Dear Yahweh, can’t wait to be a burden on my kids.
Long long time, they’ve cumbered me
So, soon they'll deliver and carry
Bleach and clean and scrub-a-dub-dub.
And do it happily.
No Sun City for me. No old folks warehouse, please
No special strangers tossing me
like some smelly old sack of shit.
Each must take turns putting me up
in a sunny parlor, so’s I don’t have to climb
to the top of the stairs. A nice
glimmering walk-in bath with handles installed
A minor cost..... Yours, of course.
The purpose of children is insurance
A girded codpiece against the testicle-kicks of mean daddy time
A guarantee. Insurance.
Yeah, that’s what kid s are all about!
Bring them up in your own image, knowing that they
Owe you and oughtn't just farm you out
I’ve spent all the money on schooling and clothing.
Attended the ceremonies and soccer practices,
Cheered for you religiously at your games.
Knowing that, once you’re earning, you’ll be gone.
Only recreatable in photographic shrines,
Discount baby-sitting, birthday parties,
Christmas present competition and good Thanksgiving wine!
It's been a blessing.
Really!
Now Lordy Lord Yahweh, dude.
I’m gonna be a burden on my children
Yes. And on my children's children too.
—Ivor Irwin
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
Miguel Cotto Gets His Respect Back: Jennings Out of His League
February 21, 2009
Guts is sometimes just not enough. Preston's own Michael Jennings is a brave lad with a lot of bottle; unfortunately, he just wasn’t endowed with enough ring craft to prevent Miguel Cotto from regaining the World Welterweight title at Madison Square Garden on Saturday night. At 31, having avoided a fight with Cotto for close to two years, Jennings may keep boxing, but surely this was his last hurrah with the big boys.
Guts is sometimes just not enough. Preston's own Michael Jennings is a brave lad with a lot of bottle; unfortunately, he just wasn’t endowed with enough ring craft to prevent Miguel Cotto from regaining the World Welterweight title at Madison Square Garden on Saturday night. At 31, having avoided a fight with Cotto for close to two years, Jennings may keep boxing, but surely this was his last hurrah with the big boys.
The affable veteran Welsh coach Brian Hughes and a vast supportive apparatus of investors, trainers and hangers-on have always kept Jennings tightly wrapped in cotton-wool, somehow managing to keep the cash register ringing without ever going for the gusto against experienced, highly rated pros. Tonight, however, Michael Jennings’ chickens came home to roost. A former British Welterweight champion, Jennings, now 34-2 (16 KOs), in his first fight ever outside the UK, was not even close to a match for the immaculate Puerto Rican, Miguel Cotto. The sleek Cotto, in his first match since being stopped by Antonio Margarito in the 11th round of a brutal nail-biter last July, was ready.
Puerto Ricans tend to use a lot of hyperbole. Miguel Cotto, the kid from Cagüas, a star at the Bairoa Gym since he was six-years-old is, I’m told, the greatest pound-for-pound fighter from La Isla since: a) Felix ‘Tito’ Trinidad, 2) Hector ‘Macho’ Camacho, or, 3) Wilfredo Benitez. My mother-in-law, Marina, who’s from Juncos, loves Tito forever for raining on glamor boy Oscar De LaHoya’s parade. I love defensive skills, so I tend to go for Wilfredo because he was the best slipper of punches I ever saw.
Anyway, Miguel Cotto is no longer on the outside looking in. He is behind the door and he has a vice grip on the handle. A silver medalist at the 2000 Olympics, Cotto turned pro in 2001 and on September 11, 2004, out pointed Kelson Pinto to win the WBO Junior Welterweight Championship. Suffering to maintain a low weight after six knockout wins, he vacated that title and moved up to the Welterweight division. After stopping Carlos Quintana to win the WBA Welterweight crown, Cotto successfully defended against what the legendary coach Angelo Dundee has hyperbolized as being the ‘greatest generation’ of Welterweights ever, stopping Quintana, Oktay Urkel, Zab Judah, the brilliant Shane Mosley, and Alonso Goméz.
His only loss, to Antonio Margarito, turned out to be a fiasco after the fact, as Margarito was caught using doctored hand-wraps (what Ring magazine referred to as “an illegal plaster-like substance") under his gloves before his first defense of the title against Shane Mosley. Suspended from boxing for at least a year, the now infamous Margarito will surely be subject to strict supervision and many difficulties before he gets to box again. Thus, tonight, Cotto stepped into the ring ready to unite the WBA and WBO titles.
Jennings entered the ring first, bouncing up and down to the Sex Pistols’ punk anthem 'Anarchy in the UK.' Jennings, used to a traveling army of 2,000 English loyalist fans accompanying him, wherever he fights in England, walked into a chorus of boos from a partisan pro-Cotto, mostly Puerto Rican crowd of 9,000. The English contingent were not shy about singing their bawdy songs, but Los Boricuas were not to be outdone. This was the best atmosphere I’ve seen at Madison Square Garden in at least twenty years.
The opening round was a tit for tat affair. Jennings worked hard at keeping a safe distance while Cotto dance-stepped around the center of the ring, taking his measure. Jennings threw very few clean punches, five jabs at most, but Cotto’s was the first telling blow, his short left upper cut catching the Englishman on the chin midway through round two. With 30 seconds to go in the same round, Cotto launched a furious barrage which forced Jennings on to the ropes, although the Englishman managed to tie him up inside for the last 10 seconds. Jennings continued to attack in the third round, throwing out jab after jab, although very few landed cleanly. Cotto, cocked and continually crouched down low, waited to pounce at opportune moments, landing a lot of tight, short body shots.
The left hook Jennings caught at the start of the fourth proved to be the beginning of the end. By the middle of the round, Jennings started to bruise. Cotto pummeled him back into his corner with a left hook and then, after throwing a string of unchallenged one-twos, put Jennings down for the first time with another crunching left hand body shot.
The 31-year-old took the full count before springing back up, but , after retreating across the ring, he was quickly downed again in the opposite corner, the victim of yet another sweeping Cotto left hook to the body.
Jennings barely survived the round, but it was pretty comical to see Cotto jumping up and down in his corner thinking the contest was already over. Luckily, his trainer pushed his mouthpiece back in before Cotto managed to spit it out. When the bell for the fifth rang, Cotto flew out of his corner in panther fashion. A left jab rocked Jennings' head back. Still up for it, Jennings’ John Bull bottle overcame common sense as he anemically tried to match Cotto’s punches. Then Cotto exploded, all action as he sent Jennings careering into the ropes with a wicked right to the head, followed by an equally awesome left uppercat.
One last booming bazooka of a right to the Brit’s head ended it as Jennings went down on his knee again. Jennings’ glazed eyes made contact with his trainer, Brian Hughes, who was having none of it. Hughes wind-milled his arms, trying to will the groggy Englishman to stand up. And Jennings did indeed stagger, rubber-legged, into a standing position but the referee, Benji Estevez, had seen enough damage done after three knockdowns to call the fight off.
"Cotto's a bloody great fighter," Jennings said after the fight. "The hardest puncher I’ve faced. He was very deceiving. You think you're out of his range but then he strikes. I thought I had distance from his firepower."
A deliriously happy Cotto, delighted at his truncated night's work, felt vindicated after suffering from his only pro defeat to Margarito. “Getting back into the ring and being able to study my opponent for the first couple of rounds tonight was great," Cotto said. "I started to go to the body and then the head. Third round I let my hands go and I just threw my punches."
