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We’re not hostage to the time we live in, but we certainly feel its sway, one way or another. Today, several young players have walked away from the NFL because of knowledge we now have about brain injuries (though even the league itself suspected it long ago). But there was a time during the Vietnam War when some left the game for political reasons. Dave Meggyesy probably did so most loudly, but Raider Chip Oliver likewise went all in, joining the One World Family commune and devoting himself to vegetarianism and peace, refusing a professional football contract he felt was being taxed to fund the war. From a 1970 Sports Illustrated:

“Out of it” now describes former Oakland Linebacker Chip Oliver—well out of it, that is. Last January he joined a commune in Larkspur, Calif., so you can figure, if you want to, that it’s costing him $25,000 a year to scrub down the commune’s nonprofit, health-food restaurant tables. He figures that a fifth of that money just “went down the drain in Vietnam—now Cambodia,” and says, “That’s one reason I quit. The only way not to pay taxes is not to make money.” There are other reasons. “It’s a silly game they’re playing,” he says of the pros. “I’m going to miss playing football—the actual football part of it—but I’d look up at the people in the stadium and realize I wasn’t helping them. I wasn’t helping anybody. All we’re doing in pro football is entertaining these people and…they need to do their own creative thing.” A vegetarian diet, periodic fasting and yoga have cut Chip’s weight down to a tough 180 pounds from his playing weight of 230; he has cut his worldly possessions down to a few old clothes and an Instamatic camera. He is a happy man. “Even my mother likes me better this way,” he says. “So does my father [a retired Army sergeant], but he’s afraid to admit it. He doesn’t like me associating with these ‘Communists.’ “•

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In the 1970s, AMF, the sporting-goods manufacturer, sold the DataMagic Bowling Data Computer, a system that would tabulate rankings of bowling leagues with the push of a button. It seems a stunning waste of computing power and coincided with the company going into a decline, so I doubt it was a big seller. But as this commercial makes clear, it was a declaration of war on the pencil.

With the Astros having been on the receiving end of the lowest-tech breach imaginable, here’s a re-post of a 2014 Houston Chronicle piece which focused on “Ground Control,” the computer system that was helping baseball’s most tech-friendly front office rebuild the then-woeful club.

By the time Moneyball was adapted for the screen, the sport had already moved on to next-level analytics, a steady stream of data that keeps bending around new corners. One of this year’s global improvements, showcased at the MIT Sloan Sports Analytics Conference, will be the exceptionally close reading of fielders’ body movements while they make plays, but each “nation,” each team, has its own mechanism for measuring every aspect of the game. From Evan Drellich’s article about “Ground Control,” the database that GM Jeff Luhnow is hoping will help reverse the fortunes of the grounded Houston Astros:

One of Luhnow’s favorite songs is David Bowie’s “Space Oddity,” with the lyrics, “This is ground control to Major Tom.” He happens to be a big Bowie fan and joked that the tune should play every time the site is accessed.

“That was during my formative years,” Luhnow said of his affinity for Bowie.

The project itself is permanently in a formative state. There are constantly new features and abilities to add, and what makes Ground Control so powerful is its customizability.

Teams don’t have to build their own databases. When Luhnow arrived, the club used a popular system sold by Bloomberg Sports, and it kept using Bloomberg while Ground Control was built.

Priority No. 1 for the club was getting Ground Control up in time for that year’s amateur draft. Just like this year and 2013, the Astros had the first overall pick in 2012.

By the end of 2012, or maybe early 2013, Ground Control had reached a fully functional state, although that’s a disingenuous characterization considering it’s perpetually in flux.

“The analytical engine is separate from the interface, so there was a lot of work going on developing the database and developing the interface,” Luhnow said. “The database you have to build right away, because you can’t analyze without having the data in the right format. The priorities were the database first, then the analytical engine, and the interface was a third priority.”

The International Olympic Committee (new slogan: “At Least We’re Not FIFA!”) is currently led by Thomas Bach, who god knows, doesn’t have an easy job. The host country is essentially taking on a gigantic money pit, which has thinned the herd of interested parties, so much so that hosts can now hold some events in other countries to avoid the cost of building so many new facilities. The weak pool of applicants has left autocrats looking to purchase prestige in a good position to snare the Games.

In a smart Spiegel interview conducted by Lukas Eberle and Maik Großekathöfer, Bach speaks to the IOC’s position on political responsibility. An excerpt:

Spiegel:

Before the start of the 2008 Olympics in Beijing, the IOC emphasized that it was helping open China to the world.

Thomas Bach:

No, we don’t do that. The Games are a way for us to set an example of an open society that is free of discrimination. We want to create an atmosphere in the Olympic Village in which all athletes can meet in an unprejudiced environment. And if, in the process, this leads to contemplation in the host country, then that’s entirely a good thing. But we have to respect the laws of a sovereign country. On the other hand, Saudi Arabia recently made a measured effort towards the Olympic Games. My reaction was: As long as women cannot have the same access to sports as men do in Saudi Arabia, as long as women can’t even enter the stadium there, we won’t accept an application.

Spiegel:

You’re making it easy for yourself by taking up sports as an issue. Why don’t you just say: As long as bloggers are whipped in Saudi Arabia, the country will not receive the Games?

Thomas Bach:

Once more: The IOC is a sports organization. We cannot change what generations of diplomats and a series of UN resolutions have not been able to.

Spiegel:

Since 2014, paragraph six of the Olympic Charter also bans discrimination based on sexual orientation. For the 2022 Winter Games, there are two candidates: Almaty and Beijing. If you were serious about your charter, you would need to reject both cities.

Thomas Bach:

Why?

Spiegel:

In Kazakhstan, politicians have been pushing a Russian-style anti-gay law for years. And in China there are clinics in which gay men are tortured with electric shocks.

