Cry for Argentina

What a day for the Argies. First David Nalbandian, who evidently asked for an early match today at Wimbledon so that he could watch the evening's World Cup quarterfinal (see that story here), got his early match and then made an early exit, dismissed by Spain's Fernando Verdasco.

Then Nalbo and the rest of the Argentine faithful had to suffer through an agonizing loss to Germany on penalty-kicks. A post-match fracas left a bad taste in everyone's mouth. And finally, to close out the day, Argentina's coach Jose Pekerman resigned his post, a beaten man.

If the news comes over the wires tomorrow that the world has lost its taste for cocaine and steak, you know the Lord has Argentina in His crosshairs.

Cowboy Soccer

Yesterday morning I wandered around Laramie, Wyoming looking for a bar with ESPN to watch the World Cup.

I end up at the Ranger--a combination motel, bar, and package store. Soccer is on and there are five guys watching, eating donuts and drinking Bloody Marys. Three of them played high school soccer in Cheyenne; one of those wears a Germany shirt.

I order an orange juice and when I go to my pocket for money the bartender tells me that if it doesn’t have booze in it, it’s on the house. This makes me feel like a pussy so when I finish the orange juice I order a Bloody Mary. He makes one for himself when he makes mine. Ten minutes later he tells me his isn’t spicy enough and adds two kinds of Tabasco to my glass, now half empty.


At halftime Dale, a plumber, never a soccer player, has a feeling that a goal is coming. He bets the guy in the Germany shirt five dollars that there will be a goal in the first ten minutes of the second half. Ayalya scores for Argentina off a corner in the 49th minute.

Dale, by all accounts, was drunk the night before. I was told that late last night a cop walked into the bar. By all accounts his presence was uncalled for because there hadn’t been a fight for months. So Dale ran up to the cop, a rookie, and says that three minors just ran into the bathroom. The rookie cop runs into the bathroom. Dale follows and sets his weight against the door. The cop tries to leave the empty bathroom but can’t because Dale is blocking it. He bangs against it a few times, but then lays off for a minute and Dale goes off to stand in a corner. The cop charges the door again and there is no resistance so he tumbles through door and onto the floor of the bar. Just then six more cops come running into the bar. The rookie had called for back up from the bathroom.

Dale is not a soccer fan, but with five bucks from Argentina’s goal, he stops belittling the sport. I think he even yelled earnestly when Klose put in the equalizer for Germany.

Everyone was upset by Argentina’s incompetence in the shoot out.

Between games I left to get lunch.

When I get back to watch Italy-Ukraine everyone is still there. They’d decided against work altogether; having progressed from Bloody Mary’s, to Coors, to Jack and Cokes, to half-Jack-half-Cuervo shots. Now, also in the bar is a baby playing with one of those tiny bottles of Schmirnoff, and two dogs.

By the time Toni puts in Italy’s second goal, the scene at the Ranger is sloppier than the Ukrainian defense; Canavaro takes a ball to the groin reminding someone of the time he hit a freshman in the nuts so hard that he pissed blood for three days and quit the team; the motel clerk hides drunk's cell phones; people are genuinely pissed that ESPN’s Shelley Smith is so fat.

I don't partake in the Cuer-Jacks but 85 cent Coors take their toll; I recollect a high school soccer practice where the coach didn't show and where I or maybe someone else dropped a bowling ball off a bridge, made a freshman go get the pieces, and then dropped the pieces of bowling ball off the bridge.

The Cheyenne guys know some Ethiopians that play pickup in the park, I'm leaving tomorrow for Cody, but we make plans to take them on next Thursday.

Brain damage on the mike don't manage

Dear Evander,

We love you. You are one of the truly heroic warriors of the recent era. Your trilogy with Bowe will live forever in boxing lore, as well as your battles with Tyson, Foreman, and Lennox. You gave us many great nights and we are proud to have had you in the ring during our lifetime.

Please don't fight any more. Your recent bouts have been humiliating. You are showing early signs of pugilistic dementia, and more punishment at this stage will only severely hasten your demise. They suspended you for a reason, Evander - to save you from yourself. If no one in your inner circle will tell you the truth, listen to us, because we say this out of enormous respect for your accomplishments. Your claim that you want to be heavyweight champ again is preposterous. Fat James Toney made you look like a cheap sparring partner, and then you lost a decision to Larry Donald in one of the most unpleasant bouts we've seen in years.

If you really need to spar, call Heidi Klum again. That's just the kind of tete-a-tete we wish upon you. As for actual boxing, we beg you, throw in the towel. Your legacy is secure, and you're a righteous motherfucker. Give your brain a break.

Love,

No Mas

Oh no you di'nt.

Bethanie Mattek you are so No Mas it's not even funny. I mean, check that shit out. Halter top, short shorts, and fucking tube socks already? Pulled all the WAY UP TO THE KNIZZLE? AT WIMBLEDIZZLE?

Not to even mention the freakin Run DMC Adidases she rockin. Girlfriend, you are the king of rock. Venus bitchslapped you, but in a way, you'd already won. I hereby award you the No Mas player of the week trophy, which not coincidentally happens to be a bronze statue of a hot chick in a halter top and tube socks playing tennis.

Achilles vs. Hector

Unable to sleep last night in this tropical swamp known as New York City, I decided to dip into the vaults and stoke my Wimbledon appetite. I did not shilly-shally with the riff raff – I went straight to Olympus. Borg/Mac final, 1980. It was a long evening. Just as he has done in several previous viewings, Borg won a thrilling match. Here are some observations:

-Borg in Diadoras. Mac in Nikes. Europe versus America in its truest form.

-Borg’s look was ill. The skin-tight Fila shizzle, the headband, the scruff, them Diadoras, the Donnay racket. Mac looked cool just because he was Mac. But Borg – no matter who he was, that motherfucker walks into the tennis club and bitches be swooning.

-Those BBC British announcers are the bomb. First game of the first set, the dude says something as Mac hits his first serve, something like “and we’re off…” and then doesn’t say another word until 40-15. Mary Carillo and Mac should have to study these guys like they’re Greek philosophers.

-Borg played incredibly fast. In retrospect it’s almost bizarre. He can’t get his serves off soon enough. Mac, in comparison, with his pouty faces and exaggerated service windup, was a human rain delay.

-Mac was brilliant in the first set, maybe the best a tennis player has ever been. Borg was in fine form, but there was just nothing that he could do with Mac’s serve and volley perfection. He won only seven total points on McEnroe’s serve.

-Serving out the set at 5-1, Mac sends a volley just long and then stops at the net in a pantomime of angry consideration, hand on hip, scratching his chin, head tilted. “Do I dare disturb the motherfuckin universe?” Meanwhile, the announcer shows his anti-Mac stripes. “I have to believe,” he says, “that any tennis player at this level knows from the feel on his racket if that ball is long. If he doesn’t, then he’ll never amount to much. And that ball was clearly long.”

-The second set, and thus the future of the greatest tennis match ever, turns on a single point. Mac remained untouchable on his serve in the second set, and Borg raised his game, and they started trading service holds. With Mac serving at 5-6, 15-0, he sends an easy volley into the net, and it clearly rattles him. He loses focus on the next point, chunks a volley and Borg slams it home, and then Borg hits a brilliant return winner to get to 15-40. He breaks at 30-40, and while the crowd roars, Mac crouches down and stares at his sneakers. Next thing you know Mac is spraying his volleys all over the place. The precision is gone. Borg breaks in the second game of the third set and that’s all he needs. He wins it 6-3 and goes up two sets to one.