"Cotto's the complete fighter in every sense of the word," Coach Hughes told me, all breathless with admiration after the fight. "Cotto really put the ring down on Michael. He's such a great fighter.”
Later, Jennings announced at the press conference that he was going to urge Hughes to get him a rematch. This would be foolish. I like all those Brit gangster movies like Layer Cake and Sexy Beast. Jennings looks like he'd make an excellent bodyguard for some cinema gangster. I think he should take acting lessons because, on tonight's evidence, he really ought to retire.
Puerto Ricans tend to use a lot of hyperbole. Miguel Cotto, the kid from Cagüas, a star at the Bairoa Gym since he was six-years-old is, I’m told, the greatest pound-for-pound fighter from La Isla since: a) Felix ‘Tito’ Trinidad, 2) Hector ‘Macho’ Camacho, or, 3) Wilfredo Benitez. My mother-in-law, Marina, who’s from Juncos, loves Tito forever for raining on glamor boy Oscar De LaHoya’s parade. I love defensive skills, so I tend to go for Wilfredo because he was the best slipper of punches I ever saw.
Anyway, Miguel Cotto is no longer on the outside looking in. He is behind the door and he has a vice grip on the handle. A silver medalist at the 2000 Olympics, Cotto turned pro in 2001 and on September 11, 2004, out pointed Kelson Pinto to win the WBO Junior Welterweight Championship. Suffering to maintain a low weight after six knockout wins, he vacated that title and moved up to the Welterweight division. After stopping Carlos Quintana to win the WBA Welterweight crown, Cotto successfully defended against what the legendary coach Angelo Dundee has hyperbolized as being the ‘greatest generation’ of Welterweights ever, stopping Quintana, Oktay Urkel, Zab Judah, the brilliant Shane Mosley, and Alonso Goméz.
His only loss, to Antonio Margarito, turned out to be a fiasco after the fact, as Margarito was caught using doctored hand-wraps (what Ring magazine referred to as “an illegal plaster-like substance") under his gloves before his first defense of the title against Shane Mosley. Suspended from boxing for at least a year, the now infamous Margarito will surely be subject to strict supervision and many difficulties before he gets to box again. Thus, tonight, Cotto stepped into the ring ready to unite the WBA and WBO titles.
Jennings entered the ring first, bouncing up and down to the Sex Pistols’ punk anthem 'Anarchy in the UK.' Jennings, used to a traveling army of 2,000 English loyalist fans accompanying him, wherever he fights in England, walked into a chorus of boos from a partisan pro-Cotto, mostly Puerto Rican crowd of 9,000. The English contingent were not shy about singing their bawdy songs, but Los Boricuas were not to be outdone. This was the best atmosphere I’ve seen at Madison Square Garden in at least twenty years.
The opening round was a tit for tat affair. Jennings worked hard at keeping a safe distance while Cotto dance-stepped around the center of the ring, taking his measure. Jennings threw very few clean punches, five jabs at most, but Cotto’s was the first telling blow, his short left upper cut catching the Englishman on the chin midway through round two. With 30 seconds to go in the same round, Cotto launched a furious barrage which forced Jennings on to the ropes, although the Englishman managed to tie him up inside for the last 10 seconds. Jennings continued to attack in the third round, throwing out jab after jab, although very few landed cleanly. Cotto, cocked and continually crouched down low, waited to pounce at opportune moments, landing a lot of tight, short body shots.
The left hook Jennings caught at the start of the fourth proved to be the beginning of the end. By the middle of the round, Jennings started to bruise. Cotto pummeled him back into his corner with a left hook and then, after throwing a string of unchallenged one-twos, put Jennings down for the first time with another crunching left hand body shot.
The 31-year-old took the full count before springing back up, but , after retreating across the ring, he was quickly downed again in the opposite corner, the victim of yet another sweeping Cotto left hook to the body.
Jennings barely survived the round, but it was pretty comical to see Cotto jumping up and down in his corner thinking the contest was already over. Luckily, his trainer pushed his mouthpiece back in before Cotto managed to spit it out. When the bell for the fifth rang, Cotto flew out of his corner in panther fashion. A left jab rocked Jennings' head back. Still up for it, Jennings’ John Bull bottle overcame common sense as he anemically tried to match Cotto’s punches. Then Cotto exploded, all action as he sent Jennings careering into the ropes with a wicked right to the head, followed by an equally awesome left uppercat.
One last booming bazooka of a right to the Brit’s head ended it as Jennings went down on his knee again. Jennings’ glazed eyes made contact with his trainer, Brian Hughes, who was having none of it. Hughes wind-milled his arms, trying to will the groggy Englishman to stand up. And Jennings did indeed stagger, rubber-legged, into a standing position but the referee, Benji Estevez, had seen enough damage done after three knockdowns to call the fight off.
"Cotto's a bloody great fighter," Jennings said after the fight. "The hardest puncher I’ve faced. He was very deceiving. You think you're out of his range but then he strikes. I thought I had distance from his firepower."
A deliriously happy Cotto, delighted at his truncated night's work, felt vindicated after suffering from his only pro defeat to Margarito. “Getting back into the ring and being able to study my opponent for the first couple of rounds tonight was great," Cotto said. "I started to go to the body and then the head. Third round I let my hands go and I just threw my punches."
"Cotto's the complete fighter in every sense of the word," Coach Hughes told me, all breathless with admiration after the fight. "Cotto really put the ring down on Michael. He's such a great fighter.”
Later, Jennings announced at the press conference that he was going to urge Hughes to get him a rematch. This would be foolish. I like all those Brit gangster movies like Layer Cake and Sexy Beast. Jennings looks like he'd make an excellent bodyguard for some cinema gangster. I think he should take acting lessons because, on tonight's evidence, he really ought to retire.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
The Ultimate Dummy Brummies
This one is for Will Ansell and Gerry Kelsall, tragic victim of Villa. On to victory, Walsall! While you're away from the Motherland, work on your Urdu, lads!Instead of coming up with an all-era Villa team, as requested, I made up collection of the best players ever from the Birmingham area teams. Terry Hennessey may have been the most underrated midfielder ever!
Billy Wright
Gil Merrick
The Best of the Best
Gil Merrick (G)
Don Howe (RB)
Billy Wright (CB)
Ronnie Flowers (CB)
Steve Staunton (LB)
Terry Hennessey (DMF)
Bryan Robson (DMF)
Archie Gemmill (AMF)
Willie Johnston (LW)
Trevor Francis (ST)
Andy Grey (ST)
Team #2
Phil Parkes (G)
Derek Parkin (RB)
Paul McGrath (CB)
Joleon Lescott (CB)
Stephen Warnock (LB)
Norman Deeley (RW)
Ray Barlow (DMF)
Tony Brown (DMF)
David Wagstaffe (LW)
Steve Bull (ST)
Cyrille Regis (ST)
Team #3
Bill Glazier (G)
Ray Ranson (RB)
Roger Hynd (CB)
Bryan Sharples (CB)
Mark 'Psycho' Dennis (LB)
Malcolm Page (DMF)
Peter Broadbent (RW)
Paul Merson (AMF)
Bertie Auld (AMF)
Ronnie Allen (ST)
Geoff Astle (ST)
Phil Parkes (G)
Derek Parkin (RB)
Paul McGrath (CB)
Joleon Lescott (CB)
Stephen Warnock (LB)
Norman Deeley (RW)
Ray Barlow (DMF)
Tony Brown (DMF)
David Wagstaffe (LW)
Steve Bull (ST)
Cyrille Regis (ST)
Team #3
Bill Glazier (G)
Ray Ranson (RB)
Roger Hynd (CB)
Bryan Sharples (CB)
Mark 'Psycho' Dennis (LB)
Malcolm Page (DMF)
Peter Broadbent (RW)
Paul Merson (AMF)
Bertie Auld (AMF)
Ronnie Allen (ST)
Geoff Astle (ST)
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Bibi On the Brink
This afternoon, the Likud party chairman, Binyamin 'Bibi' Netanyahu finally received President Shimon Peres' official letter of appointment as prime minister. After the failure of his own desperate last-ditch efforts to gather Kadima leader Tzipi Livni's support for a unity government on Friday, Peres formally entrusted Netanyahu with the task of building a coalition.
