First it was Floyd Mayweather, Jr. poaching all potential sparring partners from Manny Pacquiao.
Stephen Espinoza, Showtime Sports EVP, speaks about negotiating the Floyd Mayweather-Manny Pacquiao fight, perhaps the most complex and lucrative fight deal in history.
The Mayweather-Pacquiao fight is so naturally radiant that the two participants eschewed the obligatory, cross-country, promotional tour.
Experts have wondered if this fight, in a strict boxing sense, was announced five years too late. Maybe. But it doesn’t matter.
Let’s discard the nonsense that this is just another fight, or that it doesn’t feed a starving sport.
In the endless nuance, childish pride, and politics of the most-publicly and endlessly negotiated sporting event in human history, semantics matter. More than the money, more than the fight, more than legacy.
There’s a certain irony to having the NBA All-Star game in New York City. For more years than we New Yorkers care to admit, both NYC and MSG have been basketball mausoleums, places where hoop dreams go to die.
A report just crawled across my flatscreen, with Bob Arum asserting that the dueling networks, HBO and Showtime, have basically agreed on broadcasting rights for a Floyd Mayweather Jr. and Manny Pacquiao bout in May.
Floyd, you’re great. While I can’t concede the greatest, and I wince when you compare yourself favorably to The Greatest (Muhammad Ali), I’ll give it that you’re the best of your time.
The split-screen drama performed by the Patriots has our nation scratching its head and perhaps grabbing other organs at the twin presses provided by Bill Belichick and Tom Brady.
By every account, Manny Pacquiao has agreed to every nuance of Floyd Mayweather Jr.’s demands, including rampant PED testing, a smaller share of the epic purse, and a lower perch on the glittering marquee.
We love the NFL because it’s mostly a meritocracy, which brings us to the divisional round, the top shelf of football delicacies.
The NFC and AFC North titles will be fought for by iconic franchises, in sacred arenas; just 60 minutes of mayhem in old, cold NFL towns.
With more dueling monologues than a presidential campaign, it’s sounding more and more like Floyd Mayweather Jr. and Manny Pacquiao will fight next year.
The bell has tolled for Brian Hoyer. And he never really had a chance. It’s showtime for Johnny Manziel. An entirely different show than the one to which he’s become so accustomed.
This is not because Rodgers beat Brady last week. The game was whisker-close and you could easily argue that the Patriots would win a rematch on a neutral field. This is about stats, scent, and sense.
Since we are upon our great day of gratitude, a pretext for gorging on poultry and then taking our swollen torsos to the nearest television for some football, let’s look to sports for reasons to give thanks.
Somewhere way on the right side of your globe, in the aorta of China, Manny Pacquiao will fight on Saturday, November 22.
There’s a contemporary push to place starting pitchers in the same realm as everyday players, which is confusing as it is annoying.
LeBron didn’t just join the Cleveland Cavaliers. He came to save the world, so to speak, to bring financial and spiritual lubricant to the Rust Belt, an area of America that has been lost to the the meat-hook realities of economics.
The Dallas Cowboys, at 6-1, once again look like America’s Team. Will they continue their run, and do they deserve the title?
Baseball is trying to be pure again. And when you consider the final four teams in the MLB postseason, they did a good job. The Giants, Cardinals, Orioles and Royals aren’t considered members of the monetary aristocracy, at least not at the level of the Yankees, Red Sox, and Dodgers.
Jason discusses Tom Brady, Bill Belichick, and the Patriots not being done yet.
The masses and pundits are lunging over each other to put the postmortems on the Brady/Belichick dynasty, with the death blow delivered by the Kansas City Chiefs on Monday night.
Football reduces us to our most private and primate impulses. We survive winter through the vicarious thrill we get from our favorite football teams.