Way back in the dizzle

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

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

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

Beat Street Breakdown

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

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

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

As fo’ the ladies:

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

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

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

Serena v. Sharapova
Vaidisova v. Henin-Hardenne

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

Large rock

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

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

Let's get ready to rizzumble

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

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

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

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

Hatton camp targets Castillo bout (BBC Sport)

The Unhappy Games

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

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

Supersize Me

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

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

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

The Captain and Ethelda

Some swimming anniversaries of note:

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

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

Mama said there'd be days like this

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

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

Former slugger Belle sentenced (Washington Post)

Quite a gamble

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

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

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

I think I broke my hand on that crazy fucker's face

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

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

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

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

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

Mike keeps walking to his car.

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

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

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

GREEN: We could do it again right now.

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

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

Nandrolone is forever

I remember when C.J. Hunter tested positive for nandrolone before the Sydney Games, a minor story that became major only by right of the fact that, at the time, Hunter was married to one Marion Jones, Empress of Sydney.

Of course, in the press rooms, no one was surprised that a shot-putter had gotten nailed for drugs. It was the choice of his drug that baffled us. "Nandrolone?" we said. "What is this, 1974?"

Well, you might say the same thing about the recent spate of high-profile drug busts in sports - Roid Landis and Justin Gatlin for testosterone, and Marion Jones for EPO. This is pre-BALCO shit, classic dope that the BALCO boys thought they made obsolete. Now it's back on the scene, and there's a good article in the Washington Post today suggesting that it's because athletes are shying away from BALCO drugs due to the notoriety of the scandal.

My favorite part of the article is when a chemist tells the Post, "I could come up with [an undetectable steroid] that Catlin (the USOC drug czar) couldn't find if it were taped to his forehead. But nobody is interested in such substances."

Dah... why not? Evidently these athletes are stupider than I thought, and I already thought they were pretty stupid.

Tests suggest revival of well-known drugs (Washington Post)

Move over Kendall Gill

There's a new ill-advised fistic career in the works, this one by the former captain of Sheffield Wednesday, 26-year-old British subject Curtis Woodhouse. He fights his first pro bout, a welterweight contest, on September 8th in London.

We'll say this for Curtis Woodhouse - he has an excellent boxing name. "Curtis Woodhouse." Sounds like a boxer innit? I mean, it's not exactly "Mickey Rourke," but then, mate, what is really?

Woodhouse poised for boxing debut (BBC Sport)

You call that a brawl?

This was a motherfucking brawl right here. First of all, look at two of the principals - Juan Marichal and Sandy Koufax. Also note Marichal brandishing the bat. That would cost him dearly.

On this day in 1965, one of the ugliest fights in baseball history occurred, a donnybrook of mythic proportions between the Dodgers and the Giants. There had been some bean-balling in a game two days prior, and in this game, Dodgers' catcher John Roseboro reputedly wanted Koufax to knock down Marichal. When Koufax refused, Roseboro took the job on himself, whipping a return throw to the mound very close to Marichal's head. A screaming match ensued, and Roseboro threw off his mask to better express himself. At that point Marichal landed a couple of clean bat-shots to Roseboro's head.

All hell broke loose. Bats were brandished by other players. Roseboro was led off the field by Willie Mays, bleeding profusely. His wound required fourteen stitches.

Marichal was suspended for nine days and fined the then-considerable sum of $1,750. But the damage stretched far beyond the immediate punishment - the incident would haunt Marichal the rest of his career and may have postponed his entry into the Hall of Fame.

One wonders if Robby Alomar will suffer a similar fate for the gob of spit he planted on John Hirschbeck's face in 1996 . Somehow I doubt it. Outrage just ain't what it used to be.

"Um yeah... so anyway, who the FUCK is Brett Wetterich?"

Dude check out this Ryder Cup team:

Tiger Woods
Phil Mickelson
Jim Furyk
Chad Campbell
David Toms
Chris DiMarco
Vaughn Taylor
J.J. Henry
Zach Johnson
Brett Wetterich
Stewart Cink
Scott Verplank

WTF? You feel me? You heard it here first - Tiger is going to drop out. He will not be seen on the course wearing the same shirt as Vaughn Taylor and Brett Wetterich. Tiger wouldn't buy a hubcap from Brett Wetterich.

Cink, Verplank fill out U.S. Ryder Cup team (Toronto Star)

This fearsome foursome were all born today

I'll give you some clues as to who they are in the captions:

"I know... after I win the World Series MVP I'll sign with the Rangers, where my career will only get better and better... meanwhile these stupid Yankees will go straight in the shitter, because they'll never be able to find a closer as great as me..."