Netanyahu insisted he had been willing to "go to great lengths" in order to get Kadima to join his government, but, after their meeting yesterday, Livni was in no mood for compromise. Having rejected the president's plea that she reconsider joining a coalition comprised of the three largest parties - Kadima, Likud and Beiteinu - Livni insisted that a "broad coalition is worthless if it is not governed by values."
Netanyahu is caught on the jagged horns of a distinct dilemma. Having insisted repeatedly during the campaign that not forming a national-unity government when he was prime minister from 1996-99 was his worst-ever political mistake, Bibi is desperate to bring Likud on board. How desperate? A source at the Jerusalem Post insists he has offered her five portfolios in his cabinet.
Livni, however, has made her vows to the party faithful. She rejects any notion that she could be a "fig leaf" for a right-wing government. A text message was sent out to 80,000 Kadima loyalists’ cell phones yesterday. "Today, the foundations of a right-wing extremist government under Netanyahu were set. The path of such a government is not our own and we have nothing to look for there. You didn't vote for us in order to provide a kosher certificate for a right-wing government, and we need to provide an alternative of hope from the opposition. We were not elected to legitimize an extreme right government and we must be an alternative of hope and go to opposition"
Livni is not playing coy here. She refuses to sacrifice her ideology, which is far removed from that of the Likud. Netanyahu's Likud came a close second in the elections but was given the opportunity to form a cabinet because of the strong performance in general of right-wing parties in general. He has six weeks to put together a majority coalition. Having failed to seduce Livni, the Likud leader promptly called on his other major rival, Ehud Barak, of Labour to join him in a broad national unity government. Yet, despite his anemic showing in the polls, Barak says he is tired of serving in unity coalitions and insists that he, too, wants to be part of the opposition. Without Livni and Barak, Bibi can put together a coalition of extremists, but it will only have a slim majority and will run into a tidal wave of international criticism.
Netanyahu's platform has nothing to say concerning the world economic crisis. Obsessed with Iran's nuclear ambitions, and "Iranian terrorism surrounding us from the south and the north" – a reference to Hamas in Gaza and Hezbollah in Lebanon. His high-pitched rhetoric ratchets up the stakes in middle eastern politics just as Hillary Clinton starts taking baby steps as the U.S. Secretary of State. Cynics say that Bibi's hysteria is for the benefit of Avigdor Lieberman, whose far-right party, having won 15 seats, has turned him into the king maker of these elections.
Goodman and Netanyahu are very different people, but their most extreme positions are mutually shared. Goodman is a religious zealot. He wants to take away all rights for Israeli Arabs and expel them all to some heretofore unnamed place. As the Palestinians of Gaza refuse to reject Hamas, Goodman wants to empty Gaza of all Palestinians. This insane political position is mutually agreed upon by Bibi. The reality of a genocidal war costing tens of thousands of lives seems to touch no ethical nerve in either politician. On the other hand, after participating in a Ma'Ariv poll concerning levels of 'preventitive measures' as well as various other doomsday scenarios, it is a deep cause of concern to me that at least one-third of the Israeli public are so concerned with the intransigence of Iran and its terrorist acolytes that genocide is actually considered a viable alternative.
At the same time, playing into the hands of Goodman and Netanyahu while embarrassing the former foreign minister, Livni, Hamas flatly rejects Israel's demand that it free a captive soldier in return for lifting the blockade of the Gaza Strip. Mousa Abu Marzook, the deputy leader of Hamas, accuses Israel of backtracking over a truce agreement, insisting that Corporal Gilad Shalit will only be released in return for hundreds of Hamas prisoners locked up in Israeli jails. "We will not change our position," he told The Guardian in Damascus yesterday. "This is a moral judgment against Israel. Israel has had moral support and legitimacy since the second world war and its propaganda has described Hamas as a terrorist group. There's been a real change on those two points - but this mass support has not managed to break the blockade of Gaza."
Is Bibi Netanyahu the one who can end conflict in the Middle East? I say, categorically, no!!! Once a handsome, suave, fit, sophisticated man of the world with an M.I.T. education, Netanyahu maneuvered his way into the Israeli corridors of power through his appointment as Israeli ambassador to the U.S, during the years when Menachem Begin was the Likud prime minister. Legendary for his huge penis, sexual staying power and the ability to wine, dine and screw hundreds of Washington women, especially those in the press corps, Bibi was charming on television, and, although slightly hawkish in his politics, he was always amenable to discussing hopes of a Palestinian homeland with the likes of Ted Koppel and Dan Rather on the U.S. networks.
Netanyahu insisted he had been willing to "go to great lengths" in order to get Kadima to join his government, but, after their meeting yesterday, Livni was in no mood for compromise. Having rejected the president's plea that she reconsider joining a coalition comprised of the three largest parties - Kadima, Likud and Beiteinu - Livni insisted that a "broad coalition is worthless if it is not governed by values."
Netanyahu is caught on the jagged horns of a distinct dilemma. Having insisted repeatedly during the campaign that not forming a national-unity government when he was prime minister from 1996-99 was his worst-ever political mistake, Bibi is desperate to bring Likud on board. How desperate? A source at the Jerusalem Post insists he has offered her five portfolios in his cabinet.
Livni, however, has made her vows to the party faithful. She rejects any notion that she could be a "fig leaf" for a right-wing government. A text message was sent out to 80,000 Kadima loyalists’ cell phones yesterday. "Today, the foundations of a right-wing extremist government under Netanyahu were set. The path of such a government is not our own and we have nothing to look for there. You didn't vote for us in order to provide a kosher certificate for a right-wing government, and we need to provide an alternative of hope from the opposition. We were not elected to legitimize an extreme right government and we must be an alternative of hope and go to opposition"
Livni is not playing coy here. She refuses to sacrifice her ideology, which is far removed from that of the Likud. Netanyahu's Likud came a close second in the elections but was given the opportunity to form a cabinet because of the strong performance in general of right-wing parties in general. He has six weeks to put together a majority coalition. Having failed to seduce Livni, the Likud leader promptly called on his other major rival, Ehud Barak, of Labour to join him in a broad national unity government. Yet, despite his anemic showing in the polls, Barak says he is tired of serving in unity coalitions and insists that he, too, wants to be part of the opposition. Without Livni and Barak, Bibi can put together a coalition of extremists, but it will only have a slim majority and will run into a tidal wave of international criticism.
