The day after Buster Douglas knocked out Mike Tyson in 1990, Floyd Patterson said to a bunch of us who trained in his gym in New Paltz, New York: “Some fighters just have their day.”
Now I think Manny Pacquiao is about to have his day. The Las Vegas sportsbooks disagree with me. They have Floyd Mayweather Jr. as the favorite to defeat Manny Pacquiao on Saturday, May 2 at the MGM Grand Garden Arena in Las Vegas. As this was being written Bovada, for example, had Mayweather as the -225 favorite. They said Pacquiao is a +175 underdog for the bout that will reportedly make well over $100 million. (Meaning that for every $2.25 someone bets on Mayweather to win they can win $1; and for every $1 someone bets on Pacquiao they can win $1.75.)
Okay, Mayweather has a 47-0 record with 26 knockouts, while Pacquiao is 57-5-2 with 38 knockouts. It’s hard to bet against a guy who has never lost.
The bookies also say that this high-money bout isn’t going to be a quick knockout, as Mayweather doesn’t have a knockout punch. They say it’s going the distance—as in 12 rounds. As this was being written the odds from Bovada were 33-100 for the fight to last the full 12 rounds.
Fight promoter Eddie Hearn even Tweeted: “I know he isn’t a huge puncher, but I’ve had a feeling all along Mayweather wins by late stoppage.”
Here’s why my money is still on Pacquiao.
A year ago, Mayweather’s scorecard-win over Marcos Maidana showed Mayweather is slowing. CompuBox, a computerized scoring system, has tracked 38 of Mayweather’s 46 professional fights. According to Compubox, the 221 punches Maidana landed were the most leather any fighter has ever gotten through Mayweather’s defenses. Mayweather still lived by the old boxing adage “hit and don’t get hit” but not as much as in previous fights.
Maidana was busier. He threw 858 punches over the 12 rounds and landed 26 percent of his punches. Mayweather threw 426 punches—half as many as Maidana.
Though Mayweather doesn’t throw as many punches as many other fighters—and not nearly as many as Pacquiao—he is and has always been very accurate. According to CompuBox, Mayweather landed 41 percent of his punches on average over a 10 fight period ending with his win over Saul “Canelo” Alvarez in 2013, while his opponents hit him with just 17 percent of their punches.
Click here to read the rest of the analysis at Forbes.com.
Last month The New York Times ran a story with photos of men caught “manspreading.” Manspreading is defined as man who sits on a public bus, subway or park bench with his legs splayed open. Some men who do this take two seats on crowded public transportation. The Times said, “It is the bane of many female subway riders. It is a scourge tracked on blogs and on Twitter.”
There is also “mansplaining,” a term UrbanDictionary.com defines as: “delighting in condescending, inaccurate explanations delivered with rock solid confidence of rightness and that slimy certainty that of course he is right, because he is the man in this conversation.”
Now TheAtlantic.com tells us about “manslamming,” a term coined to describe men who don’t step out of other peoples’ way (especially women) on crowded sidewalks.
Some call these actions “microagressions,” a form of unintended discrimination that has the same effect as conscious, intended discrimination—in this case, men discriminating against women in what they might soon call: “managressions.”
Perhaps the most heinous microaggression (though it could also be outright aggression) are men who call women “bossy.” This would be a “microagression” if the man doesn’t think too deeply (being a man) about how aggressive a woman might perceive this label, but it would be clear aggression if he did.
Hmm, are the people coining and using these new words tacitly agreeing to the premise that some large percentage of men are guilty of talking down to women, shoving women out of the way on sidewalks, demeaning women by calling them “bossy” and refusing to give women space on crowded public transportation? Might this same logic then lead people to surmise that, by comparison, women much less often spread out over two seats on a bus or subway (or put their bags on the seat next to them), talk down to men (don’t these new words talk down to men?) and commit other microaggressive acts?
Click here for the rest of my column at Forbes.com.