"I'm on my way to becoming a football icon, a legendary bad boy, and all I have to do is wear these gay headbands and hand the ball to Walter Payton. Here's me in the huddle... Walter run right, Walter run left... I'm a fucking genius!"










"Yo, I'm the guy who won two Heisman Trophies. You hear that? Two Heisman Trophies! When you hear my name, what do you think... that's right bitch... TWO HEISMAN TROPHIES! I'M THAT GUY YOU HEAR ME?!@!





"Points? Naw, mothafucka, I'm talking about bitches. I bagged one hundred BITCHES today. And look here, holms, don't hold me to this shit, cause I'm going out after the game, and I seen at least twenty ho's up in them bleachers look like they could use a good fucking..."

The Maynard Midgets...

...won the very first Little League World Series on this day in 1947, defeating Lock Have Little League, 16-7. Back then there were 17 teams in two states, and yes, the final was held in Williamsport. There were 2,500 spectators at the game.

Check out that picture up there. How much more Bad News Bears can you get? Where the hell is Buttercrud?

The kid holding the trophy is Jack Losch, who went on to be a four-year All-American football star at Miami, where he still holds four rushing records. He was drafted by Green Bay and played one season with them, 1956. He died in 2004, and soon after Little League Baseball announced that the Little League World Series Team Sportsmanship Award would be named after Losch.

That's Tiger Woods honey... and we're fucked

I did not watch the final round of the PGA. I had a prior commitment. I was up in Connecticut having lunch with some very well-heeled friends of my girlfriend's family.

Usually, the idea of missing the final day of a major, a major with a tie for first and a leaderboard full of bigtime names, to go have quiche in Greenwich would have made me apoplectic. Usually, I would have been forced to turn to my bogus-excuse bag for a whopper.

But yesterday, I must say, it didn't feel like it was worth it. Tiger Woods with the lead on Sunday? Playing with Luke "I'm not afraid of Tiger I swear" Donald? It's amazing they bothered to play the round at all. Just give him the Wanamaker and get on the plane, save yourselves the humiliation.

How do these dudes look Tiger in the eye in the clubhouse? I was watching War of the Worlds last night on HBO, and thinking, this is kind of what golf is like now. Tiger is the big alien arachnid land rover with the all-seeing eye. Everyone else is Tom Cruise, running and hiding and shitting his pants.

Day of Rest

August 19, 1917, legendary pitcher Christy Mathewson and manager John McGraw of the New York Giants got themselves arrested at a benefit game at the Polo Grounds for violating New York's blue laws. According to the laws, no professional baseball or baseball players were to play the game on Sunday. Because of God. I tell you bruthas something f'real - shit was stupid different back in the dizzle.

They're BA-ACK...

The '86 Mets reunion is tonight out at Shea, right before the current edition of the Mets take on the Rockies, opening pitch at 7:10. Of course, there will be some notable absences - Gooden, who's doing time, Ray Knight, who's hawking pharmaceuticals, and Davey Johnson, who has something else to do. But the other big names will be on hand - Ed Hearn, Danny Heep, Doug Sisk. And the Straw will be there to stir the drink, or so says Newsday, and Newsday never lies.

As a lifelong Mets-hater, and one who particularly loathes this team, I'm not exactly thrilled about the whole 20-year anniversary business, especially when you throw in that this is just the beginning of the hoopla. If the '06 Mets make a run in the playoffs? Jesus, it'll be Orosco this and HoJo that every five seconds. Here's hoping they lose the NLDS in four and spare us all a lot of bullshit.

Straw will be at '86 reunion (Newsday)

Kill your idols II

Or actually, don't bother. Our idols seem to be doing a very competent job of killing themselves.

This one is personal for me, as I've mentioned before. I sat in press row in Sydney and watched Marion Jones with the pure awe that I imagine people felt when they watched Wilma Rupdolph, Jesse Owens... Christ, when they watched fucking Achilles. Sports have always had a classical aspect for me - what I want from them is some sign of otherworldly forces at work, the sense that the gods have intervened on some mortal's behalf for the sheer joy of watching him or her achieve the unthinkable.

Now we have confirmation of what has been suspected for so long - drugs and not the gods were intervening for Maid Marion Jones.

I wonder how long it will be before the gods abandon sports entirely. There comes a point for everybody, mortals and otherwise, when you just have to say fuck the whole damn thing.