Netanyahu's platform has nothing to say concerning the world economic crisis. Obsessed with Iran's nuclear ambitions, and "Iranian terrorism surrounding us from the south and the north" – a reference to Hamas in Gaza and Hezbollah in Lebanon. His high-pitched rhetoric ratchets up the stakes in middle eastern politics just as Hillary Clinton starts taking baby steps as the U.S. Secretary of State. Cynics say that Bibi's hysteria is for the benefit of Avigdor Lieberman, whose far-right party, having won 15 seats, has turned him into the king maker of these elections.
Goodman and Netanyahu are very different people, but their most extreme positions are mutually shared. Goodman is a religious zealot. He wants to take away all rights for Israeli Arabs and expel them all to some heretofore unnamed place. As the Palestinians of Gaza refuse to reject Hamas, Goodman wants to empty Gaza of all Palestinians. This insane political position is mutually agreed upon by Bibi. The reality of a genocidal war costing tens of thousands of lives seems to touch no ethical nerve in either politician. On the other hand, after participating in a Ma'Ariv poll concerning levels of 'preventitive measures' as well as various other doomsday scenarios, it is a deep cause of concern to me that at least one-third of the Israeli public are so concerned with the intransigence of Iran and its terrorist acolytes that genocide is actually considered a viable alternative.
At the same time, playing into the hands of Goodman and Netanyahu while embarrassing the former foreign minister, Livni, Hamas flatly rejects Israel's demand that it free a captive soldier in return for lifting the blockade of the Gaza Strip. Mousa Abu Marzook, the deputy leader of Hamas, accuses Israel of backtracking over a truce agreement, insisting that Corporal Gilad Shalit will only be released in return for hundreds of Hamas prisoners locked up in Israeli jails. "We will not change our position," he told The Guardian in Damascus yesterday. "This is a moral judgment against Israel. Israel has had moral support and legitimacy since the second world war and its propaganda has described Hamas as a terrorist group. There's been a real change on those two points - but this mass support has not managed to break the blockade of Gaza."
Is Bibi Netanyahu the one who can end conflict in the Middle East? I say, categorically, no!!! Once a handsome, suave, fit, sophisticated man of the world with an M.I.T. education, Netanyahu maneuvered his way into the Israeli corridors of power through his appointment as Israeli ambassador to the U.S, during the years when Menachem Begin was the Likud prime minister. Legendary for his huge penis, sexual staying power and the ability to wine, dine and screw hundreds of Washington women, especially those in the press corps, Bibi was charming on television, and, although slightly hawkish in his politics, he was always amenable to discussing hopes of a Palestinian homeland with the likes of Ted Koppel and Dan Rather on the U.S. networks.
When Menachem Begin stepped down as prime minister after the death of his wife, Netanyahu became the anointed one. Unfortunately, as prime minister, Bibi's penchant for sex and corruption multiplied out of all proportion. Bribery is not frowned upon in Israeli society. All transactions seem to be accompanied by a nod, a wink and a fistful of dollars instead of shekels. Yet, the level of overt greed during Netanyahu's administration rose to unmanageable proportions. No female was safe in the vicinity of Bibi or his hand-picked cabinet. The scandal finally broke in 1997 when Bibi's wife, tired of ever being the cuckold, broke down and contacted her journalist friends. As a result, various kiss-and-tell stories appeared in newspapers around the world, a scandal too specific and too sleazy for even an open-minded cosmopolitan Israeli public to deal with.
Disgraced, Netanyahu stayed out of the public eye and kept a low profile. The Israeli public, however, are very forgiving, particularly in Bibi's case as he was doing what my friend Eli says is "what any Israeli male would do if he was in his position." Nowadays Bibi is fat and sassy. His once conservative rhetoric now skirts the borderline of racism concerning Iran and the Palestinians. There is no doubt that he will be able to form a cabinet. It is, of course, impossible to know if he will be reckless enough to attack Iran's nuclear facilities without the tacit agreement of the new Obama administration. Should he be crazy enough to do this, all bets are off as to what happens next in the Middle East.
As for Tzipi Livni, the possibility of decades in power awaits her if she waits patiently for Netanyahu to hang himself. The vegetarian daughter of two Polish-born Irgun freedom fighters, she is a bootstrap Sabra. Educated at Bir-Zeit University, after doing her military service, Livni spent more than a decade as a Mossad officer, working underground for two years in Lebanon during the civil war. The Mossad is the ultimate boys' club in a macho country. Yet she succeeded. Consequently, to succeed in both the Mossad and the ruthless cauldron that is the Knesset before being picked out for her brilliance by the former prime minister, Ariel Sharon, and made foreign minister, means Tzipporah Malka Livni is made of the right stuff. Benyamin Netanyahu is intellectually overmatched by her.
At this moment, the Israeli public still refuses to accept the intransigence of Hamas and feels the last Olmert government should not have made its two short wars and subsequent truces so easily. The detritus of any new conflict with Hamas and Hezbollah will see Israel face a lose/lose scenario, no matter what. A right-wing coalition, according to some conservative fantasies, especially the likes of Elliot Abrams and Richard Perle in the U.S., might be just the ticket to intimidate Hamas to sit down at the table. Having eaten our collective humble pie after 9/11 and two wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, Americans ought to show due diligence and tread lightly in the Negev. Provided Netanyahu is not insane enough to attack Iran and turn Israel into the world's Typhoid Mary. If anyone can sit down at a table with Mousa Abu Marzook, Khaled Mashael, Ismael Haniyah and Mahmoud Zahar, the leadership of Hamas, and then, ultimately, their mullah masters in Tehran, it's her. For now Tzipi just has to out wait Bibi's fat ass.
The Cleaner's Dirty Hands
Michael Clayton
Ivorismo Rating: ****
George Clooney has finally found a script worthy of his unique talent. Lurking behind the ubër cool of the Oceans 11/12 franchise, the T.V. doctor, and, literally, scores of mere bagatelles of situation comedies and, hundreds of sportive cameos, we all knew that there was a less slick, more ruthless incubus growing inside Clooney, burning to be let loose. This performance, however, is no mere dalliance. George Clooney is Michael Clayton! They are one and the same.
To say George Clooney brings a veneered, relentless force to the title role of Michael Clayton is an estimable understatement. Clayton is a fixer for a powerful law firm. He labors incognito. “Everybody knows who you are. Everybody that needs to know,” says his ruthless boss, Marty, before sending him off on another covert mission. A powerful secret prince of New York City, Michael works in the shadows, cleaning up the messes made by other rich, powerful people. If a gentile had fixed the World Series, that gentile would have been Michael Clayton. Always the realist, he tells other lawyer’s clients what they don't want to hear. He kills rich folks’ fantasies, lets them know exactly where the limits of their power end. In one particularly resonant scene, a client guilty of a hit-and-run complains bitterly that he was told Clayton was a miracle worker. "I'm not a miracle worker," Clayton sighs, like he’s got dog shit smeared on the soles of his Brooks Brothers wing-tips. “I’m a janitor."