So an Italian video posted on YouTube has gone viral that shows boys being asked to slap a girl. They won’t do it, of course. Boys aren’t monsters. No matter what some today say about men, boys aren’t natural misogynists. Heather Wilhelm does a good job outlining this in an article at realclearpolitics.com. Wilhelm says, “The video features several adorable, dewy-eyed Italian boys, aged 7 to 11. After a few introductory questions from an off-camera interviewer—and following the dramatic musical flourish of, yes, a harp—each boy is introduced to a girl named Martina, a willowy reed of a preteen with a delicate face, red pouty lips, sparkly braces, and blonde flowing hair. Martina, apparently, is a magical creature, and each boy, in a perfectly charming way, is somewhat enthralled.” But then they are asked to slap her. They don’t. A few touch her face with a sort of awkward caress. They seem embarrassed. This video is a weird byproduct of a very odd belief from some that men by their very nature have an aggressive animalism that needs to be suppressed. Boys surely need to be taught to be mature men, but they are not fiends.
An article at The Atlantic by Willa Brown, a doctoral candidate in history at the University of Virginia, says a “crisis in urban masculinity created the lumberjack aesthetic” now making a “comeback.” She says some urban men are growing beards, wearing plaid shirts, jeans and work boots to pretend to be something they’re not and likely don’t even comprehend. She says these effeminate urban men in flannel can be seen sipping lattes at the local Starbucks as they type text messages with their moisturized and un-callused thumbs. She calls these wannabe men a new name coined by Tom Puzak at GearJunkie: “lumbersexuals.”
Puzak writes, “He looks like a man of the woods, but works at The Nerdery, programming for a healthy salary and benefits. His backpack carries a MacBook Air, but looks like it should carry a lumberjack’s axe. He is the Lumbersexual.”
No doubt a few such fake men exist. Many have noted that a lot of urban men seem to have something earthy, and therefore masculine, missing from their metropolitan identities.
Being caught, as they are, in an image-stricken culture, perhaps a few such urban men shop for a new and manlier image as they grow a little facial hair to complete the Paul Bunyan part. They then look in the mirror and see a man. In appearance only, but who can say? Maybe next they’ll pick up a copy of Field & Stream. Maybe they’ll go and catch a fish or shoot their own dinner. If so, in each outdoorsy step along the way, they just might become the masculine men some part of them is seeking.
Okay, maybe that’s a leap too far for many. But maybe they’ll at least read some Raymond Chandler, Jack London, Ernest Hemingway or Robert Ruark as they find other ways to get some dirt under their nails. Maybe they’ll camp out and so have to chop wood for a fire or maybe they’ll start mountain biking, rock climbing or canoeing.
For all Brown knows, maybe a lot of them have done many of those things, but now they’re working in a land of asphalt, concrete and corner coffee shops. Maybe they happen to like what both the urban and rural environs offer different parts of themselves.
The point is Brown is judging from appearance.
Click here to read the rest of my article at Forbes.com.
Christmas has come early in Ilion, New York, site of America’s oldest factory still making its original product—guns. George Kollitides, chairman and CEO of Remington Outdoor Company, Inc., (ROC), a group formerly known as Freedom Group, Inc., sent his employees a memo to let them know they’re buying out unhappy stockholders instead of selling ROC under political duress. No more making guns under the threat of an imminent sale, no more wondering what might happen any moment to this little town living around the beating brick heart of a gun factory since 1816.
Cerberus Capital Management, L.P., ROC’s owner, has been looking for a buyer for the firearm group since December 2012, after a sociopath used a semiautomatic rifle made by Bushmaster, one of ROC’s subsidiaries, to murder students and others at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Conn. The California State Teachers’ Retirement System, which then held 2.4 percent of Freedom Group, threatened Cerberus to sell its gun makers or they’d pull their funds.
ROC, whose many products have been in high demand, hasn’t found a buyer. To end the uncertainty, a group of investors, including Kollitides, decided to buy out the discontented investors. The memo from Kollitides said, “The $175 million loan proceeds will be used to repurchase $150 million of shares from exiting investors, with the remaining $25 million in cash being placed on ROC’s balance sheet, which will be used to grow our business with capital equipment, facility and acquisition investments.”
