Some years before that, Dodge Viper coupes won three back-to-back victories at Le Mans, sweeping their GT class in 1999 with Vipers in the first six places.
Going back much farther, the Ford GT40 dethroned Ferrari at Le Mans by sweeping with First, Second, and Third places. Company politics at Ford, however, prevented Ken Miles from winning the first ever Triple Crown. But still, Ford’s dabbling in European GT racing during that short period proved Americans (at one time, anyway) can achieve anything they set their mind to.
For a fascinating look at that period of racing history, I highly recommend Go Like Hell.
The new C7 ‘Vettes are world class sports cars. They have been for the last few generations. I got a little track time in a C5 a few years ago, and the performance matched the badass look of the car. The win at Le Mans proves that the engineers have designed an automotive masterpiece.
Tomato Can is a retro-pulp novella in the gritty style of hardboiled noir from the 1950s, which is when, in fact, it is set. It takes place in the hometown of the Brown Bomber: Detroit, Michigan.
Unlike many boxing pulps (and retro-pulps), this one is technically accurate…though it is packed full of slinging leather.
We usually post something to commemorate D-Day. Might do that a bit later.
The much-hyped; long-anticipated unification bout between Floyd Mayweather and Manny Pacquiao was disappointing; but not surprising.
Mayweather fought a smart fight, using the “sweet science.” He used his longer reach to keep Manny outside for most of the bout, scoring with the jab and an occasional straight right. When Manny did get inside, Mayweather either tied him up or used his agility to dance out of danger.
Manny stung him a couple times, but he never seriously hurt him. Mayweather covered up effectively until his head cleared, then got back on his bicycle.
Neither man is a power puncher, but Pacquiao is an attrition puncher. He may have been a Twitter favorite, but he was always an odds underdog. It was an uphill fight for him—victory would have meant either putting out some of his best work, or capitalizing on an opening or mistake that just don’t come very often against elusive boxers like Mayweather. When all was said and done, the grinning Pacquiao just didn’t work hard enough to win.
People who don’t know much about the fight game were surprised by his answers in the post-fight interview. When asked why he wasn’t more active; why he didn’t throw as many punches as in other fights, he admitted that he didn’t think he needed to.
Because he thought he was winning the fight.
Not just in boxing (though perhaps fighters suffer this worse than anyone), but anywhere in life, you’re gonna find people who mistake their subjective, personal impression for the objective, universal truth.
Some have such a proud, amplified self-image that their assumption of superiority skews their perception of what they’re involved in. But even humble individuals (like Manny?) can put themselves at a disadvantage by overestimating their performance.
In boxing this is a bit more understandable than in other endeavors, because you’re getting smacked repeatedly in the head while you work. In the case of the Mayweather fight, Manny had to work very hard just to get inside. If he landed a clean shot before Mayweather tied him up or danced away, he recognized that he had just accomplished a very difficult feat. Those are the highlights for a fighter in real time–not what happens in between those accomplishments.
But the judges scoring the fight don’t understand or appreciate the energy you have to expend just to make a fight competitive. They don’t appreciate the footwork, feints, and tricks needed to get your opponent into position where you can land a blow or two. Most of them don’t even appreciate the power behind the shots you land.
What the judges keep track of is how many times the other guy taps you with his gloves while you’re busy working toward those highlights.
This myopia can come in handy sometimes. In boxing, there’s always “the puncher’s chance” (if you are, in fact, a puncher) if you never get discouraged and keep the pressure on. In so many arenas of life, this can keep you mentally in the game no matter how much you struggle, and your positive attitude projects an image of success to those who haven’t been adding up all the punches you take.
To paraphrase Winston Churchill: “Success is moving from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm.”
However, there are certain circumstances wherein your hyper-perspective can give you a false sense of security.
In team sports when you have a myopic egotist on your side, it can be frustrating trying to make corrections (because that person believes they’re just crushing it on the field, and need no correction). If you spend any time in the ‘hood, you’ll come across fat chicks with ugly attitudes who think they’re sexy. This myopia is an easy trap for writers to fall in; which is why it’s so important to have somebody else look at your work before you submit it for the acid test.
