We love sports. I don’t mean me, and I don’t mean bloggers, and I don’t mean Мишка, at least not exclusively. I mean the collective “we,” the “we” that is invoked by Presidents in wake of tragedy or religious men in sermon. This is not to say that everyone loves sports, or even likes them. But we do. I’m afraid that now, for this hopefully ephemeral moment, perhaps we love too much.

Joe Paterno was college football. The elder, the sage, the allfather. His craggy visage and never-graying hair were the living breathing representation of every NCAA football faithful’s argument to an NFL fan about why their league was so much better. “Look at what this school, what that man, can do with just a group of young, unpaid kids, a pigskin ball, and a whole lotta heart.” That’s gone forever now.

In his fantastic and wrenching article about the unfolding scandal at Penn State, Grantland writer Michael Weinreb quotes his friend, a State College native and lifelong Nittany Lions booster: “The nature of this crime is the worst that has ever happened anywhere.” A hyperbole (though perhaps only slightly), but one imbued with true and visceral pain. The kind that you know is vividly real for the person expressing it. The hyperbole of a sports fan.

“That was the single most exciting thing I have ever seen.” “He is literally the best player who has ever lived.” “That catch was impossible.” “Please god, if you just let them win this I will never ask you for anything ever again in my life.” These are the hyperbole we are accustomed to saying and, for a moment, believing. But now, mostly for the citizens of Stage College, PA, but in a way for everyone who’s ever waxed poetic about Joe Pa, we must come to terms with a new kind. The worst thing happened. The worst thing happened.

Jerry Sandusky is an evil man who deserves to have the book thrown at him in the most brutal way possible. But his is not the only true betrayal. It is Joe Paterno, and the Penn State Football staff, and the University president, who made the grave and nauseating error of believing that the preservation of football was more important than justice for a sickening crime against children. And yet, somehow, a large contingent of Penn State students are still outraged at his firing.

People, people my age, protesting the firing of a man who like it or not contributed to the continued molestation of children, if only through his gross inaction. Is this what fandom means now? To have football be the biggest thing in State College, and indeed in any town, used to be a point of pride. It is only now, when we truly understand what exactly football has been put in front of, that the ignorance of that belief can be awfully realized. We thought we learned a lesson when we found out USC gave Reggie Bush a motor vehicle. How naive we were. How trusting in the fact that that was as bad as it could get.

Unfortunately, and I’m also a part of this, the victims are the ones getting lost here, once again caught up in something that is unfairly larger than them. Kudos to those who stood outside of Beaver Stadium this weekend in solidarity with the victims, protesting the attendance of the game. Shame on the people that mocked them. The fallout from this event is bad now. It will get worse. The more I think about it the more distressing it becomes. Decades of both past and future Nittany Lion football will be tainted. That’s a significant blow to the lives of innumerably many, based on the actions of a terrible few. Is there anything less espousing of the camaraderie of sport?

I, of course, don’t mean to suggest that the horror of this situation is in any way applicable to any other school, but it should be a sobering lesson to anyone who loves sports. The wounds are fresh, yes, as fresh as they can be. We are not complicit. But we have been included. Against our will. Any cheer for Paterno or Linebacker U is now… it’s simply ruined. That can’t be reversed. But at this point I have to wonder: can we trust ourselves to make sport that important again?

This weekend brought the 2011 North American Cycle Courier Championships to Austin, Texas. Year after year, the NACCC brings the messenger community together to a host city to compete for glory and get wasted. But all the drinking in the world couldn’t shake the competitive edge from the racers. For over 4 hours each day, the top men and women competed for glory! Shouts to everyone who was in town for this. It was a blast! For more coverage, head over to Prolly is Not Probably!

As you all probably know by now, it was announced Friday that America’s foremost singer/songwriter, Hank Williams Jr, will no longer be providing the pre-game soundtrack to ESPN’s Monday Night Football telecast. Thanks to some questionable comments made by the yokel throughout an appearance on Fox News, where he sincerely compared Barrack Obama to one Adolf Hitler, ESPN execs saw it appropriate to give ol’ Hank the axe. This announcement has left legions of NFL enthusiasts asking the question of themselves “Are we ready for some Football?”.

