The Shepcat Chronicles

NATIONAL TREASURE
I’ve said it many times before, and I’ll say it again:

Just once in my life, I want to love my job the way Brett Favre loves his job.

I always think of two occasions in particular — on the first, crushed by the mountainous Warren Sapp of the Buccaneers; on the other, leveled by the freight-train speed of the Lions’ Chris Spielman — either of which sack would have crumpled lesser quarterbacks or left them sitting there trying to guess their own names. On both occasions, Favre sprung up off the turf like a jack-in-the-box and slapped his assailant on the ass as if to say, “Great hit! Can you believe we get paid to do this?”

Favre is old school, blue collar, like the town in which he plies his trade. He would have fit in perfectly with the guys who played without facemasks 60 years ago. This is a guy who doesn’t just play with pain; he excels with pain. I don’t think he knows anymore how to play without it. And now, at the age of 37, he does it without Vicodin, which you or I would pretty much have to insist upon just to show up at Lambeau Field.

He also plays with a greater love of and joy for the game than just about anybody I’ve ever watched. He plays the game the way a schoolboy does. He celebrates every touchdown as if it was his first. He plays every down as if it was his last.

Thank God he’s not ready to play his last down just yet.

I’m so happy Favre came back this year that I can hardly stand the excitement. I haven’t even gotten to watch an entire Packers game yet this season, but the week-to-week tension of monitoring the ticker and watching game highlights has so far been electric. I’m one of the few people I know who believed he should return to Green Bay this year, thought the Packers were idiots even to contemplate releasing him, believed in my heart that Number 4 still had one great season left in him.

As of this writing, he is poised to deliver it to the Green Bay faithful. I don’t know how long these Packers can keep playing at this level, and I hate to jinx them by writing about them now, when they’re only 3-0 and the most grueling part of their season and a brutal Wisconsin winter still looms ahead.

Win or lose, though, Brett Favre is still the greatest show on turf. Revel in him while you can. Because once he quits the game for good, I guarantee you we’ll never see his kind again.

BRANDED*
The fascinating thing about this story is that Hall of Fame president Dale Petroskey is so magnanimous about receiving Barry Bonds’ record-breaking home run ball, expressing no apparent dismay or disdain, issuing not even the slightest condemnation of the elaborate machinations that led to that historical artifact being permanently defaced.

I would love to have listened in on the Hall of Fame’s conversations with fashion designer Marc Ecko, to know whether its board attempted to talk him out of his plan to let the Internet rabble determine the fate of Bonds’ home run ball. (One of the options was “launch it into space,” for crying out loud.) I’d love to know how many lawyers got involved in those conversations.

I would love to have sat in on the strategy sessions in which plans for the presentation of the branded ball in Cooperstown were discussed and debated and the public relations meetings in which the Hall of Fame’s official response was crafted. On the other hand, it’s entirely possible that these discussions weren’t as spirited as I imagine they could have been, requiring cooler heads to prevail and point out that history can always be elucidated, amended, revised whenever new facts come to light.

Given all those considerations, though, what is most intriguing about Petroskey’s statement is the way he acknowledges, even accepts, the collective democratic will of baseball fans but says nothing at all in defense of Bonds. Never mentions him, in fact. Or even refers to him obliquely, for that matter.

Maybe that’s why Bonds himself seems to have taken no pains to craft an official statement that doesn’t make him sound like a petulant brat who’s had his favorite toy confiscated. That he’s been removed from the discussion of his own achievement, arguably the most important record in all of American sport, is certainly a slap in the face.

Or perhaps Bonds used up the last crumbs of his own magnanimity when he learned last week that he’s no longer wanted in San Francisco and will have to test the waters of free agency if he intends to return for one more season in the bigs. (The implication here being that the Giants organization, having had the eyes of the world on it during Bonds’ chase for 756, no longer has any use for him now that the record is on the books.)

