Keyboard Quarterbacks

By Mark La Monica

Poor Byung-Hyun Kim. Every time you look, he’s serving up majestic home runs.

Yankees fans will always appreciate Kim for allowing Tino Martinez to tie Game 4 of the 2001 World Series against Arizona with a two-run homer in the bottom of the ninth and giving Derek Jeter the chance to win it in the 10th.

Then there was the following night, the first November baseball game ever, when Scott Brosius hit a two-run bomb off Kim to tie Game 5 in the ninth.

Now, Kim has endeared himself to the good people of San Francisco. It was Kim who grooved the historic 715th career home run for Barry Bonds.

Kim, now a starter for Colorado, threw a pitch down the middle and Bonds crushed it some 445 feet to centerfield.

The fans erupted, and rightfully so. They just witnessed a piece of history by their favorite son. Only one other man has been in this position, Hank Aaron, who ended his career as home run king with 755 homers.

The stadium erupted with fireworks, streamers and banners, and rightfully so. Bonds has been the face of the franchise since 1993 and has hit nearly all his milestone home runs at home.

Other than the chance to witness history and the unique ability of Kim to throw monstrous and magnificent home runs, there was little to be excited about.  Oh, it was a triumphant blast to centerfield and we can laugh at the guy in the stands who couldn't make the catch. But there was also a "Oh that's nice. Next!" cloud circling in.

Such is the world of baseball ever since Jose Canseco turned author. The steroid scandal has made an everyday home run a curiosity. Albert Pujols and his 23 home runs so far this season do not come without a hint of speculation. It’s the byproduct of Major League Baseball turning its head for so long.

And as one of the few non-ESPN people on the East Coast who has supported Bonds in the past, even I had trouble getting excited about No. 715. I watched the highlights through a “Thank God it’s over for now” prism.

It’s really a shame. Not so much for me but for Bonds and baseball. Regardless of what Bonds may or may not have done to his body, he’s still one of the 10 best baseball players ever. A sure-fire Hall of Famer well before any rumors surfaced to perceived truths.

There should be at least some form of recognition from baseball for this accomplishment. Sure, Ruth’s 714 is no longer the record but it still is a monumental number, one forever ingrained into the fabric of America.

Instead, commissioner Bud Selig had to announce two weeks ago there would be no celebration of Bonds hitting 714 and 715. After all, we’re America and since when does the American landscape allow for celebrating second best. But there was an aura of negativism when Selig made that announcement. A sort of silent “Screw you, Barry.”

Part of the world’s hatred of Bonds – outside the 415 and 510 area codes – has to do with his perceived use of steroids.

(Note 1: I say “perceived” because none of us know for sure what he did or did not do.)

(Note 2: I will be reading “Game of Shadows” this week in preparation for watching Bonds and the Giants at the Shea Stadium on Sunday.)

(Note 3: Note 1 may change upon completion of Note 2.)

The rest of the world’s hatred of Bonds stems from his media-cultivated image of arrogance, egotism and self-absorbedness.

I’ve never met the man so I cannot say if that image is false or true. Just from watching him in television interviews, I’m fairly certain there is some degree of arrogance bubbling inside Barry Bonds. But I don’t know for a fact that degree is any higher than anyone else’s.

We in the media have the keen ability to shape a person’s image to the public. People inject their opinions into everything they do, regardless of their profession. A completely objective world is about as realistic as Lindsay Lohan inviting me to her next birthday party. Sure, I’d love for it to happen (hey LL, my email address is on the right side of this page) but it likely never will.

Why did Hideki Matsui not win the AL Rookie of the Year in 2003? Because some voters decided he wasn’t really a rookie, even though under major league rules, he clearly qualified.

Is Paris Hilton really that ridiculously dumb? OK, maybe that’s a bit of a stretch, but you get the idea.

Maybe by the time 755 rolls around for Bonds, provided it even happens, we’ll be a bit more excited to watch. Maybe not. Such is the place baseball and Bonds resides in these days.

Second in an occasional series about running down our sports dreams.

By Mark La Monica

The greens are nasty and the roughs can tear knee ligaments as if they were NFL running backs. So goes life for four days each June during the U.S. Open, traditionally golf’s most grueling test of skill.

