Dear Dwight,

We read the interview in the Post today. It seems like you are suffering, but that your suffering is helping you think clearly and well.

We just want you to know that we are thinking of you. That we accept you and embrace you with all of your flaws and all of your mistakes. We want you to know that the fact we have seen you struggle and fail has only made you more important to us.

When we first knew you as a young man, you were a figure of fantastic beauty in your ease and grace and effortlessness. But you were a faraway beauty. In your struggles, we think we have come to know you better. We can see ourselves in you, see our own mistakes, see ourselves struggling against our own best interests. And as we watch you climb up after each fall, you are once again our hero.

Dwight, we send you our very best wishes.

Please take care of yourself.

We miss you.

Love,

No Mas

As if it matters that...

Andy Roddick went out of the French in the first round yesterday. As if anyone gives a shit but casual American tennis fans who imagine that Roddick actually has been relevant on tour in a while. Yes, he has an ankle injury, and yes, he tweaked it yesterday, but still... did you watch that match? Ankle or no ankle, Martin might have beaten him anyway. Roddick is now like a closer with high heat who used to strike everybody out with his "here it is just try and hit it" type fastballs, but hey, those are professionals out there - once they've seen the 100 mph cheese (in Andy's case, more like 150 mph) a few hundred times, they make adjustments, and then, THEN, you better have a slider in your arsenal, or, in Andy's case, a freaking flipping backhand. When's the last time you saw a tennis player at Roddick's level try to squeak by with a weakass slice/block-it-back backhand? It's an embarrassment. I read a thing on ESPN.com the other day that said that Roddick's backhand has developed into an acceptable passing shot. Dah... when? On the practice court? On Gameboy?

What it boils down to is that the world of men's tennis at this point is basically A Bunch of Dudes Who Play Tennis and Roger Federer (and, on clay, a swashbuckling homo-erotic tennis pirate named Nadal) and nowadays, Roddick is just another one of the nameless dudes, who on any given day, ESPECIALLY in the early rounds of the French Open, can get smoked by the Alberto Martins of the world.

And it REALLY didn't matter whether he beat Martin or not because

1. It's clay
2. Roger Federer is playing this tournament.
3. So is The Tennis Pirate.

Nadal has a 54-match winning-streak on clay. He's so fit he looks like he could play best-of-25 sets. He reminds me of Floyd Jr. - in the 11th round the other guy has his mouth open and is clinching and throwing soft jabs and Floyd's just like BAM BAM BAM BAM, six, eight-punch combinations, every one a jackhammer, looks like he's just getting started. Right now endurance is ALWAYS a point in Nadal's favor, no matter who he's playing. Fifth set, 17-15, Nadal will be throwing left hooks that could take your head off.

And then there's Federer. Not looking his best right now, but Federer not looking his best is like Ali looking bored when he was fighting Jurgen Blin or some other schmo. You change the Bayonne Bleeder into Joe Frazier, and you could bet that the butterfly would float, the bee would sting. Federer won't have to whip out his A-game until the final (potential Nalbandian semi - I was in attendance at the Federer/Nalbandian quarter at Flushing last year - Federer won in 3, looking for most of the match like he was enjoying a light workout before his massage), but when he does, watch the fuck out. In today's world of men's tennis, a Federer/Nadal final on clay is as good as it gets, a Borg and McEnroe at Wimbledon type slugfest. So wait for that, enjoy Nadal spanking Lleyton Hewitt in the fourth round, and whatever you do, don't cry for Andy Roddick, Argentina. These days the guy is just wasting our time.

*****************************************************************


David Larzalere is the former left fielder for the Black Betty, head writer of ESPN Classic Now, and lead singer of the Humbuckers. He likes to think of himself as a cross between George Plimpton and Gram Parsons, and especially now that his getting zooted days are over, he's not far off. This multi-talented wiseass has written a novel "The Prince Of Leisure", recorded a solo album "Mr Sunshine", and named his cat after Julio Cesar Chavez. In addition to the standard No Masian obsessions with boxing and baseball, he likes to talk about golf, tennis, and chess and is equally likely to quote Richard Pryor and Emily Dickinson. "Large", as he likes us to call him, will be writing about whatever tickles his fuckin fancy.

