My Thoughts On Boxing

First, we'll focus on the local....

As first reported by the World's Greatest Sportswriter on his 9-to-5, Brampton, Ont. native, two-time Olympian, and perennial damn-near world class cruiserweight Troy Ross is finally scheduled to fight for a world title.

He's got an opponent, Ola Afolabi; and a date, June 20. Only thing this WBO world title bout doesn't have is a venue. But if it comes to the GTA, you know who will be all over it, bringing you guys both the stories and the stories behind them.

It'll be a pretty big deal if they can pull it off. Clearly, it's not Pacquiao vs. Mayweather (more on that in a minute), but it's a viable complement to the Rumble at Rama series that since 2007 has brought big-time pro boxing back to an Ontario market that been dormant for two decades.

Will keep you all posted at the 9-to-5, and any interesting info I can't squeeze into the paper you can find right here, so stay tuned.

Now let's change the focus from the local to the global, as in Manny Pacquiao, Floyd Mayweather and the quest to become (and remain) the best pound-for-pound boxer on the planet.

Folks have been asking me to weigh in on the subject since last Saturday, when Mayweather announced his comeback, and Pacquiao flattened Ricky Hatton.

Mostly, the questions come from people who know me as a Money Mayweather proponent (as long as he's not rapping, that is) curious as to how the Pretty Boy can last six rounds against the Pac Man. These guys point out that Mayweather needed 12 rounds to decision Oscar De La Hoya and 10 to dispatch Hatton, while Pacquiao finished Oscar in eight and blasted Hatton in two.

And honestly, only a hater or a fool would dismiss Pacquiao's spectacular performances lately. There's no ignoring his uncanny combination of speed, power and aggressiveness, and how those tool could give anyone fits, not to mention a concussion.

Still, after Mayweather beats up on Juan Manuel Marquez on July 18 (and he will, guys... let's be serious), he'll handle Pacquiao whenever those two connect.

Why am I so sure Mayweather can tame the man who so thoroughly dominated two guys who made Mayweather work?

Because past results don't make fights.

Styles and circumstances do.

Again, not to diminish Pacquiao's spectacular run, but we need to look at these performances in context. The Oscar he destroyed in December 2008 was not the Oscar that Mayweather decisioned in May 2007.

The Oscar that faced Mayweather did so as junior middleweight after a training camp with Freddie Roach. He was a comfortable at the weight and equipped with a game plan, but couldn't impose it on a far superior boxer.

Feliz cinco de Mayo. Tu regalo? Un left hook! iQue golpazo!

Eighteen months later, with a different trainer, he faced Pacquiao drained from making the 147 pound limit. During pre-fight instructions Roach (who trains Pacquiao) saw I.V. marks in De La Hoya's arm, remnants of a desperate attempt to re-hydrate after the weigh in. At the bell Oscar and his I.V. marks tried to match speed with the division's fastest fighter, a flawed strategy that cost him dearly.

Oscar's pace, meet Manny's pist! Next time we pight in the Pilipines!

So yes, Pacquiao got rid of Oscar much more quickly than Mayweather did, but consider the circumstance then ask yourself if such a depleted fighter would have lasted any longer against Floyd.

Doubt it.

As for Hatton, both Mayweather and Pacquiao dominated him and the divergent results are due, once again, to styles and circumstances.

True to his style, Mayweather beat Hatton by attrition, breaking him down to the body before that emphatic, dramatic 10th round.

Pacquiao, meanwhile, bored in from different angles, launching big shots in volume -- as is his style.

But the fact that Floyd scored his knockout first is important, because Mayweather provided the blueprint for how to flatten Hatton.

I mean, how else did Pacquiao's camp figure out Hatton would walk into left and right hooks all night?

D'ya fancy a poonch up? I'll smash your fist with me noggin, yeah.

Exactly.

Circumstances.

So it really doesn't matter how good Pacquiao looked against Oscar and Hatton because neither of them is Floyd.

