It seems fitting today to take you back to August 31st, 1881, when the first U.S. national tennis championships began in Newport, Rhode Island.

A men’s singles tournament with national aspirations had been held the year before in Boston, won with ease by eighteen-year-old Dick Sears (the dapper lad pictured above). But several disputes were contested during the tournament as to the proper way to play lawn tennis and no one was satisfied with the result. To the end of solving these disputes, a meeting was held in the Fifth Avenue Hotel in NYC on May 21st, 1881. Out of that meeting, the U.S. National Lawn Tennis Association was born.

The first U.S. Championships comprised only men’s singles and men’s doubles. As he had done the year before, Dick Sears breezed through the singles tournament without losing a set (three-set matches for the men back then). Sears is the first true U.S. tennis legend – he won the singles tournament a total of seven times and retired in 1887 with a career singles record of 18-0. He was also the first man to attack the net and volley, at least on these shores. Over in England, Willie and Ernest Renshaw were getting up to the same tricks at Wimbledon, but Sears knew nothing of their antics.

Well, I have been asleep at the wheel over here the past few days, very busy I am (see previous post, re: gig), but the rain, despite completely fucking up my own life, also gives me a chance to write my much belated U.S. Open draw breakdown. Again, I apologize for the delay. I know you’ve all had your bookies on hold.

Let’s start with the lads, from point of most interest to least:

1. Agassi , fucked. Scraping to get by Pavel last night. Baghdatis will take him in three. What people forget about Connors is that, in retrospect, the guy’s body held up amazingly well. Not so for the Ag. Good night and good luck.
2. Federer , fugheddaboudit. Until the quarters, Federer’s matches will barely get him a light workout before his evening schvtiz. In the quarters he could face Blake, and should JB make it to that match relatively fresh, he could throw down a melee worth watching. Kind of like an Ali/Ron Lyle affair , just on the cusp of interesting. Fed will win, of course, but at least he’ll get that look on his face that says, ‘I am having to try now, which displeases me,” which is a rare occurrence these days.
3. Nadal , starts it off with Poo! Jesus! The tour’s former Super Heartthrob against the Reigning Tennis Panty-Moisturizer. Presumably, unless Philipoo has got something up his sleeve that he hasn’t for about four years now, Nadal will cruise, and meet up in the quarters with either of his fellow Spaniards, David Ferrer or Tommy Robredo.
4. ARod , cruised yesterday. All that gratuitous footage of Connors down on the court, and Trautwig doing his Jimbo impersonation… enough to make you change the channel. Here’s hoping Roddick gets Fabrice Santoro in the third round and that the Frog Prince pulls one out of his ass. If not, he gets Baghdatis in the fourth, and goodnight Irene.

As fo’ the ladies:

1. The number one seed, Mauresmo still gets saddled with the unseeded shark in the waters, one Serena Williams. Amelie is trying to make it a three-major year and put her stamp on the record books, but man, getting Serena in the fourth is like… trying to tackle Bo Jackson in the backfield. Personally, I must say, I got a feeling about Serena at this one. She’s due. And she is also crazy bootylicious.
2. Hingis plays the winner of that match in the quarters. And that is where she will lose.
3. Sharp-a-rova? Maybe Mary Pierce in the fourth. Always fun to see those two mix it up. Maybe Petrova in the quarters for a good old fashioned leggy Russian pornfest.
4. And speaking of leggy pornfests, Vaidisova shouldn’t have a tough match until the fourth round, Kuznetsova, the one Russian ‘-ova” in all of the tennis world who is not hot. Must be tough on her. Or, you know, maybe she doesn’t give a shit.
5. Lindsay , the old American battleaxe. Some talk that she won’t be too long in following the Ag out the door. She has a pretty clean path to the quarters, where she meets The Belgian Bulldog, Justine Henin-Hardenne, at which point Lindsay takes a bow.

