‘October Classic’ remains an American tradition

No matter how irrational it sounds, a part of me will always believe that deep down, every American truly understands that baseball is beautiful. They might not admit it, but if you were born on this continent, it’s there. Somewhere. I swear.

And I’m not just saying that because I’m high on the fact that my beloved Boston Red Sox are in the World Series. I’ve long thought this, and every time I sit in the Fenway stands or watch a playoff game on a chilly October night, I can’t help but think that this sport symbolizes all that we often refer to as "Americana."

If professional football — which is a great game slowly being ruined by commercial breaks, money, and rule changes in the name of "safety" — is what we are today, than baseball is what we were yesterday: methodical, individualistic, and maybe even a little obstinate.

Its modern incarnation was invented in 1845, and one look at any game in progress will show you that this pastime certainly comes from the era before electricity and advertising. The contests take far too long and mess up countless TV and commercial schedules as a result, but the players won’t take the field in the rain, so whomever is airing the game has to have a few old episodes of "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air" on deck to eat up time, just in case.

It doesn’t often use instant replay, and most of the calls stand as they are, for better or worse. And even though some modern amenities like LED scoreboards or overhead lights have been added to the parks, and the players are bigger and stronger and maybe more sober than they once were, the best parts of baseball haven’t changed much since the New York Knickerbockers dropped a lopsided 23-1 decision to the "New York Nine" in 1846.

It’s tough to see this when the cameras are focused on the players’ faces, as they often are, or only showing that thin stretch of no man’s land that runs from the pitchers’ mound to the batters’ box.

But when they draw back and take the panoramic view, it’s there in all its New World glory: stands swarming with a great mass of fans, all hoping and praying and concentrating their energy on the two men in the middle of the field who face off like street-fighters in a back alley.

Then the hitter turns on a slider and the ball sails and a roar erupts as the runners spring ahead and the outfielders do their solemn work, and in seconds the ball is back in the pitcher’s hands once more.

It’s one of the few sports that, if you could somehow turn off the sound and watch from the top of the stadium, it would look very much the same in 2013 as it did in 1913. In our complicated digital age, there’s something to be said for that kind of simplicity.

So when the 2013 World Series begins tonight, and two teams that have a combined 243 years of history between them take to that lovely grass of the Fenway Park field, you know I’ll be watching.

Because even though baseball, as one Twitter user said the other day, is like "the old lady who still writes checks at the grocery store," that doesn’t mean that every pitch doesn’t give us a gorgeous glimpse into days gone by.

Email: janoski@northjersey.com

http://www.northjersey.com/sports/229042391__October_Classic__remains_an_American_tradition.html?page=all


Tags: Baseball Boston Red Sox Sports St. Louis Cardinals World Series

Bradley vs Marquez: Remember to pay attention tomorrow night

The Boston Red Sox, as Jimmy Fallon so eloquently put it in the movie "Fever Pitch," never let you down. They may not win every game, but there's no question that on most days during the summer, that team will take to the Fenway Park field - just like they have for the past 113 years - and play ball.

Boxers though....boxers will let you down. Boxers will break your goddamned heart. Why? Because no matter how good they are in their prime, no matter how talented or special, they've all got to get old. And when they do, and all you see is some timeworn, cement-legged relic lumbering around a ring that he used to dance around on winged feet years before, it's nearly impossible to recall what he looked like when he was that raw maelstrom of violence that once descended on the sport like a Plains tornado.

It's the same cruel trick the fates play on us all, it's true, but for a boxer, it's a much more public and painful decline, one that can arrive with cliff-like abruptness

At the same time, though, that's the reason boxing is so special. Once that champion is gone, he's gone forever, and while others will follow, some better and some worse, there will never be another just like him. It's why we have to make a conscious effort to appreciate the great fighters while they're still young - while they're still dancing.

Juan Manuel Marquez is one of those fighters.

It's been a long, long career for the old warhorse, one that's seen him take on a who's-who of boxing's finest and beat most of them in spectacular fashion - hell, even his losses were thrilling. Marquez has never shied from the clash of spears, never ducked or dodged any man who wanted a shot, and his 20-year run should be considered the handbook of how a boxer should conduct himself.

Now that it's well-known that he is in the final movements of his grand symphony, I must admit that I was sort of surprised that he didn't retire following his climactic knockout of his arch-nemesis Manny Pacquaio.

After all, what more could he possibly achieve? What crescendo would ever match the grandeur of the one that saw him standing on the ring ropes, fists raised in triumph, while an unconscious Pacquaio lay utterly broken in the corner?

As the saying goes, though, fighters fight, and Marquez is that above all else - a fact he proved once again by picking Tim Bradley as his next opponent.