Ever since watching the movie “Tin Cup” back in college in 1996, I’ve always wanted to qualify for and play in the U.S. Open. The movie, starring Kevin Costner and Rene Russo, is the classic story of a grody, lazy loafer reaching exquisite heights in the face of the establishment and landing the hot chick.

(I know what you’re thinking right now, but Costner’s sports movies and “The Untouchables” are watchable material.)

There’s only issue with this sports dream: I’m simply not very good at the game of golf.

Sure, there’s been the rare birdie and the occasional par. But there’s also been the frequent three-putt triple bogey, the omnipresent “I give up now before I even reach the green” 10, the recurring “drive that starts out straight then puts the blinker on and bangs a 90-degree right turn directly onto the fairway two holes over.”

These are major concerns for qualifying for golf’s toughest major. These are major concerns for those on any course the same time as me.

On Wednesday, my dream came true. Sort of. I bypassed that whole pesky sectional qualifying procedure and played Winged Foot, site of this year’s U.S. Open. Sort of.

Making the trip with Intrepid videographer friend Bobby to shoot some video for Newsday’s Web site, I brought a putter and one golf ball along for the ride. I had to at least try, right? When is the next time I’d be given free reign on a private U.S. Open course? This is another of those “Moral Imperative” moments. It’s gut-check, man-up time.

We brought the camera equipment to the 10th hole, the par-3 signature hole of A.W. Tillinghast’s masterpiece course. Golf course videography is difficult, unless of course, you’ve got the equipment and budget to do fly-bys. Yeah, we don’t have that. The closest thing we’ve got to that is the putter I have hidden down the right side of my jeans.

So part of the task is to walk the course and film the hole from different angles. I instructed Intrepid videographer friend Bobby there was no way in Hades that I was letting this opportunity slip by. He seemed on board with the project. Then again, we were both wearing jeans and sneakers on the Winged Foot Gold Course, which is a no-no according to the private club’s dress code. Rule-breaking seemed, um, par for the course.

When we approached the green for some filming, I came up with a great alibi just in case some wannabe Carl Spangler or USGA official came a-screamin’.

“We were just shooting a close-up of the putter striking the ball and rolling into the cup for part of our establishing shots and opening montage.”

Perfect. And we’d have the footage to back it up. Plenty of footage. After all, it’s important in video to have a few extra takes because you never know what will happen once you get into the editing room.

The pin on No. 10 was on the left side of the green, protected by a bunker. For those who actually have to hit from the tee box, they likely wouldn’t be able to attack the pin. Fortunately, I didn’t have that problem.

I set up a 10-foot putt. Slightly uphill, with a right-to-left break. Tough but sinkable.

In a high school physics class, I once learned about the theory of a frictionless world. I had forgotten about that lesson 13 years ago until three seconds after I putted.

I gave the ball a slight tap with the Nate Dogg (a West Coast hip-hop nod to my Nathan’s hot dog putter). Use your best “The Jetsons” flying car noise now because that ball flew.

Holy stimpmeters, Batman!

Putting on glass they say.

Chevy Chase oiling up his sled in “Christmas Vacation,” I say.

Mindful of the speed of the greens, I softened my swing and came up short on the second putt.

Hey Tiger, quick tip: these greens are a tad quick.

Putt three was a gem. A perfect 10-foot roll that dropped in on the left side of the cup. That’s right, the Nate Dogg just regulated at the U.S. Open. And it’s all caught on tape!

OK, so it wasn’t exactly the U.S. Open, but we can still dream, can’t we? Besides, it was 8 a.m. and I hadn’t slept in 22 hours.

With my new knowledge of the green and some adrenaline flowing after my newly found golfing prowess, I got a bit carried away.

“Bobby, let’s take a shot from over there . . . just in case,” I said with a sly smirk.

He agreed.

“Over there” meant the top of the green, some 30 feet away from the pin with a nasty downhill grade and left-to-right break.

I took one putt. Got within four feet of the cup.

Intrepid videographer friend Bobby, inspired by my earlier glory, asked for the Nate Dogg.

He walked up to the ball, four feet away from the cup. A tap-in compared to the monster putt I had to contend with on the first shot. After I did all the hard work of getting it close, he tapped it in.

He looked at me and says, “One for one!”

Ouch. Too bad for him I forgot to press record on the camera.