If he had ever made any effort to be more lovable, likable or even merely engaging, it might be easier for Barry Bonds to plead his own case for his rightful place in baseball history. As it stands, though, he’s won himself very little sympathy over the years, pissing off a lot of people and engendering suspicion in the minds of a great many more. Maybe someday he’ll finally connect the dots and realize that that’s why he’s been branded in the eyes of history.



Ed. note: In the interest of full disclosure, I’m one of the 47 percent who voted for the ball to be branded with the asterisk at Marc Ecko’s website, Vote756.com. What — you doubted me even for a moment?

DAMNED THOUGHTFUL OF THEM
Dave and the boys apparently didn’t want me to be completely disconsolate in the wake of A’s return to Wyoming on Sunday, so they scheduled the street date of their new release accordingly.

Rock along with us — won’t you? — and chase the blues away. Loudly.

SEEING HOW HER OTHER HALF LIVES
My beautiful better half departed Sunday afternoon after a whirlwind five days here in Kansas City, her critical inaugural visit here to meet — and be inspected by — the other important people in my life.

During her stay Adriane ran a gauntlet that included my parents; my brother and sister-in-law; my two lovely nieces; my aunt and uncle; my legal defense team from L.A., who brought with them my handsome new second cousin, Henry; four of my seven oldest, dearest friends; and two of my favorite dogs (plus a third for whom I inexplicably do not enjoy favorite-uncle status). She confronted this onslaught with her characteristic grace, charm and good humor and, predictably, passed the test with flying colors.

We stayed in the comfortable but dodgy Deathtrap Suite of the Lenexa Days Inn, with its sputtering, sparking light fixtures and its toilet that routinely managed three or four good flushes in a row before it clogged, its peak level flirting with the rim and necessitating the daily intervention of the housekeeping staff. For having been neither flooded nor electrocuted during Adriane’s visit, we are most grateful but very much looking forward to staying at a different hotel chain on our next adventure together.

At the risk of egocentrism, I attempted to show Adriane as many of the touchstones of my life here as possible in the time allotted. Our tour through my checkered past and present included the duplex I lived in from sixth grade through my freshman year in college; my grade school, junior high and high school; the parking lot in which Mom taught me to drive; the church in which I was raised; my dad’s grocery store; many of the coffeehouses that function as my branch offices; and the great stone fortress in midtown in whose spacious penthouse I lived for three years and in front of which I was robbed at gunpoint one fateful summer night 1997. (That I managed to show her these things more or less in chronological order was remarked upon, although I swear I hadn’t actually set out to conduct the tour in such a comprehensive manner.)

Thursday I took Adriane to Lawrence to re-create for her as faithfully as possible the day-to-day wonder of being a Jayhawk with a walking tour of my alma mater. We stopped by my home-away-from-home for four years, Oliver Residence Hall, which today is appointed with much nicer amenities than those my tuition dollars afforded some two decades hence; climbed Mount Oread to campus; relaxed on Wescoe Beach with a copy of the UDK; toured Hoch Auditorium (I refuse to call it Budig Hall, regardless of the postfire rebuilding effort that resulted in its present splendor), the William Allen White School of Journalism and Watson Library; stopped by the Kansas Union to shop for Jayhawk apparel; were dismayed by the sight of a boarded-up Yello Sub, where we had hoped to have lunch; and paused briefly to enjoy the bells of the Campanile and its vista overlooking Memorial Stadium. Then it was back to whence we came, with a mandatory visit to Allen Fieldhouse, to absorb the electricity of the coming hoops season and pay our respects to the father of basketball coaching.

After lunching with my brother and sister-in-law Friday and attending my youngest niece’s soccer game that evening, we capped off the week Saturday at the Plaza Art Fair — parking in the garage of the building in which I toiled as a magazine editor for five years, an unexpected bonus to complete the tour — followed by dinner with my aforementioned friends, who very graciously welcomed Adriane into the fold.

