The Witch Is Dead

How can I describe what it's like as a sports fan to grow up in the Philadelphia area, hyper-aware of the long shadow of New York's grandiose self-regard? Bostonians have claimed ownership of the vicissitudes of this condition for too long - we Philadelphians know the disease of insignificance more intimately than those bloody Cantabs ever have or ever will. Boston created a joyous identity of their long-suffering. Down in Philly, that's just not the way things get done. The City of Brotherly Love has never been much for an Irish wake. They don't get misty - they get murderously rageful. And thus has our national sports identity evolved into that of the Comically Embittered Loser, trashy, quick to boo, quick to give up on their teams that always lose anyway so who gives a shit. Routinely, Mets fans invade Philadelphia en masse and fill the air with their self-love and drunken swagger, broadcasting a singular message of colonial disdain - "this pissass city is just a grimy satellite of our kingdom."

Not any more, motherfuckers. One if by land, two if by sea. '64 Phils? NO. '07 Mets. This is reminiscent, on a smaller scale I know, but reminiscent nevertheless, of the Yankees' epic collapse in the 2004 ALCS. That one series seemed like a paradigm shift that singlehandedly reversed the course of Yankees/Red Sox history. Bucky Fuckin Dent be damned - from here to eternity the Yankees are the team that blew a 3-0 lead to Boston when they had it in the bag. Nothing will EVER erase that ignominy from the record books, and believe me, you can still feel the reverberations hovering over the bombast in the Bronx. Who knows how long that black cloud will last (I know, I know, maybe not so long after all... we'll see). The Great Mets Collapse of 2007 is an equal humiliation, and that it came at the Phillies' hands feels like some sort of grand socio-political liberation from the living sports hell that is perpetual failure as a foregone conclusion in Philadelphia. This entire afternoon, I suffered the agonies of what that hell hath wrought in me - I waited moment by moment for the Mets' comeback, for the Phils' improbable collapse. I felt that it was certain, and yet it never came. The Wicked Witch died without so much as a whimper. Now... now if only we can get back to Kansas, Toto. Oh GOD that it might happen. There's no place like home, there's no place like home...

P.S. - Taylor/Pavlik thoughts are coming tomorrow - I am only beginning to process what I witnessed last night)

I Am Willie Randolph

I-Berg prostitutes his childhood pictures yet again. This time for Tiki Barber and the Today Show as they explore the No Mas offices and what parents should tell their children about fallen athletes. Check the clip...


When kids lose their role models

Prognostification

Okay, okay, maybe we've overdone it a little on Taylor/Pavlik here this week, but look, we're excited. I'm not going to go overboard with my pre-fight analysis - I just want to give you a few of the reasons why I think...

1. this fight will NOT go the distance
2. Pavlik will win

On the fight not going all the way, well, you don't have to be Nat freakin Fleischer to call that one. Neither of these guys is what you would call a defensive expert, and both of them pack a serious wallop. Pavlik - we all know how he stupifies his opponents. And Jermain - people have forgotten how seriously Jermain can trade in the stupification business because of the type of dude he's been fighting since he made the bigtime. I mean, look at who he's fought since he won the belts - Bernard again and then Winky, two fighters who are the second and third best defensive fighters respectively (after Pernell) of the last twenty years. Then Kassim the Dream, and granted Jermain did not cover himself in glory in that thing, but still, that Ouma... I'm not exactly sure that Tyson could have taken him out. I'm not sure a machine gun could knock out Kassim Ouma. And then Jermain fights Cory Spinks, which was just... who needed that fight in the first place? Cory certainly was not interested in fighting that night. That was like watching boxing and the Tour de France at the same time.

No, make no bones about it - Jermain can bring it, and he's seriously big to boot. He's a 175 masquerading as a 160, and when he puts all that body in motion, you do not want to be on the other end. I have a feeling that the winner of this fight is going to look like he just lost a fight badly, and the reason that I think it will be Pavlik is this: for all his size and power, do you really think Jermain hits harder than Edison Miranda? I don't. I think he's faster, more difficult to hit cleanly - without question I think this will be a much tougher assignment than Miranda for Pavlik. But Miranda was throwing anvils at the Ghost, and he walked through them like he was Casper. Pavlik is one tough, rugged Youngstown type of bastard. Meanwhile, Jermain has NEVER fought anyone with the kind of pop that Pavlik has. Look at that list of big-name opponents up there - a 40-year-old Bernard? Bernard couldn't punch when he was 25. Winky? Never a pleasant experience fighting the Wink, but the man don't knock anybody out (and that said, he almost got Jermain). Kassim? A natural 147 fighting a guy who walks around at 190. Cory? Not even worth talking about - all he did was jab Taylor in the stomach like four times a round. The fact of the matter is that for the last two years, Jermain has fought guys who have next to nothing on their punches. Now he's going to get in and trade with Kelly "I make dudes shit their pants before they figuratively die in front of me" Pavlik? Sounds like a heap of trouble.

I don't know if you watched the preview show on HBO, but there was one important clue in there as to where Jermain's, and even more telling, Manny Steward's head is at. Suddenly, Jermain and Manny are both talking about how Jermain needs to jab more, get back to the way he used to fight, use his footwork more, box more. And I'm like dah... what? When the hell did Jermain used to be like Sugar Ray Leonard? When was this magical time?

I'll tell you when - it was never. Jermain always has been a clumsy-ass bull in a china shop who overwhelms his opponents with his pure mass and raw power. This guy used to be a boxer like I used to be a surfer. So why suddenly is Manny Steward talking about how Jermain needs to box more? Do I really need to answer that? There's going to be two bulls in the ring Saturday night, and ole Manny at least seems to be plenty aware that one of them has a sharper pair of horns. That alone should tell you everything you need to know when you're making your wager. Enjoy the fight, make sure you tune in early for Berto/Estrada, because that should be a wangdanger too, and look for me and I-berg - we'll be the only guys in Panama hats besides Bert Sugar.

Classic No Mas - Howdy Pilgrim

( When it comes to September 28th in the history of sports, there's really only one thing worth talking about, and no, it's not the Black Sox Scandal...)

Despite the fact that he was a Red Sock his whole career, Ted Williams was very No Mas. Actually, to say that is perhaps to overestimate the No Masian virtues, because Ted Williams was some kind of a son of a bitch, and I mean that with the utmost respect. Basically, we here at No Mas admire his churlishness in the pursuit of excellence and his overall “damn the torpedoes” demeanor. Holms said what was on his mind and walked with a swagger and never backed down from a challenge one day in his life. He was the anti-ARod, John Wayne with a bat.

September 28th, 1941 - Teddy Ballgame played both ends of a doubleheader against the A’s to finish out the season. The day before, Red Sox manager Joe Cronin (evidently having never met Williams before) suggested that Ted sit out the rest of the season to preserve his .401 batting average. One can only imagine how many profanities Williams used to qualify his answer of “no.” He went 1-4 and his average dropped to .399. The next day, however, he picked up the slack, going 6 for 8 on the afternoon to finish the year at .406, making him the first man to hit .400 in eleven years, and the last man ever to do it. Also making him a dude with a pair of cojones the size of basketballs.

September 28th, 1960 - Williams is 42 and has announced his retirement, and the Red Sox, a miserable edition, are hosting the Orioles for their last home game of the season. In the eighth inning, the old Thumper thumps one, a 450-foot home run into the right-center field seats behind the bullpen at Fenway. It was his 521st home run in what would turn out to be his last major league at-bat. Still, he refused to come out for a curtain call. Ted Williams was not a curtain call kind of guy.