And Paquiao's not bullet-proof. He can, in fact, be hit, and by people much slower than Mayweather.

Pac-Man swallows a big right from Morales. Recovers after consuming power pellets between rounds.

Folks ask me how Floyd plans to deal with a quick and powerful southpaw who attacks from odd angles, and we have a clue in the way he handled Zab Judah -- he'll box, he'll stalk and he'll bang to the body.

But how will Pacquiao deal with a bigger man who is nearly as fast? Someone with footwork and a jab, the sharpest boxing mind of his generation and more power than his detractors like to admit?

Tough to say.

After feasting on a steady diet of Mexicans and a big helping of Hatton, Pacquiao has proven he can dismantle any fighter who leads with his chin.

Great.

But if he fights Floyd suddenly he can't commit to rapid-fire power shots because he can't be sure they'll land. Suddenly he'll have to deal with jabs and right hand leads upsetting his timing. And even if his game plan works, suddenly he'll have to solve a fighter who makes mid-fight adjustments better than anyone in the sport.

So to me the bigger question isn't whether Money May can handle Pac Man, but whether Pacquiao can become the first fighter to figure out Floyd.

I'm not saying he can't do it.

I just don't think he will.

Mayweather by decision.

Whenever it happens.

Only in Canada: A ban on starter pistols?

Today's hot link comes to us from my colleague at the Toronto Star, David Grossman.

Apparently there's a growing movement among high school sports officials to ban the use of starter pistols at track meets.

Seriously.

A group of officials and school board types say that starter pistols are dangerous because they symbolize violence.

Yes, somehow the symbolic violence of a starter pistol is more damaging to our youth than the actual violence of sports like wrestling, football and the state religion in Canada -- hockey.

And somehow the symbolic danger of a gun with no bullets is more real than the actual danger of semi-trained teenagers throwing javelins (an event derived from throwing spears -- ban it!), putting shots (also known as "cannon balls" -- Ban It!) and pole vaulting (which was how ancient warriors leaped over the walls surrounding cities -- BAN IT, PLEASE!).

Since we're so concerned about the destructive effects of symbolic violence, we should also ban basketball (all that "shooting), baseball (all those hits and runs... don't people know that's a felony?), and history class (much too much talk about war).

Sprinters await the sound of the whistle at the 1988 Olympics.

In place of starter pistols some folks are suggesting track meets switch to buzzers or whistles, but I've got a better idea.

Simon Says.

Simon Says "take your marks."

Eight sprinters settle into the blocks.

Simon Says "Set."

Eight bodies uncoil part way, poised to explode down the track at the next command.

GO!

Three sprinters burst from the blocks...

HEY! I didn't say "Simon Says!" Lanes 2, 3 and 7 are all disqualified!

Look, Linford. I didn't say "Simon Says."

Makes sense to me.

It's probably time we re-thought this whole track meet thing, from the starter pistol to the finish line.

After all, we shouldn't rewards kids at a track meet simply because they can run fast.


Our youth need to learn just as real violence should never trump symbolic danger, the race shouldn't go to the swiftest or best prepared, but to the one who follows asinine rules.

Contreras y Ramirez -- What didn't make the paper...

You wouldn't know it by checking this blog lately, but I'm still covering baseball at the Star, working toward becoming the world's greatest, walking 'round the planet earth making money and having fun.

Latest stop, Chicago, where I covered the Jays/Sox series and interviewed Chicago's Cuban twosome, Jose Contreras and Alexei Ramirez about the recent warming of relations between the U.S. and Cuba.

Upset at his team's performance in the World Baseball Classic, Fidel begins training for a comeback...

Now that you've read the story, here's the story behind it:

Although both men are optimistic that they might one day reunite with relatives back home, neither feels comfortable returning to the island as long as one of the Castro brothers runs it. Yes, the U.S. now allows Cuban emigrants to travel to the island freely, but Contreras explained as far as the political establishment is concerned, guys like him -- high profile athletes who defect for big money contracts in the U.S. -- aren't just emigrants.