And of course, “conservatives” in the USA have this myopia about our country. You can point to our military victories or our quality of life and assure yourself “it can’t happen here!” even as our national suicide kicks into high gear.
Seeing the glass as half-full is a commendable mindset. But more important is honest examination that is free from the prejudices of personal experience.
What a wild finish to an epic see-saw battle where the outcome was always in doubt.
I have not been pleased with the NFL for a while now, and hadn’t watched a game for a few years. The league’s agenda conformity of late has pretty much guaranteed I will never be a fan again. So normally I wouldn’t have watched the Superbowl. If it wasn’t for an invitation from friends this year, I probably wouldn’t have.
So because of my NFL boycott, I knew nothing about Seattle running back Marshawn Lynch. But based on what I saw last night, he runs a lot like how I described John Riggins and Natrone Means in my last post. He’s a bigger, stronger Bronko Nagurski.
Which brings us to the play that will be talked about for years to come, that Seattle’s offensive coordinator may never live down: You’ve got a back who can gain at least three yards a play regardless of how a defense is stacked against him. Certainly you just hammer the line with him until he punches it in, right? No, as it turns out you call a pass play and your talented young quarterback throws his only interception, a hockey-style brawl breaks out on the field, and the repeat championship is ripped from your grasp in the final seconds.
I submit that the pass play was not the most stupid play call ever. I don’t know what the most stupid of all time is; but I know which one takes the cake that I’ve seen.
You are head coach Denny Green. Your team has gone 15-1 in the regular season, easily marching to the NFC championship despite some horrible officiating in the playoffs. Your key defensive player, John Randle, is hurt and won’t be able to anchor the defense in the game, but you’ve kept that a secret. You’ve got homefield advantage and the crowd noise in the Metrodome is a potential extra player. Up to this point your boys have blown out everybody except your one (close) loss to the Buccaneers around mid-season. But your defense is especially porous in this game (you’ve lost five starters to injuries), and you’ve botched a few drives by throwing deep down the field incomplete instead of just getting first downs. Now you’re tied at 27-27 with 49 seconds left to play. It’s first down in the Red Zone and you’ve got the most prolific offense to ever play the game. The formidable weapons your red-hot quarterback has at his disposal are Chris Carter, Randy Moss, Jake Reed, a healthy Robert Smith in the backfield and an offensive line like the Great Wall of China. You can put the game away by a score–all your mistakes and the uncharacteristic flubs by your players will be forgotten. What do you do?
You have your QB kneel on the ball to end regulation. At least that’s what Green chose to do.
You could have put the game out of reach with a chip shot field goal in your last drive, with a kicker who has been perfect all season. That’s right–he has not missed a single FG or PAT all year. Guess when he decides to miss a kick? The other team’s kicker doesn’t miss in overtime, and they advance to the Superbowl.
That missed kick is the only thing people remember about the game, saving the coach from scrutiny when it should have never come down to the kick in the first place.
Back to Seattle-New England. So far as stupid calls go, I wouldn’t even put it in the top ten. In fact, it may not even be a stupid call. Had the right guy come down with the ball, it would be considered a stroke of genius. The same people bitching about the call now would be trash-talking about how the Patriots were punked by the potential threat of Lynch, giving up the pass while focusing on the run. Oh, how brilliant a strategy! Oh, how clever!
People will also probably forget that the only reason Seattle got to the red zone in the first place was the ridiculous bobbled bounce-off-the-knee reception. It even reminded the commentators of the helmet catch a few years ago that ruined New England’s perfect season. New England fans were sure that the jinx was still in effect.
But Lady Luck was a fickle, two-timing slut last night.
The Washington Redskins first Superbowl appearance was in VII. Under head coach George Allen, with a team roster infamously called “the Over-the-Hill Gang,” they were dominated by the undefeated Miami Dolphins.