Among those in attendance that day was John Updike, who soon afterwards wrote an article about the game and Williams’ career for the New Yorker called Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu. It’s not quite as long as Ulysses and about as pretentious, but worth a look if you have a long flight ahead of you.

Boxing Isn't Dead, But ESPN Is Burying It

(No Mas welcomes the one and only Unsilent back to the team, and he comes out of his corner with both gloves flying... don't call it a comeback, he's been here for years...)












On Saturday night Kelly Pavlik will face off against Jermain Taylor for the latter's Middleweight title, but don't expect to hear about it on SportsCenter. Those of us who still consider ourselves boxing fans hardly need any reminder - it's a fight night we've been looking forward to since Pavlik stopped Edison Miranda in dramatic fashion prior to Taylor's last defense. Yet the average sports fan remains oblivious to this potential Fight of the Year. Typical pundits and commentators continue to offer the same explanation for the lack of mainstream buzz around such an event - "boxing is dead." But in a year when a mediocre fight like Mayweather/De La Hoya broke the record for pay-per-view buys how can this possibly be true?

It isn't.

Boxing is arguably more "alive" now than it has been since Mike Tyson helped turn the sport into a national punchline some ten years ago. In case you hadn't noticed, boxing is having one hell of a year and it's only going to get better in the next three months. So why is it that a sport filled with so many dynamic young fighters (too many to list) hasn't been able to recover in the eyes of omniscient journalists? In one word, coverage. In another word, money.

ESPN, the epicenter of the American sports landscape, once prided itself on bringing athletic competition to the masses of fans desperate for more coverage. In its more idyllic days the network might even have considered it their responsibility to cover (and even promote) events for the benefit of the fans and the sport itself. Ten years ago (the same year as the Tyson/Holyfield debacle) any semblance of noblesse oblige in Bristol was gradually replaced by its responsibility to the Walt Disney Company and its legion of shareholders. If the network doesn't have a stake (be it direct or indirect) in an event you're not likely to hear it discussed on their flagship show.

On those rare occasions when SportsCenter shifts it's focus onto boxing it is seldom positive. Typically the story in question is in place to perpetuate the idea that boxing is more joke than sport (or it's a promo for their reality show, The Contender). In the past we've been treated to countless stories on the sad on-going career of the seemingly punch-drunk Evander Holyfield. The lone "boxing" stories that I've seen crack SportsCenter's rotation this week have involved Pretty Boy Floyd dancing like a fool and the downward spiral that is Mike Tyson's life. The last time SportsCenter featured any real boxing coverage the commentators were debating whether or not two fading stars could "save" the sport. In Mayweather/De La Hoya we had two ring legends who were fighting for nothing more than money and the opportunity to make more money.

So what should we expect from the producers next week, an interview with the Middleweight champion or a story about the Golden Boy prancing around in fishnets? These are the decisions that keep Norby Williamson up at night.

The ESPN brand is so vast that it has become the lone source of sports highlights, analysis, and previews for many of the nation's casual sports fans. At this point, a picture of Pete Weber might be more recognizable to a dedicated ESPN consumer than one of Jermain Taylor. Ever since ESPN bought up the Arena Football League, Tony Graziani's name has been on the lips of SportsCenter anchors more than Kelly Pavlik or Andre Berto or any of the other emerging marketable stars. It makes sense for any major corporation to "keep things in the family" but Disney goes off the deep end. Take for example their recent refusal to air promos for the World Series now that they aren't broadcasting the post-season.

Citing network policy, ESPN says it does not accept advertising that promotes competitive programming on other networks unless it is contractually obligated to do so — and it states that it’s not obligated to under its new media deal with MLB. It says other networks have similar policies.

...yeah, because why would a sports specific network want to let people know when and where they can watch the World Series when they could be running promos for the World Series of Poker reruns on ESPN2?

So what is it that's taking up all of the airtime on your average SportsCenter broadcast? Take a look at my quick recap of the final third (or so) of Wednesday's episode.

John Clayton arguing with Sean Salisbury.

The full Mike Gundy video (for the third straight day).

Skip Bayless arguing with Mike Golic about Mike Gundy on the Budweiser Hot Seat.

John Clayton arguing with Sean Salisbury redux now featuring The Rock! Did you know that The Rock has a new Disney movie opening this week called The Game Plan? The Game Plan, starring The Rock, directed by The Jewish Guy who married The Cute Chick from the The Crappy Show? Well now you do. Apparently they even found a role for John Clayton. He must audition really well.

John Clayton arguing with Sean Salisbury over which one of them is the more accomplished thespian.

Highlights of ABC's Dancing With the Stars (feel the synergy!)...just because they show Floyd Mayweather hurting somebody doesn't mean it counts as boxing coverage.

And all that after the guys on Around the Horn and Pardon the Interuption had spent the previous hour bickering over all of the days top stories... I guess that to get a little play in that lineup Disney would have to start promoting major fights themselves. Either that or Bob Arum's going to have make a sizable deposit in Disney's bank.

ESPN has been able to mollify its some of its remaining die-hards with terrific--yet woefully limited--coverage. The primary component of the company's boxing coverage is Friday Night Fights which offers compelling live cards and analysis of the larger boxing scene. So what do they have planned for this week's episode? Uh...well nothing really, apparently the season is over. I didn't even know boxing had seasons... well played ESPN.

It would have been so easy for them to run a simple hour long special of Friday Night Fights with a specific focus on Saturday's card. Pavlik's pro debut came on the show seven years ago, they could always replay that. They could have even shown some highlights of Taylor's more entertaining bouts. ESPN.com's own Prospect of the Year from 2006, Andre Berto, is the feature on the undercard, so surely he's worth a mention or two. Earlier this year (when the fight was first being arranged) Pavlik sat in on the set with Brian Kenny and performed admirably. I imagine that a three-way interview with BK, Pavlik, and the mercurial champion would have made for good television. Another time Kenny was joined in-studio by another young star, Miguel Cotto. I may be crazy, but I'm pretty sure he's got a better grasp on the English language than Bill Parcells and Emmitt Smith, two of ESPN's infelicitous NFL analysts. When ESPN broadcasts boxing they do it extremely well - I'd just like to see a modicum of coverage (and dare I suggest year-round broadcasts of FNF?).

The boxing page on ESPN.com has long suffered from a similar fate. The content is made up of solid analysis, typically from Dan Raphael, the site's lone in-house boxing scribe. Raphael does an admirable job considering what he's given to work with. His previews and recaps are typically insightful and analytical; but for the most part, that's all they've got. For some inexplicable reason Raphael's pound-for-pound rankings, his blog and such features as the Kelly Pavlik online chat are kept under lock and key over at ESPN Insider. The rest of the content that is made available to the general public typically comes from sources outside of the ESPN family. Recently the site ran a superb column by Don Steinberg yet it never cracked the coveted front page of the dot-com. But hey, I'm just glad I didn't have to pay for the privilege.

I'm not a boxing fanatic and I certainly don't expect to see in-ring highlights bumping the NFL out of the first segment of SportsCenter, but what I'm looking for is far from impractical. All of the pieces are in place, and there's plenty of room for them (unless you really need to see Skip Bayless shouting nonsense at another befuddled "analyst"). So hire Steinberg away from the Philadelphia Inquirer (he's guaranteed to work out better than the last guy), make Friday Night Fights a true weekly event, and for the love of god please find some room for the sweet science in that jam-packed SportsCenter lineup more than twice a year.

On Tuesday, Brian Kenny capped off the 7 pm show with highlights and sound bites from some sort of European pumpkin kayak race. Afterwards he made a quipe something along the lines of, "25 years ago ESPN would have been broadcasting that." Yeah BK, but 25 years ago the producers would have also let you talk about the best boxing match of the year (to date).