Thomas Bach:

The responsibilities of the IOC, as well as the opportunities, are tied to the Olympic Games and the processes that are directly related to them. We can only provide an inspiration for the development of societies and countries, not instructions.•

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Another Jesus H. Christ! edition of Geraldo Rivera’s 1970s talk show, Good Night America, is this one from ’75 which focused on the FBI’s aggressive attempts to capture at-large Symbionese Liberation Army hostage/soldier Patty Hearst, the newspaper heiress getting more ink than anyone in the country. What’s most interesting to me is that hippie-ish basketball player Bill Walton, then playing with the Portland Trail Blazers, was hassled by the Feds who believed he knew where “Tania” was hiding. He certainly would have if she had been lodged inside Jerry Garcia’s colon. The host taped an interview in San Francisco with the NBA star and speaks in studio to sportswriters Jack and Micki Scott and attorney William Kunstler.

Unrelated to the SLA madness, Rita Moreno visits the studio, there’s a report on male go-go dancers and the guest announcer is Don Imus, the rodeo clown who spent all morning looking for Hearst in a bowl of cocaine. Watch here.•

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Despite choosing the dangerous profession of mountain climber, Annie Smith Peck somehow made it to the end of her life in one piece, even surviving accidents involving street cars and mules. The apex of her adventurous career was probably her 1903 ascent of Illampu in Bolivia, which she made with geologist Dr. W.G. Tight and two guides, a treacherous scaling reported on in the September 2, 1903 Brooklyn Daily Eagle.

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Triple Crown-winning jockey Victor Espinoza is 43, but Steve Cauthen was barely older than three-year-old Affirmed when he rode that horse to the same glory in 1978. The opening of Nellie Blagden’s People profile of Cauthen at 16, the year before his career highlight:

The first-class cabin of the California-bound jet carried handsome British actor Michael York and rugged William Shatner, Star Trek’s Captain Kirk. But when the stewardess working the section got her first free minutes, she perched next to a wispy 16-year-old boy, smiled ingratiatingly and started to chat.

Jockey Steve Cauthen is getting used to that kind of attention. Since he started dominating the horse-racing world a couple of months ago, Steve’s feats have been chronicled in minute detail by television and newspapers, admiring letters pour in daily, fans dog him for autographs and bettors for tips. Even the astute Swifty Lazar, a literary agent whose stable already includes such noted front-runners as Richard M. Nixon, tried to sign adolescent Steve for a book on his life.

Cauthen’s accomplishments would be considered extraordinary if he were a veteran jockey. In fact, he is an apprentice who has been riding less than a year. In one dizzying recent stretch at Aqueduct in New York, Cauthen booted home six winners in one day, 23 in six days, 110 in 46 days. At his current pace, he could wind up with 740 winners for his first year, 194 more than any rider ever has compiled.

Since last May Steve’s mounts have won an unprecedented $2.6 million, and Cauthen kept about $260,000 of that booty for himself. In spite of his success—he currently earns about $20,000 a week—Steve conducts himself like a shy, level-headed 16-year-old with more than one kind of horse sense. “I don’t think I am a superstar,” he says. “My parents warned me not to be a big head, so I watch myself.”

His only extravagances so far have been a blazing red Mercury Cougar and two tickets to A Chorus Line, a musical he went to see with his mother, Myra. And despite a schedule that has included six nine-race days a week at Aqueduct and a Saturday flight to California to race at Santa Anita on Sunday, Steve has kept up his correspondence courses “because I promised my dad I would finish high school.”•

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Of all the great things robotics have brought to our lives, Der Boxroboter is responsible for none of them. The aforementioned fighting machine was a German-manufactured 1980s sparring partner promised to be an alloy Ali. Watch it jab in the video below at the 20:35 mark. From a 1987 Sports Illustrated piece:

The German Democratic Republic is very advanced in the use of scientific training methods for its athletes. Now the East Germans have beaten the world to the punch in the sport of boxing. Meet Der Boxroboter, a GDR-designed-and-built computerized robot that can hang in there with the best of fighters for hours on end. ”It’s tough to find good sparring partners, especially for heavyweights,” says Dieter Seala of the GDR trade mission, which plans to market DBs internationally for a little more than $33,000 apiece. ”Human sparring partners get tired after a few rounds. They get punched too many times and lose their consistency.”

DB is not just a Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em robot. It can be programmed to assume any fighting style — attack the upper body, go for the belly, back an opponent into a corner — and is allegedly quicker across the ring than any human boxer. DB is equally adept at throwing rights and lefts and has great wheels (literally).•

From the April 1, 1906 Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

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Kris Jenner is the new Joe Jackson, and a big ass the new moonwalk.

We don’t have to like what the Kardashian-Jenner clan tells us about our era, but to deny their significance in it–what exactly do those people do?–is to miss the point. From Reality TV to Netflix algorithmic ratings to likes and retweets, the fans, those barbarians, have stormed the gates, overturning the professional class. 

Bill Simmons was part of that revolution, bringing a spectator’s passion (along with writing chops and a funny, if sometimes sexist, sense of humor) to a field that had long been called the “sports pages.” The Internet was his playing field and it graduated him from Boston cheap seats to Los Angeles courtside, a progression that never completely sat right. 

Now that his run at ESPN has finished ingloriously, here are two passages from Jonathan Mahler’s prescient 2011 New York Times Magazine piece, “Can Bill Simmons Win the Big One?” The first focuses on the rise of the fan and the other on the likely bitter ending of a stormy if mutually profitable relationship.

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A brief, reductive history of modern sportswriting in America might look something like this: Practitioners of the craft during the first two-thirds of the 20th century paid for their unfettered access to athletes by glorifying them, “Godding up those ballplayers,” as one sportswriter memorably put it. In the 1970s, sportswriters stopped protecting athletes and started demythologizing them. As they did, their access diminished. The gulf between ballplayers and fans widened.