Mas Boundless

Boundless NY , the new online store from our compatriots at King Stampede, has gone up with with a load of No mas including Say No Barry, Pablo and Lovers. Free No Mas x Frank 151 Sports Issue with each purchase!

Broadway Boxing at the Hammerstein on TV

Check out the mind-blowing Kim Colbert fight and the rest of the May 19 Dibella card featuring New York fighters Edgar "El Camacho" Santana and Gary "Kid" Stark on your local SportsNet:

5/28/06 - 8 PM SportsNet New York
5/28/06 - 9 PM PT Comcast SportsNet West
5/31/06 - 9 PM Comcast SportsNet Southeast
6/2/06 - 7 PM Comcast Local - Detroit
6/2/06 - 9:30 PM HDNet
6/3/06 - 11 PM SportsNet New York
6/4/06 - 4 PM Comcast Local - Detroit
6/9/06 - 9:30 PM DNet (Special Edition: 4/20 & 5/19 Undercards)
6/18/06 - 3:30 PM CT Comcast SportsNet Chicago

Baghdad Oilers on The Wade Blogs

Since stumbling on our man Shane Igoe's site a month ago, I have been racking my brain trying to come up with a sports cum internet pun a third as good as The Wade Blogs. So far best I got is the world wide Spudd Webb, and I think that falls a little short (clank).

Yesterday Wade Blogs riffed on the possibility of Jeb Bush running the NFL, and illustrated it nicely with a No Mas' Baghad Oiler jammie.

Other topics covered include Jake Glynehall's sexuality, alternate world cup mascots, and a day's discussion devoted to one fan's bravura performance in a Wrigley Urinal.


Long live Wade Blogs!

Poor Man's Derby

I think William C. Rhoden is right: the outpouring of grief for Barbaro is a little bit much considering that less valuable track horses get euthanized every day without the American public batting an eyelid. In consideration of that injustice, I’m not going to be sending Barbaro a get well soon card. But I would like to dedicate to him this post about my trip to Louisvile for the Derby, which will hopefully remind him of happier days when he reads it on his laptop.

Barbaro, the line between Triple Crown stud and shot in the head trackside is disturbingly thin. Thank you for reminding me to live my life to the fullest...

***********************

I went down to Louisville for my first Derby Day this year. I didn't have a grandstand seat, so I ended up with 40,000 other low rollers in the infield. When the bugle called, I and everyone else in the infield, ignored the glares of the early risers who’d marked territory with tarps and lawn chairs, and pressed my way to the fence to watch the horses blur past. It’s hard to make sense of the racing unless you can see the video screens on the straight-aways.

Luckily, if you’re in the infield chances are good that you aren’t at Churchill Downs to make sense of anything. You are in the infield to get fucked up and look for titties. Thus, nine dollar Mint Juleps are an obstacle. Coolers and bottles are contraband, but take note; this is no place for suckers.

If you like your early afternoon bourbon hot, pour it in a zip lock bag and tape it to a pretty girls thigh. Or inject it into a watermelon and freeze it. If you like blue grass, roll your jay in saran wrap and stash it in your peanut butter sandwich.

My bourbon connections unloaded under a tree next to a man in wrap around Blu-Blockers who seemed mostly interested in scanning the bathroom line for women in bikini’s so he could yell, “Hey bikini girl, what’s wrong with you?” Hey bikini girl, what is wrong with you?

Even if you don’t have pockets deep enough to climb the social ladder and buy a $200 dollar seat in the grandstand, you can still mix with the linen and cigar crowd. General admission includes the right to a close look at the horses in the paddock. Make sure your horse looks live. Or be pleasantly surprised by how good women look in sundresses and silly hats.

* Thanks to everyone at the Douglas Mansion for their hospitality.



Behind the wagering window



Living larger than me.



