At an age when most boxers fade under the dim lights of dementia, Floyd Mayweather Jr seems as keen and quick and good as ever, in defiance of history and precedent and logic.
Alvarez and Mayweather are fighting at a catch-weight of 152 pounds, which, if you’re looking for an edge, would probably point to Alvarez, the naturally larger man. But Mayweather has a way of making larger men look small.
Sadly, Derek Jeter will force the Yankees to yank him from the infield, literally rip the uniform off his increasingly creaky body. He won’t go quietly.
Even the most jaded Yankees apologist is gripping a shovel, ready to toss the dirt on the 2013 Bronx Bombers.
Rather than call it a “slugfest” or a “knockout,” yesterday’s game at MetLife was more of an awkward, pawing, plodding, headbutting affair.
Peyton is still here. He’s still active. Boy, is he active. And last night was more than dropping a double-nickel, like Jordan did against the Knicks on his comeback trail.
A wishbone quarterback has yet to hoist a Lombardi Trophy. Until one does, give me the safer sensibilities of the pocket passer. Like Peyton Manning. Like Eli Manning. Maybe MetLife will be a family affair.
Aside from jamming the eject button on Andy Pettitte the other day and letting Joba Chamberlain combust on the mound, G.I. Joe has done a David Copperfield job on his club this year.
While all teams’ hopes are commensurate to their ability to stuff a stud under center, the Jets are ensconced in a QB shell game, with every option worse than the next, much of it spawned by the coach’s appalling apathy over his offense.
The Patriots knew the kind of person they were getting when they drafted Aaron Hernandez.
The Mets fan already knows where his team will be on Halloween. And soon they will be joined by some overpriced, pinstriped clowns across the river.
You don’t have to be a Mets fan to feel the loss. No one wins here. Even the most ardent Yankees groupie can find no humor in this. The city loses, the sport loses — and, as always, the Mets lose.
His faux pas was so fertile with subplots you would be right to start with any story. Was this the red-faced refrain of a man about to lose his job? Or was he justified in losing his temper after hearing the same question six times?
Not only do many of us see the Dodgers as a five borough endeavor, an extension of our blue-collar grit and white-collar elitism, but we now must watch our enemy rocket to the top with a Yankee icon at the helm.
A-Rod should call a truce, pinky swear, wear a friendship ring, or whatever Hal, Hank, and Cash want him to do.