They're traitors.

So until Cuba has a ruler more sympathetic to guys who leave the island to chase their dreams, Contreras says he'll continue living in the U.S., seeing his relatives when they receive special clearance to travel to the Dominican Republic, and pining for a return to his island.

Those are pretty important details, and I'm sure you're wondering why they're missing from the story. There might be an explanation that makes sense, but for now we'll have to blame a newspaper industry that still doesn't know how to interact with the Internet.

The story I filed was a little too long for the space reserved for it in the newspaper, so a few paragraphs had to go. I get that. But why those paragraphs couldn't run online, where space isn't restricted, is a mystery I still haven't solved.

A little further behind the story....

If you've been following this blog (and I know some of you were before I went AWOL), then sabes que yo he estado practicando mi espanol. Todavia no es perfecto pero esta mejorando un poco cada dia.

Still, that doesn't qualify me to interview guys like Contreras and Ramirez en espanol, so a day before sitting down with them I enlisted White Sox media relations staffer Lou Hernandez to translate.

Understand that I don't always need the help. Jays shortstop Marco Scutaro, for example, is a good sport. He lets me practice my Spanish on him in interviews and I usually understand about half of what he's telling me. And earlier this month I started interviewing Tigers slugger Magglio Ordonez when I heard his halting English and stopped him short.

"Si estas mas comodo hablando en espanol," I told him. "Podemos hacer la entrevista en espanol."

He sighed in relief and we moved on.

So while we waited for the translator I chatted with Contreras en espanol, and learned that he loves Toronto -- especially Babaluu -- but hates the cold weather up here.

I told him I felt his pain.

He and Ramirez were also intrigued that I've actually been to Cuba, and when I showed Contreras the Cuban tourist money I still carry in my wallet he explained proudly to a disbelieving Dominican teammate that the money is worth as much as U.S. cash.

While talking with Contreras I got to use one of my favourite Spanish words: Aunque.

Translation: "Even though."

As in, "Aunque Canada es mi pais, Chicago es mi ciudad."

And interviewing Ramirez allowed me my first ever opportunity to use a phrase I've been eager to drop in conversation: Vale la pena.

Translation: Is it worth the sorrow/heartache/trouble.

Like Contreras, Ramirez talked a lot about the difficulty of leaving relatives behind in Cuba, so I asked him si "vale la pena estar aqui?"

For the record, he said si, vale la pena because he's living an entire family's dream by playing in the majors.

Anyway, as my former AfAm studies professor Charles Payne used to say, I said all that to say this:

I'm glad I made the effort to learn more Spanish over the winter and I'll be back in the classroom as soon as time and my budget allow it.

After Ramirez finished his interview Hernandez told me he had never spoken so freely to a reporter since coming to the White Sox last season.

Now it might have been simply that he was in a talking mood that afternoon. He might have been just as talkative with any of the other reporters who stalk locker rooms before and after games looking to scavenge a quote or two.

But I'm betting I'm the first mainstream reporter to ask him in (halfway decent) Spanish how he felt about the political situation back home. And I know I'm the first person to interview him who has also seen Manolito Simonet in concert.

Pretty sure that scored some points too.

Spring Training Chapter 2... The Missing Link

FIRST THINGS FIRST:

We've been roach-free for 48 hours and counting.

Apparently an exterminator came by the condo this morning while we were at the ballpark just to make sure none of our friend's roach cousins were still skulking around, but I like to think my thorough thumping of our boy on Sunday night sent a clear message to the complex's roach community:

Don't eff with unit 1332.

Yeah, my six-legged neighbours know better than to come back up in here.

Anyway, it took me exactly two days on the Blue Jay beat to learn my college friend Raheem Covington is the "lookalike missing link" between me and Blue Jays pitching prospect Fabio Castro.