Classic No Mas - The Power of the P

(Here's my unedited and unabridged entry from September 26th of last year. It's, uh, rather appropriate one year later. People, let me tell you, I harbor the exact same dream today. And I anticipate the same heartbreak. -Large)
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As the Phillies march toward the Wild Card and make us all finger-chewing scoreboard-watching wrecks in the process (I already have it all planned out - Mets in the NLCS, Yanks in the Series - then I can die), it seems fitting to take you back to a little Fightin’ Phils on-this-day minutiae.



On September 26, 1950, as the Whiz Kids were walking off with the N.L. pennant, Phils’ reliever Jim Konstanty set a modern era record by appearing in his 71st game on the season. He would finish the year with 74 total appearances, a record that would stand until 14 years later, when the K.C. Athletics’ John Wyatt made it into 81 games. The current record is 106 games, set by Mike Marshall with the Dodgers in 1974, and anyone who’s read “Ball Four” knows that Mike Marshall was a real march-to-his-own-drummer kind of guy.

September 26, 1964 – The Phillies host the Braves at Shibe Park. The Phils are in the process of the worst collapse in major league history, losing 10 of their last 12 games (and 10 in a row mind you) to blow a 6 1/2 game lead in the N.L. and end up losing the pennant by a game to the Cardinals, forever earning themselves the moniker “the foldin’ Phils” and beginning Gene Mauch’s reputation as a snakebitten loser. There are people in Philly to this day who get a murderous gleam in their eyes when you bring up the ’64 Phils – my Grampa Noyes was one of them (picture to the right is a sheet of pristine World Series tickets the Phillies had already printed up before the collapse). This game with the Braves was number six of the 10 straight losses, but it’s also notable for the fact that the two teams set a major league record by using 43 total players in the game. The Braves win it 6-4 when Rico Carty triples in three in the ninth off Bobby Shantz. Motherfuckin Rico Carty.

And finally, September 26, 1975 - the Phils and Mets play a miserable doubleheader. Phils win the first game 4-3 in 12 innings in a game twice delayed by rain. A third rain delay finally ends the evening in the third inning of game two, although the game isn’t called for good until 3:15 a.m. About 200 fans were left in the Vet. This is interesting because… I don’t know why. It happened. The '75 Phils were cooler than the other side of the pillow. Dave Cash, Jay Johnstone, Tommy Hutton, Willie Montanez. Dick Allen in his second Philly go-round. Check out my man Downtown Ollie Brown over there. I loved him. His batting stance was ill.

Testosterone Tuesday

Look I have to fess up - I didn't even know that two-time Indy 500 champ Helio Castroneves was on this season of "Dancing with the Stars." I learned that last night, when I tuned in to check out Floyd's debut. So, with that as a disclaimer for just what kind of DWS fan I am, I bring you my assessment of both Floyd and Helio's performances on last night's show, dubbed "Testosterone Tuesday" by the diabolical geniuses behind this ballroom-dancing clusterfuck.

FLOYD
Oh Jesus that was embarrassing. What WAS that? I just don't... okay okay, here's the breakdown. We start by learning that Floyd is the best pound-for-pound boxer in the world, and that he is dancing with the best pound-for-pound dancer in the world, a muscular Latin chick who looks like she's at least a junior welterweight if Floyd is a true 147. We watch them training. Floyd announces that he is trying to do something that has never been done before - train for "Dancing with the Stars" and train for a world title fight (Hatton) simultaneously. I checked the Ring Encyclopedia on this, and he's right - it never has been successfully accomplished before, and it's only been attempted once, by Rocky Graziano before the second Tony Zale fight.

The meta-narrative for the Floyd training sequence (and I'm talking META-narrative - maybe 20 seconds of development on this) is that Floyd is a talented dancer but headstrong, difficult to train. His Latin chick storms out on him after a saucy exchange. She comes back. Floyd vows that he will defer to her wisdom, that he will not let her down. The faces of Mickey Goldmill and Obi-Wan Kenobi appear to Floyd in a dream. "Use the FORCE Rock!"

Now is the time on Sprockets when they dance. Look, I know as much about ballroom dancing as I-berg knows about judo, but this just does not look like ballroom dancing to me. Floyd looks really nervous, unlike how he looks, say, before a big fight. He jumps around doing hip-hop type crunk thrusts while his babe kicks and shimmies and seems to be doing a completely different dance than he is. The music sounds like a salsa remix of a 50 Cent song. This, we're informed, is what's known as a "Cha Cha Cha." I'll bet all those crunked-out homies in Atlanta didn't know that's what they were up to. Afterwards, while the judges express enthusiastic unease, Floyd drips buckets of sweat from his forehead and smiles awkwardly. Later on they get their scores, three sixes, which I gather is not good. I think Floyd is rightfully on the chopping block, which is very good news to Large, both because I'm embarrassed for him and because if he gets voted off I don't have to watch this shit anymore. It's in my No Mas contract.

HELIO
Helio is paired with the woman who was the winning professional on last year's show, and she is kind of hot in a blonde boopsie sort of way. To the camera, Helio says that he is the two-time defending Indy 500 champion, and he guarantees that he will make what's-her-face the two-time defending DWS champion. Nice one. They train. Ten-second interlude while Helio has a terrible career-threatening accident on the racetrack. What's-her-face paces nervously in the dance room - will Helio appear? is Helio dead or unrecognizably disfigured? No, wait, there he is, he's not dead. He's not even hurt. Ha ha ha. They train some more.

Their chosen dance is the Forbidden Fox-trot. This, I must say, looks a little more like ballroom dancing to me - two people cheek to cheek gliding around the dancefloor and every now and then dipping each other and kicking. Good times. The song is "Bewitched" and at the end, the chick does a little Samantha-like nose twitch and then breaks into a huge fake "oh this is much fun" laugh that makes me want to punch her. On the whole, Helio doesn't really embarrass himself, but he doesn't look like he knows what he's doing either, at least to my eyes. The judges, though, love him. He and his blonde babe get two eights and a nine, which I gather is an awesome score. It seems Helio is an early favorite to take the checkered flag. I just want you to know right now that if Floyd gets voted off and Helio stays on, I'm still bailing on this thing. Tune in tomorrow for my recap of the results show, which hopefully will send Floyd back to the gym to do what he does best - skip that mothafuckin rope son!

Here's another hit, Barry Bonds

It's taken me this long, a good ten days of repeated listening, to finally come to this conclusion: the song "Barry Bonds" on Kanye West's new album has little or nothing to do with Barry Bonds. You know how it is - the lyrics kind of fly by and you're getting your groove on and all, and hey, it's called "Barry Bonds" so you figure it's probably about Barry Bonds and you'll figure it out eventually just not now.

It hit me last night. It was during the Lil Wayne part, which is dope (the track is fat on the whole), and I was like, wait a minute, holms is just free- associating. There's not a single word of this that's about Barry Bonds.

Then I went back. I found only one brief passage that may (may) be referencing His Barry-ness. Kanye says:

I did it, that asshole done did it,
Talked it then he lived it,
Spit it then he shit it
I don't need writ-eers, I might bounce ideas,
But only I can come up with some shit like this

From what I can gather, Kanye is drawing some loose comparisons here between Bonds and himself - two self-serving, temperamental dicks who talk a lot of smack but then deliver. Later on he says, "my head so big you can't sit behind me," which may also be referencing Mr. Bonds, because as we all know Barry has a big head. Other than that, this song is not about Bonds in any way other than to bring him in on the punch-line of the chorus - "here's another hit, Barry Bonds."