While I haven’t completely stopped reeling from this late breaking news, something has slowly started to dawn on me. We can all agree that Football without Hank Williams Jr. just ain’t the same, and I feel confident that the backlash from most NFL fans will be sizeable. Also, with labor talks amongst NBA owners and players in full swing, and a start to the Basketball season nowhere in sight, one thing has become painfully clear. It’s time for professional hockey to emerge from the stateside shadows, and finally take up the flag as supreme American sporting event/spectacle!

I suppose that last statement may have come off a bit lofty, but this is only because one can’t help being thrilled about the impending NHL season. My hometown Buffalo Sabres are looking pretty formidable this year, after picking up some key free agents this off-season (one of which I’m pretty sure is a total Satanist). Also, The Iced Canes, my fantasy squad, is pretty fucking stacked. Let’s just say there’s quite a bit to be excited about this year.

With all that being said, one might be able to surmise why our ears perked up when we ran across these minimalist NHL posters. The always entertaining Yahoo Puck Daddy posted a new series of minimalist images yesterday composed by Mike Chuhon, which portrays a number of our favorite NHL logos in a surprisingly tasteful manner. Granted, there is a bit more going on throughout these pieces than presented in an Argento painting, but I suppose this is to be expected. Basically Chuhon’s work is far less busy, and a bit more dialed back than much of the visual NHL subject matter that we’re used to dealing with.

We’ve covered some hockey-oriented artwork with past posts, but this trash may be my favorite yet.  I’ve always felt that the Sabres organization should embrace the actual sword portion of their logo, and kick the Buffalo insignia to the curb. Chuhon’s design embraces this, and I must thank him for that. The classic raging goat head logo was an unmitigated disaster, while sabres can be used in the disembowelment of foes. Do the math here.

According to Puck Daddy, and Chuhon himself, much of this stuff might soon be available in both poster and T-shirt form. Get those credit cards warm, and fire up your Pay Pal accounts sports fans! I’m sure this stuff will fly of the imaginary internet shelves, come purchasing time.

As a history major in college, I learned about the “Irish Grudge” – a beef that lasts for decades (sometimes centuries). As the subsequent generation carries on the grudge, the initial reason the feud exists is slowly forgotten and the reason to fight is gradually stripped down to “I hate him because of his last name.” It’s a sad phenomenon, but at least the Irish traveling people (gypsies) know how to settle a grudge without killing one another. No guns, they go right to fisticuffs; a bare knuckle tradition that surprisingly highly organized with rules that are strictly enforced. The problem is that nothing really gets resolved. Knocking each other out doesn’t end the grudge – it just fuels the next generation of hatred.

Filmmaker Ian Palmer sort of stumbled into the covert world of Irish bare knuckle boxing. For the past 12 years he’s been documenting two rival families as they box and trash talk to protect their “clan.” The outcome is Knuckle, an unflinching and ultimately moving documentary. It’s flawed in several places, but getting such an all access look at a world much of us will never get to see up close makes up for all of the film’s choppy pacing.

Ian focuses his lens on two clans that have feuding since 1992, the Quinn McDonaghs and the Joyces. Their bad blood began when a fight at a wedding ended with one man killed and one man convicted of manslaughter. Since then, the two families have been periodically sending each other diss videos; shot on VHS productions that feature one clan calling out the other for the “bloody bastard shitehawks” that they are. That’s how the challenges begin. Then the two sides will agree on a date to throw down and how large of a purse to put up.

The fights are held in various secluded places including parking lots and quiet dirt roads. To avoid rumbles, no families members from the feuding clans are allowed at the fight. Each fighter has his own referee, both from neutral clans. There are no rounds, the fight ends when one man is knocked out or says uncle. And believe me, these stubborn Irish folk don’t throw in the towel easy. Usually it takes heavy pleading by the refs to make the loser give up.

The doc’s main focus is “The Mighty” James, a sometimes landscaper and patriarch of the Quinn McDonagh clan. Although he would like to just get on with his life and leave fighting behind, the Joyce and Nevin clan keep challenging him. As their sons come of the age, it’s like challenging James to a fight is part of becoming a man. Sure he could just refuse to fight, but as the film displays, the bare knuckle tradition runs deep and refusing to fight is just as bad a tarnish on the name as getting your face bashed in.

Palmer talks with family members from the Quinn McDonaghs, Joyces, and Nevins about why they keep fighting. The consensus is that it’s the only way to settle differences. It’s certainly safer than guns and knives, but one fight just leads to another. The only travelers who are against the fighting seem to be the mothers and wives. But even they admit, they’re proud when their men come home brave champions.