-Both players start to play erratically in the fourth set. Borg breaks Mac with a monster cross-court winner to go up 5-4, serves for the match, goes up 40-15, two championship points. Mac saves the first with a pinpoint backhand passing shot (announcer: “that really was a brave pass”) and then gets to deuce with a see-saw volley exchange. He then wins the next two points, breaking Borg with a cross-court backhand return winner, and lets loose with a mighty “come on!” They trade two love games to head into The Tiebreak.

-Serving at 5-6 in The Tiebreak, third championship point of the match for Borg, Mac stretches out to full extension to send an improbable volley home (announcer: “however he got to that I do not know.”)

-Mac serves for the set at 8-7. Serves and volleys, Borg passes and Mac falls flat on his face trying to reach it. As he gets up, I notice the outline beneath Mac’s shorts – he’s wearing tighty-whiteys.

-Borg serving for the match at 11-10, championship point #6 – Mac hits a drop shot that catches the net cord and drops into Borg’s court. No gentleman's "sorry" racket-wave from Mac, of course. He heads right back to the baseline like Frazier used to make for his corner at the end of a round.

-Mac set point #4, serving at 14-13, has the whole court open and pushes his volley just wide. Anguish at the net.

-Borg serves at 16-17 and nets a volley. Fourth set to Mac. Crowd erupts. As Borg walks to his chair, he looks thoroughly beaten. Mac meanwhile goes for his sit-down and grabs what looks to be a breath mint.

-Fun to watch the fifth set knowing what was in Borg’s head. I’ve seen him interviewed about The Tiebreak on many occasions. He always says, “I was devastated. I knew I was going to lose the match. But then, you know, I felt like, well, there’s nothing for me to do but keep playing and see what happens.”

-As they trade holds throughout the fifth, it becomes clear that Mac is wearing down. Borg serves a monster love game at 5-5 – the agony of the tiebreak seems forgotten. Another love game at 6-6. He’s in true cyBorg mode. Mac meanwhile is laboring, talking to himself a lot, taking a lot of time between points. Fitness was Mac’s Achilles’ heel.

-Borg is down 15-40 at 7-6. He wins it from there, closing Mac out with three straight picture perfect passing shots.

-Sitting after the match, both dudes look like they’ve been through a war, especially Borg. He almost seems like he doesn’t know where he is.

It's time for the light sabers

Greg LeMond was Lance Armstrong’s Obi-Wan Kenobi, his idol as a young cyclist, the man who paved the way for American cycling success in Europe. LeMond and Armstrong are the United States' two all-time greatest cyclists, our only winners of the Tour de France.

And they just can’t get along.

LeMond has been anti-Lance since 2001, when he went public with his “disappointment” that Lance was associated with Italian doctor Michele Ferrari. Ferrari has been linked to blood doping scandals, and Armstrong finally severed his ties with him in 2005.

Greg and Lance have been at loggerheads ever since, and now, in the midst of the latest flurry of drug allegations against Armstrong, LeMond claims that Armstrong threatened him after he testified in a recent legal dispute against the famous Texan cancer survivor.

How are we going to settle this, lads? A winner-take-all bike race seems out of the question – Lemond is ten years older than Lance, who is only a year removed from his seventh straight Tour victory. Maybe a showdown on Jeopardy. Maybe a duel to the end while the Death Star slowly burns and a war for the future of the galaxy rages in the heavens behind you.

However you want to do it. Just so long as it gets done. The time to hesitate is through. Lance, Greg, do us all a favor and end this thing like men. Choose your seconds and name your poison.

Meanwhile, the 2006 Tour de France kicks off on Saturday, and for the first time since 1998, someone other than Lance Armstrong will finish with the yellow jersey. OLN will be covering the race start to finish, starting live at 8:30 Saturday morning. Click here for the full television schedule.

Ten years ago... on a cold dark night...

With Wimbledon getting off to a typically rainy start today, I ask you… who won the Wimbledon men’s singles tournament ten years ago?

If you said Sampras, well, you’re a fucking idiot, because obviously it's a trick question. From 1993 to 2000, Sampras lost only one match at Wimbledon, and it was in straight sets to the eventual 1996 champion...

Richard Krajicek.

The Dutchman was only the second unseeded winner ever at Wimbledon, after the 17-year-old Becker in 1985. He won one of the great no-name finals in the history of the tournament, defeating MaliVai Washington, the first black to make the final since Arthur Ashe in 1975.

What a final it was. Washington was a nervous mess, seemingly defeated before he ever set foot on Centre Court. Krajicek got only a light workout, breezing to victory at 3, 4, and 3. About the only interesting thing that happened on the entire afternoon was that a lovely, fleet-footed streaker had herself a scamper in the grass right before the two players took their warm-ups. Check out Krajicek and MaliVai having a moment together.

Krajicek (in thick Dutch accent): I would enjoy having the sex with her.

MaliVai: Motherfucker, you'd bang anything, you ugly and Dutch.

Krajicek: I will make you pay for that nasty thing which you said when we play the tennis.

MaliVai: Whatever.

p.s. Contrary to popular belief, that streaker was not Steffi Graf. The Fraulein was long gone from the All-England grounds, having tended to her business the day before, laying her typical can of whupass on Arantxa Sanchez Vicario in straight sets to win her seventh and final Wimbledon singles crown.

In search of an American Soccer Vernacular

In Chinatown, at the field on Delancy and Chrystie a stray ball slowly rolled by a Ghanaian. He stood and watched it.

"I'm like Landon Donovan, I don't move for no one."

I stood and watched him, completely unsure how to craft an adequate comeback.

***

I think American fans feel a little left out of the World Cup and not just because the U.S. was eliminated without a win.

The problem for American soccer fans is that we don’t know how to talk about soccer.

My first exposure to soccer commentary was the video game FIFA 98. ESPN’s own, Irishman Tommy Smyth, did the commentary.

He was the realest soccer voice I’d ever heard. His most frequent comment was, “He put it in the back of the old ol’ onion bag.”

Exposed to an impressive variety of Smyth’s goal calls, the video game commentary became my soccer language. I remember saying “brilliant strike” in earnest.

Live at the 2006 Cup, Smyth is still quirky and Irish, and he is about as insightful as his 1998 Playstation 1 video game self. When Ecuador played Poland, he called Ecuador the Denver Broncos and Poland the Gonzaga of the World Cup. Like Quito is high altitude and no one wants to play Poland.

His yank-pandering analogies left my American soccer identity in tatters.

Now, when I am the lone American playing in Chinatown, I can’t quite bring myself to say, “football.” I feel like I’ll be recognized as a fake, as the Smyth imitator that I am.

And as a fan I am lost. In New York, I see Ghanaian, German, and Swiss fans and I want to understand soccer like they do. I follow these authentic fans to ethnic bars to take it all in.

***

Our home-grown league is as lost as I am.

Major League Soccer formed 10 years ago, and initially featured bad, but at least, original team names: Burn, Earthquakes, Mutiny. As the league expands, team names have suddenly gone sickeningly faux-euro:

-Real Salt Lake. What does it mean that Utahans root for a team called “Royal Salt Lake,” in Spanish?
-Houston Dynamo. Maybe the MLS means this to be subversive; Dynamo was originally a Soviet sports clubs sponsored by political police like the KGB.
-The Dallas Burn have been renamed Football Club Dallas.

These names are apparently designed to attract the kind of Americans who yell, “Come on lads” when Manchester United is on television.

ABC/ESPN’s World Cup commentary offers a different direction. Aside from Tommy Smith, the commentators are thoroughly American. They could be worse. Balboa, Harkes, and Wynalda might not have been world-class players, but they at least understand soccer and generally make reasonable points.

Unfortunately soccer knowledge alone is insufficient for adequate commentary.