Where the hell is Kirk Johnson anyway?

That's what I was asking myself while I was writing that Evander post. Between the Maskaev/Rahman debacle and now this Holyfield crap, seems like every other word I write these days is Kirk Freakin Johnson. So where is the motherfucker?

Kirk was one of those dudes with a ton of natural ability, a hell of a God-given body, and not a whole lot going on between his ears. Sort of like The Black Rhino, only better. He had an undistinguished campaign for Canada at the Barcelona Games and then turned pro, where he eventually made it to top-contender status. As I have pointed out a few times, he knocked out Oleg Maskaev in the fourth round of their fight in 2000. But he's probably most famous for backing out of a title fight with Lennox in 2003 due to a training injury. He fought Vitali Klitschko instead later that year at the Garden, and got his ass beat, TKO in the 2nd. He ballooned up to 260 for that fight - in his prime he fought at 230 or so.

Boxrec tells me that he's on the comeback trail, of sorts. Three fights in the last three years, most notably a win over Yanqui Diaz last June. Kirk, look, baby - what are you waiting for? Mediocre Soviet talents rule the heavyweights. Lose twenty pounds and get back in the game. Get that money son.

Kill your idols

Evander Holyfield, battered and well on his way to brain-dead, returns to the ring tonight for the first time in 21 months against Jeremy "The Beast" Bates. Despite the fact that his last fight was so pathetic that New York officials revoked his license, Holyfield believes that he will once again be the undisputed heavyweight champ, a feat he expects to achieve "by the time that Olympics comes," whatever the fuck that means.

He begins his journey back to the top against Bates, a 32-year-old meathead with a 21-12 record that includes being knocked out by every piece of lowlife crap that you can think of in the heavyweight ranks of the last ten years. Brian Minto? TKO in the 8th. Kirk Johnson? KO in the 2nd (Christ, even WBC champ Oleg Maskaev took KO Kirk to the 4th). When Evander called him to make the fight, Bates was retired and working as an insurance agent in West Virginia.

What else is there to say? Tune in tonight to The Best Damn Sports Show Period to see the Worst Damn Bullshit The Sport of Boxing Has to Offer the World. Period.

I am one of the great tennis prophets in the world today

I refer you to my piece from Wednesday, July 26th, where I wrote of Brad Gilbert accepting the lowly post of Andrew Murray's coach and then made this BOLD prediction:

"Cut to Wimbledon 2007. Murray hoisting the trophy on Centre Court, having just dispatched Federer in four..."

Murray over Fed. I saw it in the stars. It just came up a bit early on me. But people, what I'm telling you is... I got a line in the sky and it's called radar love.

Federer's Streak Ends (Miami Herald)
Federer's take on upset: You can't win 'em all (Cincinnati Post)
Murray's great win (BBC Sport)

Three belts, one waist

On this date 68 years ago, Henry Armstrong, real name Henry Jackson, accomplished a feat that remains unmatched in boxing history, becoming world champion in three weight divisions simultaneously.

Hurricane Hank had won the featherweight crown from Petey Sarron in 1937 by way of a sixth-round knockout. Then in May of 1937, he beat another future Hall-of-Famer, Barney Ross, for the welterweight crown.

And then on August 17th, 1938, Armstrong beat Lou Ambers for the lightweight belt, becoming the first and only King of Three Divisions at Once.

He would hold on to all three belts until the following summer, when Ambers took back the lightweight title from Hank in a rematch. Armstrong would remain the welterweight king until 1940, when he was dethroned by Fritzie Sivic in the first bout of their brutal trilogy. He retired in 1945, and remains to this day in the top five of any self-respecting boxing pundit’s list of the greatest pound-for-pound fighters in history.

Italy World Cup Players Enjoying Summer

So says the Associated Press. I'm so glad to hear it. That's them, actually, in that picture up there. I think they're in Montauk:

"Flavio, do you remember-a how we-a won-a the World-a Cup-a?"
"Si , Marco, it was-a fantastico! Remember-a how-a that crazy son-of-a-gun put the headbutt-a right-a on-a your chest-a like a crazy man?"
"Si, si, Flavio, it was-a crazy! Oh this sun! Fabio, put-a some-a sunscreen-a on my shoulders-a! I'm burning up-a!"
"What do I look-a like-a, your bitch-a? Put it yourself-a, you stupid-a homo-gay-a!"

(By the way - if anybody is interested, I, too, am enjoying the summer.

