The American Spectator

p> em>You’ve only had to run so far, so good br> But you will come to a place br> Where the only thing you feel br> Are loaded guns in your face br> And you’ll have to deal with br> PRESSURE br> …and you cannot handle PRESSURE. /em> br> — Billy Joel /p>

AT THE RISK OF SOUNDING like Jimmy Carter in a cardigan talking about sports instead of about a national energy crisis it must be said: By almost all available evidence, a vast malaise is infecting this nation’s sports scene. What’s worse is that it seems to mirror our inability to win what should be winnable wars — or, rather, winnable peaces, if peace can be pluralized — in the Middle East.

Never in modern history has the American sports scene looked so bleak. Not just bleak, but weak. As in weak-willed and weak-nerved.

That’s a strong statement, of course. To back it up, it is necessary to set aside the obvious example of Tiger Woods. Woods is, of course, quintessentially American. But he is sui generis. He is no more representative of the general trend of things than is a giant in a land of Lilliputians. Indeed, it is his fellow competitors’ response to him that is representative — and it is not a pretty sight. Aside from weird-swinging Jim Furyk and bizarre-putting-gripped Chris DiMarco, both of whom at least have the grit not to wilt against Woods even if they can’t overcome him, no other American golfer seems be able to avoid being utterly intimidated by him. Or, for that matter, by the weight of their own, lesser, aspirations.

Starting with golf, then, let’s look at the evidence. Fewer and fewer Americans win tournaments on the PGA Tour. Fewer (only 16!) are ranked in the top 50 of the official world rankings. And outrageously few can even stand the pressure of trying to make the Ryder Cup team to represent our country against Europe.