It's good that we had this talk. Large out.

Dancing Queen

Let's face it - the fact that Floyd Mayweather is appearing on this season of "Dancing with the Stars" is not the greatest advertisement for the sport of boxing. Yes, the show has included top-tier athletes in the past, but always ones whose careers were over, or, in the case of Evander Holyfield, should have been over. Floyd is the the uncontested pound-for-pound king of boxing today, and he's on this piece of shit. I mean, would Peyton Manning do this crap? Bad example - Peyton Manning is a slut. How about Derek Jeter? No way. LeBron? Maybe LeBron now that I think of it. I guess what it comes down to is that the line between athletes and media whores is almost non-existent today.

The season premiere of "Dancing" was on last night and Jesus it is an awful viewing experience. I've never watched it before (tuned in for about five seconds in season one to see Evander, and immediately averted my eyes from the horror), and once I realized that Floyd wasn't going to be dancing last night, I turned that shit off so fast I got whiplash. Of course, I never really expected that a show about washed-up, D-level celebrities (or, you know, best boxers of their generation) ballroom dancing was going to float my boat, but even then I couldn't believe how bush league the production value was. This is like a major phenomenon, this show, or so I understand, and it looks like some crap you'd see late Saturday morning on local TV in Philly, i.e. the Al Alberts Showcase ("on the way to Cape May...").

Floyd makes his dancing debut tonight. I'm gonna Tivo that shit so I can just watch him. I'll give you a full report tomorrow. Something tells me it's going to make me start hoping in dire earnest that Ricky Hatton beats his ass.

Fast, not nice...

His jaundiced eyes blazing, his Stanozolol-fueled muscles glinting in the sun, nineteen years ago today Ben Johnson won the men's Olympic 100m final in Seoul. His time was an astonishing 9.79 seconds, a new world record that broke the 9.83 mark that he had set the previous year at the World Championships in Rome. To give you an idea of just how fast that time was, if it had stood on the books, it would still today be the fastest time in Olympic history (equalled only by Donovan Bailey at the Atlanta Games in '96).


Of course, Johnson's time did not stand. Three days after winning what many considered to be the greatest 100m race in history, he was stripped of his gold medal due to a urine sample showing high levels of anabolic steroids, most notably stanozolol. It was the biggest Olympic drug scandal ever, and it inaugurated a new era of drug awareness and paranoia at the highest levels of track and field competition. Even now in Olympic circles, the 1988 Games are referred to as "The Drug Games" and Ben Johnson's eerie yellow-eyed stare remains the hallmark memory of Seoul. (To view the print above, go to the artwork section of our store, and below check out the above side and front camera angles of the infamous race - shit is unbelievable.)

K.O.W. - The Ghost and The Darkness

After a long lead-up and a lot of anticipation, finally we fight fans are nearing the start of what promises to be the most exciting three months that boxing has seen in years. The long-awaited Pacquiao-Barrera rematch (contested on the same night that Sam Peter fights Oleg Maskaev for his WBC heavyweight belt), the Diaz vs. Diaz lightweight unification, the Calzaghe vs. Kessler super middleweight unification, the Cotto and Sugar Shane samckdown at the Garden, the Vargas/Mayorga freakshow, and last but certainly not least, Floyd and Ricky Hatton in Vegas.

It's an embarrassment of riches, and I tell you people, the fight that kicks off the Fall '07 Fightfest this weekend may turn out the be the best of them all. Jermain Taylor and Kelly Pavlik meet up Saturday night with Jermain's uncontested middleweight title on the line. It's a fight that promises to be a jaw-rattling affair - both of these guys are big, hard-punching 160's who like to bring it. After Pavlik's decimation of Edison Miranda on the undercard of the dreadful Taylor/Spinks fight, no one is underestimating Kelly The Ghost and many pundits are picking him in an upset. Right now the Vegas odds are just about even - Pavlik is paying even money and Jermain's at -130. That seems about right to me, although I confess that I too am leaning towards the Ghost. I'll have more on my rationale later in the week, but for now let me just say that I think in this battle of two bruisers that Pavlik is by far the more accurate puncher, and that will tell the story in the end. For exhibit A in this discussion I give you our Knockout of the Week below, Kelly's frightening sleepification of Jose Zertuche last January.

Neutral Corner My Ass

Today marks a very No Masian anniversary indeed. Eighty years ago tonight at Soldier Field in Chicago, Gene Tunney beat Jack Dempsey on points in their infamous rematch, infamous, of course, for The Long Count. If you don't know what The Long Count is, look it up or watch below - then again, if you don't know what The Long Count is, chances are you probably don't read No Mas.

"The innocent is the person who explains nothing..."

Woe unto ye, Roid Landis.

I find myself torn about this case - on the one hand I feel that he is probably guilty, which leads me to think, of course, fuck him. But then a sneaking suspicion creeps into my thoughts - what if the French system is corrupt? What if, as he claims, someone did have it in for him? What if he's innocent? I must say, on this score, the virulence and grandeur of his defense does give me pause. Does someone who KNOWS he's guilty beyond the shadow of a doubt carry on in this way? Camus famously wrote that the innocent is the person who explains nothing. In this case, I wonder if it could be the complete opposite.

Everyone it seems who is ever caught doping on a grand scale tries to find some little excuse in the moment, and they are usually preposterous explanations (as was Floyd's remember - the old "I drank too much whiskey and that made me test positive for synthetic testosterone" excuse) but as time passes, they tend to accept their fate or just shut up about it. Landis has gone apeshit over this for over a year now. Again, this is most likely due to the fact that he improbably won the Tour de France and then got caught doping and he just can't get get over how close he was to cycling Valhalla ("I'd'a gotten away with it too if it weren't for those confounded kids..."). But just the slightest possibility that he could be innocent raises an interesting question about the implications of the doping era. In general, when we think about doping in sport, we think about how the offenders are cheating, leaving those who choose not to cheat with no chance of competing. We want the cheaters caught and exposed. We never think about how the whole specter of doping has changed the way that sports are contested, and that the evermore complicated tests and rules that they engender have necessary flaws, that they can be unfair and at times just out and out wrong. We worry excessively about punishing the guilty, but to this point we have not worried about unjustly punishing the innocent, although such an injustice seems inevitable.

The two greatest victims of the doping generation that I can think of were both Olympians. At the 1972 Munich Games, American swimmer Rick DeMont was stripped of his gold medal in the 400m free after traces of ephedrine were found in his urine. He was subsequently prevented by the USOC from competing in the 1500m, an event he was favored to win. DeMont did indeed have ephedrine in his system - he was a chronic asthma sufferer and his medication, as does most asthma medication, included ephedrine. He had disclosed this to the IOC and gotten his medicines cleared by the powers that be. It was a red tape screwup of the highest order and stole DeMont's greatest moment. Of course, this bit of unpleasantness was completely forgotten once the Munich Massacre took place, and DeMont was a mere footnote to the '72 Games. He spent years afterward trying to clear his name and get his medal back. In 2001, the USOC admitted the mistake - the IOC has yet to do the same.

At the Sydney Olympics in 2000, Romanian gymnast Andrea Raducan won the women's gymnastics all-around title, only to have it stripped from her two days later for testing positive for pseudo-ephedrine. She had taken cold medicine to treat a fever and cough the night before the event, medicine prescribed for her by the Romanian team physician. The IOC stood firm on its decision, saying that the rules were the rules despite the fact that the girl was clearly a victim of the system. I vividly remember the head of the Romanian Olympic delegation, the vampyric Ion Tiriac, arguing strenuously in a press conference that the vicissitudes of the doping situation had gotten out of control. "Only the Americans can afford to be on top of all the chemical innovations and tests and procedures," he said, or something to that effect, and though the U.S.-bashing was a blatant piece of propaganda, nevertheless there was a valid point there. Raducan eventually got her gold medal back, by the way, but not through official means. The silver medalist at Sydney was also Romanian, Simona Amanar. After first refusing to accept the gold medal following Raducan's disqualification, she thought better of her decision and took the gold back to Romania to give to Raducan.

