This is what I learned watching the Jorge Arce/Julio Ler bout last night on Boxing After Dark. Early in the fight, it seemed that Ler’s strategy was a classic rope-a-dope – he went to the ropes for long stretches and let the relentless Arce bomb away at his forearms and gloves. Every now and then he would counter, but that was rare. More often than not, he would take ten or twelve shots and then suddenly scoot off the ropes about ten paces away from Arce, adjust his trunks, and get a baffling look of macho accomplishment on his face that seemed to say, “you see, I did it again.”

Of course, trying to pull a rope-a-dope on Arce is a dubious approach to begin with. Little Jorge is not exactly George Foreman – the idea that he would punch himself out by the 30th round, let alone the 12th, is possibly not the soundest notion.

But nevertheless, it’s not the worst way to go about fighting him, particularly if you’re as overmatched as Ler was – let the cowboy throw his bombs for a good half the fight while you preserve your strength and try to catch him late when he’s a little more spent than you are.

It almost seemed to be working. By the middle rounds, Arce’s work-rate had definitely dropped, as had the fervor of his blows, but it was hard to decide whether that was weariness or boredom with an opponent who was not fighting so much as, to quote Harold Lederman, “doing a good impersonation of a punching bag.” As Max Kellerman pointed out, Ler was landing the cleaner shots in the middle rounds, but they were few and far between and, on a hard head like Jorge’s, not making much of an impact.

By the tenth, it was clear that Ler (that’s His Speedy Gonzalez-ness himself over there on the right) had no plan to come off the ropes, giving a whole new connotation to the rope-a-dope strategy. Even covering up for all he was worth, he nevertheless walked into one of Arce’s hooks in the 11th and did the dance. In the 12th he threw maybe six punches. At that point, he was literally running from Arce in the ring, more so than I have perhaps ever seen in a professional fight.

I can only imagine what Mr. El Mas Macho thought of his opponent’s mettle last night. Somehow, though, Arce still made it exciting, just for being so clearly annoyed with the situation and for going to such great lengths, using every style and manner of taunt he could summon, to draw Ler out to something that might approximate a boxing match. It didn’t work, but the effort was more entertaining than you would have thought.

As we say goodnight to another Australian Open, we find there was an utterly predictable finale on the men’s side, and an utterly unpredictable one on the women’s side. Yet both were tales of dominance, complete mastery. Roger Federer has this kind of mastery at his fingertips every minute of every day, and Serena Williams surprised us by summoning it after a long period of inactivity.

Federer poses an interesting problem to the sportswriter these days – what is left to say? Maybe only Gretsky has ever been in the rarified atmosphere that the Fed is occupying right now. Tiger Woods has been there, but it’s different with golf – even when you’re at your most untouchable best, you still lose more than you win. And Jordan… great as he was, someone was always nipping at his heels, making him reach deep.

No one even seems to challenge Moby Fed these days, unless it’s Rafael Nadal on clay, and something tells me those halcyon days are about to come to an end. As has been noted ad nauseum, Fed won this Aussie title without dropping a set, a feat that has not been achieved at a Slam in 27 years. I would say right now that the Federer/Sampras debate is about over. Never was Sampras at this level. If Fed retires tomorrow and does not eclipse Pete’s 14 Slams, then Sampras must be said to have had the better career, but as for the “who’s the better player” argument, Elvis has left the building, and his name is Roger Federer.

What Serena Williams accomplished at this Open is nothing short of astonishing. She hadn’t been in a Grand Slam final since 2005. She’d battled injuries, weight and fitness issues, depression, and perhaps most detrimental to her career, a seeming disinterest in playing tennis. She entered this tournament ranked number 81 in the world and on absolutely no one’s radar screen as a possible finalist.

One thing that I noticed in her run to the Championship was that despite the fact that she is years away from the days when she dominated the sport, her opponents are still intimidated by her mere presence on the other side of the net. Israeli Shahar Peer, known for her pluck, had Serena on the ropes in the quarterfinal and couldn’t close the deal, and there was a clear psychological edge to her ultimate submission. Serena played an ugly match, and easily could have lost, but reached deep and willed the victory. That was her trademark when she was at her best. That is the stuff of champions.