E-mail me sports dreams for a future mailbag/column

By Mark La Monica

I’m told Alex Rodriguez hit a three-run homer in the first inning on Saturday afternoon. The front page of Sunday sports section said so, as did the box score, the highlights on TV and the game stories in the paper.

I wouldn’t know, although I was five rows behind the plate as a paying customer along with Consultant friend Jay. Once I heard the crack of the bat and jumped up to watch the ball, I spotted Vanessa Minnillo sitting 12 feet to my left. I remember very little about the game after that. Allegedly, the Yankees won, 4-3.

Minnillo, an MTV VJ and host on the music station’s show “TRL,” a former Miss Teen USA and, of course, lady friend of shortstop of Derek Jeter is roughly seven times as ridiculously beautiful in person than on television.

But in between my prolonged bouts of polite staring at her, I noticed another bonus of sitting in the $115- top-deck-of-Titanic championship seats.

Two seats to the left of Minnillo was The King. No, not Elvis, Don, or Jerry Lawler. We’re talking about Jimmy “The King” Leyritz.

You may recall Leyritz as a former Yankee catcher. You, however, should recall Leyritz as the man who brought the Yankees back from despair in the 1996 World Series with a three-run homer to tie Game 4 in Atlanta.

As I wrote the day of the 2006 Yankees’ home opener: “It's virtually impossible to see Jimmy ‘The King’ Leyritz and not hear the clanking of metal his home run in Game 4 in Atlanta created 10 years ago.”

That’s as true today as it was then.

Upon the celebrity sightings brought about by A-Rod’s home run, the thoughts in my head went in this order:

- Dude, Jimmy, get out of my line of sight of Vanessa Minnillo.
- What’s Jeter got that I don’t have?
- I’m glad these seats were available at the ticket window today.
- I wonder if I can download the sound of Leyritz’s home run as a ringtone.
- Leyritz looks like he should be from Long Island.
- Nicky Eyes No. 9!

Leyritz worked the primo seating, chatting up Minnillo, Ron Darling and a few other not-as-recognizable people. He even signed some autographs for the regular people.

I couldn’t let the opportunity pass to add on to the Nicky Eyes Hit List, so I had to keep an eye on his whereabouts, an eye on Minnillo, an eye on the game and an ear on the crazy guy next to me who proudly ordered a non-alcoholic beer.

(For those not familiar with the Nicky Eyes Hit List, read the explainer.)

Leyritz got up in the seventh inning and began walking toward the exit. Here was my chance. I stood up. “Hey, Jimmy Leyritz!” I screamed. He looked in my direction. “What’s up, guy?!?”

He gave the head nod and low wave, acknowledging the fact that a) he heard me; b) he had no idea he just made the NEHL; and c) he appreciated still being appreciated by Yankee fans.

A few minutes later, here comes Leyritz back to his seat. Lookee here, bonus time!

Leyritz got up in the ninth inning and began walking toward the exit. Again, I stood up. “Hey, Jimmy Leyritz!” I screamed again. He looked in my direction again. “What’s up, guy?!?”

Minnillo left a few minutes after Leyritz, but my corneas were already burned out from staring at her for nine innings. Why couldn’t Farnsworth give up one more run and force extra innings?

First in an occasional series

By Mark La Monica

How many times have you seen a politician or celebrity in a jersey or jacket of the home team six-hop the ceremonial first pitch to the plate from 10 feet in front of the mound?

How many times have you said, "Jesus! You don't deserve to be there. Spend your time raising my taxes. Get someone who can at least throw from 60 feet, 6 inches?"

Throwing out the first pitch at a baseball game is one of my sports dreams. Preferably at Yankee Stadium. Preferably before a playoff game. But I'm not greedy. I'll take what I can get. A Wednesday afternoon game at the Stadium is acceptable. PNC Park in Pittsburgh for a Pirates-Nationals game? Sure. Tigers at Royals at Kaufman Stadium? Gladly.

Long ago my dream of becoming a professional baseball player died, due mainly to lack of that type of talent. And I hate all things politics and I'm not quite famous enough yet, so all I've got is the dream.

An opportunity presented itself Wednesday morning. The New York State Lottery sponsored a contest to throw out the first pitch of the Subway Series next Friday night at Shea Stadium.

