Certain moments have occurred from watching sports over the years that overtook my being with fervent reaction. From high stepping across my living room as Ray Allen connected on a hanging jumper to oust the detested Georgetown Hoyas of Alan Iverson to piling on top of Yankee brethren as Tino blasted a shot to straight away center at the Stadium during the team’s riveting 2001 playoff run, sports has moved me to write for the same reason that I presume love urged Shakespeare to pen sonnets.

For those casual fans that flip on a game toward its climactic conclusion, brilliance seems to only be appreciated in snippets. My passion centers around nearly every play of a game I consider worth watching. And for all the games that have had me tuned in for every play, no single contest compares to the brilliance that enthralled this blogger at the age of eight back in January of 1991.

I recall Kentucky basketball coach Rick Pitino stating there was no loser in that famous Christian Laettner game against Duke in the ’92 NCAA Tournament. Not only can this axiom be applied to Super XXV but the notion that these were two of the most complete teams I have ever seen elevates the story to an epic tale.

Buffalo had just rocked the Raiders in the AFC Championship Game. Interesting that I corrected a friend’s memory today concerning the legacy of Bo Jackson and how against the Bengals he broke his hip and would never play in the NFL again let alone that following weekend in Buffalo.

The Bills entered the game against the NFC Champs in Tampa as heavy favorites.

Over twenty years later I can rattle off the studs from that Bills team that seemed primed to swoop up at least one title, and trust me the Internet plays no part in going through the squad. Let me just toss out a couple of gaudy names – Jim Kelly, Thurman Thomas, Bruce Smith, Steve Tasker, Cornelius Bennett and Darrly Talley.

The Giants had been having a tremendous year but a late-season injury to quarterback Phil Simms placed them behind the Niners as favorites to emerge out of the NFC. But maybe I can call it “fate” and probably the Giants’ fans would like such a term, could not imagine how those in San Francisco would refer to the blunder that ousted them from the tournament.

People in Brazil abide by soccer with little else entering the sports fray but the football buzz has been growing. With that, many pick my brain over the rules and minutia which personally has me questioning my memory as I never remember how I learned about the sport. For example, here I was at less than 10 and already I understood the principle that if you lead late in the game that the running back is not expected to bull through for a game-ending first down. Instead, just securing the ball fulfills his obligation.

Roger Craig could easily be blamed for depriving the great Joe Montana one more ring. The running back coughed up the ball and allowed the Giants to attempt a field goal at the end of the game. Giants’ kicker Matt Bahr obliged and the Super Bowl XXV matchup had been set.

Possibly jaded Bills’ fans view the performance as inadequate as a one-point loss to an inferior team suggests biting disappointment. Three years later the sting could only exacerbate as the Bills dropped their fourth consecutive Super Bowl. On that night, however, the defense sacked quarterback Jeff Hostetler for a safety – a rarity in such a big game, and Thurman Thomas went off to a point where many, like myself, believe he deserved the MVP in the losing effort.

The idea that if the Bills had upgraded at the kicker position before Scott Norwood plagued a town with two words, could pass as reasonable argumentation as the Patriots and Colts would later win titles with the help of possibly the greatest kicker of all time. Yet, the Cowboys won three titles in the ‘90s and I cannot recall who was putting the ball through the uprights for them.

The Bills played a superb game and the Giants one-upped them. Otis Anderson won MVP despite sharing carries with rookie Rodney Hampton who the Jets passed on, as well Emmitt Smith, to take Blair Thomas at No. 2 in the ’90 draft.

Hostetler orchestrated such a dominant third-quarter drive that the Raiders threw an exorbitant amount of cash his way to come to play in LA just like the organization did years later with a lesser-known Super Bowl MVP – Larry Brown.

In a season in which Drew Breese and Aaron Rodgers have run through defenders countless times during seemingly every game, I still enjoy the time-consuming, muscle-flexing drives that wear down appointments and highjack the flow away from the other team’s offense.

The Bills played their best. The Giants were at their best. So young, so impressionable and so into every single play of that game.

Two great teams at their best. Much more enduring than a single moment.

By the way, going with Baltimore and New Orleans as my Super Bowl pick for this year.

We’re just days away!!!!