As for her utter pantsing (skirtsing? what is the feminine of pantsing?) of Sharparova on Friday/Saturday, I thought my man Steve Tignor summed it up nicely in his column over at Tennis.com, The Wrap:

From the first swing of virtually every rally, Serena was the stronger player. And that included Sharapova’s serve, which was uncharacteristically short and erratic,a cream puff much of the time. Serena, by contrast, had full confidence in both of her serves from start to finish, and anything that Sharapova left hanging was punished with a clean, laser-like, blatant winner. Even Serena’s stance and swing were more efficient and committed to making a forceful play with each shot. No wonder Sharapova’s father, Yuri, showed up looking like he wished he could prolong a two-day bender for a few more hours.

Serena says that she is now committed to tennis again, to regaining the number-one ranking, to winning more Slams and dominating the sport once again. On that front, she’s off to a hell of a good start. Don’t be surprised to see Serena and the Fed do a few more Slam-dances before the year is out.

(This dispatch comes to us from us our Parisian correspondent, Massaër Ndiaye, aka Madsear.)

“Collar turned up, back straight, chest stuck out, he glided into the arena as if he owned the fucking place. Any arena, but nowhere more effectively than Old Trafford. This was his stage. He loved it, the crowd loved him” - Roy Keane

It was the kick seen ’round the world.

On this day eleven years ago at Selhurst Park, a Crystal Palace hooligan got the shit kicked out of him by a player from the opposite side who had just been sent off. See, one of the beauties of the premiership is that the seats are so close it allows players to dive in the stands feet first to settle the score if they hear racial slurs shouted at them. In the most unorthodox way possible, Eric Cantona created the biggest piece of entertainment this side of the Atlantic had ever seen. His Kung-Fu kick was retransmitted more times than the JFK assassination.

Eric Le Rouge was born in Marseille and that explains a lot. Like Zinédine Zidane, he was an artist on the pitch but could show his temper if provoked. But off the pitch, Cantona was an artist as well. A painter, a poet and philosopher for some, an all-around weird dude for others. An icon for all.

Eric arrived at 26 in England after quite the eventful career in France. He threw a ball at the referee in his last game and was radiated from the French league in 1992. Two years prior to that he called the French manager Henri Michel a “bag full of shit” (not to put too fine a point on it). Just 25, he decided to retire. Michel Platini called him after 3 months and asked him to try The Big Island. It was a match made in heaven, first at Leeds United where he won a championship his first year and then at Old Trafford where he won four championships in 5 years and won the “double” twice, an unprecedented achievement.

The King was a genius, pure and simple. He transcended the sport. His whole career was about battling injustice. He always stood for his beliefs and stayed proud – some would say regal – on the pitch. After he was sentenced to 2 weeks in jail and 8 months of suspension for his ninja act, his only response was “When the seagulls follow the trawler, it is because they think sardines will be thrown into the sea.” Exactly.

Having abdicated his football throne at the relatively young age of thirty, he is now enjoying a successful acting career. And as an actor, he’s as unpredictable as he was on the pitch. The footballer left the building but the artist remains.

(While reading today’s T.W.I.N. notes, we suggest that you listen to the provided audio. It’s a little number that we call “Flow Mas”, but we think you’ll recognize the source. It should set the mood nicely. Production Props to Michael Ramadan Jones.)

1/21
A little Willie Pep, a little Joe Frazier…
Large breaks down the Hatton and Castillo fights from Saturday night. “We think of boxing as such an instinctual, savage occupation, but the way Castillo went about his business last night was positively surgical. He wasn’t in great condition mentally or physically, but he knew exactly what he needed to do to win that fight, and he did it as if he were following an algorithm. The sweet science, indeed.”

The Prowlin Italian
Must-see No Mas TV – YES is running maybe the greatest episode of The White Shadow ever, the one where Salami starts moonlighting as a club-fighter known as “The Prowlin Italian.”

1/22
K.O.W. – The Left Hook from Hell
After all the Ali hoopla of last week, we throw a little love Joe Frazier’s way with our Knockout of the Week, Smokin Joe’s one-round smackdown on Dave Zyglewicz from 1969. “You get to see the vaunted Frazier left hook in full effect, because in a minute and a half, he lands about 30 of them on Ziggy’s body and head…”

Backhand Compliment
Large turns to his pal Steve Tignor from Tennis Magazine for some analysis of A-Rod’s backhand and its notable evolution. “…he’s taking the ball earlier, farther up in the court, and on the rise (heavy Connors influence) and extending through the hitting zone more (also a Connors specialty). The combination has made it a weapon.”

