It was that kind of a night

A great UFC fight card went down on Saturday. Three matches were particularly amazing, for the fights themselves but also for the stories they told.

Krzysztof Soszynski vs. Stephan Bonnar

The last time Krzysztof Soszynski and Stephan Bonnar clashed, they clashed head on, with an accidental butt in the final round that opened Bonnar’s brow and unleashed a nauseating stream of blood. The red got everywhere, notably all over Bonnar’s face, but also dramatically all over Soszynski’s snow-white shorts. The octagon looked more like a slaughterhouse than it usually does. Soszynski was awarded a controversial TKO victory — controversial because who comes out a winner by illegal means? What is this? America? (It was Australia.) — and even though Bonnar was headed to the sad side of the scorecards, it was nonetheless an injustice.

And so here we were again at UFC 116, Soszynski’s balded-up dome and tatt-covered frame again pitted across Bonnar’s battered journeyman body and tradesman face. It was an important fight for Bonnar, who had lost three in a row and was losing the goodwill from fans he gained five years ago in a classic, front to back barn brawl with Forrest Griffin.

Bonnar has never looked like a fighter, neither in physique, face or technique, but he fought like one, all heart and ugly smiles and a chin that can weather wrecking balls. Whatever doubts grew about his long-term prospects, that was the Bonnar who showed up this night. That Bonnar avenged his losses, ran all over the cage like a tweaked hamster, dropped Soszynski twice in the second round with knees and fists and elbows to the body, and then had his arm raised by ref Mario Yamasaki in the end. There he was, smiling and flexing, bloody and proud.

I don’t know about his place in the light heavyweight division, where he stands or in what direction he goes, but there should be no doubt now about his place in our hearts. He’s bled for us so many times.

Chris Leben vs. Yoshihiro Akiyama

Yoshihiro Akiyama had insulted Chris Leben. It wasn’t the typical kind of insult that fighters lob to promote events; it was the type of insult that most avoid because it’s too disrespectful and also bad for business. Akiyama, calmly and soberly, insulted Leben by saying he didn’t want to fight him. He didn’t say Leben sucked and therefore he would destroy him. No, he said Leben sucked and therefore he preferred not to fight at all. He said, gallingly, Leben wasn’t worth the effort.

At least, that’s how Leben and many fans saw it. To be fair, they were right; Akiyama was being disrespectful, but to be even fairer, not enough weight was put on the fact that Akiyama was supposed to fight Wanderlei Silva that night. Silva pulled out last-minute due to injury and Leben, who had just fought (to victory) only two weeks earlier, took his place on the card. This proved a tactical inconvenience for Akiyama — Leben is a southpaw and Akiyama had prepared for Silva’s orthodox stlye — but even more than that, I believe, Leben was a prick that deflated Akiyama’s prideful motivations.

Akiyama is a Korean fighter who built his career in Japan, a country that Wanderlei Silva lorded over for years as one of the country’s most beloved fighters, definitely its most dominant. This was to be a benchmark in Akiyama’s career, and given that his last fight with a Japan legend, Kazushi Sakuraba, ended in grease covered allegations of cheating and a falling out with the public, you can see why this fight would mean so much to him. To go from a match-up that carries that much personal meaning to a last-minute trudge with a dude most people know as just a red-dyed, heavy-handed shit-talker, must have been hard on the heart.

But Akiyama is a professional fighter; he should have just fought the fight. Eventually he did, and what a fight it was. The judo master dominated Leben in the first round, throwing him to the mat, dropping hammer fists and escaping submission attempts with ease. In the second, the footing was more even, Akiyama and Leben standing and trading, Akiyama getting rocked but shaking it off, Leben getting taken down but standing back up, each man swinging as the bell rang. In the third, however, Akiyama got caught in a triangle choke and, with a scant 20 seconds left in the fight, the grappler who trained for the Fight of His Life tapped out to an 11th hour replacement. To a striker, no less.

When Akiyama looks back at the tape with his head on straight, hopefully he will see that he was dwarfed. He should probably in the future drop a weight class, to where he’ll cut a more imposing shadow. And if he is still considered about earning respect and crafting a legacy, he should know now that this is how its done — by fighting your face off. All things considered, it a was greater bout than it had any right to be, and both men look the better for it. They both needed it.

