasn't the only one. Without doing a lick of research, I can guarantee you that even with Boston down 3-2 and needing two wins in St. Petersburg, a good portion of this country smelled two Boston wins. I'll bet my house — OK, I don't own a house; but you get the point — that prior to Game 7 Sunday, the majority of America thought Boston had another World Series berth in the bag.

The reasons for these thoughts? It's very simple, actually: name recognition and tradition. In other words, Boston had won two World Series in four seasons; Tampa hadn't sniffed the postseason ... ever. Fenway Park is one of the most recognized sports venues in the country and hundreds of books have been written about the Red Sox; the Rays haven't even been the "Rays" for a year and have only been a franchise for 11 seasons.

To make a bad analogy, you walk into a store to buy a six-pack. On one rack is Samuel Adams (no Boston connection intended). You know what you'd be getting. You've sipped hundreds of SAs over the years. On the other rack is an ale you've only seen at a party yet. You took one from a friend, but you aren't convinced you want to buy it yourself.

You take the Sam Adams simply because of its name and your history of drinking it.

It's a poor call. Just like giving up on the Rays to win the ALCS after their Game 6 loss.

The series went seven games, but the Rays dominated the first six games. There was no arguing that they weren't the better team. Just examine Games 3 through 6, because the first two games — Boston 2-0, Tampa 9-8 in 11 innings — cancel each other out as very tight ballgames.

Tampa dominated Games 3 and 4, both at Fenway, by scores of 9-1 and 13-4. Their hitters owned Boston pitching, sending seven balls out of the park and slamming 27 hits. The big bats in Boston's lineup, primarily David Ortiz and Dustin Pedroia, were as silent as Red Sox Nation during the blowouts.

We all know what happened in Game 5. The Rays dominated the game for six innings before two big Bostons swings, by Ortiz and , got the Red Sox back into the game after being down 7-0. A couple clutch hits later, Boston had an 8-7 victory.

Game 6 was a close contest throughout, with the most unlikely of home runs by Boston catcher Jason Veritek — his first and only hit of the series — and a Tampa Bay error allowing Boston to turn a 2-2 game into a 4-2 victory. It was a solid victory, closed out by Boston's bullpen, but in no way was it backbreaking. In no way was it a "Don't even bother showing up at the ballpark tomorrow" kind of win.

So the Rays showed up Sunday, loose and confident like they should have been. Of course they couldn't forget what had transpired the previous three days, but hey, they were still a game away from the Fall Classic. That's the attitude the precocious team took, and it worked wonders.

There was never a sense of panic, a whiff of desperation. When asked after Tampa's 3-1 Game 7 victory to "honestly" say whether there was doubt in the clubhouse, winning pitcher Matt Garza said there wasn't. I believe him.

You see, it's one thing when you get lucky in a game or two and squeak out a couple other games to get to a Game 7. In that scenario, it's hard for a team to be completely sure of itself. Living on the edge will do that to you. But entering Game 7, the Rays — have I said this already? — were the better team; they were the superior team during 162 regular-season games, and they were for the first six games of the series.

Still, the money was on Boston because it's, well, "Boston." I can't say I blame people. I'm no betting man, but with my minimal income, it would have been tough to bet on the Rays Sunday.

It happens in all sports all the time. The newcomer to the grand stage is written off — again, and again and again. Never mind that they've proven themselves countless times. Until they win that first championship, people doubt they have the chutzpah to pull it off.

Just look at the Pistons' easy series win over the Lakers in the 2004 NBA Finals. People kept doubting the unfamiliar group of Detroit players, even as they dominated the familiar Lakers. Picking Kobe and Shaq, and their three previous championships, was easier (and, of course, just plain dumb, especially after wins by Detroit in Games 1, 3 and 4).

It occurs in college sports as well. I was inside Michigan Stadium last year when Appalachian State knocked off the mighty Wolverines. Even as the Wildcats led Michigan for most of the game, there was a sense among the Big House faithful that it couldn't possibly happen. That a tiny school from Boone, N.C., couldn't knock off fabled Michigan.

We all know what transpired.

And now the Rays are in the World Series, and anyone who continues to doubt them — regardless of how they fare in the World Series — is a complete nut job.

In fact, barring major offseason developments, anyone who doesn't predict the Rays to repeat as American League East champs next season will be disillusioned as well. With a super young team full of improving starting pitchers and everyday guys who play great defense, run the bases well and have power ... well, this team is here to stay for the long haul.