In terms of style, the TV Americans are lost. They waver between the tone of a baseball announcer and British inflection, they aren’t very funny, and they are prone to repeated dramatic overstatement of the obvious. On the knockout round:

“And remember the losing team is sent home after today’s game.”

***

The MLS is lost, ABC/ESPN is lost, and I am lost, because there is no American soccer vernacular. To be a soccer nation, the U.S. not only needs a more creative intelligence on the field, we need a new kind of voice in he booth to show fans a way to talk comfortably about soccer.

Sweden Unter Alles

My friend Gene invited me to join him and his friend Nina in watching a contest between the Swedish Bikini Team and the German Girdle Squad in Roppongi, Tokyo’s foreigner ghetto.

I was disappointed when it turned out to be a soccer game.

Nina’s blonde enthusiasm quickly cheered me. Swedish to the core, she took us to Legends Sports Bar, which was standing room only two hours before the midnight match. The Swedes came correct in blue-and-yellow jerseys, Viking hats and flags worn as capes. One flag was as large as my bedroom and the Swedes held it over their part of the club like a tent.

There’s 1,000 Swedes in Japan and 5,000 Germans, one told me. But one Swede is enough for five Germans. Skol!

An hour before match time a group of young Germans tried to stake out a spot between the Swedes and the bar and had to be edged out. One wore the German flag over his shoulders and I was close enough to catch sparks when a woman wearing a Swedish flag unwittingly backed into him. There was talk of burning the defiled flags, but tempers cooled and the two eventually posed for a photo together.

The Swedes were quite open-minded. They deliberated about how to translate their fight songs so the Germans could understand them.

Why don’t we just sing Sweden Uber Alles? one suggested.

No, said another. You’ve seen Fawlty Towers, right? Don’t mention the war…

They taught me their songs and translated them for me. The most important chant translates as “Put in the goal!” Genius. We began singing the fight songs in earnest half an hour before the match. There were only 40 or 50 of us, but we shook the walls. Thor would have been proud. The Legends Sports Bar belonged to us. All of Tokyo could not be far behind.

Or so we thought. The German fans turned out to be as efficient as their team, saving their voices for the first, heart-stabbing goal, when they erupted. Suddenly we realized that everyone else in the club was German. No fight songs, few team colors and little spirit, but the Germans had us five to one.

At that moment, the Swedes realized what they were up against. Another goal at 12 minutes. Then Lucic’s bullshit red card. (Did you register the undisguised schadenfreude on the referee’s face when he pulled the card? Or the congratulatory pat on the back he received from a German player? Here in Tokyo, we call that “a little home cooking.”)

Down 2-0 with 10 players, my Swedish compatriots changed their game plan. They surged forward and made the space in front of the serving area a wall of blue and yellow, making sure that not a single German was able to buy a beer for the rest of the match.
______________________________________________________________
This post comes to us from Craig Coley, currently in Japan heading up No Mas's Tokyo office. Craig is a longtime journalist and editor of note who's pounded the beat in both Brooklyn and Tacoma, so you know he's paid his dues. One time the motherfucker rode the subway for almost two days, went to every stop in NYC. And it wasn't even on a bet - he was just lost. Check out his freakydeeky website, georginabush.com, and check out Craig's dispatches from the Far East right here at No Mas.

Trade For the Ages

I want you to read this very closely....Kevin Garnett will be traded to the Lakers before the 2008 season. You heard it here first....I don't make predictions like this everyday - the last time I felt this strongly about a trade was when Piazza went to the Mets from the Dodgers (via the Marlins) - but this is a no- brainer. Think about it:

A) Garnett doesn't need $$$

B) The Lakers have the players to offer. Odom's recent playoff performance can make him the main piece. Add Kwame Brown (the Lakers have Bynum to replace him) with either Luke Walton or DeveanGeorge, and the trade could work.

C) Minnesota is going nowhere. Garnett's huge contract (which the Lakers could handle or restructure) is an albatross for the T'Wolves. They need to start over.

D) Garnett is hungry to win and his game (which is supremely ill) would be PERFECT for the Lakers. He is the ideal match-up for the key players on the other Western Conference powers (Dirk, Amare Stoudamire, T. Duncan). KG and Kobe would work well together offensively as well.

E) Garnett would love to play for a real coach (Flip Saunders is/was a regular season coach only)

F) After 10 cold-ass years in Minnesota, LA has got to look like a paradise.

G) The NBA would love it. You think Stern likes having one of the league's most unique players, (and darkest colored NBA superstar) in the middle of nowhere on a crap team? Players of Garnett's stature should only be on either the Knicks (won't happen), Sixers, Celtics, Pistions, or Lakers.

H) KG would look dope in Laker gold and purple


What? You think I'm buggin'?? Tell me why.....

The Quarryman

If you get a chance, you should check out the ESPN Classic hour-long show, “A Forgotten Heavyweight: Jerry Quarry.” Narrated by Al Bernstein, it’s a pastiche of Quarry’s three most famous fights, his 1969 title bout with Joe Frazier, and his two fights with Ali.

I had seen the Frazier bout before, a punishing affair stopped by the doctor before the start of the 8th due to a bad cut over Quarry’s eye. And of course Ali/Quarry I is famous, being Ali’s first bout back after his Vietnam exile from the ring. This fight too was stopped due to a cut over Quarry’s eye, this time before the start of the 4th.

Ali/Quarry II, fought in 1972, I had never seen, and this particular print that Classic has is fascinating. First of all, the announcers are Mel Allen and, I believe, David Frost. Hearing Allen, who for so many of us children of the 70’s is forever the voice of “This Week in Baseball,” doing a big fight is a joy. He boils over with enthusiasm, going on before the first bell about how charged the atmosphere is and that he’s as full of adrenaline as either of the fighters. Frost, meanwhile, if that is indeed Frost (anyone know about this?), is all continental cool and witty analysis. They’re quite a team, a real poor man’s Mailer and Plimpton, much like CI and myself when we call fights together at my house.

Also great about this print is that the announcers' mikes pick up a lot of noise from the ring, primarily the constant banter of Bundini Brown. Right after the opening bell, in a bizarre maneuver, Quarry actually picks Ali up off his feet and looks like he’s going to piledrive him. He definitely gets Ali’s attention with this move - his eyes go wide. And you hear Bundini yelling at him, “you just stay cool Champ, real cool, you do YOUR thing.” Later on, when Ali is opening up on Quarry, Bundini yells, “that’s right Champ, lay a Sugar Ray on him,” which Allen and Frost comment on.

The fight itself is gripping just for being such an exhibition of Ali’s skills prior to his mid-70’s decline. Quarry was a hell of a puncher (a poor man's Frazier, let's face it) and still Ali looks like he's in a glorified sparring session, breaking a sweat, working on some moves. He clowns more than I’ve ever seen him clown, toying with the bullish Quarry through the first two rounds before letting fly in the third and putting the Irishman on queer street. Quarry wobbles out for the fourth and Ali tattoos him twice and then turns and beckons to the ref to stop the fight, much as Larry Holmes would do in his bout with Ali eight years later. After the fight, Ali said of this gesture, “I ain’t out to kill nobody.” Two more clean shots and the ref takes mercy on Quarry, who was out on his feet. TKO in the fourth.

This was a bad night on the whole for the Quarry family, as Bernstein explains in the show. On the undercard, Jerry’s younger brother Mike (who died just two weeks ago) was knocked out in a light heavyweight title bout with Bob Foster (that picture on the right is M. Quarry/Foster). It was a night Ali termed “The Soul Brothers versus the Quarry Brothers,” and the Soul Brothers had an easy go of it. Meanwhile, another Quarry brother was arrested for brawling in the stands. 0 for 3. Luck of the Irish, innit.

Is Paris Burning?

