BY STEVE JANOSKI
It was about this time last year that one of my compatriots asked if I had ever heard of a drink called "Four Loko."
"This stuff is gonna' take off dude," he told me as he palmed the big purple can. "This Four Loko make you craaaazy!"
The drink he was referencing was an alcoholic drink that has malt liquor at its base but offers a heavy shot of caffeine along with it. While I liked the name, and the flashy packaging immediately attracted me, my days of drinking caffeine-laced alcohol ended before they began some years back when a friend of mine drank a six-pack of "BE" (the short-lived Budweiser energy drink) and severely drunk and very wired till dawn. I had also had numerous brutal encounters with malt liquor that taught me to stay away from such killers of the soul. But still, who knew this tall purple can would cause so much controversy?
As usual, we can blame the future of America: college kids. They have taken to Four Loko in droves (as they do with anything that has any remote chance of ending their young lives), and have killed the fun by drinking too much and slamming their cars into trees, oncoming cars, people, and anything else they're playing slalom with that night.
So a year later, and the Four Loko banner is pasted across the newspapers and TV screens as everyone from universities to the authorities are attempting to ban the drink, which they say is excessively dangerous because of the mixture of caffeine and alcohol. Unfortunately, what no one is talking about is the excessive stupidity that comes from being young and dumb, as that's what's truly to blame. I'm not going to cast stones because I've made more than my share of mistakes, but never once did I think to sue Jameson whiskey for my troubles—the stuff didn't drink itself.
Blaming Four Loko for the crashes and mishaps of drunken college students is like blaming Plaxico's gun instead of his trigger finger for the bullet hole in his leg. But a story from the Orlando Sentinel reports that for the second time in two weeks, lawsuits have been filed in Florida against the maker of Four Loko, Phusion Projects. One lawsuit, filed by a passenger who was severely injured in a mid-August car crash, alleges that the driver drank Four Loko the night of the accident. The passenger is now suing the driver, the convenience store where the drink was sold, and Phusion Projects for making it. The article also states that another Floridian is suing the company because his son spent the day drinking Four Loko before killing himself with a .22-caliber pistol.
Other high profile cases have abounded, and there's been no shortage of ambulance-chasing lawyers to take the suits to court on the behalf of distraught parents and relatives who are blaming a liquid for their sorrows instead of the person who committed the act.
Older folks often lament the rejection of personal responsibility in the young, but this beyond that; this is even worse than the people suing the cigarette companies as if the company put the smoke in their mouth every morning. Young people screw up, and if they're not screwing up because they're drinking too much Four Loko, they're screwing up because they drank too many Red Bull and vodkas. If it's not Red Bull and Vodkas, it's whiskey and cocaine. It's the nature of this beast— it likes to stumble around incoherently late at night and sleep on the lawn. Putting the blame on anything but the beast itself is distorting reality. These people need to own up to the fact that they're screwing up, and take the consequences for their actions. Doing any differently, which includes suing a company because of your misfortune, is cowardly.
Banning this drink might even lead to an upswing in drinking Irish coffees because the now-tweaking youth of America needs a jolt of caffeine with their liquor to get their buzz on with. But let me tell you, if they even considered banning Jameson because of it, these college kids are going to have a lot more problems on their hands than the trees they're hitting.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
The Meadowlands Redemption
BY STEVE JANOSKI
It’s hour two of my incarceration.
I am lodged in a tight seat barely built to accommodate my 5 foot 7 inch frame, with my knees tucked close to avoid kicking the back of the head of the person sitting in front of me; how a larger man could sit for four hours in this diminutive folding chair was beyond me.
Whenever I stand to leave, an audible growl arises from my peers. The people sitting next to me stand on their chairs and breathe in deeply to allow me to pass, grumbling under their breath with lowered heads.
I get out of the aisle, and into the heart of the building. The walls are a frigid cinder-block gray, and every 15 feet is another state trooper clad in their Schutzstaffel-esque winter uniform, replete with Sam Browne belts and saucer hats.
Some of them hold German shepherds tight to their sides; the dogs eye every person with tempered suspicion.
I head toward the bathroom, and stand in line like a cow heading to slaughter for my turn in the cramped, disgusting quarters.
A helicopter hovers incessantly over the parking lot outside; its maddening hum can be heard throughout the halls.
I thank god that I’ve quit smoking; there may be snipers on the roof, and I fear that if I moved too fast for the exit, I’d catch a bullet in the back.
Freedom lies beyond those concrete walls, but I’ve paid too much money to skip out now. These walls are funny. First you hate 'em, then you get used to 'em. Enough time passes, you get so you depend on them.
In the far distance I can see the other great building, the place that nearly 137 years ago, they said would one day be a mall.
It is still unfinished though, and its ugly loading dock façade rises like a great wart on the meadows, a heaping monstrosity that’s a shining example of all that’s wrong with New Jersey.
It’s not time to think on that now though.
I walk up to a beer vendor, but they tell me that because the second half has started, there will be no more alcohol served to ease my suffering.
I curse silently, and realize that I should probably go to the bathroom again before I go sit down because once I am there, I am there.
Before returning though, I go buy a pretzel for a friend. It costs $8.75— and it uses up the last of my commissary. It is neither the best pretzel in the history of the world, nor made of gold.
They conned me in here. They said that my favorite team was playing, but my favorite team doesn’t actually play so much as gimp and bound around the field underneath the vivid lights of a losing scoreboard.
This day is different— they’re winning against another hapless punching bag of a team, but it doesn’t lessen the strain.
I head back toward my seat, dejected and beerless with an inferior pretzel in my hand and the lonely hope for a Miller Lite in my heart.
I can already tell that I’m going to have to go to the bathroom again in 20 minutes due to four hours of tailgating, and I rue my constant lack of planning.
I stop at the entrance of the aisle, and the angry groans rise again as the people begin shifting and shuttling around in their seats in a vain attempt to make room for me.
My odyssey complete, I cram myself back into the seat.
"Where’s the beer?" she asks me.
"Rehabilitated?" I ask. "Well, now let me see. You know, I don't have any idea what that means."
She looks at me.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Never mind," I say, shaking my head.
You know, for $1.6 billion, they could have put a space shuttle in the parking lot of the old Giants Stadium and left it how it was. It would have been way cooler.
http://www.northjersey.com/sports/111574809_The_Meadowlands_Redemption.html?c=y&page=1
It’s hour two of my incarceration.
I am lodged in a tight seat barely built to accommodate my 5 foot 7 inch frame, with my knees tucked close to avoid kicking the back of the head of the person sitting in front of me; how a larger man could sit for four hours in this diminutive folding chair was beyond me.
Whenever I stand to leave, an audible growl arises from my peers. The people sitting next to me stand on their chairs and breathe in deeply to allow me to pass, grumbling under their breath with lowered heads.
I get out of the aisle, and into the heart of the building. The walls are a frigid cinder-block gray, and every 15 feet is another state trooper clad in their Schutzstaffel-esque winter uniform, replete with Sam Browne belts and saucer hats.
Some of them hold German shepherds tight to their sides; the dogs eye every person with tempered suspicion.
I head toward the bathroom, and stand in line like a cow heading to slaughter for my turn in the cramped, disgusting quarters.
A helicopter hovers incessantly over the parking lot outside; its maddening hum can be heard throughout the halls.
I thank god that I’ve quit smoking; there may be snipers on the roof, and I fear that if I moved too fast for the exit, I’d catch a bullet in the back.
Freedom lies beyond those concrete walls, but I’ve paid too much money to skip out now. These walls are funny. First you hate 'em, then you get used to 'em. Enough time passes, you get so you depend on them.
In the far distance I can see the other great building, the place that nearly 137 years ago, they said would one day be a mall.
It is still unfinished though, and its ugly loading dock façade rises like a great wart on the meadows, a heaping monstrosity that’s a shining example of all that’s wrong with New Jersey.
It’s not time to think on that now though.
I walk up to a beer vendor, but they tell me that because the second half has started, there will be no more alcohol served to ease my suffering.
I curse silently, and realize that I should probably go to the bathroom again before I go sit down because once I am there, I am there.
Before returning though, I go buy a pretzel for a friend. It costs $8.75— and it uses up the last of my commissary. It is neither the best pretzel in the history of the world, nor made of gold.
They conned me in here. They said that my favorite team was playing, but my favorite team doesn’t actually play so much as gimp and bound around the field underneath the vivid lights of a losing scoreboard.
This day is different— they’re winning against another hapless punching bag of a team, but it doesn’t lessen the strain.
I head back toward my seat, dejected and beerless with an inferior pretzel in my hand and the lonely hope for a Miller Lite in my heart.
I can already tell that I’m going to have to go to the bathroom again in 20 minutes due to four hours of tailgating, and I rue my constant lack of planning.
I stop at the entrance of the aisle, and the angry groans rise again as the people begin shifting and shuttling around in their seats in a vain attempt to make room for me.
My odyssey complete, I cram myself back into the seat.
"Where’s the beer?" she asks me.
"Rehabilitated?" I ask. "Well, now let me see. You know, I don't have any idea what that means."
She looks at me.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Never mind," I say, shaking my head.
You know, for $1.6 billion, they could have put a space shuttle in the parking lot of the old Giants Stadium and left it how it was. It would have been way cooler.
http://www.northjersey.com/sports/111574809_The_Meadowlands_Redemption.html?c=y&page=1
Sunday, November 21, 2010
A Final Plea for Mayweather-Pacquaio
By Steve Janoski: I imagine that these must be dark days for Floyd Mayweather Jr. Just a few short months ago, he was boxing’s triumphant conquering hero - returning to the sport last July and quickly dispatching two of the toughest, most talented fighters in the world in Juan Manual Marquez and Shane Mosley.
Immediately following the Mosley fight, he rose back to the top of the elusive “Pound for Pound” rankings once again, but there was more going on in the ring on the evening of May 1 than just taking some worthless mythical title from a placeholder.
Mayweather proved something to his detractors that night when he took Mosley’s best right hands and not only withstood them, but came back to utterly dominate the bigger, stronger fighter without having to back up while doing it.
For that short time after this virtuoso performance, the game was his again; he had made millions off the two fights, and his name was cleared in the eyes of not only the boxing public, but also in the eyes of the IRS. Many boxing fans, though they hated to admit it, began to suspect that he would easily defeat Manny Pacquiao in what everyone believed was an imminent match.
However, after the negotiations for the fight stalled for the second time, Pacquiao signed up to fight Antonio Margarito. The one-sided demolition of that same fighter last Saturday night has struck the boxing world hard, and made the iron hot for a drastic change; the pendulum has swung back in the Filipino’s favor.
And my God, how far Mayweather has fallen since.
The furor spread instantly over the internet. The wall of Mayweather’s Facebook page is alight with messages— nearly all of them having to do with Pacquiao, and not all of them cordial.
Some are messages of support from his real fans, while others are quiet, humble inquiries into what appears to be his seeming reluctance to fight the Filipino. Many, however, are far more boisterous, calling the fighter “Gayweather” or “Fraud” and telling him that Pacquiao will “destroy him.”
One fan even went so far as to say that Floyd has lost his own Facebook page.
“Floyd has lost his skills, he always loses money, he’s losing his fans, and he’s even lost this Facebook page,” the fan proclaimed. “This page belongs to PACQUIAO now.”
It doesn’t stop there. Every YouTube tribute to Floyd has been inundated with comments of the same ilk— brutally brash callouts by anonymous screen names looking to rattle sabers for their fighter.
All the while, piles of opinion articles are accumulating, many of which contain feature authors proclaiming the era of Floyd Mayweather dead, and that Saturday’s mauling of Margarito has left the outcome of a future Mayweather-Pacquiao fight all but decided.
As if this isn’t enough, Mayweather’s personal life also appears to be in shambles. He’s been hit with a restraining order by his ex-girlfriend that prevents him from seeing his two sons, the result of an allegedly violent confrontation in September. The slew of charges he faces for this incident could put him in prison for over 30 years.
Another incident occurred just last week, with a security guard claiming that Floyd poked him in the eye through an open car window when the guard was parked outside Mayweather’s Las Vegas home. This could result in another misdemeanor assault charge if pursued by the prosecution.
And, in one final blow, his trainer and uncle, Roger Mayweather, will likely stand trial on Jan. 24 on charges of attacking a female boxer. Roger, who is currently free on bail, could face a maximum of 10 years in prison if he’s convicted, meaning that even if Floyd ducks jail, he may be left without his trusted trainer for the biggest fight of his life.
Frankly, Floyd’s life is becoming a Shakespearean tragedy of epic proportions, where the attributes that have led him to these magnificent heights— his unwavering pride and his willingness to commit violence— are leading him directly to his brutal end.
But fear not. All is not over— especially when we’re talking about Floyd Mayweather, Jr.
I made the mistake once of questioning his heart, and he came back and proved me wrong; I suspect that he may do the same thing with the current flock of critics, especially in regards to a possible fight with Pacquiao.
Pacquiao’s fight with Margarito, while impressive, was not a shocking upset; one might even say that it had a predetermined outcome. Size difference be damned, few gave the slow-footed, wide-punching Mexican a realistic chance at defeating the Filipino southpaw, and with good reason. But we boxing fans are a fickle, insatiable brood, with short memories and minds that are easily swayed by the pre-fight hype heaped upon us.
In reality though, the Mexican brawler is cut from the same cloth as Pacquiao’s past handful of opponents— hard-hitting but sluggish on his feet, and little more than a wavering heavy bag for the tornado that is Manny Pacquiao on fight night.
Was Margarito much larger? Yes. However, he’s always been more of an inside fighter, walking through punches to land his own heavy uppercuts and hooks. He rarely employs a solid jab, and doesn’t throw a particularly long right hand; a rangy fighter, he is not.
For a fast southpaw like Pacquiao, this was not a spectacular challenge. Freddie Roach knew this, and that’s why he let Pacquiao take the fight. No misleading, overblown 24/7 series should make anyone believe that Margarito had any real chance besides a fluke knockout.
But when people talk about Pacquiao “destroying” Mayweather, I really must ask, even in the glowering ruins of the post-Margarito destruction— have we forgotten whom we are talking of?
Hate him or love him, Floyd Mayweather Jr. is 41-0. He has made fighters of every style and caliber look like amateurs, and he’s done it for more than a decade.
His resume is a list of the most talented fighters of the last 10 years— Emanuel Augustus, Jose Luis Castillo, Oscar De Lay Hoya, Zab Judah, Diego Corrales, DeMarcus Corley, Ricky Hatton, Shane Mosley, Arturo Gatti, Carlos Baldomir; Floyd has humiliated and defeated all of them.