Enter Simmons and his legion of imitators, whom you won’t find loitering in a locker room, trawling for quotes or sitting at the press tables of an N.B.A. game, where rooting is forbidden. At the center of Simmons’s columns is not the increasingly unknowable athlete but the experience of the fan. His frame of reference is himself. He might not be able to tell you how a ballplayer felt performing a particular feat, but he can tell you how he felt watching it, what childhood memories it evoked, the scene from the movie “Point Break” it brought to mind, which one of his countless theories — newcomers to his column can consult a glossary on his home page — it vindicates. There’s a vaguely metaphysical quality to this approach: the sportswriter Robert Lipsyte calls it “the tao of Bill.”

Simmons is more than just a fan; he is the fan, the voice of the citizenry of sports nation. In a larger sense, what he’s doing is nothing new. In much the same way that newspaper columnists call out callous politicians and crooked businessmen, Simmons rails against greedy owners, the commissioners who invariably side with them, overpaid players and dysfunctional franchises. Recently, he lambasted the Maloof brothers, the owners of the Sacramento Kings, for neglecting the team, and David Stern, the N.B.A.’s commissioner, for allowing them to do so. “Once you get approved to purchase an N.B.A. franchise, for whatever reason, David Stern seemingly yields all control over your behavior unless you criticize his officials,” Simmons wrote. “Anything else? Knock yourself out. Buying into the N.B.A. is like buying a house: Once you move in, feel free to disgrace the neighborhood however you want.”

Simmons is a funny, intelligent and original writer. He comes up with surprising angles and conceits — in a column last month, he applied quotes from “The Wire” to moments in the N.B.A. playoffs — that may not always work but certainly prevent him from becoming predictable. He is especially good at describing sports moments, a dying art since the arrival of nonstop sports highlights.

But Simmons’s rise has been fueled by broader forces too. The recent explosion of the sports industry — the emergence of 24-hour sports networks, sports-radio shows, Web sites, fantasy leagues, video games — has been geared foremost toward creating and satisfying the demands of the consumer. The fan became the engine of the sporting world.

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It was a sultry afternoon, and midway through the game, we went inside to the Dugout Club to cool off and talk. Simmons sounded as if he was having some regrets about Grantland. “It hasn’t been as much as fun as I had thought,” he told me. “I’m not sure I would do it again.” Too much of his time was being spent in the office, dealing with administrative tasks, which was encroaching on his column.

Simmons’s literary persona suggests a slacker, a guy who would like nothing more than to spend his days drinking beer and watching sports. This image, enhanced by his loose, casual prose, is misleading. The real Simmons is hard-working and competitive. His rise to prominence has been punctuated by bouts of restlessness and frustration, even when things looked from the outside to be going his way. He’s still chafing over his publisher’s handling of his 2009 book, The Book of Basketball, a No. 1 New York Times best seller.

As far as Simmons has come since he first started searching for an audience, he wants to go much further, to create something more enduring than his column or even his books. But the drudgery of running his own publication is already intruding on the utopian world he has built for himself. And he knows that the only thing preventing him from becoming another overexposed hack, an ex-sportswriter who now gets paid to blather on TV, is his column, which can take days to research and write. “My biggest concern about the site is that I don’t want the column to just be one of the things I’m doing,” Simmons said.

After the game, we drove to Chinatown for a late lunch. “Listen to this,” Simmons said, reading the fortune from his cookie as we were getting up to leave: “An important business venture may soon develop for you.” Everyone laughed. “Or it could be the end of my career,” Simmons joked. “I don’t know, I think I have one more big sellout contract in me.”•

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In 1972, when this variety special was recorded, Bob Hope had already turned into a terrible comedian, but Bobby Fischer was not yet behaving like a terrible person. The chess champ had just “won the Cold War,” besting his Russian counterpart Boris Spassky before the world in a bravura if sometimes bewildering performance. Long before Watson, Fischer was a supercomputer with his wires crossed, unable to conquer just one opponent: himself. While sharing a stage with Hope, he believed he knew what his future held, but he didn’t even know what was lurking inside of himself. Things were going to get strange and stranger.

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At the same time that the Mayweather-Pacquiao was becoming by far the biggest pay-per-view event ever, the New York Times published a beautifully written piece by Dan Barry about Magomed Abdusalamov, a heavyweight fighter formerly overhyped as the “Russian Tyson,” who was damaged horribly during a boxing match, which left him a bedridden 34-year-old man in need constant assistance just to barely survive. It should be required reading for anyone enamored with combat sports, which includes American football.

The European style quietly has its own concussion problem, but the NFL is a league apart, and just playing in a Pop Warner league that emulates it can set children up for a world of pain. Patrick Venzke, a German national who emigrated to America and played the sport as an amateur and professional gave a worrisome interview to Maik Großekathöfer and Sara Peschke of Spiegel. An excerpt:

Spiegel:

How often did you play with a concussion?

Patrick Venzke:

About 15 times, since I was 16. I’m not sure exactly. I was the offensive tackle, so it was my job to get the opponent out of the way for the offense, or to protect my quarterback from attack to give him a couple of seconds to pitch. I was a battering ram, a kind of bodyguard. There’d be hundreds of collisions during training every day. Collisions similar to mini accidents — the equivalent of hitting a wall at 15 miles an hour. Looking back I can see that it wasn’t always the healthiest.

Spiegel:

How is your health now?

Patrick Venzke:

I’m okay. Today. I’m okay about 350 days of the year. But it’s the other 15 that I worry about. Then I’m grateful I don’t keep a gun in the house. Because I don’t know what I might do with it.

Spiegel:

Roughly one in three NFL players suffers cognitive impairment, such as memory loss, depression, speech disorders, paranoia and apathy. What happens to you on the days you don’t feel well?

Patrick Venzke:

I get aggressive, the way I was on the field. I could hurt someone very easily.

Spiegel: 

Just like that?

Patrick Venzke:

Anything might trigger it. A barking dog can make me explode. The sound of kids screaming. When my two daughters start arguing then I go and take refuge in my man cave. But even happy shouting when they’re playing can do it. Kids yelling in restaurants — it can be very bad.