I watched the first half of the France-Togo game at a birthday party for the French graffiti artist L’Atlas. The geographical moniker is descriptive of his m.o.: he’s known for the labyrinthine compasses he pastes at the mouth of metro stops in a style inspired by the Kufi calligraphy he studied in Cairo. The birthday party was in the large courtyard of La Forge, a former key factory that was rescued from demolition by artist squatters and has recently been granted quasi-official status as a center for “socio-cultural activities” in Belleville. Belleville is a honeycombed hill in North-East Paris, a multi-ethnic bastion of the working class since the days when those kicked out of the city by Haussmann’s works took refuge there. Artists’ studios and hipster bars shoulder Sephardic pastry shops and Chinese restaurants.

Against the backdrop of enormous graffiti pieces, L’Atlas set up a television on a carved iron pedestal while his friends made under-breath remarks to downplay their commitment to such unsavory things: television and, for goodness’ sake, football. Jean explained to me that one doesn’t really root for the team before they play - “besides, we’re not that into winners.” Another guy in one of an endless series of hipster T-shirts, most of them graffiti-themed, sidled up to me to tell me that he found soccer fans distasteful. Still, the Black-Blanc-Beur (Black-White-Arab) theme that emerged in ‘98 wasn’t bad. Meanwhile, African kids from the neighborhood ran wild in the courtyard and one beanpole of a girl (apparently of Togolese origin) attempted a meager “Ouais, les Togolais!”

Despite the prevailing too-cool-to-care attitude, I noticed the dudes (the females of the lot were mostly off parading their outfits, starting a bonfire) itched as the French had one near-goal after another in the first half. They betrayed a curious mixture of pessimism (“eh oui,” said the blasé TV commentator as a goal was discounted, the French off-sides again) and guilt, linked no doubt to the fact that so much of their cache is bound to the diversity of their hood.

At halftime, I took off south and settled in a small café near the Square M. Gardette, in the middle of the 11th arrondissement, between two poles of branché (trendy, literally “plugged in”) Paris, the Bastille, and Oberkampf/Belleville. I ordered a Perrier at a sidewalk table with a view of the television. The café was mostly filled with beurs (a slang word for Arab, used for French people of North African extraction), although there were a couple of white guys, one wearing a Frank Ribéry jersey. This crowd was more unabashedly enthusiastic, exploding with shouts as Vieira and then Henry scored the goals that delivered France to the second round.

Even here, though, there were signs of ambivalence. One drunken beur, clearly embarrassing his compatriots, observed at one point that there were “gens colorés” (colored people) on both teams, so what difference did it really make who won? The support for France seemed continually on the verge of crumbling into more sinister emotions.


In other news, NYU professor Assia Djebar, the first Algerian to be elected to the Académie Française, pronounced her acceptance speech on Thursday, and President Jacques Chirac inaugurated his most recent pet project, a museum dedicated to the “first arts,” indigenous works from all over the world (except the “Occident”), which has sent the price of African masks sky-rocketing. To say that France is struggling with its colonial past, in football and beyond, would be putting it kindly.
________________________________________________

This post comes to us from our Parisian correspondent, Nicole Asquith. Nicole has taught courses on French hip-hop at Johns Hopkins and given lectures on French rap and graffiti, both on the university circuit, and to me, over coffee. Her dissertation was all about Rimbaud, and yet was also about graffiti, which should tell you something about Nicole. She smart, but she down. Not to mention, she likes her football, this lass. In the fall, she begins a position as Assistant Professor of French at UC Davis. We're lucky to have her on the No Mas side.

Enemies of Nintendo Promise

To celebrate the 20th anniversary of Argentina's World Cup triumph, our man Shane over at the The Wade Blogs has created a new work in the grand retro-simulo style pioneered by BSOULS1211, celebrated auteur of "'86 Word Series Game 6, RBI baseball".

For your consideration: "Hand of God Goal Nintendo replay - Maradona vs. England 20th"



While "Hand of God Goal" is certainly an admirable attempt and worthy of both kudos and multiple viewing (I especially like the team selection screen), it does not unfortunately soar to the Olympian heights of BSOULS1211's Biennial-worthy masterwork. It hurts me to belittle the creation of a friend, but if BSOULS1211 is the Michelangelo of the Nintendo medium, my dear Wade Blogs must content himself to be the Lucia Della Robbia. From the promise to take "angry girlfriend pissed at NES obsessed boyfriend" away for "a nice weekend" included in the closing credits, one wonders if Wade Blogs will ever equal the work of BSOULS1211 until he is willing to rid himself of such a creativity crushing sense of obligation to the fairer sex. If only Cyrill Conolly were alive today, he would surely have much to say on the subject.

Another look at promise realised and true greatness attained:


"Those whom the Gods would destroy, they first call promising."
--Cyril Connolly, Enemies of Promise (1938)

Looks like that Brock/Etienne rematch is off…

Here I actually intoned the name of the great Clifford Etienne this morning in my Calvin Brock post without any idea that my boy Cliff was in so much trouble. The news just came over the wires that the Black Rhino got himself a 150-year prison sentence today.

I know what you’re thinking, but no, they did not finally bust his ass for stealing money at that fight he had with Tyson where he laid down 49 seconds into the first round after Tyson looked at him crosseyed. “Black Hippo is more like it,” a friend of mine said at the time, and I think he spoke for all of us.

That offense, however, remains unpunished. Etienne now has 150 years of solitude on his hands due to a bit of business down in Baton Rouge, a crime spree that involved some Rhino-plastery at a check-cashing joint, followed by a couple of botched hijackings involving small children and, oh yeah, the whole trying-to-kill-two-cops-but-my-fucking-stupid-gun-jammed escapade, which evidently did not endear him to anyone, particularly cops.

Word is that Cliff’s lawyers hit the jury with the old “brain damage on the mike don’t manage” defense, throwing in just a dollop of “hey, look, brother was stupid high." No dice. One-fiddy.

Which only goes to show what you get in this world when you’re just a lowly Black Rhino and not the Godfather of Soul. I mean, shit, that Etienne “crime spree” was just going out to get breakfast for motherfuckin James Brown back in the day. The Man never threw his ass in jail for a century plus. A couple years here and there, yeah, but never the one-fizzle-dizzle. C’mon, Baton Rouge, free your minds. To quote JB himself – “A man can’t do nothing no more…”

Kim Colbert a Pothead, Not Crackhead

Kim Colbert's split decision over Maureen O'Shea last month at the Hammerstein Ballroom will not stand. The decision was changed to No Contest when Colbert tested positive for marijuana post fight.

Colbert is memorable for her basketball shoes and for inspiring cries of "damn she a crackhead" from the Hammerstein faithful. What Colbert lacked in skill and discipline, she made up for with outrageous taunts and a street fighter's flair. In the end, she won the hearts of a hostile Hammerstein crowd.

No Mas looks forward to Kim Colbert's return to the ring.

The Great Black Hope

I saw Calvin Brock’s only fight at the Sydney Olympics. I remember I was excited about it, because all of the buzz going in was directed at the U.S. heavyweight, Michael Bennett, a jailbird turned fighter who everyone thought would challenge Savon (he didn’t). But some NBC boxing guru type had alerted me to Brock at super heavy, telling me he had skills out the ass and had the killer instinct, etc. So I went to check out his first fight, thinking I’d get on the Brock train early.

It was a disaster. I can’t remember who he fought, but he was thoroughly dominated, out of the tournament after a tepid cup of coffee. He looked like a clumsy amateur with no speed, no power, and no footwork. I was sorry I’d wasted my time making the long trek to Darling Harbour.

