Category Archives: Sports

thereplacements

The Replacements – A Review

With NFL millionaires flaunting their hatred of America, and contempt for at least half of their fan base, now looks like a good time to plug one of the best comedy jock flicks ever made.

“Every athlete dreams of a second chance,” proclaims Coach Jimmy McGinty (Gene Hackman) in voiceover toward the end. Second chances is what this movie is about, at it’s core. All the jokes, action, and Sports Movie Formula might distract you from that central theme; but those frills are not what resonates with the masculine soul while watching it.

Inspired by the NFL players’ strike in the late 1980s (before Joe Gibbs’ Washington Redskins went on to destroy the Denver Broncos in the Superbowl), the story begins with crybaby millionaire star quarterback Eddie Martel throwing a game in order to avoid getting tackled. The end of the game marks the beginning of the players’ strike.

The owner of the “Washington Sentinels,” hungry for a playoff berth despite the strike, woos “controversial” (old-fashioned) coach McGinty into putting together a roster of replacement players to finish the season.

Turns out, McGinty has been tracking some former players with great potential who, for various reasons, never made it in the pros. “If nothing else,” McGinty says, “they should be fun to watch.”

And they are.

Unfortunately, there are only so many plots available for a sports movie. It is a credit to the director that there are enough twists in The Replacements to make it stand out despite the formula.

The movie does have flaws. The romantic subplot, for instance, comes off as tacked-on and superficial. I suspect the scenes that might have fleshed it out wound up on the cutting room floor. It probably should have been left out altogether, so that other scenes didn’t have to be pared down for the sake of running time (Shane Falco’s first pass in the first practice was obviously two scenes cut together).brookecheerleader But the compromises that weaken the film are not why the critics hate it.

There’s none of the obligatory LGB-pandering anywhere in the film (except, perhaps, in a tres risque pantomime by the strippers-turned-cheerleaders on the sidelines at one game). The screenwriters didn’t contrive some way to put a female on the team–even as a kicker. Comraderie and male-bonding are celebrated throughout, and men act like men. When a female reporter invades the locker room, she gets little cooperation from the players and is ultimately convinced to give up and leave the “male space” intact. The bulk of the entire movie is an unapologetic celebration of masculinity guaranteeing that it could never get made today.

In fact, it’s amazing it got made 17 years ago, because the culture was deeply pozzed by then, already. Instead of watching the anti-American NFL bite the hands that feed them on Sunday, check this flick out.

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NASCAR Needs to Allow Speedometers

NASCAR stands for “National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing” and, believe it or not, the drivers once raced cars that were factory-stock. That means, present-day race fans, that the cars driven at NASCAR races were once equipped with speedometers.

This is not the case now, which is rather mystifying, considering that penalties are assessed for speeding on Pit Road. In the Cup Race at Kentucky this weekend just past, Kyle Larson had to start the race at the rear of the grid due to finishing Tech Inspection late. He worked his way through the field during Stage One, only needing to pass two more cars to take the lead…

And then a speeding penalty planted him at the back of the pack yet again, and he had to start over. He finished Second behind the winner, Martin Truex Jr., but one has to wonder if that would have been the case without his mistake on Pit Road.

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It’s an easier mistake to make than it ever has been, and more drivers are making it–ruining their chances for victory week after week. Without a speedometer, the driver has to estimate his actual speed based on the tach reading, and what the spotter tells him over the radio. But every single driver wants to gain, or at least maintain, grid position during pit stops, so they will push their cars as close to the speed limit as possible.

At least, that’s what they would do if they had a means to accurately gauge their speed. Then we’d see more races won or lost due to the collective effort of the respective race teams, instead of being penalized for failing to calculate what they are not allowed to measure.

Life, liberty, and the hot pursuit of happiness.

Speed Week Plus: “Gearhead Porn”

One reviewer called Fast Cars and Rock & Roll “gearhead porn,” and I guess it is. Unfortunately, gearheads are an endangered species and an even smaller niche than I thought.*

But anyway… below is an excerpt from Chapter 37 from The Ultimate Gearhead Novel–as good a way as any to close out Speed Week Plus.

