Cold reality of making it big in America

UNFULFILLED potential is unforgivable in American sport.

I would never try to claim that the US media is unique in its desire to discard the remnants of the fallen star. Clearly it isn’t. But because of the size of the market here and the sheer volume of opinion and hyperbole being churned out on an hourly basis, to err may be human but it is as unAmerican as an athlete could ever be.

Which is why there is no way of fully explaining the gravity of Rory McIlroy’s achievement on Sunday.

I’m fairly certain the golfer himself gets it. Floating along with that deep-down-in-his-gut satisfaction, he doesn’t need me to point towards the cultural significance of being name-checked in David Letterman’s opening monologue on Monday night.

But that’s a true mark of how the conversation shifts from golfing nearly-man to sporting superstar.

Had that gap not been bridged, the louder, more obnoxious voices on sports radio across the US would have lumped ‘choker’ in with ‘nice Irish kid’ from here to eternity.

Mercifully, we have all avoided that fate. As my colleague Simon Lewis put it during his excellent coverage from Congressional Country Club, “the future starts here” for the Holywood hero.

Now the American focus shifts to another collection of futures. Now young men, in and around McIlroy’s age, are facing into just one more sleepless night before their destinies and their millions are secured.

In Newark, New Jersey tomorrow night, the NBA Draft will pair young basketballers with cities and teams, the identity of which they have very little control over, even taking into account the effort with which they put themselves into this position in the first place. Nowhere is the sporting media harsher in this country than when they’re discussing young players teetering on the brink of stardom. This is a world where the relative success of financial security and an enjoyable career ranks only a notch or two above failure. This is where the McIlroys are separated from the boys.

All this month, excitement has been building towards what amounts to little more than an auction for human beings. Maybe their fates are exponentially more favourable than, say, cattle but the similarities between the draft and the mart are undeniable. It’s just that one gets televised live on ESPN.

The other has to content itself with file-picture inserts on the Six-One news.

Most of the players hoping to be plucked out of the audience tomorrow night during two rounds of selection are emerging from the college basketball system.

Despite the huge budgets at the various top-level universities, these are athletes who, by definition, have no professional experience. The criticism and scrutiny they face is, therefore, disproportionate.

This current group of NBA hopefuls is being described as the worst in years — a tough thing to hear even if possible number one pick, Duke University point guard Kyrie Irving stands to earn just over $5m (€3.47m) a year should the Cleveland Cavaliers decide he’s the player they need to dig them out of their post-LeBron James misery.

The one complication, of course, is the impending NBA lockout which may last until after Christmas should the current agreement between club owners and players collapse tomorrow week. This would mean these soon-to-be millionaires will not only have to deal with the ignominy of being labelled a disappointment, they won’t enjoy the financial rewards until 2012. But no matter what’s thrown their way, that gap between success and failure will never be as wide nor tragic as it was 25 years ago.

Last Sunday, while McIlroy made his mark in Maryland watched by his proud dad, somewhere else in that great state, another father mourned for another 22-year-old.

A quarter of a century ago on that day, Len Bias died of a drug overdose. Just two days previously, the talented University of Maryland star had been selected in the draft by the Boston Celtics. He was due to team up with Larry Bird, who had just led his side to a third NBA title in six years. At Maryland, he had regularly duelled with the University of North Carolina’s Michael Jordan. During his 40 hours as a professional player, he had signed a deal with Reebok believed to be worth $3m (€2.08m). His wildest dreams had come true underneath the glare of New York lights on June 17. Back in Maryland on June 19, while celebrating his success, everything fell to pieces. It was a landmark moment for American society, not just sport. But this is an industry which is wildly efficient at regenerating the dream machine. And so tomorrow, the doors will swing open at the Prudential Centre in Newark and in will stroll nervous boys flaunting the arrogance of men. Cameras will flash and ill-fitting caps will be placed on dizzy heads. And when those potentials go unfulfilled, eyes will drift back to the mid-80s, another end of innocence. That June day when the greatest player that never was fell at the first hurdle.

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