If you open the list of current World Champions on Wikipedia, you’ll find about 50 names, spread across 17 divisions, recognized by 4 major organizations and one magazine that’s the most honest in a liar’s game. There’s another half dozen minor organizations recognizing a variety of wanderers and unknowns. A person who truly follows boxing might recognize half – the rest of us are lucky to get 3.

The “alphabet soup” championship scene is one of the biggest cliches in sportswriting. It isn’t going away – legally, these organizations have the right to strip a champion for not facing their chosen challenger. And they will never agree on a duplicate Top Ten, creating an unmanageable scenario for unification.

It is more accurate to recognize that in the modern history of one on one combat sports there has never been a truly undisputed champion. Even when they hold the undisputed championship, there is a man who claims they are most deserving. If they are more entertaining than the man with the belt, a belt will be created. You would think one on one fighting would be the ultimate no controversy no excuses scenario, but anyone with a passing interest in the fight game knows this is laughably far from the truth of the situation.

There are times when the athletes transcend the nature of the game though. Today, we have nearly every fighter of note under contract to Dana White and UFC – creating nearly unanimously recognized champions in most divisions.

In the 1970s- a time those of us who enjoy boxing feel intense nostalgia for despite not breathing one breath in the decade – you had the heavyweights.

******

In another world, Joe Frazier might be the most famous man in boxing. He was a true underdog story – hitting frozen cows before Rocky, building his own equipment, raising himself from the segregated south to Philadelphia, travelling to the Olympics, receiving a shot at the medal by virtue of an injury to the man he was there to spar with, winning the gold and moving on to take the World Heavyweight Championship. He was dominant. He was memorable.

Today, in our world, not an obituary was, can, or should be written without spending almost as much time talking about Muhammad Ali.

Ali has surpassed Ruth as the sporting icon of America. Ruth was a fat man who ate hot dogs and drank and hit home runs in black and white films in a white league. Ali, clearly, represents something different. He deserves his spot in the American pantheon.

Yet – does Muhammad Ali, icon, exist without Joe Frazier?

Probably.

If we’ve learned one thing from a weekend of disillusionment in the sporting world, it’s that individuals are not perfect and stories do not end the way they should have been written. I would like to say that Joe Frazier made Ali, and that without him, Ali is just another fighter. The truth is that Frazier is inextricably linked to Ali because Ali made Frazier into something more than a famous boxer – he made him into a true legend of sport. If a rising tide raises all boats, Ali was a tsunami who brought Foreman, Norton, Quarry, and –  perhaps most of all – Frazier into the halls of mainstream celebrity.

I would also like to say that Frazier and Ali reconciled after he was unfairly maligned by The Greatest – but there seems to be precious little indication that actually happened. There’s anecdotes that Frazier was now “ok” with it, but nothing hard, nothing official, no tangible proof. I don’t know if he went to the grave bitter about how he was treated. I’d be hard pressed to blame him if he did.

I obviously did not know Joe Frazier and I am not a scholar of his life by any means. I am a fan of boxing, and MMA, and wrestling, and I do feel a sense of loss today.

Frazier was a less complicated man than Ali. He was not a genius, he was not ignorant, and he was not the fireball of personality Ali was. From all accounts, he was a hard working man that rode his above-average gifts to greatness through extreme dedication and focus.

He did the best he could outside boxing – from movie cameos to officiating the main event of Starrcade 1984 to beating up Barney Gumble.

He was a Philly fighter that inspired Rocky and received almost no credit – while Stallone got a statue.

He stood up for Ali when he was banned – and he was called an Uncle Tom.

He did not light an Olympic torch.

People ask me how I can be a hardcore fan of a pro sports team. They can’t process the devotion of a professional sports fan, because we’re just cheering for laundry, right? Not some tradition-steeped money-printing golden pyramid of virtuousness like a big time university. It’s hard to explain to them, but I can tell you.

See, I love you Detroit, and you’re right, I’ve never even lived there. I did grow up in your shadow – that far-ranging auto industry shadow – that fed my family and my friends families and everything in our town to a large extent. We didn’t soar as high as you did and our fall was faster, sooner, harder.

We traveled to you, but we weren’t exactly tourists. We were students. Our families took us to the Corner and we drove down deserted downtown streets, and we asked where the people were at. We didn’t understand why it wasn’t like trips to Chicago, with families crowding the avenues and bright, shining storefronts. The elders talked about how it used to be and we wondered what happened and over the years we learned. Your boarded up businesses taught us about the real race issues in America, the ones they gloss over in middle school history. We researched riots and politics and you planted the seed that drives our politics today – whichever way you lean.

And at the heart of those trips was the Corner. It smelled, looked and felt like the harness raceway back home. Instead of half-person jockeys in carts there were beer vendors and peanuts, panhandlers and Travis Fryman. It was the time you got to stay up til 1 AM with no consequences and see a city a night.