Oh, and did I mention that the man on the mound for Boston's final four outs Sunday was a kid, 23, who had pitched in a whopping five regular-season games?

Yep, that's right. David Price isn't going anywhere. And neither are most of his teammates.

You can doubt them if you want. Go ahead and pick the older Yankees or Red Sox to win the division next year.

Just know that you'll likely be basing your prediction more on the past than what's actually the case today.

And you probably won't be the only one.

Questioning the Suns' trade

ON BASKETBALL

The more I watch the Phoenix Suns play basketball, the more I can't help but question the blockbuster trade that sent Shawn Marion to Miami for Shaquille O'Neal.

I hate to say this, but the Suns are no longer the NBA team I enjoy watching the most. They're not even in my top five.

Not that G.M. Steve Kerr or anyone within the organization cares about my viewing interests, but they do care about finally getting to the NBA Finals. If I were them, I'd worry first about making the playoffs in the brutal Western Conference.

Phoenix has lost its identity. If it wants to make the postseason, it better rediscover it or create a new one ASAP. That's where the trade gets in the way.

Think about it: What, before the trade, made the Suns such a dangerous team?

1. Their ability to run. Steve Nash would get the ball with four options spaced to his right and left. Now, when O'Neal is on the floor, there are just three players racing downcourt in front of Nash. Big difference. The Suns' transition baskets have dipped big-time.

2. Room to work for Nash in the half-court offense. This is huge. Nash used to be able to dribble from the top of the key down to the baseline, along the baseline, and then back out top -- all the while looking for the open man. Now, "The Diesel" gets in the way. He's simply too big, and he's not nearly as agile as Amare Stoudemire. Phoenix's half-court offense -- which pundits said would improve with O'Neal -- has gotten worse.

The Suns say they made the deal for defense. But here's the problem, and I'm surprised that the former champion Kerr didn't realize this: Defense is more about a team's attitude and mentality than its makeup. Sure, the Pistons haven't been nearly as good defensively sans Ben Wallace, but the reason for this has been that Flip Saunders doesn't stress "D" to the extent that Larry Brown did.

As long as coach Mike D'Antoni doesn't make defense a huge priority -- something I don't see happening -- the Suns are not going to be a good defensive team. Period. They certainly haven't been since O'Neal's arrival.

Phoenix is 2-4 with O'Neal, and five of their opponents have scored at least 113 points. Only an anemic 77-point showing by the Celtics made the Suns' defense look good. Otherwise, it's appeared even more vulnerable than pre-Diesel. In other words, very bad.

The Suns' ability to stop people has been so poor, the Grizzlies scored 113 points and the 76ers put up 119. Any time you allow Willie Green 17 points, you know you're doing something wrong.

The Suns are giving up 104.9 points per game this season. I'm sure this number has gotten a ripe boost over the last two weeks.

Kerr n' company might not admit it, but they might be realizing just how much the team misses Marion's versatility. O'Neal is the opposite of Marion. At his old age, he is limited in what he can do. He's slow to run up the court, you can only post him up on offense, he can't shoot free throws, and on defense he's not a great shot-blocker.

Marion, on the other hand, is a high-flyer who can do it all -- finish on transition, shoot the 3-pointer, guard shooting guards and power forwards, rebound.

Most important, Marion was a perfect fit in Phoenix's system. He and Nash had a great working relationship, and the rift between him and Stoudemire was overblown. Plus, he was young. At 29, Marion probably has another good six or seven years in the NBA. O'Neal, 35, might be out of the league by 2010.

I don't question O'Neal's desire. I know he truly wants to prove that he can be the man to push Phoenix over the top. And come playoff time -- if there is a playoff time in the desert -- he'll do whatever it takes to make that happen. But whether that's enough is another question.

The more I see the Suns play, the more I view the trade as a panic move. The Lakers had taken a huge step forward by acquiring Pau Gasol for close to nothing. The Spurs are, well, the Spurs. Kerr thought that a change was needed. I tend to disagree.

It's not as if the Suns haven't come close -- really close -- to getting to the finals. Consider last season. If not for the suspensions of Stoudemire and Boris Diaw for Game 5 of the conference semifinals against the Spurs, there's a decent chance Phoenix would have won that game and the series. Then, they certainly could have beaten the Jazz in the conference finals.