Brock Lesnar vs. Shane Carwin

There’s that old phrase, “a puncher’s chance.” And then there was this match, between two unfathomable beheamoths, that took that phrase and made it sound urgent and amazing again. As a so-called puncher, Shane Carwin’s accomplishments are almost unbelieavable. Twelve fights, twelve victories, seven of them knockouts, none of them lasting longer than the first round. And then there was Brock Lesnar, heavyweight champion with just five bouts notched on his record. Two guys who get things done by force. By willpower, yes, but also by just power, disgusting amounts of it. Upstarts, both of them, already this early in their ring lives fighting to see who (after the fall of Fedor just a week earlier) was the best in the world, bar none.

There was talk of possible ring rust for Lesnar, who had been sidelined for a year by a possibly career-ending intestinal illness. But did the concept of ring rust even apply to a phenom who rose to champion status so quickly? There was also talk questioning Carwin’s gas tank, but such talk would not matter if one of those fists landed where he wanted them to. A puncher’s chance, yes, but also a puncher’s plan. It was a task that Carwin obviously knew how to accomplish.

Carwin unloaded quickly as he always does, rocking Lesnar who turtled and backed away. What a sight, to see a dinosaur ball up and hang on for dear life! Lesnar covered and composed himself, stalled for time, lasted the round despite the onslaught of heavy leather. The effort seemed to have gassed Carwin, who stared glass-eyed into the ether between rounds as his trainers tried to coach him. As they stood to enter the second round, it was clear. Carwin’s legs were lazy, he was sucking air to replenish his thick arms, he was lifeless. Lesnar was red in the face but fresh. Lesnar took him down, and in a shocking display of measured martial arts technique, hopped off the mount to secure an arm triangle. Carwin floundered a bit and tried to create space, but Lesnar sunk it deeper and it was over. Carwin tapped, and Lesnar ascended. Only his sixth fight. Scary to think that this is him still just learning.

(photos via)

This trailer for Wu-Tang vs. The Golden Phoenix is staggering. The RZA’s film features a 34th generation Shaolin monk, members of Jackie Chan’s stunt team, the founder of  the Universal African Fighting System (more on this please) and The RZA, kickin’ ass in a du-rag. There’s no release date but OH HELL YEAH. (via Vulture)

Sorry for slacking with my posts lately. Just a quick one here to update my previous list of deadly actors to include Michael Jai White, who previously slipped under my radar because 98 per cent of his movies suck real bad. Sorry for sleeping! Check the above vid, where White teaches professional mma star (and amateur street fighting legend) Kimbo Slice how to throw better punches. By punching slower.

(*laughs as your brain melts*)

I do hope that Mortal Kombat thing takes off, because I’d like to see White get another crack at A-list action stardom. Now that Jackie Chan is officially old and receiving second-billing next to children, Tony Jaa is quitting movies to be a monk, and everyone else is white and wise-cracky, it’s time for some decent alternatives. That’s another post for another time though.

(via)

Cristiano Ronaldo, the poster child for soccer thighs

FULL DISCLOSURE: I am a girl. Also, I am not a female misogynist. To make things clearer, I like to watch soccer, but I’ve noticed that when I (along with my lady friends) watch the beautiful game we make some interesting observations that make the dudes around us screwface. Ranging from oglisms over soccer thighs to murmured approvals of the extra green pitch—it’s not all hetero-chick squealing—girl quips might help you learn a thing or two while you’re intensely focussed on Maradona’s coaching or Bocanegra’s captaining. At the very least, it’s better than listening to the vuvuzelas on blast.

Soccer thighs

My favourite kind of man is a soccer player. World Cup time is when girls and gays will dismiss their use’ skinny, arty misanthropes for brawny, tawny slabs of man meat. Normally, we hate the slow mo recaps that help decipher plays, fouls, goals or other more functional elements of the sport for viewers — but zoom in and slow down a thighs-splayed soccer slide? Girllllll…

The colours!

Aside from taking note of each team’s kit to help understand who is who, we like to delve a little further into squadly sartorial choices. You may overhear one girl saying to the next, Where can I get those stripy Paraguayan socks? Or, I love how they layer longsleeves under their jerseys. And it’s probably the only time you’ll hear a girl over the age of 16 say, You know, I love how blue and yellow look together. You bond with the sport through yelling and drinking, we praise our team’s well-thought-out kit. Big ups Netherlands, who make orange look so good.