Italy World Cup Players Enjoying Summer (Chicago Tribune)

I am pretending to read this putt, while secretly I yearn for your death

The big news at this year's PGA is the traditional opening-round threesome of the winners of the year's three completed majors, which this year, of course, pits Masters' winner Phil Mickelson up against his sworn enemy, British Open winner Tiger Woods (U.S. Open winner Geoff Ogilvy will presumably caddy for one of them).

In today's news, BBC Sport has Tiger downplaying the notorious feud between the two, while the San Jose Mercury News takes us back to last year's Presidents Cup, where Tiger and Phil evidently mixed it up in a ping-pong donnybrook for the ages.

Of course, we're all hoping that they dispense with the table tennis niceties and just go all UFC on each other somewhere around the seventh green tomorrow, but in that this probably will not occur, we're left to imagine the one thing that's on every sports fan's mind: Tiger and Phil in a fight to the death... who would stand victorious over the other's bloody carcass, cackling his good fortune to the gods?

Mickelson, Woods are competitive on and off the green (San Jose Mercury News)
Woods plays down Mickelson feud (BBC Sport)
Woods, Mickelson share tee time and little else (NY Times)

Larger than Large

In one of those eerie coincidinces of time across the eras, arguably the two biggest 20th-century American icons of the sports and entertainment worlds both died on this day, August 16th.

George Herman "Babe" Ruth died 58 years ago today, August 16th, 1948. He was 53 years old - the cause was cancer. Ruth hadn't played baseball since his swan song season in 1935 with the Boston Braves. Ever since he'd spent his time drinking, playing golf, and trying to land a job as a manager in the bigs, an opportunity that never came along. The closest he ever came was a stint as a first base coach with the Dodgers in 1938. Ruth's overall impact on professional sports in America is incalculable. When I was a toddler, my Grampa Noyes used to tell me a story about getting the Babe's autograph at Yankee Stadium. To hear him talk, you'd think he'd seen God in the flesh.

On August 16th, 1977, the world was stunned by the news that Elvis Presley had died of a heart attack while on the toilet in his Graceland mansion. He was only 42. And so began the King's fall from grace in the public eye, from mama-lovin' God-fearin' good ole boy to pill-poppin' lardass who lived for peanut butter, karate and nowhere-near legal pussy. With everything that's been written about him since his death, everything we've learned about the bizarre reclusive nightmare of his later life, it's difficult to focus on an image of the young Elvis in our minds, the young Elvis who was really more a panther than a man. As with Ruth, it's impossible to assess Presely's impact on the American landscape, but I think Lester Bangs came close when he wrote this of the King's influence on pop culture - "He changed "How much is that doggie in the window?" to "Let's fuck."

That, my friends, is some heavy shit.

Three Amigos

Seems like Tony Kornheiser is getting good reviews across the board for his first outing in the Monday Night Booth last night. I’ll sign on to that. I listened to about 20 minutes of the game and Tony seemed like he was fitting in amiably. He has a little bit of the Dennis Miller problem – not that funny to begin with, he obviously thinks it’s his job to be “the funny guy.” And he seems a little out of his water on the football front. “Explain to me what a silent count is Joe.” Really?

While I had the game on, I heard him make one joke worth a minor chuckle. They were talking about Rod Smart of “He Hate Me” infamy, and Tirico asked Tony if he could remember what team Smart played for in the XFL. “I don’t know,” Kornheiser said, “Barcelona?”

But to me, Kornheiser isn’t the story of the booth anyway. He has a good television voice and he’ll settle into his role over the season. He’s already made the grade on PTI – the average Joes dig him, and that’s all you need to know.

And Tirico’s a pro, a solid Al Michaels stand-in. No problems there.

The story of the booth is the only ESPN holdover in the booth - Theismann. He's unbearable, and he's always been unbearable. Terrible voice, incessant tone of self-importance (NOBODY loves himself more than Joe Theismann), ill-timed observations, and on the whole the type of meat-headed macho badinage that makes you want to blow up every football stadium in America. He’s like the aural equivalent of an anal chug. If they want a new booth, I don't understand why they don't get rid of this clown who's sucked for however long he's been doing this shit.

Kornheiser sounds good in MNF debut (Chicago Sun-Times)
Kornheiser steals the show (LA Times)
Kornehiser era begins on MNF (Sporting News)

Bring me Tata

No Masians, I must confess, Floyd/Baldomir takes me by surprise. Rafael just announced it as a done deal on ESPN.com, set for November 4th at Mandalay Bay.