(A side note about the 2000 super heavyweight tournament – Great Britain’s Audley Harrison won, and in his victory press conference he quoted Pierre Corneille: “Triumph without risk is triumph without glory.” If British boxers could only tear themselves away from reading French playwrights, they might actually win a title belt one of these centuries.)

This being my experience of Calvin Brock, I was awfully skeptical when I started hearing that he was emerging as potentially the man to unify the heavyweight belts and bring some clarity to the division. I thought, are we talking about the same Calvin Brock here? The fighter possessed of the worst nickname in the history of the sport – “The Boxing Banker"?

One and the same.

Brock is undefeated, 28-0 with 22 ko’s, but he has only two recognizable names on his resume – Clifford “The Black Rhino” Etienne, he of the infamous first round Tyson knockout, and Big Time Jameel McCline. Both of those fights were in 2005 – since then he’s fought three palookas and picked himself up a meaningless alphabet belt, the coveted IBA heavyweight crown.

In the McCline fight, I was very impressed with Brock. McCline is not George Foreman, or even Oscar Bonavena, but he poses a problem just for being so fucking big, and for being such a big guy, being surprisingly far from a slow guy. Brock showed a range of skills, speed and accuracy on the outside, craftiness and durability inside, legitimate power and a good set of lungs. More than anything, he showed guts. McCline put him on the canvas in the 8th and Brock got up, clearly staggered, and fought back with fury. He had McCline on queer street by round’s end. I haven't seen that kind of urgency from a heavyweight in years.

Saturday night Brock fights Timor Ibragimov, another of the seemingly endless string of Eastern Europeans populating the heavyweight ranks these days (things must be rough over there – they’re churning out fighters faster than they’re churning out strippers). A victory would put Brock in line for the title, possibly in a fight with Klitschko, and oh how I yearn for someone to knock the stuffing out of that paper tiger. So I've done a complete 180 on Brock - I'm now in the provisional fan club. He's not going to change the world, but he has all the tools, and I think he has the heart. He may be the guy we’ve been waiting for, at least to tide us over for a while.

Underdawgs Unite

I find few things as joyful as rooting for the underdog. In a world of Yankee fans, give me the Dodgers. Go ahead and buy a new T.O. Cowboys jersey, I'll stick with my beloved Browns and Bernie Kosar. So when the US lost yesterday to Ghana, I was overjoyed. In futbol terms Ghana may not have been an underdog, but we all know sports is political. I'm no sports patriot, so when any poor African nation defeats the US, all my psuedo-socialist and radical tendencies are given voice. You see, I heard a lot of people assuming we'd beat Ghana because they were a poor nation that could hardly afford to water their pitch. There was a blatant elitism/racism to the assumption that just because Ghana lacks Appleby's and Verizon that they wouldn't be able to beat the mighty US. Now, I know Ghana's victory over a crappy US side doesn't redress the centuries of imperialism and colonialism suffered in Africa, but whenever America is shown that she isn't as good as she thinks she is, I feel that a little bit a justice has been done. Do you think it's only a coincidence that the US was eliminated from the World Cup the same week as Congress chose not to raise the minimum wage and postponed renewing the Voting Rights Act? I don't. These things are connected. Maybe if the US were more pro-immigrant we could finally get some decent players una puta vez (are Landon Donovan or Eddie Pope even good enough for the J-League?) So, I'm glad that a bunch of nappy haired Africans put the US out of the World Cup. We deserved it, and with our pathetic style of play, I hope we don't qualify for South Africa in 2010 either. Recently the Japanese beat us in the baseball classic, the Argentinos took us to school in hoops, and now Ghana proved just how bad we suck at futbol. Now maybe we'll wise up and stop referring to our teams as "world champs". As for the continent of Africa, many will go to bed on empty stomachs tonite, but their hearts are filled of joy....the kind of joy that you can only get from punching a bully in the throat.


*************
Ed note: Another reason to like Ghana, for Germanophobic like Ariel and, is semitophilie defender John Pantsil, who hoisted the Israeli flag after Ghana beat the Czechs. Predictably, Israelis are loving them some Ghana and Arab countries are outraged.

Argentina v. Holland: The Beautiful Game with the Beautiful People

When I last walked into the Sweetwater Tavern, my lifestyle was decidedly different, and so was the Tavern’s. Once THE hole-in-the-wall tattoo parlor of a bar for all of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, it’s now an attractive and respectable bistro-ish joint revered by hoodrats for both cuisine and atmosphere. I'll refrain from speculating on whether I myself have evolved so gracefully.

The scene in there was straight-up Argentina, many sporting the blue and white strip, a whole contingent of the faithful sitting in the backroom glued to the pre-game on a six-foot screen.

At a table was an old Argentinian friend of mine, Santiago. When I came in I did not see him, and he greeted me warmly from his perch.

“Santi,” I said, “you’re here.”

“Of course,” he deadpanned, and I saw his point.

We small-talked it for a while but his heart wasn’t in it, and I left him to his business. Ten minutes to kickoff and his eyes had The Glow. He was elsewhere.

Two of the three owners of the place are Argentinians, the bartender told me. One of these owners prowled about in his Argentina jersey looking preoccupied, talking to anyone who would listen, laughing and drinking and gesturing aimlessly. As the first half wore on, with more fiery exchanges and up-and-down runs than you’d expect in an essentially meaningless match, the Tavern vibe turned from attentive to passionate to boisterous. By the 25th minute, the place was standing-room-only. Admirably loud, as well.

There was a World Cup special, two empanadas and a beer for ten beans. I substituted an espresso for the beer and was happy as an Argentinian lamb. The empanadas were rich and flaky, the espresso was as good as I’ve had in months, and I washed it all down with a bitters and soda just as the halftime whistle blew. I felt well-cared-for on the whole. You want to watch an Argentina match in the Burg, I tell you folks, you may as well do it there.

For the second half, I biked over to Marlow and Sons, the ultra-hip grocery store/oyster bar on Broadway that adjoins the beloved Broadway Diner. Same owners, both places possessed of the same effortless style. The Marlow pub was filled with locals watching the match, and though there was nary an Argy in sight, there weren’t a lot of Americans either. An ex-pat mood prevailed, accents clashed. An Englishman sat down at a table with his mates and some indefinable Euro said to him, “Congratulations, you’re through,” to which John Bull rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thrilling innit. I think we’ll go all the way.”

I suspected him of sarcasm.

Football conversations abounded. The demise of Michael Owen. One striker versus two. Americans chances with the Ghanaians. Should Argy have shelved Requelme. Announcers are crap aren’t they? British announcers, now they know football…

I had a mint tea and a rhubarb muffin from the front grocery, and though the earth did not move with my selections, I was all in all satisfied. As the play wound down and it became clear that the two sides were content to draw, John Bull offered his opinion for general consumption. “Dunna look like they’re even tryin does it?” Agreed mate, but still, if that’s what not trying looks like, let’s just give Argentina the Cup now and get back to our lives.

A postscript – the overall attractiveness of the patrons at these two venues was off the charts. Women abounded at each locale, beautiful women with unkempt hair and a continental air of availability and poise. Especially at Marlow, this was true of the lasses, and meanwhile, the lads were all Lads, scruffy and unconcerned and a hair’s breadth from underwear modeling. On a scale of one to ten, it is my impression that I am a solid six, and I was easily the ugliest fucker in that place. Football Lotharios, you have been warned. Don't any of you five-and-unders head to Marlow and Sons with a flatmate in mind.

Mexicano Postizo

Jetlagged, famished and fed up at last with ESPN’s broadcasting duo (who ARE these numbskulls? is this really the best they can do?), I rode my bike to my favorite Mexican diner to watch the second half of the Mexico/Portugal game.

