Ron Kantowski on the people, places and things that made his wide world of sports a wee bit wider in 2006

Saturday, Dec. 30, 2006 | 7:05 a.m.

People

Ernie Banks | Feb. 26

He was one of the icons of my youth, and I can still see him digging into the batter's box as if it were yesterday, when in fact, the last time it happened was 1971. I can see his elbow cocked high, forming a near-perfect right angle. And his long fingers dancing across the bat handle, like Nat King Cole playing the piano. Waiting ... waiting ... waiting ...

BAM!

... for that sweet sound of northern white ash meeting horsehide. And the sight of the baseball rising in a tight arc toward the ivy, climbing toward the Bleacher Bums, where it would disappear into a sea of flailing arms and shirtless torsos.

That is the memory I had of Ernie Banks until Thursday, when we spoke for the first time.

Having just turned 49, I thought I had outgrown worshiping the heroes of my youth many, many, many years ago. But I have to admit that while dialing his suite at the Palms, I had butterflies. I mean, what should I call him?

Ernie? Too friendly.

Mr. Banks? Too formal.

Mr. Cub? Too Bill Murray.

Geoff Weber | March 26

He left Las Vegas, not with egg on his face, but with chow mein and soy sauce on his running shoes.

Geoff Weber, a 38-year-old Navy intelligence officer based in Virginia Beach, Va., spent an entire day - and night - running on a treadmill during the International Health and Racquet Sportsclub Association exposition at the Las Vegas Convention Center on Thursday.

He did not, however, set a new world record for most miles covered in a 24-hour period. After developing intestinal and leg cramps about eight hours into the run, Weber ultimately collapsed, unconscious, into sweet and sour pork with all the trimmings.

Usually, it's the Chinese food that gets taken out. This time, it was the table it sat on. Weber said he didn't recall the incident because by then he was hallucinating and "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds" had introduced herself to the Mad Hatter.

Mike Metzger | May 5

Three days before he was to take a flying leap into the trivia hall of fame or a bed in a local triage unit, I asked Mike Metzger, the rad motocross dude with the tattoos and bravado up to here, about the technical aspects of launching himself into the air in the manner of a Saturn rocket, flipping backward like one of the Wallendas and sticking the landing a la Kerri Strug - the three components of his attempt to jump the fountains on a motorcycle at Caesars Palace on Thursday night.

In 1968, when Evel Knievel tried a similar stunt and failed almost as badly as one can, all a guy needed was a ton of guts, a few ounces of loose nuts and bolts in lieu of brains and a shot of Wild Turkey.

That was the era when astronauts splashed down instead of landed. So nearly 40 years later, I figured Metzger would use computer models and simulations and a phalanx of technicians in spotless white lab coats to show him the exact spot where e=mc, or, at the very least, point him in the general direction of where the rubber should meet the road.

Not really, Metzger said.

"Basically," he said almost sheepishly, "it's just a lot of guesswork."

He sped up the takeoff ramp, did the back flip and landed safely on the other side, proving once again that what goes up, must come down, although I don't think Sir Isaac Newton ever could have imagined this application of the theory.

Mike Tyson | Aug. 31

The 230-pound - er, better make that 250, judging from the bulge in his gray T-shirt where his rock-hard abs used to be - magnet known as Michael Gerard Tyson was back in Las Vegas on Wednesday.

This was the first day of "Tyson Training Camp" in Las Vegas, as the placards around the under-construction mezzanine proclaimed. Training for what, nobody seems to know.

Tyson's 40 now, hasn't been a legitimate force in the heavyweight division in at least 10 years and has lost three of his last four fights. The last time out, in June 2005, he got knocked out by a guy from Ireland.

That wouldn't be a disgrace if it happened in the alley behind a bar. But this was in the boxing ring. Against a guy named Kevin.

The Baddest Man on the Planet doesn't lose to guys named Kevin.

Places

Gold & Silver Pawn shop | July 26

It was a few minutes before 10 a.m. Tuesday when I pulled into the parking lot of the Gold & Silver Pawn shop on Las Vegas Boulevard South and immediately regretted not buying one of those anti-theft clubs for my steering wheel.

A woman wearing a tight lime-green halter top and tight lime-green shorts strolled by. I guessed her to be about 15 years too late and 15 pounds too heavy for that outfit. But that didn't stop the guy on the yellow scooter and his pal in the ball cap from noticing and talking like spies as she went on her way.

Other than Jim Kelly's finger, this might be the last place on Earth you'd expect to find a Super Bowl ring.

Caesars Palace | Aug. 12

It was on a big boxing night, however, when Caesars shone brightest. The sun would finally set and the celebrities would be preening for the cameras on the way to their $1,000 ringside seats, and Debbie Munch, the resort's longtime publicist, would be running around the press room in her sneakers making sure you had what you needed and that the pretzel bowl was full, because at Caesars, the pretzel bowl was always full.

Then the buzz would begin, and it would get louder and louder and louder, like locusts assembling on the eve of a plague.

The buzz would turn into electricity that you could cut with a chain saw because a knife wouldn't do the job on a night where Leonard or Hearns or Hagler had his game face on.

Hartke Park | Aug. 26

There isn't a sign proclaiming Hartke Park as "The Practice Home of the Rancho Rams." The only one I notice says: "No Unleashed Dogs. No Vending/Soliciting. No Camping. No Fireworks/Explosives/Open Fires. No Alcoholic Beverages. No Defacement of City Property. No Horses. (No Horses?) No Motorized Vehicles. No Bicycles. No Riotous Behavior. No Narcotics. No Practicing Golf."