First, let me explain.

Each of us has a lookalike somewhere in the world. I've got quite a few -- everyone from Tommy Davidson to Vinnie from Naughty By Nature to the pretty boy backup singer from RnB one-hit wonder band, Ideal (that's him, back row on our left).



A missing link adds one degree of separation to the lookalike phenomenon, because he looks like two people who don't really resemble each other.

For example, rapper-turned-actor Will Smith looks like NBA championship magnet Robert Horry, who in turn looks like recently retired NBA center Alonzo Mourning, even though Smith and Mourning don't look all that similar.

See?

This guy:

Parents just don't understand...

This guy looks like this guy:

Horry, six championship rings not pictured.

Who looks like this guy:

Zo... but he don't look like Will

Got it?

Okay, so during my senior year at The Harvard of the Midwest I met Raheem Covington.

I had retired from the ball team by then and was working in the athletic department, and he was a freshman cornerback who looked JUST like me, except with a goatee (back then I was clean-shaven, like dude from Ideal). A little taller than me, but not by much. Similar athletic build, same skin tone, cheekbones, eyes and hair texture. More than one freshman chick I had never met walked up to me and started convos, thinking I was him.

Anyway, I always liked Raheem. Thought he was a handsome dude.

And this morning I swore he walked past me in Blue Jays' locker room. I knew Raheem had played a couple of years in the CFL, but had no clue he had remained in Canada and switched to baseball.

Turns out he hadn't.

It was a lookalike. Fabio Castro, a southpaw relief pitcher looking to jumpstart his career with the Jays this season.

But Castro doesn't look like me. I mean, he's a handsome dude, too, but besides being 5-foot-7 and brown skinned we don't look all that much alike. Raheem and I could pass for brothers, while Castro at best is a distant cousin on my dad's side.

See?

This handsome guy:

World's Greatest Sportswriter

Looks like this guy:

He loves Winnipeg despite the mosquitos...

Who in turn resembles this guy:

But he doesn't quite look like The World's Greatest

Haven't spoken to Castro yet. Not sure he speaks English. But even if he doesn't, estoy aprendiendo mas y mas espanol cada dia, so even if he knows no English, pienso que podemos hacer una entrevista en espanol.

Either way, by week's end, I'll have the story behind the story on the guy at the other end of the lookalike chain.

LOOKING AHEAD

All A-Roid, all the time.

Yankees visit Dunedin to open their preseason against the Jays, and apparently former MVP, admitted (under duress) steroid user and all-around stand-up guy Alex Rodriguez will play.

A month ago this game figured to be pretty mundane, but l'affaire d'A-Rod gives it a spicy subplot.

What a way to start spring training.

Can't wait.

Stay Tuned.

Spring Training, Day One -- Buggin Out

When you work in the newspaper business reminders accumulate daily that your way of life -- or at least your way of making a living -- is about to change profoundly.

Woke up this morning to learn that one more big city newspaper group is declaring bankruptcy. This time, it's Philly.

Still, life where I work hasn't been too bad by contrast. Thanks to the Star's sheer size (biggest paper in our market by far), the Canadian economy (which hasn't tanked as deeply as the U.S. economy... yet), and the 5 million or so employees who took buyouts last year, our place hasn't reached New York Times levels of poverty.

Yesterday I arrived in Tampa for Spring Training on a flight the company paid for, rented a car on the company credit card, and drove straight to the condo the company has rented through the end of March.

Yeah, life is still pretty good over here.

But look closely and you'll see subtle signs that the Rich Uncle's money is growing shorter.

Like the cockroach that scurried across the living room floor last night.



I was sorta surfing the internet and sort of watching the Oscars when I caught him in the corner of my right eye, a black dot emerging from the pantry and moving toward the front door.