If you live next to Churchill Downs, your front yard is prime real estate on Derby Day. Parking ran $20 for compacts, probably more for limos.



Don't you need some kind of certificate for this?

Welcome Back, Duque!

El Duque is my main mang--by far my favorite player of the last ten years.

If you haven't already, check out this biography--The Duke of Havana. It is not only a great sports book, but an extremely accurate and engaging potrayal of real life in Cuba. I highly recommend it.

When you understand that before his raft ride through shark infested waters--a myth the book debunks), El Duque because of his brother Livan's defection was banned for over a year not only from playing professional baseball, but from even playing softabll in the park, the fact that he was able to physically rebound from a year of total and malnutrition inactivity and help lead the 1998 Yankees to a title is all the more incredible. (see nice Verducci Flashback from '98 on SI.com)

Duque's arrival is going to exarcerbate what many of my fellow Yankee-loving friends have already identified as a disturbing trend: I am getting soft on the Mets.

I am a life-long Yankee fan. A Yankee fan who suffered through the years of Mel Hall, Pascual Perez, Steve Trout, Ed Whitson, Bobby Meacham and Alvaro Espinoza. A Yankee fan who so jealous and spiteful of the '86 Mets that I actually rooted for the Red Sox to win the World Series.

It sounds ridiculous in these days of wine, roses, and perennial division titles, but I have suffered for the Yankees. Between the time I was 5 (1978) and I was 22 (1995) my team didn't make the playofs. My AL East dreams were crushed yearly by the likes of the Brewers, Orioles, Tigers, Red Sox and the merciless Blue Jays.

Cubs fans might argue that a 17 year drought is a drop in the bucket, but I believe my steadfastness through those years should remove me from accusations of winner-picking and bandwagoneering. My heart has always and will always belong to the Yankees.

But I have to confess that my head is beginning to lean towards the Mets. They are playing a baseball fan's baseball...

and now they have El Duque.


Photo: NYC Rail

No Mas x Frank 151 Sports Issue

Last October, I got tapped to guest curate the Spring/Summer issue of Frank 151. In case you didn't already know, Frank 151 is a free quarterly magazine that gets distributed through Union, Nom de Guerre, Supreme, Reed Space, Huf, Collette--a global network of streetwear/sneaker spots. Frank 151 is quarter page size and perfect bound like a nice little paperback. It is always chock full of streetwise excellence and makes the perfect companion for a subway ride or a nice long dooky.

One of the reasons why Frank is so well done is that they have a different guest curator for every issue--a system of symbiotic exploitation whereby Frank 151 gets great content on the cheap [super duper cheap], and the guest curator gets the freedom and resources basically create one issue of their personal magazine.

Having written for newspapers and magazines for years, I knew how much work would be involved in creating 120 pages of content up to No Mas standards, but still when Mike Malbon of Frank gave me the nod, I jumped at the opportunity. And of course went with the Sports Issue.

What followed was four months of tossing ideas around and procrastinating followed by a two month period of labor that would make a Chinese factory worker yearn for the old sweat shop days. But with the help of Frank editor Jesse Nicely, Art Director Carl Rauschenbach, and a group of contributors drawn mainly from my friends and family (most of whom you will meet on this site)--we put together something that I think we are all very proud of.

In the next few weeks, you will get to see content from a lot of the articles (plus the stuff that couldn't fit in the book) posted on the site, but if you want a copy for your very own, you can get get one a couple of ways.

1. Subscribe to Frank 151

2. Shop at a spot that carries No Mas. Many of these real world and online cats are saving sports issues to give free with a No Mas purchase.

3. Send us a note that really gasses us up, and we might jut spring for the postage. Or if you send us a fiver, you can tell us what you really think.

Don't sleep. Copies will disappear quickly, and ain't gonna be no reprints.

Ohio State Football Rules!