Of course, this move does not mean ROC still can’t still be sold; it just makes the sale seem less likely.
Teddy Novin, ROC’s public affairs director, confirmed that the memo sent from Kollitides to employees is legit. Kollitides memo also explained that his investment group intends to follow the initial equity move with more transactions to grow and solidify the ROC.
ROC is a diverse company with facilities spread across the U.S., including an ammunition manufacturer in Arkansas—a facility ROC is currently investing $32 million in—and many other facilities. The plant in Ilion, however, has been a focal point for speculation and rumors because of its iconic history and meaning to America’s 100 million gun owners. In the past two years, as gun sales have continued to surge, the Remington Arms factory in Ilion has doubled its workforce from 700 employees to about 1,400 and ROC has invested $20 million in the factory.
The men and women making guns in America’s oldest gun factory in Ilion are members of United Mine Workers of America (UMWA) Local Union 717. They’re mostly blue collar. They wear jeans and work boots to the factory. Many of their fathers and mothers, grandfathers and grandmothers and generations more before them worked in this factory.
I visited this facility again in October 2013. Located near Utica in Upstate New York, the old brick factory is the beating heart of Ilion and nearby Mohawk.
For the rest of the article click here for my column in Forbes.
Were Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp really friends? I wondered and did some research. Original sources show that in the Wild West the line between outlaw and town marshal were sometimes blurry. Such was the case with John Henry “Doc” Holliday and Wyatt Earp. Holliday was born 1851 in Georgia. His mother died of tuberculosis shortly after his 15th birthday. The disease would take other family members and finally Holliday as well. He was educated at the Pennsylvania College of Dental Surgery and practiced for a short time as a dentist. When Holliday was diagnosed with tuberculosis he headed west. He found he had a talent for cards. Perhaps his tuberculosis made him a fatalist, but whatever the reason Doc Holliday wasn’t afraid to fight with guns or knives. He drifted about the West earning a bloody reputation until, in Shanssey’s saloon in Fort Griffin, Texas, he met the only woman who mattered to him: Big Nose Kate, a doctor’s daughter who had become a frontier dance hall woman and prostitute. In the same saloon he soon met Earp.
Earp rode in from Dodge City, Kansas, on the trail of a train robber. They hit it off. Doc even helped Wyatt hunt for the bandit. Doc later rode to Dodge City to play cards with Earp; however, he discovered that Wyatt had gone to a new silver strike in a place called Tombstone, Arizona. Doc followed Earp there. All of the Earp brothers were bound for Tombstone, too. Morgan was coming in from Montana, Wyatt and James from Dodge City, and Virgil from Prescott, Arizona.
When they arrived they found that a gang in Tombstone had things their way. This gang resented the arrival of the Earp brothers and Doc Holliday. Old Man Clanton, his sons, Ike, Phin, and Billy, the McLaury brothers (Frank and Tom), Curly Bill Brocius, John Ringo, and more were soon to famously butt heads with the Earp family and Doc Holliday.
Events exploded in the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral. The gunfight took place at about 3 p.m. on Wednesday October 26, 1881, in Tombstone. On one side was the law—Virgil, Morgan, and Wyatt Earp, and Doc Holliday. On the other side was gang the Cowboys—Ike Clanton, Billy Claiborne, Billy Clanton, and Tom and Frank McLaury. The shooting lasted about 30 seconds. Ike Clanton and Billy Claiborne ran from the fight unharmed. Billy Clanton and both McLaury brothers were killed.
Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday would later ride together against the Cowboys in what is known as the “Earp Vendetta Ride.” The best movie that follows the complex series of gun battles and personalities is Tombstone (1993) with Kurt Russell as Wyatt and Val Kilmer as Doc; however, no movie has been completely honest about the historical events. But then, a lot of the history is in dispute. What we do know is that for better or worse, Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday had such a profound friendship it passed into legend.