Knuckle is available On Demand and on DVD in the UK.

While I’m positive that 100% of current NHL players could knock my teeth down my throat, there is a certain grittiness that you just don’t find in many contemporary pucksters. For instance, at some point in the late 70′s, the league decided that all skaters would be forced to wear a helmet on the ice. I’ll bet that some percentage of players viewed this as a total buzzkill. And though there is likely no direct correlation between the instance of the helmet rule, and hockey facial hair configurations, it seems like the frequency of mustaches in the NHL took a huge drop-off when the helmet regulation was instituted. Basically, what I’m getting at here, is that old NHL rosters were filled up with a bunch of burly-ass dudes who probably cared more about finding the back of the net, than the brain damage that might come at the hands of blood thirsty opponents.

If you long for the old days of goofy JOFA helmets, and the neutral zone trap, then we may have run across some material that will momentarily satiate you traditionalists. This past week, former Leafs writer, and self-described “hoarder,” Howard Berger, posted up a collection of vintage hockey program covers housed within his very own collection. We’ll post up a few of the images, but be sure to check out Berger’s blog, where a full gallery can be found. For better of for worse, trends have changed in the media-guide game since the mid-60′s, but it’s still worthwhile to see how quickly the things transitioned from conservative, to kind-of-trippy.

The covers posted above highlight a number of the different eras that NHL has traversed in its almost 100 years of existence. I can’t decide whether or not I prefer the more busy programs, or the subdued ones, but I posted a selection of covers that could potentially fall under either distinction. For instance, the ’82-’83 NJ Devils cover is completely gaudy in all its rainbow glory, but its also totally awesome. On the flip side, the Sabres cover from the 1970 season is pretty minimal in most regards, but looks as though it could have been featured on one of Keith Moon’s t-shirts during his mod years (had he been a giant puck fan). Whatever your personal preference may be, Berger has got you covered.

Quickly, I don’t know what the overarching provincial temperament was like between 1979 and 1980 in Quebec, but judging from their hockey team’s media guide, shit was pretty grim. Just take a look at the shadowy figure portrayed in the image. If  had to venture a guess, I would say that the Nordique’s graphic designer had just picked up a copy of the first Bauhaus record, which dropped around this time, and was heavily influenced by the goth tones in their work.

Berger also published some material having to do with the Toronto Blue Jays, the OJ Simpson Trial, and the 9/11 attacks, but it’s pretty clear that his hockey-related material serves as the bulk of his collection.  It’s true that items such as these are priceless when referring to the preservation of hockey history. More than anything else though, this selection of media guides does much to illustrate a span in hockey history when the hair-cut of choice for NHL players was transitioning from the traditional Johnny Unitas buzz-cut, to the full-on mullet that we’ve all come to know and love. Barry Melrose would certainly approve.

Yesterday, it was revealed that ESPN The Magazine would be running a story in its next issue, out September 5, titled “What if Michael Vick Were White?” with the subtitle reading, “Since the day he was arrested, people have asked. The answer isn’t what you think.” No, the answer was not what anybody thought, as it turned out to be another instance of using a controversial, inflammatory headline to boost print sales.

However, along with the ridiculous title came the below illustration of what ESPN suspects Vick would actually look like were he white. Now, overnight, sports nerds everywhere have been shaming ESPN by making their own “What if Michael Vick Were…” images, including the one up top by The Source of “What if Peyton Manning Were A Black White Michael Vick?” Below check out the original “What if…” image along with some of the best imitations.

“What If Michael Vick Were White?”

“What If Michael Vick Were A Ginger?”

“What If White Michael Vick Were Black Michael Vick?”

“What If Michael Vick Were Marcus Vick?”

“What If Michael Vick Were An Actual Eagle?”

“What If Michael Vick Were A Vegan Chocolate Ice Cream Cone?”

“What I Michael Vick Were Made of Barbecued Spare Ribs? Would You Eat Him?”

Via TotalProSports

I’ve always really admired the jerseys, or “kits,” that most soccer players, or “footballers,” get to don when taking the field. These uniforms are generally appealing from an aesthetic standpoint, but also seem to be both wearable and practical in an everyday sense. Unfortunately, I’ve never allowed myself to purchase one of the things, because it just wouldn’t feel right. I don’t follow the sport within any capacity, and, truth be told, I’ve often poked fun at its seemingly banal nature, and the way soccer’s most highly touted players will flop about at the drop of a hat. In the back of my mind, I know the game itself must be pretty great, considering its ravenous global following, but its kind of fun to play the role of close minded American lunk-head sometimes, you know?