I’d read the rumors that Floyd was either going to fight Carlos "Tata" Baldomir or Cory Spinks in the fall. I’d also read that he might not fight at all, which seemed more likely to me, given the mega-million-dollar Oscar payday waiting for him next spring.

I certainly didn’t expect him to sign with Baldomir, and the fact that he did either means he’s brave or he’s stupid. And Floyd is a lot of things, but he ain’t stupid. Floyd is laying it on the line in this one, not nearly as much as he would have if he’d fought Margarito, but still, give him some respect. He could have fought another walkover and waited for the Oscar money. He saw what Baldomir did to Gatti, only a slightly worse mugging than Floyd himself gave to Gatti. And more than anything, he must have seen those bombs that Gatti was dropping on Baldomir in the first round, and what effect they had on the Argentinian - namely, none. Seems like you could hit Baldomir with a bag of anvils and he’d still keep moving forward.

Of course, that was what Gatti was supposed to do with Floyd – take his best shots, keep moving forward, wear him down with the warrior mentality. There is no wearing Floyd down – we know that much by now. And the speed differential in Floyd/Baldomir is only marginally smaller than it was in Floyd/Gatti. So make no mistake – Floyd will be the overwhelming favorite in this fight, as well he should be. But this bout has potential. Look, Baldomir shocked Zab in the Garden, and then pummeled Gatti in A.C. Now he’s headed to Vegas to fight in Floyd’s backyard. My interest is definitely piqued.

Mayweather, Baldomir to square off with title on the line (ESPN.com)

The Student Becomes the Master

In a fight that would presage Larry Holmes' vicious beating of Ali more than seven decades later, heavyweight champ James J. Jeffries (left in the above picture) knocked out former champ Gentleman Jim Corbett 103 years ago today, August 14th, 1903.

Like Holmes with Ali, Jeffries had once been Corbett’s sparring partner, during the Gentleman’s five-year reign as heavyweight champ in the 1890’s after taking the title from the legendary John L. Sullivan.

This was Corbett’s second attempt to win the heavyweight title back from his former sparring partner. The first was an epic contest in 1900, a fight that many thought the speedy Corbett was winning until the giant Jeffries felled him with a short left to the jaw in the 23rd round, a one-punch KO that heightened the Jeffries myth around the world.

The rematch, three years later, was not such an exciting affair. Outweighed by 30 pounds, and at 37 years old no longer so fleet of foot, Corbett was outclassed and outmuscled, dispatched easily in a tenth-round knockout. It was Gentleman Jim’s last fight, and the second to last for Jeffries before retiring with the title.

That was until, of course, Jeffries came out of retirement to fight Jack Johnson. But that’s a story for another day.

Brett Myers, our pride and joy

Evidently, those weren't love taps Brett Myers was giving his lady on the streets of Boston. It was more like some Joe Calzaghe on Jeff Lacy-type shit. Only, like, if Lacy were about a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than Calzaghe and also if he were a woman (which at times did admittedly seem to be the case in that fight).

The Philly Inquirer has transcripts of the phone calls that witnesses to the Myers beating made to police in today's paper. They paint a grisly picture. Meanwhile, Myers, the 6'4" 240-pound maniac who kicked the shit out of his wife in FULL VIEW OF THE PUBLIC was on the mound yesterday at the Bank, getting shelled by the Reds.

That's my team, the Phils, handing the ball to an unrepentant wife-beater every five days. I'm ashamed of the whole business.

Callers to police described Myers assault as vicious (Philly Inquirer)

And Lombardi's ghost howls from the grave...

Upset with the loss of the Redskins' Clinton Portis, Michael Wilbon is exposing the NFL preseason as a sham in today's Washington Post. He agrees with Jeremy Shockey's recent quote that two-a-day practices and four exhibition games are a dangerous "debacle."

Four exhibition games, maybe. But two-a-days? Are you fucking kidding me? Is there a self-respecting high school in the land that doesn't have two-a-days in the summer? Jesus, Shockey, how about you just spend August in the training tub and we'll call you on opening day? And now you got Wilbon going along with you on this shit? Just because CPort dislocated a shoulder? Fucking Vince Lombardi dislocated his shoulder every morning before breakfast just to get his pulse up.

Here's hoping Bear Bryant appears to both of you in a dream and bites your nuts off.

Game Doesn't Count, But the Injuries Do (Washington Post)

Gilbert and Murray are BFF

Evidently Andy Murray loves his new coach Brad Gilbert, except for the fact that Andy doesn't like to get up early, and Brad doesn't like rap music. And oh yeah, Andy hand smells like pickles.