Mr. President, withhold your pardon. It’s time you dined on your Thanksgiving turkey. After all, would the starving pilgrims have pardoned a tom on the first Thanksgiving? Don’t millions of Americans settle around tables each autumn, thank the Lord for providing, and feast on turkey in celebration of the nation’s sacrifices to earn its bounty? Don’t millions of American hunters still kill their own gobblers each year, and thereby celebrate our connection with nature and our heritage? Why are you shirking all this?
It’s time, Mr. President, you broke the precedent, sharpened your axe, took that tom out to the figurative woodshed behind the White House and secured a fresh turkey dinner. Maybe even have a few foreign dignitaries over for the feast. In fact, invite anyone who needs to learn America still means business, such as Mr. Putin perhaps. Have them come along as you sharpen your axe, kill and pluck the night’s main course, and they’ll certainly learn America is still a country of men.
Besides, the precedent of padoning a turkey on Thanksgiving hardly goes back to George Washington—no old George would have carved a new set of teeth for the feast. Though live Thanksgiving turkeys have been presented intermittently to presidents since Abraham Lincoln’s administration, some say the current ceremony dates back to President Harry Truman in 1947; however, according to the Harry S. Truman Library, no records are known to exist that indicate he ever “pardoned” a turkey. President John F. Kennedy, however, is said to have spontaneously spared a turkey on Nov. 19, 1963. The tom was wearing a sign that read, “Good Eatin’ Mr. President.” And Kennedy, the old softy, reportedly said, “Let’s just keep him.”
President Dwight Eisenhower wasn’t so effeminate. Documents in the Eisenhower Presidential Library say he ate the birds presented to him. So there’s your precedent Mr. President. After all, the tom is a commercial turkey and so can’t live on its own. And, come on, do we really need another turkey on the public dole? Instead, let’s put this one to good use.
Eating the turkey would even be an act of mercy. The pardoned birds used to be sent to Virginia’s Frying Pan Park—talk about a hint. However, they’re now thrust, unbeknowest to them, into showbiz. Starting in 2005, the pardoned turkeys have been drafted to serve as public officials at either Disneyland or Disney World where they’ve been honory Grand Marshals of Disney’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Don’t we already have enough turkeys employed as politicians? And don’t we already have enough people living under Disney-inspired fantasies?
Just think what a statement chowing down on the tom would be. With every bite Mr. President, you’d be making all your adversaries swallow their tongues.
For a few weeks in October New England forests are awash with an impressionist’s pastels. Soon the color drips in fallen leaves to the forest floor where grouse drum and the Robert Frost poem “October” (O hushed October morning mild; Thy leaves have ripened to the fall … .) seems to be whispered by the wind.
Now, though we’re seduced by the natural splendor, we’re careful how much we say so. Articulating such things just isn’t manly. It isn’t what hunters do. But, as I crumble under a maple on a colorful mountain, I know it isn’t just the cagey ruffed grouse that drew me north to Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom in late October.
I kick yellow leaves in frustration. I know too well why the word “grousing” was coined. I’d crunched down an overgrown logging road under trees shedding a rainbow of hardwood leaves and when the flush finally came the bird blasted off behind me. I turned, shot off balance and missed badly. The miss reminded me that New England grouse hunting is for masochists.
I grew up breaking brush and shouldering a gun all-of-a-sudden when this brown-and-gray game bird booms its wings and rockets up and twists away, giving glimpses when you’re fortunate. Now I’m reminded that the past can be mischievous, even a shape shifter. Time slips by but doesn’t just peel away as memories fade; no, they can also grow more golden—recollections thereby become masters of spin.
Maybe that’s what drew me north to hunt grouse. Surely I was influenced by memories whispering things like: Don’t you want to drive the meandering byways over red covered bridges? Don’t you want to see the autumn sun making color-splashed trees shine like fallen rainbows as you hunt for the explosive ruffed grouse? Come on, this is when the words from Corey Ford’s “The Road to Tinkhamtown” are tossed over a mountainous landscape; this is when grouse drum and woodcock wing through; this is when a bird dog becomes part of living art … . And so go the one-sided and awfully wistful deceptions.