Spiegel:

But you have it under control?

Patrick Venzke:

Let’s put it this way — I have to be very disciplined in order to prevent things from getting out of control. So far the situation has never escalated, fortunately, but I tend to drink a lot to cope with the stress. I can put away 20 beers in no time at all. But it doesn’t help, it makes it worse. Sometimes I tell myself that I have life insurance worth over $3 million, enough to provide for my family for the rest of their lives. But I don’t think like that every day. Not even every week and not even every month.•

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I’ll guess that the New York Times’ wonderful obituarist Margalit Fox does not spend most of her waking hours focused on mid-20th-century professional wrestling, yet she’s written a brilliant postmortem about the recently deceased Verne Gagne, a star DuMont TV wrestler in the 1950s who ultimately ran his own Midwest promotion. That’s what an excellent reporter can do: They come to an unfamiliar topic, gather information and process it, and then quickly turn out something that seems to have been written by a longtime expert on the subject. Much easier said than done.

Here’s the only thing I know about Gagne: He happened upon the young Andre the Giant (not yet so nicknamed) in Japan 45 years ago and wanted to turn him into a “Great White Hope” boxer to take on the likes of Ali and Frazier. Not quite how it turned out.

From Fox:

A saloonkeeper’s son, LaVerne Clarence Gagne was born on Feb. 26, 1926, in Corcoran, Minn., near Minneapolis, and reared on a farm there. His mother died when he was 11; three years later, determined to wrestle despite his father’s insistence that he work in the saloon instead, he left home. Verne finished high school, where he wrestled and played football and baseball while living with an aunt and uncle.

At the University of Minnesota, he became a four-time heavyweight champion of the Big Nine, as the Big Ten Conference was then known, and an N.C.A.A. national champion. He also played football. Near the end of World War II he served stateside with the Marines, tapped by virtue of his wrestling skills to teach the men hand-to-hand combat.

In 1947 Gagne was a 16th-round draft pick by the Chicago Bears; he was later courted by the Green Bay Packers and the San Francisco 49ers. But there was little money in pro football then, and he chose to earn his keep on the canvas.

In his first professional match, in 1949 in Minneapolis, Gagne defeated Abe Kashey, known as King Kong, and in the decades that followed Gagne traversed the country. Crowds waited eagerly for him to dispatch his foes with his trademark sleeper hold, which entailed grabbing an opponent’s head and pressing on his carotid artery so that he passed out — or at least gave a convincing impression of passing out.

In 1960, Gagne helped found the American Wrestling Association. Based in Minneapolis, the association promoted matches throughout the Midwest, Far West and Canada. Gagne, who later became the association’s sole owner, held the A.W.A. championship belt 10 times.

But in the 1980s, with the ascent of cable TV and its lucre, many of the nation’s star wrestlers, including Hogan and Ventura, were lured from their regional stables to the World Wrestling Federation, now a national behemoth known as World Wrestling Entertainment. The A.W.A. ceased operations in 1991; Gagne filed for personal bankruptcy in 1993.•

 

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The two boxing Klitschko brothers refused to ever oppose one another in the ring, but Vitali, who became Kiev mayor in 2014, has a ringside seat to witness fraternal fighting of another order: a civil war that’s complicating the former WBO heavyweight champion’s quest to attract investors to the tumultuous state. Also muddling the situation is a scandal within his cabinet that’s making his so-called reform government seem like business as usual. During a visit to D.C. to try to raise investment funds for his city, the pugilist-cum-politician sat for an interview with Reid Standish of Foreign Policy. An excerpt:

Despite the dreary forecast for Ukraine, the mayor has made serious strides toward reform. To improve transparency, Kiev is the first Ukrainian city to make all government documents public and available online. The tax code has been simplified, the corporate rate brought down to 18 percent from 23 percent. Klitschko is also pushing for police reform. After years of abuse and corruption, trust in the police force is at an all-time low, but Klitschko is hoping that a combination of higher salaries and competitive exams can restore the prestige to law enforcement. “We want the police to be young, educated, and have a completely different outlook,” said Klitschko.

The mayor is also hoping to loosen the Kremlin’s grip over Ukrainian energy: “Last winter we used 30 percent less Russian gas. It is our goal to get rid of energy dependence on Russia.” Years of cheap gas from the Kremlin has made Ukrainians wasteful with their usage, and Klitschko has unveiled an energy saving program for his city. “We used the old Soviet way to regulate temperature.” he joked, “if you’re hot, you open the window, if you’re cold, you close it.” …

Now Klitschko might be facing his biggest fight since being elected mayor. An investigative report published by Radio Svoboda, the Ukrainian language affiliate of Radio Free Europe/ Radio Liberty, alleges that a massive, multi-million dollar complex along the Dnieper River in Kiev being built with illegal permits obtained by a construction firm owned by a business partner of Igor Nikonov, Klitschko’s first deputy and a well known developer.

Klitschko denies the allegations about Nikonov, saying that the connection is nonexistent and the result of “black PR” by unnamed opponents trying to discredit him. “We even have a joke about this: One politician goes to another and says ‘I told everyone your daughter is a stripper.’ The other politician has no daughter, but now he must explain to everyone why his daughter is not a stripper.”•

 

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New Yorkers listen to special radio broadcast of 1922 World Series.

New Yorkers listen to special radio broadcast of 1922 World Series.

Major League Baseball team owners, supposedly great champions of the free market, have often been baffled by basic economics, working against their own interests. They enjoy an anti-trust exemption to stifle competition and receive tons of corporate welfare whenever they decide its time for a new ballpark, yet they vehemently opposed free agency, which made the game a 365-day-a-year sport, putting real fire in the Hot Stove League. They even engaged in collusion to artificially suppress player movement and salaries. That very movement they despised helped turn the owners from millionaires into billionaires, something which still seems lost on some in this exclusive club. 

