Pope Francis: A new day

It’s been a long, long time since I could say that I was “proud” of being a Catholic.

I was born into that religion, it’s true, but beyond the normal concerns one might have with the good book’s logic, the opinions that church officials hold about those with my particular views on a number of social issues, combined with their wretched conduct during the ongoing sex-abuse scandals, effectively turned me away from the buildings with the big crosses.

Years of reading writers like Thomas Jefferson and Thomas Paine have led me to call myself a deist instead, and being as that’s the most open-ended and non-committal of all religious designations, I was pretty happy with that.

Until, that is, this new pope drove into town, on the four old tires of his 1984 Renault.

It’s more than a little ironic that I feel the need to call a 76-year-old man a “breath of fresh air,” but I don’t have another term for it. As an Argentine cardinal, he traded a palace for a small apartment and a limousine for a bus ride, and he regularly took to the worst barrios in Buenos Aires to perform his priestly duties (so much so that he is now known as the “slum pope”).

His single-minded obsession with the needy reminds me of Hugo’s Bishop Myriel, the virtuous cleric in “Les Miserables” who gives all he has to charity, and not only feeds and houses Jean Valjean, but lies to free him from the police even after the latter was caught stealing his silver.

Francis decries the idolatry of “this god called money,” shows remarkable humility — instead of washing the feet of 12 priests on Holy Thursday, as is tradition, he washed the feet of 12 prisoners — and makes personal phone calls to those of his extensive flock whose lives have crashed along tragedy’s reefs.

Overall, he appears far less concerned with issues like abortion than his predecessors, and his remarkable response to the question of how he’d deal with learning that a cleric under his charge was gay is perhaps most impressive: “Who am I to judge a gay person of goodwill who seeks the Lord?”

To say that I was shocked when I heard these words, especially after the overwhelming coldness exhibited by the last pope on the issue, is an understatement. It was that very lack of concern, that chilling condemnation leveled at those deemed “different,” that had alienated me in the first place and made me believe that the intense focus on mercy, love, and acceptance preached by Jesus was more of a polite suggestion than a church edict.

This pope is not perfect, I understand that. But he gives me hope that the church may eventually be able to leap forward a few centuries by looking back to its inception, and return to simply helping the lost and disenfranchised instead of encouraging intolerance of those it disagrees with.

When Bishop Myriel sent Jean Valjean on his way, he gave him the rest of his silver and told him to use its worth to become a better man.

Francis is handing the Roman Catholic Church his silver. Whether or not the institution uses it appropriately remains to be seen.

Now, though, he has our attention.

Email: janoski@northjersey.com

Technorati Tags: Pope Francis, The Vatican, Roman Catholic Church, Gay Marriage, Abortion

Pulling back from the NFL hype

It was a typical NFL postgame show in every respect: a duo of irritatingly excited announcers yelling over seizure-inducing graphics and hammering background music meant to dramatize every single piece of on-the-field action.

It’s effective for some, I guess, but there was something about its abrasive, P.T. Barnum-style gaudiness that made me groan out loud and turn off the television. I mean, it was only preseason, and there’s not one piece of those four games that’s worth a single $14 beer at "Insert Corporate Name Here" Stadium.

That was my moment of epiphany, one might say, my "night of fire" where I realized that the National Football League of 2013, that $9 billion-a-year megalomaniacal conglomerate, is just a far different entity, with far different goals, than the thing I grew up with in the 80s and 90s.

It was fairly pure back then. Few stadiums had domes, and snow was a permanent fixture on many a winter field as games went on in temperatures that caused whistles to freeze to referees’ lips. It was about winning, not statistics, and there weren’t a whole lot of rules.

You could hit — God, you could hit — and it was a rough-and-tumble game played by unrefined men.

Now, it’s not just a game. Every Sunday is an event akin to "The Running Man" where society shuts down, the streets are Christmas-morning bare, and every male between the ages of just-born and not-quite-dead refuses to budge from in front of their television.

Then there’s others who don’t really care about the sport, but are involved in fantasy football, and so they watch also, splitting their time between leering at the TV and compulsively checking their phones for scoring updates.

I admit that I’m a part of that particular problem, as I’m in a fantasy league that I do enjoy. But even I think that this Dungeons and Dragons for ex-jocks has created a sort of bizarre subculture filled with "writers" who understand statistics but not sports and commentators who judge a player’s value only on the amount of touchdowns he throws, not the number of games he wins.

And through all of this, there’s the NFL itself, which insists on tweaking and twisting the rules every few years to pull pro football further and further from its violent past. They say the changes are in the name of "player safety," but like any other business, it’s about protecting investments.

Eventually, I assume, it will either abolish defenses altogether (maybe replacing them with cardboard cutouts of Ronnie Lott, who would never survive in the tender NFL of today) or move to a flag-football system that’s played on a field of soft, down-filled pillows built under a rainbow.