It's no secret that Bradley doesn't have much power, and the only way he'll be able to hurt Marquez is if his corner throws a bat into the ring. But his style of constant punching and his tremendous heart makes him an easy mark for no one, and he is, after all, (allegedly) still undefeated. In some ways, he reminds me of Juan Diaz, who was once an up-and-coming volume puncher when Marquez faced off with him in 2009.

This bout, I suspect, will unfold much the same way that one did, with Bradley seizing an early advantage only to be sunk later on by Marquez's shotgun-shell right hand and his beautiful chains of uppercuts and hooks. I'm not sure what manner the Mexican will win in, but I am certain that this man, who may be the finest combination puncher in the history of the sport, will collapse yet another thick-skulled opponent on his way to victory.

So be careful on Saturday night. Don't drink too much, and pay attention to the TV even though others aren't - be "that guy" who's absorbed in the fight. Why? Because you're watching history, and Marquez the Warrior will not be around forever.

And when he's gone, others will follow... but you will never see another that does what he can do.

This is boxing's great curse - but also its most precious gift.

http://www.badlefthook.com/2013/10/11/4829708/marquez-vs-bradley-


Boxing, Juan Manuel Marquez, Sports, Timothy Bradley,

'Turning off' on Mount Marcy's slopes

The world is too much with us; late and soon / Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers / Little we see in Nature that is ours." - Wordsworth

For the first few thousand years of humanity’s existence, life was really all about living long enough to live some more.

It wasn’t about "finding one’s calling," or searching the self-help aisle in the local brick-and-mortar bookstore in search of some book that will finally, finally be able to tell us what’s "missing."

No. It was simpler. Gather food. Build a fire. Make a shelter. Have a family, and hope they live long enough to help you gather more food. They’re modest goals by today’s standards — so modest, in fact, that many of us feel we’re now entitled to them just because we’re alive.

It wasn’t always so, hard as that may be to believe in this world of blazing rapid-fire advertisements and pinging push notifications that bombard the iPhones, tablets, and televisions that haunt us every waking moment.

But it’s remarkable how fast that all melts away the second you strap a pack to your back and step out onto a trailhead. Within hours, you’re back to the basics — build a fire, find some water, set up a shelter — and most of your thoughts revolve around your next step.

You don’t quite sleep through the night when you’re out there, either. It’s as if your subconscious opens that long-shut eye, the one we all closed years ago after barricading ourselves behind high gates and sheetrock walls, and you become aware of every rustling leaf in the darkness. The water you filter from the stream tastes different, also — not quite so "pure." Or maybe it’s more pure, because it doesn’t have all of the chlorine we load into it, and its flavor is that of the rocks it glides over, the moss it flows through, and the fish that swim in it. You taste the earth, instead of the chemicals we’ve created from the elements we’ve found.

You realize that fire is actually pretty important. We don’t pay much attention to that, even though figuring out the cheapest, easiest way to boil water has been civilization’s primary goal since the Industrial Revolution. Nah. We ignore the groan of the baseboard or the hushed whisper of the stove’s burners until they stop working, at which point we panic.

But when it’s actually cold out, and you’re missing that aforementioned sheetrock shell, doing something as simple as pulling wood out of the ground and dragging it somewhere to burn becomes a matter of utmost consequence.

And then there’s the hike up the mountain itself, the one whose summit sits, quite literally, a mile higher than home. Taken as one gigantic mass, it’s intimidating as hell, but if you never look past the next headlamp-lit step, it becomes beatable… although you won’t ever concentrate harder on each and every footfall as you will when you’re on a slanted rock face in the alpine zone of New York’s highest precipice.

You might think this is all just some hippie-ish Romantic treatise about turning away from the modern world to "get in touch with the earth." Maybe it is. But I cannot help but feel that totally disconnecting from this information-overloaded system is necessary every so often, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t find strange comfort in seeing "Searching for Service" pasted across my cell phone screen for three straight days. (The Adirondacks, it appears, are one of the few remaining white spots on Verizon’s red invasion map.)

And that’s fine with me. Especially because after gazing out at the expansive views offered by the craggy 5,343-foot dome of Mount Marcy, coming back down to sea level to sit in a house and look at Facebook is more than a little bit of a letdown.

Email: janoski@northjersey.com

http://www.northjersey.com/recreation/227173421__Turning_off__on_Mount_Marcy_s_slopes.html?page=all

Adirondacks, Backpacking, Camping, Hiking, Mount Marcy, New York State

From the summit of Mount Marcy

Technorati Tags: Mount Marcy, New York, Adirondacks, Nature, Hiking, Camping

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