It is in Floyd Mayweather Jr.’s corner now. It is up to him.
Ed Graney
Ed Graney is a sports columnist for the Las Vegas Review-Journal, covering a variety of topics and the Las Vegas sports scene.
egraney@reviewjournal.com … @edgraney on Twitter. 702-383-4618
Freddie Roach was worried. He had watched Miguel Cotto’s earlier fights on film, watched the power and skill and confidence of a world champion, watched him cut off the quickness of Shane Mosley like a coyote might a jack rabbit’s attempt at escape, watched the jabs and uppercuts and counters and that thunderous left hook.
Jerry Tarkanian remembers Utah, how that NCAA Tournament regional semifinal in 1977 came down to a block-charge call that could have gone either way.
Survival mode doesn’t know opponents. It doesn’t care about records, assess skill, wonder how and why those crouching opposite it arrived at this moment.
The uniform color and nickname and fight song are all secondary issues. The level of commitment isn’t. High school football programs built from the first blade of grass tend to need more continuity than flavor.
My mother is a small, forgetful, cheerful Irish immigrant who never drove a day in her life, is convinced mashed potatoes aren’t the same without mixing in that fourth stick of butter and always thinks the next cup of coffee she drinks is the best of her lifetime.
For us logical types, let’s assume the first time Antonio Margarito tried wrapping his hands for a fight with enough plaster to shape a small cast wasn’t moments before facing Shane Mosley in January.
You might remember that ESPN awhile back ran a series centered on the Mt. Rushmore of Sports, ranking the most influential figures in each state’s history. It was a chore for many to identify the top four. Ohio didn’t have room for Oscar Robertson, LeBron James, Jim Brown or Johnny Bench.
She could have marketed it beyond belief, promoting her brand on the whole skimpy bikini and leaning over the race car thing. She could have followed that television reality show with her family by launching a campaign of skin and dragsters to no end.
Huckleberry Thorn doesn’t roll over or sit up and beg for treats. He doesn’t fetch tennis balls from the pool. He’s not all that big on rubber toys. He doesn’t stand around for 15 minutes waiting for the lighting to be just right while posing for photos.
The more Alex Rodriguez tears up pitching in these baseball playoffs, the more he assumes a position as the classic steroids test case in this way:
College football is not meant to be played in a stuffy boardroom, where everyone owns identical roles and each move is choreographed. It is not meant to possess the monotony of an upper division lecture on business law.
It was growing late Sunday evening, and the bulletin board wasn’t finished. Darwin Rost hadn’t yet attached all the newspaper clippings and combine numbers and statistics and other important information about the upcoming opponent’s top players.
There is a proverb about adversity that says if you faint in the day of it, your strength is small. Ernie Gonzalez believes he has help in such troubling times.
On second thought, perhaps Mike Sanford should remain UNLV football coach for the next decade or so. These 7 p.m. kickoffs can be tough on the ol’ deadline writing skills, but with the Rebels of late, you always have a pretty good idea where things are headed at halftime.