So, it’s no surprise that they strongly considered banning radio broadcasts of games a century ago, fearing it would kill gate receipts. Thankfully William Wrigley intervened, realizing the promotional value. Today broadcast rights, even local ones, are worth billions, making them the most valuable aspect of team ownership.

From James Walker at the Conversation:

In the 1920s, teams that did broadcast games on the radio usually charged nothing for the rights, settling for free promotion of their on-field product. For Wrigley, who was accustomed to paying retail rates to advertise his chewing gum, the prospect of two hours of free advertising for his Chicago Cubs (over as many as five Chicago radio stations) was generous enough compensation. But the anti-radio owners, led by the three New York clubs (the Yankees, Giants and Dodgers), wanted to deny Wrigley his two-hour Cubs commercial.

Although he jealously guarded his control over World Series radio rights, MLB Commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis believed local radio rights were a league matter and left the decision to broadcast regular season games to the owners. At several NL and AL owners meetings in the late 1920s and early 1930s, the anti-radio forces proposed a league-wide ban on local broadcasts of regular season games.

Pro-radio clubs, led by Cubs’ President Bill Veeck, Sr, were adamant that the choice to broadcast belonged to his club. It was no more of concern to other clubs, he argued, than the decision whether or not to sell peanuts to the fans in the stands.

But to teams like the St Louis Cardinals, it was a concern: because the Cubs’ radio waves reached the Cardinals’ fan base, they were convinced that the broadcasts negatively influenced their own attendance numbers. The decision of whether or not to broadcast games, they reasoned, was not the Cubs alone to make.•

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It’s not silly on the order of trying to color code terrorism as we did in the wake of 9/11, but metal detectors installed at stadiums by Major League Baseball the season after the Boston Marathon bombing, aren’t likely to do much good. Bruce Schneier, security expert in matters both online and off, writes of the new measure at the Washington Post. The opening:

Fans attending Major League Baseball games are being greeted in a new way this year: with metal detectors at the ballparks. Touted as a counterterrorism measure, they’re nothing of the sort. They’re pure security theater: They look good without doing anything to make us safer. We’re stuck with them because of a combination of buck passing, CYA thinking and fear.

As a security measure, the new devices are laughable. The ballpark metal detectors are much more lax than the ones at an airport checkpoint. They aren’t very sensitive — people with phones and keys in their pockets are sailing through and there are no X-ray machines. Bags get the same cursory search they’ve gotten for years. And fans wanting to avoid the detectors can opt for alight pat-down searchinstead.

There’s no evidence that this new measure makes anyone safer. A halfway competent ticketholder would have no trouble sneaking a gun into the stadium. For that matter, a bomb exploded at a crowded checkpoint would be no less deadly than one exploded in the stands. These measures will, at best, be effective at stopping the random baseball fan who’s carrying a gun or knife into the stadium. That may be a good idea, but unless there’s been a recent spate of fan shootings and stabbings at baseball games — and there hasn’t — this is a whole lot of time and money being spent to combat an imaginary threat.•

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Marvelous Mookie Betts was selected by the Boston Red Sox as the 172nd pick of the 2011 draft in part because of the new science of neuroscouting, research that aims to go far beyond traditional evaluations. From Alex Speier of the Boston Globe:

“He wasn’t a typical high school stud,” said Theo Epstein, the former Red Sox general manager and current Cubs president of baseball operations. “He’s an undersized kid. It’s really the athleticism and actions that drew us to him. Danny really believed in him.

“Through further evaluations and some of the proprietary testing we developed over the years, it was really clear that this kid not only had the speed, not only had the athleticism, not only had the arm, not only had the feel for the game, but also was pretty elite in his hand-eye coordination, his reaction time, and the way his mind worked as well.”

What, exactly, does Epstein mean about the workings of Betts’s mind?

“I can’t talk about that stuff,” he laughed, “because then I’d have to kill you.”

That “stuff,” according to several sources familiar with the Sox’ scouting efforts with Betts, was a new effort in 2011 to have prospects take part in neuroscouting tests.

For years, pitch recognition has been a great separator when scouting amateur players. Given that a high schooler might never see a fastball that cracks 90 miles per hour or be challenged by a legitimate major league breaking ball, there is significant guesswork in determining whether apparent bat speed will translate to production against top pitching in the pros.

In an attempt to crack that mystery, the Sox started instructing their area scouts to put potential draftees through a series of computer exercises meant to measure reaction time to pitches. Betts became a heralded part of that pilot program.

“I missed my lunch period because I was doing neuroscouting,” recalled Betts. “[Watkins] just said, ‘Do this, don’t think about the results.’ I did what I could. It was just like, a ball popped up, tap space bar as fast as you could. If the seams were one way, you tapped it. If it was the other way, you weren’t supposed to tap it. I was getting some of them wrong.

“I wasn’t getting frustrated, but I was like, ‘Dang, this is hard.’ ”•

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Sports Illustrated made the following statement about football not in 2015 but in 1978: “The game is headed toward a crisis, one that is epitomized by the helmet, which is both a barbarous weapon and inadequate protection.” This dire warning was attached to a series of articles reported by John Underwood about the dark side of Monday Night Lights, a clarion call about the devastating injuries that are endemic to the game, among other unsavory elements of the gridiron.

Since then, the sport hasn’t faced endgame, anything but, as football replaced baseball as America’s pastime, with its ubiquitous fantasy leagues and gambling and sophisticated content-delivery system. But that doesn’t mean Underwood wasn’t prophet, as the commonplace concussions–which just led Chris Borland to retire from the NFL at 24–aren’t going anywhere, no matter what type of helmet is developed. You can’t stop that type of whiplash, the brain slashing around inside the skull. The NFL’s ruling class is awfully good at self-delusion, but they worry sooner or later parents will steer youngsters from football the way they now do from boxing, the former king of sports.