What I like about you, Detroit, is that you’re honest in your lies. When you have the worst professional football roster in history, you lose every god damned game. If you can’t hit a ball inside but can’t bring yourself to lay off, you swing at three straight pitches in the dirt. When the taxes can’t pay for the promises, you let the buildings rot in full view. If you need money, you ask. It isn’t always honorable and it’s rarely pretty but it’s not hidden. It’s there for the world.

What I love about you, though, is that when you’re good you don’t hide it. You break 9 tackles in one run, catch touchdown passes in triple coverage, win basketball championships scoring less than football teams, inflict grave bodily harm on quarterbacks, throw 101 in the 8th, crack jokes at first, play hunches and tinker with the lineup, build monster cars that make grown men weep 40 years later, manufacture an army to save Europe, and build a giant statue of a fist – because – Fuck You, that’s why.

They are going to spend a lot of time this weekend talking about your troubles and how these freak athletes are going to save you and people will bat around their theories of revitalization. But you don’t need a savior. You don’t need a superhero or a light rail or a new bridge. None of that is going to “save” anything. You need people that believe, wherever they are, and you need smart, talented people that work. Your teams aren’t you – they are now the ideal you strive for. Talented machines built by patient architects. The equals of anyone they meet on the field.

You aren’t the American underdog, or the realization of the American dream, or the American Paris, or the symbol of the broken American promises – you are America, every triumph and failure. And you’ll always be more than just laundry to me.

Yesterday news broke that Michigan received a commitment from Derrick Walton, a top 100 recruit for the class of 2013. This came just 24 hours after John Beilein and company had gotten a pledge from Zak Irvin, a small forward from Indiana, and another top 100 recruit. And it seems a safe bet that the two 2012 kids are going to be top 100 as well.

That’s top 100 in the country. We weren’t even top 100 in Indiana.

So we’re here today to say it’s been a good run. But it’s over.

Michigan Basketball has gotten too mainstream.

Back when we were in high school, Zack was a one-star recruit according to Scout, and we were both rated a 40 out of 100 by ESPN. That’s called authenticity. And so to keep it real we both agreed to go practice our craft in the basement of the Big Ten. Michigan had a new coach, John Beilein, and we were told that a ceiling had been installed which would ensure we’d never get too big.

We preferred playing in a darkened, empty Crisler Arena. We played for ourselves, because we loved it, not to pander to any crowd. Those days are gone. Now the place is too brightly lit and word from the Ticket Office is that sales are skyrocketing. Whatever, man. That’s, like, literally being a sellout.

And dude, the atmosphere at Crisler is insufferable and borderline offensive. Not only do you have all the bandwagoners now, you got our corporate AD giving away FREE PIZZA. How about giving away some organic or local stuff? Gotta keep the fatties happy, we guess. We miss the old AD, the guy who rocked the boat shoes. That guy was rad.

This year we’re going to play in the prestigious Maui Invitational. We liked it better when we went to Orlando for the Old Spice Classic. We want to play Creighton, not Kansas. That’s like going from Brooklyn Bowl to Lollapalooza.

Speaking of tournaments, we used to want to play in the NCAA tourney, we admit. But now that we’ve done it twice, we’re not so keen. Turns out that the further you advance, the more corporate it gets. It’s pretty disenchanting, to be honest. We’ll stick to the NIT from now on, even though we’re pretty wary of playing Madison Square Garden. Did you see that Mad Men about how they tore down the original Penn Station to build that monstrosity? Still not cool.

LLP rockin the throwbacks... so underrated

What else? Oh yeah, don’t get us started on Darius Morris. When he first got to Ann Arbor, he was pretty chill. Then he starts beating up on Michigan State, which, like, cool, and most people don’t realize when he said, ‘GET THE FUCK OFF MY COURT!’ he wasn’t just talking to Sparty, he was talking to everyone. So then we really start digging the kid, and what does he do? He goes to the NBA—the fuck, dude?—and not just any NBA team, but the Los Angeles Lakers. You sign up with Jerry Buss, you sign away your soul. Good luck with that, bro. Someday you’re gonna wake up and wish you’d kept it real and played in Belgium instead.

Then there’s Coach Bacari. No one knew about this guy a year ago. And he had some serious cred, being a former U of D Titan and all. And the whole HALOL was funny at first, but not anymore. Now everyone is HALOLing.  2010 called, they want their twitter meme back.

The program has just changed so much. Beilein used to have a cool staff. Jerry Dunn was the head coach at Penn State for eight years—doesn’t get more underground than that. Now it’s like, with Bacari and Lavall Jordan, players are getting better and everyone wants to come here. And they’ve built a new practice facility. We liked it better when we practiced where we played. Now it just feels too rehearsed.