Is Pacquiao better than all of these fighters? Yes. His combination of speed, power, footwork, and angles puts him at the top as far as ability, with the exception of maybe Mosley at lightweight or De La Hoya in his prime.
However, to say that the outcome of any fight with Floyd Mayweather is a foregone conclusion is foolhardy, for the simple reason that 41 men have tried, and all have failed. As the fighter himself is so fond of saying— all 41 had a game plan, and none of them worked.
On top of this, Mayweather, being an astute counterpuncher with an exceptional understanding of range, distance, and angles, is the type of fighter that Pacquiao has had trouble with in the past. He is far more Marquez than he is Cotto, Hatton, Clottey, or Margarito.
I will make no prediction on this prospective fight, as it’s simply too early to even entertain the thought (or get my hopes up that it happens in the first place). But one thing is certain: having Manny Pacquiao in the ring with Floyd Mayweather will drive Mayweather to dig deeper, and perform better, than he ever has in his life.
Will that be enough to prevail? Who knows. But it will certainly be enough to make the fight an encounter that Mayweather would have extraordinary incentive to win— he should know better than anybody that in America, when you win, we tend to give you a pass on a lot of misdeeds.
Whoever triumphs, the excuses will abound. The fight took too long to come to fruition, someone had hand problems, someone was on steroids, someone injected lidocaine, someone got old overnight or someone was already shot and now they’re “exposed”— we boxing fans don’t like giving credit to winners, no matter who it is.
Ironically though, it’s the fans who would be the real winners of this matchup. The massive buildup to this fight would be one that this generation of fight fans has never experienced, and the battle itself might approach the level of those bouts that have come to be described as “legendary” in the history of the sport— “The Rumble in the Jungle,” “The Showdown,” “The Brawl in Montreal,” “The Thrilla in Manilla,” “The War.”
It would be the only matchup of this era capable of duplicating the raw excitement purely because of the characters of the personalities involved. And, if it does finally happen, these two modern warriors will face off and have the opportunity to, as Homer said, “Stand and fight to the finish, twisting and lunging in their deadly dance,” and leave the memory of their battle imprinted on the minds of every pair of eyes watching for years to come.
The chance for the two greatest fighters of an age to have the opportunity to come toe-to-toe while still in their primes happens rarely, and this fight not happening because of squabbles about blood tests or payouts would be the greatest travesty in the history of the sport.
It would also give every fan in the world the right to – no, it would nearly demand – that every fan in the world turn their back on an already fading niche sport, because we deserve more than this from the fighters, the promoters, and the boxing world in general.
Floyd, Manny— do not rob yourselves of the chance for your names to live forever, with a place in the history books that emulates the likes of Hector and Achilles, and to be the first memorable warriors of the new millennium.
And for the love of God…do not rob us of the chance to watch you do it.
This article originally posted on Eastsideboxing.com
http://www.eastsideboxing.com/news.php?p=25846&more=1
Immediately following the Mosley fight, he rose back to the top of the elusive “Pound for Pound” rankings once again, but there was more going on in the ring on the evening of May 1 than just taking some worthless mythical title from a placeholder.
Mayweather proved something to his detractors that night when he took Mosley’s best right hands and not only withstood them, but came back to utterly dominate the bigger, stronger fighter without having to back up while doing it.
For that short time after this virtuoso performance, the game was his again; he had made millions off the two fights, and his name was cleared in the eyes of not only the boxing public, but also in the eyes of the IRS. Many boxing fans, though they hated to admit it, began to suspect that he would easily defeat Manny Pacquiao in what everyone believed was an imminent match.
However, after the negotiations for the fight stalled for the second time, Pacquiao signed up to fight Antonio Margarito. The one-sided demolition of that same fighter last Saturday night has struck the boxing world hard, and made the iron hot for a drastic change; the pendulum has swung back in the Filipino’s favor.
And my God, how far Mayweather has fallen since.
The furor spread instantly over the internet. The wall of Mayweather’s Facebook page is alight with messages— nearly all of them having to do with Pacquiao, and not all of them cordial.
Some are messages of support from his real fans, while others are quiet, humble inquiries into what appears to be his seeming reluctance to fight the Filipino. Many, however, are far more boisterous, calling the fighter “Gayweather” or “Fraud” and telling him that Pacquiao will “destroy him.”
One fan even went so far as to say that Floyd has lost his own Facebook page.
“Floyd has lost his skills, he always loses money, he’s losing his fans, and he’s even lost this Facebook page,” the fan proclaimed. “This page belongs to PACQUIAO now.”
It doesn’t stop there. Every YouTube tribute to Floyd has been inundated with comments of the same ilk— brutally brash callouts by anonymous screen names looking to rattle sabers for their fighter.
All the while, piles of opinion articles are accumulating, many of which contain feature authors proclaiming the era of Floyd Mayweather dead, and that Saturday’s mauling of Margarito has left the outcome of a future Mayweather-Pacquiao fight all but decided.
As if this isn’t enough, Mayweather’s personal life also appears to be in shambles. He’s been hit with a restraining order by his ex-girlfriend that prevents him from seeing his two sons, the result of an allegedly violent confrontation in September. The slew of charges he faces for this incident could put him in prison for over 30 years.
Another incident occurred just last week, with a security guard claiming that Floyd poked him in the eye through an open car window when the guard was parked outside Mayweather’s Las Vegas home. This could result in another misdemeanor assault charge if pursued by the prosecution.
And, in one final blow, his trainer and uncle, Roger Mayweather, will likely stand trial on Jan. 24 on charges of attacking a female boxer. Roger, who is currently free on bail, could face a maximum of 10 years in prison if he’s convicted, meaning that even if Floyd ducks jail, he may be left without his trusted trainer for the biggest fight of his life.
Frankly, Floyd’s life is becoming a Shakespearean tragedy of epic proportions, where the attributes that have led him to these magnificent heights— his unwavering pride and his willingness to commit violence— are leading him directly to his brutal end.
But fear not. All is not over— especially when we’re talking about Floyd Mayweather, Jr.
I made the mistake once of questioning his heart, and he came back and proved me wrong; I suspect that he may do the same thing with the current flock of critics, especially in regards to a possible fight with Pacquiao.
Pacquiao’s fight with Margarito, while impressive, was not a shocking upset; one might even say that it had a predetermined outcome. Size difference be damned, few gave the slow-footed, wide-punching Mexican a realistic chance at defeating the Filipino southpaw, and with good reason. But we boxing fans are a fickle, insatiable brood, with short memories and minds that are easily swayed by the pre-fight hype heaped upon us.
In reality though, the Mexican brawler is cut from the same cloth as Pacquiao’s past handful of opponents— hard-hitting but sluggish on his feet, and little more than a wavering heavy bag for the tornado that is Manny Pacquiao on fight night.
Was Margarito much larger? Yes. However, he’s always been more of an inside fighter, walking through punches to land his own heavy uppercuts and hooks. He rarely employs a solid jab, and doesn’t throw a particularly long right hand; a rangy fighter, he is not.
For a fast southpaw like Pacquiao, this was not a spectacular challenge. Freddie Roach knew this, and that’s why he let Pacquiao take the fight. No misleading, overblown 24/7 series should make anyone believe that Margarito had any real chance besides a fluke knockout.
But when people talk about Pacquiao “destroying” Mayweather, I really must ask, even in the glowering ruins of the post-Margarito destruction— have we forgotten whom we are talking of?
Hate him or love him, Floyd Mayweather Jr. is 41-0. He has made fighters of every style and caliber look like amateurs, and he’s done it for more than a decade.
His resume is a list of the most talented fighters of the last 10 years— Emanuel Augustus, Jose Luis Castillo, Oscar De Lay Hoya, Zab Judah, Diego Corrales, DeMarcus Corley, Ricky Hatton, Shane Mosley, Arturo Gatti, Carlos Baldomir; Floyd has humiliated and defeated all of them.
Is Pacquiao better than all of these fighters? Yes. His combination of speed, power, footwork, and angles puts him at the top as far as ability, with the exception of maybe Mosley at lightweight or De La Hoya in his prime.
However, to say that the outcome of any fight with Floyd Mayweather is a foregone conclusion is foolhardy, for the simple reason that 41 men have tried, and all have failed. As the fighter himself is so fond of saying— all 41 had a game plan, and none of them worked.
On top of this, Mayweather, being an astute counterpuncher with an exceptional understanding of range, distance, and angles, is the type of fighter that Pacquiao has had trouble with in the past. He is far more Marquez than he is Cotto, Hatton, Clottey, or Margarito.
I will make no prediction on this prospective fight, as it’s simply too early to even entertain the thought (or get my hopes up that it happens in the first place). But one thing is certain: having Manny Pacquiao in the ring with Floyd Mayweather will drive Mayweather to dig deeper, and perform better, than he ever has in his life.
Will that be enough to prevail? Who knows. But it will certainly be enough to make the fight an encounter that Mayweather would have extraordinary incentive to win— he should know better than anybody that in America, when you win, we tend to give you a pass on a lot of misdeeds.
Whoever triumphs, the excuses will abound. The fight took too long to come to fruition, someone had hand problems, someone was on steroids, someone injected lidocaine, someone got old overnight or someone was already shot and now they’re “exposed”— we boxing fans don’t like giving credit to winners, no matter who it is.
Ironically though, it’s the fans who would be the real winners of this matchup. The massive buildup to this fight would be one that this generation of fight fans has never experienced, and the battle itself might approach the level of those bouts that have come to be described as “legendary” in the history of the sport— “The Rumble in the Jungle,” “The Showdown,” “The Brawl in Montreal,” “The Thrilla in Manilla,” “The War.”
It would be the only matchup of this era capable of duplicating the raw excitement purely because of the characters of the personalities involved. And, if it does finally happen, these two modern warriors will face off and have the opportunity to, as Homer said, “Stand and fight to the finish, twisting and lunging in their deadly dance,” and leave the memory of their battle imprinted on the minds of every pair of eyes watching for years to come.
The chance for the two greatest fighters of an age to have the opportunity to come toe-to-toe while still in their primes happens rarely, and this fight not happening because of squabbles about blood tests or payouts would be the greatest travesty in the history of the sport.
It would also give every fan in the world the right to – no, it would nearly demand – that every fan in the world turn their back on an already fading niche sport, because we deserve more than this from the fighters, the promoters, and the boxing world in general.
Floyd, Manny— do not rob yourselves of the chance for your names to live forever, with a place in the history books that emulates the likes of Hector and Achilles, and to be the first memorable warriors of the new millennium.
And for the love of God…do not rob us of the chance to watch you do it.
This article originally posted on Eastsideboxing.com
http://www.eastsideboxing.com/news.php?p=25846&more=1
Monday, November 15, 2010
Friday night lights are brighter then ever
BY STEVE JANOSKI
As a vicious hater of the winter season, I can't pretend that I'm happy the temperatures are cooling off. Fishing season's over, working out outdoors is more brutal, and baseball season winds down (although being a Red Sox fan, one might call that a blessing this year.)
One of the only good things about the death of summer is that it means that football season begins. It's been my favorite sport since I was a kid, and though its recently been usurped by boxing, it still has a strong place in my heart.
A lifelong Giants fan, I'd wake up early and watch all of the NFL shows on the sports networks when I was young, and curse them all when they picked the Giants to lose during the dark days of the early 90s (as they invariably did).
I read all of the magazines and every article in the papers that even mentioned the team, and knew their roster inside and out along with the strengths and weaknesses of each player.
I put a lot on that team back then, but that changed.
I'm not sure what happened. Maybe I learned the lesson early that you never put too much on something you can't control, like a sports team, and once I began working on Sundays, I rarely got to watch the team with any regularity.
It's also been disheartening in the past two decades to watch the impact that things like free agency have had on football- in an era when players sometimes play for a team for only a year or two before departing, you find yourself rooting more for a uniform color than for a team.
But New York Jets Coach Rex Ryan said something during the last episode of HBO's "Hard Knocks" series that struck me.
The show, which follows the Jets through their preseason training camp, gives an inside look at all of the trials and tribulations of the prima donnas that are so often found littered on the football fields these days, and while it is intensely interesting, it's often disappointing to see some of the attitudes of professional players.
When you've got enough money to fill a swimming pool and an entourage of nobodies telling you how spectacular you are, I guess it's easy to get a little… "self-important."
But when Ryan's son's high school team came to the Jets camp, he began to talk to one of the other coaches about how seeing high school players always "brings him back," and that no matter how far up he goes, he always looks at the young kids and thinks that once, "that was us."
"Look how far we've come…" he said.
As a former high school football player and as a reporter who spends many cool autumn nights on the sidelines of various teams from our local area, I can tell you that Ryan really gets it.
I never went anywhere playing football, but being on those sidelines brings back a slew of memories myself. The bright lights, the electricity in the air before a big game, the coaches walking through the lines as their players stretch, shaking hands and talking to the key guys.
Because the sport is taken very seriously by those that play, it's sometimes easy to forget that for many of them, this will be the last time that they're playing football…just because.
Most will never play again. They're not good enough, or they'll get hurt, or they'll have other responsibilities that will take over their lives.
The ones that do go on to play in college, or to the pros, might accomplish the world…but the world is watching. It's not just "for fun" anymore. It's for contracts, for money, for status, for fame; all of those things that lead men to their downfall.
But for a few years, when they're very young, it's not a whole lot different than playing out in the fields around their elementary schools.
And those years, that's when the football is worth watching- when they've got their hearts and souls in it with nothing to gain except victory, and it's still some time before they'll be ruined by the flashing lights of this greedy world.
So do yourself a favor this weekend, football fans. Turn off the TV, and don't worry about how the pros are doing. Go down to your local high school, and watch those kids beat the hell out of each other on the gridiron.
The pros don't care whether you go to the game or not, whether you watch or not. But the kids will notice that there's more people, and they'll play harder for it, appreciate it.
And to watch that kind of purity in a sport these days… that's something that's worth paying the price of admission for.
As a vicious hater of the winter season, I can't pretend that I'm happy the temperatures are cooling off. Fishing season's over, working out outdoors is more brutal, and baseball season winds down (although being a Red Sox fan, one might call that a blessing this year.)
One of the only good things about the death of summer is that it means that football season begins. It's been my favorite sport since I was a kid, and though its recently been usurped by boxing, it still has a strong place in my heart.
A lifelong Giants fan, I'd wake up early and watch all of the NFL shows on the sports networks when I was young, and curse them all when they picked the Giants to lose during the dark days of the early 90s (as they invariably did).
