SOUPY Sales, on his after- school show on Ch. 5, used to say, “It depends on how you look at it.” Then he’d turn his head sideways, close one eye and scrunch his face into a pucker.
But he was right. (Soupy was always right.)
For example, most everyone who watched it thought HBO’s Wladimir Klitschko-Sultan Ibragimov heavyweight title fight Saturday night in the Garden was the dullest, most action-barren fight in the annals of stinkers. People who got in free demanded their money back. Regis and Kelly have had better fights. The batteries in the remote didn’t die, they fell asleep.
Klitschko, jabbing to keep his opponent at a safe distance, did the minimum to win and to avoid being ticketed for loitering. Ibragimov, the smaller man, couldn’t get inside because Klitschko wouldn’t let him. Twelve rounds of this. Nurse! Even HBO’s commentators began to whine.
So only the sarcastic would salute Klitschko for boxing brilliantly, for fighting (barely) a masterpiece, right?
But he did. If the goal of a boxer is to beat his opponent while being hit as few times as possible, Klitschko fought brilliantly. Who among us would choose to win any other way? Who among us would prefer to win but get punched in the head a few times every round?
Klitschko, after all, has a glass chin that could only benefit the American Right Cross. That crystal jaw has been the gateway to all three of his losses. So why shouldn’t he exploit his 6-foot-6, muscled frame to keep opponents away from it?
Hey, it’s his health, his brain he’s protecting. If he chooses to become a champ by not getting hit very often, how can we fault him? We don’t have to watch or buy tickets. And while that may diminish Klitschko’s future paydays, he’ll still be rich.
More importantly to him, if not us, he’ll be a wealthy ex-boxer who still has his good senses. The Ukrainian can keep speaking four languages instead of none.
We want to see men hit hard and get hit hard in boxing matches. Understood. But Klitschko, “The Big Sleep,” Saturday didn’t allow either. How is that a shame on him? He doesn’t owe us anything. He just tries to win the fight and not get hit at the same time. That’s our problem, not his.
Funny how we’ll lament the neurological impairment of retired champs, yet Klitschko’s a bum because he’s big and strong enough to avoid such a common eventuality.
So here’s to you, Wladimir Klitschko – the most boring heavyweight champ of all time, and, until further notice, perhaps the most sensible.
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It wasn’t enough that ESPN this week announced that blow-hardy Sean Salisbury, after 12 years with the network, is leaving (read: let go). Salisbury had to include a full-of-himself quote in the announcement, one that read like a self-indictment, an explanation of why ESPN and many of its viewers won’t miss him:
“I have grown as much as I can at ESPN and decided to expand my horizons. I have created a brand and it’s time to expand into other opportunities in TV, radio, Internet, publishing, movies and public speaking, among others. My resume speaks for itself as a football analyst, and I believe I can talk all sports with the best of them.”
Do you smell gas? As if Disney-owned ESPN couldn’t serve all of those endeavors. As if such a talented dude would be allowed to escape. And escape to where? A larger sports network? Right up until the end, Salisbury sustained his habit of saying too much for his own good. Yeah, he has created a brand – Brand Ex.
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I’ve always been envious of guys who grew up in or near Pittsburgh. They were seasonally blessed with two genuine, one-of-a-kind sportscasters – incredible characters, really.
Bob Prince, the Pirates’ gruff and tumble play-by- player, took care of the springs and summers. Myron Cope, Steelers radio analyst from 1970 to 2004, radio talk show host and creator of the “Terrible Towel” waved at Steelers games, handled the fall and winter.
Prince died in 1985. Cope, a gremlin-like man with a voice to match – he sounded like Phil Rizzuto tossed into a clothes dryer – died Wednesday at 79.
Born Myron Kopelman, Cope naturally produced unnatural sounds. And his emotions were so raw and rumpled that when he grew excited, those sounds, as opposed to words, came out. Then those sounds, throughout the western half of Pennsylvania, eastern Ohio and much of West Virginia, became words.
The most famous of those “words” was hollered by Cope when the Steelers did something extraordinary. It was, “Yoi!”
Holler “Yoi!” at someone who lived near Pittsburgh; they’ll snap turn and answer, “Myron Cope.” And they’ll be smiling when they do.