Then there’s the polls. Looks like we’re going to be preseason top 25. Man, we don’t do this for the charts. We do it for love. If we had it our way, we would withdraw from this rankings bullshit. The last thing we need are ESPN camera crews hanging around our games. Once that happens, you’ve lost all creative control. The guys from Comcast Local were much cooler.

We’re gonna stick around for one more year, but don’t expect us to enjoy it. Graduation can’t come soon enough—in May we’re moving to Williamsburg to design shoes. For Nike, not Adidas. You know, the brand Michigan used before they got big.

Could this jersey be more destructive to Michigans program than Pryor was to OSU's? Many suspect so.

rumored making AD BranDUM the biggest liar since Jim Tressel) and then was briefly mollified when it seemed that maybe the jerseys weren’t as terrible and awful and horrible as originally thought. Finally, we learned that irregardless (HALOL) of the design, any throwback jersey is probably likely to destroy all that is good and holy about our beloved University of Michigan.

I do not say this to mock*. I realize that I stand alone in my indifference to the stitching on the outfits. One gets the impression that Brain Cook could publish a different picture of the jerseys every day and comments of sickened readers would still run into the hundreds. However, during all this furor, many missed an even more hypothetical rumor and that was yet so pernicious as to warrant an even greater over reaction.
As is often the case, the rumor started with a tweet from Paul Finebaum (readers of this blog are already well acquainted with the evils of both twitter and Finebaum.)

@finebaum Finebaum Network
Sheridan,’I look for OSU to get hit with severe penalties similar to USC. I was told OSU might be facing tv ban.’

In recent years, only this man has been a dependable source for mockery and schadenfreude for Michigan fans.

A TV ban. I’ve been ‘told’ that the NCAA strongly considered a TV ban for USC** and that Texas A&M was given a TV ban in 1994. Tell me again how that is a punishment? If OSU is going to go through a down season or two and lose a game or five, their fans should be required to watch on TV. Let them taste the bitter dregs of the cup of misery that we have so recently imbibed in full. The nation should be allowed to watch on TV just as they did when Notre Dame and Michigan went through their Weis and RichRod phases.

Some have argued that punishing OSU now just punishes the innocent players, coaches, and fans. Tell me again which are the innocent ones? The coaches, such as Dick Tressel, who created this culture and all remain? The players littering the roster still driving cars the compliance department has no knowledge of to play Xbox at the tattoo parlor run by a felon? The fans? If they are penitent, chagrined, or even seriously acknowledge that anyone but the Devil Terrelle Pryor did anything wrong, I haven’t seen it for all the deification of Jim Tressel (literal deification!) For serious, any population that names a little girl Tressel can’t be innocent of much. I say make them watch.

Think of the children. Do it for the children. Release them from the tyranny of Tressel.

A TV ban would mean no youtube videos of humiliation. No real reckoning with the mediocrity. If RichRod had been lucky enough to have a TV ban, he probably would still have a job. Looking at a boxscore just doesn’t bring the stomach churning pain the way actually watching Matt McGloin slice your defense apart like vintage Joe Montana does.

You want innocent victims? Don’t look to Ohio. Move your gaze a little further north. Michigan fans would be the innocent victims of any OSU TV ban. Nothing can make going 1-9 against Tressel right but watching OSU struggle on a Saturday afternoon or seven and maybe even lose a couple times (and not in a BCS bowl) would still be pretty nice. I say, we deserve that. We deserve to watch Joe Bauserman ‘run’ for his life as the makeshift offensive line crumbles and blitzers rain down.

The Bauserman Era will be televised. I'm pretty sure he is #14.

Friends, I haven’t even mentioned the real horror of an OSU TV ban. So great is the injustice that just writing the words makes me tremble with righteous indignation. Let’s just say, maybe OSU is not very good and maybe Michigan get’s totally lucky and everything goes their way and… Just bear with my hypothetical here, Michigan beats OSU. It could happen. I’m told this has happened in the past. Brace yourself. If there was an OSU TV ban, this miraculous event would not be viewed by anyone outside the stadium. Wolverine Historian would be unable to upload one of his glorious highlight videos for future generations to watch. You would even have a hard time getting that loud mouthed asshole at work who doesn’t even really pay attention to admit it even happened.

This cannot come to pass. This must not happen. The NCAA cannot be this capricious and cruel as to punish Michigan fans this way, can they?

*Well, maybe just a little mockery.
**This is what we call anecdotal evidence—two words which I would say, in my professional life, with that practiced disdain I learned so well at Michigan, but is the coin of the realm on the internet!

the collection and editing of news for presentation through the media

In other words, say any god-damn thing you want, call it “news”, and if it appears in “media” – bang! Journalism. Journalists, however, often have some responsibility to report without bias or agenda, making this definition, further down the page, a bit more satisfactory:

writing characterized by a direct presentation of facts or description of events without an attempt at interpretation

This line, obviously, can be blurred when one bounces between reporting and opinion as Thayer Evans, formerly of the New York Times, currently of Foxsports.com does. However, Evans gives a master-class in how the same facts, comments, and events can be twisted given the agenda of the writer.