Hair tips

It’s not like you didn’t get cornrows when Beckham did it. Fancy hair is to soccer what words are to books: A NECESSITY. So whether it’s floppy, bleached, buzzed, knotted or braided, we will likely dis it or praise it.

Jersey swap

Like the whole walking out with the kid thing (which has us crying tears of estrogen), we enjoy the jersey swap that happens at the end of the game. This is a sign of good faith between the players and countries and ladies love peace. It’s also the time to catch a peek of sweaty, heaving abs.

Empathy

Despite having a team that I support solidly (England) and except in the case of the USA—because fuck ‘em—I will gladly root for an underdog. Hearing us sympathize with an opposing or losing team might seem strange, but it’s our way of patronizingly acknowledging the effort it took for the other team to get there and face off against the world’s best. Underdog rooting might not evolve into full scale supporting, especially if the underdog is winning, but I can manage an ‘aww’ for Algeria or Australia. But not on Friday when the former plays England.

Between my Steve Nash and Under Armour posts and Jef’s post-humous tribute to Dennis Hopper via Nike ads, you’d think we’re turning into a sports blog here at the Ashcan. And sure, football, or basketball, or mixed martial arts are all great past-times requiring athletic ability and talent. But if you want to see a real sport — one that combines speed, power, dexterity and no juggles? Well then, let’s turn back the clock and visit the world of competitive one-wall American handball.

Apparently this is a popular past-time in New York, which features handball courts in many public parks. And here I was in grade school, stuck using our crappy brick wall like a chump. I doubly hated the little indented 6 inch gap where the wall met the ground and resulted in replayed kill shots. Like, lame yo.

P.S. no waterfalls either. those are for sissies.

You don’t need to be be a sports fan to understand the poignant life lessons bouncing a ball or skating in circles can often teach us. How else can we explain the universal appeal derived from watching films like Rudy, or A League of Their Own, or any of the Mighty Ducks franchise to even the most casual of athletic observers. It’s not about the game itself; it’s about what the game can teach us.

In this regard, what we have here is a five second clip that reminds us of everything that makes sports great. Consider the context of this clip:

Here, in this heart-wrenching moment, is Steve Nash –  36 year old father of two twin daughters, husband, millionaire, world famous athlete, Olympic torch bearer, perennial all-star, two time NBA MVP, Canadian Olympic athlete, and arguably, taken as a body of work, over the past ten years the best person ON THE PLANET at his job, crying because he lost a basketball game.

He has everything anybody in life could ever want and more. His life is a dream. Yet, he’s crying, because he didn’t achieve the one most simple goal of playing sports: to win. The mansion he drives home to will be of little consolation. His celebrity won’t grant him a redo.

There’s a purity to this moment that rings true, cutting through the sheen of the NBA’s glamour that resonates with anybody in the history of mankind who has ever played any sort of sport and really wanted to win, be it in a multi-million dollar arena or on a slanted driveway in the rain.

Sometimes at the heart of it the simple things in life are the most valuable, the things that money and fame can’t buy. Most importantly, if this clip teaches people anything else, it’s that losing a game most certainly doesn’t mean you can’t still come out a winner.

Swapping helmets for hard-earned, and quickly churned out, championship gear

Full disclosure: I don’t really follow sports.  Even during the insanity that is playoff time.  And if you should ever catch me watching any game for any longer than the time it takes to read the score, then chances are a) the remote control is out of reach and I’m too lazy to get it, OR  b) I’m at my boyfriend’s place and, hockey/baseball/whatever happens to be the best option of the four basic cable channels available.

This past Sunday was a case of the latter.  It was the  Sharks- Blackhawks match-up and Chicago had just won 4-2, clinching the Western Conference title– and a trip to the Stanley Cup finals.  And, as cheers ricocheted around the stadium, up skated Duncan Keith for some cliche-peppered chit-chat with the commentator.

I’m sure his post-game thoughts were just illuminating, but I was distracted by other things.  Most notably the blood seeping from the gum sockets that used to house SEVEN of Keith’s teeth, before he took a puck to the face.  (When the Blackhawk’s top defenseman said,  “You’ve got leave it all on the ice,” he wasn’t fucking kidding.  He left four bottom and three top teeth out there.)