Go back two years. If not for a huge Dallas comeback in the Mavericks' clinching Game 6 victory, the Suns would have taken the Mavs to a winner-takes-all Game 7 with a finals appearance on the line.

The Suns have been on the brink of making the finals -- so close that a personnel shift wasn't needed. All they needed was a few more big plays. A block by Stoudemire here, a few more midrange jumpers by Diaw there (which he's provided this season), a little more defense by Nash everywhere.

It's still too early to write off the new-look Suns. We'll likely have to wait until April or May to do that.

But early indications are that they made an unnecessary trade that not only will hurt them in the long run, but isn't paying off in the present either.

We can only wait and see with Shaq

ON BASKETBALL

Plenty of people have opinions on last week's trade of Shaquille O'Neal from Miami to Phoenix for Shawn Marion and Marcus Banks.

My friend Cosey — as well as thousands of other hoops fans — think O'Neal is washed up and won't be of much use to the Suns. In other words, he won't win that elusive championship for Steve Nash n' Co.

ESPN.com columnist Scoop Jackson — and thousands of others, but not as many thousands — think O'Neal is the key ingredient the Suns have been lacking the past few years. They point to his defensive presence. They say Marion and big man Amare Stoudemire quarreled too much. They agree with the trade.

The truth?

We don't know and we won't know for quite a while.

O'Neal hasn't played since mid-January with a hip injury. He's back to working out, but will he be able to stay healthy? There remain two months of regular-season play plus that nearly-two-month playoff circus. That's almost four months. Can O'Neal endure that?

How will he fit in the Suns' run-n'-gun system? Some analysts have said that the older you get, the easier it is to run north-south as opposed to making quick, lateral movements. But don't tell me O'Neal's gonna run the fast-break quick enough to receive a dime from Nash ahead of the defense.

That's one thing I don't see happening.

But here's something Phoenix can look forward to with O'Neal. If, indeed, he is healthy come playoff time, he'll be valuable in half-court sets — and the action tends to slow down late in the season. Say what you want to about O'Neal, but he still draws double-teams and remains a deft passer out of the post. When possessions are breaking down, O'Neal will be a viable option (again, if he's healthy).

The defensive end is where O'Neal could be most valuable. Stoudemire has not developed into the defensive force Phoenix fans hoped he would. He shows flashes of solid play here and there, but he can't consistently thwart players such as Tim Duncan and Carlos Boozer.

When Stoudemire and O'Neal are both in the game, Stoudemire will be able to play power forward and leave the toughest defensive assignment to O'Neal. Call O'Neal immobile if you'd like, but ask any NBA player who he's most intimidated by — and I bet Shaq's still near the top of the list.

But forget X's and O's. The biggest question mark of thousands is whether O'Neal will be on the court enough to make a solid impact. I'd say he needs to play a good 20 minutes a night for the Suns to survive the Western Conference and make the NBA Finals.

On Monday, after his first practice, he admitted that he was a bit winded running up and down the court with the Suns. But in O'Neal's defense, he had been completely sidelined for three weeks.

A good thing for the Suns is the timing of the deal. O'Neal is rested. The team has the West's best record and doesn't need to rush him back into action. If O'Neal plays, say, the Suns' final 25 games (they're 36-15), he should be in good form — but not too fatigued — heading into the playoffs.

That's what has made O'Neal effective in the past. He'd miss the first half of the season with some injury — or lazy syndrome — and then roar into April with a full head of steam. While I don't foresee any roaring from O'Neal, if he has half a head of steam, the Suns will be in good shape.

Of course, even if O'Neal plays well, that doesn't guarantee anything in the mighty West. San Antonio remains the team to beat in the playoffs. The Lakers will be scary if Andrew Bynum comes back strong. And don't forget about Dallas, Utah and even New Orleans (oh, and always-dangerous Golden State).

It is clear that this year more than ever, winning the NBA's superior conference will be as exhausting as a trip up Mt. Everest (before the days of billionaires paying guides to drag them up the mountain). Games will be slug-fests. Series sweeps will be minimal.

By May, O'Neal might wish he were back in the "Leastern Conference."

Or he might be having the time of his career helping the Suns finally reach their goal.

You can guess all you want. All we know right now is ... well ... nothing.

Show us what you can do, big fella!