Simply more than arbitrary, I believed in a hidden motive for prompting those top honchos at SLAM Magazine to sport Allen Iverson on their cover more often than such victorious players like Kobe, Shaq or even KG.

“Oh that Iverson is such a thug and bad example for everybody. It’s like he’s a real gangster or something,” said a girl who my friend brought out for a couple of drinks with the possible hopes that my penchant for eliciting such divine conversation would result in sweet loving for the rapscallion.

Not one to ever consider derailing the momentum of a friend on his quest for booty, I retorted somewhat calmly even with my gut instincts commanding my speech and shock littered in every pitch of my voice.

The words of one who claimed to have not followed the league with ardor, she somehow previewed commissioner, or as my boy Geoff prefers to call him, Darth Stern’s, dress code and cultural overhaul on the league some years back as my only encounter with the bold female occurred in 2006.

My appeal for the magazine increased after the aforementioned conversation, especially after they allowed AI to rock the cover one more time as a Piston during an abysmal year for an intrepid guard who finished his career averaging more points than anyone in the history of the league other than Jordan and Chamberlain.

During an era where political correctness caters to corporate investment, SLAM reminds everyone that the sport belongs to the street and to the hip hop culture. For as much heat as a group like Green Day receives for signing a major-record deal, Iverson deals with just as much for not abandoning his identity or his essence.

First off, Iverson or anyone else’s appearance says nothing about their character or how they treat others. Columnists in the magazine occasionally articulated on Iverson’s laid back demeanor without ever hinting at a callous or pompous side, but even if he brushed people off, that would not result in a personal detestation of the guy.

My next blog jumps on debunking another line of thought that places responsibility on athletes to be upstanding citizens. For now, the idea that Iverson could sway your child to a rebellious state where crime calls has me primed to duke it out verbally with anyone prepared to spew that shortsighted, manufactured dribble my way. You see, enlightening someone with a purposeful objective allows for me to understand further what I truly believe. Yet for this to happen, a sports element is sometimes needed as I relate almost everything in this world through sports, or at least try to when such a connection presents itself. 

The Answer, AI, or however you choose to refer to the perceived anarchist, fermented an uproar in someone just for coveting expression. Respect to her for speaking and listening to me. Credit to SLAM for refusing to conform. And just much love for anyone who knows how much elaborating and reveling in sports alleviates this frustration from this blogger’s journey. 

Only months after the sports universe seemed to come to grips with the fact that the abundant hype surrounding Chinese center Yao Ming, accelerated by the increasing popularity of the innovative ESPN show Pardon the interruption, would not prove prescient, LeBron James elevated to stardom.

Too young to have been following the night that Sam Bowie somehow won the favor of the Blazers execs, I cannot rehash the details of Jordan’s entry into the league but LeBron’s tale has captured my attention.

The star of St. Vincent-St. Mary High School in Akron, Ohio, The King dwarfed his preparatory competition before coming through with a dominant rookie season in 2003-04. The guy floored me, yet despite carrying a subpar team to the Finals in his fourth year, defects marred his ascent.

I stood on LeBron’s side in debating the best player in the world but Kobe clearly had the edge in late-game play – an area crucial for one to dominant if he or she can be considered tops among all.

Several years later and still no rings my praise for the forward has been echoed by many but the downside has muted such claims, by of all people Scottie Pippen, that LeBron is the greatest of all time.

The journey of upstate New York’s Jon Jones has not rattled the marketing world like that of LeBron but from viewing his story from a solely appreciative level at what he can accomplish in the arena, the UFC’s light heavyweight champion has blown away The King.

Difficult to measure my hyperbolic words at times and conceivably I have raved about prodigious talents before but I doubt I have gushed over someone more than LeBron until the arrival of Jones. Yet, recently MMA bloggers and writers have lambasted mainstream sports media for not articulating on the grandeur of Jones’s past year in the Octagon.

So rare is the occasion that I grab the bullhorn and shout with paid sports writers as that line of work chewed me up and spit me out a long time ago despite my penchant for rambling on about sports-related topics without monetary compensation. However, those irate with Jones being overlooked as one of the best athletes currently living have my attention and allegiance.

Jones has dazzled without a single mark on his ledger. Even further, he displayed a precocious persona after picking up his first loss – an anecdote that has never been addressed leading up to all his fights since that one against Matt Hamill two years ago.