There's a face only a mother could love...

Aside from that, I soon zeroed in on the embroidered baseball cap that got jammed on his sweaty hair, at some point during the interview.  Not five minutes after the win, here was one of those “Conference Champions” hats, clearly printed in anticipation of the win.

It makes sense.  To get ready for any big playoff game, each side has to print up gear declaring their own team the winner.  Vendors need to be prepared with enough commemorative crap not only for players and staff, but also to meet fan demand.

But what happens to the piles of championship merch printed up for the losing team?

Think back to Super Bowl XLI  (That’s right, you’ll have to use those fifth grade Roman numeral lessons after all).  Based on strong sales from Chicago’s 2007 NFC Championship win, Sports Authority printed more than 15,000 shirts, crowning the Bears the Super Bowl victors– well before the game even started.  Sucked to be them, though, when the Colts ended up taking the title, 29-17, and sending Chicago fans home heartbroken– and hatless.

As it turns out, much like the sideways reality in Lost, there’s an alterna-universe where the 2007 Chicago Bears, 2009 St. Louis Cardinals, and 2010 San Jose Sharks can watch their playoff fantasies become a reality.  A place where the New England Patriots did indeed play a legendary perfect season. We call that world “The Third World.”

Seriously.

Rex Grossman should probably avoid Romania as a vacation spot

Rather than destroy misprinted apparel, organizations like World Vision now work with MLB, NFL, and NBA to collect the sheepish gear and disperse it among poverty-stricken countries.  (It wasn’t until two years go that MLB changed its rule about destroying hats and shirts, and started donating them instead).  The Colts’ “Super Bowl Champ” tees from this year’s showdown against the Saints now clothe survivors in earthquake-ravaged Haiti.  Last year, the Cardinals’ gear was donated to El Salvador. Mislabeled items have also been sent to Romania (where kids in that chillly climate probably gladly sported mislabeled hoodies), as well as Zambia, Chad, Chile, and Bolivia.

You've got a fan out there somewhere, Baskett

It’s a win-win, really.  The playoff gear doesn’t go to waste, the less fortunate get clean, new clothing, and makers of the losing team’s apparel make up some of the losses by writing off the charitable donations at tax time.

Of course there’s a reason, that these tees don’t just get chucked into the local Goodwill.  Overseas donation is part of the agreement between World Vision and the leagues, so that players like  Hank “Butterfingers” Baskett don’t burst into tears when they run into what could have been plastered across a T-shirt.

So look closely at the next World Vision commercial that comes up on your screen.  There’s a small chance you can peer into this universe: Nicaraguan children clad in XL-sized tees, emblazoned with “19-0″, and happy to be wearing it.

When it comes to hockey my friend is what you would call intensely devoted to a point where you fear for your own safety. Which explains why when he woke me up last Sunday morning to go downtown Toronto and meet him to line up for a bar, before noon, so that I could pay a $10 cover charge to wait for more than three hours for the Canada / U.S.A game to start, I did (with only minor hesitations). As crazy as I thought he was, and as much as I made fun of him for it, this was no joke. The doors opened at 11:30 and I needed to be there to help secure a table for the day. My friend posed it as a question, but it was definitely leaning more towards one of those ‘shit I better do this cus if this guy misses out on the game because of me I might not wake up tomorrow’ things. Thing is, I don’t think he is alone in his temporary loss of sanity when it comes to team Canada hockey. Actually, I know he isn’t – the non-stop, all day 45 people deep line that wrapped around the bar could attest to that.

One couple, shockingly, said they travelled from Vancouver to watch the game at this very bar, which, by the way, happens to be eponymous with the greatest hockey player to ever play it, number 99 himself. Gretzky wasn’t at his bar, of course, because he was in Vancouver, where the actual game was. These Vancouverites were, however, which could mean one of two things: either they are pathological liars; or this couple is the perfect synecdoche for how crazy hockey makes an entire nation of otherwise “polite, nice” people. And if it’s that important to watch a big hockey game at a bar named after a big hockey player, then who am I to question it?