Of course, both DeMont and Raducan were victims of the doping mania in a particular way - testing positive for substances that some might argue never needed to be banned in the first place (how much edge does a gymnast hope to gain from pseudo-ephedrine anyway?). The Landis situation is one that, if he ever were able to prove his innocence, would be a doping injustice on a much different scale and might shake up the entire business of drug-testing in sport. Everyone wants to hang the guilty at all costs until a guiltless man ends up in the noose. For now, it seems that Floyd Landis is not that man. But I tell you, it's going to be somebody, and it's going to be soon.

Billie Jean Was Not His Lover

Today is an important anniversary for sport, for the much-neglected cause of hucksterism, and last but not least for women everywhere. On September 20th, 1973, Billie Jean King beat the aging motormouth Bobby Riggs in a made-for-TV tennis spectacle at the Houston Astrodome, a match that was known as "The Battle of the Sexes." Six months before he met up with Billie Jean, Riggs, who once had been the men's #1 in the 40's and a U.S. and Wimbledon champion, had easily beaten the top women's player in the world, Margaret Court. Though he did it with his typically maddening game of back and forth, dinks and lobs, it was still not an achievement to be sneered at - Riggs was 55 years old at the time, and Court was only three years removed from being the first woman in history to win the Calendar Grand Slam.

Of course, from there, the Bobby Riggs circus took full flight, as he proclaimed to the world, "I am the reigning Queen of Tennis. Now I want King." Billie Jean took the bait, and a boatload of cash, and the match was contested on this night thirty-four years ago on national television. King was carried onto the court in a chair borne by four muscular lads in gladiatorial garb. Riggs followed in a chariot.

Those entrances were no doubt the most interesting part of the match - what followed was a drab, limpid sort of tennis familiar to anyone who has ever played their grandfather on a windy spring afternoon. Billie Jean knew exactly what to expect from Riggs, and unlike Court, his persistent drop-shotting and lobbing didn't rattle her in the least. For her part, she didn't give Riggs any pace to work with, and just ran him side to side with mid-speed ground strokes, a strategy that left him with almost no chance of winning. Eventually he tried to serve-and-volley her but it just wasn't on with those fifty-something legs. He lost in three sets, 4, 3, and 3, without putting up much of a struggle.

It's funny now to imagine, but nevertheless, the significance of the match at the time was monumental for the cause of women's equality in both sports and society at large. To get a sense of that, you might want to check out the ABC movie When Billie Beat Bobby, which is airing on Classic tonight at 10 p.m. EST. It's not great - Holly Hunter as Billie Jean is a far worse decision than Ron Silver as Riggs (Fred Willard as Cosell is just off-the-charts preposterous) - but it manages to capture something of the environment that led to such epic flim-flammery. For myself, I've been hoping for a millennial revisitation of this concept for years now. Mac v. Serena? Christ, they'd pack the Garden at the very least. Throw Connors/Venus on there and make it a twin bill.

The Special One

It's been on everyone's mind for some time now, but the news late last night that Jose Mourinho is in fact leaving Chelsea still came as something of a shock for the football world. Mourinho has been remarkably successful at the helm of the Blues, two consecutive Premiership titles since taking over in June of 2004, and yet constant friction with management and the club's owner, Roman Abramovich, evidently made his departure inevitable. Mourinho leaves with three years left on his contract, and now becomes the most sought-after unemployed coach in world football, with the man himself on record as saying that he covets the head coaching gig for his native Portugal's national team. He is replaced at Stamford Bridge by former Israel coach Avram Grant.

Apparently, Abramovich's insistence on interfering with his coach's personnel decisions, particularly in regard to the expensive, and largely ineffective, Ukrainian striker Andriy Shevchenko, was the final straw for Mourinho. The whole situation reminds me of the Jimmy Johnson/Jerry Jones smackdown that led to Jimmy leaving the Cowboys in '93 after winning his second straight Super Bowl. Think about it - a much-beloved franchise with a huge national profile, a phenomenally successful coach with preternaturally perfect hair coming off two straight championships, and a meddling, ego-maniacal owner who wants to call the shots and doesn't know when to leave well enough alone. I suppose the Blues' supporters can take comfort in this analogy by knowing that the Cowboys managed another championship under their next coach (rootin-tootin Barry Switzer) although of course he did it with Johnson's team and vision largely intact. As for Mourinho, somehow I imagine him having more success in his next venture than ole Jimmy did in Miami, although it does sound like he wants, as Jimmy did, to go home again, which is always a fraught enterprise. Maybe, however, he'll just return to Portugal and take up a second career... as, say, a talk-show host, or a sommelier...

Head First

Quick - what is the most memorable moment in diving history? I'm betting that a good nine out of ten of you who answer that question at all will come up with Greg Louganis smacking his head on the board at the Seoul Olympics, a minor disaster that occurred twenty years ago today. Louganis, already the most famous diver in the world and the reigning Olympic champion in both diving events, was on the ninth of his eleven preliminary dives in the springboard competition at Seoul. He attempted a reverse 2 1/2-somersault pike, a highly difficult dive, and did not get enough clearance from the board, cracking his head during his descent and then plummeting into the water like a big bag of donuts. Amazingly, after being sutured up on the spot for a wound that eventually took five stitches, Louganis finished his dives, and two days later he was the Olympic springboard champion again with a narrow victory over 14-year-old Chinese wunderkind Xiong Ni (Ni would go on to win gold in the springboard event at both the Atlanta and Sydney Olympics). Louganis also repeated as champion in the 10-meter platform at Seoul, bringing his career Olympic medal haul to five - two golds apiece at L.A. and Seoul, and an oft-forgotten 10m platform silver at the Montreal Games, when he was only 16 years old.

The video below, well... I just couldn't resist. Just to get it out of the way right at the start, yes, that is Mario Lopez. And yes, that is the real footage of the head-cracking. I really love the added sound effect.

Bad (and Lots of) Blood

Today is the five-year anniversary of maybe the sweetest moment, and the sweetest punch, of Oscar De La Hoya's career. On this night in 2002, Oscar scored an 11th round TKO over Ferocious Fernando Vargas, taking Vargas's WBA junior middleweight title to add to his own WBC edition of the belt at 154.

Vargas and De La Hoya had a sworn rivalry dating back to their Olympic training days, when Oscar apparently laughed at Vargas after he had fallen into a snowbank (note to self - never laugh at Fernando Vargas when he falls in the snow - holms hates that shit and will NEVER forget it). The two had traded insults for years, and the pre-fight hype months included all the predictable press conference shenanigans, so many in fact that in their last press conference together a specially built barrier was erected to keep them from interacting. Appropriately, the fight was billed "Bad Blood."