Pontiac Ventura II
Pontiac Ventura II

Deke Jones has been doing pretty well on the track, but a road course wreck damaged his Pontiac Ventura II to the point he is not allowed to finish the campaign in it. Not only that, he just discovered the truth about his scorching-hot girlfriend, and dumped her with gusto. Down but not out, our hero has teamed up with his fellow musclecar pilot, Gloomy, to finish the race campaign in Gloomy’s 340 Challenger.

1st generation Dodge Challenger
1st generation Dodge Challenger

 

I tuned the Challenger for the elevation while Gloomy checked tire pressure, brake condition and some other vitals. As we strapped on our helmets, Gloomy asked, “Where’s Lena?”
“Gone,” I replied. “She is no longer a member of the team. Or any team.”
His eyes looked confused through the helmet face shield.
“I’ll explain later,” I said. “Let’s get ready to wring this thing out.”
We rolled up onto the portable ramps by the scrutineer’s tent to undergo the quickest tech inspection ever.
Gloomy had quite the collection of his own compilation tapes, and popped one in the cassette deck while we waited. I hummed along with the Rolling Stones singing “It’s All Over Now.”
“It ain’t all over by a long shot,” Gloomy declared with a cocky grin. “We’re just gettin’ started.”
I wondered if my new teammate was schizophrenic or manic depressive. Well, as long as he wrenched hard, drove smart, and spoke the truth, I wouldn’t complain.
We passed tech and rolled up to the start line. The flag waved and Gloomy kicked it in the guts. He banged through the gears and we were flying in short order. But he began to back off the throttle too soon in top gear.
I checked my pace notes. “Keep the hammer down!” I yelled over the engine noise. “You’re coming up on a gradual sweeper with nice banking. No problem!”
Gloomy rolled back on the loud pedal and we continued to build speed through the sweeper. The lateral Gs were noticeable, but the wide-tracked Challenger stuck to the pavement with no trouble.
I called out the features before we came to them, including turn radius when appropriate.
The next song up was “Baby Please Don’t Go” by Willie and the Poor Boys and I couldn’t believe it. The two of us might very well be the only ones who’d ever heard it. Evidently he, too, considered it an outstanding song to motorvate to.
I couldn’t see the speedometer from where I sat, and it didn’t go high enough anyway, but I was confident we were making excellent time.
We were approaching a moderate-to-hard corner and I shouted the details out to Gloomy. He began easing off the gas. Judging by his last few curves it was evident he’d learned a lot on the road courses about how to use the brakes and transmission together, keeping his RPMs up in the sweet spot for track-out. Here he was going to stab his brakes turning in, downshift just before the apex, then roll on the throttle tracking out.
Just before the curve was an underpass, but there was something weird about it. The shadow from the crossing bridge extended too far. As we drew closer, I realized it wasn’t part of the shadow…but what it was I didn’t know. It was like a dark carpet covering the sun-bleached gray asphalt.
The first time Gloomy touched the brakes, we were atop that mysterious carpet. Even from the passenger seat, I felt the Challenger get loose.
Time slowed down. We were in the curve now, and the tires were hydroplaning. Applying more speed was out of the question because we came into the turn at the ragged edge of the envelope already. Same with maintaining speed, for that matter. Deceleration and braking was only pushing the rear end around. We were on the verge of utterly losing control, and there were some very large boulders on the roadside that appeared unforgiving.
I fought the sick feeling in my stomach as we slid, swerved and floated toward our doom, and yelled, “Road warrior!”
Gloomy’s reaction may have been just fast reflexes. Or maybe part of him, deep down, was still a soldier ready to use his training at the instant of a verbal command. He worked the brakes, clutch, shifter and accelerator like he was simply part of his machine. Within a fraction of a second, his rear tires were tearing backwards.
The Challenger was pulled straight and our speed plummeted like we had popped a drag chute.
I saw a piece of the dark carpet lift into the air before us. Then another. And another. The carpet disintegrated before us as first dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of its components lifted off from mother earth and scattered. One came through the window and whacked me in the arm. It looked like a beetle.
Some kind of Alfred Hitchcock/Steven Spielberg conspiracy of the insect kingdom had nearly sent us spinning into oblivion.
Nine out of ten people with a driver’s license probably would have come to a stop, smoked a cigarette, done some deep breathing exercises or uttered a prayer while their heart rate slowed to normal. I sure did want a cigarette right then.
But Gloomy didn’t fear the reaper. He slammed the clutch in, banged into third and, now with traction again, dug out right back for open road. He cranked the volume on the tape deck even higher. I honestly believe the worst part of the whole incident for him was that part of a good song was drowned out in the scream of rubber.
I grabbed the CB mike and broadcast a warning to anyone who had their ears on. Coug answered immediately. I told him to warn the officials about the Beetle Death Trap, giving him the nearest mile marker and the underpass as a landmark.
By this time Gloomy was topped out and the scenery was zinging by in a green-brown blur. The final straight was a steep downhill stretch and it felt like we may have hit 190 before the road flattened out again.
Gloomy didn’t let off the gas until we passed the flag man. As the Challenger slowed and backrapped, Gloomy let out his war cry–something between a dog barking and a rebel yell.