All told, it was a delightful week in which Adriane was not terribly overtaxed (or so she claims) and I didn’t have to throw myself on many grenades (for which I am ever grateful). By week’s end, another mutual admiration society seems to have convened, and this one boasts more than two members.

ZEBRA SIGHTING
This afternoon at the coffeehouse where I manned my post, a patron walked in wearing full referee regalia, except for his black cap, which he must have left in the car.

I found myself momentarily rueful that some infraction hadn’t occurred for which we could expect a ruling. A whistle blown, a flag thrown, just as the routine order of the café was disrupted by some caffeine-fueled offense (though, admittedly, the rules governing the use of performance-enhancing substances in this arena are murky). Wise arbitration administered on the spot. Justice served up piping hot in a grande cup.

In that moment, it occurred to me — oddly, perhaps, for the first time — that there are both practical and symbolic reasons why referees wear black and white.

In the next moment, however, I reminded myself that referees in the NBA wear gray shirts, and suddenly the Tim Donaghy scandal takes on a whole new layer of symbolism.

THE CAR WRECK AT THE INTERSECTION OF HUBRIS AND BRAVADO
Believe it or not, this post about hubris and bravado has nothing at all to do with George W. Bush. The surprises never end here at the Chronicles.

Nor do they ever end inside the squared circle, where fighters always find new ways to strut like the cocks-of-the-walk in vain attempts to exhibit even a fraction of Muhammad Ali’s charisma, that oft-imitated but never-approximated substance whose secret formula and peculiar properties remain a mystery to this day, even to the sweetest of scientists.

The modern fighter believes it’s enough just to shoot off his mouth and then, of course, to back it up with a win, but the modern fighter is a great deal more protective of his record than fighters were during Ali’s prime, just two generations ago. The bigger paydays enjoyed today by marquee fighters ensure that a titleholder or ranked contender doesn’t always have to put up or shut up against every qualified challenger. In becoming a legend, Ali didn’t have the luxury of ducking dates with the likes of Joe Frazier, George Foreman, Ken Norton or Earnie Shavers, to name but a few, yet today it’s like pulling teeth to coax the best talent in any weight division into the ring together.

Such is the case with “Pretty Boy” Floyd Mayweather Jr. (38-0-0; 24 KOs), regarded as of this writing by many, if not most — and certainly by himself — as boxing’s pound-for-pound champion, perhaps the only title that really matters in this era of alphabet soup, a diminished heavyweight division, and fighters who regularly move up and down in class.

However, Mayweather has repeatedly balked at offers to fight such serious up-and-comers as Antonio Margarito and Miguel Cotto, which certainly begs the question: If you’re really so damn good, why don’t you want to prove it conclusively by systematically dismantling the best fighters in your class? Instead Mayweather tries to pass himself off as a shrewd businessman, routinely arguing that the money on the table isn’t enough to get him into the ring.

When Mayweather does get into the ring, he never does so quietly, but recently he has taken his penchant for self-promotion to a whole new level — by casting himself in the role of the villain. He did this most memorably in the run-up to his Cinco de Mayo showdown against Oscar De La Hoya, operating under the assumption that the public was hungry for a battle between the sort of archetypes ordinarily reserved for big-budget Hollywood action movies.

Pretty Boy talked a big game, promising in profanity-laced tirades nothing short of the televised emasculation of the more reserved and businesslike Golden Boy. When hammer at last struck bell for their date with destiny, though, it was De La Hoya who never took a backward step early on but took the fight to Mayweather, repeatedly driving the champion back into the ropes and unleashing flailing flurries and furious combinations. Ultimately Mayweather won the split decision I had predicted all along, but he had done so in a conservative, backpedaling, defensive fashion instead of unleashing the fury with which he had overwhelmed so many of his previous opponents and all but promised to execute against De La Hoya. In the end, my scorecard was much less lopsided than those of the ringside judges, because how do you score a round in favor of the guy who runs away from his opponent?