The fight itself was a classic version of boxing's best stylistic counterpoint - the brawler versus the boxer. Vargas had a distinct size advantage - Oscar was far from the natural 154 that he has grown into today, and looked in the ring like a glorified welterweight. Meanwhile, Vargas looked like a true middleweight, and also seemed like he was in the best shape of his life. Early on the fight broke down the way everyone had imagined it would - Vargas dominating when he managed to steer Oscar to the ropes and work his body relentlessly, and Oscar giving the much-slower Vargas a boxing lesson when the fight was contested in the middle of the ring. By the middle rounds, Oscar had taken the helm, winning the fight almost exclusively with his jab, which seemed to have some magnetic attraction to Vargas's face and which opened a nasty cut on his right cheek. Vargas reached deep, however, and staged a big rally in the ninth, one that continued into the tenth until... WHAM, Oscar did a little shimmy-faint and floored him with one of the most-perfect left-hooks you'd ever want to see. He followed it up with another lightning-fast left in the eleventh that put Vargas on the canvas again, and the inevitable end was in sight. Pure satisfaction for the Golden Boy. Check it out below.

Ow

The news about Greg Oden has everyone thinking about Sam Bowie today and wondering about a Blazer curse. It's completely unfair to Oden to make such a comparison - then again, when you're a Blazers fan and you find out your first-round draft pick franchise savior seven-footer is going to miss his entire rookie season... and because of FREAKIN KNEE SURGERY no less... well you're bound to bitch and moan a little. And now that Bill Simmons is telling the world his Oden walked like a 50-year-old man at the ESPYs story, well, you're really going to bitch and moan. You're going to start thinking about Bowie, and the Kandi Man, and Kent Benson, and all the other round-one, pick-one center disasters that ever there have been and think that you may have yourself the worst of them all.

Whether that's the case has a few variables of course - just how fucked up Oden's knee(s) really are, and how good Kevin Durant ends up being. On that score, we'll just have to wait and see. Oh how painful it will be, though, if Durant turns out to be a twenty/ten guy as a rookie (and why does this suddenly seem all but certain) while the fans out in Portland stare blankly into the paint where no Oden and no Z-Bo happen to be.

Then again, maybe Durant is over-rated and Oden comes back next season better than ever. Maybe Hatton beats Floyd and Sugar Shane beats Cotto. Maybe the Phils win the NL East. Maybe good triumphs over evil and love conquers all...

Look, Portlanders, the first-pick center bingo is a notoriously difficult hustle. But it's not all bad. For instance, the Blazers themselves took a center with the first overall pick once before in the draft (and no, I am not referring to Mychal, or however the hell you spell that, Thompson) and it worked out pretty well for them. So take a look at the list below, all of the true centers ever to go first in the NBA draft, and, you know, dream a little dream...

2005: Andrew Bogut (Utah) - Milwaukee
2002: Yao Ming (China) - Houston
1998: Michael Olowokandi (U. of Pacific) - LAC
1992: Shaquille O'Neal (LSU) - Orlando
1987: David Robinson (Navy) - San Antonio
1986: Brad Daugherty (UNC) - Cleveland
1985: Pat Ewing (Georgetown) - NYK
1984: Hakeem Olajuwon (Houston) - Houston
1983: Ralph Sampson (UVA) - Houston
1980: Joe Barry Carroll (Purdue) - Golden State
1977: Kent Benson (Indiana) - Milwaukee
1974: Bill Walton (UCLA) - Portland
1972: LaRue Martin (Loyola) - Portland
1970: Bob Lanier (St. Bonaventure) - Detroit
1969: Lew Alcindor (UCLA) - Milwaukee
1961: Walt Bellamy (Indiana) - Chicago
1953: Ray Felix (Long Island U.) - Baltimore
1950: Chuck Share (Bowling Green) - Boston

Slow Start

Held 37 years ago this morning, the very first New York Marathon was a humble affair. It seems almost unimaginable given the citywide orgy that is today's marathon, but back in 1970, marathoning wasn't exactly a hip leisure activity of the average middle-class hipster or family type. These days, if you haven't run a marathon you're just a lazyass loser (and btw, for full disclosure purposes - Large: Philadelphia Marathon, 1994) whereas back in the day, if you had run a marathon, people were like, "cool, wow... so what's a marathon?" Jim Fixx (pictured right) fixed that shit up right quick ("Veronica and I are trying this new fad called uh, jogging. I believe it's jogging or yogging. It might be a soft j. I'm not sure but apparently you just run for an extended period of time. It's supposed to be wild").

127 people signed up for the inaugural New York Marathon. Only 55 finished, many of them on mopeds. The race did not traverse all five boroughs - in fact, it barely traversed one borough. Mostly, it looped around Central Park about a billion times. The winner, Gary Muhrcke (that's pronounced "Moo-Huh-Ricker-Rick"), was greeted at the finish line by about a hundred people, mostly homeless and looking to mug him, as he broke the tape with a time of 2:31:38. If you're not familiar with marathoning and you're wondering if that's a good time, yell into the kitchen and ask your mom what she ran in her last marathon. She'll probably be all, "what's that, honey? my last marathon? oh, 2:37 dear, but that was Boston and I hit the wall right before Heartbreak Hill..."

Sweet Revenge

On September 12, 1951, in a rematch of a bout fought just two months prior, Sugar Ray Robinson stopped Randy Turpin in the 10th round of their fight at the Polo Grounds to regain his belt at 160. Turpin, hailing from England, was then the European champ, and he'd taken the world middleweight title from Sugar Ray in July of that year, winning a 15-round decision after a bruising bout in London. It was a shocking upset, only the second loss of Robinson's illustrious eleven-year career. His Sugar-ness was on one of his frequent European tours at the time, and was fighting his seventh contest in just two months, a fact to which many attributed his defeat. Still, no excuses were necessary for getting pummeled by Turpin (a.k.a. The Leamington Licker... oh I love that one). He was a tough and wily SOB, a point that he proved even further in the rematch fifty-six years ago tonight. Expected to take a thrashing from a rested and renewed Sugar Ray, instead Turpin gave as good as he got in a fight that picked up right where the first one left off. It was a taut, action-packed bout with plenty of give-and-take, and though Sugar Ray was the clear aggressor, Turpin's defensive and counter-punching skills made it a tough bout to call. At the time of the stoppage, Robinson was narrowly ahead on the scorecards but had a severe cut over his left eye, one that had been caused by a punch and threatened to end the fight. The video below is a condensed version of the fight from the fifth round on, and oddly, the British announcers don't mention the cut. But Sugar Ray's desperation is palpable in the 10th round as he goes all out for the kill - the blow that turns the tide is sheer perfection, a straight right straight on the button that completely gumbifies the British champ. Amazingly, Turpin got up from that shot (at the count of 9 and 3/4) but he had nothing left to offer and the ref stepped in mercifully. The Sugar Man was king at 160 once again, a crown he would relinquish in April of the following year, after defeating Rocky Graziano and announcing what would turn out to be a very short-lived retirement.

K.O.W. - The Hitter

For a while now, Junior "The Hitter" Witter, Yorkshire's finest product since the pudding, has proclaimed loudly to anyone who would listen that England's most explosive fighter is NOT a certain pub-crawling, cult-inspiring, frequently weight-cutting Mancunian lad's lad, but is in fact, well, Junior Witter. There's a good case to be made for his claim - Witter's quality of opposition for the most part equals Ricky Hatton's, and whereas Hatton still holds that precious undefeated commodity, Witter has only one loss, and it came at the hands of Zab Judah in 2000, back when Zab was truly super. I ask you people - does Hatton beat Zab seven years ago? Dah... no fuckin way.

This past Saturday Witter defended his WBC belt at 140 by knocking the stuffing out of Vivian Harris. Granted, Vicious Vivian is not exactly Floyd Mayweather - many of you may remember what was supposed to be his coming-out party on the undercard of the Gatti/Floyd fight in 2005, when Viv shot his wad early and then got KTFO by Gumby-armed Carlos Maussa. Nevertheless, Harris has held his own with A-level competition for years, and against Witter he was swinging for the fences, and Junior still put him down like it weren't no thing. The video below makes it plain why Ricky H. has been ducking him for years. Maybe after Floyd exposes Hatton for the fish-and-chips myth that he is, Junior can step to the front of the line for the blue plate special.