Anyway, it seems that some pretty significant steps are being made in the consumer jersey market, which may one day help bridge the gap between these off-limits soccer jerseys, and a professional sport that’s near and dear to my heart. Just today, Yahoo’s Puck Daddy blog directed our attention to a series of images created by “Majupra,” which juxtaposes NHL team colors and logos with a classic soccer kit template. Needless to say, the results were nothing short of awesome. You can check out the actual gallery here, if you’re interested in viewing the entire set of these newly conceived unis.

While these jerseys aren’t actually going to be placed into production any time soon, a boy can dream, can’t he? Ever since our nation’s hipster contingent decided it was acceptable to begin wearing NBA jerseys out on the town, much of my collection of basketball apparel has lost its lustre. I fear that I can’t even leave the house in my beloved Darko Milicic jersey anymore without raising some eyebrows. Take a look at the latest installment of Deadspin’s “Look At This Fucking Hoopster” column, to truly grasp the severity of the movement. Due to this shift in the general hipster consciousness, I’ve found it to be more and more difficult to represent my affinity for organized sports out in public.

It seems that hockey-themed soccer jerseys would be the perfect antidote to remedy to this unfortunate set of circumstances. The hybrid uniforms would be wonderful to wear in most types of weather, and would also appeal to my personal sports sensibilities. These mock-ups are also a little less gaudy than many of the jerseys actual NHL teams utilize, and would probably prove to be far less expensive in the grand scheme of things. While I do have a minor problem with team sponsors being slapped directly in the middle of their gear, I suppose I could learn to live with this ugly side of the business.

As a native Buffalonian, I can say for certain that the Sabres creations would fly off the shelves upon their unveiling throughout Western New York. Being the unabashed homer that I am, I would certainly pick up one of the blue and gold garments, even though some of these other sweaters blow the Buffalo kit out of the conversation. At any rate, I was pleased to see that the Bruins jersey combo ranked among the ugliest. Although Boston may currently be in sole possession of Lord Stanley’s Cup, at the Sabres make-believe Hockey/Soccer uniforms aren’t diarrhea colored.

By this time, you may have heard that former athlete-turned-actor Bubba Smith was found dead at his home this past week. The hulking defensive lineman played an integral role on his Michigan State college football team, as they tied the Notre Dame Fighting Irish in the ’67 National Championship game. Many consider this one of the greatest, if not most bizarre, games of pigskin ever played. Upon finishing up his storied career as a Spartan, Smith was inducted into the College Football Hall of Fame, before being drafted first overall in the 1967 draft, and embarking on an accomplished 9 year NFL career.

Bubba went on to win a Superbowl title with the Baltimore Colts in 1970, and eventually played for a series of solid NFL squads, but I was a little young to ever really witness the player’s skill and grace on the ol’ Gridiron. Luckily, when I finally got my hands on a copy of the original Police Academy film as a little kid, I was given a glimpse at this gentle giant’s prowess as a thespian. While Smith shouldn’t necessarily be considered too strong of an actor from a traditional standpoint, placed beside Steve Guttenberg for a series of three films, the guy came away seeming like some giant version of Pacino or De Niro.

Smith went on to appear in a whopping six Police Academy sequels, where he expertly reprised the role of Cadet Moses Hightower for each go-around. While Michael Winslow was running around making helicopter noises like a jackass, and that woman with the tiny voice was constantly on the verge of blowing her top, Hightower was always the picture of cool. While I’d like to say that this character represented my favorite Police Academy member (this distinction will always be set aside for the heavily armed Tackleberry), Smith could only be described as indispensable when referring to the rag-tag group of cops this series focused on. If ever there was a better cadet to tip over a cop car all by himself, or fire a football at some ne’er-do-well punk rock scum, I’ve yet to locate him.

Anyway, autopsy reports haven’t been released as of yet, but no foul play is suspected in Smith’s death. Unfortunately, as it sometimes goes with giant dudes, it may have been in the cards for Smith to bite the dust earlier than some of his norma-sized brethren. Clocking in at 6 feet 7 inches tall, Bubba Smith may not have fit the bill of a classic Hollywood leading man, but this guy could still wipe the streets clean of Bobcat Goldthwait with the best of ‘em.