I read all of the magazines and every article in the papers that even mentioned the team, and knew their roster inside and out along with the strengths and weaknesses of each player.
I put a lot on that team back then, but that changed.
I'm not sure what happened. Maybe I learned the lesson early that you never put too much on something you can't control, like a sports team, and once I began working on Sundays, I rarely got to watch the team with any regularity.
It's also been disheartening in the past two decades to watch the impact that things like free agency have had on football- in an era when players sometimes play for a team for only a year or two before departing, you find yourself rooting more for a uniform color than for a team.
But New York Jets Coach Rex Ryan said something during the last episode of HBO's "Hard Knocks" series that struck me.
The show, which follows the Jets through their preseason training camp, gives an inside look at all of the trials and tribulations of the prima donnas that are so often found littered on the football fields these days, and while it is intensely interesting, it's often disappointing to see some of the attitudes of professional players.
When you've got enough money to fill a swimming pool and an entourage of nobodies telling you how spectacular you are, I guess it's easy to get a little… "self-important."
But when Ryan's son's high school team came to the Jets camp, he began to talk to one of the other coaches about how seeing high school players always "brings him back," and that no matter how far up he goes, he always looks at the young kids and thinks that once, "that was us."
"Look how far we've come…" he said.
As a former high school football player and as a reporter who spends many cool autumn nights on the sidelines of various teams from our local area, I can tell you that Ryan really gets it.
I never went anywhere playing football, but being on those sidelines brings back a slew of memories myself. The bright lights, the electricity in the air before a big game, the coaches walking through the lines as their players stretch, shaking hands and talking to the key guys.
Because the sport is taken very seriously by those that play, it's sometimes easy to forget that for many of them, this will be the last time that they're playing football…just because.
Most will never play again. They're not good enough, or they'll get hurt, or they'll have other responsibilities that will take over their lives.
The ones that do go on to play in college, or to the pros, might accomplish the world…but the world is watching. It's not just "for fun" anymore. It's for contracts, for money, for status, for fame; all of those things that lead men to their downfall.
But for a few years, when they're very young, it's not a whole lot different than playing out in the fields around their elementary schools.
And those years, that's when the football is worth watching- when they've got their hearts and souls in it with nothing to gain except victory, and it's still some time before they'll be ruined by the flashing lights of this greedy world.
So do yourself a favor this weekend, football fans. Turn off the TV, and don't worry about how the pros are doing. Go down to your local high school, and watch those kids beat the hell out of each other on the gridiron.
The pros don't care whether you go to the game or not, whether you watch or not. But the kids will notice that there's more people, and they'll play harder for it, appreciate it.
And to watch that kind of purity in a sport these days… that's something that's worth paying the price of admission for.
Clottey no Buster Douglas
Steve Janoski: When I first heard that Manny Pacquiao’s next fight would be against Joshua Clottey, I have to admit that I was surprised. After the entire debacle with Floyd Mayweather, I was surprised the man even wanted to fight again— most would be so jaded by the entire affair, which was handled poorly on all sides (but the worst on Mayweather’s), that they’d want to be done with the grimy shadyness that is the boxing “business.”
But Pac came back, and is fighting a real welterweight even though he’s not actually one himself, something that its taken Mayweather oh, about two decades to do..
Regardless of that, Clottey is a tough opponent. He has an iron chin, and has taken the shots of some of the welterweight class’ heaviest hitters and waved them on. He went toe-to-toe with Cotto and was a good left hook away from beating him, and he stood in with Judah’s flashy hands and left him bloody by the end.
Clottey is a skilled infighter, digging his hooks and uppercuts and making fighters pay for overextending themselves. He has punishing power, and, although it isn’t that one-punch, hit-you-so-hard-your-teeth-hurt-power, it will wear a fighter down as it did Cotto and Judah.
He also skillfully executes his defense, picking off shots by holding his gloves high and leaving no opening between them (as Cotto tends to do). He also has good footwork against southpaws, and continually held the better position against Judah that allowed him to throw a stiff straight right without taking much damage himself.
The man is, without a doubt, a gutsy, tough fighter. But no one questions his heart; what they question is whether that heart and his two fists can really beat someone like Manny Pacquiao.
The difference in the two fighters’ styles is remarkable; while Clottey stalks and walks down his prey as a polar bear might, Pacquiao fights in the manner that writer A.P. Terhune said a collie attacks when enraged— he is everywhere and he is nowhere, he is vicious and brutal, bouncing in and out of range while sidestepping and striking with a power that he simply shouldn’t have carried up the weight classes.
He had Cotto turning ‘round as if he were fighting more than one man, and had the power to knock him down twice. His hands were blindingly fast, and he struck from every angle that a man’s fists can fly from. The little dynamo proved that his Hatton knockout was not a fluke, and that he can take the punches of a full welterweight.
Clottey is a bit faster than Cotto, but doesn’t throw better combinations and doesn’t seem to have the power that Cotto has. He leans forward when he stalks, and is prone to long stretches of punchless inactivity. He also has a habit of letting fighters steal rounds from him, and not jumping on them when he should. It is almost as if he lacks that killer instinct that a fighter must have, that fierce, murderous rage that rears its head only when they see an opponent’s bleeding face or swaying legs.
Pacquiao, as we all know, has this in spades. Although I see Clottey taking the fight to Pacquiao and trying to fight him in the phone booth, Pac’s footwork will nullify this. If Pacquaio dictates the range the fight is fought at, he could have Clottey put away in the early rounds via another spectacular stoppage.
There is a chance for Clottey though. Pacquiao does cut, and Clottey, if left to do his work on the inside, has a tendency to open up gashes above his opponent’s left eye. Clottey might realize that this is going to be both the defining moment and the greatest fight of his entire life, and that if he does not seize the world tonight by the lapels with his bloody fists and roar, “I have arrived!”…he never will.
Maybe he’ll let his hands go, and we’ll see an upset that we haven’t seen since Buster Douglas knocked Tyson’s mouthpiece across the ring.
But me? I wouldn’t bet on it.
This article orignally posted on Eastsideboxing.com on 3.13.2010
http://www.eastsideboxing.com/news.php?p=23097&more=1
But Pac came back, and is fighting a real welterweight even though he’s not actually one himself, something that its taken Mayweather oh, about two decades to do..
Regardless of that, Clottey is a tough opponent. He has an iron chin, and has taken the shots of some of the welterweight class’ heaviest hitters and waved them on. He went toe-to-toe with Cotto and was a good left hook away from beating him, and he stood in with Judah’s flashy hands and left him bloody by the end.
Clottey is a skilled infighter, digging his hooks and uppercuts and making fighters pay for overextending themselves. He has punishing power, and, although it isn’t that one-punch, hit-you-so-hard-your-teeth-hurt-power, it will wear a fighter down as it did Cotto and Judah.
He also skillfully executes his defense, picking off shots by holding his gloves high and leaving no opening between them (as Cotto tends to do). He also has good footwork against southpaws, and continually held the better position against Judah that allowed him to throw a stiff straight right without taking much damage himself.
The man is, without a doubt, a gutsy, tough fighter. But no one questions his heart; what they question is whether that heart and his two fists can really beat someone like Manny Pacquiao.
The difference in the two fighters’ styles is remarkable; while Clottey stalks and walks down his prey as a polar bear might, Pacquiao fights in the manner that writer A.P. Terhune said a collie attacks when enraged— he is everywhere and he is nowhere, he is vicious and brutal, bouncing in and out of range while sidestepping and striking with a power that he simply shouldn’t have carried up the weight classes.
He had Cotto turning ‘round as if he were fighting more than one man, and had the power to knock him down twice. His hands were blindingly fast, and he struck from every angle that a man’s fists can fly from. The little dynamo proved that his Hatton knockout was not a fluke, and that he can take the punches of a full welterweight.
Clottey is a bit faster than Cotto, but doesn’t throw better combinations and doesn’t seem to have the power that Cotto has. He leans forward when he stalks, and is prone to long stretches of punchless inactivity. He also has a habit of letting fighters steal rounds from him, and not jumping on them when he should. It is almost as if he lacks that killer instinct that a fighter must have, that fierce, murderous rage that rears its head only when they see an opponent’s bleeding face or swaying legs.
Pacquiao, as we all know, has this in spades. Although I see Clottey taking the fight to Pacquiao and trying to fight him in the phone booth, Pac’s footwork will nullify this. If Pacquaio dictates the range the fight is fought at, he could have Clottey put away in the early rounds via another spectacular stoppage.
There is a chance for Clottey though. Pacquiao does cut, and Clottey, if left to do his work on the inside, has a tendency to open up gashes above his opponent’s left eye. Clottey might realize that this is going to be both the defining moment and the greatest fight of his entire life, and that if he does not seize the world tonight by the lapels with his bloody fists and roar, “I have arrived!”…he never will.
Maybe he’ll let his hands go, and we’ll see an upset that we haven’t seen since Buster Douglas knocked Tyson’s mouthpiece across the ring.
But me? I wouldn’t bet on it.
This article orignally posted on Eastsideboxing.com on 3.13.2010
http://www.eastsideboxing.com/news.php?p=23097&more=1
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Remembering the "Greatest Generation"
JANOSKI, STEVE
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
On Oct. 23, a monument was dedicated in Fort Lee to commemorate the Battle of the Bulge.
According to an article in The Record, dozens of veterans who fought in that epic battle were on hand for the ceremony, as well as a crowd of about 150, mostly senior citizens.
Assemblywoman Joan Voss, D-Fort Lee, was also in attendance, and her observation on the makeup of the crowd was a disheartening statement to read just a few days before Veterans' Day.
"Where are your grandchildren? Where are your children?" she asked.
Where were they indeed. What could have been more important?
This country has always ignored, forgotten, and neglected its history. We have spit on our veterans, we build condos on our battlefields, and the average American knows so little about history that it makes me wonder exactly how much public schools are worth.
But have we really forgotten World War II already, just 65 years after its end?
As I had written previously, my grandfather, who served in the Pacific Theatre, recently passed away.
This was a stinging reminder that the generation who literally saved the world from the great, enveloping darkness that was Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan is dying, and dying quickly.
Military veterans aside, my generation is a spoiled bunch in comparison. We've faced no great "Great Enemy," never had to storm beaches under hails of flying lead.
The average person's "sacrifices" for the War on Terrorism are nonexistent, and life has continued much like it did for the past two decades for most of us.
That generation was not so fortunate. Instead of throwing baseballs, they threw hand grenades; instead of shooting deer, they shot men.
Their triumph in that war was the one of the great accomplishments in all of human history, and an enduring testament to the will and courage that regular men can exhibit when placed in extraordinary circumstances.
We are here, we are free, because of their actions on those bloody beaches in the South Pacific and the frozen forests of Western Europe, and their actions alone.
My grandmother once told me that she remembered her father, a veteran of the U.S. Artillery during World War I himself, pointing out the veterans of the Spanish-American War during a parade, and telling her to remember them, because there weren't many left.
We are that point now with the World War II vets.
As time takes its cruel toll, the old soldiers' memories fade and their bodies fail. Every day, we are losing more of than just our family members— we are losing our past, and a piece of our identity as Americans.
Some things can bring it back to us.
A couple weeks ago, I held an M-1 Garand, the American rifle that won World War II, in my hands. I put the wood stock close to my cheek, felt the kick of that when it fired, heard the distinctive "ping" of the cartridge ejecting that you heard so often in "Saving Private Ryan."
I tried to imagine shooting it at another soldier in the woods instead of a target at the range. Tried to imagine hitting that person, knowing I ended his life, and then having to do it over and over again.
On Oct. 23, a monument was dedicated in Fort Lee to commemorate the Battle of the Bulge.
According to an article in The Record, dozens of veterans who fought in that epic battle were on hand for the ceremony, as well as a crowd of about 150, mostly senior citizens.
Assemblywoman Joan Voss, D-Fort Lee, was also in attendance, and her observation on the makeup of the crowd was a disheartening statement to read just a few days before Veterans' Day.
"Where are your grandchildren? Where are your children?" she asked.
Where were they indeed. What could have been more important?
This country has always ignored, forgotten, and neglected its history. We have spit on our veterans, we build condos on our battlefields, and the average American knows so little about history that it makes me wonder exactly how much public schools are worth.
But have we really forgotten World War II already, just 65 years after its end?
As I had written previously, my grandfather, who served in the Pacific Theatre, recently passed away.
This was a stinging reminder that the generation who literally saved the world from the great, enveloping darkness that was Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan is dying, and dying quickly.
Military veterans aside, my generation is a spoiled bunch in comparison. We've faced no great "Great Enemy," never had to storm beaches under hails of flying lead.
The average person's "sacrifices" for the War on Terrorism are nonexistent, and life has continued much like it did for the past two decades for most of us.
That generation was not so fortunate. Instead of throwing baseballs, they threw hand grenades; instead of shooting deer, they shot men.
Their triumph in that war was the one of the great accomplishments in all of human history, and an enduring testament to the will and courage that regular men can exhibit when placed in extraordinary circumstances.
We are here, we are free, because of their actions on those bloody beaches in the South Pacific and the frozen forests of Western Europe, and their actions alone.
My grandmother once told me that she remembered her father, a veteran of the U.S. Artillery during World War I himself, pointing out the veterans of the Spanish-American War during a parade, and telling her to remember them, because there weren't many left.
We are that point now with the World War II vets.
As time takes its cruel toll, the old soldiers' memories fade and their bodies fail. Every day, we are losing more of than just our family members— we are losing our past, and a piece of our identity as Americans.
Some things can bring it back to us.
A couple weeks ago, I held an M-1 Garand, the American rifle that won World War II, in my hands. I put the wood stock close to my cheek, felt the kick of that when it fired, heard the distinctive "ping" of the cartridge ejecting that you heard so often in "Saving Private Ryan."
I tried to imagine shooting it at another soldier in the woods instead of a target at the range. Tried to imagine hitting that person, knowing I ended his life, and then having to do it over and over again.
One veteran at the Fort Lee ceremony knows that feeling too well.
"I killed so many men," he said, while shaking his head.
The memories haven't left them. The ones who survived, the lucky ones, as we call them, gave everything to save us. They came out alive and nearly traded their humanity doing it.
So if you've got the time, remember them this Veteran's Day. When the clock tolls at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, and commemorates the German signing of the armistice to end World War I, thank whatever god you want that you were lucky enough to know any of these guys.
George Patton once said, "It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died. Rather we should thank God that such men lived."
We have the opportunity.