Jones hip-tossed the admonished wrestler before dropping vicious ground and pound. Hamill laid motionless with his elbows covering and yet the ref Steve Mazzagatti allowed the fight to continue before deducting Jones a point for illegal elbows as he dropped them down at a 90 degree angle. Hammil could not recover and was awarded the victory.

Clearly Jones demonstrated who the superior fighter was that night but poor officiating stripped the title of “Undefeated” from his name. Presumably, 90% of fighters would have thrown a tantrum while possibly bum rushing the ref. Jones kept his composure and stated in his post-fight interview that he would learn from the “folly”.

For brevity’s sake I will pass on going over the details of Jones’s triumphant year. I thought the season in which Greg Maddux almost had more wins than walks was impressive but simply put I have never been so awed by an athlete’s personal success as I am by Mr. Jones.

No longer can anyone who pens articles under the sports guise claim Mixed Martial Arts has not gone mainstream. More pressing matters should draw our ire but come on now!

The guy topped LeBron and this blogger will enjoy his 2012 campaign and beyond while those crusty journalists still thinking that we need the evening news to arrive to let us know what’s going on in the world will surely miss out on a phenomenon.

Seem to always touch on the unquantifiable hype I had heading into the GSP-Penn rematch on Super Bowl Weekend in 2009 with two champions slotted for the main event and how this phenom from upstate New York not only captured my attention but displayed the evolution of the sport.

UFC President Dana White’s careful handling of the 24-year old dissipated after Jones submitted another top light heavyweight contender in Ryan Bader during Super Bowl Weekend this year and champion Mauricio Rua needed a competitior following the injury to Rashad Evans.

The current champ entered that fight with half of the MMA community barking that his lack of experience would overwhelm him against the vet while those like me suggested he has literally no weakness of to mention.

Jones coasted to victory and then toyed with Rampage Jackson – another PRIDE veteran who had once worn UFC gold, before dropping a round to yet once again another former UFC champ in Lyoto Machida only to put him to sleep in the second with a standing guillotine.

If you happened to have seen all four fights you do not necessitate justification in claiming this fighter deserves an honorable award from the dean of blogs – Fellbowski.

Breakout Fighters of the Year – Donald “Cowboy” Cerrone and Ben “Smooth” Henderson

Never gave much thought to those doubting the arrival of the WEC lightweight fighters to the UFC, just figured the cynics were wetting their beaks on haterade.

Cerrone could top Jones by going 5-0 this year if he defeats Nate Diaz on Dec. 30.

Henderson went into hostile territory to defeat Canadian Mark Bocek in front of over 50,000 of his countrymen, then whooped contender Jim Miller before finally solving the riddle that is Clay Guida.

Henderson-Edgar in Japan should provide entertainment and if the former WEC champ continues his ascent, Cerrone, who lost a memorable bout to “Smooth” in 2009, could be right there to fend for the title.

“Cowboy” possesses stupendous submission skills but of late has been punishing opponents on the feet. Henderson has entered beast mode and always comes out of scrambles in dominant positions.

Fight of the Year – Dan Henderson vs. Mauricio “Shogun” Rua

Only beef with this epic concerned the scoring as all three judges had it 10-9 Rua for the fifth even though Henderson had already gassed out. The 10-8 scoring would have resulted in a draw rather than a victory for Henderson. But…the fight was just incredible!

You know watching Rocky as a kid that something so spellbinding and gripping could not happen in real life but then a mythical figure like Hendo comes along and a glutton for punishment in Rua obliges the invite to engage in something quite maddening.

Enough! Just go watch the fight and appreciate the sportsmanship of such class acts.

Knockout of the Year – Lyoto “The Dragon” Machida vs. Randy “The Natural” Couture

Anderson Silva reintroduced us to Steven Siegal in a forum we thought would never house him. However, the Spider’s kick appeared almost comical like an old man pushing back his boy by showing him the bottom of his foot.

Machida jived around and came through with the Crane Kick that would have left Mr. Miyagi pleased. Couture might have decided to retire on the spot just knowing how lucky he was not to have swallowed his misplaced tooth.