Described by MGoBlog’s Brian Cook as “dropping a bomb” on Pryor, Evans’ piece on Foxsports.com makes his thesis clear from the jump:

Sex, money and power.

Well, that’s certainly a grabber.

That’s what Terrelle Pryor was concerned about when I first met him in January 2008 at the U.S. Army All-American Bowl, an annual national all-star game for high school seniors held in San Antonio.

Well, come on. Lets be honest about what he’s saying: Pryor, an 18-year old in 2008, was interested in hot women and nice cars, a character observation redundant with merely noting that “he’s 18″. Evans backs up his accusation of craving sex with an anecdote of watching Pryor ask a Buckeye female fan for a picture of herself via text. His accusation of craving power relies on him saying that Pryor “boasted about the influence he had over coaches recruiting him, like then-Ohio State coach Jim Tressel” because Tressel “had promised him the Buckeyes would implement a spread offense to fit the abilities of the anointed next Vince Young” (no quote is attributed, we need to take his word). His accusation of craving money is supported by noting that Pryor complained about people selling his autograph (again, no attributed quote).

This got the mind turning – if this was so clear to Thayer Evans in 2008, during that first meeting, in San Antonio, I’m sure he wrote an article about it. Well, he did!

In this article, in the New York Times, Evans recounts the same text-message story as above – a Buckeye fan asked Pryor for a picture, he asked her for one in return. However, Thayer couches this in the same paragraph as the following:

Yet for now, Pryor remains a high school senior who plays PlayStation 3, listens only to the rapper Lil Wayne and attends parties with friends.

So in 2008, this episode struck Evans as typical high-school kid behavior (because it is), and the implication is that Evans gives it a “boys will be boys” shoulder shrug. Only now, three years later, does Evans see this as a burgeoning sexual obsession.

Pryor’s boast of influencing his coaches, and Tressel’s adaptation of the spread as a result?

He said he got along well with Ohio State’s recruits here this week, but he worried whether the Buckeyes would implement a spread offense, as Tressel had promised.

“I believe him because he said he would, but I really don’t know,” said Pryor.

Well, shit – does this sound like a boast, or a kid sounding skeptical as to whether a coach was actually going to do what he said? Where, exactly, does Pryor’s comment imply the power lies? It’s certainly not with him. In 2008, Evans saw Pryor’s comments as evidence that he wasn’t sure what he could expect at OSU. In 2011, Evans sees it as Pryor crowing about his power over Tressel.

His obsession with money? Well, Pryor could have certainly said something, but Evans never mentions it. Instead he merely communicates the fact that “a football with his signature already sells for $99.99 on eBay” as a way of contextualizing the fame of a high-school football player.

These two articles, simply, are impossible to reconcile. Is it possible that Evans’ current version of his meeting with Pryor is accurate? Obviously. But that begs the question – where was Evans’ article three fucking years ago? If Pryor was a clearly despicable kid, clearly looking for his own hedonistic pursuit, why not write that? One is breaking news, the other is claiming you knew the cow would escape two hours after someone left the barn door is open – that is to say, it’s completely useless. Congratulations, nobody cares if you knew something if you kept your mouth shut.

The answer, of course, assuming that a word Evans wrote today is true (which is dubious, given that it would mean he with-held information to paint a more favorable picture three years ago), is that Evans didn’t want to burn his bridge with a future NCAA star – that is to say, Evans was willing to conceal the faults of Pryor when it suited him. Now, as Pryor departs Evans’ sport of focus, Evans has no reason to step on egg-shells anymore.

In other words – either what Evans wrote today is an outright lie, or what he wrote three years was intentionally misleading in an attempt to create a relationship with Pryor. Both, frankly, are fairly discrediting accusations.

The job of a journalist is to communicate information to the public – not selectively communicate the information that paints the picture that best serves their own agenda at the time. Thayer Evans, a writer who seems to have a history of this, needs to learn this lesson.

The positives to believing in the myth are obvious. You get to believe everything most normal people have believed about Jim Tressel (including me) for the vast majority of the time Jim Tressel was someone that one believed things about (roughly since 2001.) The Dogma of Tressel– he is an honest, hard working man of integrity who may be boring but is also dependable. All you have to add is this romantic idea that he made ‘one bad choice’ betting on yet another disadvantaged kid to make good. You even get to make a villain out of people like Ray Small, which is easy because he seems like kind of an idiot, and whichever other Buckeye has recently forsaken the Omerta of the Sacred Brotherhood. But mostly, you get to keep demonizing Terrelle Pryor, the QB who took down the legend. Which feels good because, depending on your perspective, he is either too good at the footballs or not good enough, and he frequently says imprudent things and drives too many cars. Although, not necessarily at the same time.