Aight. Time for me to lay it on the line. The Large semis look like this:

Federer v. Davydenko (with Davydenko winning a corker of quarterfinal over Andy Murray)
Baghdatis v. Nadal

Serena v. Sharapova
Vaidisova v. Henin-Hardenne

One final thing. I look at my draw this morning and see that should Agassi by some miracle get past Baghdatis in the second, he could face one B. Becker in the third round. And I said, some things never change…

No Masians, bear with me for a shameless plug. I, Large, have a big gig coming up this week at the Bowery Poetry Club, Tuesday August 29th at 10 pm. K2 pictures are filming the gig for a documentary they are putting together about yours truly.

What does this have to do with sports, you ask? Not a lot, admittedly. But I do play a song called “Bobby Chacon” that I wrote about the boxer and what became of his life, and I would also say that, up on my toes, throwing my lightning-quick combinations, I bear a slight resemblance to Oscar de la Hoya. Most importantly, I obey the eleventh commandment at all times – “Thou shalt not not rock.” You can check out my music at www.davelear.com and www.myspace.com/davelear.

Now that Jose Luis Castillo has escaped a ban from boxing for his failure to make weight in the Corrales rematch, it looks like Ricky Hatton wants to drop back down to 140 to take on the hard-headed Mexican sometime next spring.

And all I can say to that, No Masians, is… now we’re talking football.

Hatton/Castillo would be some serious shit. Two dudes who have never taken a backwards step in the ring. Two dudes who think defense is using their faces to block punches while hitting the other guy with more punches. Two dudes who have been laboring under the conception that they are a welterweight and a lightweight respectively, when they are both naturals at 140. And two dudes who are as tough as nails that are a lot tougher than most of the other nails.

My early prognostication? Castillo gets a stoppage around the 10th. Hatton doesn’t know anything but toe-to-toe warfare, and you go toe-to-toe with Castillo, you pay a heavy price. Hell of a fight, though, hell of a fight. I hope it gets made.

Hatton camp targets Castillo bout (BBC Sport)

The Summer Olympics opened in Munich on this day in 1972. The Munich slogan translated to “The Happy Games.” Of course, they turned out to be anything but, although they were host to some remarkable events – Mark Spitz and his seven gold medals, Olga Korbut becoming the first gymnastics darling of the television age, Lasse Viren dusting Steve Prefontaine in the 5,000 and then going on to win the 10,000 as well, the U.S./U.S.S.R. basketball controversy that rages on to this day.

But those are all footnotes really. The Munich Olympics live forever in our minds only for the fact of the Munich Massacre, an act of ruthless terrorism that presaged so many that would follow.

Why why why is James Toney so fucking fat? It really pisses me off. Here we are in one of the darkest eras of heavyweights in recent memories, with a bunch of over-the-hill ex-Soviet meatslabs holding the belts, dudes who Ali wouldn’t have deigned to SPAR with… and here’s Toney, a legitimate brawler with more skills and ring savvy than the whole lot of them combined, and yet he’s simply too fat and out of shape to compete at the highest level. I’m sure you saw the Rahman fight – the only thing keeping James from turning the lights out on Hasim was his lack of consistent output. He landed at will, but then he always retreated. He’s carrying like an extra dude of fat on him – a brutha that fat throws a flurry or two, brutha needs a breather. Ain’t no way to knock out a 230-pound man.

I’m particularly annoyed about this today after reading Dan Rafael’s account of Toney’s profanity-laced harangue in a conference call yesterday to promote his September 2nd bout with the Nigerian Nightmare, Sam Peter (don’t miss this fight, by the way – somebody WILL get knocked out). Toney has real personality – he’s hilarious, he’s sullen, he’s weird. This could have been his era. No one ever would have confused him for a top-teir heavyweight champ, but he might have been remembered as one of those guys who held the belts with ferocity and style until another true talent emerged. Instead, he’s buried in the pack with the rest of the palookas, all because of… well, let’s face it. Because of Twinkies and Ring Dings and Whoppers with cheese.