You mean to tell me that all I have to do is wake up before 10:30 a.m., show up at Hofstra's baseball field with a non-winning lottery ticket or scratch-off card, drop it into a big box, throw some pitches for fun, then wait and see?

Two entries would be drawn at random at 12:45 p.m. Those two contestants would then compete against two previous winners from the city and have a pitch-off to see who earns the right to throw out the first pitch.

Immediately, I thought of Opening Day and the conversation I had with Lawyer friend Scurvy. We discussed the proper approach to throwing out the first pitch. First, you have to wear a glove. Second, you must demand to throw off the mound. Third, sanitary socks are required dress.

From there, you choose your own adventure. Go from the stretch, perhaps? Maybe a Rod Beck impersonation complete with the swinging arm as you look in for the non-existant signs? Full-windup? Steve Carlton hands-over-the-head windup? These are important decisions.

Then there's the matter of what pitch to throw. Straight cheese? A two-seamer? Circle change? Give the universal glove signal for a curveball then snap off a nasty deuce? So much thoughts goes into the first pitch when it's your only pitch.

When I got home from work on Tuesday night, I made myself a simple to-do list for Wednesday morning. It read:

1) Buy a lottery ticket
2) Pray it's not a winner

Wednesday morning arrived. I went to my local lottery outlet and bought a High Rollers scratch-off ticket. Then I thought, "What if these don't count? What if they only mean the big lottery drawings on Wednesdays and Saturdays?"

So I bought one of those, too. What the heck? It's only a dollar, and besides, this is a business expense, so it's tax deductible. I picked the jersey numbers of my all-time favorite Yankees: 19 (Righetti), 21 (O'Neill), 23 (Mattingly), 31 (Winfield), 42 (Rivera) and 46 (Pettitte).

At the very least, if the scratch-off ticket is acceptable, I've got a 1 in Lord-knows-how-many-million chances of hitting the quit-my-job-in-less-than-a-second jackpot.

Lottery tickets in hand, I took off for Hofstra. It was a fairly small crowd early, but I was prepared. I had my glove and spikes in the trunk, just in case.  Of course, I never want to be "that guy," but for a chance at living out a sports dream, I'd consider it.

I handed in my scratch-off ticket right after some guy dropped off about 300 non-winning tickets. Talk about your groin-kick demoralizing moments in life.  He wasn't alone. Many people had many tickets.

Right then I knew I had no chance of being one of the lucky two picked at the end. I rarely play the lottery, which is to say if someone else spends their money on a scratch-off ticket for me, I'll scratch it off.

Life all comes down to a few moments, so I decided to maximize this moment.

I walked toward the mound. More accurately, I walked toward the taped-off spot about 12 feet in front of the mound where the lottery had set up the point to throw. Not fair. I want the mound! What ever happened to a dollar a dream? I paid my dollar. I have a dream. Clearly, that's just marketing yang. And I think it was gaffer tape. Hofstra can't be happy about that.

There were two "mounds" to throw from. On each side of the plate were padded boards with designs and a big hole in the middle. The hole was about the width of the plate, which seemed appropriate. But the height of the hole was a serious problem. Basically, you had to throw at what would be the batter's shoulder for a strike.

"There's no way an ump will give you that call," I said to one of people working near the mound.

Not sure if he appreciated that, but a few of the older people out there enjoyed it.

The fella ahead of me was on what might have been his third inning of work. That's how many times he took his three pitches. Hey, the rules allow for unlimited turns on the mound, so why not play by the rules.

"Stop that soft stuff, throw cheese," I said to him. "In The Show, they call that pus."

He laughed.

My turn.

A quick check of my medicine cabinet earlier in the morning yielded zero Advil and a fully depleted supply of Fashion friend Cristina's painkillers. This is going to hurt.

"Are you guys insured for torn rotator cuffs?" I asked.

"No," the worker said.

"Oh well, here goes."

First pitch, strike. Pure gas.

Second pitch, banked-in strike. Two-seamer.

Third pitch, well, hold on. Some background is order here.

I'm not smart. In a Babe Ruth game when I was 16, I was throwing a no-hitter. With two outs in the seventh and final inning and two strikes on the batter, my catcher called for a curveball and I shook him off, deciding to blow a fastball by him and cap off the no-hitter with flair. He hit a double. I gave up four runs, got the hook. I got the win, but I felt like a schmuck of wheels for three days.