Slams

9/10/62
Rod Laver, 24 years old, defeats fellow Australian Roy Emerson in the men's final of the U.S. Championships to complete the calendar Grand Slam, the first man to do so since Don Budge accomplished the feat in 1938. A year to the day after Emmo had disposed Laver in the '61 U.S. final, the Rocket was just too much for his countryman at Forest Hills, prevailing in four sets - 6-2/6-4/5-7/6-4. Rex Lardner (nephew of Ring) wrote in SI that Laver (who he had previously called "this hawk-nosed, freckle-faced bowlegged Australian") launched at Emerson a series of "wildly spinning, hard, shoe-top-high shots almost impossible to volley" and that "very often he hit the ball so fast that Emerson could merely watch as it skimmed by." The set that Laver dropped in the final was one of only two that he lost in the entire tournament, and it was the second time that year that he had victimized Emerson in a Grand Slam final - he also defeated him at the Australian. Oddly, Laver would not win the U.S title again until 1969, when he completed the second calendar Grand Slam of his career.

9/10/88
For the first time since Margaret Court managed it in 1970, a calender Grand Slam is achieved in tennis, when 19 year-old Steffi Graf defeats Gabriela Sabatini in the women's final of the U.S. Open. She is the third woman to accomplish the Slam, after Court and Maureen Connolly (1953). It occurs during an amazing four-year stretch that will see her reach the finals of 13 Slams, winning nine of them. But it was in 1988 that she truly ruled the sport completely - later that year at the Seoul Olympics, Graf defeated Sabatini once again, this time in the women's final of the inaugural Olympic women's tennis tournament. The gold medal led many to dub Graf's '88 as the year of the "Golden Slam." A side note - Sabatini, much beloved here at No Mas headquarters, ultimately got her revenge on her German nemesis, beating Graf at the 1990 U.S Open women's final for her only victory at a Slam.

Mas Rugby - The All Blacks

The second bout of the French Rugby World Cup will take place in the fief of the Olympique de Marseille, the mythical Stade Vélodrome. And it will confront the best Rugby nation there ever was with one of the new Northern Hemisphere powers. The captain of the All Blacks and his teammates are only interested in taking the trophy. Let's see who they are.

Richie McCaw, "The Number 7"

New Zealand is to Rugby what Brazil is to football. Without a doubt, it's the most important rugby nation boasting a grand tradition for playing the game with an incredible flair and just all-around awesomeness. The All Blacks are a pleasure to see. They intimidate as much as they fascinate and seem to have been elevated to living myths since the very beginning of the 20th century, revolutionizing rugby so much that the sport actually adapted to their playing style and particular flavor and not the other way around. It is still every Rugby fan’s dream to have the Kapa-O-Pango (their very famous Haka) performed in front of him and it never ceases to amaze that such a demographically-bankrupt country can keep on producing more world-class dominant rugby players than New York City produces point guards. This particular fact doesn’t contradict itself when you look at the Blacks captain, Richie McCaw. At the top of his game, Richie has just been awarded the 2006 IRB Player of the Year and is considered one of the most talented openside flankers in the history of the sport. If New Zealand is Brazil, Richie’s far from being its Ronaldinho. He’s a punisher. Extremely quick with his hands and armed with above average handling abilities, he’s still one of the fastest players on the pitch despite having the size of a respectable lock. The Crusaders captain has also been the target of many personal attacks lately with fans debating whether he’s the best player there is or simply the biggest cheater there is. People (mostly from his own hemisphere) don’t seem to appreciate too much the use of his hands during breakdowns. And because everything he does with his hands is pretty accurate and to the point, these debates are all the more heated. Add to that the fact that “Number 7” knows exactly what the referees will let him get away with because of his status. How many times was Michael Jordan was called for traveling? Exactly!

Richie McCaw is not a dirty player - he’s a player who’s been able to elevate himself into a leader and who basically wins by any means necessary. He wasn't at his top form during the latest Tri-Nation, but you can count on Richie, Dan Carter and the boys to be ultra-motivated to end New Zealand's 20-year drought in the World Cup.

And speaking of the devil, Dan Carter, a.k.a D.C., is considered to be the best five-eights of all time, at the age of 25! The Canterbury Crusaders' superstar is the Zinédine Zidane of his sport. Or maybe its David Beckham. Or a little of both - an incredibly skilled player with underwear-model good looks (Sexiest Man in New Zealand two or three times) and the endorsements that accompany such status. The IRB Player of the Year in 2005 is well on his way to becoming the all-time leading scorer of the All-Blacks. Averaging more than fifteen points a game since his international debut four years ago, the fly-half has only lost four games out of 41 with the Blacks. He's shown multiple times that he has the ability to score from anywhere on the field despite being the main target on the pitch (if there is such a thing when you play the Blacks) and constantly being double- or triple-teamed. He remains cool under any type of pressure and has Johnny Wilkinson's skills when goal-kicking. His start this year was stellar as usual, but every team will have a "Deadly Dan" playbook. He'll be one of those players you'll easily recognize and who you should look for in this World Cup.

The All Blacks are the obvious favorites of the competition. They're the main attraction and everybody will be gunning for them. Joe Rokocoko, Byron Kelleher and Doug Howlett are some of the other names that definitely will be mentioned during the competition. This is arguably the most talented squad the Blacks have ever had, and they're expecting to outdo their last two WC runs, stopping in the semi-finals both in 1999 and in 2003. In the final analysis, it's very hard to imagine someone other than McCaw lifting the Webb Ellis trophy.

Zab Judah has an IPhone

I liked how Joe Tessitore dissed him last night. They showed a brief clip of Zab in his training room and for some reason Zab was very excitedly demonstrating for the camera how the weather feature works on his IPhone in a way that seemed to be saying, "yeah, I'm a playa... I got a IPhone." So when they go back to Joe and Teddy, Tessitore deadpans, "Yeah, they drop the price of the IPhone and Zab runs right out and gets one." I tell you - Joe T doesn't get enough props for his comedy chops.

Here are a few of my other observations on last night's action:

• It looked like Zab backed off what would have been a KO after he got cut by a headbutt at the end of the fourth round. Afterwards, though, with Joe and Teddy, he was icing his left hand and intimated that he may have broken it. For myself, only a broken hand would fully explain why he didn't get Vasquez out of there last night. Zab told Teddy that he wants the winner of Cotto/Sugar Shane. Dah... what? Lest your brain still be foggy from the thrashing son, one of the contestants in that fight beat all holy hell out of you just a few months back. What exactly do you think has changed in the meantime?
• Cotto and Sugar Shane were in the studio with Brian Kenny, and let me tell you something - Cotto is a scary mf. Brian Kenny asked Cotto if he was sick of Shane now that they've been on tour for a while, and in his broken Enlgish Cotto replied, "I am not one of these guys who needs to talka the trash about my opponent." And I thought, yeah... all he needs, and likes, to do is murder them in the ring. Am I right that Mosley is the odds-on favorite in this thing right now? I can't believe that. I'll say it right here - I'm taking any and all action on this fight. Shane will not make it all 12 rounds.
  
