In the blabber that was his column, Mr. Hodgkinson wrote of Britain's obsession with the likes of William 'the Fridge" and Dennis Rodman, claiming the obsession was fueled by interest in Perry's weight or Rodman's feather boa. Ever think that the tabloid media's short-sighted coverage to your dim-witted masses might have focused the light of publicity on the burnt bulb rather than the true light?
Hodgkinson wrote of Jordan as a sneaker salesman who tarnished his name by appearing alongside Looney Tunes characters in Space Jam, rather than his legacy as a two-time Olympic gold medalist and NBA champion basketball competitor. He wrote of Barry Bonds and Balco, Michael Vick and Janet Jackson's wardrobe malfunction. Baseball is glorified rounders played by men in pajamas, according to this so-called baseline volley and groundstroke expert.
Nice job, pal.
The NHL's exhibition - nothing, like an afternoon skate by two old ladies. The NBA had no negligible impact when the Celtics and Timberwolves played to a full house at 02.
Great.
So, the rainbow-haired Rodman, together with the improper Bostonians and the overweight Bears lineman of the mid-80's are the people who define American sports?
Thanks. Glad we read your viewpoint, Sir Snob-a-lot.
Well, let me give you a little insight, okay? Turn on that dimwit bulb that is your decaying brain and open up those deep blue eye balls and wake up.
If you want to look back to 1986 and the Bears, maybe take a look in the backfield at a guy named Walter Payton. He had some class and some fire. He ran for an entire decade with the weight of Chicago on his back and he ran with passion. He died all too young. He left behind a hell of a legacy. Walter's story is pretty good copy, Sir SAL. If you don't want to write about Walter, turn the pages of the Bears history book back a little further to a guy named Gale Sayers. Pretty good story.
Now, if Rodman was all you saw with the Bulls, you have no prayer. The MJ story doesn't need another sentence to describe what was happening at Chicago Stadium and everywhere on the damn globe that had electricity and a TV, as Michael left UNC to win gold medals in '84 and '92, then gradually climb the NBA mountains to win a handful of NBA rings and worldwide admiration for class, effort, emotion, defense, character - nevermind the personal hell MJ went through when his Dad was murdered in the summer after MJ's first championship.
But, there were other stories. Google a few names for me, Sir Snob-a-lot?
Scottie Pippen? Luc Longley? Steve Kerr - pretty interesting story about Steve and his Dad? And, a guy named Phil Jackson has some depth as well. Oh, yeah, I forgot, you are so damned shortsighted and stupid, you only focus on the fact Dennis Rodman played a full monty con-job on all the short-sighted media who gave him the time of day, rather than just report that he helped the Bulls win with his stellar defensive efforts, 4 points and 12 rebounds.
Need some other stories? How about Big Papi, Mike Lowell or Jon Lester rather than Barry Bonds? in the NFL? How about Brett Favre rather than Michael Vick?
Ever hear of Rodman's Detroit Pistons teammate, named Joe Dumars?
Pretty good story, that Joe. I remember sitting with him in the Portland Memorial Coliseum the night he won the NBA Finals MVP, but had lost his Dad. I remember sitting with him in Detroit, where he had been the architect of the Pistons team that won the NBA title in 2004 over a pretty good LA Lakers team.
Hey Mark, ever hear of Dwyane Wade?
How about Ryan Howard? David Wright? Matt Holiday? Tom Brady? Lebron James? Dirk Nowitzki? No?
Maybe Steve Nash or Luol Deng? They ring a little closer to the large nose that your eyes can't see?
Nevermind, I give up, I can tell. You are just an ass.
(Should you wish to read the column I am making reference to, please click on header above or read on):
American Sports, American Excess. No Thanks.
By MARK HODGKINSON
LONDON, Oct. 27 — Fat sells. Consider this — the American football player who had the greatest celebrity following in Britain was a man who was famous mainly for his appetite: William Perry, known as the Refrigerator.
No one in Britain cared about his role as a defensive player for the Chicago Bears; we cared only about what he ate, and ate and ate. Perry was freakishly, gloriously, fabulously fat, and we loved that. He was American excess at its most excessive.
The Giants and the Miami Dolphins are playing Sunday at Wembley Stadium in London, the first N.F.L. regular-season game staged overseas, and I imagine that most casual sports fans here probably think that the Fridge will be on the field. That tells you all you need to know about Britain’s attitude toward the N.F.L.
We really become interested only when your past and present players become fat, are body-checked by controversy or are arrested, when it feels like ”The Jerry Springer Show” in sneakers, helmets and foam padding. And that is why the only other football player recognized on this side of the Atlantic is O. J. Simpson. Yet that was never for his sport, but for his having played a cop in the “Naked Gun” films and for his being accused, and acquitted, of murder.
I can name only one current star, Michael Vick, and only because I was in the States when he pleaded guilty to federal charges for his role in a dogfighting operation. If you ask British sports fans about past Super Bowls, I doubt you will get much further than recollections of Janet Jackson’s “wardrobe malfunction.”
So American football is seen in Britain as being, well, tawdry and tacky. It has probably not helped that the one well-known British athlete in recent years to have popped up in American football was Dwain Chambers, a sprinter barred from track and field after failing a drug test, who signed with an N.F.L. Europa team in Hamburg, Germany.
The status of other American sports in London is not that different. Barry Bonds has achieved celebrity because of his links to the Balco drug case, not for slugging home runs. The recent N.H.L. matches here received about as much publicity as two old women going for an afternoon skate.
And the impact of this month’s N.B.A. preseason game between the Boston Celtics and the Minnesota Timberwolves was negligible. Maybe everyone at the arena was wondering why Dennis Rodman was not shooting hoops. Rodman was famous in Britain during his playing days, but only for dating Madonna, for cross-dressing, and for snaring rebounds while wearing Barbie-pink nail polish.
Last year, Rodman was featured on the British reality television show “Big Brother,” in which he was locked up in a house with a group of C- and D-list celebrities. So when he is mentioned in British newspapers these days, Rodman is referred to first as a former “Big Brother” contestant.
Michael Jordan’s fame in Britain as a basketball player is second to his status as a sneaker salesman. He lost some credibility in 1996 after his role in “Space Jam,” one of the worst films ever made. Jordan, playing himself, starred alongside animated Looney Tunes characters. Next to Jordan’s accepting that script, David Beckham’s move to the Los Angeles Galaxy appears unmotivated by money.
We send you Beckham, and in return you give us a little American sport. Beckham’s time in the States and the Americana in Britain will both probably have the same lasting impact as an empty paper bag. Going to watch the Giants against the Dolphins will be like taking in a show in London’s West End. A popcorn hit of entertainment, but instantly forgettable. We certainly do not see the Giants and the Dolphins as tough; rugby players do not dress in shoulder pads and helmets.
Baseball is viewed as glorified rounders played by men in pajamas. British sports fans, reared on the game known in the United States as soccer, have never appreciated the glut of points scored in basketball. Any sport that sends out cheerleaders with pompoms at every opportunity seems desperate.
Americans see sport as entertainment. But the British do not necessarily want to be entertained at a sporting event. We require long-term emotional involvement, and that often means the perverse pleasure of grumbling about your team’s horrible form.
We do not want your sports, but we are happy to snigger at your sportsmen.
Mark Hodgkinson is the tennis correspondent for The Daily Telegraph in London.
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