The Acapulco Deli is one of those local jewels that make living nearby seem like it’s worth at least a hundred or two dollars worth of rising Brooklyn rents. It’s cheap (and like, 1996 cheap, you feel me), the food is great, it’s clean and spacious… basically, it should be on the fucking cover of Zagat’s for Best Everything, and that’s why one thing this missive will not contain is an address. Some things are sacred.

The late morning crowd was a mix of Mexicanos and stragglers from the nearby uber-artist warehouse. No one in the place was not watching the match, and that included the lone, scrambling waitress. A tense atmosphere presided. The cook, in particular, who in my years of patronage has NEVER taken a day off, and who can single-handedly feed ten tables and a full load at the counter and still seem like he’s in third gear, like he’s working but not really “working”… this Rock of Gibraltar seemed agitated on the whole, and his first lieutenant was positively shattered.

At one table sat a lonely, pony-tailed Mexico supporter, sipping his first Corona of the day and having his say at regular intervals. Despite not understanding any of his running commentary, there is no doubt in my mind as to his type. There were swarms of them populating the Vet of my childhood. The Phils are leading the division, Carlton’s on the mound, first inning, first pitch, ball one, and it’s “oh you fuckin bum you must be kidding me.” With some people, sports are just another outlet for their long litany of discontents.

Mexican workmen speckled with drywall dust came in and out for the seemingly endless Cokes they drink in a day. They stared at the television and yelled things at the cook, who yelled back at them. Things reached a crescendo around the time of Bravo’s penalty kick, and when it sailed over the crossbar, the mood shifted from anxiety to resignation. The cook said “el stupido!” and then turned back to his empire, peering at the tube over his shoulder now and then but without much purpose. The news that Iran had evened their match with Angola brought the room back to life, and when that result held, and Mexico was assured its place in the next round, all the angst of the morning was gone like breakfast. The noon sun was high, there was a breeze in the air, and the Acapulco Deli had lived to fight another day.

Toros Bravos

I missed the Winky/Jermain fight live, because I was in France, so here is my belated commentary.

A side note – I was not so naïve as actually to have hoped that I would be able to see the fight over there, but I did think maybe I would be able to find some mention of it in the popular French media. Not the results (I decidedly avoided the results), and not some big write-up, but just a small one-sentence mention somewhere of the existence of a middleweight title fight of import taking place in the States.

Perhaps I was looking in the wrong places. I hope so. Marcel Cerdan, ou et vous?

I Tivo’ed the fight of course, and so when I got home yesterday, the very first thing I did was watch it. Actually, the VERY first thing I did was call my parents to let them know that I was home safe, which was nearly a costly mistake. My dad: “How about that Winky/Jermain fight, JESUS…” I cut him off just in time.

I was immensely pleased by the bout, and if you are a fight fan, I imagine that you were too. The contrasting styles, Winky’s thoughtfulness and experience pitted against Jermain’s clumsy but explosive lunges – it was perfect boxing theater.

It surprised me that Winky traded with Jermain so willingly, and though he fared better in this approach than I ever would have expected, ultimately it cost him what could have been an easy decision. Had he played Ray Leonard to Jermain’s Hagler, he might have embarrassed Jermain. Had he done this just for the first six to eight rounds, he would have won in a rout. As the fateful last round showed, Jermain had no answer for Winky up on his toes, boxing and sticking that indefatigable right jab. It was certainly a mistake for Winky to resort to that style in the last round of the fight given the tone of the past 11 rounds. That’s always a sin in the eyes of the judges, particularly when you are the challenger, and it’s hard to imagine any fighter actually managing to convince himself that it is otherwise. De la Hoya, Trinidad, etc.

But if Winky had set this tone from the outset, he would have had Jermain exasperated and exhausted by the final third of the fight, at which point he could have imposed his will. The true matador wearies the bull before he plunges the sword. Jermain Taylor is a bull of the highest order, powerful, furious, but also as technically unsound a fighter as you'll ever see defending a unified title. Winky had all the tools at his command to expose Taylor had he so chosen, but I suspect that hubris got the better of him. For eleven rounds Saturday night, the bullfight was just two bulls. A draw was a fitting end to the occasion.

We are about to embark on one of the greatest months in the history of the UFC

It all starts next Saturday, June 24th, at The Ultimate Finale Live on Spike TV with the finals of “The Ultimate Fighter 3.” If you haven’t been watching TUF 3 - you are really missing out. It’s the UFC version of “The Contender,” only without Rocky Balboa and Ray Leonard and their disgusting facelifts. (Much love to Spike, by the way, for all the UFC love). “The Pride of Maui” Kendall Grove goes up against Ed “Short Fuse” Herman for the Middleweight contract. Grove is 6”6 and has amazing kicking power while Herman was one of the best overall fighters on the show. He also trains with the legendary Randy Couture so you know he is for real.

In the light heavyweight fight, Josh Haynes takes on Michael “The Count” Bisping. I can’t wait for this one. Haynes is a tough guy who has lost over 100 pounds in the past year and the Liverpudlian Bisping was my all-around favorite fighter on the show for his no-nonsense English attitude and wrestling skills.

Spike brings us more UFC on Wednesday, June 28th with Ultimate Fight Night Live. The featured bouts are Chris “The Crippler” Leben going up against Anderson Silva and Rashad Evans clashing with “The American Psycho” Stephan Bonnar. The Bonnar-Evans fight should be a corker. Not only does it feature two former TUF cast members but it marks Bonnar’s return to cable television. Last year, he was involved in one of the greatest fights in UFC history when he lost to Forrest Griffin in the finals of TUF 1.

Finally, the main dish comes to us on Pay-Per-View on July 8th, which, not coincidentally, is also my birthday. Don’t give me any presents, parties, dinners or loot bags. Just give me Ortiz-Shamrock II and Arlovski-Sylvia III. You feel me? I mean, this card would be amazing if it only had the Arlovski-Sylvia bout, the conclusion to one of the greatest trilogies in mixed-martial-arts history. But the fact that Ken Shamrock, one of the true UFC pioneers, is stepping back into the octagon to shut up his long-time nemesis, “The Huntington Beach Bad Boy” Tito Ortiz, is enough to make me salivate.

I conclude with some advice from the august Dr. Dre: “Sit back, relax, grab on your seatbelt / You’ve never been on a ride like this before.” Word.

The African Game hits Brooklyn

We already put you up on the book, and it is now our pleasure to invite you to the opening of "The African Game" gallery show:



Please join us this Thursday night in the BK and help us celebrate the excellent work of our comrades-in-arms Lee Harrison and Knox Robinson and the amazing photography of Andrew Dosunmu. There will be a conversation with Knox and Trace mag editor Claude Grunitzky at 7 about "Art, Life, and Futbol" in Africa, and if you want to be a smartass, you can ask Knox why it's looking like no African eleven is going to make it past the first round. Apres-conversay, they got DJs and presumably some free wine and a cheese plate or two.

We would love to see you there.








The Rotunda Gallery
33 Clinton Street (off Pierrepoint)
(718) 875-4047
Thursday, June 22nd
6-9PM

I was not molested by Rick Cerone

...despite photographic evidence that suggests I tried my best.

My man Roger Bennett, author of Bar Mitzvah Disco, is hard at work on a not-so-top-secret Summer Camp project. I contributed a shot from my time at Lee Mazzilli All-American Baseball Camp. That's me circa '81-'82, top row, far left right next to Cerone.

With the benefits of hindsight, I'd like to make a few points:

• The young I-Berg's epicurean uni predelictions are already fully formed. While these other little douchebirds trot out the usual suspects--Mets, Red Sox and, horror of horrors, USA--I have to give retroprops to myself for going with not just one but both kandy koated NL delights. You think fatboy top row fourth from left has any idea where Montreal is?