Back to Wednesday and that third pitch. I'm not about to make the same mistake again. So, I threw the hook. It had some serious Barry Zito bite on it. And then it bit the bottom of the board. So much for the strikeout.

"Yeah, but did you see that thing drop," I said to no one in particular. "I still got it."

What I don't got now is two dollars in my pocket, a healthy left shoulder, or that no-hitter.

But I'm still running down the dream. Hey, you never know.

By Mark La Monica

Scary is the day when Philadelphia sports fan encapsulate the pulse of America.

On Sunday night, Phillies fans booed and booed and booed Barry Bonds during his every plate appearance. And when he destroyed a 90-mph "fastball" from Jon Lieber in the sixth inning for career home run No. 713 -- one shy of tying Babe Ruth -- those same fans cheered as if Bonds were one of their own.

This basically sums up how many feel about Bonds these days. They pay their money to boo him, and they get their money's worth, but secretly, they want to say they saw history.

Regardless of the cloud of suspicion hanging over Bonds' larger-than-it-once-was head, deep down we all want to watch him hit more home runs, surpass Ruth and chase Aaron. For those who hate on Bonds, this will give them even more fuel for their rage. For those who support Bonds, this will give them even more cause to rejoice. For those who are undecided, this will give them more time to decide.

Bonds was already a great baseball player before the allegations of steroids were kicked up a notch after the BALCO scandal and the book "Game of Shadows." But now Bonds is the public's lightning rod for athletes who "cheat" and use performance-enhancing drugs.  (We put "cheat" in quotes in that sentence because since it wasn't against the rules of baseball to take steroids until recently, it's not technically cheating. Of course, it was illegal in the eyes of the law.)

We as a culture gravitate toward tragically flawed figures. They're much more compelling than people of perceived perfection. They make us want to watch or read.

Bonds is tragically flawed. Everything he does now is questioned because of his assumed steroid use a few years ago. Although Bonds never admitted to knowingly taking steroids, it has become one of those generally accepted beliefs in the American landscape, like waiting 20 minutes after you eat to go swimming.

Fans throw syringes in his direction. Chant "Bar-roid." Boo incessantly. Unless, of course, he's in San Francisco, where he could dine-and-dash, pull a lawn job at Mayor Gavin Newsom's house, then urinate off the Golden Gate Bridge and still be the city's favorite son.

Bonds does nothing in response to the fans on the road, except try to hit the little baseball out of the big park. It's starting to reach the point where you almost want to feel bad for Bonds and hope he passes the Babe in tremendous fashion so as to put everyone in a positive frame of mind.

Ruth went from 711 to 714 career home runs in one afternoon. Bonds is at 713 now and has seven games in a row at AT & T Park (formerly Pac Bell Park) to tie, then break the record.

It would be nice to see Bonds hit two in one game at home, so he could indulge in the revelry of the fans. He's been good to the San Francisco fans so far, having hit home run No. 71 in 2001 and career home runs 500, 600, 660, 661 and 700 at home.

Granted, the record is 755 by Hank Aaron, but 714 is still the most magical number in sports for many reasons, not all of which are pleasant to think about. In no other sport would chasing second place garner much more than a few sentences in the newspapers and Web sites. But baseball is different. Bonds in different.

Before the steroid whispers turned into screams, Bonds was still among the three best players of his generation. (The other two up for consideration are Ken Griffey Jr. and Roger Clemens.)

Bonds had already won three National League MVPs (1990, '92-93) before adding four more trophies in a row (2001-04).

Before 1993, only three other NL players had won three MVPs: Stan Musial, Roy Campanella and Mike Schmidt. No major leaguer other than Bonds has four MVPs, let alone seven.

Surely, designer drugs are not fully responsible for all those MVPs, the 2,341 walks, the .300 career batting average, the 506 stolen bases.

The drug cocktails described in "Game of Shadows" -- if indeed they are true -- likely helped a bit, but Bonds was already a lock for the Hall of Fame on the first ballot.

So when he walks to the plate this week, feel free to boo him. But when he hits home runs No. 714 and 715, feel free to applaud the effort. After all, only one other man has ever done better.

More on Barry Bonds
Photos: Bonds through the years
Vote: Your feelings on No. 715
Newsday special: Stories from Hank Aaron's passing of Babe Ruth

By Mark La Monica

We are a culture that migrates toward the glorious and victorious, and as such the axiom states, “No one remembers who came in second.”