Of course, I concede there must be sparks of truth in the remembrances because Corey Ford himself wrote in that elegant story: “The past never changes. You leave it and go on to the present, but it is still there, waiting for you to come back to it.”
See the rest of my article at AmericanHunter.org.
“But man is not made for defeat,” he said. “A man can be destroyed but not defeated. ” –Ernest Hemingway, from The Old Man and the Sea
It’s been a Hemingway sort of year for me. I followed his footsteps through Paris and drank martinis in the places he did and looked on the very paintings from Paul Cezanne and more he said shaped his writing. I then went to Pamplona and ran with the bulls and saw all he wrote about in The Sun Also Rises. I went with two friends—one new and one old—to the places in the Pyrenees where Hemingway fished for trout in Spain and wrote about deceivingly in The Sun Also Rises.
Finally, I went to sea and caught tarpon and tried and tried for a marlin like Hemingway loved to do. No marlin took the bait but that’s fishing too and is a lesson from The Old Man and the Sea, a story that lets us know we can try but can’t always succeed. Like much of Hemingway’s storytelling it tells us that whether we fail or succeed it’s how we handle winning and losing that really matters. And anyway, I caught jacks, snook and more and even helped save a sea turtle from a commercial fishermen’s net.
Also, an 80-pound tarpon I fought for 20 minutes and landed along Costa Rica’s east coast made me think of another Hemingway quote from The Old Man and the Sea: “Let him think that I am more man than I am and I will be so.”
Sunday night I found myself cheering as Alex Rodriguez stomped on home plate after he smashed a homer off Red Sox pitcher Ryan Dempster. Now Rodriguez is hardly an example of what a man should be. Incredible athlete yes, but his ethics end when they get in his way and that’s not how a real man acts. That said, Sunday night’s game said something about manliness that must be noted.
In the second inning Dempster threw behind Rodriguez. Dempster then went inside on two pitches before drilling Rodriguez with a 92 mph fastball.
Home-plate umpire Brian O’Nora didn’t warn Dempster during the first three attempts to hit Rodriguez. Then when Dempster did hit Rodriguez, O’Nora didn’t toss Dempster. He just warned both benches—as if the Yankees deserved a warning.
Yankee Manager Joe Girardi got right in O’Nora’s face and was thrown from the game. Love, hate or tolerate Rodriguez, Girardi was standing up for his player and for what is right—that’s manly stuff. Girardi later said, “You can’t start throwing at people. Lives are changed by getting hit by pitches. Whether I agree with everything that’s going on, you do not throw at people and you don’t take the law into your own hands. You don’t do that. We’re going to skip the judicial system? It’s ‘My Cousin Vinny.'”
Even worse, when an umpire tolerates a player who intentionally hits another player the game falls apart. The umpire is the cop on the scene, the rule enforcer. When he decides to overlook such an obvious infraction he becomes complicit and the game becomes a farce.
Rodriguez’s home run exacted revenge and sparked a four-run sixth inning that lead the Yankees to a 9-6 victory. Rodriguez later said, “Whether you like me or hate me, that was wrong. It was unprofessional and silly.” Rodriguez is right about that much.
Dempster lied and said he’d been trying to throw inside to Rodriguez, a falsity that was supported by Red Sox manager John Farrell. By obviously lying both showed themselves to poor examples of men. They’d of been better off keeping their mouths shut—stoicism is often manly.
The only one who came out as a man was Girardi. Rodriguez became a sympathetic character for a moment—not an easy thing to accomplish—and Dempster lost the game and his machismo, saying, “I’m more disappointed in the fact that I couldn’t hold a 6-3 lead. That’s the bigger story.” No Dempster, that you behaved like a child and weren’t tossed for it is the story. That Rodriguez made you pay simply evened the score.