• Slightly more worrying is the acutely Lamarish plunge to the neck-line I have going on the Astros shirt. If you look closely you can see that I have achieved this with a complex side-knotting system. I'd like to claim this was entirely utilitarian (perhaps I was missing a belt), but it does seem more likely I was trying to elbow out the kid in the v-neck with some kind of precocious jailyard power move for Cerone's attentions. I'll show you V-Neck, bitch!

• Kudos to Cerone on the Tron-influenced Adidas jump off, but retrosnaps to Left Coach for the camelcock hot pants. I hope there was a coaches' bet to see who could show more nutsack in the group picture, but something tells me this was simply the era before they did police background checks. Scary. This dude definitely invited someone over for ice cream.

• An interesting historical footnote to this image was that Cerone's visit to Mazzilli's camp came right in the middle of their alleged battle for the title of "The Real Italian Stallion". Twenty-five years later, it's still a great topic for debate, but oh to have been either one of them in the last window of decadence before AIDS. You know that when they get together all they talk about is all the studio-54-natural-breast-squeezing they did from '77-'82. My second grade teacher Amy Shudlock Rainbow was so hot for Maz she would give you fifty cards for a Mazzilli, which of course made finding Mazzilli in a wax pack a greater cause for celebration than it might have been otherwise.

Separated at Birth:
Cerone vs. Gabe Kaplan.



Mazzilli vs. Tony D'Anunzio.

Father and Son Reunion

by Omid Fatemi

Last Sunday, I awoke with unusual optimism, as Iran opened their World Cup against México on a balmy afternoon in Nuremberg.

I sat in my equally balmy Brooklyn apartment, wearing my replica Ali Karimi jersey and savoring the the fact that it had been 8 years since I had been able to cheer for my beloved Team Melli in The World Cup, and nearly a year since I had seen my father and futbol enthusiast-in-arms. Like the team, he was also fresh from Tehran, the city of his youth and Iran's immensely overpopulated capital. On Sunday, I had them both together, and no talk of nuclear embargoes, the axis of evil, or immigration issues could ruin the moment.


Everything leading to the Cup for me had been so wrong. My father, thanks to the great state of US - Iran relations, had been held up in Tehran for an extra two months due to a paperwork mishap and the inefficiencies in the Iranian civil service machine. For reasons that have nothing to do with a round ball, U.S. politicians had tried to pressure FIFA to ban the Iranian team from a tournament that most Americans don't even care about. And, perhaps worst of all, my beloved Team Melli had drawn into a group with Portugal and México, and every announcer, analyst, journalist, and half-ass futbol fan had confidently written-off our chances of advancing to the second round.

But on that Sunday, the pundits could not stop the game from being played, and my father was no longer at mercy of bureaucratic paperwork. The air seemed suddenly full of possibility...



It lasts precisely until the 28th minute, when Pavel Pardo's free-kick, nodded on by Guillermo Franco, and poked through at the back post by Omar Bravo dashes all my fragile hopes.

My father, a much more seasoned and resilient fan, reassured me that it was early, and considering the way we had been knocking the ball around, he confidently states, "don't worry, our time is soon." This being the only thing positive I could grab on to, I collected my head and forced myself to believe.

... 12 minutes later, my father's soothing words become prophecy: Iranian defender Yahya Golmohammadi snuck in a goal after a sloppy Mexican clear of a corner kick. The match was knotted 1-1. My confidence and sense of national pride near an all-time high, as I jump around the room slapping sloppy high-fives with my pops, who calmly remains sunk into the couch sporting an "I told you so" grin.

All was seemingly well until 63 minutes into the match, when the Iranian side's entire focus and sense of purpose seemingly disappears, like grains of sand in the desert wind, when our main man, Midfielder Ali Karimi, re-aggravates an ankle injury and is taken off field. Karimi a.k.a. "The Wizard of Tehran", was the 2004 Asian footballer-of-the-year and is a regular first-teamer for Bundesliga power-house Bayern Munich. He is the Iranian team's offensive maestro and heart and soul, and at this moment even my unwavering father acknowledges that we are in trouble.



The midfield is Mexico's and Brazilian-turned-Mexican citizen Zinha turns the pitch into his personal playground, giving the Mexican team just the upper hand they needed. As he sneaks in to cut off a sloppy pass from Iranian goalkeeper Ebrahim Mirzapour and lays a beautiful through-ball for Bravo to easily finish, the taste of the pistachios my father had smuggled in from Iran lose the pleasant tanginess of saffron and lime, and suddenly tastes of defeat. 3 minutes later Zinha adds the nail in the coffin with a flying header. 3-1 is the final.

Despite our defeat, by the final whistle, I harbor no bitterness (ok, maybe slight bitterness), because a poignant World Cup moment dawned on me. My father and I were reunited, watching every pass, strike, and header with pure attention, like we had done every four years throughout my youth. And I realized that despite the ridiculousness of politics and socio-economics in the world today, the crisis in U.S. and Iranian relations, and a revolution that has failed, that there is something on a national level that people can embrace without reservations, despite our experience and allegiances. Only the great equalizer of futbol--governed by a uniform set of rules, but played with different styles around the world, can give a nation and it's diaspora an unfiltered and unlimited source of hope and unity.

And on that note.....

Here's to all the hopes and dreams of war torn countries and refugee communities who are provided 2 hours of reconciliation every time their national colors grace the pitch...

Here's to all the moments that bring fathers and sons together.

***************************
As a writer for London based magazine Dazed and Confused and one-half of the New York-based creative writing agency The Leadbelly Group, Omid Fatemi's poisonous pen has taken him on assignment to Puerto Rico with Dizzee Rascal and The Great Wall of China with LeBron James. He is currently working with No Mas to develop a series of travel-based documentaries chronicling international sports culture.

A Nation Turns its Lonely Eyes to You

So, this is it boys and girls. Game 7. Stanley Cup Finals: The sweetest collection of words known to mankind. Something tells me this one is going straight to the vault along with Game 7 of the 1954, 1971 and 1994 Finals. To be honest, if you would have told me a week ago that I should start getting mentally prepared to watch a Game 7 I would have laughed in your face. (And by the way, watching a Stanley Cup Finals Game 7 may be more exhausting than playing in one – I am almost convinced of this). The ‘Canes outplayed Edmonton in the first two games. The Oilers were even lucky to win Game 3 at the Rexall Place. Hell, even after Fernando Pisani’s amazing shorthanded, game-winning goal in Game 5, I thought the Oilers were just delaying the inevitable.

But then Game 6 came along and every Canadian began to ask: “Do Jussi what I see?” That’s because Edmonton’s backup goalie, Jussi Markkanen, the guy everyone, including myself, wrote off just one week ago single-handedly sent Canada’s team back to Tobacco Road. The bottom line is we MUST to win this one. No more Game 7 heartbreaks. Since the Habs won it all in 1993 this is the third straight time that a Canadian team has made it to the seventh game of the Finals. In 1994, The Canucks ran into destiny as they fell to the Rangers. Ten years later, the Flames failed to show up against Tampa Bay.

But this one will sting a lot more than those did. Maybe its because things looked so bleak just one week ago and now look so promising. Maybe it’s because the Oilers represent everything that is right about hockey. A time when no one complained about TV ratings and lockouts. When it was all about the Great One, Mess, Coffey and how many Cups that dynasty would end up winning.

Is this game important to my country? Words can not express. Just look at the video below. You don’t see that kind of love ANYWHERE in North American sports. So if things go as planned and the Oilers become only the second team in NHL history to come back from a 3-1 deficit to win it all - listen closely because you might hear an entire country breathe one big sigh of relief. And then keep on listening because you will probably hear a few million canes of Labbatt Beer opening simultaneously.