 

*A lot of people once subscribed to Hot Rod, Car Craft, etc. and I doubt if they’ve all died off in the last decade. And Moparts.com was a YUGE site not just for Mopar mavens, but all car guys. Did they die off, too?
At the very least, those guys evidently don’t read anymore, anyway. See, enthusiast magazines (and the website) didn’t just have photos–they were mostly text…suggesting that the subscribers knew how to READ, and bought the magazines in order to do so.
And read about cars, in particular.
I genuinely wonder what happened to all those guys/what they do now in place of reading.
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My Dream Superbowl

I stopped being a sucker for bread and circuses a few years ago. My irritation with the NFL had been growing for years before that.

Free agency destroyed team loyalty among players and coaches, and even team coherency in most cases. Officiating has been inconsistent at best, and smacks of fixing at its worst. And bad calls have affected the outcome of big games in recent history. But the last straw is the league’s descent into cultural Marxist PC activism. In collusion with other SJW-controlled organizations, for instance, the Nasty Faggotized Leftists bullied Georgia’s governor into overturning the will of the people to trample religious liberty in favor of LGTB thought police.

Despite all this, I still like football. When I happen to be in a place where someone has a game on, it’s a big temptation to get engrossed. At one point, I was a football fanatic. I played it with 110% effort, both on the field and in the sandlot. And when I didn’t play, I watched. When there was no game to play or watch, I read about it. I had every Superbowl outcome memorized–all the way back to the Packers’ 35-10 shellacking of the Chiefs in ’67.

History inspires me to imagine various “what if” scenarios, and sports history is no exception. So, what’s my dream matchup for the Superbowl?

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Minnesota Vikings vs. the Buffalo Bills.

The Bills were originally from the American Football League, and won the AFL championship in ’64 and ’65, before O.J. Simpson ever lined up in their backfield.

The Vikings were the 1969 NFL champs.

Both teams are 0 & 4 in the Superbowl however.

So the ultimate argument in favor of this Dream Bowl is that one of these cursed teams would have to win that Lombardi Trophy (that is, assuming it wouldn’t end in a scoreless tie after quadruple overtime).

Both franchises have had teams that were good enough to win the Big One, yet they underachieved at the moment of truth and lost to lesser teams.

And while I’m dreaming, why not draft team rosters from history?

The dream Buffalo team isn’t hard to pick. I don’t know much about the AFL Champion Bills, so I’d go with the Marv Levy would-be dynasty with Jim Kelly and Thurmon Thomas on offense; Bruce Smith and Cornelius Bennett on defense.

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Had they won that first one in 1990, their subsequent three-in-a-row Superbowl appearances likely would have turned out much differently. Winning big games becomes a habit, and it’s still fairly rare for a team that has won that prize to lose it the next time.

And the Bills were the better team in 1990. The loss is blamed on the kicker for missing a gimme field goal, but it was really the Buffalo receivers who lost the game.  Neither Kelly nor Thomas committed a turnover all game. In fact, Kelly was laser-accurate, hitting his receivers on the numbers all day…only to have them drop the ball for drive-killing incompletions. New York, with a lackluster ball-control strategy that gave them a lopsided time-of-possession, squeaked it out by one point. That Buffalo team never got their groove back in the Big Game, despite a record four-straight appearances.

