“There’s a fayun here to see you. A fayun. Awll the way from Idaho!” the secretary exclaimed in her thick Philadelphian accent. Upon hanging up the desk phone, she informed me that her boss would be down shortly, and my aunt and I took to a pair of cushioned chairs to wait. Moments later, two figures emerged from a hallway adjacent to the office in which we were situated. One of them, a dark-skinned fellow in a black cowboy hat, I recognized as Smokin’ Joe Frazier.
It was Spring Break my junior year in high school, and I had flown to Philadelphia to visit my sister, who was attending the University of Pennsylvania. From the first, I was keenly aware that these were the streets where walked that mythic pugilist of old whom I had read about, watched and imagined for so many years-- the legendary battler who entered every match with a fire in his belly, who never quit and never backed down and swarmed and hooked and worked and willed his way to victory, even when faced with bigger and more gifted foes. I wanted to stand before one of the greatest living monuments to the power of the human will. I wanted to meet the man, look in his eyes, shake his hand.
In contrast to the soft, squishy palms of we who have lead lives of comfort and privilege, Joe Frazier's hand felt like a leathery mat of sinew, hard and wiry strong. Though his career was now long behind him, his hair grizzled and his gait noticeably hobbled, I harbored no doubt that he could still have easily crumpled me in any contest of fisticuffs. The thought evidently crossed his own mind, for once we had taken adjacent seats and he had graciously signed the two boxing gloves I had brought (one was my own, the other my younger brother's- an unintentional gift, for I had mixed up our left gloves when packing for the flight), he informed me that he had a wayward son about my age (now in military school, he explained) who he used to meet in the ring every day and knock some sense into. I responded to the effect that I was sure he could still give me a good licking as well, at which time his face lit up; "Oh, you wanna fight?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye. It was an offer I could not but decline.
November 09, 2011
November 04, 2011
Glimmers
It is the first round of the 2011 US Open. Andy Roddick, who has had a dismal season to date and fallen to his lowest ranking in nine years, looks to have drawn a "safe" opponent in the tenacious-but-limited Michael Russell. Roddick fairly routinely coasts through the first two sets on the back of his serve and consistent baseline play, but Russell will not go away quietly, stepping up his aggression and beginning to bully his far bigger and more powerful opponent in the rallies.
Before long, it is apparent that Russell has gotten on a roll, and the woefully-defensive Roddick does not appear ready to rise to the challenge. Russell wins the third set, and carries his momentum into the fourth, going up a break within the first five games. For a few moments, it appears to me a very real possibility that the 33-year-old Russell, who has never won a match at the US Open, will rally from two sets down to eliminate this former champion in the opening round- and, indeed, should this happen, I fear that the specter of a Roddick retirement from the ATP tour begins to look very real. Common as it may for many to rashly proclaim a top player's demise every time he suffers an upset or has a slump, this truly feels as though it would constitute the point at which one might reasonably conclude, "He's done."
The moment passes, however; Roddick manages to step up his level of play just enough to break back, and, after a laborious struggle, ekes out the fourth set 7-5 to progress to the second round. I breathe a sigh of relief. The former world-number-one goes on to deliver routine victories over young compatriot Jack Sock and an in-form Julien Benneteau in the second and third rounds respectively, assuring me, regardless of what happens next, that I may shrug and tell myself, "Well, at least he's not done." He goes a step further, however, in the Round of 16, by upsetting the in-form world's number 5 David Ferrer in impressive fashion. Having seen him escape the jaws of ruin and prove once more that he can still compete at a world-class level, I am relatively unperturbed by the trouncing a flat-and-injured Roddick takes at the hands of Nadal in the quarterfinals.
However, I must admit, if Roddick is to go further than merely competing- being "in the mix," so to speak- he must demonstrate that he is still, at this stage, capable of beating the very best. So it is, then, that we arrive at the impetus for today's post.
It was at the Basel event in 2001 that Roddick and Roger Federer, then both promising newcomers, met for the first time in the professional ranks, whereupon Federer narrowly defeated Roddick in a third-set tiebreak. Ten years and a brutally one-sided rivalry later, the two now meet again in the same round of the same tournament. Many will predict a like recurrence in outcome, but through my ever-tinted glasses, I see the hope of renewal.
UPDATE: No such hope, however, when Mr. Roddick is running a 36% first-serve percentage. Let us hope he can at least improve on that for tomorrow's match with Murray.
Before long, it is apparent that Russell has gotten on a roll, and the woefully-defensive Roddick does not appear ready to rise to the challenge. Russell wins the third set, and carries his momentum into the fourth, going up a break within the first five games. For a few moments, it appears to me a very real possibility that the 33-year-old Russell, who has never won a match at the US Open, will rally from two sets down to eliminate this former champion in the opening round- and, indeed, should this happen, I fear that the specter of a Roddick retirement from the ATP tour begins to look very real. Common as it may for many to rashly proclaim a top player's demise every time he suffers an upset or has a slump, this truly feels as though it would constitute the point at which one might reasonably conclude, "He's done."
The moment passes, however; Roddick manages to step up his level of play just enough to break back, and, after a laborious struggle, ekes out the fourth set 7-5 to progress to the second round. I breathe a sigh of relief. The former world-number-one goes on to deliver routine victories over young compatriot Jack Sock and an in-form Julien Benneteau in the second and third rounds respectively, assuring me, regardless of what happens next, that I may shrug and tell myself, "Well, at least he's not done." He goes a step further, however, in the Round of 16, by upsetting the in-form world's number 5 David Ferrer in impressive fashion. Having seen him escape the jaws of ruin and prove once more that he can still compete at a world-class level, I am relatively unperturbed by the trouncing a flat-and-injured Roddick takes at the hands of Nadal in the quarterfinals.
However, I must admit, if Roddick is to go further than merely competing- being "in the mix," so to speak- he must demonstrate that he is still, at this stage, capable of beating the very best. So it is, then, that we arrive at the impetus for today's post.
It was at the Basel event in 2001 that Roddick and Roger Federer, then both promising newcomers, met for the first time in the professional ranks, whereupon Federer narrowly defeated Roddick in a third-set tiebreak. Ten years and a brutally one-sided rivalry later, the two now meet again in the same round of the same tournament. Many will predict a like recurrence in outcome, but through my ever-tinted glasses, I see the hope of renewal.
UPDATE: No such hope, however, when Mr. Roddick is running a 36% first-serve percentage. Let us hope he can at least improve on that for tomorrow's match with Murray.
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