When it comes to sports, it's hard to beat a good foot race.

Even in the modern format with all the fancy timers and starting blocks and shoes there is something that is uniquely honest and pure about a foot race. No special equipment is needed to compete in a 100 meter dash or even a marathon. You could run it buck naked if you wanted to. All you need, or ever needed to be a runner you have the moment you were born.

In the world of today's "Sports" there is something quite refreshing about that.

Boxing is similar in the sense that it is also a "mano a mano" sort of thing, but boxing's not really a sport. Boxing's a fight. And even in the Olympics the outcome is subjectively based on the opinions of others. Pro boxing has become a traveling sideshow with all the elements that hucksters used to bring to small towns in the late 1900s. The only difference now is that they do it by satellite. It would be comical if it wasn't so pathetic. It's a million miles away from a good old fashion foot race.

One of the greatest things about running is that you can never really be sure who excels at it. Sure, there are some people you can look at and it seems obvious enough. Take Deion Sanders, for example. One look at those big ears and that thin pointy sort of head and you know he can travel 40 yards in under 4 seconds. But with most people it can be very hard to tell.

Growing up I was blessed with good speed and it came in handy in most sports, but my friend John Douthat was a lightning bolt, and a deceiving one at that. Douthat had a short unassuming frame that had absolutely nothing about it to indicate he could move at light speed. His ears weren't even big. But toss the boy a football and say "Run!" and he was gone. He set every record in the Virginia Independent Conference, until some kid that looked like Deion Sanders came along and broke half of them.

Douthat didn't care -- at least he didn't have those ears.

Last Sunday my 7-year-old son George and I were watching the U.S. Olympic trials together. It was early in the evening and we were stretched out on the bed like two fat cats. Coming up was the "event of the evening:" a 200 meter dash that featured among others the top two sprinters in the world -- Michael Johnson and Maurice Green. The build-up was done in typical network fashion. It was 40 minutes of unadulterated chest puffing and "why I am the greatest" dialogue in which both athletes showed the modesty of a couple of World Boxing Champions.

Before each commercial ABC would repeat a clip from a previous race where the two athletes walk past each other casting looks of scorn and disdain. It was a great example of the media taking something as pristine and simple as a foot race and making it into a Hollywood spectacle.

"This is all just fluff and hype," I explained to George. "Much of it is generated by the people that telecast the race. When all is said and done it's still just a race in the end."

About five minutes before race time we were shown images of the two runners preparing for the match. Green was stretched out under a white tent on a chrome training table having his legs massaged by his "technician." Johnson had apparently just finished being worked over himself.

"Gee," I remarked, "I always just thought they sort of went out there and ran. I guess they have different ways of preparing these days." We suffered through the remaining four minutes of hype. Finally the runners walked on to the track.

"O.K. George -- Heerrrrrrre we go," I said, doing my own part to generate more anticipation, "These guys are the best of the best. This should be a great race!"

There was clearly tension in the air. The announcers had created much of it over the airwaves but you could sense the electric atmosphere on site in Sacramento. This was for all the beans -- the top two finishers would earn the right to represent the United States in the upcoming Olympics in Sydney, Australia.

RUNNERS TAKE YOUR MARK! GET SET! BANG!

The gun's report brought all nine runners out of the blocks and in to a full sprint before the sound itself had faded. One runner in the middle seemed like he might have the best start, but as they approached the first and only turn, no one, including Johnson or Green, seemed to be taking a commanding lead. The pack was just exiting the sweep of the turn and entering the straightaway when Johnson suddenly grimaced in agony and grabbed his left hamstring. He half limped, half loped and half stumbled to a stop, rolling on the ground as the rest of the pack moved rapidly ahead.

"Oh no," I exclaimed out loud, "He's out!"

"Holy Cow!," said George.

The camera stayed with the runners who were now halfway down the straightaway. Green was still in the pack but he was clearly not in the lead. Strangely he began to fall back from the others and then in a mirror image of Johnson he grabbed his left leg and began a halting deceleration that took him from the inside lane to the center of the track. He avoided the dramatic roll but he was bent over in pain as his attendants ran out to help him.

They were out of it just like that.

Meanwhile, two guys by the name of John Capel and Floyd Heard, of whom to this point we had heard not a single word, were crossing the finish line and on their way to representing the United States in the Olympics.

Somewhere the Holy Spirit must have been waxing poetic.

George stared in disbelief and then turned his head and looked at me blankly, "That wasn't much of a race, Dad."

"No it sure wasn't," I laughed.

George didn't laugh. He looked back at the TV and watched as the two college no-names rejoiced on the other side of the finish line. I could see the wheels turning. He finally spoke up.

"I'm kind of glad they won," he said.

"So am I, George," I replied.

When it comes to sports, it's hard to beat a good foot race.

Even a bad one.