NFL Hall of Famers

I’m more familiar with the Vikes, and so the choice of would-be dynasty is harder to make. The old Purple People Eater lineup seems like the obvious choice. The only team to ever send the entire defensive front four to the Pro Bowl in the same season was also the first team to ever make it to the Superbowl four times. But whether with smashmouth Joe Kapp or scramblin’ Fran Tarkenton at quarterback, the offense was always lacking in something. They never had a great offensive line, a big receiving threat, and a marquis running back all at the same time. There was only so much even a spectacular defense could do.

cartermosshighfiveIt’s hard not to finger the 15 & 1 team from 1998, with a red-hot Randall Cunningham under center, explosive runner Robert Smith in the backfield, and both Chris “All He Does Is Catch Touchdowns” Carter and phenomenal rookie Randy Moss as a deep-threat tandem, while John Randle anchored a respectable defense. That record-setting season came to an end with a game that was also blamed on the kicker, which is understandable–Gary Anderson had been perfect all season, then shanked what would have been the winning kick before overtime.

But that game’s outcome should have never rested on the kicker’s leg, either. John Randle was playing hurt in the game, which allowed the Atlanta Falcons to run up a high score, and Coach Dennis Green’s idiotic play calling made it a one-two punch…in their own face. For instnce: your guys (the most powerful offense the league had ever seen) have a first-and-goal with seconds left on the clock and the game’s outcome in doubt…what play do you call? With all the weapons they had, any number of plays would have given them the margin of victory. Green chose to have Cunningham take a knee to end regulation.

As fantastic as that team was, they turned out to be a flash-in-the-pan. Their next season was lackluster and they choked even worse in subsequent playoff appearances.

My choice would probably be the strike season wild card team, with Minnesota Vikings 1980's - File PhotosWade Wilson at quarterback, Anthony Carter at Wide receiver, and D.J. Dozier in the backfield. But they were slopping over with talent on both sides of the ball. Their defense had a young Chris Doleman and Keith Millard on the line, and defensive backs like Joey Browner and Reggie Rutland shutting down opposing passing games.

That roster is hardly remembered today, because despite winning their division a couple times and sending record numbers of players to the Pro Bowl, they never quite gelled as a team, and didn’t have the heart to win the big games.

Except for that exceptional 1987 post-season, when the flu and a crucial dropped pass ended their Cinderella Story in the 4th quarter of the NFC Championship at RFK Stadium.

Who would I choose to coach them? If it had to be a Minnesota coach, I’d choose Bud Grant.

Tyson-Holyfield

Chasing Tyson

Mike Tyson’s story is of a journey from the bottom to the top, and back to the bottom. If you saw one of his later fights–like against Lennox Lewis–you would assume him to be overrated, if not a joke. If you had seen him in action on his way to becoming the youngest heavyweight champion in history, you would realize how far he fell.

HolyfieldbeltsIn the days after Tyson’s one-round knockout of Carl “The Truth” Williams, many a casual sports consumer opined that nobody in the game could beat him. I pointed to a smart, skilled light-heavyweight named Evander Holyfield and told anybody who would listen, “If anybody could do it, he could.”

Unknown to most of us, or at least under-appreciated, Tyson’s personal life was a hot mess at the time and his self-destruction was already underway. In his first fight with Frank Bruno, careful observers noted the cracks appearing in his armor. He was no longer a well-oiled wrecking machine. More like a powerful-but-lazy brawler.

Tyson’s mentor/trainer/father figure, Cus D’Amato, had died. For a while his fighting discipline was maintained by trainer Kevin Rooney, but Tyson fired Rooney and replaced him with a posse of sycophants and Yes Men. His skills diminished and his motivation died. He was ripe for demolition when he arrived in Tokyo for his fateful match against a journeyman heavyweight motivated to give the performance of a lifetime.

It’s tragic that once all that talent was stripped off Tyson (by himself, mostly) there was just an ugly little person underneath. But honestly, that is the case with most celebrities. Our culture tends to worship people with Tier One talent, and/or beauty. But those things are gifts, not some outward manifestation of inner goodness.