Pryor didn't take Tressel anywhere he didn't already know how to go.

This approach is comforting because you get to keep believing in the one dimensional caricatures of which people are the good ones and which are the bad ones and you get avoid even thinking about some dude named Jungian. You get to keep repeating stories about community service (because, like, I’m just so sure that Tressel was the first football coach to ever visit a hospital) and role models and molding young men. The myth is easy to believe because so many idiot talking heads–so often the lazy, lagging indicators of public opinion–have been repeating it non-stop.

The problem with believing the myth is you’re left with so many weird questions. Why would Jim Tressel put so much on the line for one knuckle-headed QB? Why would he start lying now when he was on top of his professional world? Why the cover up? Why not just come clean and pledge to fix things? Who or what was it again that Tressel was protecting the kids from? Why is he punting? (Belay my last—that’s an old question.)

I thought you'd realize by now, there ain't no way to hide your lyin eyes.

If you choose to see the real man that is Head Coach Jim Tressel then all those vexing questions have a simple answer.

Because that’s what he’s always done and it has always worked.

Since recent events have called into question the Dogma of Tressel, one must now re-evaluate the past data for fresh conclusions to explain the new data set.

And what do we find? A trail of star players (and some whodats) who just happened to get hooked up with shady guys who wanted to give them things. (PRESENTS?!?!? For me? You shouldn’t have!) Each time, Tressel assured the world that he had no knowledge of the transgressions and we believed him because of the Dogma of Tressel and because we wanted to believe. He’s an honest guy. He wouldn’t lie.

But he did lie. And he has only come clean with whatever has already been proven against him.

I guess what I’m saying here is: I’m not so sure about this idea that even though Tressel cheated and lied about the cheating, this time, he had no idea about the previous cheating and no, of course, he’s not lying about that. This just keeps happening and what’s a coach to do?

I’m thinking that way back in 1991 when Tressel told Ray Isaac to contact Mickey Monus he did that for reason. When similar things happened to Maurice Clarrett and Troy Smith and Terrelle Pryor it was because Tressel allowed it to.

The minds of Michigan Men are nimble enough to understand that even though Lloyd Carr has a wing in a Childrens Hospital named after him, he is still trying to destroy the program.

So, now we’ve got this conundrum that is just absolutely blowing so many Buckeye minds—how can Jim Tressel, the magical saint, be a liar and a cheater? As a citizen of a country with a Founding Father that wrote sublimely revolutionary words about the equality of all men while gleefully impregnating his slave, I think my mind can handle the dichotomy.

Jim Tressel, private citizen, probably is some totally amazing healer of the sick and blind who runs a great Bible study. But Jim Tressel, head football coach and professional role model, yeah, probably a little too much of the lying and the not know about the cheating for my tastes. I would suggest young Buckeyes look more to Chris Spielman for their hero-worship needs.

Where you been lately? There's a new kid in town.

Thanks for the breakfast honey. The eggs weren’t very good. Bacon could have been crispier. What? No no. You’re mistaken. Cooking the breakfast is your job. It’s my right as the consumer to tell you the problems with it. Actually, it’s my duty. You should thank me.

Stupid cars. Why aren’t they flying yet? Public transportation would stink though. Then I’d have to mingle with the unwashed masses.

Security guard saying hi. Right. Probably just because we’re both black. He’s jealous of me. I can tell by the smile.

Hmm…. column time. What to say …

What’s that? The Lions are going to be on Hard Knocks? Perfect. Terrible decision. Too many distractions. Too many questions. Last thing a young team needs right now is cameras in their face all the time.

What?

They turned it down?

Ok. That’s ok. Let’s see …

The Lions look scared, maybe a bit paranoid.

HBO approached them about being the newest star in its summer training camp tableau “Hard Knocks.” They passed.

It’s too distractive, too intrusive. Oh, really? Their reticence doesn’t make sense, especially since they’re accustomed to NFL Films and NFL Network following them constantly with unfettered access.

Their decision should tell every team in the NFL that the Lions still aren’t sure about themselves, so they’re intimidated by a television show.

Whew. I’m exhausted. Already called the team a bunch of cowards. This is excellent. Sowing skepticism before a single down. People around here have been enjoying this team for too long. Time to bring them down a notch.

I guess technically I have no evidence they are scared. Maybe we can turn this into moralizing about the lockout.

They don’t want to be part of a series that the cable network might have to rename “Hard Locks” this summer.