Toney has plenty of choice words for Peter (ESPN.com)

Some swimming anniversaries of note:

On August 25th, 1875, Captain Matthew Webb became the first man to swim the English Channel, completing the trip to Dover to Calais in just under 22 hours. He was smeared in dolphin oil (mmm… dolphin oil) and savaged by jellyfish, and he used the breaststroke for the entire trip. Afterwards, he became an international celebrity, which, as it so often does, led to hubris. Eight years later, Webb attempted to swim across the Niagara River right below Niagara Falls. He’d been offered ten thousand quid prize money. But he never collected. Almost immediately after jumping into the river, he was swallowed by the current. His body wasn’t found until four days later.

On August 25th, 1920, Ethelda Bleibtrey won the women’s 100 meters at the Antwerp Olympics, becoming the first American woman to win a gold medal at the Olympics. Bleibtrey followed it up with gold medals in the 300 meters and 400 meter relay. From 1920 to 1922, Ethelda won every race she entered, but beyond being a swimming powerhouse, she was a powerhouse in her own right, one of the original flappers. In 1919, she was arrested in Manhattan Beach for removing her stockings before taking a dip, considered nude swimming at the time. She is also credited with being one of the first women to sport the flapper’s “bob.” God bless her for that.

You know the kind of days. You wake up to discover that it’s your fortieth birthday. Your once certain Hall-of-Fame baseball career has dwindled to shit due to a bum hip and you’ve been out of the game for six years. Money’s running low. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY likes you. And that bitch you been stalking won’t give you no time.

And, oh yeah, you’re on your way to jail. Albert, look bruh, take a couple of Advil and go back to bed. It’s gonna be a long one.

Former slugger Belle sentenced (Washington Post)

On this day in 1989, Pete Rose accepted a lifetime ban from baseball. Major League Baseball had the goods on him – iron-clad evidence that Rose had been gambling on games for years, including betting on his own Reds while managing the team.

Rose knew he was dead to rights. Why else would he willingly agree to a lifetime ban? But it was the wording of the agreement that really screwed him up. In signing, Rose admitted that there was a reason for his ban, but did not admit what that reason was. MLB, meanwhile, agreed to not release the findings of their investigation into Rose’s gambling habits and to remain mum on the topic. It was a nod-nod-wink-wink situation of the highest order, and one can only imagine that Rose was motivated to sign it with an eye toward the Hall of Fame. Well aware that no man known to have gambled on baseball, no matter how great he was, would gain entry to the Hall, Rose obviously thought this little bit of sleight of hand might keep his candidacy alive.

So he bullheadedly, ridiculously stood by his claim for years – yes, I gambled, but not on baseball. It was quite a gamble in its own right – very Pete Rose, really. Damn the torpedos. Of course, he lost, and he lost big. But it was bound to happen. As any good gambler knows, you can’t bluff when the other guy’s holding the nuts.

The early morning hours of August 23rd, 1988. Mike Tyson shows up at Dapper Dan’s in Harlem to pick up a leather jacket on which he has had emblazoned “Don’t Believe the Hype.” Mitch “Blood” Green is nearby, and goes to confront the man who once pounded him in the ring. They argue inside the store, and then Green follows Mike outside to his Rolls.

I envision the discussion at that point going something like this:

GREEN: You’re with Don King now motherfucker and Don King robbed me! You robbed me! Don King fucking robbed me!

TYSON (to the air): Yeah, well, Don King robs everybody.

GREEN (following Tyson): Don’t fucking walk away from me Mike! You owe me money yo! You both owe me money!

Mike keeps walking to his car.

GREEN: I said don’t you walk away from me motherfucker! You didn’t really beat me Mike and you know it! All you did was rob me!

TYSON: What? What? You really gonna say that you won that fight? Bullshit. I won that fuckin fight. I beat you easy. So let it go.

Mike stands square eying Green, rubbing his fists, adjusting his many rings. Green focuses in on Mike’s rings, and then says slowly….

GREEN: We could do it again right now.

When Mike laughs at that and starts to get in his car, Green grabs Mike’s shirt, and Mike wheels around and cold-cocks him in the forehead, drawing a spew of blood and, as he immediately senses, breaking his hand.

That injury would force the postponement of his bout with Frank Bruno, and the late-night Harlem showdown would gain infamous tabloid status in the career of Tyson’s violent encounters outside the ring.