Having followed Evander Holyfield from before he moved up to Heavyweight, I recognized him for an exceptional warrior. Even as a light-heavy, he never had the power to match Tyson (very few in history have ever had a punch like Iron Mike did), but he was smart, disciplined, had knockout power…plus miles and miles of heart.

The documentary portrays Holyfield as a disrespected hard luck fighter who struggled to emerge from under Tyson’s shadow. It’s an interesting perspective, new to me, because I recognized Evander’s potential from way back (serious fight fans had watched him since the Olympics).

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Holyfield chased a title match against Tyson from when Iron Mike truly was “the baddest man on the planet.” It’s like a tragicomedy how, every time he got close to his goal, fate stepped in to deny him, time and time again.

After a long, winding path to get there, Holyfield finally got his shot. The Tyson he fought was not the fearsome juggernaut of the past, but neither was he the one-diminsional target who faced Lewis and Douglas.

Evander beat him soundly.

Then, in the infamous rematch, Tyson manifested his inner turmoil for the world to see in all its vile ugliness. Instead of channeling his anger into his fists, as Cus D’Amato had taught him, he took the coward’s way out in an unprecedented foul that ended the fight (he tried to bite Holyfield’s ear off).

Because the film maker slanted the history into such a hard luck narrative, I Tysonwildroundhousedisagree with many assessments offered, and am disappointed that many facts are missing or touched on so briefly as to seem irrelevant.

To me, the tragic, hard luck aspect of the whole story is that, because of their performance during the downhill slides of their respective careers, history won’t remember what world-class fighters both of these men once were.

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My All-American

I’ve been at this point before–where I’m convinced the entertainment industry is incapable of producing any movie other than formulaic pap, recycled vehicles from decades past, chick-flicks (overt or disguised) or “social justice” agitprop. Then I stumble across something like My All-American, and am amazed that something worth watching can still slip through the cracks.

There are only so many plot variations to be utilized in a jock story, so, granted: one can argue that this film should be included in the “formulaic pap” comment I made above. In fact, you might note many similarities between this movie and Rudy and The Express (or, going back farther, to Brian’s Song, or, changing sports, The Natural). Nevertheless, this biopic should be celebrated by red pill masculists everywhere–especially those raising a son, yearning for something worth watching together.

My All-American tells the story of Freddy Steinmark, who was born to play football. Gifted with natural athletic ability, his fatMyAllAmerican1her, while working two jobs to support the family, pushed Freddy to relentlessly expand on his talent with rigorous conditioning. His mother (a stay-at-home mom, it seems) was on-board with her son’s disciplined upbringing, complimenting her husband’s stern agenda with loving encouragement.

That family dynamic may not have been so unusual in the stories of yesteryear, but it is downright alien in the reality of America today.

Not only is the home life of Steinmark idiosyncratic in our present cultural context, but Freddy himself was exceptional, in any time and place. He is the model of what a young man should be–and what most parents would once have aspired to raise. To list his positive qualities would make this post too long, but I’ll list three that would seem to be diametrically opposed in any other film coming out of Homowood, Commiefornia. He is:

  • Forthright
  • Humble
  • Thoroughly masculine

Ah, crap, I have to list a couple more. The Freddy Steinmark of this film shows the guts, determination and toughness that once exemplified the average American male. Considered too small for most college football programs to take him seriously, there is no “quit” in him, and he fights an uphill battle toward a full-ride scholarship with the Texas Longhorns. I should mention here that other players on the team, and the coach, are developed just enough to make me want to read the book for more details. Despite Steinmark being a terror at defensive back, the team was a team, not a one-man-show. I’m thankful for the authenticy of the film’s depiction of how a football team works (or can work, anyway) from the inside.MyAllAmerican

One very interesting subplot depicts the starting quarterback–a phenomenal player with a cannon arm–losing his position to a fourth-stringer with better instincts for reading opposing defenses, and who more readily adapts to the coach’s new “triple option” offensive scheme.