He didn't move all that quickly, as though he were real comfortable here; as though his were his condo and we were just squatters. And he didn't seem scared. Even as I grabbed the Air Force One and cocked it back behind my head, he stood still, as if he knew I wasn't going to come into his house and disrespect him like this.

Like Hell.

I brought the AF-1 down hard across his back.

Whomp.

He disappeared briefly beneath my shoe. The floor vibrated. Dishes rattled on a nearby table.

And the cockroach?

He took my best shot and kept smiling. Stood there looking at me like, "Zat all you got?"

Naw, punk. I got some more for that behind.

Three quick ones.

Whomp. Whomp. Whomp.

The cockroach gloated no more.

I scooped him up and dropped him in the trash, then spent the rest of the night paranoid, Air Force One cocked like a hammer, just wishing some roach would walk his ass out into the living room looking for trouble.

Understand this:

I'm not scared of roaches.

I just hate them, just like my dad, and his dad before him.

I hate them for what they symbolize, which, more than anything, is poor hygiene, either in a household or in a building. I don't necessarily mean poverty -- I've lived in the hood and not had roaches.

I mean poor upkeep and a general lack of cleanliness.

I've been here before.

Grew up in a townhouse, and one year when I was real young a family from Jamaica moved in next door.

These. Folks. Were. Country.

They removed the panes and screens from their windows, so they just had holes in the side of their house. If the kids owned shoes, I didn't see them. And if they had indoor plumbing, nobody told their youngest boy, because he used the patch of asphalt in front of our house as his personal urinal.

A few weeks after they moved in, we started seeing roaches in our house. It took a while to figure out the bugs had hitched a ride from Ja. with the family next door, stowing away in their furniture and luggage.

So my pops headed next door to confront the neighbour about his bug problem, and precipitating the following exchange:

Pops: You need to do somethin bout these roaches, Willie. I'm tireda this mess!

WIllie: Easy nuh'mahn. Roo-chez hev'reh-weer bahk hoom. Dem like like flies in Jamaica.

Pops: N*gga, this ain't no GOT DAM Jamaica!

And neither is this.

But its symbolic of the times in this business. The last time the rich uncle sent me to Florida he put me up at the Hyatt. This time we're staying in a condo complex with roaches. A beautiful complex otherwise, but still one I share with that big bug I killed last night, plus a few thousand of his cousins.

Whatever fits the budget, I guess. We've all got to sacrifice in tough times.

But remind me to buy a roach trap tonight, and expense it later.

A-Fraud? Ster-Rod?

Saturday morning Sports Illustrated broke some (really not very) shocking news:

Before Yankees third baseman and Barry Bonds heir apparent Alex Rodriquez did Madonna, he did steroids.

*This is not A-Rod but clearly he was into this kind of thing.

In fact, according to the story he did at least two of them, testing positive in 2003 for both testosterone and primobolan.

News of the positive test taints the MVP award he won that season, and threatens to damage the legacy of the guy many people hoped would knock (accused) steroid user Barry Bonds from atop the all-time home run list.

The scandal only promises to widen and deepen as more facts about the test are revealed.

...

Yawn.

...

Seriously, am I supposed to care that A-Rod and 103 other guys -- probably more when you include the guys who beat the test -- were flagged as steroid users during an era when MLB didn't punish drug use? Given the laxity of MLB's drug policy back then I'm surprised more guys didn't test positive.

Four years ago Jose Canseco's first book outed Mark McGwire's steroid use, just a few weeks before Big Mac himself pleaded the fifth before congress rather than confess that a steady diet of fastballs and andro wasn't all that contributed to his astronomical home run totals.

A year later Mark Fainaru-Wada and Lance Williams let us in on another poorly-kept secret:

Barry Bonds had a little chemical help in transforming from this





to this.




Then last year came the Mitchell Report, which confirmed our steroid suspicions about Roger Clemens 88 other less accomplished MLBers.