Submission of the Year – Frank Mir vs. Rodrigo Noguiera
So in 2008 Mir becomes the first fighter to knockout the PRIDE legend and then just recently becomes the first to submit him by breaking his arm in a kimura, and I thought the Patriots owning the Jets was onesided.

The Year’s Final Top 10
1. Anderson Silva
2. Jon Jones
3. Georges St-Pierre
4. Frankie Edgar
5. Jose Aldo
6. Dominic Cruz
7. Nick Diaz
8. Gilbert Melendez
9. Junior dos Santos
10. Dan Henderson

Living in Brazil affords me the opportunity to butcher songs that I have listened to for years because no one picks up on the fact that my lips fail to sync up with the actual lyrics. Even the simplest and most common of songs such as “Under the Bridge” ties me up at times where I forget how Anthony Kiedis ends each verse. Yet I have not been called out for killing the vibe of any song with my tonal deficiencies.

Furthermore, when enjoying “Me Time” I scramble my mind for tight verses and sick beats laid down by some of rap’s greatest performers. Now as much as I rock Kanye and praise him for his sardonic lyrics and well-produced tracks, I connect more with rap at its rawest – one MC freestyling prose while a DJ gets all experimental with the basics of a turn table. This formula leads to the ultimate rap song – Here We Go – live at the Funhouse way back in 1983.

Rap, like basketball and soccer, hails directly from the street, so the live ambient of the track along with its spontaneous flavor gets this guy going from one lyric to the next.

“And it goes a little something like this…”

The back and forth of Run and DMC leading up to Jam Master Jay’s entrance work on so many levels.

“Now the things I do make me a star, and you could be too if you know who you are”.

The raspy and commanding voice of DMC coats the feel with a powerful rush of confidence for us all, belying the unappealing tag placed on hip-hop by anyone prone to jumping to conclusions. It ain’t all bout bank rolls and slapping hoes, so I suggest you listen up.

“They used to call me Easy E, cuz I rapped on the mic so easily…”

The late Jam Master Jay freezes time by scratching the hell out of his turntable, laying down the blueprint for all DJs that have since mastered their trade and that does not suggest only rap, but any form of music.

The song flourishes on poetic liberty as the lack of a chorus allows the three to show how rap took off from street corners in Queens and Brooklyn and all across the Big Apple to arrive at the epicenter of contemporary popular music.

Run and DMC share the spotlight quite evenly until the end but it is Run’s direct remark that fervors the crowd as not only does he say what the track is all about but he caps it off with a profanity, that unlike such other hardcore acts like Wu-Tang Clan and NWA, Run DMC rarely uttered.

“Rhymes so def, rhymes, rhymes galore. Rhymes that you never even heard before. Now if you say you heard my rhyme, we gonna have to fight cuz I just made the motherfuckers up last night.”

Oh snap!

Get going on this one and check it out anywhere you can find it. They keep it raw and righteous and this sputtering blogger has no alternative but to claim that he can follow along with it from beginning to end. Just like that!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X7KDyxa9Wcs

Tyler Durden: Man, I see in fight club the strongest and smartest men who’ve ever lived. I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don’t need. We’re the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War’s a spiritual war… our Great Depression is our lives. We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won’t. And we’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very pissed off.

Immersed in the rapturous words of Malcolm X while I worked for a political campaign against the war in Iraq back in ’97, I pined for the opportunity to unite the masses flooding the streets in rage over how inequality has stymied the progress that I subscribe to.

Such a spotlight never befell on this wordsmith but I cannot imagine anyone capturing my beliefs in a more succinct and direct way than that of Tyler Durdon – played by Brad Pitt, in the famous “Lou” scene.

Famed director David Fincher cinematized the ideas of Chuck Palahniuk and in doing so produced a snapshot to define our generation.

We yearn for a war to test our endurance and will, yet our everyday lives, scrapping and navigating through the pitfalls of capitalism, represent a much more rigorous crucible with gratitude replaced by callous indifference.

A war vet poses in front of Times Square and a crowd gathers.

“Take a look at him sonny boy,” says a father to his pre-pubescent son, “that there’s a genuine hero.”

Forced to evade such remarks even while watching following such professional sports organizations as the NFL, NBA and UFC that swarm on the positive propaganda, I enter the basement of Lou’s Tavern.