Ever wonder how a defending Superbowl champ fills up the dog days of the off-season? Well, it appears that one NFL player recently decided to swing by his local Мишка retailer! Before NFL labor negotions had come to a conclusion, sophomore Tight End Andrew Quarless strapped a little bit of ice onto his right hand, and paid us a visit at our Brooklyn locale. Quarless grew up right around the corner in Long Island, so it was a pleasure to see the dude roaming the streets of his old stomping grounds.

After completing a storied football career at Penn State, under the tutelage of the ever-prescient JoePa, Quarless was snatched up by the mighty Green Bay Packers in the 2010 NFL draft. Saying that No. 81 slipped into a favorable position would be an understatement. Quarless found himself getting targets as a member of the Packers solid Tight End stable, and eventually played a role it helping the squad rise to American Football supremacy. While I generally fancy myself as an AFC supporter, I’d be lying if I claimed I didn’t love seeing The Pack beat the pants off ol’ Gray-Penis Roethlisberger last year in  Dallas.

Did I happen to mention that Quarless was also topped off with one of our very own New Era caps when he dropped by? While I would have liked to have seen the guy wearing a giant foam Cheesehead hat, I’m forced to admit that our gear doesn’t look half bad when paired with a superbowl ring. Unfortunately, we’re not currently selling any of those at the shop… you probably couldn’t afford one anyway.

Мишка
350 Broadway
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718-388-1725

J/M/Z to Marcy Ave
G to Broadway
L to Lorimer

It’s being reported that one of my least favorite Yankees to ever don the pinstripes bit the dust at his Los Angeles home this past Wednesday. While Hideki Irabu’s suspected suicide at the ripe age of 42 can only be described as tragic, this doesn’t change the fact that the Japanese-born hurler’s face was at one time emblazoned in my personal baseball hate pit.  Looking back at the man’s career, however, I suppose there will always be a special place in my heart burrowed out for the man George Steinbrenner once referred to as a “Fat Pussy Toad.”

As a young kid I distinctly remember the time leading up to the bombers signing Irabu, and the excitement that came along with his migration stateside. Up untill Irabu skipped across the pond, Hideo Nomo was essentially the only Asian to really thrive in the MLB, and I recall his starts being electrifying. Considering the reports that claimed Irabu had the kind of stuff that would put Nomo to shame, I had already started to count the rings that would result from the arrival of our new starter. Couple all this hype with the fact that Irabu kind of resembled a fat Japanese Babe Ruth, and I couldn’t have been more excited at the prospect of this pitching unknown.

Fast forward through the first couple months of Irabu’s career as a Yankee, and any excitement that the pitcher had at one time elicited within me had basically been stomped out. Statistically, Irabu was generally just horrible, amassing a 7.08 ERA in only nine starts. Somewhere along the line though, Irabu became one of those rare players that were so bad you couldn’t help but root for him. You knew something horrible was going to happen every time the dude approached the hill, but this made regular season games more interesting in many respects. Despite the fact that Irabu was playing for a veritable juggernaut of a baseball team, he still managed to come off as an underdog, and who doesn’t like rooting for those guys. Also, when your team is winning constantly, there is a perverse pleasure that comes along with seeing a member of your rotation get shelled out on the mound.

Anyway, by the time Irabu decided to hang up the cleats, the pitcher had supposedly pieced together a perfectly mediocre career, statistically speaking. While this fact may be true, the damage had already been done in the minds of baseball fans nationwide. I completely lost interest in Irabu after the Yanks had dealt him to the now defunct Montreal Expos in ’99, but I suppose that’s what happens when you’re sent to a failing Canadian franchise on the brink of collapse. All I had left to remember the pitcher by, was an oversized T-shirt with his mug on the front of it, that was bound to get ripped playing street hockey within the then foreseeable future.

If it seems like I’m trivializing the life of this professional athlete, and mostly tragic figure, it’s because I  am. Looking back though, Irabu represented one of the quirky characters that comprised the Yankees teams of my youth. These squads produced myriad lasting memories, and eventually hooked me on the sport as a whole. While Irabu may have been only a minor component of these teams, he was still a two-time World Champion, and this fact really can’t be swept under the rug. Also, I apologize ahead of time if the title of the post came off as insensitive… I couldn’t help myself.