So how many more times are we supposed to act surprised, insulted and disillusioned when we learn some baseball star took steroids during an era when MLB took no concrete steps to prevent doping?

Look, we live in uncertain times. None of us knows how much when the price of gas will skyrocket for good, or whether the local newspaper has enough cash to publish tomorrow's edition, or how many hours before Michael Phelps embarrasses himself in public again.

But of these three things, I'm certain.

Republicans have artificial hearts.

Porn stars have fake boobs.

And if you don't deter athletes with severe punishment -- fines, suspensions, the singing Obama Brats -- for doping, then some of them dope.

Have any of you looked at a track and field record book?

Notice how most the world records in the throwing events and women's sprints are from the 1980s, when athletes weren't tested for drugs outside major competitions. They could take whatever they wanted while training (and plenty of them did) knowing they only needed to pee clean a few times a year. And honestly, if you know months in advance the doping control guys will be there, it's not longer a drug test -- it's an I.Q. test. Either way, aside from major meets athletes had little to fear.

And in the late 1990s and early 2000s, neither did players in Major League Baseball.

I'm not saying everybody playing between 1998 and 2004 was dirty. I'm not even saying most players were. I'm just saying that after Game of Shadows, the Mitchell Report, and this latest news about A-Rod, we shouldn't have to act like any new steroid revelations shock or offend us.

I'm finished acting surprised to learn about any baseball star's past doping, and if MLB didn't care enough about steroids to enforce its own ban, then I refuse to feel bad for MLB as old drug tests expose steroid era stars as a generation of cheaters.

Coming Attractions

After a couple of weeks off to take care of some family business and rest my throbbing brain, I'm back on the blog and ready to keep you guys abreast of what's happening with your favourite sports writer.

And I'll update you on myself, too.

This month, for instance, I'll be a pretty busy guy.

Not only am I just 20 days from departing for my first-ever MLB spring training, but in case you guys didn't notice, it's February.

February means Black History Month.

And Black History Month means that for 28 days I become one of the most sought-after freelance writer/social critic/public speakers in the city. Yes, just about everybody sweating me now will forget about me as soon as March starts (though I'll be too warm in Florida to notice the cold shoulder), but for now I'm cashing in.

For this week, you can look for me at one of two places.

First, I'm I'll be one of three guest speakers at the CBC's Black History Month Celebration. That happens Wednesday afternoon, Feb. 4, with your boy taking the mic sometime between noon and 1pm. I'm hoping it's closer to noon because I've got a press conference (yes, big stars like yours truly still attend those) at 1:00. Luckily it's right across the street, but I still might have to flash some of that 4.4 speed (I think I still have 4.4 speed... over 30 yards at least) if I want to arrive on time.



Anyway, it all takes place in the Atrium at the CBC Building, 250 Front St., downtown T-Dot. If you're in the area, feel free to stop by and support me.

Bring signs. Scream my name. Ask me to autograph keepsakes and body parts.

Do whatever, just make sure you make me seem important. As I've said, we're building a brand here.

After I finish that speaking engagement I head back to the office and resume doing what they actually pay me for -- writing great reads.

Right now I'm writing an essay I hope will run in Sunday's Star examining the concept of post-racialism.

Basically, the election of pioneering president and newspaper industry savior Barack Obama has a lot of folks hoping we're on the precipice of a post-racial era in (North) American Society. You know, a time when differences between races will dissolve, nobody's ethnic background will matter, and we'll all be colourblind brothers and sisters in the human race.

A noble ideal at first glance but really a shitty proposition if for anybody who, like me, actually enjoys being black. So my essay, is a a defence of race in the face of all the post-racial optimism folks have been spouting since November.

Alongside that I hope to run a sidebar explaining why our "Post Racial" president really is black, despite how certain black folks (he's not black enough) and white folks (he's half white) classify him.

And all that's just in the first week.

What else will Black History Month bring, besides some work in the Sunshine State?

As soon as I know, I'll let you guys know too.