Vince Young

While I was busy knocking the recent spat of poor play in the National Football League, Ta-Nehisi Coates stepped up to remind the rest of the world how sports continue to surprise, delight and inspire. Here he is on Vince Young's truly remarkable 99-yard touchdown drive yesterday against the Arizona Cardinals. 

I love the Cowboys and my son loves the Giants, and my Dad loved the Eagles. (Except when Doug Williams played for the Redskins.) But I don't just remember Troy Aikman hitting Alvin Harper in the 92 championship. I remember Steve Young hitting Terrell Owens in the divisional playoffs against Green Bay. I remember Randall Cunningham hitting Fred Barnett for 95 yards, with Bruce Smith breathing down his neck. And every time I think of those moments, I get warm and happy. Vince Young gave me, my partner and my kid one of those moments yesterday. I swear it makes living a little easier.

I'm still trying to get an accurate read on football. The game just doesn't grab me, or resonate with me, the way baseball and basketball do. More specifically, football's varied cover schemes and myriad strategies and game plans don't always reveal themselves to me. Viscerally, sure, I get it. I mean, I was as geeked as anyone when Eli Manning found David Tryee, but in general the NFL for me is like hearing kettle drums when expecting guitar. But, if my other site proves anything, I can at least say I'm trying and I can admit that Vince's drive remains a thing of orchestrated beauty.

   

"Open and Shut Case, Johnson"

Last night, I watched President Obama's press conference. I wasn't particularly sold on his healthcare plan. Truth be told, I simply don't understand how healthcare works in this country, and therefore don't really know which side to take. The President, however, made one excellent point during his prime time address, and it had nothing to do with the topic du jour: the Cambridge police acted stupidly in arresting Henry Louis Gates Jr., a Harvard professor and the country's pre-eminent African-American scholar. In his home. During the day. After he showed them his identification. And his home address:

"Now, I don't know, not having been there and not seeing all the facts, what role race played in that. But I think it's fair to say, number one, any of us would be pretty angry; number two, that the Cambridge police acted stupidly in arresting somebody when there was already proof that they were in their own home. 

What I think we know, separate and apart from this incident, is that there's a long history in this country of African Americans and Latinos being stopped by law enforcement disproportionately. That's just a fact."

A lot of things raised my hackles this week: the Erin Andrews tape; ESPN's early refusal to report on the Ben Roethlisberger civil suit; the non-firing of Tony Bernazard; Liz Cheney; this paper and this Ken Rosenthal column. None, however, had me shaking my head more than the Gates arrest. One time, when I was still in high school, I drove my mother's car into a snowbank outside of a International House of Pancakes parking lot, just off Kennedy Boulevard, Hudson County's main thoroughfare. I was 16, driving without a license. It was after midnight, and as I tried in vain to get my car off the melting mountain of snow, a police car stopped and asked if I needed help. They didn't ask to see my driver's license, or even try to write me a ticket for any number of things. They just asked if I was in trouble. When I said I was fine, they drove off, no questions asked. Meanwhile, Henry Gates, a tenured Harvard professor, gets arrested for trying to get into his own house, and apparently having the gall to mouth off to a Cambridge cop. Ridiculous. 

Ta-Nehisi Coates, as always, sums up Obama's reaction pretty well:

Moreover, for black people, this is the kind of issue that tends to cut across lines of class and politics. I would say that this is the sort of thing that angers upper middle-class black people even more than it angers anyone else, because they tend to be individuals who, by society's lights, are very accomplished. They deeply resent being lumped in with the mass. And more than anyone they resent the whole "when you're black, you talk to the police like this" routine. Obama has lived as a member of that class for a large portion of his adult life, or he's had some concentrated exposure to it--the black strivers roll deep on the South Side. It's not shocking that he was pissed.

I'm pissed, too. That an unlicensed 16-year-old, in the middle of the night, in downtown Union City, would be given the benefit of the doubt, while a black, middle-aged, established Harvard professor is put in handcuffs in front of his own house is shameful.  But I'm pretty late to the party. Dave Chappelle saw this coming years ago.

Revisiting Ali-Frazier

A few months ago, I wrote about John Shearer's iconic photograph of Muhammed Ali and Joe Frazier, which Shearer snapped on the eve of the two men's first fight. Frazier, of course, won the first, while Ali took the following two, including the particularly brutal and physically exhausting "Thrilla in Manilla." The lead up to the decisive fight was intense. At different times, Ali referred to Frazier as either an "Uncle Tom," or the "White Man's Champion," or, crudely, "a dumb gorilla." During a pre-fight press conference, Ali used the opportunity to beat up a rubber gorilla, taunting, "It's gonna be a chilla, and a killa, and a thriller, when I get the Gorilla in Manila." Frazier, it seems, never got over Ali's verbal attacks. Here's an excerpt from a 1996 Sports Illustrated story about Frazier's lingering animosity. 

