The player, college, and NBA have suffered greatly in quality of play and players. And for every Kobe Bryant and Kevin Garnett there has been a conga line of lost causes, teens who toiled in Europe or Asia or worse once their hoop dreams melted into memory.
The NFL is considering a heavy tax on it, citing the fact that the gridiron is a workplace, and thus they can control the language and lexicon of its players. It’s probably the most delicate and toxic topic we’ll ever discuss in sports.
Even by the pro athlete’s subterranean standards, the Ray Rice video was shocking. He made no effort to heal or cradle or care for his unconscious fiancee.
Forever high on hubris, the sport is pondering extra games, playoff teams, and new franchises, perhaps in London or Los Angeles. And it feels like all are in the name of profit, not principle.
What will matter most? The fact that Seattle has no players with Super Bowl experience, or their youth and speed and top-ranked defense? Or will the game be won by Denver’s suddenly stout rush defense and Peyton Manning’s blessed right arm?
Everything is larger in New York, and Super Bowl Boulevard is no exception. It has the obscene, fun-house distortion you expect when a party is thrown in Times Square.
It’s not as toxic a topic as the New York/New Jersey border war, or as socially inflamed as the Richard Sherman saga. But, in a strictly sporting sense, it really is the topic du jour. If he wins Sunday’s Super Bowl, is Peyton Manning the greatest quarterback in NFL history?
In the days since his rant, Sherman has moonwalked from his outburst. Well, kinda. He didn’t apologize for humiliating Michael Crabtree, but insisted he was sorry for deflecting from his team.
No matter who has the edge Sunday, it seems the nation is rooting for Manning, because it’s been harder for him to win, because he’s not so pretty, because he’s considered one of us, because you get the sense that his aw-shucks, southern refrain is real.
My hands may be white from all the chalk I pick, you know there will be one supreme surprise this week. But where? Since we went 3-1 last week – losing with the wretched Bengals, like everyone else – let’s try our hand at the most heavenly weekend of a most horrible winter.
Every game this weekend has fascinating plots, from Cincinnati trying to break their playoff futility to the Frozen Tundra earning its sobriquet with a 30-below wind chill expected Sunday.
Despite their dearth of recent success, all eyes will be on the Cowboys. For the karma and the drama, for better or worse, they are America’s team. Mostly for worse. Just watch on Sunday.
Local cable providers love to remind us that we have nine – yes, nine – professional sports clubs, a way of persuading us to click on this package or that so we can view the screen-in-screen horror we call baseball, football, and basketball.
But no matter how black or gold my allegiance, no matter how nostalgic I feel about them. and no matter how deep the Rooney roots run in NFL history, there’s no excuse for their head coach’s conduct on Thanksgiving.
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.