Learn this and other fascinating tidbits from Andy's mum, Judy, who has a blog on BBC Sport, further proof that the apocalypse is well nigh upon us.

Murray knuckles down (BBC Sport)

Portrait of the Golfer as a Young Asshole

With the PGA Championship getting under way on Thursday at Medinah, I take you back to August 13, 1989 at Kemper Lakes, where Payne Stewart staged a comeback for the ages to win his first major championship.

Payne trailed leader Mike Reid by six strokes on Sunday morning, trailed by five with nine holes to play, and was down three strokes with three holes remaining. In winning, Stewart became the first man to win a major after being down eight strokes following the first round, a feat that wouldn't be duplicated until Tiger Woods did it at last year's British Open.

Stewart has since been elevated to saintlihood in the golf world, mostly as a result of his dramatic religious awakening (Payne was a big proponent of the WWJD jewelry line), his cuddling with Phil Mickelson on the 18th green at the 1999 U.S. Open, and then his inspirational role in the epic '99 Ryder Cup comeback. Not to mention, of course, his untimely death in a plane crash, less than a month after that Ryder Cup victory. Given all of that, it's almost hard to remember that back in 1989 Stewart was known as one of the biggest assholes on the tour, a cocky loudmouth known for swearing and choking down the stretch, a man the media just loved to tag with the Best Player Never to Win a Major curse.

But, asshole though he was, Payne could play his ass some golf, and he got the major monkey off his back 17 years ago today. He went on to win two more majors, the 1991 U.S. Open and the '99 U.S. Open, when he holed his winning putt on the 18th and then consoled the runner-up Mickelson by reminding him that fatherhood was God's greatest glory, as if Phil needed setting straight on that count. Four months later, Jesus called him home.

This fucker is your next heavyweight champion

Ladies and gentleman, I bring you Oleg Maskaev. 37-year-old Kazakhstani by way of Staten Island. Victim of Corrie Sanders. Couldn't make it past the second against Lazy Lance Whitaker. And now... the WBC HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD.

I mean, where the fuck is David Tua when you need him. I guess it's up to Calvin Brock now. Calvin Brock? Paging Calvin Brock? Yo holms, work this thing out for us would you please? This shit has gotten ridiculous.

Pistol Pete...

turns 35 today. Happy Birthday, your Highness.

Whitey, the Mick and one Cool Papa

August 12, 1974 was quite a day in Cooperstown, as Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford (top left and right in the picture) became the first two teammates, and infamous drinking buddies, to enter the Baseball Hall of Fame together.

Here's how the Mick started out his induction speech:

"Thank you very much, Commissioner. I would really like to thank you for leaving out those strikeouts. He gave all those records, but he didn't say anything about all those strikeouts. I was the world champion in striking out and everything, I'm sure. I don't know for sure, but I'm almost positive I must have had that record in the World Series, too. I broke Babe Ruth's record for all-time strikeouts. He only had, like, 1,500 I think. I ended up with 1,710. So that's one that no one will ever break probably, because, if you strike out that much, you don't get to play very long. I just lucked out."

The two men sitting in the picture above are Cool Papa Bell and umpire Jocko Conlan, both also inducted to the Hall in 1974. Bell (real name - James Thomas Bell) was the fifth Negro League player to enter the Hall, after Satchel Page, Josh Gibson, Buck Leonard and Monte Irvin. Still renowned as the fastest man ever to play professional baseball, Bell played 24 years in the Negro Leagues, including stints with the legendary Kansas City Monarchs and Homestead Grays. Josh Gibson once said that Bell was "so fast he could get out of bed, turn out the lights across the room and be back in bed under the covers before the lights went out," a claim that Ali would later appropriate for himself.

This fucker could be your next heavyweight champion

Following in the footsteps of Jack Johnson, Dempsey, Tunney, Louis, Ali, Tyson, I bring you… Oleg Maskaev.

I mean, Jesus, would you look at that bag of potatoes. Guy looks like any number of bleary-eyed Soviet ex-pats unloading trucks in Bay Ridge this very minute. And I’m sure any one of those battleaxes could go 12 with their boy Oleg over there and have plenty left over for a vodka session.