We’re quickly approaching the 100-day countdown to the Thursday night regular-season opener when the Green Bay Packers get their Super Bowl championship rings. But it’s increasingly looking like the season’s starting date will get pushed back from its customary Labor Day-week launching date due to the continued labor strife.

Perfection. It completely contradicts my point that they are scared about their team, but that’s ok. I can hear the minions typing away already in the comments section. (Ed: I get the “irony”.Although, technically, I’m not sure that irony would be the word. You see, as a young boy growing up in a rigidly Mennonite household, we were often taught about irony. It’s one of the fond memories I have of my elderly great grandfather. He used to Other Ed.: Sorry. That was the new copy-editor. He’s been fired.).

God all this naysaying has me hungry. Not that I believe in God. Or do believe in God. Depends on who I’m talking to and whether or not they believe in God. Better eat some chips.

Hm. Chips in a can. But they aren’t pringles.

Hmm. Tastes like paint. I don’t like these chips. Pretty sure no one else will though, so I better write the name down and call them my favorite chips every time someone asks. Behr. Interesting. Never heard of Behr.

The teams aren’t worried about showboating players because of the added attention from the HBO cameras. They’re more scared about angry players venting about how they think the owners and commissioner Roger Goodell treated them during this often incendiary process.

So hard right now. I love turning a logical point into a negative.

They’ve got story lines this summer that might actually interest football fans who are not emotionally tied to the team’s ebbs and flows.

Boom. Backhanded slap at the idiots in this town who try to have fun on Sunday instead of looking for failure at every turn. Idiots. How do they live like that?

Oh, crap. Email from mom. Stupid forwards. Better head to Snopes and debunk every line of it. Reply All. Stupid. Better Reply All again with this article I just Google’d.

I haven’t watched one second of the series. It’s no different than the litany of other pseudo-reality television series. “Real” is the director’s interpretation after hours of editing. It’s all nicely packaged entertainment.

I know it offers unparalleled access into what teams talk about training camp and actual, legitimate football knowledge. I know it allows me to get an idea of the real work involved with making the league. I know I’m paid to be a sportswriter. But do you expect me to watch that instead of Cupcake Wars reruns? Like, do my job? You’re kidding right? Doing a job is for mortals.

The Lions’ intrusion argument simply doesn’t work. HBO’s interest didn’t derail the New York Jets last summer. They returned to the AFC championship game. Cincinnati was the “Hard Knocks” star in 2009, coming off another disappointing 4-12 season. The Bengals swept through the challenging AFC North that season, winning a surprising divisional title.

Technically this doesn’t have much to do with any of the points I’ve made. I am going to ignore the KC Chiefs and Cowboys failures because that would even up the argument. And I’ve got the Lions dead to rights on their obvious white lie they told about not wanting to be the lockout Hard Knocks team. I DEMAND FULL TRANSPARENCY.

Man, that was exhausting. I hope my reflexes are good enough to finally nail that puppy running around the neighborhood tonight.

In the craving-for-acceptance world of wrestling, the mightiest stars are judged not by their titles or in-ring credentials, but by how thoroughly they crashed the mainstream pop culture zeitgeist. There are few in this pantheon. Opinions will vary, but two names shined above everyone before and arguably since  - Hogan and Savage. The Hulkster, The Macho Man. If someone has heard of one, it’s a virtual certainty they know the other. Hogan, the ultimate hero. Savage, the ultimate nemesis. Occasional friends, frequent enemies, they are tightly linked to each other from the time Savage burst onto the WWF scene in the mid-80s. From his first run as challenger to the epic Mega-Powers story to the NWO to the wacky rap album, Hogan-Savage is, in my lifetime and view, the greatest feud in the history of wrestling. Macho Madness is the yin to the Hulkamania yang. The twisted, complicated brother raised in the basement.

Hogan made moments of inspired brilliance mixed in with long periods of cliche-ridden drivel. Ric Flair wrestled the same match 900x in the span of a decade in the 1980s, but then did it again in the 1990s – only on TV where we all noticed the patterns. The Rock and Stone Cold? Legends of a different era, with a flame that burnt arguably brighter but ultimately shorter; also the only comparable super-duo to the Mega-Powers. None of these, in my mind, compare to the utter insanity and unpredictably that Randy Poffo gave to The Macho Man.

The other stars have lived their lives in full-view. The Rock is a movie star, we know all about Austin’s domestic issues, Flair has been a lavish-living spectacle for decades, and Hogan had his own vanity reality show. Theyve shaped their legacies in part through their personal lives. The Macho Man’s personal life is, like the character, a fascinating enigma. Few know much definitive about the true nature of his relationship with Elizabeth and their divorce. Fewer still know the reason for his exile from the history of the WWE since leaving for WCW in the mid-90s. He’s been out of the public eye for years – but people still remember the robes, the sunglasses, and the Ohhhh—Yeeahhhhhh!.