Ten years later the head coach was Joe Gibbs, but the scenario was similar. The team had to defeat the Dallas Cowboys in the NFC Championship, just like 1972, and they had to face the Miami Dolphins in the Superbowl. Not only did the AFC dominate the big game (the NFC had only won twice in the 1970s), but there was the psychological disadvantage of playing a team that had beat them the last time they met in the championship. This is a difficult disadvantage to overcome (Dallas had failed in their rematch with Pittsburgh; Cincinnati would fail in their rematch with San Francisco; and more recently New England would choke twice against New York).
Psychology is a huge factor in team sports, and not to be underestimated. It can be a little like morale in a military unit. That’s probably worth a post of its own, so I’ll move on.
The game Didn’t go well for Joe Gibbs. By the Fourth Quarter the Redskins were down 17-13 when a pass from QB Joe Theismann was deflected into the air by a Dolphin defender. An interception at that point might have crushed team morale–we’ve seen disastrous plays crush morale many times, and one of those I’ll talk about in this post. But Theismann himself kept the pop-up from being grabbed by Miami.
It would become obvious in retrospect, that was the turning point in the game. Why? Because Gibbs was forced to adjust his tactical doctrine. The Miami defense was shutting down his passing game. He was lucky Theismann was able to break up that play, but he needed to use a different weapon if he was going to change the momentum of the game, and avoid the sort of catastrophe his team had so narrowly escaped.
Fortunately, he had another weapon. The weapon was named John Riggins.
Riggins was a veteran, in what would normally be the twilight of his career for a running back. In days of yore he probably would have been called a fullback. He ran like a tank–not record breaking fast, but he routinely went through defenders like an 18 pound ball though bowling pins. Not many ball carriers have his kind of power. Natrone Means and Adrian Peterson are two rare backs who did (Peterson having the speed, too). Behind a formidable offensive line called “the Hogs” or “Riggo’s Rangers,” Riggins set the scoreboards on fire during the playoffs of that strike-shortened season.
Theismann began to call “the Diesel’s” number play after play, and #44 romped down the field, putting Washington in the lead to stay. It was like watching a bulldozer plowing Volkswagens. Riggins was voted MVP for the game, and the Redskins finally won the Lombardi Trophy.
Behind Theismann and a still-strong Riggins, Gibbs generalled the Redskins through an impressive season and back to the Superbowl the following year where they faced the outclassed Raiders. Up to this point in Superbowl history, no defending champion had ever lost.
Early in this game, though, Theismann failed to convert on third down, and the punting unit went in. The Raiders blocked the punt and went in for a go-ahead touchdown.
The Washington Redskins fell completely apart. The psychological damage was instant and visible on faces and in body language. After that it didn’t matter which team was better. The Redskins were doomed, and played like it. They only managed one touchdown the whole game (by Riggins, who rarely got the ball, since Theismann went all-pass, trying to catch up), and were crushed 38-9.
It was ugly.
Upsets are nothing new. It’s always been true in the NFL that on any given day the worst team in the league might beat the best. And that day the superior team was so psychologically destroyed after the blocked punt that even a high school roster would have given them a pasting.
How could a team of champions, so full of talent and confidence, crumble so thoroughly because of one play? There are so many variables, perhaps the best we could ever manage are wild guesses.
The next time Gibbs brought his team to the Superbowl, it was against the Denver Broncos and their cannon-armed QB John Elway. It looked like Gibbs would be a victim of another hopeless shellacking when, on the very first play from scrimmage, Elway threw a long strike that went all the way. The Redskins sputtered on offense (predictably, after a devastating play like that), and the First Quarter ended with Denver leading 10-0.
But something was different this time. At some point since that embarrassing loss to the Raiders, Joe Gibbs had taught his team to overcome adversity. Or, as we put it in the Airborne, “Suck it up and drive on.”
The Redskin defense didn’t allow Denver to score another point. Meanwhile, they lit up the scoreboard in a record-setting Second Quarter in what turned out to be a convincing blowout victory.
I’ve decided that the greatest teams are not those who win championships; but those that can rebound off stunning setbacks to win championships. It’s fighters like Joe Louis and Evander Holyfield or the glass-jawed Tommy Hearns who get knocked into queer street, but push themselves off the canvas and fight through the fog of pain and shock and fear to hammer the other guy until he goes down…they are the champions most worthy of admiration.