No one to cheer us on as the working class gets chucked to the gutter. No one to applaud our services for putting up with such injustice only to take home a paycheck and ensure our loved ones remain content with their situation as the hawks pry at our wallets.

The United States commemorates two holidays for soldiers, as politicians and whoever else invests in the status quo, peddle half truths about the safety of the American citizens. Those who engage in the rat race settle for whatever comes their way and anytime word of workers’ rights abounds, the insidious tag of “Socialism” extinguishes hope for a Great War in which truth, not land, poses as our flag of freedom.

The brilliance of the scene, however, truly unfolds after the proprietor of the restaurant, Lou, wails on Tyler Durden until he folds and allows Fight Club to continue after the protagonist wins the battle without throwing a single punch. Fore I am one who will show society, show those pressing the buttons, steering the ship, placing emphasis on death and a Dog-Eat-Dog system of living that you can kick the crap out of me all you want. Pummel and degrade but this spirited worker will not break.

The playing field seems bleak with us pawns trying to usurp stacked forces yet the rebellious nature that drifts occasionally into a utopic stupor begins anew every time the basement lights go on to commence a most invigorating of scenes. 

Far from a superior athlete who could coast on sheer talent, I still found the four years of practice playing for the Oswego State rugby team as mostly mundane. Other than having the opportunity to witness grown men taking pride in juvenile behavior, practice only perked up my spirits during the occasional full-contact scrimmage.

When the game commences, the primordial instinct in me takes over and I just know what it takes to win. Look at how Shogun responded to three rounds of brutal punishment against Dan Henderson this past weekend to comprehend how Tyson’s adage, “Everyone has a plan until they punched in the face,” applies to actual competition.

So on the rugby field, or growing up on the tough terrain of PS 175 playing touch football, I occasionally adopted the nonchalant attitude by swiping a ball one handed or stutter stepping even though speed has never been my strongest asset. The lax attitude carried over at times to real play where regret for having such a pompous attitude took over.

Yet this is the story of a boy who never caught the eye of a single professional scout. Then, there is Jordan, who despite being cut from his high school basketball team, contributed to my passion for sports along with the torment that came during the ’92 and ’93 playoffs.

One play in Game 6 of the ’93 Finals, after the Bulls had bounced back from a 0-2 deficit against the Knicks in the Easter Conference Finals to earn a shot against a stacked Suns team led by the season’s MVP – Sir Charles Barkley, had me questioning whether Jordan had ever really given it his all. Maybe the guy had been cruising in second gear the whole time.

With the Bulls down four in the late stages on the road, in what was turning out to be the team’s toughest test since running into the Bad Boy Pistons in ’90, Jordan grabbed a board and went the distance for a routine layup. The Buls forced a stop, Paxson hit that memorable three, Horance Grant blocked KJ from behind and the Bulls had avoided needing a Game 7 in Phoenix and had won their third consecutive title.

I could not find a clip of said play as it remains void of highlight-reel material – one man taking the ball from under his own hoop and going the distance for an easy two with only the NBA title on the line. No one on the Suns could impede Jordan’s desire. Jordan simply wanted to score two and no man alive was going to prevent that.

The Jordan phenomenon – how one man could succeed consistently against such daunting opposition stems from his competitive drive.  Michael Wilbon once said on Pardon the Interruption that when he was covering the Wizards during Jordan’s brief stint as player on the under .500 team that No. 23 held up the team bus until he beat Richard Hamilton in a game of HORSE or a 3-point shooting contest, I cannot recall the exact information.

Jordan, after leaving the Bulls, demonstrated a man frustrated with his limitations. During his peak, however, he could have played down to his competition due to boredom and when necessary turn it on to blow past the rest and win six Finals’ MVPs during a ridiculous era for the NBA in terms of terrific teams and players.

Type “Jordan” and “Chicago Bulls” in youtube and you will probably see his push off against Byron Russell. You might see him tongue-out, switching hands-in mid-air against the Lakers in the ’91 Finals or him shrugging his shoulders against the Blazers in ‘92. Yet it was him setting up the Paxson three in a Finals that was in doubt that had this young, soon-to-be hacking blogger believing that he was toying with us all.

Brilliance in simplicity. 