From Underwood:

Once there was a game that had practically everything. Fun to play and exciting to watch, it was beloved by a nation of sports-minded people. It was held up to the nation’s youth as an exemplary physical test and as a builder of character. Outstanding men, including Presidents and Supreme Court Justices, had played it in their youth. Many observers considered it to be the definitive American game.

In time, the sport developed a professional adjunct. It was shown on television and was used to sell automobiles, beer and “pieces of the Rock.” As a result, some of the men who played the game were idolized and became rich.

Statistics showed that it was the nation’s most injurious team sport, but those who despaired of the weekend casualty lists were encouraged to look at the sport’s virtues, at the lives and profit statements it enhanced.

The game became contaminated, but the process was so gradual and insidious that few took notice. From the kiddie leagues to the major colleges and professional league, the sport’s public image grew more robust even as it decayed within. The injury rate mounted, sportsmanship declined. Vicious acts became commonplace.

Reform, though obviously needed, was resisted by the sport’s custodians. Most of its coaches were too busy trying to stay employed. They were also reluctant to give up “proven” coaching tenets. They said injuries were “part of the game.” They were supported in this by the players, who were busy trying to keep their scholarships or make their fortunes. For their part, the sport’s administrators were too busy trying to maximize their profits.

Eventually the professional league commissioned a study of injuries. The investigation was supposed to be private, but word of it got around. The study showed that the game’s equipment and many of its rules needed to be overhauled to keep pace with the times. Players were bigger, faster and stronger, but the laws of physics were constant: e.g., force=mass X acceleration. Nonetheless, the report was regarded as science fiction by the league. Only minimal changes were made; key recommendations were ignored.

Excess begot excess. Some of the sport’s paid stars were glorified for the “macho” way they broke the rules. A psychiatrist wrote firsthand about the amphetamine abuses of one pro team and how the drug contributed to injury. For this he was discredited by the league, which led a move to have his license revoked.

No sin was too great for absolution. College coaches caught cheating one year were named “Coach of the Year” the next. Pro players threatened officials, and each other, with impunity. The sport suddenly found itself crawling with lawyers. Charges ranging from breached contracts to slander were hurled. Players–teen-agers and adults–filed suit, seeking recompense for their broken bodies. Manufacturers of the game’s equipment learned they were faced with Judgment Day. The cost of insuring the game against itself soared alarmingly.

And all the while men of goodwill who loved the sport, and were involved in it, grew fearful for its future.

And wondered what would happen next.

And if any good seats were left for the big game.•

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The Electra and Oedipus of the Apollo space program, Oriana Fallaci and Norman Mailer were two writers with egos massive enough to observe humankind’s mission to the Moon as not only material for New Journalism reportage of an historical quest but also as backdrop to investigations of their own psyches. In 1967, the year after Fallaci published If the Sun Dies… and two years before Mailer stormed through a series of long-form articles for Life magazine that became Of a Fire on the Moon, the pair sat down for an interview with Fallaci serving as the inquisitor. In Mailer’s face–“noble and vulgar,” she called it–Fallaci claimed to be searching for America. It actually wasn’t a bad place to look: Like his country, Mailer could be at turns soaringly brilliant and shockingly brutal–and completely delusional about his behavior in regards to the latter. His remarks about domestic violence, for instance, were beyond horrifying, and they unfortunately weren’t merely macho showboating. The discussion opened Fallaci’s collection of (mostly) non-political interrogations, The Egotists. Three excerpts follow.

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Oriana Fallaci:

The problem I want to talk about is a difficult one, but we have to deal with it. The fact is we Europeans used to love you Americans. When you came to liberate us twenty years ago, we used to look up to you as if you were angels. And now many of us don’t love you anymore; indeed some hate you. Today the United States might be the most hated country in the world.

Norman Mailer:

You used to love us because love is hope, and we Americans were your hope. And also, perhaps, because twenty years ago we were a better people, although not as good as you believed then–the seeds of the present ugliness were already there. The soldiers with whom I fought in the Pacific, for example, were a little better than the ones who are fighting now in Vietnam, but not by much. We were quite brutal even then. One could write a novel about Vietnam along the lines of The Naked and the Dead, and the characters would not need to be worse than they are in the book.The fact is that you have lost the hope you have vested in us, and so you have lost your love; therefore you see us in a much worse light than you did before, and you don’t understand that the roots of our ugliness are the old ones. It is true that the evil forces in America have triumphed only after the war–with the enormous growth of corporations and the transformation of man into mass-man, the alienation of men from their own existence–but these forces were already there in Roosevelt’s time. Roosevelt, you see, was a great President, but he wasn’t a great thinker. Indeed, he was a very superficial one. When he took power, America stood at a crossroad; either a proletarian revolution would take place or capitalism would enter a new phase. What happened was that capitalism took a new turn, transforming itself into a subtle elaboration of state capitalism–it is not by chance that the large corporations in effect belong to the government. They belong to the right. And just as the Stalinists have murdered Marxism, so these bastards of the right are now destroying what is good in American life. They are the same people who build the expressways, who cut the trees, who pollute the air and the water, who transform life into a huge commodity.

Oriana Fallaci:

We Europeans are also very good at this. I mean this is not done by only right-wing Americans.

Norman Mailer:

Of course. It is a worldwide process. But its leader is America, and this is why we are hated. We are the leaders of the technological revolution that is taking over the twentieth century, the electronic revolution that is dehumanizing mankind.•

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Norman Mailer:

I still have hope you seem to have lost. Because of the youth. Some of them are subhuman, but most of them are intelligent.

Oriana Fallaci:

That is true. But they are also stuffed with drugs, violence, LSD. Does that help your hoping?