I cannot believe this is a PPV fight. HBO is milking the ’99 knockout for dear life (Lamps – so proud that the Rock was in his lap – Lamps wants all these dudes in his lap), seemingly forgetting that fight was SEVEN FUCKING YEARS ago, and Maskaev wasn’t even relevant then. Just a year after he knocked the Rock out of the ring, he himself suffered a fourth-round KO to Kirk Freaking Johnson, and then in his very next fight, got knocked the fuck out in the second by Lance Freaking Whitaker. His most recent fight with anyone with any street cred whatsoever? 2002, Corey Sanders. Not surprisingly, Sanders stopped him, TKO in the 8th.

The Rock isn’t a much more exciting proposition, another slow, plodding duffer who has made a career off one memorable knockout. Has everyone in the world but me forgotten that he is less than three years removed from a unanimous decision loss to Fat John Ruiz? Not that you even need to go back that far. How about his slow dance with Even Fatter James Toney last March? He and Fat Albert clutched and clawed and rolled shoulders in a 12-round draw that may have been the most meaningless exhibition of combat in the history of man.

So I reiterate – why the FUCK is this a PPV fight? Anyone who buys this thing should be arrested.

Will the real Rocky please pay up?

Did you see this? Evidently, Chuck Wepner, the Bayonne Bleeder, has settled his lawsuit with Stallone out of court. Wepner had been sung Sly for fifteen mil, claiming that Sly owed him for being the inspiration for Rocky Balboa.

Stallone has never shied away from admitting that Wepner inspired him, saying openly that the Rocky script took shape after seeing Wepner nearly go the distance with Ali in 1975. Why exactly that means that he owes him 15 superlarge, I'm not sure, but hey Chuck, get that money son. I'm sure you need it.

Lawsuit Between Wepner and Stallone Over (Boxing Scene)
Wepner Gets Payout for Being "Real Rocky" (Eurosport)

Stop Thief

August 11, 1962 - The Dodgers lodged a protest against the Giants for over-watering the infield at Candlestick. The reason? Reputedly, to slow down speedster Maury Wills, who that year was on route to a record-setting 104 stolen bases, breaking the previous record of 96 set by Ty Cobb in 1915.

Wills was tearing up the majors, and while at it, re-inventing the stolen base as an offensive tool. In the 30 years prior to Wills' outburst, the most steals in a single season was 61 by the Senators' George Case in 1943. In the A.L., Wills' contemporary Luis Aparicio was a noted theft, but averaging at best 50 a year. The century mark was uncharted territory, and would remain so until the great Lou Brock broke Wills' record by stealing 118 in 1974. The only other men to steal a hundred in a season in the modern era are Vince Coleman, who did it three consecutive years (1985-87) and, of course, Rickey, who also did it three times, and set the current singe season record with an astonishing 130 stolen bases in 1982.

Two peas in a pod

Important day today for the Knicks faithful.


Red Holzman was born on this day in 1920. Red coached the Knicks to those two fucking championships in the 70's that if you live in New York or hang out with any Knicks fans you have to hear about all the time as if they happened yesterday. Evidently, Red was also a great dude and everybody loved him. He was elected into the Basketball Hall of Fame in 1985, and died in 1998. Check him out in that picture above doing his Gene Hackman impression. You'd think he'd seen Hoosiers like a hundred times.



And the Starkinator, John Starks, turns 41 today. Starks, you may recall, is the main reason that the Knicks failed to win another championship in 1994, and yet Knicks fans still tremble at the mention of his name. Maybe it's because of this.

Kassim the Machine and Bazooka Quartey

Large here, back after my summer hiatus. A little longer than planned, but hey, give a brother a break. It’s August up in here.

Indulge me – I want to go back to Saturday night’s HBO fight card. I thought both fights were entertaining and worthy of consideration.

First – Powell/Ouma.

You know when you’re out drinking with someone, say Bud for instance, someone who has a gargantuan tolerance and generally could drink like, Frederick Exley under the table… but look, you're game, right? you don't mess around... so you drink with the guy, not drink for drink because that would probably kill you, but you hold your own – he’s drinking six or seven an hour, you’re having four or five.

You know those kind of nights? What usually happens?

I’ll tell you what – you get seriously fucked up. And that brings me to Mr. Sechew Powell. How do you fight a man who throws 110/120 punches a round? Well, you throw 70, 80, 90 punches a round, you try to keep up. And what happens? Eventually you get tired, and then you get a ass-whuppin. Ouma’s punch output against Powell was phenomenal, over a thousand punches in a ten-round fight, and he walked through some legitimate bombs to do it. Sechew, look, you lost decisively, but don’t hang your head son. Kassim the Ugandan Machine waged a hell of a war to beat you. A friend of mine, one who knows his classic fighters believe me, wrote to me that Ouma’s performance made him think of Henry Armstrong. Which says it all right there.