One of the most tragic teams in history were the Buffalo Bills under Marv Levy (that should also be a future post of its own, perhaps). They attempted to use this sort of psychological devastation (Raiders blocking the punt; Elway’s long bomb; etc.) on Dallas in their first Superbowl showdown, blocking a punt deep in Cowboy territory and sending Thurmon Thomas in for the first score on the next play. But Dallas never lost confidence, turning the tables in an ugly one-sided game forcing a storm of turnovers. Then in the rematch the following year, after leading 13-6 at the half, the Bills succumbed to emotional collapse themselves when that same Thurmon Thomas (so rock-solid dependable on a normal day) fumbled deep in his own territory. The Cowboys took it in for the score and never looked back. The Bills didn’t score again and lost 30-13.
You could argue that Chuck Noll, Vince Lombardi or Bill Walsh were the greatest head coaches in NFL history, and numbers would back you up. But to me the most inspiring were guys like Tom Landry and Joe Gibbs. Especially Joe Gibbs, who not only redeemed himself, but taught his players to do the same.
The Fight Card series is a growing collection of retro-pulp boxing novellas–deliberate throwbacks to the sports fiction of yesteryear by some of today’s most talented authors (writing under the house name “Jack Tunney”). Fight Card has spun off into MMA, romance and such, but Tomato Can Comeback is from the original hardboiled series.
Set in Detroit, 1954, it’s the story of a young man fighting to redeem himself, both physically and psychologically. It’s free for a couple days on Amazon.
I’m doubling up the jab, here. My last blog entry was about boxing fiction; this one is about a boxing game. It may be an “old” game, but it’s still a fun action game to play. So nyah nyah.
Well, let me qualify that: Fight Night was fun to play.
Round Two was an improvement on the original. Round Three was arguably an improvement on Two. Then Round Four stunk so bad that EA Sports evidently gave up on it (until Fight Night Champion, which redeemed them to an extent I guess).
It seems that the design team used up the entire budget improving the graphics for Round Four, then had to outsource the game play programming to pro bono data entry clerks. Aside from adding long-overdue fighters like Mike Tyson to the pantheon…
…Round Four took every weakness of the earlier versions and concentrated on making them even worse.
EVERY BOUT RESULTS IN A KNOCKOUT. This is a case of entertainment-over-realism (real fights often go the score cards even when two punchers are matched). Not so bad by itself but a related issue is:
EVEN FEATHER-FISTED DANCERS ARE KNOCKOUT ARTISTS IN FIGHT NIGHT. Some attempt at capturing the style of the real fighters was made–the AI version of Ray Leonard has an incredible defense, for instance. But everyone’s a power-puncher.
THE TRAINING GAMES ARE EVEN MORE DIFFICULT WITHOUT BEING INTERESTING. This was already the trend by Round Three. Four put the trend on steroids.
YOU HAVE TO BE A COUNTER-PUNCHER TO WIN. According to this game, the only time one boxer can inflict serious damage to another is after blocking a punch. Whose idea was this?
AN EFFECTIVE PARRY RENDERS THE BOXER WHO THREW THE PUNCH UTTERLY DEFENSELESS. C’mon, have you guys ever even watched real boxers in a fight?
SUFFER ONE KNOCKDOWN AND YOU’LL PROBABLY NEVER GET UP. Your character might still have plenty of juice after a flash knockdown, but that won’t help you without the Magic Sequence of Controller Input. In the Fight Card Round Four Universe, Buster Douglass would lose in Tokyo; Jersey Joe Walcott retains the title after Marciano’s challenge; and Joe Louis loses half his fights.
But Round Four introduces some brand new sucky features, too.
There’s a delay between control input and screen action that makes spastic brainless button-mashers invincible against those who attempt to use skill and strategy.
The cut man is of little significance.
Human-controlled fighters plateau in abilities after about 10 fights, while AI characters keep improving.