Thank God…but them too.
http://www.northjersey.com/community/history/more_history_news/107140928_Remembering_the__Greatest_Generation_.html?c=y&page=2
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Judah claims narrow victory over Mattysse
BY STEVE JANOSKI
Originally posted on Eastsideboxing.com
If there’s one thing that Zab Judah (40-6, 27 KO’s) proved on Saturday night, it’s that he’s still got the heart and the skill to hang in during the toughest of fights.
The former undisputed welterweight champion defeated Argentinean Lucas Matthysse (27-1, 25 KO’s) in a controversial split decision on Saturday night at the Prudential Center in Newark, earning him the NABO belt and a #2 ranking by the IBF.
It was Judah’s first fight at 140 lbs. since 2003.
The night started slowly, with Matthysse reluctant to come inside and Judah willing to sit back and counterpunch as the two felt each other out.
In the early rounds, Judah exhibited good movement and a consistent jab, although hard shots were few and far between. Judah clearly respected Matthysse’s power— even after landing solid punches, he refused to jump on his foe.
Judah landed a solid uppercut in the second, but Matthysse simply tapped his chin as if to say that he could take Judah’s best.
The lack of action had the crowd booing early, and it wasn’t until the sixth that Matthysse began to close the distance and open up with his hands.
It was later revealed in the post-fight press conference that this was part of his team’s strategy— stay away from Judah early on when he tends to be more dangerous, and then come hard when Judah starts to fade as the fight progresses.
“My team told me to be careful in the first three, four, five rounds, and that’s what I did,” he told the media after the fight.
But Matthysse was careful for too long, and by the time he decided it was time to fight, he had dug himself a hole on the scorecards that would prove difficult to overcome.
The Argentinean came on strong in the tenth, however, and began landing hard left hooks to the body and straight rights to the head, one of which floored the former champ.
A badly hurt Judah appeared to go into survival mode, clinching often and attempting to dodge Matthysse’s onslaught. Judah did manage to come back with a few of his own hard shots that backed Matthysse off, but it was clear that Zab was in trouble.
“When I went down, I had a deep conversation with the Lord,” Judah said with a laugh after the fight. “It was fast to y’all, but it was long to me.”
Matthysse continued to bring the fight to Judah in the eleventh, outworking and outpunching the older fighter throughout the round.
Judah was looking to land a big left to even the round but could not connect, and Matthysse, looking as fresh as he had in the first round, continued to walk him down and pound away.
With blood streaming down the side of his face as a result of a cut sustained earlier on, Judah attempted to use his footwork and angles to avoid Matthysse’s heavy punches.
Several times Matthysse, looking to end the fight, would catch Judah on the ropes, only to have the southpaw escape and slip away.
In the eyes of the judges, the performance was enough to give Judah a narrow victory.
Judge Waleska Poldan scored the fight 114-113 for Matthysse, while judges Hilton Whitaker and Joseph Pasquale scored the fight 114-113 for Judah.
This observer also scored the fight 114-113 for Judah.
During the post-fight press conference, Matthysse was convinced that he was robbed.
“In Argentina, definitely I would have won the fight,” he said through an interpreter. “I’d love to have a rematch and be sure that he beats me and not the judges…I was in his hometown and he got the home decision.”
Judah later appeared in a suit and sunglasses to address reporters, and commended Matthysse on his performance.
“In the future, you’ll see a lot of Lucas…but tonight was my night,” he said. “You can’t win four or five rounds of a fight and then say you won the whole fight.”
Judah later admitted that if the fight had been in Argentina, the scorecards might have read the other way.
“We probably would have got a different outcome,” he said.
He expressed little interest in a rematch with the hard-punching Matthysse, whom he called “the strongest fighter I’ve ever fought.”
“Nah…they got a couple gorillas at the Brooklyn Zoo he can go tangle with,” he quipped. “We’re going to move on, and see what’s out there next for us.”
Undoubtedly, at 33 years of age, Judah will be looking for fights with bigger names and bigger paydays, and might consider a rematch with the relatively unknown Matthysse a waste of time.
Although it was a good test for Judah, who did not tire in the late rounds as he has customarily done, it was far from the exciting, explosive battle that would leave the boxing world clamoring to watch him fight any of the top junior welterweights.
The division, undoubtedly one of the deepest and most talent-rich in boxing, features such names as Devon Alexander, Timothy Bradley, Amir Khan, Marcos Maidana, and Victor Ortiz; any one of these competitors would probably be too much for him at this stage of his career.
Judah, of course, sees it otherwise.
“(Matthysse) is probably the toughest, hardest hitter in the weight division…I think I got past the toughest guy already and the rest of the weight division will be piece of cake,” he said.
Those are big words indeed. Whether they can be backed up remains to be seen.
http://www.eastsideboxing.com/news.php?p=25682&more=1
Originally posted on Eastsideboxing.com
If there’s one thing that Zab Judah (40-6, 27 KO’s) proved on Saturday night, it’s that he’s still got the heart and the skill to hang in during the toughest of fights.
The former undisputed welterweight champion defeated Argentinean Lucas Matthysse (27-1, 25 KO’s) in a controversial split decision on Saturday night at the Prudential Center in Newark, earning him the NABO belt and a #2 ranking by the IBF.
It was Judah’s first fight at 140 lbs. since 2003.
The night started slowly, with Matthysse reluctant to come inside and Judah willing to sit back and counterpunch as the two felt each other out.
In the early rounds, Judah exhibited good movement and a consistent jab, although hard shots were few and far between. Judah clearly respected Matthysse’s power— even after landing solid punches, he refused to jump on his foe.
Judah landed a solid uppercut in the second, but Matthysse simply tapped his chin as if to say that he could take Judah’s best.
The lack of action had the crowd booing early, and it wasn’t until the sixth that Matthysse began to close the distance and open up with his hands.
It was later revealed in the post-fight press conference that this was part of his team’s strategy— stay away from Judah early on when he tends to be more dangerous, and then come hard when Judah starts to fade as the fight progresses.
“My team told me to be careful in the first three, four, five rounds, and that’s what I did,” he told the media after the fight.
But Matthysse was careful for too long, and by the time he decided it was time to fight, he had dug himself a hole on the scorecards that would prove difficult to overcome.
The Argentinean came on strong in the tenth, however, and began landing hard left hooks to the body and straight rights to the head, one of which floored the former champ.
A badly hurt Judah appeared to go into survival mode, clinching often and attempting to dodge Matthysse’s onslaught. Judah did manage to come back with a few of his own hard shots that backed Matthysse off, but it was clear that Zab was in trouble.
“When I went down, I had a deep conversation with the Lord,” Judah said with a laugh after the fight. “It was fast to y’all, but it was long to me.”
Matthysse continued to bring the fight to Judah in the eleventh, outworking and outpunching the older fighter throughout the round.
Judah was looking to land a big left to even the round but could not connect, and Matthysse, looking as fresh as he had in the first round, continued to walk him down and pound away.
With blood streaming down the side of his face as a result of a cut sustained earlier on, Judah attempted to use his footwork and angles to avoid Matthysse’s heavy punches.
Several times Matthysse, looking to end the fight, would catch Judah on the ropes, only to have the southpaw escape and slip away.
In the eyes of the judges, the performance was enough to give Judah a narrow victory.
Judge Waleska Poldan scored the fight 114-113 for Matthysse, while judges Hilton Whitaker and Joseph Pasquale scored the fight 114-113 for Judah.
This observer also scored the fight 114-113 for Judah.
During the post-fight press conference, Matthysse was convinced that he was robbed.
“In Argentina, definitely I would have won the fight,” he said through an interpreter. “I’d love to have a rematch and be sure that he beats me and not the judges…I was in his hometown and he got the home decision.”
Judah later appeared in a suit and sunglasses to address reporters, and commended Matthysse on his performance.
“In the future, you’ll see a lot of Lucas…but tonight was my night,” he said. “You can’t win four or five rounds of a fight and then say you won the whole fight.”
Judah later admitted that if the fight had been in Argentina, the scorecards might have read the other way.
“We probably would have got a different outcome,” he said.
He expressed little interest in a rematch with the hard-punching Matthysse, whom he called “the strongest fighter I’ve ever fought.”
“Nah…they got a couple gorillas at the Brooklyn Zoo he can go tangle with,” he quipped. “We’re going to move on, and see what’s out there next for us.”
Undoubtedly, at 33 years of age, Judah will be looking for fights with bigger names and bigger paydays, and might consider a rematch with the relatively unknown Matthysse a waste of time.
Although it was a good test for Judah, who did not tire in the late rounds as he has customarily done, it was far from the exciting, explosive battle that would leave the boxing world clamoring to watch him fight any of the top junior welterweights.
The division, undoubtedly one of the deepest and most talent-rich in boxing, features such names as Devon Alexander, Timothy Bradley, Amir Khan, Marcos Maidana, and Victor Ortiz; any one of these competitors would probably be too much for him at this stage of his career.
Judah, of course, sees it otherwise.
“(Matthysse) is probably the toughest, hardest hitter in the weight division…I think I got past the toughest guy already and the rest of the weight division will be piece of cake,” he said.
Those are big words indeed. Whether they can be backed up remains to be seen.
http://www.eastsideboxing.com/news.php?p=25682&more=1
Friday, November 5, 2010
Washed up meatheads are cringing
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
BY STEVE JANOSKI
We see you through the glass windows of the gym, and we are cringing. We're the people that are in the gym early on New Year's Eve, after work on Christmas Eve, and all the days in between. As washed-up meatheads, we've put a lot into lifting over the years, having started because our football or wrestling coaches made us.
But we caught the bug, got addicted to the iron, and became enamored with the simple act of lifting something heavy off the ground. For some of us, it's the utter simplicity of it — as Henry Rollins once said, "200 pounds is always 200 pounds."
Life's problems fade away, for there are no dead-end jobs, whining girlfriends, or problems of any sort while in the gym. It's just a simple 200 pounds that needs to be lifted, and we're there to do it. It is our release, and our haven from the outside world.
But every year, in the first weeks of January, we get inundated with "The Resolutioners," those of you who have decided to get in shape for the new year, and pack the bench presses and Nautilus machines in your pursuit. Our workout takes an hour longer because the gym is so crowded; one can hardly take a step without tripping over dumbbell left out by someone who doesn't know gym mores.
For a month, we are driven crazy, and our schedules and programs are destroyed until you all retreat back to your couches sometime in early February, shaking your head and saying, "Well, I tried."
Does it sound elitist? It sort of is. And there's lifters out there, some of the biggest guys you'll meet, who are far more vulgar than I when talking about the Resolutioner phenomenon. But one thing that you might not believe is that there are plenty of us who don't want you to fail. We don't want you to go home, and we don't want you to be a sloth any more than you do.
See, we are always looking for people to join us in our pursuit of being stronger — we just don't want pretenders. We don't want people who talk on their cell phones in between sets on the bench press, all the while telling us they're "almost done" with the machine.
We don't want those that dress up to go to the gym, and treat it as if it's an underground club in New York City. We don't want the people that are there to get in the way.
We want people that are deadly serious, and willing to put in the work and sweat and blood in order to better themselves. We want people that will find the simple joy of lifting and working out, as we have, and to enjoy the feeling of looking at a bar that has three 45-pound plates on each side and thinking, "I just lifted that, even though four months ago I never thought I'd be able to."
And we certainly love to talk about theories and programs and nutrition, and to support those that are entering into athletic competitions or powerlifting meets.
Remember that, when you're walking around the gym this week, confused about what to do and where to start. Remember that if you're serious about learning, you can walk up to any big guy or in-shape woman who looks like they know what they're doing and say, "Hey, can you help me out for a second?"
The odds are that they will be more than happy to help you out. Once they see you in the gym consistently, don't be surprised if they end up dropping little hints and tips that took them years to learn.
The Resolutioners should not be intimidated — realize that everyone started out where you were once, and everyone simply put in the work to change.
It can be done, and it has been done by countless Americans who were just fed up with how they felt. And also remember that we are pulling for you, even if we won't tell you.
Good luck.
http://www.northjersey.com/news/health/fitness/81418282_Washed-up_meatheads_are_cringing.html
Lightning crashes, memories burn
BY STEVE JANOSKI
Five years ago, on Jan. 19, my best friend Ryer died two short months after his 22nd birthday.
The human mind, amazing machine that it is, can make a traumatic event seem like it happened decades ago and just yesterday at the same time.
When I look back at what happened those years ago, the memory is still so clear; every detail, every moment is outlined so sharply that I feel as though it happened last week.
In the same vein, it seems that he never lived at all, that my mind just conjured the ordeal up from something I read in a novel.
I remember every detail of that frigid day, from the phone call I received on my lunch break to the start of the heavy drinking that followed in the evening. I remember the horrific song that was playing when I got the news (“Lightening Crashes” by Live), individual words of the calls I had to make after, and the remarkably difficult days that followed.
He had been a fearless young fighting buck, a scarily strong bodybuilder with a goatee as red as his Scandinavian skin. His strength was useless, however, against the freak medical condition that took him. He had been like an older brother to me over the years, had even saved my life once, and his stunningly sudden death shook me to my core.
It snowed hard that day, as it did the day they lowered him into the ground, as if God himself was sobbing frozen tears, guilty of the old cliché of taking a man who was too young.
It was years before I considered myself “normal” again, before I could talk or think about him without choking back tears. Certain songs would launch me into a rage, while too much drink could have me cursing God in a sloppy, slurring fashion.
I wanted to learn Latin so I could yell at Him in his own language, because I knew He wasn't paying attention to my whiskey-soaked rants.
But time has a way of leveling things off, softening the body shots that life gives you as the years progress. It made me realize that “grieving” was not, in fact, synonymous with “raging,” and that memories of the dead do not always beget tears. I even visited his grave a couple times, even though both trips were treacherously difficult.
And so I sat at a dark Irish bar on the five year anniversary of his death with a couple of our closest friends, as well as his own younger brother, a carbon copy of the dead man in so many ways.
There was no more crying into the bottom of a pint-glass, as those days have since passed - lighthearted stories and jokes took its place. But we still knew that his specter sat in the corner, silently reminding us of why we were at a bar on a Tuesday night.
As the hours passed and the stream of Jameson continued to flow, however, our smiling eyes softened, and the night inevitably turned to those memories that we don't talk about much. For a while, we allowed the sadness to envelop us once more and felt the pain that we'd buried for so long.
On the way home, though, it struck me how warm this night had been, in stark contrast to how bitter it was in 2005. For a moment, there was even that smell in the air that comes only when spring is emerging after the long dying time is over, announcing to the world that life is resurrected.