Clooney looks like he’s modeling for the cover of Esquire. It's the right look: Boxy conservative suit, power tie, clean shaven, pomaded hair in place: All the better because Clayton spends equal time being dirty and disheveled because a lot of things have gone walkabout in his life. Amicably divorced, a man of routine, he drives his son to school every morning, hangs with him on Saturdays. His life looks prosperous, but the purring Mercedes Benz is leased by the firm and the restaurant he bought for his crackhead brother has just closed. He needs $75,000 pronto or the Irish Outfit will whack his brother, Timmy. Girlfriend? None. A lot of wisecracks about a gambling addiction he may, or may not have, overcome. Hanging around high-stakes poker games in Chinatown seems to be a masochistic way for Clayton to test himself. Yet, throughout it all, Clayton is zen calm. Waiting for his next clean-up gig.
Clayton works with Marty Bach, the head partner in the law firm. As Bach, Sydney Pollack’s performance oozes authority, cynicism and a dark, sarcastic intelligence. Clayton’s big mission is to handle one of Bach's top partners. Arthur Edens (Tom Wilkinson). Edens has gone ape shit berserk, stripping naked in Milwaukee during a deposition hearing and then running through a parking lot in the snow. We see the video of this deposition and it is not a pretty sight. One wincing witness is Karen Crowder, the chief legal executive for one of Marty Bach's most important clients, a corporation being sued for its malicious pollution of the well water supply somewhere in Wisconsin. The bottom line of this plot is that the corporation is guilty and is being sued for billions. The law firm knows it is guilty( it is being paid millions to run the defense), when, suddenly, Arthur Edens has his freak-out epiphany and realizes he holds the smoking gun of his own clients and partners guilt in his hands. That the corporation decides to bump Arthur off is no surprise. The way in which Clayton, ostensibly only brought in to fumigate and fix the mess, inadvertently gets sucked into this quagmire of deceit and then also becomes a target for the corporation’s death squad is masterfully plotted by the film’s writer/director Tony Gilroy.
Enough of the plot. In naming the film after Michael Clayton, Gilroy insinuates that the story centers on his life and loyalties. The son of a cop, once a cop himself, Clayton has been brilliant in law school and as a prosecutor in the state Attorney General’s Organized Crime Task Force. So brilliant was Clayton that he became not the prosecutor or public defender of lore; instead, he’s the Fixer/Lawyer Supreme. In one of his supreme fixer-deluxe moments, Michael is rescued by his detective brothers-in-law. This unnamed Irish cop with huge saddlebags under his jaded eyes, gets the best soliloquy in a movie scripted with a curt muscularity. “Everybody’s fooled,” he hisses at Michael. “You’ve got all these cops thinkin’ you’re a lawyer and all the lawyers thinkin’ you’re a cop. You’ve got everybody fooled. Everybody but you.” How odd then that this incredibly successful man from a Working Class background leads an existence that feels deeply hollow. His life is his work punctuated by glistening moments of family togetherness. There's a lovely bit where, celebrating his father’s birthday, Clayton gets one of his cleaner calls. You expect him to leave, do that familiar job-over-family trope; yet, instead, a withering bit of sarcasm from his sister carries the real muscle in the family and he stays. Why he stays--guilt, love, both--is less important than the notion that there’s still a lot of good in Michael Clayton despite his dirty hands.
The mumbled shards of familiarity exchanged with his painfully obsequious crackhead brother, Timmy, as Michael leaves the party, show the inexorable grinding of the gears of responsibility. Bereft of all self-respect, a creature of contempt: Is this pitiful man with a price on his head worthwhile saving when he threatens to destroy both Clayton’s family and job? Well (Sigh!), Michael Clayton is his brother’s keeper! Clooney’s Clayton is in many ways a modern mirror of John Wayne’s lonesome noble warrior of the West, his steed a Mercedes with a GPS device. He doesn’t gamble any more, we learn, although in a kinky masochistic sort of way Clayton likes to dawdle around games. Still, he’s certainly not the archetypal self-pitying Irish boozer we might expect him to be, either. There’s no wife or girlfriend or half-full bottle of Jameson’s, just the scores of folks he looks after.
The legal thriller has been rendered formulaic by John Grisham and an army of imitators over the last 20 years. High stakes corporate and political hijinx melds with recent American history in Grisham’s work. The reader, far more easily seduced than the writer’s characters, by the corporate empires, elegant women, fast cars, and conveniently filed paperwork, cash money and craftily hidden clues, knows the formula. Gilroy, having long paid his dues writing adaptations of other people’s novels and ideas, shaping successful scripts like Armageddon, Proof of Life, The Devil’s Advocate, and the three Jason Bourne movies out of other peoples work, knows how to take something bland and render it unique. Directing from his own script for the first time, Gilroy takes every legal thriller cliché and throws it into the washing machine. Beginning neither at the beginning, nor the end, Gilroy revs the clutch and throws us into the plot about 2/3rds of the way through, spinning a yarn of red herring about a gambling problem and a debt of honor before reversing to the beginning and speeding through an ocean of wicked shenanigans. There’s deadly well-water pollution going on in Wisconsin and the evil corporation knows no limits when the stakes are high. Sound familiar? Well yes and no. Gilroy is clever enough not to get bogged down in any kind of message mode concerning corporate pollution. His movie is not about the plot so much as how the two lawyers, the fixer-versus-the corporate-assassin, and, ultimately, unavoidably, good-versus-evil, travel to their showdown.
What keeps this perfect Swiss-watch of a script a step from perfection is the vapid one-note performance of the albino-like English actress, Tilda Swinton. She is dreadful. Her American accent the sum opposite of Dick Van Dyke’s cockney in Mary Poppins. There are no accidents in good scripts and, when we first meet Swinton’s corporate killer of a lawyer, Karen Crowder, she is girding her loins for the approaching showdown, sniffing at her armpits. This brilliant bit of business, had it been interpreted by a performer of intelligence, could have supplied an edifice of emotion to her character. Instead of showing us clues concerning Crowder's utter lack of scruple--How could something so rotten and uninhibited exist in her?--Swinton conjures up a millionairess tot who's had her lollipop pilfered. Swinton sniffs, mopes, trembles and snarls like some pantomime parody of Medea. By the time the showdown arrives, Swinton is bereft of ideas; Karen Crowder has melted down into a series of blinks, trembles, whispers and hissing noises. Having been vanquished by Clayton, bathed in fluorescent sterility, her answer to his boast that he is “Shiva the God of death’ is to sink to the thick corporate carpet on all fours. I’ve seen this brilliant movie four times now and, as is my wont, have taken to closing my eyes, disappearing Ms. Swinton and replacing her with Kathy Baker, Jody Foster or Joaquin Phoenix. I can dream, right?
To say George Clooney brings a veneered, relentless force to the title role of Michael Clayton is an estimable understatement. Clayton is a fixer for a powerful law firm. He labors incognito. “Everybody knows who you are. Everybody that needs to know,” says his ruthless boss, Marty, before sending him off on another covert mission. A powerful secret prince of New York City, Michael works in the shadows, cleaning up the messes made by other rich, powerful people. If a gentile had fixed the World Series, that gentile would have been Michael Clayton. Always the realist, he tells other lawyer’s clients what they don't want to hear. He kills rich folks’ fantasies, lets them know exactly where the limits of their power end. In one particularly resonant scene, a client guilty of a hit-and-run complains bitterly that he was told Clayton was a miracle worker. "I'm not a miracle worker," Clayton sighs, like he’s got dog shit smeared on the soles of his Brooks Brothers wing-tips. “I’m a janitor."