Savage stole the show at WrestleMania III with Rick Steamboat. He provided Hulk Hogan with the larger-than-life legitimate threat to his dominance that was so critical to sustaining the success of the Andre The Giant feud. He carried the Ultimate Warrior and Diamond Dallas Page to career-defining matches. His interviews are unlike anyone else in history. The wrestling world has lost a singular talent, a true genius of the craft. That doesn’t necessarily resonate with most of America, but for the believers, it’s a genuinely heartbreaking loss.

But the enigma certainly continues. There’s a reasonable chance (I’m trying to be generous) that years of steroid use to maintain a massive physique that wasn’t suited to his smaller frame contributed to the (probable) heart attack that killed him. That the years of intense dedication to the business and art he was obsessed with eventually did him in. And we profited from that – in the memories we relive now. Wrestling devours the meat puppets that drive it in a way no other sport or entertainment business does. Try to watch WrestleMania VII (1991) now – of the 51 performers, 14 are dead. Compare to the 1991 Super Bowl – not a single player on either team has passed.

One of the most famous moments in the history of WWE and the Macho Man happened at that WrestleMania. Do you remember? The Ultimate Warrior pinned Macho (deceased) in a “Retirement” Match. Macho’s manager, Sherri (deceased) then attacked him. He was saved by his lost love, the lovely Elizabeth (dead) and they rode off into the sunset. Some middle-aged man in a raincoat was immortalized crying like a baby at ringside. It lead to the wrestling marriage of Savage and Elizabeth later that year at SummerSlam – right around the time their real-life marriage ended. A few years later, Savage was giving advice to Lance Storm – who he had mistaken for Chris Candido, who was in a real-life relationship with future WWE diva Sunny – “I see you’re doing an angle with your wife. I did that once – and she’s not my wife anymore”. Wrestling has a long tradition of breaking up  or creating couples on screen, only to have the real-life relationship end shortly after. Like so many others, “the business” had ate his marriage away.

The Poffos are notorious in wrestling for saving their money, and Randy was no different. He was living a comfortable life, nearly a decade after he was last seen in the ring and about the same time since Elizabeth had overdosed, and married to the girl he had dated in high school when his biggest dream was to make it in MLB. Apparently the tentacles of wrestling never quite recede though, and the ring took another one down before their time.

Some kids in my town grew up pretending to be Cecil Fielder or Barry Sanders on the lawn. I did that; but I also spent hours dropping flying elbows on an inflatable dinosaur from the diving board of our pool. The Hogan perfect hero that cheats but won’t admit it is grating. Give me the vicious but honest ethics of the Macho Man – win and make no apologies. The moral dilemma of supporting the wrestling industry in any form is stronger than ever, but as Macho once so profoundly said – “What it isssss …. is what it issssss”.

Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this son of Beilein;
And all the rivals that low’r'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

I asked zombie President Ford to pardon Chris Webber but he told me he had no intention of making that mistake again.

Our long national nightmare is over. I know this because John Beilein raised MICHIGAN MAN Gerald Ford from the dead and he told me.

And so here we are, once again (or for some of you youngsters, this may be the first time) bathing in the warm glow of Michigan success in the national spotlight–our ears equally pleased by the lamentations of our rivals. Michigan hockey, the only mistress that never really left us, rushes towards a climatic showdown with hockey powerhouse Miami University¹ and a clash for a number one seed. Some intrepid poster at mgoblog keeps us updated each time the women’s softball wins again. LAX is doing whatever it is they do against whoever it is they play and doing it very well. More importantly than non-revenue sports, our rivals have been laid low—some by repeated losses to Michigan, others by their own nefarious dealings. Thou Izzo managed to avoid the killing thrust of the NIT, it was not on Michigan’s back that he

Nice suit, Coach.

conjured a tourney bid (never send a Boilermaker to do a man’s job.) And yes, Michigan has not actually beaten OSU at… well really anything recently or even kind of recently, but be patient. Victory looms, for Jim Tressel has finally been unmasked as the evil lying liar that few sane people always knew him to be. It seems certain that being a liar liar pants-on-fire and playing ineligible players makes you a big cheater cheater pumpkin eater and will force the NCAA to vacate OSU’s entire 2010 season. QUICK! Somebody get RichRod on the phone and tell him he just beat OSU. Then tell him he’s fired–again.

Some might say that you shouldn’t take pleasure in the misfortune of your rivals–that the only thing that matters is the competition on the field. To them I say HALOL!!! That’s rediculous! Those loosers don’t understand the baser emotions that going 2-8² against your arch rival will breed in a man’s heart. If nothing else, this will keep those Buckeye asshats out of our ear holes for a little while (I’m not actually calling Eleven Warriors asshats with that link. Well, maybe just a little.)