I tend to disagree. I will never forget Bluegrass Cat, who just so happened to finish second in this year’s Kentucky Derby.

Here’s a horse that received plenty of praise in the pre-Derby season before taking a dump in the Tampa Bay Derby and the Bluegrass Stakes, both graded-stakes races.

But of course, as life would have it, Bluegrass Cat, the No. 13 horse, sandwiched himself between Barbaro, the No. 8 horse, and Steppenwolfer, the No. 2 horse, thereby destroying by brilliantly researched exacta bet and giving me a case of the Bluegrass Blues.

I strolled into the Race Palace minutes before 4 p.m. on Derby Saturday to secure a table for myself and my parents, in keeping with a tradition that began minutes before 4 p.m. on Derby Saturday.

My brain was loaded with all the necessary information for placing intelligent, financially fruitful bets, plus the $1 quit-my-job superfecta bet. This was like walking into a college classroom for a final knowing full well that you studied perfectly and will get an A. I clearly read the wrong book.

Covering all bases, I had some Brother Derek bets going, some Jazil bets, some what-the-heck-it’s-a-great-name Sinister Minister bets, and a sweet Barbaro-Steppenwolfer exacta. I was wise enough to avoid Lawyer Ron after O.J. Simpson endorsed that horse in the days prior to the Derby. And Bob and John was a non-factor at the betting window for the simple reason that he’s co-owned by Bob McNair, the Houston Texans owner who passed on Reggie Bush in last month’s draft.

As the race began, the crowd at the Race Palace started going crazy. Plenty of screaming and yelling, all for the good cause of winning money based on the performance of an animal whose sole objective is to make humans win money.

Once the horses came into the final turn, I knew I wouldn’t be quitting my job with the superfecta. And Brother Derek was off doing something else other than winning the race he was favored to win earlier in the day.

Barbaro emerged from the field and I had one betting slip left to help me pay for dinner later that night. Steppenwolfer is a closer and he’s on the screen in third place so there was still some hope. But noooooooooooooooooooooo. Friggin’ Bluegrass Cat, the dump-taker last month, decided to race, swiping my exacta fortune and sticking me with another ATM fee to help pay for dinner.

Maybe I should just stick to watching horse movies. I wonder if “Hot to Trot” is available on Netflix.

By Mark La Monica

Mint juleps, outlandish hats, good-looking Southern Belles and the chance to gamble legally.

It’s a sultry combination, a recipe just powerful enough to earn the Kentucky Derby the No. 10 spot on our Best Sports Days of the Year List.

Think about it: 99.3 percent of America knows less than nothing about the world of horse racing, but everyone wants a piece of the action on the first Saturday each May.

The actual Kentucky Derby, better known in American mainstream vernacular as “The Derby,” lasts all of two minutes, or 0.138 percent of the week. But once that last horse is entered into the starting gate, the great majority of America can’t tell you about anything that happened the first six days of the week. Just fire off that starter’s pistol, let the doors fly open and give me that announcer boasting into his microphone, “And they’re off!”

From there, it’s a mad dash to the finish, with plenty of money to be had. Such is the great spectacle of American life brought upon by the Run for the Roses at Churchill Downs: people from different classes and backgrounds merging together in the name of a horse.

Will the speed horses win out? Will the closers make a move late? Can the favorite live up to its esteemed position? Does the longshot have a shot? What about that horse with the great name and no real pedigree? These are questions that get answered quicker than a lightning round on a game show.

For some, the Derby is about finding the best value and playing for a big payday.

For some, the Derby is about just being able to say, “Yeah, I picked the Derby winner.”

For some, the Derby is about thousand-dollar mint juleps and “being seen.”

For some (OK, a small few), the Derby is about a huge purse for owning the winning horse.

The horse and jockey who win the race will be showered with adulation and a glorious fortune. It will then kick off two weeks of unparalleled publicity leading into the Preakness at Pimlico Downs in Maryland. If sports had an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor, the Derby champion would win it every year. (The Super Bowl MVP is almost always sports’ Best Actor, except for maybe Tampa Bay’s Dexter Jackson and Dallas’ Larry Brown.)

And to think it all goes down in two minutes and we’ll never hear a word out of the true star.