As for Quartey/Forrest… many feel that this fight, a lovely fight to watch, was marred by an absurd unanimous decision for Forrest. Personally, I also think that Quartey was robbed, but I did not think it was highway robbery. Watching the broadcast you would think that it was a walkover for Ike, but then Jim Lampley evidently wants Quartey’s dick only slightly more than he wants Jermain Taylor’s. Vernon was landing a lot of power shots throughout the fight whereas Quartey only consistently landed with his jab. The only fighter hurt in the fight was Ike, after Vernon clocked him with an uppercut in the third and Ike had to hold on for dear life for a good twenty seconds or so. And yes, Forrest fought most of the fight backing up, but hey, so did Ali against Frazier. When you fight a bull, you whip out the red cape and start doing some pirouettes.

That said, I still think Quartey won, mostly on the basis of the point deducted (rightfully so) from Forrest for a low blow. What I mostly want to say about the fight, though, is this – both boxers looked crisp to me, no matter what Lamps has to say about Vernon’s left hand. Both of them have impeccable skills and were moving beautifully and punching with surgical accuracy. It was a real fight fan’s fight, a lot of action, a lot of strategy, a lot of give-and-take. Usually, I’m opposed to these has-been, greatest hits tours, but these two both look to me like they’ve got a lot of gas left in the tank. Maybe one of them will fight Margarito and get us all worked up. I mean, think about it – Quartey/Margarito? Me, I’m paying PPV money for that shit.

In conclusion, I refer you to this excellent account of the evening at East Side Boxing.

Revolution

August 5, 1967 - the Denver Broncos become the first AFL team to beat an NFL team, defeating the Detroit Lions in the first of 16 AFL-NFL preseason games that year.

Just over a year before, the two leagues had come to an agreement to merge by 1970, and this was the first of the pre-season exhibition games ever to be played between the two leagues. Nothing was at stake but pride, and that was enough to make the games heated affairs. The Lions' Alex Karras famously said that he would walk back to Detroit if the Lions lost in Denver.

I doubt he did that, though I don't know, but the Lions did lose in Denver. After a scoreless first half, the Broncos' bruising tailback Cookie Gilchrist took over, rushing for 89 yards and a touchdown. Denver added two field goals and held on for a 13-7 victory. The seeds of the Namath guarantee were in place.

Pretty Boy Floyd the Outlaw

Well gather round me children
There’s a story I must tell
About Pretty Boy Floyd the outlaw
All of France knows him well.

It was in the town of Paree
A Sunday afternoon,
All the world beside him on his cycle
As into town he rode.

There a deputy sheriff approached him
With a bottle rather rude,
Said “this, your piss, is tainted”
And soon the whole world knew.

Pretty Boy said that’s just piss
And sometimes I drink too much;
Makes my pee all watery
And seem tainted just a touch.

But the sheriff had another bottle
A B sample known about,
And this one proved the point he said
Beyond a reasonable doubt.

Now Floyd's bound for the trees and the timber
To live a life of shame;
A cheater, a liar, a true pariah,
An embarrassment to his name.

Ouma/Powell should be some shit

Don’t get confused about tomorrow night’s fights – the big names are the headliners, but the real bout is the undercard. Kassim Ouma and Sechew Powell at 154 is the kind of affair a true fight fan loves – an undefeated up-and-comer against a former titlist with plenty of whupass left in the tank.

Powell is 20-0 with 12 knockouts, a Brownsville boxer who is anything but a Brownsville brawler. He’s a southpaw tactician who handles himself with poise in the ring. The biggest name on his resume so far is the always dangerous (but certainly shot) Ronald Frazier, who he decisioned in February.

Ouma will be a huge step up in competition for Powell. From Uganda, Kassim the Dream won the IBF light middle title in 2004 from Verno Phillips, and then lost it last July to Roman Karmazin in a unanimous decision. He’s a high-volume finesse fighter, and even though he's the veteran in this bout, at 28 he’s only a year older than Powell. They're evenly matched in just about every way, so expect the leather to fly in this one – both men have a lot riding on the outcome.

As for Forrest/Quartey… Jesus. I admit that I’m curious, mostly because the last time I saw either of these guys they were getting full facial rearrangements– Quartey by Oscar and Vargas, Forrest by Mayorga, and then Mayorga again. Does it matter who wins this fight? No way. Is it free? Yes. Do I have anything better to do on a Saturday night in August?