Even Michigan’s prospects on the gridiron are looking up. Yes, Michigan fired the worst coach in America and managed to find an even worse one (while our real coach is in San Francisco cavorting with hippies and teh gheys.) A coach so terrible and awful that he managed to lose recruits Michigan never had in the first place. A coach so bad that the only thing worse than him is THE PROCESS by which he was hired and the AD that hired him. But we still have Greg Mattison on one side of the ball and Denard on the other. Provided he can figure a way out of the chains with which the new terrible awful (and fat, both the head coach and OC are fat) old, bald, offensive coordinator will use to keep him under center. All that aside, we at the WLA³ prefer to remain positive and let every man coach at least one game (the spring game, at the very least) before we announce we hate him.

John Beilein and his magic snuggie have kept Michigan fans warm on their lonely journey back to basketball respectability.

One coach no one hates is John Beilein, who has resurrected the moribund basketball program from the grave that it shared with Ed Martin⁴. If you recall, the last time he raised the program from the dead the only thing that stopped Michigan was the hideous Death Ginger. He has moved onto the NBA, leaving only one more Death Ginger but he plays for Wisconsin who Michigan shan’t meet until the championship game.
For now, the sites are clearly set on Tennessee, led for the moment, by the infamous Bruce Pearl. Since it is well known that Bruce Pearl dines on kitten liver pate while putting hits on nuns and inking record deals for boy bands, they are clearly GOING DOWN, GARY!

Arise, Wolverines, from your troubled slumber. It is morning in Ann Arbor.

1. In this context, there can be only one Miami.
2. Remember, I’m counting 2010 as a victory and retroactively enjoying it as much as I enjoyed, in real time, all those basketball games that never happened in the 90’s.
3. I don’t actually ‘know’ any of the other members of the WLA (I only e-know them) but that clearly doesn’t stop me speaking upon their behalf.
4. I don’t have it in me to cast out Chris Webber. He is like a wayward child of mine. Though he may do a great many silly things, he will always have a home in my heart. This is not true for Martin and Fisher.

Hey there, beautiful

For those of you out there in the webbernetz who don’t know, I live in Portland, Oregon. Which is awesome. On Friday a nineteen year old terrorist tried to blow up our Christmas tree with a bomb in a van. Which is not awesome. My reactions to this are a mixed grab bag of emotions and shock ((not awe) is this joke too 2003?). For one, get a new game, terrorists. Timothy McVeigh did that whole van full of bombs thing years ago. This is 2010. Don’t you play Call of Duty? You have to be more creative than that. Secondly, why Portland? I get that it is a major metropolitan area, but unless you hate Nike (which is in Beaverton) or fast computer processors (Intel is around too) there isn’t any real industry to target here. Portland just wants to be left alone. And by alone, I mean wants more people to come hangout and not get jobs.

Perhaps terrorists have declared jihad on hipsters. If that is the case let me just say, it is about time. These dudes with their skinny jeans and their loose fitting knit caps have had it far too easy for far too long. Walking around with a used (albeit unread by you) copy of The Fountainhead tucked under your arm does not an intellectual make. If hipsters are the new target of global terrorism then that is something I can get behind, although doing it in the name of Allah isn’t necessary. Anyone can hate hipsters. They rarely shave, philosophize about mostly crappy music and at the first sign of violence they usually flee into a trendy coffee shop,. Thus, their movements are easy to track. You wouldn’t even need to use  dogs. But if you do, use a golden retriever, because they are clearly the best dogs and are generally more fantastic than any person you’ll meet. Myself included.

Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, what did Portland ever do to terrorists? If Portland has offended anyone with its outstanding cuisine, microbreweries, low crime rate, taking all other city’s bums and liberal politics then let me know. But blowing up our Christmas tree? Child please. Portland isn’t exactly a target rich environment. If you want to bomb a Starbucks you can go anywhere. Why target a city that has never hurt anyone? Unless you hate fun, in which case: We’re sorry.

I wasn’t planning on attending the targeted tree-lighting ceremony. I had a date with my couch and my sweatpants. Titanic was running back to back on Oxygen before Cornel West was appearing on Craig Ferguson. Needless to say, my evening was booked. But the idea that the city I currently call home was targeted by a nineteen year-old terrorist from Corvallis (and right after I had decided that Oregon State was the less evil of the two large Oregon universities) shook me a bit. I sipped my water with contemplation, rather than gulping it down like a famished wolf-hound, as is my usual. Kate Winslet looked a little more gross and Leo looked a little less dreamy and when I finally went to bed my pillows just didn’t feel as comforting. I don’t understand why a terrorist would want to attack Portland, and if Portland can become a target, any city has a potential date with unknown assailants. That is a hard pill to swallow, even after being nine years removed from 9/11.

And then Michigan got murder-fisted by Ohio State. So it goes.