Clooney looks like he’s modeling for the cover of Esquire. It's the right look: Boxy conservative suit, power tie, clean shaven, pomaded hair in place: All the better because Clayton spends equal time being dirty and disheveled because a lot of things have gone walkabout in his life. Amicably divorced, a man of routine, he drives his son to school every morning, hangs with him on Saturdays. His life looks prosperous, but the purring Mercedes Benz is leased by the firm and the restaurant he bought for his crackhead brother has just closed. He needs $75,000 pronto or the Irish Outfit will whack his brother, Timmy. Girlfriend? None. A lot of wisecracks about a gambling addiction he may, or may not have, overcome. Hanging around high-stakes poker games in Chinatown seems to be a masochistic way for Clayton to test himself. Yet, throughout it all, Clayton is zen calm. Waiting for his next clean-up gig.
Clayton works with Marty Bach, the head partner in the law firm. As Bach, Sydney Pollack’s performance oozes authority, cynicism and a dark, sarcastic intelligence. Clayton’s big mission is to handle one of Bach's top partners. Arthur Edens (Tom Wilkinson). Edens has gone ape shit berserk, stripping naked in Milwaukee during a deposition hearing and then running through a parking lot in the snow. We see the video of this deposition and it is not a pretty sight. One wincing witness is Karen Crowder, the chief legal executive for one of Marty Bach's most important clients, a corporation being sued for its malicious pollution of the well water supply somewhere in Wisconsin. The bottom line of this plot is that the corporation is guilty and is being sued for billions. The law firm knows it is guilty( it is being paid millions to run the defense), when, suddenly, Arthur Edens has his freak-out epiphany and realizes he holds the smoking gun of his own clients and partners guilt in his hands. That the corporation decides to bump Arthur off is no surprise. The way in which Clayton, ostensibly only brought in to fumigate and fix the mess, inadvertently gets sucked into this quagmire of deceit and then also becomes a target for the corporation’s death squad is masterfully plotted by the film’s writer/director Tony Gilroy.
Enough of the plot. In naming the film after Michael Clayton, Gilroy insinuates that the story centers on his life and loyalties. The son of a cop, once a cop himself, Clayton has been brilliant in law school and as a prosecutor in the state Attorney General’s Organized Crime Task Force. So brilliant was Clayton that he became not the prosecutor or public defender of lore; instead, he’s the Fixer/Lawyer Supreme. In one of his supreme fixer-deluxe moments, Michael is rescued by his detective brothers-in-law. This unnamed Irish cop with huge saddlebags under his jaded eyes, gets the best soliloquy in a movie scripted with a curt muscularity. “Everybody’s fooled,” he hisses at Michael. “You’ve got all these cops thinkin’ you’re a lawyer and all the lawyers thinkin’ you’re a cop. You’ve got everybody fooled. Everybody but you.” How odd then that this incredibly successful man from a Working Class background leads an existence that feels deeply hollow. His life is his work punctuated by glistening moments of family togetherness. There's a lovely bit where, celebrating his father’s birthday, Clayton gets one of his cleaner calls. You expect him to leave, do that familiar job-over-family trope; yet, instead, a withering bit of sarcasm from his sister carries the real muscle in the family and he stays. Why he stays--guilt, love, both--is less important than the notion that there’s still a lot of good in Michael Clayton despite his dirty hands.
The mumbled shards of familiarity exchanged with his painfully obsequious crackhead brother, Timmy, as Michael leaves the party, show the inexorable grinding of the gears of responsibility. Bereft of all self-respect, a creature of contempt: Is this pitiful man with a price on his head worthwhile saving when he threatens to destroy both Clayton’s family and job? Well (Sigh!), Michael Clayton is his brother’s keeper! Clooney’s Clayton is in many ways a modern mirror of John Wayne’s lonesome noble warrior of the West, his steed a Mercedes with a GPS device. He doesn’t gamble any more, we learn, although in a kinky masochistic sort of way Clayton likes to dawdle around games. Still, he’s certainly not the archetypal self-pitying Irish boozer we might expect him to be, either. There’s no wife or girlfriend or half-full bottle of Jameson’s, just the scores of folks he looks after.
The legal thriller has been rendered formulaic by John Grisham and an army of imitators over the last 20 years. High stakes corporate and political hijinx melds with recent American history in Grisham’s work. The reader, far more easily seduced than the writer’s characters, by the corporate empires, elegant women, fast cars, and conveniently filed paperwork, cash money and craftily hidden clues, knows the formula. Gilroy, having long paid his dues writing adaptations of other people’s novels and ideas, shaping successful scripts like Armageddon, Proof of Life, The Devil’s Advocate, and the three Jason Bourne movies out of other peoples work, knows how to take something bland and render it unique. Directing from his own script for the first time, Gilroy takes every legal thriller cliché and throws it into the washing machine. Beginning neither at the beginning, nor the end, Gilroy revs the clutch and throws us into the plot about 2/3rds of the way through, spinning a yarn of red herring about a gambling problem and a debt of honor before reversing to the beginning and speeding through an ocean of wicked shenanigans. There’s deadly well-water pollution going on in Wisconsin and the evil corporation knows no limits when the stakes are high. Sound familiar? Well yes and no. Gilroy is clever enough not to get bogged down in any kind of message mode concerning corporate pollution. His movie is not about the plot so much as how the two lawyers, the fixer-versus-the corporate-assassin, and, ultimately, unavoidably, good-versus-evil, travel to their showdown.
What keeps this perfect Swiss-watch of a script a step from perfection is the vapid one-note performance of the albino-like English actress, Tilda Swinton. She is dreadful. Her American accent the sum opposite of Dick Van Dyke’s cockney in Mary Poppins. There are no accidents in good scripts and, when we first meet Swinton’s corporate killer of a lawyer, Karen Crowder, she is girding her loins for the approaching showdown, sniffing at her armpits. This brilliant bit of business, had it been interpreted by a performer of intelligence, could have supplied an edifice of emotion to her character. Instead of showing us clues concerning Crowder's utter lack of scruple--How could something so rotten and uninhibited exist in her?--Swinton conjures up a millionairess tot who's had her lollipop pilfered. Swinton sniffs, mopes, trembles and snarls like some pantomime parody of Medea. By the time the showdown arrives, Swinton is bereft of ideas; Karen Crowder has melted down into a series of blinks, trembles, whispers and hissing noises. Having been vanquished by Clayton, bathed in fluorescent sterility, her answer to his boast that he is “Shiva the God of death’ is to sink to the thick corporate carpet on all fours. I’ve seen this brilliant movie four times now and, as is my wont, have taken to closing my eyes, disappearing Ms. Swinton and replacing her with Kathy Baker, Jody Foster or Joaquin Phoenix. I can dream, right?
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Dubya Wanna Beism
This week in San Francisco you’ll be hard pressed to discern the Obama administration from its predecessor. This case involves five men suing a Boeing subsidiary, Jeppesen Data Plan, claiming that it was instrumental for their extraordinary rendition and repeated torture during the Bush administration. Directly after the suit was filed, the Bush Justice Department invoked the state secrets privilege, arguing that the case needed to be dismissed because of its risk to national security. A lower court judge agreed. Naturally, the plaintiffs appealed.