But even with the awful mutations of the last 15 years, and the aggravating, all-encompassing fantasy craze, I still love this game. It’s dramatic and (when the league can’t help it) unforgivingly brutal, and it can still create those beautiful moments that only football can.

The older I get, though, the more I’m drawn to sports like boxing and baseball that have maintained their fundamental character a bit better and seem to revel in the fact that, yes, they’re not made for TV, but no, they’re not going to change it, and they’re sorry if you don’t like it but you can always watch something else.

The NFL, like any jilted lover, will move on, whether or not I (or any other disenchanted fans) choose to follow it. After all, when you’re making that much money, you don’t need to listen to anybody, and that league proves over and over that it will do what it wants, regardless of how its faithful feel.

Maybe it’s for the best, though. The memories have been great but the glory days have passed, and nothing upsets me more than watching the slow decline of a once-great thing.

Email: janoski@northjersey.com

http://www.northjersey.com/sports/223412321_Pulling_back_from_the_NFL_hype.html?page=all

Technorati Tags: NFL, Football, Fantasy Football

Mayweather vs Canelo preview: Father Time looming as Floyd's biggest opponent

At its core, boxing is not about the physical attributes that so many use to define it - it's not about speed or power, endurance or accuracy, and these things, in the end, have but a minute impact on the outcome of any given bout.

In reality, this game is all about timing: throwing that straight right at the exact moment your opponent recklessly leaps in, or letting that hook go a fraction of a second after his rear hand drops. Yeah, that's what it's about: not only doing something perfectly, but doing it at precisely the right time so as to amplify its affect and maximize its pain.

Timing is why you win.

It's just as important outside the ropes, where knowing when to fight someone is every bit as important as knowing how to fight them, and the subtle differences in the words and actions of a rapacious young challenger and an aging king who's dodging the Sword of Damocles can speak volumes about that.

Timing is what just might make the difference on Saturday night.

Now, I'm no fool, and if I was a gambling man, I would not be betting against Floyd Mayweather, Jr. Rarely in boxing history has one force been so dominant over so long a period, and even at 36 years old, it's still tough to picture him losing in any fashion.

But make no mistake: this fight is as much about Mayweather's war with Father Time as it is with the baby-faced, red-haired Mexican who will be staring across the ring at him. Even Floyd is mortal, and there will come a point when, like all fine athletes, his prime has decidedly passed, and his fists can no longer capitalize on the openings his eye sees.

What's more, his Philly shell - a disposition more favored by fleet-footed young bucks as opposed to older superstars - is decidedly not a stance that suits the slowing reflexes that accompany advancing age. And although his counters are still crisp and his understanding of range remains unparalleled, the swift head movement that's pulled him just out of harm's way on so many earlier occasions has suffered, especially above welterweight.

And then there is the 23-year-old Canelo Alvarez. Muscular and intimidating, with the easy swagger that youth often carries when it's never tasted the metallic bitterness of defeat, he is a boxer with prodigious power in either hand. He punches straight, stays loose, and is, after 42 victories, as physically sharp as he will ever be. He is undoubtedly a dangerous opponent, one who can, if things go a certain way, end this fight in booming fashion.

But there's also a lot that can go wrong for Alvarez. The eyes of the world will be upon him Saturday night, and that's pressure few have even experienced, much less performed well under. Meanwhile, the man he faces has made a name for himself by, if nothing else, rising to the occasion every time it's demanded. Add to that the fact that, in prior bouts, Alvarez has gone long rounds without letting his hands go, and you've got a recipe for disaster; Mayweather, like Tom Brady, is not someone who you want to hand the ball to and say, "Go ahead, pick me apart." Most of the boxing world, it appears, expects that to be the outcome. I am not one of those.

I would be lying if I said that the dynamics surrounding this match don't remind me a little of Muhammad Ali's first fight with Sonny Liston. Nobody - and I mean nobody - picked the 22-year-old native of Louisville, Kentucky, to upset the fearsomely heavy-handed champ. Ali was a 7 - 1 underdog, and most boxing writers thought Liston would have him unconscious by the fourth. I need not remind anyone of what happened that night.

Don't get me wrong, I don't expect Floyd Mayweather to answer the opening bell looking like an old Sonny Liston. I don't expect him to get knocked out, or put on his back, or stopped. But I wouldn't be all that surprised if he didn't exactly look like the fighter we're used to seeing, and if Alvarez catches him far more often than he's been caught before.

Maybe, just maybe, Mayweather actually did pick the wrong opponent this time...and when the tide turns against him, he won't be able to blunt its roll.

He, after all, will not only be brawling with Canelo under those lights - he will also be locked in the great struggle that all legends fight, once their inevitable decline is realized and their mortality is brought sharply into focus.

And that is a battle even he cannot win.

http://www.badlefthook.com/2013/9/11/4720728/mayweather-vs-canelo-preview-father-time-looming-as-floyds-biggest

Technorati Tags: Floyd Mayweather, Jr., Canelo Alvarez, boxing, The One