Maybe those shadows do rise to walk again, I thought.
Sometimes it takes a true tragedy to make brooding people like me realize that we truly must live life only for the living, because the sun is rising tomorrow, and to do otherwise would be to dishonor the fallen who never had that chance for success… or redemption.
So for the first time in a long time, I can simply say, “Rest in peace amigo.” I will see you at the crossroads.
Five years ago, on Jan. 19, my best friend Ryer died two short months after his 22nd birthday.
The human mind, amazing machine that it is, can make a traumatic event seem like it happened decades ago and just yesterday at the same time.
When I look back at what happened those years ago, the memory is still so clear; every detail, every moment is outlined so sharply that I feel as though it happened last week.
In the same vein, it seems that he never lived at all, that my mind just conjured the ordeal up from something I read in a novel.
I remember every detail of that frigid day, from the phone call I received on my lunch break to the start of the heavy drinking that followed in the evening. I remember the horrific song that was playing when I got the news (“Lightening Crashes” by Live), individual words of the calls I had to make after, and the remarkably difficult days that followed.
He had been a fearless young fighting buck, a scarily strong bodybuilder with a goatee as red as his Scandinavian skin. His strength was useless, however, against the freak medical condition that took him. He had been like an older brother to me over the years, had even saved my life once, and his stunningly sudden death shook me to my core.
It snowed hard that day, as it did the day they lowered him into the ground, as if God himself was sobbing frozen tears, guilty of the old cliché of taking a man who was too young.
It was years before I considered myself “normal” again, before I could talk or think about him without choking back tears. Certain songs would launch me into a rage, while too much drink could have me cursing God in a sloppy, slurring fashion.
I wanted to learn Latin so I could yell at Him in his own language, because I knew He wasn't paying attention to my whiskey-soaked rants.
But time has a way of leveling things off, softening the body shots that life gives you as the years progress. It made me realize that “grieving” was not, in fact, synonymous with “raging,” and that memories of the dead do not always beget tears. I even visited his grave a couple times, even though both trips were treacherously difficult.
And so I sat at a dark Irish bar on the five year anniversary of his death with a couple of our closest friends, as well as his own younger brother, a carbon copy of the dead man in so many ways.
There was no more crying into the bottom of a pint-glass, as those days have since passed - lighthearted stories and jokes took its place. But we still knew that his specter sat in the corner, silently reminding us of why we were at a bar on a Tuesday night.
As the hours passed and the stream of Jameson continued to flow, however, our smiling eyes softened, and the night inevitably turned to those memories that we don't talk about much. For a while, we allowed the sadness to envelop us once more and felt the pain that we'd buried for so long.
On the way home, though, it struck me how warm this night had been, in stark contrast to how bitter it was in 2005. For a moment, there was even that smell in the air that comes only when spring is emerging after the long dying time is over, announcing to the world that life is resurrected.
Maybe those shadows do rise to walk again, I thought.
Sometimes it takes a true tragedy to make brooding people like me realize that we truly must live life only for the living, because the sun is rising tomorrow, and to do otherwise would be to dishonor the fallen who never had that chance for success… or redemption.
So for the first time in a long time, I can simply say, “Rest in peace amigo.” I will see you at the crossroads.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Grappling champ trains for competitions out of Pompton Lakes
Sunday, October 17, 2010
BY STEVE JANOSKI
Sixty years ago, thousands flocked to the borough to gawk at legendary heavyweight champion Joe Louis as he laced up the gloves and stepped into the square circle to spar at Doc Bier's training camp on Perrin Avenue in Pompton Lakes as he prepared for such famed opponents as Max Schmeling and the "Cinderella Man" Jim Braddock.
Now, in 2010, a heavyweight champion of another sort trains in Pompton Lakes, for competitions no less fierce – some against opponents no less determined.
His name is Anthony Argyros. Instead of boxing, he competes in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu; instead of Perrin Avenue, he trains at the Cannonball Gym on Cannonball Road.
Argyros, 42, is not your run-of-the-mill MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) wannabe, however. He's been in the game for about 12 years and has over 250 fights under his belt, and has finished in first place in over 90 tournaments.
He has finished first in North American Grappling Association (NAGA) tournaments for his weight class and division every year since 2000, and has the distinction of being named the organization's first-ever recipient of the "Fighter of the Decade" award for the years 2000-2009.
He also was honored to receive Gladiator Magazine's "2010 Golden Gladiator Award" on Aug. 7 at NAGA's annual "Battle at the Beach" tournament in Wildwood for his continuing support of submission grappling.
"I'm still ingesting it, trying to understand it," Argyros said of the award. "To get that, considering who has competed in NAGA over the decade… to be the one guy who got recognized, that was big."
Argyros isn't kidding— the list of those who have competed in NAGA tournaments over the years reads like a "Who's who of Mixed Martial Arts"— huge Pay-Per-View names like Forrest Griffin, Frank Mir, Kenny Florian, and Dante Rivera have all gotten on the mats to roll at one time or another.
He's even written a book about his long journey, named "Inside the Combat Club," which documents his experiences in grappling tournaments over the past 10 years.
Now, he splits his time between his home in Hawthorne and the gym in Pompton Lakes, training himself, as well as athletes of all types, in both weightlifting and grappling.
Cannonball Gym owner Austin Wall said that having Argyros train and teach at the gym is "invaluable" because of his experience.
"A lot of guys train in a dojo, and their belt is mostly because of the time they've spent there," Wall said. "But he's been traveling around the country, competing against the best guys, and you can't get that kind of experience just training on the mat."
"To be able to translate that to the students…we can't put a price on that," he said.
An innocuous start for future champ
Argyros, who is 5 feet 8 inches on his best day but, at around 215 pounds, is nearly as broad as he is tall, was a high school and semi-pro football player back in his early days.He didn't get involved in combat sports until the 90s, when the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC) began to gain traction and attract attention.
Those brutal early competitions had few rules and no time limits, and were dominated by Brazil's Gracie family, which brought a grappling style to American soil that had been previously unknown: Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu (commonly called "BJJ").
BJJ is a martial art based on getting opponents on the ground, and then manipulating them into what are called "submission holds."
Once caught in a hold, competitors must either "tap out" or risk suffering a shattered limb.
"Thousands of people saw Royce Gracie beat all these big guys, and I said, 'I gotta learn that," Argyros said.
Still though, Argyros was nearly 30 years old, and wondered if he was too old to learn and compete in an art where the best of the best have trained since youth. He went forward anyway, and his first match was in December of 1998.
"I completely ran out of gas," he said. "I lost a decision after six minutes, and I couldn't breathe…it was then I realized that this is a really tough sport."
Just four months later, he would suffer an injury that very nearly ended his career before it began — during a match in South Plainfield, he was caught in a hold called an armbar that ended up ripping the ligaments in his arm.
To this day, he can't completely straighten his right arm because of the scar tissue that's in his elbow joint.
"I had a hard beginning because I was jumping right into the advanced divisions because I thought that's what you were supposed to do," he said.
"I don't recommend that people do that," he said with a laugh.
He kept training, and in 2000, he began to win his matches. In June of that year, he won his first NAGA Championship; every calendar year since, he has taken the title in the heavyweight class.
Argyros has also come in first place in the "Battle at the Beach" tournament each year except 2005, when he lost to Rhadi Ferguson, a US Olympian in Judo. He's still the only grappler that's competed at every BATB; five years later, that's where he would receive his "Grappler of the Decade" award.
"They announced my name, put the belts on me…that was really sentimental for me because that was the first NAGA tournament I did," he said.
Argyros' hardest fight, he said, was against current MMA fighter Jeff Monson.
"He's the best…he was 240 pounds of muscle and skill and experience and knowledge," he said.
Argyros entertained thoughts of pursuing MMA as a career, but was convinced otherwise after two matches early in 2002.
In his second match, he fought professional MMA fighter Tom Murphy, and it didn't go so well.
"He beat me up bad," he said. "I survived, I went the distance, but I thought my eardrum was broken… I remember I threw a kick at him, and he kicked me back and my leg hurt for probably three weeks."
Argyros said that he learned that day that MMA is "a dangerous game,"— and a game that, at 33 years old, he didn't want to be a part of.
He sticks with grappling tournaments now, and, as a black belt in BJJ, most of his time is spent training himself or others at Cannonball.
"Literally, in my case, fights are won in the gym," he said. "If two guys have equal skill, but one guy has a tremendous work ethic, that's when (strength and conditioning) becomes important."
After 250 fights, one might believe that he knows what he's talking about.
Currently he trains five days a week, alternating body parts in a maniacal workout that will sometimes feature him doing 20 sets of chin-ups worked in with 20 sets of some other weightlifting exercise involving either dumbbells or kettlebells, with just 30 seconds of rest between sets.
"I try to develop a real Spartan environment, an old school one, at Cannonball," he said.
The workouts have paid off—in his last tournament on Oct. 2, Argyros took a bronze and silver medal, losing first place to a famed BJJ player named Fabio Clemente when, while up on points, he was disqualified on a questionable call by the Brazilian referee.
Regardless, Argyros said that he's proud of all that he's accomplished, especially earning his black belt from teacher Carlos Catania.
Now, he only competes when he wants to, and said that he's got nothing to prove anymore.
"I only do this because I enjoy it now," he said.
A family affair
Argyros has been married for 16 years, and has both a son and a daughter who are involved in the sport; his son, he said, might one day follow in his footsteps and compete.He has no desire to train his son though, and said that he'd "rather just be his dad."
Argyros has said that he would enjoy coaching others in combat sports, however, and has already been to tournaments with adult students.
He also has advice for any kids who watch shows like "The Ultimate Fighter" and entertain dreams of being a cage fighter: Be careful what you wish for.
"I hope my guys stick with grappling tournaments, because cage fighting is a whole different thing…and to be in a guy's corner and watch those four- ounce gloves make contact with the head...," he said, trailing off and shaking his head.
"You've got to have a legit reason for me to coach you in cage fighting, because whatever you're wishing for, you just might get," he said.
E-mail: janoski@northjersey.com
Catching one of nature's finest predators
BY STEVE JANOSKI
As the boat headed toward deeper waters, I lay back on the bench, vainly trying to catch up on some of the hours of slumber I'd lost the previous night.
I would wake only briefly, lazily opening one eye when the mate, a large, tanned man with a moustache and waders, was pulling one of the fishing rods off of the ceiling in his never-ending chore of keeping the lines in the water.
We'd woken up at 2 a.m. to start this trip, and six of us drove from North Jersey to the town of Montauk, on the edge of Long Island, to take a charter boat out in the wee hours of a Monday morning.
Half a day later, we had caught our fair share of bluefish and striped bass when the captain, an older man whose white beard gave him a passing resemblance to Hemingway, asked us if we'd like to go out a little further in search of shark.
"They're biting," he told us.
As far as I know, there's only three types of sharks that swim in the waters around New Jersey that taste good when eaten: the thresher, the mako, and the legendary great white.
Some years ago I caught a massive blue shark, and fought him for 20 minutes before we figured out that once we landed him, he couldn't be taken home-and it's always better when you can eat what you've caught.
We agreed, and hoped that we'd be luckier this time around-an hour's ride later, we could barely see the outline of the land on the horizon.
Even at 15 miles off shore, the waters were calm; typically at that distance, boisterous waves smash the stern with enough force to make even the hardiest of souls seasick.
But this tranquil Atlantic made sleeping easier, and because shark fishing can sometimes be interminably tedious, most of us on the boat began nodding off in some fashion or another.
An hour went by before a cry from the boat's captain broke my slumber.
"It's a shark! He's got a mako on the far line!"
Instantly I was up, stumbling around the cabin bleary-eyed searching for my camera, and the back deck of the charter became a maelstrom of activity with the captain coming down from the bridge as the mate scrambled, preparing the harpoon and the "bang stick" (a special underwater firearm that employs a long tube and a shotgun shell) for their deadly work.
About 50 yards out, the mako somersaulted out of the water, a beautiful flash of blue and silver against the sky, before plummeting back down, drawing out the line on reel once again.
It took 10 minutes before the shark was able to be reeled in close enough for a gaff (a long pole with a steel hook on the end) to be used to hold the shark in place. A rope was then tied around the tail to better control its thrashes.
My father held the gaff while the mate lined up his shot; seconds later, with a swift movement, he launched the harpoon into the mako's side.
"I got him!" he yelled to the captain, and pulled the body of the harpoon away, leaving the head lodged above the shark's gills.
The captain then moved forward and, with a hard strike, punched the shark's head with the end of the bang stick. A loud crack was heard as the shell went off, and blood quickly began to flow into the water and lap the sides of the boat.
With that, the shark began its death rolls, and the rage leaked out of it with every ounce of blood that spilled into the ocean.
Eventually, it would be strung up by the tail to ensure that it was completely dead before bringing the six-foot, 125 pound mako (along with its jagged, intimidating teeth) on board.
As I leaned over the side of the boat, I stared into its black poker chip eyes.
When the boat would dip to the side, the shark would be submerged again, and its lungs would flex to life and the eyes would momentarily stir, only to flatten out again as the oxygen left its system.
It was, indeed, an unequivocal triumph over one of the sea's consummate killers.
As the boat headed toward deeper waters, I lay back on the bench, vainly trying to catch up on some of the hours of slumber I'd lost the previous night.
I would wake only briefly, lazily opening one eye when the mate, a large, tanned man with a moustache and waders, was pulling one of the fishing rods off of the ceiling in his never-ending chore of keeping the lines in the water.
We'd woken up at 2 a.m. to start this trip, and six of us drove from North Jersey to the town of Montauk, on the edge of Long Island, to take a charter boat out in the wee hours of a Monday morning.
Half a day later, we had caught our fair share of bluefish and striped bass when the captain, an older man whose white beard gave him a passing resemblance to Hemingway, asked us if we'd like to go out a little further in search of shark.
"They're biting," he told us.
As far as I know, there's only three types of sharks that swim in the waters around New Jersey that taste good when eaten: the thresher, the mako, and the legendary great white.
Some years ago I caught a massive blue shark, and fought him for 20 minutes before we figured out that once we landed him, he couldn't be taken home-and it's always better when you can eat what you've caught.
We agreed, and hoped that we'd be luckier this time around-an hour's ride later, we could barely see the outline of the land on the horizon.
Even at 15 miles off shore, the waters were calm; typically at that distance, boisterous waves smash the stern with enough force to make even the hardiest of souls seasick.
But this tranquil Atlantic made sleeping easier, and because shark fishing can sometimes be interminably tedious, most of us on the boat began nodding off in some fashion or another.