There are a couple of shade trees, under which the backpacks, flip-flops, minicoolers and other personal belongings of the Rancho players are scattered like fallen acorns. There are also a series of smaller evergreens on the perimeter of the park, under which sleep men who apparently don't have jobs, or don't want them. None is practicing golf. Or riding horses. Or acting riotous. At least not now. After three years of coexisting with them, the Rams barely notice the men sleeping under the trees.

"But sometimes they drink our water," says Angel Acosta, the Rancho quarterback.

Buffalo Wild Wings | Sept. 4

This was Andre Agassi at the U.S. Open. This was different. This was special. This was Our Guy, playing in one last tournament. And playing as if there were no tomorrow, or at least only a very few of them left.

That's why it was on the big screen. This, I decided, despite the sound being turned down, would be the place to watch Andre Agassi, Our Guy, continue his magical run through the U.S. Open.

It would be me, Kara the bartender and zero of our closest friends. We were the only ones in the bar.

Kara the bartender said she didn't know much about sports but that the empty bar might explain why we don't have a pro team here.

I told her she knows more about sports than she thinks.

McCormick & Schmick's | Oct. 21

A week after "The 911 Calls Heard 'Round Nevada," or by whatever name the incident featuring The Candidate (Rep. Jim Gibbons) and The Cocktail Waitress (Chrissy Mazzeo) will come to be known, I need to know if it's really possible to crawl from the McCormick & Schmick's restaurant to your room at the Residence Inn by Marriott in the Hughes Center, as Gibbons claims.

Getting down on my hands and knees, I crawled from McCormick's front door, looked both ways before crossing Hughes Parkway and kept going ... and going ... and going ... until I reached the Marriott lobby.

When I climbed to my feet, my body parts creaking like an old Buick, I sort of felt like Neil Armstrong lumbering down the steps of the lunar module. I had proved that you can crawl from McCormick & Schmick's to your room at the Marriott.

But if you're staying there, and having dinner on restaurant row, take it from an expert before you start crawling places.

Make dinner reservations at Hamada of Japan. It's directly across the street and a lot easier on the knees.

THINGS

Baseball gloves | Feb. 20

Pitchers and catchers reported to spring training last week. I'm not sure when middle infielders are expected. But this middle-aged middle infielder will be ready when the time comes.

I'll be ready because I did something last week that I haven't done in nearly 30 years.

I bought a new baseball glove.

The reason I bought a baseball glove for no apparent reason is the same one that most guys my age buy something frivolous. A buddy has one.

Knuckleballs | April 17

One of the most pleasant memories of my youth was playing catch with my dad after he came home from work. We'd lob the ball back and forth, back and forth, until I got bored, or one of the neighborhood girls rode by on her 10-speed, diverting my attention.

Then the old man would toss me a knuckleball. That immediately got my head back in the game. If I managed to catch it, he would let loose a better one, which usually bounced off my kneecap or shin.

My dad coulda been Hoyt Wilhelm, I thought. Instead, he winds up pouring slag at a steel mill.

Arena Bowl XX | June 12

When it comes to tackle football, I'm what you would call a Red Grange-type. I've never been able to get my leather helmet around the concept of playing the game in a humidor, which is one way to describe the Arena Football League.

I mean, if you're going to go fly fishing, shouldn't it be on a river in Idaho, not in the upstairs bathtub?

Beach volleyball | Sept. 11

The first beach volleyball circuit originated in the late 1950s with tournaments in cities such as Pacific Palisades, Laguna Beach and Corona del Mar, places that invoke memories of woody station wagons and bushy, bushy blond hairdos; of warm breezes and summers that never end.

It wasn't long before Moondoggie started chasing Gidget up and down the coast and Frankie and Annette spread out their beach blanket to play bingo on the silver screen. This was the advent of "Beachmania," halcyon days for James Darren and marginal surf bands, such as the Hondells; and legitimate ones, such as Dick Dale, the king of the surf guitar, and his Deltones.

It was a time to go trippin', catch a wave, go sidewalk surfin'. Even if there weren't always two girls for every boy, there was always plenty of fun in the sun, and this is where beach volleyball came in.

September baseball | Sept. 27

It would be the top of the seventh or eighth, and the shadows would be longer than Lou Brock's lead at first. And after every other pitch you'd hear a loud pop, the sound an empty beer cup in a nearly empty stadium makes when a hard-core baseball fan stomps out the bottom of it.

Then Don Kessinger, the Cubs' aging shortstop, would sprint into short left field to flag down a bounding ball, pirouette like Baryshnikov, and throw a seed across the diamond to nip the runner at first by an eyelash.

It was then that my baseball buddy Dwight would extend his palm and I would lightly slap it, just like it was Opening Day.

New Las Vegas Marathon | Dec. 11

It was 6:15 a.m. Sunday, and by then the New Las Vegas Marathon, which is actually the semi-new Las Vegas Marathon, considering this is the second year it has operated under new ownership, was under way.

You wouldn't have known it from my vantage point at the intersection of Fourth Street and Gass Avenue. Morning had not quite broken but it was so eerily quiet, you would have sworn it needed fixing.

The misty, dark gray of dawn simply would not go away. It was as if the sun forgot to set its alarm.

The first runner past was a woman.

She did not forget to set her alarm. But in the lonely cool before dawn, as Bruce Springsteen might have described it, she did not look very happy. Maybe it was because she still had 20 miles to go.

Our eyes met as she padded off toward Glitter Gulch. I wanted to offer her a Red Bull or a hot chocolate or a pair of running shoes with foam inserts. Actually, a few words of encouragement probably would have sufficed.

But as she passed by I just stood there, thinking of something to say.

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