The endless genius of the NFL can’t be completely quantified. But part of pro football’s popularity is burning its image in our culture and our consciousness. While baseball and basketball have their July 4 and Christmas brands, they are afterthoughts, or leftovers, compared to the NFL’s hallmark roll call.
Alex Rodriguez says he scoured the planet looking for “cutting edge” supplements, which miraculously led him to Miami. Alex must be the most unlucky athlete on earth, as his innocent quest for herbal truth landed him with Tony Galea and Tony Bosch.
There’s a baleful buzz around Big Ben and my beloved black & gold these days. Reports say that the mountainous QB is now a mutinous QB, demanding he be traded at the end of this season.
We should be disgusted by anyone who condones Incognito, excuses Incognito or ignores Incognito. We should be disgusted by anyone who blames Martin, teases Martin or trivializes Martin.
Despite your monolithic love for the Cardinals, no one was rooting for the Redbirds more than I was. Not only as a Yankees fan, but as a native New Yorker imbued with an epic allergy to all things New England, I am biologically skewed against the Red Sox.
The vocal, aggregate angst from Cowboys fans is quite understandable. While you would be right to direct your anger at some well-heeled Cowboys, Tony Romo isn’t one of them. In fact, he is the reason you really matter.
When I first heard the cacophonous call for Daniel Snyder to change the name of his football team, I cringed. It felt like the sport we worshiped since childhood was under siege, crushed by the tide of groupthink.
The New York Yankees are America’s team. Or are they? The Evil Empire just doesn’t feel so daunting anymore, winning just one title since the last year of the ’90s dynasty.
You laugh now, but there was a time, very recently, when it was a debate. There was a time, when we thought the kid had commandeered the throne. There was a time when, when we thought it was the dawn of one empire, and the dusk of another.
Now, one major thread in that curtain is gone. L.C. Greenwood, he of the height and heft and six Pro Bowls and four rings, as central to the dynasty as anyone not named Joe Greene or Jack Lambert, died of natural causes.
Before other sports matched the money and none of the danger, boxing was must-watch theater, a distillation of the rags-to-riches narrative that personified the American Dream. And Ken Norton was Exhibit A.
Alvarez and Mayweather are fighting at a catch-weight of 152 pounds, which, if you’re looking for an edge, would probably point to Alvarez, the naturally larger man. But Mayweather has a way of making larger men look small.
Peyton is still here. He’s still active. Boy, is he active. And last night was more than dropping a double-nickel, like Jordan did against the Knicks on his comeback trail.
The Patriots knew the kind of person they were getting when they drafted Aaron Hernandez.
Not only do many of us see the Dodgers as a five borough endeavor, an extension of our blue-collar grit and white-collar elitism, but we now must watch our enemy rocket to the top with a Yankee icon at the helm.
The PED crucible, which we hoped would be microscopic by now, just won’t go away. It’s turned into a twisted game show of “Name That Cheat.”
The eyes of America are indeed on the Bronx these days where a certain slugger will make his home debut tonight at Yankee Stadium.
It’s with some, solemn pride that I say that I’ve been a de facto voice of the Joe Paterno opposition.