An hour went by before a cry from the boat's captain broke my slumber.
"It's a shark! He's got a mako on the far line!"
Instantly I was up, stumbling around the cabin bleary-eyed searching for my camera, and the back deck of the charter became a maelstrom of activity with the captain coming down from the bridge as the mate scrambled, preparing the harpoon and the "bang stick" (a special underwater firearm that employs a long tube and a shotgun shell) for their deadly work.
About 50 yards out, the mako somersaulted out of the water, a beautiful flash of blue and silver against the sky, before plummeting back down, drawing out the line on reel once again.
It took 10 minutes before the shark was able to be reeled in close enough for a gaff (a long pole with a steel hook on the end) to be used to hold the shark in place. A rope was then tied around the tail to better control its thrashes.
My father held the gaff while the mate lined up his shot; seconds later, with a swift movement, he launched the harpoon into the mako's side.
"I got him!" he yelled to the captain, and pulled the body of the harpoon away, leaving the head lodged above the shark's gills.
The captain then moved forward and, with a hard strike, punched the shark's head with the end of the bang stick. A loud crack was heard as the shell went off, and blood quickly began to flow into the water and lap the sides of the boat.
With that, the shark began its death rolls, and the rage leaked out of it with every ounce of blood that spilled into the ocean.
Eventually, it would be strung up by the tail to ensure that it was completely dead before bringing the six-foot, 125 pound mako (along with its jagged, intimidating teeth) on board.
As I leaned over the side of the boat, I stared into its black poker chip eyes.
When the boat would dip to the side, the shark would be submerged again, and its lungs would flex to life and the eyes would momentarily stir, only to flatten out again as the oxygen left its system.
It was, indeed, an unequivocal triumph over one of the sea's consummate killers.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Biker Bars...don't believe the hype
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
BY STEVE JANOSKI
He was a big man with graying hair and a gravelly voice that carried the weight of years in every word.
"This place is nothin' man," he told me. "I bounced in a bar once years back…that place was rough. I been shot, stabbed, beat up…"
He went on to tell me about the time that two rival outlaw gangs got into a rumble at that bar—by the end of the night, a cop was shot and members of both clubs were mangled.
He had the battle scars in the form of a cluster of missing teeth to back up his stories, but I could tell he wasn't the lying type anyway.
He stood next to me at the bar and listened to the blues band for a couple songs before excusing himself outside to have a smoke.
It's hard to find bars around here where things like that happen anymore.
Moreover, it was in what we were doing: standing at the bar, drinking a beer, listening to a blues band, and telling some stories.
That's the reality of biker bars, right there. It's not fancy, and nothing that's anywhere near as brutal as the movies would like you to think.
In researching local biker bars for a recent article, I've found that the idea that there's blood on the floor every night is the stereotype that the bar owners seem to be trying to combat, and I don't blame them.
The amount of comments I get when I wear a "Great Notch Inn" t-shirt is mind-boggling, with most of them being along the lines of "I can't believe you go there!"
"Do you believe it?" I tell them. "And I haven't been shot once!"
Honestly, I've found these places to be safer than the college bars in the area, probably because of the intimidation factor that the clientele brings with them; the odds of a 21-year-old kid starting a problem shrink exponentially when a massive, bald-headed biker with "SS" tattooed on his neck is sitting right next to him.
But biker bars are full of guys who go to the bar for the same reason that the doctor or accountant do: to have a beer and relax. The fact that they ride in on a bike doesn't make any difference once they're in the door.
I have been in the worst places that North Jersey has to offer, from the seediest Paterson strip club to the hardest biker bar in the boonies, and yet the only problems I've ever had came about because I was looking for trouble myself.
When people say they're scared to go into a place like West Milford's Mountain Rest or the Great Notch, I tell them that, as clichéd as it sounds, follow the rule that Patrick Swayze gave his bouncers in the legendary film "Roadhouse" — be nice.
That one piece of advice will let you sit at nearly any bar in the country and have nary a worry, because bikers, like all other people, like to be treated with respect.
Common courtesies like holding the door open for someone, saying "please" or "thank you," and apologizing if you bump into a guy or spill a drink will get you a long way in these places, just like they do anywhere else.
Of course, don't get me wrong. If you walk into one of these places looking for trouble, you could quickly be in a world of hurt, but that rule tends to be the same in any bar.
The cold reality is that for all of the attention they receive in movies, television, and magazines, the "Double Deuces" of the world tend to get shut down because the real world has things like zoning boards, liquor licenses, and laws.
Are there motorcycle gangs that break the law? Sure. Are they going to do it in public, or risk getting locked up because of some dumb kid starting trouble at the bar? Not likely.
So give these places a shot next time you want to get out on Friday night. They've got character that is nowhere to be found in the soulless service bars of the chain restaurants of the world, and you might just meet some interesting folks that you didn't think you'd befriend otherwise.
Although if Sam Elliott walks in…you should probably leave.
Don't gamble with America's history
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
BY STEVE JANOSKI
As a child, my fascination with American history, and the Civil War in particular, could not be sated.
I had watched all of the movies and read all of the books, and did my best to tear the words off the pages and form lucid pictures in my head of what the scenes in America’s epic wars must have looked like.
Nothing, however, was comparable to the extraordinary experience of visiting a battlefield itself.
Though it may seem a dreary and boring chore to some, I loved walking along the ground I had read about so often, and tried hard to imagine the sights and sounds of war, though they were difficult to conjure against the often picturesque landscapes that exist so many years later.
Of all the places I visited, however, none held the same allure as Gettysburg.
The small hamlet has an aura about it that cannot be explained; it’s as if history rises up through the ground and floods the streets, enveloping every crack, every facet of its residents’ lives.
Bullet holes still festoon the buildings’ brick walls, and the hotel in which Lincoln composed his immortal Gettysburg Address still stands.
The gently sloping hills and slender ridges around the town where the battle was fought are quiet now, in stark contrast to the broiling hell that consumed them over three brutally hot days in July of 1863.
From July 1 to July 3, the South’s Army of Northern Virginia and the North’s Army of the Potomac clashed in a battle that was so indescribably horrifying, so sadistically violent, that by the end of the fighting, 51,000 Americans were considered casualties.
8,000 of these were killed outright in the fighting, and left their corpses to bake and rot under Pennsylvania’s summer sun.
These were men—American men—with families, with children, who gave up their inauspicious lives in Maine and Minnesota, in Alabama and Virginia, to fight for what they thought was right, and paid that ultimate sacrifice.
If there is any holy ground in this country, any land that should remain untouched as long as America stands, it’s the acres of dirt that once soaked up the blood of these hardened American warriors.
But, as a recent article in the Philadelphia Inquirer points out, not everyone holds this view.
In this case, the proposal calls for a $75 million, 600-slot casino to be built just a half-mile from the southern edge of the 6,000-acre Gettysburg National Park on a section of the battlefield that saw action, but isn’t owned by the National Park Service.
It’s being proposed by former Conrail chief executive David LeVan, who had a similar request for an even more massive casino shot down by the Pennsylvania Gaming Control Board in 2006 due to heavy opposition.
LeVan seems to have a special interest in building this monstrosity next to the battlefield— not surprising considering the weight that the Gettysburg name carries in relation to tourism.
The typical developer claims have been made: the casino won’t be visible from the battlefield, it will bring jobs to the economically depressed area, etc.
But, if there’s one thing we’ve all learned living in North Jersey, it’s that developers will say whatever they have to in order to get approval to build something, but when that something is complete, it rarely works like the developer said it would.
There are many who are far more intelligent than I that feel the same way, as nearly 300 historians, including more than one Pulitzer-prize winner, have signed a letter protesting the development to the Gaming Control Board, saying that its construction would be an "insult to the men who died there."
They are exactly right.
Can you imagine the outcry if LeVan wished to put a casino right on top of Ground Zero in New York?
Or maybe, a strip club inside of Independence Hall?
Should it be approved, the casino would be the prime example of capitalism run amok, destroying that which should be sacred to a people in the name of jobs, money, and profits.
Perhaps LeVan would be otherwise convinced if he read the words Lincoln spoke when commemorating the Gettysburg National Cemetery in November of 1863, for no one could say it better.
"But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow, this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here."
Do not forget what they did, Mr. LeVan.
Find somewhere else for your casino.
As a child, my fascination with American history, and the Civil War in particular, could not be sated.
BY STEVE JANOSKI
As a child, my fascination with American history, and the Civil War in particular, could not be sated.
I had watched all of the movies and read all of the books, and did my best to tear the words off the pages and form lucid pictures in my head of what the scenes in America’s epic wars must have looked like.
Nothing, however, was comparable to the extraordinary experience of visiting a battlefield itself.
Though it may seem a dreary and boring chore to some, I loved walking along the ground I had read about so often, and tried hard to imagine the sights and sounds of war, though they were difficult to conjure against the often picturesque landscapes that exist so many years later.
Of all the places I visited, however, none held the same allure as Gettysburg.
The small hamlet has an aura about it that cannot be explained; it’s as if history rises up through the ground and floods the streets, enveloping every crack, every facet of its residents’ lives.
Bullet holes still festoon the buildings’ brick walls, and the hotel in which Lincoln composed his immortal Gettysburg Address still stands.
The gently sloping hills and slender ridges around the town where the battle was fought are quiet now, in stark contrast to the broiling hell that consumed them over three brutally hot days in July of 1863.
From July 1 to July 3, the South’s Army of Northern Virginia and the North’s Army of the Potomac clashed in a battle that was so indescribably horrifying, so sadistically violent, that by the end of the fighting, 51,000 Americans were considered casualties.
8,000 of these were killed outright in the fighting, and left their corpses to bake and rot under Pennsylvania’s summer sun.
These were men—American men—with families, with children, who gave up their inauspicious lives in Maine and Minnesota, in Alabama and Virginia, to fight for what they thought was right, and paid that ultimate sacrifice.
If there is any holy ground in this country, any land that should remain untouched as long as America stands, it’s the acres of dirt that once soaked up the blood of these hardened American warriors.
But, as a recent article in the Philadelphia Inquirer points out, not everyone holds this view.
In this case, the proposal calls for a $75 million, 600-slot casino to be built just a half-mile from the southern edge of the 6,000-acre Gettysburg National Park on a section of the battlefield that saw action, but isn’t owned by the National Park Service.
It’s being proposed by former Conrail chief executive David LeVan, who had a similar request for an even more massive casino shot down by the Pennsylvania Gaming Control Board in 2006 due to heavy opposition.
LeVan seems to have a special interest in building this monstrosity next to the battlefield— not surprising considering the weight that the Gettysburg name carries in relation to tourism.
The typical developer claims have been made: the casino won’t be visible from the battlefield, it will bring jobs to the economically depressed area, etc.
But, if there’s one thing we’ve all learned living in North Jersey, it’s that developers will say whatever they have to in order to get approval to build something, but when that something is complete, it rarely works like the developer said it would.
There are many who are far more intelligent than I that feel the same way, as nearly 300 historians, including more than one Pulitzer-prize winner, have signed a letter protesting the development to the Gaming Control Board, saying that its construction would be an "insult to the men who died there."
They are exactly right.
Can you imagine the outcry if LeVan wished to put a casino right on top of Ground Zero in New York?
Or maybe, a strip club inside of Independence Hall?
Should it be approved, the casino would be the prime example of capitalism run amok, destroying that which should be sacred to a people in the name of jobs, money, and profits.
Perhaps LeVan would be otherwise convinced if he read the words Lincoln spoke when commemorating the Gettysburg National Cemetery in November of 1863, for no one could say it better.
"But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow, this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here."
Do not forget what they did, Mr. LeVan.
Find somewhere else for your casino.
As a child, my fascination with American history, and the Civil War in particular, could not be sated.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Making life for the movies
BY STEVE JANOSKI
I was never fond of the idea of a “bucket list.”
In my eyes it was a pretentious sort of thing to write down things that you determine you must, beyond all reasonable doubt, do before you die, or else you would declare all your years a waste.
Either do the things or don't, but posting your list on your refrigerator door like Martin Luther with one of your kid's animal magnets seems insincere at best.
Death, of course, has a way of changing things, and breaking down my innate cynicism I've worked so hard to sharpen, and so two weeks ago, as I looked over my grandfather's laid-out corpse, I couldn't help but feel a tingle of my own mortality.
It happens every time I go to a funeral, and that's why I avoid those functions as much as possible.
But even as I took in the sight of him lying in a casket, there wasn't that sense of overwhelming regret and destructive sorrow- he was 84 years-old, and had lived a long life that was truly, and in every sense of the word, worth living.
Born in 1926, he was a part of what's been called the “Greatest Generation,” having signed up with the Navy at the tender age of 17 in 1944. He was promptly sent to the Pacific Theater, where he was part of the crew of a PBY Catalina, the “flying boat” type plane that could land on water.
The PBY was often used as a sub-hunter in the Pacific, and although the details of the engagements were left out, an eager energy would trace across his old eyes when he recalled the adventure of those days.
During one of those missions, his head was grazed by a .50 bullet that barely missed- one inch the other way, and this writer wouldn't be here.
Over the course of the war the years immediately after, he was stationed across both America and the South Pacific, and by the age of 22, he'd seen more of the world than most of my generation will see in their entire lives.
Being a young man watching these old lions die brings home the reality that no matter how long life seems, it is truly a harrowingly short ride that should be enjoyed with the most intensity that can be drawn from each breath.
So recently, as a way of keeping my intentions straight- you guessed it- I'm beginning to write up a bucket list. I'm not going to call it that, because I still think it's a ridiculous term, but I've admitted that there are certain things that I've thought about doing but had considered out of my reach for one reason or another.
Unlike the movie, I'm not going sky-diving, because I still can't figure out why someone would want to jump out of a plane that isn't falling as fast as they are.
However, climbing Mount Kilimanjaro? Absolutely. I've gotten into the outdoors much more in the last few years, and summiting Hemingway's legendary conquest would be a story worth living myself.
I'd like to take a boat down the Amazon River, because the sheer natural brutality of that region has captured my imagination for years.
One day, I'd like to stand at the Straits of Gibraltar, and then later on that day, get drunk at a bar that lies at edge of the Mediterranean Sea.
There are many journeys I plan on embarking on, and with my natural tendency to seek out the worst people and seediest parts of wherever I am, I'm sure they'll be interesting.
This way, when I'm done living this life, I'll be able to say that I made it all worth it, and lived a life that the wild men of the world would look on with approval after some producer makes a movie out of it decades from now.
As one man I know often says, “It's better to wear out than rust out.”