Bam Bam Bigelow 1961-2007
Our wrestling correspondent, The Franchise, says goodbye to one of the all-time greats, Bam Bam Bigelow.

1/23
The earth trembled on its axis…
The anniversary of the day the earth stood still, when the Hulkster broke the Cobra Clutch and vanquished the Iron Sheik once and for all.

1/24
The Swede Down Under
Nineteen years to the day since Mats Wilander beat Pat Cash in an epic five-set Aussie final, the first leg of a three-Slam season for the Swede.

Is Lennox next?
With Vitali Klitschko set to make a comeback in April, Large wonders if his ultimate aim is to mix it up with his brother. “For myself, I know I’d be rooting for Dr. V all the way, but if he wants a piece of his younger bro right now, he better make sure he’s in crack condition, because Manny Steward is turning that boy into a veritable one-two machine.”

No Mas at the Golden Gloves
The 2007 Golden Gloves opens at the Copacabana, and No Mas is on the scene.

1/25
There is nothing left to do
Large wonders if maybe it isn’t time to wonder at just what Reger Federer is up to on this planet. “…after his three-round destruction of Andy Roddick last night, bitch-slapping the insurgent Rod like a Cockney mosquito at an Irish wake, the only explanation left for this man’s appearance among us is that he is a space alien.”

All right, all right
We start our run to the Super Bowl with our first No Mas Super Bowl of the Day, the Broncos upset of the Packers in SBXXXII.

1/26
Baseball, basketball, tennis, football
The anniversary of the deaths of Abner Doubleday, Al McGuire, Don Budge and Bear Bryant.

Super Bowl of the Day – Sometimes the Bears Eat You
Remember these guys? The ’85 Bears? Not enough gets written about them. It’s almost like it never happened. “Mostly what you remember about the big game anyway is the week beforehand and all of Jim McMahon’s bullshit, the Bourbon Street Pied Piper, mooning the helicopter, dissing the quality of ho to be found in N.O., and of course the personally inscribed headbands – “Rozelle” and my favorite, “Acupuncture.”

Here’s some excellent analysis from my man Steve Tignor over at Tennis Magazine on how the Federer/Roddick semi hinged on a single game in the first set:

I’ve seen few matches turn so quickly and completely. Federer was tentative to start, hitting a series of shanks in the swirling wind. Roddick, on the other hand, was pressing the action as everyone thought he would and having some success coming forward with his serve-forehand combination. Federer steadied himself, but he seemed content to rally and play defense. Everything changed with Roddick serving at 4-4. Federer hit a sharp backhand pass. Roddick missed a backhand approach. Then, at break point, Roddick played an aggressive point to set up a forehand volley, only to pop the ball up and watch helplessly as Federer jumped on it and passed him. Roddick had played himself into perfect position, then discovered that he didn’t own the shot he needed to win the point,that’s gotta hurt. Somehow you could feel that the match was over.

Check out the rest of Steve’s column, The Wrap over at the Tennis.com site. He also shows some love to Serena and gives a much appreciated bitchslapping to Dick “I don’t never shut the fuck up” Enberg.

And in 1985, there was a feeding frenzy every Sunday, a season-long orgy of carnage that culminated 21 years ago today at Super Bowl XX, when the Bears dispensed with the mere formality of defeating the overmatched Patriots, 46-10.

There’s been so much said about this Bears team over the years that it’s hardly worth going into in much detail. Mostly what you remember about the big game anyway is the week beforehand and all of Jim McMahon’s bullshit, the Bourbon Street Pied Piper, mooning the helicopter, dissing the quality of ho to be found in N.O., and of course the personally inscribed headbands – “Rozelle” and my favorite, “Acupuncture.”

Ditka, Buddy Ryan, Mike Singletary, The Fridge, Sweetness, and yes, The Super Bowl Shuffle (if I never hear that thing again so long as I live…) – good times. For those of you No Masians out there who weren’t old enough to have seen this team, let me tell you that it was like no other that I’ve seen in my lifetime in any sport, not the Jordan Bulls, not the Gretzky Oilers. Watching the ’85 Bears gave you a feeling of utter finality. You knew there was just no way in hell they could lose. Because, as we all know, you can’t lose if the other team can’t score.