• Lamont Peterson made yet another appearance on FNF last night against some mamaluc who really looked like he needed the money. It was one of those ugly affairs that has you shaking your head. Why is Lamont fighting this caliber of talent at this stage of his career? I recognize that he's not going to make the big step up until he gets a shot at a belt, but I see no reason for him to be in there punishing dudes who literally can barely defend themselves. It's like killing a mockingbird, Atticus. I have to believe he gets better work in his sparring sessions - Zab told Teddy that he's been working with Lamont lately. Actually, I'd like to see that fight - I'm impressed by Lamont, but not so much that I think he'd be a sure thing over Zab.
• Why is Roy Jones punchy? His whole career he's been hit hard about as many times as I've been hit hard by I-berg. And yet he freakin sounds like Tommy Hearns. I don't get it. He came on with Joe and Teddy pushing the Tito fight last night, talking about how he was going to walk Tito down blah blah blah. Who cares. That Roy/Tito fight... sheesh. I'm going to have to avert my eyes from that thing.
  

Mas Rugby

The International Rugby Board's 2007 Rugby World Cup is officially under way here in Paris and we at No Mas felt rugby was sorely under-represented on the scorecard. So to remedy that situation, we're going to give you a few "player-to-watch" profiles just in case there are some foggy or rainy afternoons in the newt few weeks and there's nothing else to watch on the telly. Let's start with two of the main protagonists of this World Cup and two teams belonging to the always exciting Group of Death (Argentina, France, Ireland, Georgia and Namibia), Argentina and France.

Juan Martin Hernandez,"El Mago", the Magician.

Let's focus on Juan Martin Hernandez first. He's 25 years old and plays for Paris (by now you must know that everything I do has some very nationalistic undertones), le Stade Français. When the Parisian team bought him in 2003, the guy then known as "El Flaco" (the Skinny One) was mostly a celebrity to his friends, playing in the very amateurish Argentinian second division club of Deportivo Frances. No one seemed too impressed by the find but after his more than impressive turn at the 2003 IRB Rugby World Cup, people had to congratulate le Stade for finding the future of the sport. If you follow obscure sports at all, le Stade Français is now known around the world for its very homoerotic calendar "Les Dieux du Stade" that has been a hit since it's started (Juan Hernandez is the cover of the 2006 calendar) and adding that to the fact that the team mostly plays in very questionable uniforms (at least for a sport like Rugby) could be enough to make him the laughing stock of most of his opponents and even some of his teammates. But even with flowery or pink uniforms, nobody laughs when the Parisians step to the pitch and JMH is definitely one of the reasons for that. He is without the shadow of a doubt the best fly-half in the world and he doesn't even play that position anymore (this very situation caused by the presence of two French starting fly-halves David Skrella and Lionel Beauxis could be the reason he leaves the second best European side for the best European team, the monstruously talented squad of Leicester). After some adjustment, he is now seen as the best fullback there is, just the perfect package of strength, agility and athleticism. When he's not playing, the Pumas' (team Argentina's moniker) tactics are foreseeable and they don't seem to be much of a threat, but whenever he touches the grass, they become a completely different team. The upcoming World Cup is supposed to be his and being in that Group of Death doesn't bother him one bit. Watch out for the Magician any time he's near the ball.

Sébastien Chabal

This one doesn't have the same skills or the same physical abilities that make a player like JMH extra special. But Sébastien Chabal is a star in his own right. He has a long string of nicknames including "Jesus Christ", "the Barbarian", "the Viking" and "Sea Bass". The mainstream media has been eating up the persona of Sébastien lately. The beard, the long hair, the very rough exterior and an ability to inflict great amounts of pain have made him a star in the U.K. and among rugby fans everywhere. But he now has something other than the natural charisma and that chip he carries on his shoulder - the ability to instill fear in his opponents. During the last series of test-matches between France and New Zealand, it became pretty clear that the only player that they were worried about was this crazy number 8 who just didn't seem to be that shook by that Haka they were doing. The caveman is going to play his first World Cup as a starter and let's just hope he is in as good a shape as he was in May. Chris Masoe from the All Blacks was given a concussion during the first test-match and New Zealand Captain Ali Williams broke his jaw in two places, both after Chabal hit them. This is what he does best, hurting people. And France will need him to do plenty of hurting this fall. Since those test matches and even though the French team was ridiculed in Wellington, Sebastien Chabal has accomplished the extraordinary feat of scaring the bejesus out of the Rugby mecca.

No Mas x Puma Lottery First Round Hi

The Lottery shoe finally goes on sale tomorrow at Classic Kicks. The draft day edition is limited to 48 pairs in the world. Minus the seven going to the GMs who earned the top seven picks at the Lottery show, that equals not very many pairs.

Early reports indicate that people are already camping out in anticipation of this long awaited release. Alright, early reports indicate that one person has pulled up a folding chair, but still that's impressive.

The price is $200. I know that's steep. If it's any consolation, we don't make any dough on them.

Classic Kicks opens its doors at 11AM. To insure you get your size, especially if you are a ten or an eleven, Nick from Classic Kicks recommends that you get there early. Typically for limited releases, people come out before the store opens.

Unfortunately, I cannot pull favors for core No Masians in line or price cutting. But if you don't get a pair, you can always leave a comment about how them shits was wack anyway.

Further reading: High Snobiety, Hypebeast, Nice Kicks

September 6, 1995

2,131.

Mary Decker He Weren't

Twenty-five years ago today, the second week of the Munich Olympics was just getting under way. No hostages had been taken, and no one knew yet what lie in store for the Games and for the world. To that point, Munich '72 was a smashing success.

When we think of these Olympics, we rightfully think of the massacre and little else, and if we do stop to consider the athletic feats that transpired there, our thoughts usually stop at two names - Mark Spitz and Olga Korbut - and one infamous debacle - the controversial men's basketball final that still today seems capable of dusting off the missile silos of the vintage Brezhnev Cold War era.

Largely forgotten is the achievement of Finland's great distance runner Lasse Viren, who won both the 5,000 and 10,000m races, a double that he would repeat at the 1976 Games in Montreal. On September 3, 1972, the 10,000m final was contested at Munich, and Viren ran one of the great races in the history of the Olympics or anywhere else for that matter. It was the kind of triumph that in classical times would have earned him an epic. Knocked from his feet about halfway through the race and left more than 60 meters off the pace, Viren jumped up and immediately set off in hot pursuit of the leading pack. Not only did he catch them, and not only did he win the bloody race, but he set a FREAKIN WORLD RECORD in the process. In short, there was no give-up in that dog, a fact that undoubtedly had all the Flying Finns who went before him, Paavo Nurmi first and foremost, applauding him from on high.

Last Hurrah

Ninety-eight years ago today, heavyweight champ Tommy Burns successfully defended his title for the eleventh and final time, knocking out Bill Lang in the sixth round of a scheduled twenty-round bout.

Born Noah Brusso in Ontario and standing at a whopping five feet seven inches, the scrappy Burns had won the belt from Marvin Hart in February of '06 as a heavy underdog. Hart of course had backed into the belt in 1905 after the retirement of Jim Jeffries, beating Jack Root in an arranged bout for the heavyweight crown that everyone and their mother was aware excluded the best heavyweight in the world - Jack Johnson.

It was by virtue of the fact that Hart had defeated Johnson earlier that year that he even was considered for a title shot, although that victory was on points and was almost certainly fixed. Marvin Hart was a mediocre talent at best, a fact that Burns exposed in Hart's first attempted title defense, soundly defeating him over the course of 20 rounds to become the acknowledged heavyweight champion.

Over the next two years, Burns would defend that crown eleven times, the last of those coming on September 2, 1908 against Bill Lang, whom Burns KO'ed in the sixth despite having tasted the canvas himself in the second round. The fight was held in Melbourne, Burns' second straight bout in Australia. Three months later, he would fight again down under, in the hot summer sun of Sydney. That afternoon, for the first time in history, a black man competed for the heavyweight championship of the world. And the black man won.