There could be no better motto for anyone's life.
"Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!" - Hunter S. Thompson
I was never fond of the idea of a “bucket list.”
In my eyes it was a pretentious sort of thing to write down things that you determine you must, beyond all reasonable doubt, do before you die, or else you would declare all your years a waste.
Either do the things or don't, but posting your list on your refrigerator door like Martin Luther with one of your kid's animal magnets seems insincere at best.
Death, of course, has a way of changing things, and breaking down my innate cynicism I've worked so hard to sharpen, and so two weeks ago, as I looked over my grandfather's laid-out corpse, I couldn't help but feel a tingle of my own mortality.
It happens every time I go to a funeral, and that's why I avoid those functions as much as possible.
But even as I took in the sight of him lying in a casket, there wasn't that sense of overwhelming regret and destructive sorrow- he was 84 years-old, and had lived a long life that was truly, and in every sense of the word, worth living.
Born in 1926, he was a part of what's been called the “Greatest Generation,” having signed up with the Navy at the tender age of 17 in 1944. He was promptly sent to the Pacific Theater, where he was part of the crew of a PBY Catalina, the “flying boat” type plane that could land on water.
The PBY was often used as a sub-hunter in the Pacific, and although the details of the engagements were left out, an eager energy would trace across his old eyes when he recalled the adventure of those days.
During one of those missions, his head was grazed by a .50 bullet that barely missed- one inch the other way, and this writer wouldn't be here.
Over the course of the war the years immediately after, he was stationed across both America and the South Pacific, and by the age of 22, he'd seen more of the world than most of my generation will see in their entire lives.
Being a young man watching these old lions die brings home the reality that no matter how long life seems, it is truly a harrowingly short ride that should be enjoyed with the most intensity that can be drawn from each breath.
So recently, as a way of keeping my intentions straight- you guessed it- I'm beginning to write up a bucket list. I'm not going to call it that, because I still think it's a ridiculous term, but I've admitted that there are certain things that I've thought about doing but had considered out of my reach for one reason or another.
Unlike the movie, I'm not going sky-diving, because I still can't figure out why someone would want to jump out of a plane that isn't falling as fast as they are.
However, climbing Mount Kilimanjaro? Absolutely. I've gotten into the outdoors much more in the last few years, and summiting Hemingway's legendary conquest would be a story worth living myself.
I'd like to take a boat down the Amazon River, because the sheer natural brutality of that region has captured my imagination for years.
One day, I'd like to stand at the Straits of Gibraltar, and then later on that day, get drunk at a bar that lies at edge of the Mediterranean Sea.
There are many journeys I plan on embarking on, and with my natural tendency to seek out the worst people and seediest parts of wherever I am, I'm sure they'll be interesting.
This way, when I'm done living this life, I'll be able to say that I made it all worth it, and lived a life that the wild men of the world would look on with approval after some producer makes a movie out of it decades from now.
As one man I know often says, “It's better to wear out than rust out.”
There could be no better motto for anyone's life.
Crushing the last smokes
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
BY STEVE JANOSKI
Since I was 16, everyone and their mother has informed me about the evils of smoking.
Women (and it was always women) would come up to me outside pizza places while I was enjoying an after-meal cigarette, and impart their knowledge on me of the human body and its propensity to die.
"Oh honey, you know that causes cancer!" they said.
I'd roll my eyes.
"Does it? Oh wow. Thanks. You've saved a life right here lady. I'm forever in your gratitude," I said as I'd stub it out and walk away.
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But it's been a decade of smoking for me now, and even a hard-headed fool like me knows that the older I get, the more the damage stacks up.
That, along with my turning 26 this year, has convinced me that I'm apparently in this for the long haul, and I should start walking away from the things that are gradually killing me.
So the day before my birthday, I took my last drag of a Marlboro light, crushed the remainders, and started the dark, arduous journey to freedom.
When people tell you the first three days are the worst, they're not kidding.
A friend of mine, who was watching me chew gum and jitter with a scowl on my face while at a barbecue, asked me how I was doing with it.
"Well…let's just say that right now, I'd cut the head off a baby seal with a spoon and beat an orphan with it to get another smoke," I said, shaking my head.
He laughed. Kind of.
It's a difficult thing to take something that you did 20 times a day, every day, for 10 years, and just stop — a non-smoker asked me what it was like, and I said it was like being told that you can't use your left arm ever again.
After three days though, and some tribulations that came in the form of massive cravings while drinking beer, it started to dissipate.
Two weeks later, I've become used to not stopping for a cigarette when walking into or out of a building or bar.
I like waking up in the morning not coughing so hard my stomach wrenches, or being able to go a couple extra rounds on the heavy bag without gasping for breath.
My tongue has returned to the pink color that I assume it was supposed to be, and I can actually taste things that I've been eating and drinking for years like coffee and wheat bread (which I've now realized that I don't actually like that much).
I won't dramatize it by saying lies about how I've got a new lease on life… but I do feel better, and I'm almost convinced that it was worth it.
I miss smoking insanely; it was a nice crutch, and a good way to be able to disappear from awkward situations or other places I didn't want to be in, if only for a few minutes.
By quitting, however, I'm truly hoping that I dodged the one place that I really didn't want to be — and that was in some doctor's office in a few decades, and having him tell me that I have lung cancer.
And that's worth whatever I've got to deal with in the meantime.
http://www.northjersey.com/news/health/96534534_Crushing_the_smokes.html
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
New York crashes Jersey’s Giant party
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
BY STEVE JANOSKI
I’ve heard it on the radio waves, on TV, and seen the excited announcements on Facebook for the past week— our very own Giants Stadium is finally going to get the Super Bowl in 2014.
This is a good thing for both the area and the NFL. It’ll bring business to the state, and it will also be nice to see football being played once again as the real men used to play it—outside in the brutal elements, come snow, sleet, or rain.
With the right weather conditions (or the wrong ones, if you’re playing), we might even have a repeat of the legendary Ice Bowl—the 1967 NFL title game played at Lambeau Field in Green Bay, Wisconsin, where the temperature was a balmy negative 13 degrees at game time and the referees couldn’t use their whistles because they froze to their lips on contact.
That’s some manly stuff right there.
Of course, even with all of the excitement over the game, there’s one thing that bothers me—people, it seems, need a geography lesson on where exactly Giants Stadium is.
Say it with me boys, all you announcers and pundits and sportswriters across this great land—it’s in "New Jersey."
I know you want to forget about us except when making your poor jokes about the shore or big hair or any of the other…stuff…that has floated around about us over the years, but now, you’ve got to acknowledge us.
Too long have we taken the back seat to that shining city across the Hudson, and this latest affront on the part of the national media in referring to it as a "New York Super Bowl" is recklessly belligerent toward our state.
This won’t be a "New York Super Bowl" any more than the Knicks are a New Jersey disgrace—we will be dealing with the traffic, we’ll be putting up with the tourists, and most importantly, we’ll be bringing in the cash from it.
And rightfully so.
New York has long claimed the Giants as their own, even though the team played in three different states at various times before finally settling in the Meadowlands in 1976; while East Rutherford is only 7 miles from Times Square, you’ve still got to cross one big state line to get there.
Although I can only talk as a Giants fan, even the New York Jets, by far a more "New York" team, have played at the Meadowlands for 26 years after hustling out of Shea Stadium.
What’s that say about the city and football?
What says even more is that in all of the Giants games I’ve ever been to, I have yet to hear any kind of New York accent or talk to any fancy folks from Manhattan or Queens who made the trek out to the swamps to come see "their" team play.
It’s folks from Wayne or West Caldwell, Bayonne or Belleville, that go the games, pay the exorbitant parking fees, and trade their less-used appendages for the $10 beers.
I’ve accepted that the team that plays in New Jersey in the stadium built for no other purpose than to house them still has that damned "NY" on their helmets—some things just aren’t going to change.
But at least for the next four years, I want it tattooed on these announcers’ foreheads that East Rutherford isn’t New York, and that this game will be among New Jersey’s shining moments whether they like it or not.
So no more "New York Super Bowl."
No more "NY/NJ Super Bowl."
No more "New York Area Super Bowl."
With the right weather conditions (or the wrong ones, if you’re playing), we might even have a repeat of the legendary Ice Bowl—the 1967 NFL title game played at Lambeau Field in Green Bay, Wisconsin, where the temperature was a balmy negative 13 degrees at game time and the referees couldn’t use their whistles because they froze to their lips on contact.
That’s some manly stuff right there.
Of course, even with all of the excitement over the game, there’s one thing that bothers me—people, it seems, need a geography lesson on where exactly Giants Stadium is.
Say it with me boys, all you announcers and pundits and sportswriters across this great land—it’s in "New Jersey."
I know you want to forget about us except when making your poor jokes about the shore or big hair or any of the other…stuff…that has floated around about us over the years, but now, you’ve got to acknowledge us.
Too long have we taken the back seat to that shining city across the Hudson, and this latest affront on the part of the national media in referring to it as a "New York Super Bowl" is recklessly belligerent toward our state.
This won’t be a "New York Super Bowl" any more than the Knicks are a New Jersey disgrace—we will be dealing with the traffic, we’ll be putting up with the tourists, and most importantly, we’ll be bringing in the cash from it.
And rightfully so.
New York has long claimed the Giants as their own, even though the team played in three different states at various times before finally settling in the Meadowlands in 1976; while East Rutherford is only 7 miles from Times Square, you’ve still got to cross one big state line to get there.
Although I can only talk as a Giants fan, even the New York Jets, by far a more "New York" team, have played at the Meadowlands for 26 years after hustling out of Shea Stadium.
What’s that say about the city and football?
What says even more is that in all of the Giants games I’ve ever been to, I have yet to hear any kind of New York accent or talk to any fancy folks from Manhattan or Queens who made the trek out to the swamps to come see "their" team play.
It’s folks from Wayne or West Caldwell, Bayonne or Belleville, that go the games, pay the exorbitant parking fees, and trade their less-used appendages for the $10 beers.
I’ve accepted that the team that plays in New Jersey in the stadium built for no other purpose than to house them still has that damned "NY" on their helmets—some things just aren’t going to change.
But at least for the next four years, I want it tattooed on these announcers’ foreheads that East Rutherford isn’t New York, and that this game will be among New Jersey’s shining moments whether they like it or not.
So no more "New York Super Bowl."
No more "NY/NJ Super Bowl."
No more "New York Area Super Bowl."
It’s New Jersey. Get it right, especially you New Yorkers.
Otherwise, I might just have to start confusing Manhattan and Long Island…and we all know how much you’ll like that.
"Manhattan? Mastic? It’s all the same to me."
http://www.northjersey.com/sports/pro_sports/95480194_New_York_crashes_Jersey_s_Giant_party.html
Monday, October 25, 2010
Roy Jones's Last Chapter
Steve Janoski- It was with some trepidation that I read Vivek Wallace’s article, “Roy Jones: Closed Chapter, Open Book.” My fear was that somehow, through his last few fights, Jones is regaining his stature, at least amongst boxing writers, as a top player in the game. Upon reading the article, I saw these fears confirmed.
I have been a long time Roy Jones Jr. fan, and one need only watch one of the plethora of tributes on youtube to see why. In his prime, Roy was not only one of the greatest to step into the ring, he was also a showman worthy of P.T. Barnum’s stature.. Roy not only won the fights; he put on a spectacle that would leave fans with everlasting impressions that cemented his greatness- crushing Virgil Hills’ ribs with brutal right hand, making James Toney look like a fool for taunting him mid-fight, and pulling a page out of a cockfighting technique book in his stunning knockout of Glen Kelly. The man is to boxing what Dominique Wilkins was to basketball; a human highlight reel that not only triumphed, but made your jaw drop while doing it.
But those days are long since past. Since Jones’ knockout loss at the fists of Antonio Tarver, he has not recovered the strut and swagger that he once had. It has returned only in flashes, little pieces of excellence that Jones cannot quite draw together. He showed those pieces in his fight against Trinidad, in the first round of the Calzaghe fight, in his demolition of Lacy. But to say that the man is still a “top talent in the sport” is a vain attempt to resurrect a fighter whose body is not in the game anymore.
Wallace says that Roy is 5-1 in his last six fights. That’s true. But who were they against? Prince Badi Ajamu and Anthony Hanshaw were the first two. If anyone knows who they are, go out tonight and meet some girls, because you watch boxing too much.
The next was Tito Trinidad. Legend? Of course. Fading at age 35, fighting at 23 pounds above welterweight after taking three years off? Just a bit. Omar Sheika was another journeyman fighter, a guy whom Jones fought in the back of a convenience store somewhere in Florida in March. And follow that with “Left Hook” Lacy, whose meteoric fall is rivaled by few fighters in recent memory after his domination by Calzaghe. In other words- the worst college football team in the world will look invincible when playing at a high school level. This has been the story of the last few years.
And then, the one fighter I skipped over, Joe Calzaghe. I’m not a fan of Calzaghe because I find it hard to be a fan of anyone who hides in Europe and fights in a weight class like Super Middleweight, and only looks to fight the superstars the day after they get their AARP card in the mail. How good Calzaghe really is we’ll never know, but on that night in November last year, he was a damn sight better than Roy Jones.
Jones looked older than his age in that fight. There were few combinations, and none of the speed and ferocity that he has fought with in the past. Jones was an rusting hero leaning against the ropes, constantly trying to muster a counterattack against an overwhelming opponent who was tailor-made for him. Calzaghe had perfect angles, rapid fire punches, and even taunted Roy, getting inside his head and playing mind games with the man who so easily psyched out so many.
With under a minute left in the third round, Calzaghe was literally forehead to forehead with Jones, arms at his sides, firing off shots at will. Jones could do little more than move forward with his hands up, missing with the occasional hook while getting tagged with all sorts of shots. His legs, once so light and agile, were cinder blocks that could have left drag marks on the canvas. Perhaps the most heartbreaking part is that it really looked like Roy knew that this just wasn’t it, and with every punch that Calzaghe slipped and ducked, a piece of Roy’s heart fell apart.
And I feel for the guy. To have such talent, and to have it leave so quickly, is a horrific thing to deal with. I wonder how regular people would feel if the talent that they once had slid away from them, and there was little they could do to regain it. Roy is a mechanic who looks at a car and knows what he has to do, but isn’t strong enough to loosen the lug nuts. He is the writer who cannot remember the names of his characters, a comic who can no longer make people laugh.
After the Calzaghe fight, I was hoping he would retire. I wanted him to leave us with the highlight reels and the magnificence, and to not keep fighting on, hurting himself more every day. I don’t want to see such a character end up like Ali or Frazier or Hearns because he just didn’t know when to quit.