Though he is a devout Catholic, Steinmark’s portrayal (by Finn Wittrock) is a case study in Christian integrity–not the wussified churchianity so en vogue on both sides of the pulpit in pretty much every denomination today. Even the leading lady’s (Sarah Bolger) portrayal is a departure from the obligatory grrrrl power! cliche`s rammed down our collective throats everywhere else. The only time she gets “assertive” with boyfriend Freddy, it is due to genuine concern over his well-being. (Director Angelo Pizzo, however, does overdo it trying to milk our emotions in a few smarmy scenes no doubt included to appeal to the females in the audience.)

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I’m not sure how faithful the movie is to the true story of Freddy Steinmark, though it does ring true. In any case, you won’t find many movies made since the early 1960s or so which present unabashed manhood in such a positive light.

Tony Stewart in Winner's Circle

Tony Stewart’s Swan Song

…Is showing signs of life.

With a thrilling last second see-saw finish, Tony Stewart fought his way to a win at Sonoma on Sunday. This was his first win since coming back from a spinal injury, in what will be his last season in NASCAR’s Cup series.

Stewart’s fortunes improved when Lady Luck gave the field a caution right after his green flag pit stop, and he took the lead for the first time. After two deft restarts. he held off Martin Truex Jr. and Denny Hamlin, in turn…until the very last lap. Stewart got loose and let Hamlin get around him, and it looked like it was all over (despite announcer and former race driver Jeff Gordon assuring the audience it was not).

Two turns later, Hamlin was paying more attention to Stewart in his mirror than negotiating the turn, and drifted too wide on entrance. Stewart dove underneath, taking the inside of the curve. They traded some paint, and Hamlin bounced off the wall. Stewart sped away and took the checkered flag seconds later.

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Tony Stewart has got some bragging rights–the only driver to win championships in both NASCAR and Indy Car; and to win championships with three different Cup sponsors–Winston, Nextel and Sprint. He’s also got eight road course wins.

The race was not without its heartbreaks. Clint Boyer suffered a DNF (Did Not Finish) due to an electrical fire. A.J. Allmendinger took the lead for a while and looked very strong until a bad adjustment during a pit stop got him moving backwards through the field. And Dale Earnhardt Jr, who had a well-performing car and was moving forward all day (despite some pit stop setbacks), was on the receiving end of an automotive billiards shot resulting in a tire rub that yanked him out of the top ten.

Stewart was having a rough season, but now he’s in the Chase. Maybe this is the turning point in what will be a Cinderella season.

Sonoma (formerly Sears Point) and Watkins Glen are the two Cup Series road courses, and my favorite races of the season take place there.

Muhammed Ali’s Greatest Contribution

In the past I’ve usually posted something about D-Day when June Six rolls around. This year, however, the death of an iconic heavyweight is all the buzz–and much less likely to confuse and engage the apathy of the historically challenged.

I don’t have a copy of The Great Heavyweights on the computer I’m using right now, so I can’t excerpt from it, so let me sum up Cassius Clay/Muhammed Ali first:

  • The man could take an extraordinary amount of punishment–especially to the body.
  • He was also extremely difficult to hit–probably the most elusive heavyweight there’s ever been, partially thanks to his very unorthodox defensive style.
  • His hand speed was also impressive for a heavyweight–though not quite in the league of Floyd Patterson’s.
  • His lateral movement was the quickest of any heavyweight in his time.
  • However, he did not have a great punch. He wore his opponents down with attrition and head games. He was a master at psychological warfare.
  • Judges and referees consistently let him get away with illegal tactics that no other boxer gets away with on a regular basis. He was also awarded decision victories against fighters who kicked his ass.
  • Despite his claim to be “the Greatest” (regurgitated by every black person on the planet, and plenty of non-blacks as well) he was not the greatest boxer; and not even the greatest heavyweight.

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s look at one way he changed sports in the USA.

Watch the little fight promo segment starting around 5:44.

Can you imagine a jock talking about himself and an opponent this way today? And most jocks in any sport spoke this way once upon a time.

I wish I could locate some interview clips of the Rock I’ve seen in the past. Once a reporter repeated some trash talk from a scheduled opponent, then stuck the microphone in Rocky’s face for his reaction. With no change in demeanor or tone, he said “That’s for him to prove on the (date of the fight).”