Back in the States, Ali called Lewis and asked him for Frazier's private number. Ali told Lewis that he wanted to apologize to Frazier for some of the things he had said. Lewis called Frazier, but, he says, Frazier told him. "Don't give it to him."

In the 21 years since then, Ali and Frazier have seen each other at numerous affairs, and Frazier has barely disguised the loathing he feels toward his old antagonist. In 1988, for the taping of a film called Champions Forever, five former heavyweight title holders--Ali, Frazier, Foreman, Larry Holmes and Ken Norton--gathered in Las Vegas. A crowd of people were at Johnny Tocco's Gym for a morning shoot when Frazier started in on Ali, who was already debilitated by Parkinson's. "Look at Ali," Frazier said. "Look what's happened to him. All your talkin', man. I'm faster than you are now. You're damaged goods."

"I'm faster than you are, Joe," Ali slurred. Pointing to a heavy bag, Ali suggested a contest: "Let's see who hits the bag the fastest."

Frazier grinned, not knowing he was back in the slaughterhouse. He stripped off his coat, strode to the bag and buried a dozen rapid-fire hooks in it, punctuating each rip with a loud grunt: "Huh! Huh! Huh!" Without removing his coat, Ali went to the bag, assumed the ready stance and mimicked one Frazier grunt: "Huh!" He had not thrown a punch. He turned slowly to Frazier and said, "Wanna see it again, Joe?" In the uproar of hilarity that ensued, only Frazier did not laugh. Ali had humiliated him again.

After the shoot, at a luncheon for the fighters, Frazier had too much to drink, and afterward, as people milled around the room and talked, he started walking toward Ali. Thomas Hauser, Ali's chronicler, watched the scene that unfolded over the next 20 minutes. Holmes quietly positioned himself between Ali and Frazier. "Joe was trying to get to Ali," Hauser says, "but wherever Joe went, left or right, Holmes would step between him and Ali. Physically shielding him. Joe was frustrated. After about 10 minutes of this, Foreman walked up to Larry and said, 'I'll take over.' " So for the next 10 minutes Frazier quietly tried to get around 290 pounds of assimilated Big Macs. At one point Frazier leaned into Foreman, but Foreman only leaned back. "Keep it cool, Joe," Foreman whispered. "Be calm."

Ali had no idea this was going on. "He was walking around like Mr. Magoo," says Hauser. "He was oblivious."

Like Shearer's photo, the public--and, later, semi-private--exchange between the two men, which took place more than 20 years after they last squared off in the ring, gets to the heart of each man: Ali's charismatic, rope-a-dope guile and Frazier's smoldering, brute force. Is it surprising, then, that Ali ended up getting the best of Frazier, even in retirement?  

(Via Coates)

Ta-Nehisi and the Mad Dog?

A few weeks ago, Andrew Sullivan, in a Dish post about the NRA, threw out a pretty funny line about Plaxico Burress, which kind of blew my mind. Sullivan is literally the last Atlantic voice I'd expect to write about, even tangentially, contemporary American sports. Dead last. Even behind Barbara Wallraff. 

In fact, outside of an occasional Ta-Nehisi Coates post, The Atlantic, in my experience, rarely even bumps up against professional sports.

Imagine my surprise then, when I read not one but two interesting sports-related pieces in the December issue of the magazine. The first, in their revamped "Dispatches" section, is about the political significance of patriotic Czech--and former New York Ranger-- Jaromir Jagr lighting the lamp in Siberia. This is at least somewhat in keeping with the Atlantic's provenance. 

The second? Not so much. The feature, written by David Samuels, is a terrifying look at Quentin "Rampage" Jackson, the defending light-heavyweight champion of the Ultimate Fighting Championship, as Rampage prepared for his July title defense against Forrest Griffin. It's full of interesting tidbits. Did you know, for instance, that Rampage was knocked out twice by Wanderlei "The Axe Murderer" Silva? I, for one, did not.

I wonder if this new attention to the world of sports is just a one-time deal, or if the 150-year-old magazine is going to stick with it, as part of their rebranding.

Perhaps a call-in radio show is currently in the works.