Roy Jones may very well defeat Danny Green. Although Green is younger, the Australian exhibits little head movement or defense, things which, even though Roy is older, are still needed to come away with a win against him. But if he gets a shot at another title, or even an equally aged but far different fighter in Hopkins, he will be shown once again that his glory days are not today.
The old adage is that boxers are the first to know, and the last ones to admit, when to quit. Roy Jones is not the exception. He must learn that this is, unfortunately, not Cinderella Man. Reflexes, once gone, don’t come back, and hand speed, once it fades, is gone for good; no training or trainer in the world can fix that.
Whatever the outcome, Roy will remain one of my favorite fighters. He will go down as one of the greatest of all time, and in his youth, I would have put my money on him to defeat any fighter in history. The grit and determination that he has showed in the last five years has also elevated him, regardless of record, because it has answered all questions about the amount of heart the man possesses. But should he fight on, he should remember his legions of fans that wish to see him healthy for the rest of his life. It’s a sad time when fighters realize that there is more to life than the fight itself. I myself wish Roy would see this…for his own good.
Article posted on 28.11.2009
http://www.eastsideboxing.com/news.php?p=22069&more=1
I have been a long time Roy Jones Jr. fan, and one need only watch one of the plethora of tributes on youtube to see why. In his prime, Roy was not only one of the greatest to step into the ring, he was also a showman worthy of P.T. Barnum’s stature.. Roy not only won the fights; he put on a spectacle that would leave fans with everlasting impressions that cemented his greatness- crushing Virgil Hills’ ribs with brutal right hand, making James Toney look like a fool for taunting him mid-fight, and pulling a page out of a cockfighting technique book in his stunning knockout of Glen Kelly. The man is to boxing what Dominique Wilkins was to basketball; a human highlight reel that not only triumphed, but made your jaw drop while doing it.
But those days are long since past. Since Jones’ knockout loss at the fists of Antonio Tarver, he has not recovered the strut and swagger that he once had. It has returned only in flashes, little pieces of excellence that Jones cannot quite draw together. He showed those pieces in his fight against Trinidad, in the first round of the Calzaghe fight, in his demolition of Lacy. But to say that the man is still a “top talent in the sport” is a vain attempt to resurrect a fighter whose body is not in the game anymore.
Wallace says that Roy is 5-1 in his last six fights. That’s true. But who were they against? Prince Badi Ajamu and Anthony Hanshaw were the first two. If anyone knows who they are, go out tonight and meet some girls, because you watch boxing too much.
The next was Tito Trinidad. Legend? Of course. Fading at age 35, fighting at 23 pounds above welterweight after taking three years off? Just a bit. Omar Sheika was another journeyman fighter, a guy whom Jones fought in the back of a convenience store somewhere in Florida in March. And follow that with “Left Hook” Lacy, whose meteoric fall is rivaled by few fighters in recent memory after his domination by Calzaghe. In other words- the worst college football team in the world will look invincible when playing at a high school level. This has been the story of the last few years.
And then, the one fighter I skipped over, Joe Calzaghe. I’m not a fan of Calzaghe because I find it hard to be a fan of anyone who hides in Europe and fights in a weight class like Super Middleweight, and only looks to fight the superstars the day after they get their AARP card in the mail. How good Calzaghe really is we’ll never know, but on that night in November last year, he was a damn sight better than Roy Jones.
Jones looked older than his age in that fight. There were few combinations, and none of the speed and ferocity that he has fought with in the past. Jones was an rusting hero leaning against the ropes, constantly trying to muster a counterattack against an overwhelming opponent who was tailor-made for him. Calzaghe had perfect angles, rapid fire punches, and even taunted Roy, getting inside his head and playing mind games with the man who so easily psyched out so many.
With under a minute left in the third round, Calzaghe was literally forehead to forehead with Jones, arms at his sides, firing off shots at will. Jones could do little more than move forward with his hands up, missing with the occasional hook while getting tagged with all sorts of shots. His legs, once so light and agile, were cinder blocks that could have left drag marks on the canvas. Perhaps the most heartbreaking part is that it really looked like Roy knew that this just wasn’t it, and with every punch that Calzaghe slipped and ducked, a piece of Roy’s heart fell apart.
And I feel for the guy. To have such talent, and to have it leave so quickly, is a horrific thing to deal with. I wonder how regular people would feel if the talent that they once had slid away from them, and there was little they could do to regain it. Roy is a mechanic who looks at a car and knows what he has to do, but isn’t strong enough to loosen the lug nuts. He is the writer who cannot remember the names of his characters, a comic who can no longer make people laugh.
After the Calzaghe fight, I was hoping he would retire. I wanted him to leave us with the highlight reels and the magnificence, and to not keep fighting on, hurting himself more every day. I don’t want to see such a character end up like Ali or Frazier or Hearns because he just didn’t know when to quit.
Roy Jones may very well defeat Danny Green. Although Green is younger, the Australian exhibits little head movement or defense, things which, even though Roy is older, are still needed to come away with a win against him. But if he gets a shot at another title, or even an equally aged but far different fighter in Hopkins, he will be shown once again that his glory days are not today.
The old adage is that boxers are the first to know, and the last ones to admit, when to quit. Roy Jones is not the exception. He must learn that this is, unfortunately, not Cinderella Man. Reflexes, once gone, don’t come back, and hand speed, once it fades, is gone for good; no training or trainer in the world can fix that.
Whatever the outcome, Roy will remain one of my favorite fighters. He will go down as one of the greatest of all time, and in his youth, I would have put my money on him to defeat any fighter in history. The grit and determination that he has showed in the last five years has also elevated him, regardless of record, because it has answered all questions about the amount of heart the man possesses. But should he fight on, he should remember his legions of fans that wish to see him healthy for the rest of his life. It’s a sad time when fighters realize that there is more to life than the fight itself. I myself wish Roy would see this…for his own good.
Article posted on 28.11.2009
http://www.eastsideboxing.com/news.php?p=22069&more=1
Cotto Will Shock the World
By Steve Janoski - Manny Pacquiao is not invincible, and will be beaten on Nov. 14. There, I said it.
I have been accused of “hating” Pac for my views, which is laughable because I’ve never met him. He is simply another sportsmen to me, a very good fighter in an era filled with them. His place in the history of boxing is neither assured nor agreed upon at present; how History judges him will undoubtedly be a result of the next five or so years..
There are, of course, certain things that the attentive observer cannot deny about Pac. He’s got a terrific left hand, and he has developed, under the guidance of trainer Freddie Roach, into a complete fighter that uses all the weapons at his disposal effectively. He has been outsized in a number of his fights in the past two years, and has come up on the winning end against fighters far more accustomed to the heavier classes. But does that mean that he can really move up to welterweight, and expect to win this Saturday?
The answer, in short, is no. Though very evenly matched, Pacquiao lost both fights to Marquez. He defeated David Diaz (who?), and then beat De La Hoya’s trembling ghost into submission. He also beat Ricky Hatton, and because I am not one that subscribes to the “Hatton is a club fighter” theory, Pac gets credit for this- he beat a very good fighter by dismantling him with hand speed and power. Fair enough.
Since that May night, the message boards have been alight with praise of Pacquiao. With the accolades heaped upon him, one might think that the little Filipino could kill Sampson if only given the chance, or slay a Klitschko or two if he had the opportunity (maybe both at the same time). His singing career, his movie, his profile in general, has risen off the charts, and rightly so. He’s worked hard, and deserves the fruits.
But there are holes in this story, and the hero is not actually invincible. Upon a closer look at his lightweight fight, Diaz, bleeding and shocked in the ninth round, was still landing flush shots on Pacquiao’s face. They didn’t do much because it was David Diaz throwing them… but what will happen when it’s Miguel Cotto who’s throwing them?
And since the Diaz fight, Pac has barely been hit by a punch. De La Hoya looked as if he’d stopped breathing sometime in late November but someone put him in the ring anyway, and Hatton barely landed a shot before being viciously Anquan Boldin‘d by Pacquiao’s fist.
This means that Pacquiao’s chin (and, more importantly, his liver) remain untested against a hard hitting welterweight. While Cotto is not the one-punch knockout type, he certainly has power- enough power that when he hits Pacquiao, he’s going to know that he got hit. What does this mean for a guy who twice got knocked out at 112 lbs.?
If the Puerto Rican lands that straight right on the chin in the eighth or ninth round, will Pacquiao be able to stand and trade? Will he be so quick to come in on a guy who has stood with, and defeated, the likes of Sugar Shane Mosely, Joshua Clottey, Ricardo Torres, and Zab Judah? The man who took 11 rounds of a beating from Margarito. That left hand will not likely be so potent against one who has stood in against bigger sluggers for the last three years, and has seen all those fighters had to offer.
On top of that, there are distractions galore. There is blatant discord in the Pacquiao camp as evidenced by HBO’s 24/7’s, as Roach seems to be going toe to toe with Pacquiao’s leaching, Rasputin-like “advisor” Michael Koncz. Koncz, who seems to ooze the kind of vile that you see only in the villains in Disney cartoons, looks like the sort that can drive a man’s career into the ground with the weight of his silver tongue. Who else would have Pacquiao spar with Jose Luis Castillo, who won his last fight in 1932? Not Roach, to be sure.
The flood-addled training in the Philippines, the meetings with politicians, the celebrity status…these things take away a boxer’s focus, and training when one’s mind is wandering is not the road to victory. Maybe Pacquiao doesn’t have problems concentrating… but it would certainly make him different than the rest of us.
Meanwhile, waiting in the wings with heavy, serious eyes, is Cotto, training, training, and training. He has ferocity carved in his face, with the drawn look of a man who knows that his time is now or never. He is not a brash young fighter with little experience, and he is not a worn-out, drained-down old man. He is, at 29, in the prime of his career, at that peaking point when a fighter has been through enough wars that he is always comfortable in the ring, but young enough that those wars have not yet caught up with him. With his jab, his straight right, and his left hook to the ribcage, he seeks to end Pacquiao’s seven-title dream run, his Cinderella story that has gone on just a little too long.
Don’t be surprised if, on the night of Nov. 14, Cotto ends this story, and shows Pacquiao that not all fairy tales have happy endings.
Article posted on 10.11.2009
http://www.eastsideboxing.com/news.php?p=21838&more=1
I have been accused of “hating” Pac for my views, which is laughable because I’ve never met him. He is simply another sportsmen to me, a very good fighter in an era filled with them. His place in the history of boxing is neither assured nor agreed upon at present; how History judges him will undoubtedly be a result of the next five or so years..
There are, of course, certain things that the attentive observer cannot deny about Pac. He’s got a terrific left hand, and he has developed, under the guidance of trainer Freddie Roach, into a complete fighter that uses all the weapons at his disposal effectively. He has been outsized in a number of his fights in the past two years, and has come up on the winning end against fighters far more accustomed to the heavier classes. But does that mean that he can really move up to welterweight, and expect to win this Saturday?
The answer, in short, is no. Though very evenly matched, Pacquiao lost both fights to Marquez. He defeated David Diaz (who?), and then beat De La Hoya’s trembling ghost into submission. He also beat Ricky Hatton, and because I am not one that subscribes to the “Hatton is a club fighter” theory, Pac gets credit for this- he beat a very good fighter by dismantling him with hand speed and power. Fair enough.
Since that May night, the message boards have been alight with praise of Pacquiao. With the accolades heaped upon him, one might think that the little Filipino could kill Sampson if only given the chance, or slay a Klitschko or two if he had the opportunity (maybe both at the same time). His singing career, his movie, his profile in general, has risen off the charts, and rightly so. He’s worked hard, and deserves the fruits.
But there are holes in this story, and the hero is not actually invincible. Upon a closer look at his lightweight fight, Diaz, bleeding and shocked in the ninth round, was still landing flush shots on Pacquiao’s face. They didn’t do much because it was David Diaz throwing them… but what will happen when it’s Miguel Cotto who’s throwing them?
And since the Diaz fight, Pac has barely been hit by a punch. De La Hoya looked as if he’d stopped breathing sometime in late November but someone put him in the ring anyway, and Hatton barely landed a shot before being viciously Anquan Boldin‘d by Pacquiao’s fist.
This means that Pacquiao’s chin (and, more importantly, his liver) remain untested against a hard hitting welterweight. While Cotto is not the one-punch knockout type, he certainly has power- enough power that when he hits Pacquiao, he’s going to know that he got hit. What does this mean for a guy who twice got knocked out at 112 lbs.?
If the Puerto Rican lands that straight right on the chin in the eighth or ninth round, will Pacquiao be able to stand and trade? Will he be so quick to come in on a guy who has stood with, and defeated, the likes of Sugar Shane Mosely, Joshua Clottey, Ricardo Torres, and Zab Judah? The man who took 11 rounds of a beating from Margarito. That left hand will not likely be so potent against one who has stood in against bigger sluggers for the last three years, and has seen all those fighters had to offer.
On top of that, there are distractions galore. There is blatant discord in the Pacquiao camp as evidenced by HBO’s 24/7’s, as Roach seems to be going toe to toe with Pacquiao’s leaching, Rasputin-like “advisor” Michael Koncz. Koncz, who seems to ooze the kind of vile that you see only in the villains in Disney cartoons, looks like the sort that can drive a man’s career into the ground with the weight of his silver tongue. Who else would have Pacquiao spar with Jose Luis Castillo, who won his last fight in 1932? Not Roach, to be sure.
The flood-addled training in the Philippines, the meetings with politicians, the celebrity status…these things take away a boxer’s focus, and training when one’s mind is wandering is not the road to victory. Maybe Pacquiao doesn’t have problems concentrating… but it would certainly make him different than the rest of us.
Meanwhile, waiting in the wings with heavy, serious eyes, is Cotto, training, training, and training. He has ferocity carved in his face, with the drawn look of a man who knows that his time is now or never. He is not a brash young fighter with little experience, and he is not a worn-out, drained-down old man. He is, at 29, in the prime of his career, at that peaking point when a fighter has been through enough wars that he is always comfortable in the ring, but young enough that those wars have not yet caught up with him. With his jab, his straight right, and his left hook to the ribcage, he seeks to end Pacquiao’s seven-title dream run, his Cinderella story that has gone on just a little too long.
Don’t be surprised if, on the night of Nov. 14, Cotto ends this story, and shows Pacquiao that not all fairy tales have happy endings.
Article posted on 10.11.2009
http://www.eastsideboxing.com/news.php?p=21838&more=1
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