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.