In the hallways of the courtroom, Billy Sr. and I made eye contact. I smiled at him. He smiled back. His weathered face showed mileage. He was in his late ‘40’s, but looked much older. He looked at me at rubbed the thumb of one hand against his fingers of the same hand, as if to say, “I can feel the money I am going to make here.”
Deep inside, I wanted him to win. He deserved it. Nothing would bring his son back and no amount of money would change his life to the life he wished he could have led. But I knew the questions which would come at me, and I knew what I would say. I would do what I have always done. I would tell the truth. As we know, the truth often hurts. Sometimes, it hurts very badly.
Xinhua News Agency / PA Images
Xinhua News Agency / PA Images / PA Images
Here is a prediction. Every time Maria Sharapova steps on to court at the Australian Open this year she will be greeted with shrieks of: “Come on Maria!” and elongated waves of goodwill. There will be smiles. And, before even the Russian’s first practice stroke, the unease generated when she received the honour of parading the women’s trophy at the draw last week will be ancient history – much like her positive test for meldonium at Melbourne Park two years ago, and her 15-month suspension.
The thing is, we – the public – talk a good game when it comes to doping. Survey after survey reminds us that high numbers of us think it is bad and those who perpetrate it should be punished. We also know it perverts the spirit of sport – or whatever is left of it – ruins honest people’s careers and can potentially damage an athlete’s health. Yet while we talk the talk the research suggests we do not necessarily walk the walk.
This was in the late 1980s, summertime; they were both a couple years away from turning 40, and neither man’s name meant then what it does today. Nick Saban flew in from Houston, where he coached the Oilers’ defensive backs. Bill Belichick, then the Giants’ defensive coordinator, drove up from New Jersey with 16-millimeter film canisters and a projector stashed in his car.
They were two assistants from opposing teams, planning to spend the weekend discussing the intricacies of the Cover-2 defense. The rendezvous might have gotten either man fired had their bosses found out about it, so it was conducted with a stealth more befitting of the military academy down the road. “We kind of had a secret mission,” says Saban, “to go where nobody would expect us to be.”
“If a rape van was called a surprise van, more women wouldn’t mind going for rides in them,” Torres tweeted. The UFC swiftly excommunicated him. He apologized for the tweet. But after three weeks, he was allowed to return to the UFC. Eight months later, after Michael McDonald handed him another loss, Torres was released by the promotion for the final time. At this point, the whispers about him became more public. Maybe it’s time for Miguel Torres to retire, the doubters said, before he seriously injured himself.
But he didn’t quit. He kept fighting. He won some and lost some, and eventually, his career returned him to the place where it all started: fighting on regional cards in nearby Hammond, Indiana. Friends begged him to stop fighting, but he steadfastly refused—he had to make a living.
Scocca: Our response to Trump then stands as the correct and valid response to Trump, which is basically, Get this guy outta here. He worked so hard to establish that he’s a dickhead and a buffoon, it’s insulting for him to presume he’s welcome. That’s the mystery of this political campaign, that he feels like he can stand up there and tell people, “I am your voice,” like he’s doing them some honor. You? You’re a brass-plated dipshit. Who the hell wants you on their side?
Cosentino: It remains the most cogent piece of political analysis Deadspin ever published.
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The galling case of New York versus the Collins family and the rest of the week's best sportswriting
In the hallways of the courtroom, Billy Sr. and I made eye contact. I smiled at him. He smiled back. His weathered face showed mileage. He was in his late ‘40’s, but looked much older. He looked at me at rubbed the thumb of one hand against his fingers of the same hand, as if to say, “I can feel the money I am going to make here.”
Deep inside, I wanted him to win. He deserved it. Nothing would bring his son back and no amount of money would change his life to the life he wished he could have led. But I knew the questions which would come at me, and I knew what I would say. I would do what I have always done. I would tell the truth. As we know, the truth often hurts. Sometimes, it hurts very badly.
Former Ring Magazine editor-in-chief and New York State Athletic commissioner Randy Gordon pens one of the most evocative pieces of the year to date on the disgraceful death of former light-middleweight hope Billy Collins Jr.
Here is a prediction. Every time Maria Sharapova steps on to court at the Australian Open this year she will be greeted with shrieks of: “Come on Maria!” and elongated waves of goodwill. There will be smiles. And, before even the Russian’s first practice stroke, the unease generated when she received the honour of parading the women’s trophy at the draw last week will be ancient history – much like her positive test for meldonium at Melbourne Park two years ago, and her 15-month suspension.
The thing is, we – the public – talk a good game when it comes to doping. Survey after survey reminds us that high numbers of us think it is bad and those who perpetrate it should be punished. We also know it perverts the spirit of sport – or whatever is left of it – ruins honest people’s careers and can potentially damage an athlete’s health. Yet while we talk the talk the research suggests we do not necessarily walk the walk.
Sean Ingle calls out the tennis public for their hypocrisy regarding convicted doper Maria Sharapova in The Guardian.
They agreed to meet in West Point, N.Y., at a little hotel with a name neither can remember. For two men with deep connections to Navy, the locale was a surprising choice. All the better.
This was in the late 1980s, summertime; they were both a couple years away from turning 40, and neither man’s name meant then what it does today. Nick Saban flew in from Houston, where he coached the Oilers’ defensive backs. Bill Belichick, then the Giants’ defensive coordinator, drove up from New Jersey with 16-millimeter film canisters and a projector stashed in his car.
They were two assistants from opposing teams, planning to spend the weekend discussing the intricacies of the Cover-2 defense. The rendezvous might have gotten either man fired had their bosses found out about it, so it was conducted with a stealth more befitting of the military academy down the road. “We kind of had a secret mission,” says Saban, “to go where nobody would expect us to be.”
Sports Illustrated’s Jenny Vrentas explores the friendship shared by legendary American football coaches Bill Belichick and Nick Saban.
“If a rape van was called a surprise van, more women wouldn’t mind going for rides in them,” Torres tweeted. The UFC swiftly excommunicated him. He apologized for the tweet. But after three weeks, he was allowed to return to the UFC. Eight months later, after Michael McDonald handed him another loss, Torres was released by the promotion for the final time. At this point, the whispers about him became more public. Maybe it’s time for Miguel Torres to retire, the doubters said, before he seriously injured himself.
But he didn’t quit. He kept fighting. He won some and lost some, and eventually, his career returned him to the place where it all started: fighting on regional cards in nearby Hammond, Indiana. Friends begged him to stop fighting, but he steadfastly refused—he had to make a living.
Bleacher Report’s Jeremy Botter sheds light on controversial mixed martial artist Miguel Torres, who returns to the cage in April against the wishes of friends of family
Scocca: Our response to Trump then stands as the correct and valid response to Trump, which is basically, Get this guy outta here. He worked so hard to establish that he’s a dickhead and a buffoon, it’s insulting for him to presume he’s welcome. That’s the mystery of this political campaign, that he feels like he can stand up there and tell people, “I am your voice,” like he’s doing them some honor. You? You’re a brass-plated dipshit. Who the hell wants you on their side?
Cosentino: It remains the most cogent piece of political analysis Deadspin ever published.
The Deadspin writing staff toil over their ‘go fuck yourself’ tweet to Donald Trump in 2013
Tom Brady’s grotesquely swollen thumb and your Championship Round preview
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