Button configuration was designed for an epileptic octopus.
If you’re like me and enjoy fun games regardless of their vintage, I strongly recommend Fight Night Round Two or Round Three, or perhaps Champion, which adds a storyline, but duck Round Four like it’s Sugar Ray Robinson with something to prove.
After Paul Bishop read Mel Odom’s retro-boxing novel Smoker, he found Odom’s website and looked up his contact info.
“We hit it off immediately,” says Bish. “We had a ton in common including a shared love of the fight pulps.”
During their first phone conversation, the brainstorming began for a new sports fiction series. The series is called Fight Card. It is a throwback to the boxing pulps of yesteryear.
Felony Fists was the first Fight Card instalment by “Jack Tunney.” For you armchair fight historians out there, that nome de plume is exactly what you suspect it is–a fusion between Jack Dempsey and Gene Tunney, though the series takes place in the ’50s, not the ’20s (when those two were heavyweight champs). Several different authors in the Fight Card stable are writing under that amalgamated name.
The Fight Card series consists of monthly 25,000 word novelettes, designed to be read in one or two sittings. The stories and stylings are inspired by the fight pulps of the ’30s and ’40s – such as Fight Stories Magazine – and Robert E. Howard’s two-fisted boxing tales featuring Sailor Steve Costigan. – Paul Bishop
Patrick “Felony” Flynn is an LA beat cop who is also possibly the world’s most seasoned amateur middleweight. He’s offered a spot on the detective squad if he’ll help knock gangster Mickey Cohen out of boxing. That means he has to move up in weight to light-heavy, turn pro, and arrest Cohen’s fighter Solomon King’s ascent toward a title shot against Archie Moore. A middleweight moving up to fight a badass light-heavyweight is a monumental chore all by itself, but in case the reader doesn’t appreciate that, the pressure is heaped upon Felony Flynn increasingly right up until the last chapter.
During all this time, Flynn becomes partners with another rookie detective, Tombstone. A black detective on an historically/notoriously bigoted force like the LAPD must be exceptional, and Tombstone is. This subplot, a counterfeiting subplot, and the fight plot all come together and are tied off nicely. The writer set out to tell a retro-style pulp boxing yarn and I’d say he did a good job.
For my taste, Cohen’s tactic to get Flynn to throw the fight was overkill. The stakes were plenty high already, as were the odds against Flynn in the fight. For Cohen to be so scared of an Irish brawler with one professional fight (against an over-rated has-been) presenting a threat to a contender who consumes talented pros for breakfast (and who Archie Moore is worried about) was just too much. In Flynn’s other fights, he never was 100% on. He was either distracted, or careless…something to put the outcome in doubt. I really would have liked to see Flynn go to war from Round One in the climactic fight, and let the tension come from the fact that he’s overmatched, and making it through 15 rounds with Solomon King requires a superhuman effort. Plenty of tension that way and far more realistic.
Speaking of realism, I just have to provide the following advisory about boxing technicalities:
In boxing, a right-handed fighter does not have a right jab or a right hook. He jabs and hooks with the left. He throws straight rights or a right cross. (Everything I’m saying is mirror-opposite for a southpaw, of course.) What some people call a right hook from a right-hander is actually either an angled right uppercut or a roundhouse right–an ill-advised punch 99% of the time, though I did see Lennox Lewis score a knockout with one.
I don’t know how many other readers would notice or care about getting these fundamental details right, but for me it was an annoyance in what otherwise was an enjoyable read. To be fair, a LOT of authors who write about boxing make these kind of mistakes. (One exception is this book from the Fight Card series.)
Paul Bishop retired from the LAPD, so he knows a thing or two about the crime angle. That and his hard-hitting, fast moving prose in Felony Fists makes this a great read, and one of many highly entertaining Fight Card books.
e head while you work. In the case of the Mayweather fight, Manny had to work very hard just to get inside. If he landed a clean shot before Mayweather tied him up or danced away, he recognized that he had just accomplished a very difficult feat. Those are the highlights for a fighter in real time–not what happens in between those accomplishments.