No sooner than 12:30 pm and a group of about 20 people inside Gretzky’s start chanting “Ca-na-da, Ca-na-da,” for no reason really. The game isn’t on for almost three hours, and as far as I can see no camera crews have shown up yet. The last time I saw a similar scene was when I was walking by Much Music, but instead of a large group of intoxicated 30-year old men dressed in red and white, it was a gaggle of giddy ‘tween girls in skinny jeans, and they weren’t cheering for team Canada either. It was the Jonas Brothers.

At 1:15 the crowd, which had now been consuming beer on mass for the last hour, started singing “Oh Canada” for the first time of the day, but definitely not the last. At 2:27 the second one kicked in, which also blended into the third, fourth and fifth, competing with several “Go Canada Go” chants. Just to remind you, not only had the game not even started, it hadn’t even been mentioned on the TV. Yet here we were, a group of mostly male adults, chanting for our country’s hockey team even though most of the international media painted us out to be unpatriotic and insipid. And I think we are, or at least, we appear to be, on the outside. On the inside, and inside a safe haven like Gretzky’s, we are as unabashedly and annoyingly patriotic as even the staunchest U.S. supporter, and not one of us feels any shame for it.

The game coverage finally started at 3:00, and by this point the line up outside was only slightly shorter, the doormen letting one person in for every person that left, even though it should be noted that no one had any intentions of leaving.

In fact, the line up continued to grow and stretch around the block, making it clear that the next best thing to watching the game in person was to flock to a sports pub in the tourist district of Canada’s largest city that is identical to Jack Astor’s or East Side Mario’s, except for the fact that it doesn’t have free salad, buttery good bread loaves, and there is hockey paraphernalia locked behind glass. As silly as it seems now, at the time it felt like my patriotic duty, like if I wasn’t there at that exact place, at that exact time, Canada might have lost to the Americans, thus stopping the spin of the globe and life as we know it for the next four years until we had a chance for redemption at the 2014 Games.

When footage of both teams walking from their buses to the dressing room came on the few dozen or so screens, you couldn’t help but notice the American’s poofy silver jackets. This is unlikely the reason why the crowd at Gretzky’s booed, but when the footage switched to the Canadian team, everyone went insane. Some had been waiting for six hours, drinking copiously in that amount of time, and this was the closest yet to the game starting.

When the team finally took to the ice at 3:15 the bar gave them a standing ovation. One guy actually yelled, “cheer like they can hear us from here,” which is of course impossible, geographically, and which of course everyone did. So did I, to tell you the truth. In instances like this, it feels as if you are performing your civic duty by yelling incoherently at the top of your lungs for your country. If you didn’t, not only was this a spot where you would look completely out of place (perhaps similar to Stephen Harper standing beside the real Gretzky at the game, and no one wants to be compared to that), but it would just be bad luck.

Even Jack Layton took this opportunity to show his patriotism that was surely a win-win situation for any politician – cheering for team Canada at a bar, rather than the VIP section of the Olympics. Ever the opportunist, Layton got so into the spirit that he situated himself right in front of the CTV cameras, front and centre for every goal celebration. One of the clips even show Layton trying relentlessly to push his way into the view of the camera, but when that fails, he simply grabs a girls arm who is in front of him, gently moves it down so that it is no longer blocking his face from TV viewers at home, looks at the camera and mugs. Nice and humble my ass. Canadians wanted this medal just like Layton wants to be Prime Minister, and none of us were afraid to show it.

When Toews scored the first goal of the game off a rebound from Richards, the place erupted in double high fives, chest bumps and cheers. Goal two. Perry scores, and I forgot all other inhibitions and start double high fiving anybody who wanted it.  If a hand was raised I was slapping it. I remember an old man with a big rotten bandage on his thumb looked at me, arm in the air, dirty bandage dangling, and I slapped the shit out of it. Hepatitis be damned, Canada was going to win the gold.

Words can’t describe the atmosphere when with just 20 seconds left in the game, the Americans tied it up, sending us to overtime. I was taking celebration pictures at the time and when I kept shooting after that goal, a very somber guy in a Canada jersey came up to me and said with the utmost sincerity, “Just stop taking pictures man.” I thought he was going to cry.

Contrast that to the final result, a goal by Canada’s next “Great One,” Sid Crosby. The ebullient crowd flooded out into the streets, people jumped on taxis and broke windshields, flags waved, a fire truck drove by and a group of us jumped on as it drove around the downtown core, following the wave-like energy of the crowd that was pulling everyone to Yonge and Dundas Square. That intersection was literally a mosh pit, just with less music and more crowd surfing. People were playing road hockey, faces were being painted, flag wavers had climbed on top of traffic lights over what would otherwise be one of Canada’s busiest intersections.