They gave us a lot of great memories, and yet one sour one as well, one that I hope haunts Mike Ditka every night before he goes to sleep. The Super Bowl appearance that Walter Payton had been waiting for his entire life, and the Bears score THREE touchdowns on rushes at the goalline, and Walter gets the call on exactly none of them. In the third quarter, with the game already on ice, Ditka lets his circus freak rookie, Fridge Perry, run one in rather than giving Sweetness a much-earned tip of the cap. Say what you will about Ditka, but class was never his thing.

…each lost a giant on this day in history:

Abner Doubleday 6/26/19 – 1/26/93
Died of heart disease in Mendham, N.J.

Al McGuire 9/7/28 – 1/26/01
Died of leukemia in Milwaukee, WI

Don Budge 6/13/15 – 1/26/00
Died of injuries sustained in an car
accident in Scranton, PA

Paul “Bear” Bryant 9/11/13 – 1/26/83
Died of a heart attack in Tuscaloosa, AL
(a month after coaching his last game)

Contrary to popular belief, and some comments we’ve received to this effect, we are in fact aware here at No Mas that there is a football game of some import on the horizon. And to show you how much we LOVE the Super Bowl and all the hype that surrounds it (just love it really) starting today we’re going to bring you the No Mas Super Bowl of the Day every day right up until the Big Day itself, that holiday of holidays, that game of games.

Let’s this get this party started right by kicking it back to January 25, 1998, when Jiggity John Elway finally got the monkey off his back and won hisself a ring. Denver 31, Green Bay 24. This was definitely one of the most dramatic Super Bowls of them all. The Broncos were 11 1/2 point underdogs going in, making this the third biggest upset in Super Bowl history, behind the Jets over the Colts (Jets were 18-point underdogs) and the Pats over the Rams (Pats were 14-point dogs, funny to remember that).

You had Terrell Davis and The Migraine. You had Elway and The Dive. You had Elway and The Redemption. In general, there was some real Peyton Manning-type shit in the air, and there seems to me to be a definite similiarity between Elway and Peyton – two altogether-too-perfect-for-their-own-good type All-American snotbags who have all-world careers and yet get branded as losers. Probably for Peyton the best thing he could do is lose this Super Bowl, because if he wins it no one will ever like him. But if he loses, and keeps at it for another decade, and THEN wins one, maybe he’ll get that Elway rebound thing where everyone decides, all right, this chowderhead has been around long enough, we like him now. You have to remember, Elway was universally despised for years before this lovable lose crap started. By the time that third quarter drive started, though, holms had all of America rooting for him. We’re a fickle lot, no doubt.

…with Roger Federer but to put together a special delegation of politicians, statesmen and cultural dignitaries and send them to Fed to ask him, once and for all, exactly who he is and what he wants from us. Because after his three-round destruction of Andy Roddick last night, bitch-slapping the insurgent Rod like a Cockney mosquito at an Irish wake, the only explanation left for this man’s appearance among us is that he is a space alien. Whether he means us harm or is on a benign mission, or is merely some cosmic renengade getting his rocks off by embarrassing the stupid Earthlings in the one thing they truly care about as a species – tennis… look, whatever it is he’s doing here, we need to find out pronto. If we don’t stop pretending about this shit and get serious, before you know it, we’re all gonna kneel before Zod. Fed. Whatever.

I just got back from the opening night of the 2007 Golden Gloves here in NYC, which was held at the Copacabana in Manhattan. It was an exciting night, some good fights, some not so good fights, a lot of electricity in the air and a lot of boxing lifers on hand to take in the action. I was there with our man No Mas Nick, who shot a lot of footage for us that we should have up here in a few days. We’re going to cover the Gloves this year soup to nuts.

To whet your appetite, here are a few shots from tonight’s intermission, where Bill Gallo played a little “New York Golden Gloves… this is your life…”

Teddy Atlas and Carl “the Truth” Williams
hug it out

Max Kellerman with his idol, Pernell Whitaker

Gerry Cooney asks Jake LaMotta if he’s seen
that movie about him

Mitch Blood Green, doing his “I’m a cross
between DMC and Rick James” thang

From right: Lou Duva, Teddy, Mark Breland,
Lorraine Bracco and Iran Barkley (and no, nothing
says Golden Gloves quite like Lorraine Bracco)