Football Reparations

If you’re a Jewish soccer fan, like myself, these have got to be conflicting times. That’s because the World Cup, the greatest sporting tournament known to mankind, is taking place in Germany. I remember when I first found out that Deutschland was going to host the tourney in 2006. It really felt like a bad dream. If I could have chosen one country that I didn’t want to be forced to embrace - it was Germany.

Now, you have to understand where I am coming from here. I am not a hateful person. As a member of a nation that is despised by so many it would be incredibly hypocritical if I openly hated Germany. But I must admit that its truly hard not to have mixed feelings towards a country that, for all intents and purposes, tried to wipe my people off the face of the earth. I am trying to look at the positives, but its tough. And you could imagine how I felt when Iran played in Nuremberg last week. Talk about the past colliding with the present.

You see, this is the first time that my feelings towards Germany have been truly tested. It’s always been easy for me to say that I will never choose to travel there. It's easy to say I would rather not purchase a German-manufactured vehicle. These are things I can control. But when you sprinkle my favorite sporting event throughout the country its impossible to look away. So, after years of trying to ignore Berlin, Frankfurt, Cologne, and pretty much the rest of Germany, I am now waking up early every morning to celebrate the splendor of sports along with them.

Maybe this is just what I need to move on. Maybe the beautiful game will help me realize that Germany really is a beautiful country with a dreadful past. At the same time, I don’t want to forgive and I can’t forget. Not when I have personally experienced the horror that still stands at the Concentration Camps in Auschwitz, Treblinka and Birkenau.

A few years ago, I traveled to Poland to learn more about the hell my people had to endure. There isn't a day that goes by that I don’t think about the mass graves, the piles of hair and the gas chambers. That trip made me even prouder to be Jewish than I ever was. It also strengthened and, in many ways, confirmed my beliefs that it’s too early to move on. So, are my feelings towards Germany a little harsh? Judge for yourself. If you feel that way I know what you’ll say because I have heard it time and again. Nevertheless, I have to live with those feelings in my heart and I am not ready to let them go. But what does it say about the power of sports that for the first time in my life I am open to seeing the beauty in a country I have forever tried to ignore?

Final Fatigue

I've watched about 15 minutes of this year's NBA Finals... The Reason? ABC's opening sequence featuring clips of past NBA Finals legends is SO DOPE that I don't even want to stay tuned for the fake ass, video-game finals matchup between the Heat and Mavs. It leaves you in a state of yearning for the NBA of your youth, when Louis Orr was still around and Marv Albert's toupee was still alive ... I've been skeptical of the NBA's TV coverage ever since it left CBS for NBC in the 1990's, but ABC has been completely and utterly on point. ABC's NBA Finals opening sequence is the best, most inspiring piece of nostalgia since Cosell shouted "down goes Frazier!!!" If you haven't seen it, just imagine a collage of footage from the greatest champs ever edited to cover the NBA's best eras. Luckily, the sequence happens right at 9pm sharp, that way you don't have to endure uber-whitey Dan Patrick's blathering. In addition the goosebumps and teary eyes I get from the opening (especially the part when Riles predicts back to back trophies), ABC also has my main Roman, Hubie Brown (peep his classic Caesar cut), and some funky ass, Temptations inspired background music straight from the 70's. Too bad the games are as boring as Adonis Haslem's game. Let's bring back the Pistons, Celtics, Sixers, and Lakers please. You can keep Tommy Heinsohn's drunk ass.

There are two kinds of Fever in this world...

With the World Cup on, and football much on everyone's mind, I thought I would kick off the No Mas Book Review Series with a look back at the greatest soccer book to ever spawn a terrible baseball movie – Nick Hornby’s “Fever Pitch.” I brought it along with me on my ill-conceived flight to Paris on Air India, and in that the general symphony of infant caterwauling during the flight precluded any sleep, I pretty much tore through the whole thing from Newark to Paris, stopping only to eat something that had been deceitfully described to me as curry, and subsequently to fart.

Hornby’s conceit, a moment of inspiration if ever there was one, is to tell the story of his life, and in some ways the story of England in the 70’s and 80’s, through the prism of a variety of football matches that he attended during those decades. Chapters are titled “Liam Brady,” and then subtitled “Arsenal v. Everton, 5.5.80,” etc., with the given match used as a jumping-off point to then ruminate, usually about himself, at times about the state of the nation, but always about the state of football, in particular, his beloved Arsenal.

Hornby’s main obsession is his own obsessiveness, which is unfortunate – after a while, the whole “what is wrong with me that I’m such a crazy fan?” cri de coeur wears thin. We get it mate – you fucking love Arsenal like Orpheus loved Eurydice, it’s a mystifying business. For all the criticism he likes to level at himself for what trouble his childlike football passions bring him, he seems on the whole awfully proud of his fanaticism. At times the tone veers off into what would later become Hornby’s hallmark: self-satisfied slacker smugness.

That said, the best of this book is rewarding stuff. He establishes himself as the poet laureate of The Suffering Provincial Sports Fan, does a hilarious job of parodying the dorkish male’s mania for statistics, and most impressively, finds in his football journeys a truly Wordsworthian narrative of loss, both in his own personal life and in England at large. His treatment of the Hillsbrough tragedy has particular gravitas. “Fever Pitch” the book is borne of an inspired idea, and at about 220 pages, it’s an engaging read easily consumed in the most dire of circumstances.

How on earth this book--an often moving account of one fervent Arsenal fan’s coming of age in Thatcher’s England - became a bullshit Jimmy Fallon/Drew Barrymore disaster of a movie about the Boston Red Sox I can’t begin to imagine. It’s shameful, the worst we have to offer the world as Americans.

words: Dave Larzalere

Illustrated History of Recreational Drugs and Sports

Words: Nick Strini and Chris Isenberg
Illustrations: James Blagden

1970 - Jim Bouton’s book, Ball Four, is published, exposing the public to the prevalence of drug use amongst professional athletes.


1970 - Pittsburgh Pirates’ pitcher Dock Ellis throws a no-hitter will tripping on LSD.
“The ball was small sometimes, the ball was large sometimes, sometimes I saw the catcher, sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I tried to stare the hitter down and throw while I was looking at him. I chewed my gum until it turned to powder. They say I had about three to four fielding chances. I remember diving out of the way of a ball I thought was a line drive. I jumped, but the ball wasn’t hit hard and never reached me.”





1970’s - “Sweet” Lou Johnson sells 1965 World Series ring to cocaine dealer for $500.






1971 - MLB Commissioner Bowie Kuhn announces a long-term Drug Education and Prevention Program. According to the Program: “…unprescribed possession and distribution of amphetamines and barbiturates (including greenies) is a violation of federal and states laws. Discipline will be considered by the Commissioner’s Office in cases of illegal involvement. Such matters will be handled on a case by case basis.”

1972 - Cy Young winner Denny McClain is charged with racketeering and cocaine possession with intent to distribute.

1985- Denny McClain was found guilty of federal charges involving racketeering, extortion and narcotics and sentenced to 23 years before the convictions are overturned.

1996- Denny McClain is convicted of conspiracy, theft, money laundering, and mail fraud. He is sentenced to eight years in Federal Prison.

1976 -1967 MVP Orlando “Baby Bull” Cepeda is caught claiming baggage containing 150 pounds of marijuana in a San Juan, PR. Cepeda spends 10 months in a Florida prison. He goes on to become a practicing Buddhist and to be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.

1978 - New York Ranger Don Murdoch is arrested for possession of cocaine. He is suspended for the1978-79 season but reinstated after 40 regular-season games.

1980 - Texas Rangers pitcher Fe