Articles

Rob Mitchum

 et al.

Messrs Mitchum and Lawyerindianchief tour the wide world of sports science and report back with findings from SLEEP (the official publication of the Associated Professional Sleep Societies, LLC) and the hot November issue of Dental Traumatology.

David Roth

 et al.

The New York Post reports a lot of things, many of them false, gross, pertaining to lesser Lohans or all of the above. But the recent story about Derek Jeter tipping his hook-ups in Authentic Derek Jeter Memorabilia felt different. 

As the fights go on, it’s easy for me to feel the blows as they land because it’s evident by now that my ribs are bruised, though I’m not sure how badly. I’ve had bruised ribs before and they tend to linger for awhile, like a bad stomach cramp on one side that lasts a week or so; I meditate gloomily on this. Up in the ring, one fighter throws a head kick that seems to fall short, grazing the other’s face with a bit of foot; this second fighter takes a step forward, then cocks his head to an odd angle and half-pirouettes on his way down.

In the first installment of our occasional series on sports archetypes, we offer a look at the peculiar existence of the undersized white wide receiver.

Tom Scharpling knows next to nothing about the NHL. It’s not from any active dislike for the game. He's not opposed to it the way I am opposed to college basketball—any sport that allows a prime douche like Steve Wojciechowski to impact one minute of one game is not a sport for Tom—but hockey is a mystery that he'd never honestly tried to unravel. Until a misspelled vanity license plate convinced him it was time to be a hero.

In terms of their cover art, The Baseball Hall of Shame series of the 1980s look a lot like VHS boxes for lower-end teen comedies. But what's between those covers sounds uncannily like today's irrereverent, obsessive sports internet. There's a good reason for that.

Jon Jones just keeps on winning fights—most recently and spectacularly against Lyoto Machida—and making people angry. Isn't it time UFC started taking advantage of that last part?

Creating a new sport has its challenges. Besides having to remind everybody how the game is played, roller derby has to constantly assure people that, unlike its popular predecessor, it is real. One league's slogan makes the point prominent: “Real. Strong. Athletic. Revolutionary.” On their FAQ, the WFTDA is compelled to add questions like “Is roller derby real?” and “I used to love watching roller derby on TV! Is it like that?”

On Saturday, Real Madrid ensured that there would be nothing for Barcelona to transcend. For the first time in several years, the fixture stood out as a great game between two amazingly talented teams rather than a referendum on pragmatism vs. ideology, or the best way to build a club, or the moral value of a stepover. It was a matchup of rough equals, not an allegory of higher concepts. And it was fun.

Whereas most clubs are scruffy hamlets hoping the world hasn't forgotten them completely, Real Madrid and Barcelona are empires. They are masters of self-aggrandisement, all royal flash and ermine undergarments. When two great pomposities meet, the results are spectacular and inevitable, in the same way the dying sun swallowing the Earth will be spectacular and inevitable, except that we get to witness this particular supernova via television and web streams of dubious legality.