Arguments were heard before a panel of the San Francisco-based U.S. Court of Appeals for the 9th Circuit. Surprisingly, lawyers from the Obama Justice Department said they were adhering to the state-secrets defense. Shrill howls of condemnation from civil liberties advocates are already being heard loud and clear. In the course of the campaign, President Obama had pledged to undo the Bush administration's secretive policies; yet, given his first opportunity to reverse policy, the President has embraced his predecessor's approach. The Attorney General Eric H. Holder, Jr. and the Justice Department decided that no part of the case could be litigated without risking a national security leak. They could actually be right, but who can say because all of the case’s relevant issues are based on classified information. Consequently, if the executive branch institutionally errs on the side of nondisclosure then the judicial review in such cases becomes so circumscribed that it is impossible for justice to be done.
Thank God for Teddy Kennedy, my friends. Sen. Edward Kennedy (D-Mass.) has reintroduced legislation that will theoretically protect the president's authority to defend national security interests while giving plaintiffs a fighting chance in court. This bill will allow judges to privately review information which the government asserts is too sensitive for publication or public dissemination. A judge would also own the ability to appoint a specialist with the security clearance and intelligence expertise to perform the review. This would allow a plaintiff's lawyer (once again with appropriate security clearances) to review information the court deemed not having fallen under the state-secrets claim. Material considered too sensitive for direct review could, Senator Kennedy believes, be made available in an unclassified summary. At the same time, judges could still choose to exclude evidence or dismiss the case. Both sides would then have the right to immediately appeal.
The issues surrounding rendition and torture are too numerous to discuss here. Too many errors of omission and arrogance were committed by the previous administration in the name of Homeland Security. I am not one of those whose mouths froth at the idea of torture utilized as an instrument of statecraft. Complex issues ought not to be discussed in the foggy gray haze of battle between black and white absolutes. I will not, however, stand by while any administration attempts to abrogate citizen rights without due process.
It will serve the public for us all to keep up our vigilance. Mr. Holder animatedly insisted that he would carefully review the executive branch's use of the state-secrets doctrine to ensure that it was being invoked in accordance with law during his confirmation hearings. The democratic process needs to be kept in action. The Obama administration has to walk its talk and not attempt any sleight of hand to mask or hide any unsavory episodes from the public. We trust that Mr. Holder will not be as knee-jerk or blithe about invoking the shield as previous administrations. Trust in matters as important as this one will not be easily forthcoming from any concerned side.
Arguments were heard before a panel of the San Francisco-based U.S. Court of Appeals for the 9th Circuit. Surprisingly, lawyers from the Obama Justice Department said they were adhering to the state-secrets defense. Shrill howls of condemnation from civil liberties advocates are already being heard loud and clear. In the course of the campaign, President Obama had pledged to undo the Bush administration's secretive policies; yet, given his first opportunity to reverse policy, the President has embraced his predecessor's approach. The Attorney General Eric H. Holder, Jr. and the Justice Department decided that no part of the case could be litigated without risking a national security leak. They could actually be right, but who can say because all of the case’s relevant issues are based on classified information. Consequently, if the executive branch institutionally errs on the side of nondisclosure then the judicial review in such cases becomes so circumscribed that it is impossible for justice to be done.
Thank God for Teddy Kennedy, my friends. Sen. Edward Kennedy (D-Mass.) has reintroduced legislation that will theoretically protect the president's authority to defend national security interests while giving plaintiffs a fighting chance in court. This bill will allow judges to privately review information which the government asserts is too sensitive for publication or public dissemination. A judge would also own the ability to appoint a specialist with the security clearance and intelligence expertise to perform the review. This would allow a plaintiff's lawyer (once again with appropriate security clearances) to review information the court deemed not having fallen under the state-secrets claim. Material considered too sensitive for direct review could, Senator Kennedy believes, be made available in an unclassified summary. At the same time, judges could still choose to exclude evidence or dismiss the case. Both sides would then have the right to immediately appeal.
The issues surrounding rendition and torture are too numerous to discuss here. Too many errors of omission and arrogance were committed by the previous administration in the name of Homeland Security. I am not one of those whose mouths froth at the idea of torture utilized as an instrument of statecraft. Complex issues ought not to be discussed in the foggy gray haze of battle between black and white absolutes. I will not, however, stand by while any administration attempts to abrogate citizen rights without due process.
It will serve the public for us all to keep up our vigilance. Mr. Holder animatedly insisted that he would carefully review the executive branch's use of the state-secrets doctrine to ensure that it was being invoked in accordance with law during his confirmation hearings. The democratic process needs to be kept in action. The Obama administration has to walk its talk and not attempt any sleight of hand to mask or hide any unsavory episodes from the public. We trust that Mr. Holder will not be as knee-jerk or blithe about invoking the shield as previous administrations. Trust in matters as important as this one will not be easily forthcoming from any concerned side.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Adio Giuseppe!!!
90 nights after trouncing 30-1 favourite, the self-described Mr. Phenomenon, Roy Jones, Jr., to remain undefeated over a glorious 46 professional fight career, Joe Calzaghe has announced his retirement. Without doubt the finest British boxer of his generation, Calzaghe can righteously claim to be the greatest British boxing champion of them all. Having plied his ruthless trade since 1993, the champ felt the time was right.
"It's been a difficult decision but I achieved everything I wanted to achieve in boxing," said the 36-year-old Calzaghe. "I've been a world champion for 11 years."
Looking at that magnificent Italian mug, the scar tissue around his eye sockets like two curled-up pink snakes, I can't help but think that his timing is immaculate. "I've seen too many great fighters have that one fight too many. I had a long think with my family. My children wanted me to give up, plus my mum, and that's why I called it a day and will go on to do something else.
All of the London reporters crew, including those tuned in on closed circuit from Cardiff, Vegas and New York, are all, I'm sure, feeling very relieved. Joe Calzaghe is a lovely man in a corrupt, ruthless business. He knits the fingers of both hands together and stares at his shoes.
"I've been boxing for 25 years. You can never say never in this game but I can't see myself boxing again." He winks at me. I nod back. Then he answers one of my questions, so I won't have to ask it. "There's loads of things I want to do. I'm proud to be one of the only few fighters in history to retire undefeated. There's always a temptation to fight on, especially if you are the champ and no one has ever beaten you. But I've come to the point where the satisfaction of retiring undefeated has to outweigh the thrill of another fight."
Trained by his father, Enzo, a quiet man who drove him in the gym with the kind of ruthless determination that only a close family might have dared to dish out, Joe always approached each upcoming fight with a genuine sense of monastic dedication. After Calzaghe became the WBO world super-middleweight champion in 1997, when he out pointed Chris Eubank. After that fight, Giuseppe and Enzo, father and son, sat for over an hour sipping Enzo's home-made cherry wine, discussing moves as if they'd just been in a chess match. This quirky little ceremony of theirs went on as Joe made 21 straight defenses. Reporters knew that, after a Calzaghe fight, there'd be a lull. Time enough have a beer and write some intro copy.
His victory over the hitherto undefeated American Jeff Lacy in March 2006 was hailed as career-defining. Lacy had been a 25-1 favourite, even with the London bookies, when Calzaghe took him to school. Still, Calzaghe insisted it was his points win over the Danish WBC and WBA champion Mikkel Kessler, in a brutal unification contest in front of 50,000 partisan Welsh fans at Cardiff's Millennium Stadium which was easily his greatest night. "Oh man, I was fighting a younger fighter than me, I was the underdog. A lot of people thought I was going to lose that fight," Calzaghe said.