The show Seinfeld defines what transcending art represents as the constant quips on life appear in daily situations and conversations. Just yesterday I noted to a friend about the peculiarity with delivering a piece of information in a flippant manner as if it were a joke. I have been telling my friend who has this rambunctious kid that if she needs me to take care of him, I am there for her, while pounding my fist into my hand as if to motion that the punishment will hurt. Of course, I would not inflict such damage but if he were to really go over the line and hurt my friend, I would not hesitate to rattle his world with tortuous tickling or something much more severe.

The show touches on seemingly everything related to society and human interaction but after eight seasons, Jerry announced the ninth would be the final. The last episodes lost some pizzazz but the writers officially obliterated conventional thinking at a time when the show veered toward the formulaic.

An idea so outlandish that one would have to scoff at the mere mention, however, a backwards episode not only avoided disaster but it reached brilliance.

The lives of the four main characters and their minute problems find a way to connect, and yet to have them all come together while retelling it from end to beginning, borders on impossible.

From George refusing to meet with his girlfriend without wearing Timberlands, to Jerry trying to avoid George because of a secret, to Elaine’s drinking problem to finally, that crazy Kramer, who gets entangled in a war with Franklin Delano Romanowski, the madness flowed like never before but only in the most interesting of sequences.

Even though the show began with the end, which was shown at the beginning, it was the beginning which was shown at the end, that truly pleased us Seinfeld fanatics as Jerry moves into his apartment and is greeted by Cosmo Kramer.

“I’m going to order a pizza, you want some?” Jerry asks Kramer who he originally refers to as Kessel.

“No, I couldn’t impose,” Kramer responds.

“Why not? What’s mine is yours.”

“Really?”

And it so it began at the end. Or something like that.

My camp counselor, Chuck Falchicio, I kid you not, a Guido of a man, laced out the lyrics with his fingers shaping a pistol and his arms clocked for action – “Super Nintendo, Sega Genesis, when I was dead broke I couldn’t picture this.”

Life needs to get juicy and Biggie Smalls, who seemed to garner a reputation even before Ready to Die blew up, kind of like my recent description of Albert Pujols’s ride to stardom, elaborated on a plethora of truisms into how to play this game right with humor and energy as his calling cards.

Falchico, a temperamental Pizano, knew his stuff. We had spent the summer rocking mainly Gang Starr and a Tribe, plus Craig Mack’s “Flava in Ya Ear” whose video was shot at the nearby Hall of Science. All the tight lyrics backed by skilled DJs served as build up for the true king of Hip Hop’s grand entrance to cap off the summer.

Years later, getting ready to kick off our senior prom proper in a lush limousine, Biggie’s intro – “Get a grip motherfucker” jacked us up as we rattled off, in synchronicity, like that achieved by D’Antoni’s Suns with Nash running the show, all three verses of Juicy, setting up a maddeningly surreal night that introduced me to what pushing life actually means.

Juicy cuts the album in half but an idea like “fuck the world, don’t ask me for shit,” or “when I die I hope I go to hell because I’m a piece of shit it ain’t hard to fucking tell” litter the album with memorable details that have me going to Ready to Die just to experience what went on in the mind of this blunted observer from Bed-Stuy, of course.

I can spew out lyric upon lyric and rave about the nature of how Biggie pulled it off but to top this all with the final stage of the trilogy I head back to Forest Hills on Austin Street with my boy Geoff. The night had already extended to after hours but void of a last call announcement we found little reason to bail.

“Who the fuck is this…” maybe it arrives after the first five words or just from the beat itself, whatever the case may be, experiences that have been edged in the mind cause an instinctive dive toward reciting, ripping, battling, engaging and representing what this cat referred to as the Notorious One, was all about.  There’s only one crown!

