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	Blue Horizon  All Bello/Allsport

The day begins in Melbourne at the Australian Open. If all tennis tournaments had the ambiance of this one, the sport would have NASCAR's popularity, only on a worldwide level. The hard courts at Melbourne Park are conducive to top-tier tennis, the players arrive at this first Grand Slam of the year fresh and healthy, and the retractable roof atop Rod Laver Stadium can fend off any inclement weather. More important, this is a people's event -- more beer than champagne. Tickets are affordable, the downtown stadium is easily accessible both by a free tram and by Yarra River water taxis, and fans bring their rugby and "footy" sensibilities to this usually staid sport. Like the Sydney Games, the Australian Open is sport at its best; without the crass commercialism to which we Americans have become desensitized.

Next, it's off to Eugene, Ore. for University of Oregon basketball at McArthur Court. Never mind that the flight from Melbourne to central Oregon -- you didn't know Quantas flew direct to Eugene? -- is probably 20 hours. Owing to the vagaries of the International Date Line, I'll make it for an afternoon tip-off with time to spare. (In 2000, I left Melbourne at two in the afternoon local time on Super Bowl Sunday and made it back to the U.S. in time for kickoff.) Anyway, while hoop heads in Portland are left to root for the Trail Blazers, an overpaid, underachieving consortium of thugs, fans a few hours down I-5 are party to the best-kept secret in college hoops. With apologies to the Palestra in Philadelphia and Hinkle Fieldhouse in Indianapolis, Mac Court is simply the best basketball theater in the country. This 10,063-seat sweatbox, completed in 1927, features unbeatable sight lines, rickety balconies, a classic hardwood floor and a wild atmosphere heightened by seats one of top of the other. Ask Gary Payton, who, as a star at archrival Oregon State, made an annual habit of getting into it with the frat boys seated courtside. Former Washington coach Marv Harshman once said that seats were so close to the court and the aura was so chaotic, his team could never tell if the fans were yelling for them or against them. Think this is a court of appeal? Sit for a game and it scarcely matters how lousy the Ducks are.

It's unclear how I'd get from Oregon to Philly in time to catch a boxing card -- maybe I'll edit the above paragraph and beseech Paul Allen to let me charter the Blazers' team plane. But even if I only make it to "The Blue" for a walk-away bout, the trip will be worthwhile. Tucked away in a -- how to say this? -- rough hewn North Philly neighborhood, the Blue Horizon is one of those old-time fistic venues that enables a fan to play time traveler. After you climb a creaky flight of steps and find your seat, be sure to duck when paint chips fall from the ceiling. Want a beer? They're kept in a huge vat of ice near the restrooms. It's a far cry from attending a fight in a glitzy casino environment, but this is boxing unplugged. You'll never get closer to the action. As you watch two pretenders beat the bejesus out of each other for $100 a round, seeing their blood, smelling their sweat, and hearing the thwack of leather on skin, you'll realize how this sweet science is at once so repugnant and so alluring.

Late night I'll be on my couch in New York. Hopelessly jet-lagged, I'll try to regain some semblance of my normal bio-rhythms by curling up with the life's work of Bloomington (Ind.) Herald-Times sports writer, Bob Hammel.