Keep in mind: this guy was a cruiserweight according to the scales, fighting pros who were 10-20 pounds heavier, all his career. He had very little in the way of skills, and was matched against some extremely tough men–the worst of them were friggin’ tanks. I don’t know if there’s a dude alive today who could take a punch like those guys could. And they were mostly complete fighters–not obsessed with headhunting like those who followed. Yet Marciano fought 49 bouts with 43 knockouts (most of them in the first round) and never lost a professional fight.

What am I getting at, you ask? It’s not just what he said, but what he didn’t say. If anybody ever had excuse for an ego trip, talking trash about how bad he was and how he was going to make a grown man scream like a woman, the Rock was it.

Watch the beginning of this clip. (“Sugar” Ray Robinson is possibly the best pound-for-pound boxer who ever lived. And yes: Ray Leonard and Shane Mosely were called “Sugar” because it was hoped they would be as good as him.)

Now look at this class act, here:

It’s far from just this individual–pretty much all of them are this way (with rare exceptions, like Evander Holyfield). And it’s not even just boxing–jocks in every sport are full of themselves and ready to talk smack whether asked to or not. They don’t even have to be good; they’ll do it anyway. In fact, it’s not even just jocks. Hang out in the inner city (of any city) and you can’t help but notice overbloated egos on display–and you’ll see it in all races and ethnicities.

What happened between the first two clips and the third?

Ali happened.

Egomaniacal jocks weren’t just accepted after Ali; they were preferred. Pride became a virtue and humility ugly.

Of course there were men with huge egos before–but they had to dial it down in public lest the average Joe see how ugly and petty they actually were. But, in general, even gifted men didn’t indulge in delusions of invincibility; and alpha dogs spoke louder with actions than with words.

Ali elevated smack-talking into its own sport.

Nowadays the male (and far too many females) of the species become experts at self-aggrandizement first, then worry about actually developing skills second…if ever.

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Equal Opportunity NASCAR

While watching the Cup races this season, it occurs to me that NASCAR is, in some ways, a perfect microcosm of American culture. In particular right now, I’m thinking of Danica Patrick.

Saturday’s All-Star race was wild and wacky from start to finish. The drivers, crew chiefs…even the announcers were confused by the complex format and rules. Tony Stewart, with his usual diplomatic finesse (ahem!) said something to the effect of: “This is the worst job of officiating I’ve ever seen. I’m glad this is my last one.”

But the Danica Patrick Factor is easy to understand, because it is symbolic of the Womyn Factor in our feminized society as a whole. She remained the backmarker consistently all through the race, only moving up from the back of the field when another driver was penalized, wrecked, etc., and sent behind her.

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This was the All-Star race. In an “all-star” anything, you’d expect only the cream of the crop to participate, and at one point in history that was the case.

Danica is not one of the elite drivers. She did not belong in the All-Star race. Why was she even there?

Because she’s a fan favorite. Fans voted her in.

Much like real life, the best women can’t compete with the best men in most physical contests, despite what the pop culture svengalis would have you believe. And average women can’t compete with average men. But there are more than enough white knights out there to give them opportunities they didn’t earn and don’t deserve, all while regurgitating The Narrative (which says that celebrity womyn like Danica are oppressed victims who rise to prominence DESPITE discrimination AGAINST them; which means they had to be even better than the men, blah blah blah.)

One easy example to point out from the culture is our social-engineered military. The latest fiasco is putting females in the Rangers. They can’t meet the standards men have to meet, so standards were changed to let them in anyway.

Because vagina.

Even in normal cup races, Danica always shakes out around the middle of the field–behind all the drivers who have support and resources commensurate with hers, but ahead of most of the independent, low-budget one-driver teams without the support and resources.

Organizations like the NFL are already fully SJW-converged. They’re not yet stupid enough to start forcing teams to add female players to their rosters, but the league is a zealous enforcer of the LGBT agenda. They already coerced the governor of Georgia to overturn the will of the people–it’s frightening to imagine what kind of muscle they must use to crush dissent within their own organization on behalf of the advancement of sexual deviancy.

This madness won’t stop until the cancer spreads to every once-great institution and destroys it. Keep in mind that even NASCAR is pushing for more “diversity” now. It’s only going to get worse.