A 'lot of people,' hunh? The whole boxing world, including yours truly, thought Joe was about to meet his Waterloo. Kessler had all the tools, but Enzo and Joe's game plan smothered him into neutrality. Staying inside Kessler, slipping punches and absorbing blows thrown without the kind of leverage that Kessler needed to get off, Calzaghe ultimately destroyed the Dane's will and overwhelmed with relentless accurate punching. It was a boxing masterpiece and Calzaghe was seen as a true artiste!
A year ago came payoff time. After being dodged for years by the durable Bernard Hopkins, Joe won big-money light heavyweight fights in the US against both Hopkins and Roy Jones, Jr. No, said the pundits, once again, feeling that fighting in Vegas was a bridge too far for a boxer so in tune with his fanatical bloc of fans in Cardiff and London. Both fighters, equally as long in tooth as Calzaghe, gambled on Giuseppe having lost his edge after taking on every young fighter they had each dodged at the behest of their promoter, Don King.
On April 19, 2008, accompanied by an army of singing Welshmen, Joe Calzaghe turned Las Vegas' Thomas & Mack stadium into Merthyr Tydfil for a night. After being stunned by a Hopkins combination in round one, with a choir of Welsh fanatics singing Sospen Fach at a deafening level of intensity, Calzaghe completely dominated his opponent and won a unanimous points victory.
Seventh months later, on November 8, Calzaghe fought Roy Jones, Jr. at the legendary Madison Square Garden in New York City. In the campaign leading up to the fight, Jones unloosed a barrage of braggadocio and racism. "I can't never go home to the projects if I lose to this white man," he said. "I'm gonna kill his ass." Promises! Promises! Jones knocked Calzaghe down in the first round, but that was his one and only moment of promise. Calzaghe took every round thereafter on each judge's card, winning a unanimous victory on points. This time I had known better than to speak ill of the Master and it came as no surprise at all that he dominated both of them.
"You've really got to know when enough is enough," he said as he left his last press conference as a champion.
Now Calzaghe has decided to walk away rather than risk his legacy against any more younger, undefeated fighters. Going the distance against the American light-heavyweight Chad Dawson, and the man who succeeded him as WBC super-middleweight champion, Nottingham's Carl Froch, would have been bloody and brutal, win or lose.
Joe's best mate, Richie Woodhall, the British former world super-middleweight champion put it to me this way: "There's not many fighters who realise it's over but Joe knows he's done his bit. In my opinion Joe is the greatest fighter to come out of Britain... Ever!"
"It's been a difficult decision but I achieved everything I wanted to achieve in boxing," said the 36-year-old Calzaghe. "I've been a world champion for 11 years."
Looking at that magnificent Italian mug, the scar tissue around his eye sockets like two curled-up pink snakes, I can't help but think that his timing is immaculate. "I've seen too many great fighters have that one fight too many. I had a long think with my family. My children wanted me to give up, plus my mum, and that's why I called it a day and will go on to do something else.
All of the London reporters crew, including those tuned in on closed circuit from Cardiff, Vegas and New York, are all, I'm sure, feeling very relieved. Joe Calzaghe is a lovely man in a corrupt, ruthless business. He knits the fingers of both hands together and stares at his shoes.
"I've been boxing for 25 years. You can never say never in this game but I can't see myself boxing again." He winks at me. I nod back. Then he answers one of my questions, so I won't have to ask it. "There's loads of things I want to do. I'm proud to be one of the only few fighters in history to retire undefeated. There's always a temptation to fight on, especially if you are the champ and no one has ever beaten you. But I've come to the point where the satisfaction of retiring undefeated has to outweigh the thrill of another fight."
Trained by his father, Enzo, a quiet man who drove him in the gym with the kind of ruthless determination that only a close family might have dared to dish out, Joe always approached each upcoming fight with a genuine sense of monastic dedication. After Calzaghe became the WBO world super-middleweight champion in 1997, when he out pointed Chris Eubank. After that fight, Giuseppe and Enzo, father and son, sat for over an hour sipping Enzo's home-made cherry wine, discussing moves as if they'd just been in a chess match. This quirky little ceremony of theirs went on as Joe made 21 straight defenses. Reporters knew that, after a Calzaghe fight, there'd be a lull. Time enough have a beer and write some intro copy.
His victory over the hitherto undefeated American Jeff Lacy in March 2006 was hailed as career-defining. Lacy had been a 25-1 favourite, even with the London bookies, when Calzaghe took him to school. Still, Calzaghe insisted it was his points win over the Danish WBC and WBA champion Mikkel Kessler, in a brutal unification contest in front of 50,000 partisan Welsh fans at Cardiff's Millennium Stadium which was easily his greatest night. "Oh man, I was fighting a younger fighter than me, I was the underdog. A lot of people thought I was going to lose that fight," Calzaghe said.
A 'lot of people,' hunh? The whole boxing world, including yours truly, thought Joe was about to meet his Waterloo. Kessler had all the tools, but Enzo and Joe's game plan smothered him into neutrality. Staying inside Kessler, slipping punches and absorbing blows thrown without the kind of leverage that Kessler needed to get off, Calzaghe ultimately destroyed the Dane's will and overwhelmed with relentless accurate punching. It was a boxing masterpiece and Calzaghe was seen as a true artiste!
A year ago came payoff time. After being dodged for years by the durable Bernard Hopkins, Joe won big-money light heavyweight fights in the US against both Hopkins and Roy Jones, Jr. No, said the pundits, once again, feeling that fighting in Vegas was a bridge too far for a boxer so in tune with his fanatical bloc of fans in Cardiff and London. Both fighters, equally as long in tooth as Calzaghe, gambled on Giuseppe having lost his edge after taking on every young fighter they had each dodged at the behest of their promoter, Don King.
On April 19, 2008, accompanied by an army of singing Welshmen, Joe Calzaghe turned Las Vegas' Thomas & Mack stadium into Merthyr Tydfil for a night. After being stunned by a Hopkins combination in round one, with a choir of Welsh fanatics singing Sospen Fach at a deafening level of intensity, Calzaghe completely dominated his opponent and won a unanimous points victory.
Seventh months later, on November 8, Calzaghe fought Roy Jones, Jr. at the legendary Madison Square Garden in New York City. In the campaign leading up to the fight, Jones unloosed a barrage of braggadocio and racism. "I can't never go home to the projects if I lose to this white man," he said. "I'm gonna kill his ass." Promises! Promises! Jones knocked Calzaghe down in the first round, but that was his one and only moment of promise. Calzaghe took every round thereafter on each judge's card, winning a unanimous victory on points. This time I had known better than to speak ill of the Master and it came as no surprise at all that he dominated both of them.
"You've really got to know when enough is enough," he said as he left his last press conference as a champion.
Now Calzaghe has decided to walk away rather than risk his legacy against any more younger, undefeated fighters. Going the distance against the American light-heavyweight Chad Dawson, and the man who succeeded him as WBC super-middleweight champion, Nottingham's Carl Froch, would have been bloody and brutal, win or lose.
Joe's best mate, Richie Woodhall, the British former world super-middleweight champion put it to me this way: "There's not many fighters who realise it's over but Joe knows he's done his bit. In my opinion Joe is the greatest fighter to come out of Britain... Ever!"
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