Norman Mailer:

Theirs is an extraordinary complex generation to live in. The best thing I can say about them is that I can’t understand them. The previous generation, the one fifteen years ago, was so predictable, without surprises. This one is a continuing surprise. I watch the young people of today, I listen to them, and l realize that I’m not twenty years older than they are but a hundred. Perhaps because in five years they went through changes that usually take half a century to complete, their intelligence has been speeded up so incredibly that there is no contact between them and the generation around thirty. Not to speak of those around forty or fifty. Yes, I know that this does not happen only in America; this too is a global process. But the psychology of American youth is more modern than that of any other group in the world; it belongs not to 1967 but to 2027. If God could see what would happen in the future–as he perhaps does–he would see people everywhere acting and thinking in 2027 as American youth do now. It’s true they take drugs. But they don’t take the old drugs such as heroin and cocaine that produce only physical reactions and sensations and dull you at the same time. They take LSD, a drug that can help you explore your mind. Now let’s get this straight: I can’t justify the use of LSD. I know too well that you don’t get something for nothing, and it may well be that we’ll pay a tragic price for LSD: it seems that it can break the membrane of the chromosomes in the cells and produce who knows what damage in future children. But LSD is part of a search, a desperate search, as if all these young people felt at the same time the need to explore as soon as possible their minds so as to avoid a catastrophe. Technology has stripped our minds until we have become like pygmies driving chariots drawn by dinosaurs. Now, if we want to keep the dinosaurs in harness, our minds will have to develop at a forced pace, which will require a frightening effort. The young have felt the need to harness the dinosaurs, and if they have found the wrong means, it’s still better than nothing. My fear had been that America was slowly freezing and hardening herself in a pygmy’s sleep. But no, she’s awake.•

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Norman Mailer:

Damn it, I don’t like violence. But there’s something I like even less, and that’s a need for security. It smells of the grave and forces you to react with blood. 

Oriana Fallaci:

You dislike violence? You who knifed a wife and can’t miss a boxing match?

Norman Mailer:

The knife in my wife’s belly was a crime. It was a grave crime, but it had nothing to do with violence. And as for the fights, well, boxing is not violence. It’s a conversation, an exchange between two men who talk to each other with their hands instead of their voices: hitting at the ear, the nose, the mouth, the belly, instead of hitting at each other’s minds. Boxing is a noble art. When a man fights in a ring, he is not expressing brutality. He expresses a complex, subtle nature like that of a true intellectual, a real aristocrat. A pugilist is less brutal, or not at all brutal after a fight, because with his fists he transforms violence into something beautiful, noble and disciplined. It’s a real triumph of the spirit. No, I’m not violent. To be violent means to pick fights, and I can’t remember ever having started a fight. Nor can I remember ever having hit a woman–a strange woman, I mean. I may have hit a wife, but that’s different. If you are married you have two choices: either you beat your wife, or you don’t. Some people live their whole life without ever beating her, others maybe beat her once and thereon are labeled “violent.” I like to marry women whom I can beat once in a while, and who fight back. All my wives have been very good fighters. Perhaps I need women who are capable of violence, to offset my own. Am I not American, after all? But the act of hitting is hateful because it implies a judgement, and judgement itself is hateful. Not that I think of myself as being a good man in the Christian sense. But at certain times I have a clear consciousness of what is good and what is evil, and then my concept of the good resembles that of the Christian.•

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Performance Enhancing Drugs may not be fair, but the same can be said of genetics. You can train as hard as you want, but it’s unlikely you’ll ever run as fast as Usain Bolt (unless you are a sheep). Trying to counteract Mother Nature’s clear favoritism, a sporting competition using technology as an equalizer is planned to run concurrent to the 2020 Olympic Games in Tokyo, which hopes to have its own robotics angle. From Keiko Sato at Asahi Shimbun:

In a bid to level the playing field of the future, a group of researchers are creating sports that can be contested by anyone with the assistance of robotics and high-tech assistive technologies.

That will allow the young and old, disabled and able-bodied, and professional and amateur alike to compete on an equal footing.

“In line with the 2020 Tokyo Olympics, we want to hold a ‘superhuman’ sporting event,” said Masahiko Inami, professor of human enhancement at Keio University Graduate School, at the inaugural meeting of the Superhuman Sports Committee in October, which was held 50 years after the 1964 Tokyo Olympics.

The group had been developing a plan for the creation of the committee since September 2013, when Tokyo was selected to host the 2020 Games.

Consisting of about 40 members including robotics researchers, prosthetic leg engineers, former professional athletes and game designers, the group aims to create new events, synthesizing various areas of expertise.

Using advanced assistive devices and robotic technologies, even children or those who are not adept at sports can acquire a “superhuman ability” and compete with superior athletes and adults.

But it is not interesting if technology alone determines the outcome, Inami said.

“It is important to create balanced rules so participants can compete using their own strength and sweat to a certain extent,” he said.•

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Nathaniel Rich, who made an appearance on Afflictor’s “Great 2014 Nonfiction Articles,” has written a smart piece for the New York Review of Books about pro football, the blood sport at the heart of American culture, which receives a disproportionate amount of our attention but almost always for the wrong reasons. The opening:

During the two weeks before the Super Bowl there were more than 10,000 news articles written about the slight deviation in air pressure of the footballs used by the New England Patriots in their American Football Conference Championship victory over the Indianapolis Colts. The Patriots quarterback Tom Brady, in an attempt to defuse conspiracy allegations, joked in a press conference, “Things are fine—this isn’t ISIS.”

He was right: it wasn’t ISIS. During those two weeks, the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria was the subject of only seventy-nine articles in The New York Times. “Deflate-gate” was the subject of eighty. These included interviews with football players, who explained why a deflated ball was easier to throw and catch; physicists, who suggested that the deflation might have occurred due to climate effects; logisticians, who opined on the time necessary to deflate a football; and a seamstress of Wilson footballs who vowed, “It’s not Wilson’s fault.” Even the leader of the free world felt obliged to make a statement. “Here’s what I know,” said President Obama on Super Bowl Sunday. “The Patriots were going to beat the Colts regardless of what the footballs looked like.”