When I saw a police officer help one of the flag wavers down from the light, then simply pat him on the back and tell him to be careful, I knew this was something different than any other Olympic win this year. This was (men’s) hockey. When other countries try to sum us up as hockey loving simpletons, it comes off as an insulting stereotype. But when we behave like hockey loving simpletons on a day like that, it transcends any notion that other nations may have of us. Truth is, when it comes to hockey in Canada, both the players and the fans become more than just nice, diplomatic and polite. We leave all that in the dressing room and become just like my very serious friend – someone you don’t want to fuck with on game day.

Whatever boys: if you lost the pink ribbon and sequins, this could be Batman from behind

I feel like an Olympic-themed “What the eff?!” entry should start with a disclaimer:  I know that athlete’s style in play has less to do with what they want to wear than what have to wear.  Whether that’s to  give them a one-millionth of a second’s edge over their competitors or satisfy their leaders’ secret love of clown costume, it’s not fair to make comments on outfits they would never otherwise wear.

Yeah well, you know what else isn’t fair?  The fact that while I will cover these Olympics with the aid of my trusty laptop and cable TV access, this child is at the 2010 Games, reporting on the action while rubbing elbows with the rest of CTV’s J-team elite: Lloyd…. James….Tim…

Eugh- maybe this is more of a blessing than I realized.

Anyway, let’s look at the best of the worst from this week at the Winter Games.

Norway’s Brotherhood of the Travelling Pants

When diamonds are NOT a girl's best friend

Oh man.  I love me some argyle as much as the next person.  It’s ideal for those  “I’m-too-lazy-to-coordinate-something-for-work-I’ll-wear-this-argyle-sweater-Who-doesn’t-love-argyle?” days.  But this…this was less of an offense to the senses than a waving white flag disguised as anything but.  When you’re running (sliding?) around on the ice sporting these, you’re probably also about one pack of Depends away from a nice, long vacation at the Raisin Ranch.  Not exactly intimidating stuff.  Fittingly, Norway’s curlers were outfitted by a Sonoma-based company called “Loudmouth Golf” – I’d say they were roundly warned, but this could be a case of lost in translation.

Ukranian Fashion Foiled!

Ukrainian pairs team Tatiana Volosozhar and Stanislav Morozov trade frills for foil

Again with the disclaimer: It’s a well-known fact that, for as long as 12 year-old girls have made up the vast majority of the world’s figure skating audience, cheeseball costumes have been a neccessity.  The frillier, the fluffier, the more swoon-worthy and similar to, say, Tuxedo Mask, the better.  So it’s almost no surprise how much flack the Ukraine got for their choice to kit out their pairs skaters in a shiny, clinical blue unitard uncomfortably reminiscent of some kind of space-age IUD.  Figure skating may be fruity as hell, but your little sister Jessica just isn’t yet ready for Star Trek’s failed fetish line.  And speaking of figure skating….

Johnny’s Weir-d, Wonderful World

Weird is making campy controversial

Type “Johnny Weir” into Google News’ search field and I guarantee you won’t learn a thing about the American figure skater’s professional career.  You will, however, learn that PETA is not a fan,  that Weir suggests M.A.C. concealer and blot powder to keep skin looking flawless, and that 25 year-old has his sights set on one day launching his own clothing line.  The guy is a textbook example of PR by-the-numbers; with nothing more than some choice embellishments and some netting, he’s got an MTV-generation glued to his every performance for rabid consumption of his next outlandish outfit.

Here’s the thing, though.  I don’t think Weir is a talented, budding designer.  I barely think he’s a competent skater. I think he’s a fun, smart kid who’s discovered the power of wardrobe, who’s jumped on the “Gaga as God” bandwagon, and who’s riding the attention for all it’s worth.  But I will say this:  in a sport filled with no shortage of Wheaties endorsements and squeaky clean soundbites, his interview with Vanity Fair is that cigarette drag you can’t help but savour.  In it,  he fields all kinds of questions about his signature style with the very last question asking, “What do you say to your critics?”

His response?  “Suck it.”