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The sports world's alive
with the sound of music
By Brian Murphy
Special to Page 2

Today, at The Cooler, we bring back The Boom Box.


	Just hearing that Wimbledon theme music, brings back images of Bjorn Borg on Centre Court.

Kids today wonder of what I speak, while they fire up the latest Aaron Carter CD into their sleek Discman.

But, baby, I'm talkin' old-school Boom Box. Big ol' shoulder-nestling, black-handled, tape-playin' Boom Box.

I'm bringing some music to The Cooler today.

My weekend of sports was strong, but didn't peak until 5 a.m. Sunday, Pacific time ("real time," as my astute West Coast expatriate boss in Bristol, Conn., notes). I awoke for reasons we shall not divulge -- think bad burrito -- and then realized: Yo, I've got Wimbledon live in my California time zone!

On went the TV in the glow of dawn.

And in came the music. The trumpets. The regal sound. The bass drum.

The Wimbledon music from NBC.

Just hearing it made me see Borg sinking to his knees, made me see Evert pounding a backhand, made me see Jana Novotna swallowing her racket whole.

It was almost enough to make me forgive the English for centuries of misplaced arrogance, oppression of the Irish, and crimes against dental history.

I rushed out to Haight Street in San Francisco, and searched for my nearest blanket salesman -- the guy I knew would have all my favorite sports music for sale on cassette. I found him, convinced him I didn't need a Ziploc dime bag of his pencil shavings, and made my music purchases.

Now the Boom Box rests on The Cooler, and the Sports Tunes flow.

What do you want to hear?

Let's eject the tape currently in the Box -- AC/DC's "Back in Black," the Boom Box staple played by every self-respecting stoner in 1981 -- and try ... The Wimbledon Tape. Listen to that tune. If Bud Collins could interview it, he'd ask: "Do you feel you're a musical representation of a Fraulein Forehand serve?" If Boris Becker could talk to it, he'd ask it to head back to his apartment for a nooner. If John McEnroe could cover it with his band, he'd ruin it with his tortured guitar play. Ah, the images.

The CBS Final Four Tape:
You can hear it, can't you? Solid horn music, peppy little jingle, sounds like it could be played by the University of Arizona band coming out of a commercial break. It rates, but it's not epic.


	Break out the marching bands! These sports tunes are quite heavy on horns.

It smacks of Saturday mornings on opening weekend, of Clark Kellogg dissing UCLA for lack of team play, of Dale Brown cheating somebody out of something. Ah, the images.

Side B of the CBS Final Four Tape
Hmmm. What's this? Pop it in, listen ... aw, man! It's "One Shining Moment"! The Kodak rejects itself.

How this third-rate poetry wormed its way into our nation's hoop consciousness I'll never know. I'm popping this tape now, and firing an e-mail to CBS, suggesting they lease out Tom Waits or Tom Petty or "Tom Sawyer" by Rush (another stoner staple) to bump it.

The CBS Masters Tape
Pop it in. Listen. The treacly piano music. The meandering tune without end. Holy mother of Ken Venturi, I feel like I've been put on hold by a funeral home. Out!

The Fox Tune
Pop it in. You know it. Heavy on the French horns, signalling scoring updates. It's become Pavlovian. You hear it, and your head jerks to the screen to see if Carolina has scored on Atlanta yet. Disturbing. Pop it out.

The ESPN Tune
Pop it in. Oh, man, the SportsCenter tune? Like elevator music in today's society. Wait, it's riffing now into that background music for baseball games. That bad guitar riff out of "Melrose Place," that senseless jingle. ... Pop it out.

I just looked at my ESPN.com watch and realized it's time for my Weekend List of Five before I leave you dear readers for a three-week journey to the British Open and a subsequent expedition to rate the quality of Guinness in Ireland.

I need background music, so I'll pop out the sports tapes and stick in the old favorite: "Sinatra: The Very Good Years."

Forthwith:

1. Venus vs. Henin


	Venus Williams' Wimbledon win brought back memories of Connie Hawkins' one-on-one victory over Paul Simon.

I watched these women walk out for the final, and couldn't believe my eyes. Six-foot-one Venus Williams, towering over 5-foot-5 Justine Henin. I knew it was over right then, and I had history on my side.

See, in 1977 or thereabouts, Paul Simon was host of "Saturday Night Live," and one of the skits had him going one-on-one in basketball vs. Connie Hawkins. It was a scream. Hawkins, at 6-8, vs. Simon, at 5-2 or whatever. The physical comedy was outrageous, and Simon spiced it up in a pregame interview by suggesting he'd "stick to my strengths, which are basically singing and songwriting."

So, Venus didn't beat Justine on Sunday. Connie Hawkins got over on Paul Simon again, just in a different setting.

2. Bobby Valentine: Enough already
Wait. Weren't the Mets going to fire this guy last year, before their miracle run to the Series? Now, they're -- what? -- a million games under, totally out of it, and Mets management is waiting for -- what? -- a bonk on the head?

So what if he's making the big money? Ship him back to Japan! His every move is brutal, and his All-Star behavior has been atrocious, so much so that Giants broadcaster Mike Krukow -- probably the man in baseball you'd most want to drink with -- said Sunday that Valentine had gone "beyond clowndom." There it is. When he retires, there's the book title: "Beyond Clowndom: The Bobby Valentine Story. Foreword by Bobby Valentine."

3. Tiger: Mouth of a sailor
There exists in Chicago right now a feeling that the world's best golfer has disgraced his craft by tossing out a few expletives at poorly struck shots. May I suggest a cool towel for the overheated scribes who attack Tiger Woods for a few PG-13 golf course incidents?


	We have more important things to worry about than Tiger Woods' profanity.

I am no Tiger Apologist, but it strikes me that we might have better things to do with our time than analyze the blue streak of the guy who wears red. Is it just me, or is it possible that if parabolic mikes existed when Arnie or Ben or Jack left a birdie putt short, we mighta heard a few phrases better suited for a Dennis Miller HBO special?

Just wondering.

4. Kill the Golden Goose
All right, AFLAC, party's over. Give me that damn roller-coaster goose, and give him to me now, preferably with orange sauce at Christmastime. I won't rest 'til that goose head is mounted on my wall, OK?

I don't want supplemental insurance, I don't need supplemental insurance and, if a goose tries to tell me otherwise, he's looking like dinner.

5. The Cooler is dry
Like you haven't known that for months. Dear reader (that means you, Mom), I board the big plane for England and Ireland, where I plan to watch the only Goose I can tolerate (Retief), where I plan to be mortified by Tiger's potty mouth, and where I plan to try my Austin Powers pick-up lines.

Failing that, it's off to Ireland, where I will fail to break 100 on the golf course, but not on my pint total for the week. Who knows? Maybe I'll pick up a U2 tape for the Boom Box, and some Irish Spring water for The Cooler.

Brian Murphy of the San Francisco Chronicle writes the "Monday Morning Water Cooler" every week for Page 2.