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Volume CXXXII, Number 16 |
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Remembering the golden era of sports
J.P. BOX
COLUMNIST
Remember the good old days when boxing was important, Super Bowls were played in the snow, and baseball players didn't look like hulking linebackers? Neither do I, darn it! Unless you're nearing 40 or possess a receding hairline, you don't have the slightest recollection of the days of yore either. Woe to my generation of sports enthusiasts!
Back in the boxing heyday, the likes of Joe Frazier, Sonny Liston, George Foreman (before his grilling days), and of course Muhammad Ali captivated the sports world during the 1960s and 70s. As the boxing ambassador of the twentieth century, Ali boxed passionately inside the rink and fought with equal vigor outside of it to promote social justice and peace.
Instead of fulfilling his obligatory duty to respond to the draft during the Vietnam War, Ali proudly declared, "I ain't got no quarrel with them Vietcong." For the next three and a half years-during the prime of his career-the world's greatest boxer remained idle, banned from the sport by the boxing commission.
Let's jump ahead to the sorry state of boxing in 2003. Mike Tyson, a dominant power boxer in the late '80s and early '90s, spent the prime of his career in a jail cell after a rape conviction. While Ali established his legacy in the "Rumble in the Jungle" and the "Thrilla in Manilla," Tyson forged his infamy by biting off a chunk of Evander Holyfield's ear and getting thoroughly pummeled by Lennox Lewis in his return.
Next, Tyson will receive a five million dollar check to box no-name Clifford Etienne. Although each fighter threatened to withdraw from the bout in recent weeks, America will still have the privilege of watching an over-the-hill Tyson take on the untested Etienne. Sign me up for the $75 pay-per-view connection!
Great boxing isn't the only event that my generation has never witnessed. Before Aerosmith, Britney Spears, and the immortal Bon Jovi were Super Bowl regulars, the biggest game of the NFL season was not always played in a tropical environment or inside a dome.
Remember the 1958 Giants-Colts NFL championship game? Yeah, neither do I. However, football historians refer to the historic event as "The Greatest Game Ever Played." Not coincidentally, the players were battling more than each other-Mother Nature was pissed off, and she let everybody at the frigid stadium know it. Rumor has it that the sidelines were marked with rope because so much snow had accumulated.
And what venue hosts the Super Bowl today? New Orleans' dome, San Diego's beaches, and Miami's retirement enclaves. After all, a snowstorm might adversely affect the lip-synching musicians and hamper the post-game fireworks show. Commish Paul Tagliabue could not have any of that-I mean, what if Stephen Tyler got his lips stuck to the frost on the microphone.
These sports woes of my generation do not end with football either. Remember when baseball players didn't pump creatine, andro, and steroids into their bodies like they were Flintstone vitamin tablets? Remember when Mike Schmidt was the game's greatest power hitter, muscling out 40 per year? Yeah, neither do I.
Instead, we watched Mark McGwire knock out 70 homers in a single season. The dude's forearms measured 17 inches around-larger than the average person's neck. A heavy dose of andro and a rigorous workout schedule transformed McGwire into a superhuman batting force.
In order to keep up with such antics, Minor League and Major League ball players have turned to steroids to artificially inflate their muscles and statistics. At the same time, they have made a mockery of past greats like Babe Ruth, Mickey Mantle, and Roger Maris-guys who knocked out 50 homers without the help of an artificial performance enhancer.
Or how about this one-remember when batters didn't crowd the plate wearing a small mattress on their elbow? Remember when pitchers established control of the inner half of the plate by brushing back arrogant batters? Yeah, neither do I.
Today, batters are permitted to wear protective body armor on their shin and elbow that allows them to safely stand on top of home plate. A 90-mile-per-hour heater stings a lot less when you have a plastic shield and an inch of padding to soften the blow.
In the modern era, the likes of Barry Bonds and Mo Vaughn step into the batter's box and hang their imposing pads out over the plate, effectively cutting the strike zone in half. In addition to the comfort of wearing armor, Bonds and Vaughn know that the umpire will not hesitate to toss a pitcher who is intentionally throwing inside.
Could you imagine Babe Ruth strutting to home plate wearing Bonds' elbow protection? It's a comical notion-the Babe would never stoop to such a level. If you don't want to get smacked, don't hang your body over the strike zone!
Ah, the woes of my generation-boxing is boring, the Super Bowl is super warm and fuzzy, and baseball has become a one-dimensional hitter's game. But on a brighter note, at least we have no recollection of what the games used to be like. Perhaps ignorance is bliss, after all.
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