Baseball, Boxing and Say it Aint Sosa

On Baseball


Back on the job, back on the blog.


Didn't mean to leave you guys hanging this long, but I just spent about 10 days off work and offline. I returned full time to the office and the blog on Monday, just in time to realize that baseball (you know, that sport I actually get paid to write about) has no off season. Just a series of meetings, transactions and, above all, rumours to liven the dead time between the World Series and Spring training.


And as they did this past summer, the rumours I care about surround the Blue Jays and their ace, Roy Halladay.



Roy Halladay leaves the mound after his last, last, final last start as a Jay...Perhaps


On Boxing


Of course, if you know the World's Greatest then you know baseball is only half the story this week. And if you know me then you already know the other half is the sweet science -- specifically Saturday's welterweight showdown between Manny Pacquiao and Miguel Angel Cotto.


If this fight doesn't have you excited then you don't love boxing. And if you don't love boxing then you need to watch this fight and let two of the top fighters on the planet change your mind.





Later this week, when I've had a few more hours to think and the guys who pay me have publish a story I wrote recently on the Pacquiao Effect, I'll weigh in on how this fight should unfold. Until then, check out Greg Bishop's highly readable feature in the New York Times about the relationship between Pacquiao and trainer Freddie Roach. I wish I could say my upcoming Pacquiao piece outshines this one, but Bishop's story is likely the best read anyone will pen on this fight, period.


Say it Ain't Sosa


I don't even know what to say for Sammy. 




First saw the image last Satuday, when the GF pulled it up and asked me to identify the man next to buxom brunette.


I couldn't.


I could tell from the background that the photo was snapped at the Latin Grammys, and in my head I ran a slideshow if every salsa singer I could think of and a few I can't even name, and none of them matched the photo.


I was stumped.



Then she filled me in.


Sammy Sosa.


Yikes.


Now, I understand that a man can change. I saw Sammy Sosa morph from a scrawny outfielder with a juicy jheri curl and warning track power to a 220-pound home run machine.


I also watched him evolve from a fringe player at Comiskey, to Wrigley fan favourite when he was bashing balls on to Waveland Ave., to a pariah when people figured out he had some pharmaceutical help in becoming one of the game's premier power hitters.


The one constant through all this change has been Sammy's skin colour.


He was a black dude when he struggled through his early career with the Sox and Rangers, and just as black when he took the witness stand in a congressional hearing about steroid use and suddenly forgot how to speak English.


But now, two years past his last major league game, he's lighter than Julian Bond? 


Did he trade drug tests for paper bag tests?


Makes no sense.


His friends have tried to explain away this latest change in Sosa's appearance, telling media outlets that he's simply undergoing a process that "rejuvenates" his skin.


But scroll up and tell me if that explains why his eyes, which used to be brown, are now Erick Sermon-hazel. Or if it explains why his hand is three shades darker than his face. Or if it explains his hair, which is strangely straight even by jheri curl standards. Back in the day folks called that a "conk," and Chris Rock just made a documentary about how painful, expensive and unhealthy that process is.


But I could be wrong.


I don't know the man or what's motivating this latest change. 


All I know is what I see, and what I see is, frankly, freaky.