In that period Andy Studebaker’s name appeared in only nine articles, all published in sports blogs. Studebaker is the twenty-nine-year-old backup linebacker for the Colts who, while defending a punt return, was blindsided with a gruesome hit to the chest by the Patriots’ backup running back Brandon Bolden. Studebaker’s head jerked back and he landed on his neck. On the sideline after the play Studebaker was seen coughing up blood.

Nor was much made of the fine levied on professional monster Clay Matthews of the Green Bay Packers for illegally smashing into the defenseless head of Seattle Seahawks quarterback Russell Wilson in the National Football Conference Championship game. Matthews’s fine was $22,050, or approximately what he earns every ninety seconds of game play. There was also little attention given to the fact that, in the second half of that game, Seattle cornerback Richard Sherman injured his left arm so badly that he couldn’t straighten it; he played the final quarter with it bent and pressed tightly to his chest like a chicken wing.

Was it broken? Badly sprained? Was he given shockingly powerful illegal or legal drugs in order to endure the pain? The league, and Seattle, were mum on these points. When asked ten days later about the injury, Sherman said, “It’s a little sore, but not too bad.” Then, with a wink: “That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.” Minutes after the Super Bowl ended it was revealed that Sherman had torn ligaments in his elbow and will have to undergo reconstructive surgery.•

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Tony Dorsett, the great former NFL running back, began suffering from football-related dementia while still in his fifties. Via the Dallas Morning News, two excerpts from a radio interview in which he discussed the price he’s paid for glory:

On how he’s battling depression and dementia:

“I’m in a battle, obviously. I got diagnosed with CTE and it’s very frustrating at times for me. I’ve got a good team of people around me, my wife and kids, who work with me. When you’ve been in this town for so long and I have to go to some place I’ve been going to for many, many, many years, and then all of a sudden I forget how to get there. Those things are frustrating when it comes to those things. I understand that I’m combating it, trying to get better. But, you know, some days are good. Some days are bad. I signed up for this when, I guess, I started playing football so many years ago. But, obviously, not knowing that the end was going to be like this. But I love the game. The game was good to me. It’s just unfortunate that I’m going through what I’m going through. I’m in the fight, man. I’m not just laying around letting this overtake me. I’m fighting. I’m in the battle. I’m hoping we can reverse this thing somehow.”

On if he’d let his son play football knowing about the effects of concussions:

“Yes I would. I would just be a little bit more concerned about certain injuries. When I was playing, my whole mentality was that if I could walk I’d play. Obviously there’s been a lot done for head injuries. They know a lot more about the brain and head trauma that can be created because of being knocked unconscious so many times. But yeah, the game is still a great game. I’d just be more careful and pay a bit more attention to some of the injuries that I got over the years. It’s football. It’s a very physically demanding sport on one’s body. And when you play football you sign up for that. It’s what you want to do. You like that contact. But, again, you just want to be taken care of if you become injured.”•

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As Thanksgiving is a relaxation of violent impulses (not including turkeys, of course), Super Bowl Sunday, that other great American holiday, is an orgy of it. What will become of the game now that parents know that they’re inviting brain injuries on their children if they let them play? There’s no helmet that can protect from concussions since it’s mostly an injury of whiplash, the brain washing around inside the skull. Will the pipeline of talent run dry even as the league is at its financial zenith? Cricket, once a hugely popular game in America, disappeared in just about two decades. Organized football, much wealthier and more powerful, won’t vanish, but will it decline in the coming decades? From the Economist:

The NFL players’ union says that the average length of a professional career is just under three and a half years. Watching a big hit on a player now comes with the same twinge of guilt as watching clips of Muhammad Ali being pummelled. Though high-school players are less likely to suffer brain damage, some school teams were forced to end their seasons early last year because so many children had been injured. Almost half of parents say they would not allow their sons to play the game, a feeling shared by Barack Obama. Nor is it easy to see how the rules could be changed to reduce the risk of brain damage in the professional game to an acceptable level.

Yet the sport will not continue to be both as popular as it is now and as dangerous. Those who dismiss football-bashers like Malcolm Gladwell, who compared the sport to dog-fighting in the New Yorker, as elitist east-coast types should remember that football began as a form of organised riot on the campuses of elitist east-coast colleges. Changes in taste can trickle down as well as bubble up. During the second half of the 20th century boxing went from being a sport watched together by fathers and sons to something that dwells among the hookers and slot machines of Nevada. Hollywood’s output of Westerns peaked in the late 1960s, after which the appeal of spending a couple of hours watching tight-lipped gunslingers in pursuit of an ethnic minority waned. Football will go the same way.•

 

  • I haven’t watched football in many years and have no interest in it, but is it possible that the difference of a couple of ounces in the weight of the football really was the deciding factor in game with a 45-7 final score?
  • Can fans really be morally outraged over some possible chicanery with football weight when they’re entertaining themselves by watching athletes give one another brain injuries?

I was reading the “Hey Bill” Q&A section of Bill James’ site, and this question was posed:

Hey Bill, I thought it was interesting in 1939 the National Professional Indoor Baseball League was launched with Tris Speaker and franchises managed by guys like Bill Wambsganss, Moose McCormick, and Harry Davis. It went one and done though, disbanded after that season. Do you know how the actual play was set up?

Answered: 1/21/2015

Don’t know that I’ve ever heard of it.•

Indoor baseball, while clearly nowhere near as popular as its outdoor counterpart, was a dogged part of the American sporting scene from the 1890s till the late ’30s. Before the game essentially became softball, it was played on a pro level during the winter months at armories in front of crowds of up to 1,500 fans. Decidedly different than the summer game were the rules (e.g., 35-foot basepaths) and equipment (ball was larger and softer). The most famous iteration of the game was the short-lived 1939 National Professional Indoor Baseball League, which was presided over by the former MLB great Tris Speaker. Below are several pieces from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle about various versions of the game.

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From May 5, 1912:

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From November 20, 1939:

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