After claiming two years ago that I would not pick against either Jon Jones, Jose Aldo or Cain Velasquez until one of them lost, and then heaping more accolade on the heavyweight champ by naming him my Fighter of the Year for 2011 after dominating Nogueira and Lesnar on his way to the title, one would anticipate Cain represents my pick. Cigano, however, changed all that after carving up Shane Carwin’s face last June – a cheese shredder could not have done such a thorough job on this brute of a man.
I began lauding the talents of the No. 1 challenger after he forced Mirko Cro Cop to quit in the middle of their fight in 2009. I cannot grasp why neither Yahoo or Sherdog has not put him in the top 10 after plowing through the heavyweight division. However, Velasquez’s top trainer Javier Mendez clearly respects the skills of the 27-year old. Trailing Velasquez on his emotional trip back to the locker room following his momentous victory over Lesnar, Mendez advised his prized fighter that he would have to avoid such a slow start in order to beat dos Santos.
So I acknowledge my boy Zhong in going with dos Santos and I will not place coin on the fight but…Cain remains my choice for two reasons:
1. Competition

We know dos Santos can throw with velocity and volume while Cain can smother you on the mat and inflict ground-and-pound from any conceivable angle. Seems all the praise toward Cain revolves around his last victory but his knockout of Noguiera affirmed his boxing pedigree has been established even though he entered the sport as a wrestler from Arizona State University.

Even before delivering the final touches on his performance last February in Australia, commentator Joe Rogan noted the slick footwork of Velasquez and alluded to the eventual outcome seconds before the lights went for the Brazilian legend who has won fights with his skills on the feet.

Dos Santos bounced back to his feet with little trouble against Carwin after being taken down only once. Yet, other than that, we have not seen Cigano’s grappling skills.

I refuse to attest to this idea that wrestling is the most effective discipline in the sport as Anderson Silva refutes all that. Just saying I know what Cain can do on the feet and am still unfamiliar with how dos Santos deals with elite wrestlers who know how to adapt the trade to mixed martial arts.

2. Cardio
I would not label cardio a weakness for dos Santos even though he gasped and lowered his hands against Big Country in the third round of the Brazilian’s one-sided victory. It is just that in comparison to Cain’s ability to push the pace, I suspect dos Santos will have problems.
Cain arrived with plenty of interest in the UFC because his training partners – savvy vets like Jon Fitch and Josh Koscheck and Olympic wrestler Daniel Cormier, raved about the heavyweight’s gas tank in comparing it to that of a lightweight.
After a unanimous decision over an always tough out in Cheick Kongo, Velasquez expressed disappointment with his performance. The proud Latino corrected all that by bullying around a bigger Ben Rothwell in his next fight. The Lesnar skirmish displayed an out-of-control beast gassing minutes into the fight despite securing a take down early against a composed professional administering an onslaught of crisp shots with little emotion.
Junior dos Santos’s carefree demeanor makes it difficult to root against the guy but the workmanlike approach of the champ defines warrior. Velasquez has gone for the finish early in all three of his last fights, unloading but never rushing. The guy has never let out a puff of air during his victories. I anticipate that Cain will wear down dos Santos as the journalists that continue to attribute victory to determination or desire need to replace these clichés with true meaning of what stamina is.
After climbing up to the “A” side of my rugby team during my junior year, I could not abandon the newcomers who took the field following the game that counted in the standings to compete as “B” siders. As the scrumhalf, my endurance needed to be pristine as my position required that I become involved in almost every play – running laterally to any point on the field. Yet, my aversion to sit out the second game came as a result of cherishing the sport and sensing that after college the opportunity to play would diminish.
I reaped every possible moment of enjoyment and knew if stamina factored in that I could not relish the sport. So before anything, an athlete must reach that apex where tiring accounts for nothing. Let the opponent defeat me with his superior prowess but to lose due to lack of preparation symbolizes that the participant did not take the competition seriously.
My personal triumphs and philosophy, however, ignore the human element while also overlooking how a heavyweight bout usually plays out. Watching some of Ali-Frazier’s first fight, both appeared relatively equal in skill but Ali needed to rest on the ropes for a solid portion, costing him the decision.
Velasquez and dos Santos will entertain and not play to the cards. Velasquez defies the mold of a heavyweight with his endurance and this will give him a huge edge when the championship rounds arrive. No knock on dos Santos if he were to tire just a bit as wrestling in high school introduced me to an insane regimen of conditioning that holds true for such a combative sport as mixed martial arts.
Dos Santos could easily pick up verve heading into the later rounds but I am not willing to mark it down here. Instead, this blogger anticipates the champion surging on late and forcing the ref to call it in the fourth.
But what a fight it will be!