Things to do in Cleveland when you're broke:



ed note: While this hard-hitting piece of reportage does not pertain directly to sports in the strictest sense, it does involve the use of "checking the scores" as an alibi for looking at porn, which is a subject very close to our hearts. In fact, even way back before the dawn of the internet, when we old-timers had to stay up until eleven and watch public access televeision (shout to Channel J!) to get our rocks off, I was already onto the now infamous "scores" defense. I would have the TV controller set to flip to ESPN with one click as soon as I heard my parents footsteps in the hallway. This was basically effective but did lead to one false alarm where I accidentally busted nut to highlights of a base clearing John Kruk double.

propers:
Every Day Should Be Saturday
Deadspin

youtube took down the video but apparently you can still see it here.

Sugar to Jeezy They All Know the Deezy

good looks Craig Wetherby

No Mas is Irrelevant

After an initial period of confusion, DC sportsman Mr. Irrelevant rebounded with an extra solid post on No Mas x Frank Issue in general and the Illustrated History of Drugs and Sports in particular.

Thank you for the love and links, Mistah.

No Mas vs. A Silent Flute

Check out Nat from A Silent Flute and Isenberg from No Mas in an in-depth interview/conversation which covers everything from Chief Blackhawk to Ricky Powell and reveals once and for all what a pretentious nerd Isenberg really is.

Special shout out to Jesse Nicely and Carl R. from Frank and Nick Strini from No Mas who grinded hard and burned Midnight oil on the Frank Issue, but do not get light in the interview.

Say No, Barry

In the grand tradition of Say No Strawberry..



comes a new member of the No Mas "Say No" family.


We dug in the sweatband crates for inspiration.


Discovered that Barry gave it his official perspiration.
(Sept. 1990. Click the image and peep the wrists)


Applied the proper No Masification...


to celebrate an abomination.

Broadway Boxing at the Hammerstein

At the latest edition of Broadway Boxing at the Hammerstein, the
girls outshined the boys.

The men's card featured two of promoter Lou DiBella's usual prospects: Gary Stark and Edgar Santana, but in a night of workmanlike performances it was Atlantan Kimberly Colbert who stole the show.

In the first ever women's bout on the monthly Broadway card, Colbert bested former Hilary Swank sparring partner and local favorite Maureen Shea, of Gleason's Gym.

Colbert, wearing basketball shorts and Jordans with the tag still hanging off, came to brawl. Her wild eyes riled up the Brownsville crew standing ringside.

"She's a crack head."

"She from the hood of the hood."

Wherever she's from, sign her up. Her heavy, straight-arm roundhouses drew the biggest reactions of the night.

Shea hit the canvas in the third, a knockdown that many observers thought should have been ruled a slip. Colbert later insisted it wasn't.

"That's what I'm talking about. Knocking the bitch to the ground."

Shea was by far the superior boxer, and despite the knockdown seemed the likely victor. When Dibella tapped gloves with Shea, one man interpreted it as a sure sign that she would get the decision.

"That's the signal."

He was wrong. Two judges went for Colbert. But if DiBella was disappointed, he rebounded quickly. Perhaps sensing that he had a marketable villain on his hands, the promoter was talking rematch before the fighters could climb out of the ring.





Headliner Edgar Santana, of Spanish Harlem, fought Tomas Berrientes.
Santana fans stood in the balcony, waved Puerto Rico flags and cheered harder than his punches seemed to land. Santana took the unanimous decision.

Gary Stark, the unofficial headliner, brought out the whole Starret
City camp and a good number from Brooklyn. They were loud and hard on
Luis Bolano, who lost the decision. When he went down after Stark
might have touched him low, no one gave him the benefit of the doubt.
"Bullshit, bullshit," sang the chorus.

Tomas Padron isn't on the Broadway card to win, but Padron doesn't
care. He's got heart. His ability to take a punch and hit back isn't
so much dangerous as confusing to up-and-comers. Last month, Padron
disappointed a crowd expecting Pete "Kid Chocolate" Quillin to put him
down. Friday, Padron frustrated Juan Cabrera,who had to settle for
winning by decision.

All Day I Dream About Sports/Sex