In the wake of the De La Hoya bout, another interested observer who called Mayweather out — and out of his alleged “retirement” — is the undefeated 140-pound titleholder and pride of Manchester, England, Ricky “The Hitman” Hatton (43-0-0; 31 KOs).

While it’s true that Hatton has built his unblemished record by fighting more anonymous U.K. fighters of lesser talent, he has recently stepped up against a higher quality of competition, beginning with his seizure of the IBF light welterweight title from Kostya Tzsyu, who retired in his corner before the 12th round of their fight, then apparently retired for good thereafter. And while Hatton hasn’t been entirely impressive in his defeats of Luis Collazo, Juan Urango and Jose Luis Castillo, he has at least recorded these victories before American audiences in Boston, Las Vegas and on HBO, giving American fight fans a clearer picture of his skills, his tenacity and his claims to championship legitimacy.

After trading barbs in the press, the brash Mancunian finally stung Pretty Boy’s pride — and appealed to his bank account — enough to lure him into a fight at 147 pounds for the WBC title Mayweather won from Carlos Baldomir last November. The fight offers Hatton a chance to put his money where his mouth is, but Mayweather must pull off the tougher self-promotional feat of the two: Having cast oneself in the role of villain against one of the most popular fighters of the last 20 years, what does one do for an encore?

Apparently one disregards altogether the talent of his next opponent by appearing not to take him seriously at all. And here’s where the pound-for-pound champ veers off the rails.

Last week came the news that, while he trains for his December 8 showdown against Hatton, Mayweather will simultaneously be competing on ABC’s Dancing with the Stars.

On the one hand it’s easy to assume that it’s a stunt designed to send the message I posited two paragraphs ago, that Mayweather will compete just long enough to fire that shot across Hatton’s bow, then allow himself to be voted off the show so he can turn his full attention to the arduous, relentless training on which his reputation was built.

However, one cannot discount the athlete’s competitive nature, especially in a showcase in which such athletes as NFL Hall of Famers Emmitt Smith and Jerry Rice and Olympic speed skater Apolo Anton Ohno have excelled in previous seasons. And if Mayweather opts to put forth his best effort in both arenas, he could conceivably be dancing until one week before the Hatton fight, dividing his time as he shuttles back and forth between Vegas and L.A. to meet his dual commitments.

Among the flurry of other questions this move raises is the effect ballroom dancing will have on Floyd’s footwork come fight night. On the one hand, the demands of dancing can only help his stamina (although that’s never been a problem he’s encountered in the ring), but how will they affect his coordination and timing? Will the figurative misstep of dividing his training lead to a literal misstep that makes him vulnerable to Hatton’s offense at inopportune moments? Will “the rhythm of the night” upset the rhythm of the fight?

Is it really worth risking one’s record and reputation just to let one’s opponent know he isn’t seen as a threat? Has Mayweather taken the act of oneupsmanship one step too far, only to up the ante against himself? And doesn’t boxing, now more than ever, deserve a people’s champion who takes the sport seriously amid the rise of ultimate fighting and pro wrestling leagues that pander to the tastes of an impatient, inattentive public that craves the instant gratification of entertainment more than the increasingly irrelevant purity of sport — and at prices less daunting than the pay-per-view tabs demanded by boxing promoters?

It’s entirely possible that Mayweather can do both — distract himself with ballroom dancing and still deliver a convincing victory over Hatton. Yet, if he does plan to retire and stay retired any time soon, he needs to look at each and every one of his final fights as a cornerstone of his legacy, his legend, his bid for immortality. If he’s not willing to take seriously a competitor like Ricky Hatton, Mayweather could very easily find himself staring up into the blinding lights of the MGM Grand Arena by night’s end, the punchline to his own badly executed joke, a footnote to the story of his own career.

In the end, pound-for-pound champ Floyd Mayweather Jr., the latest in a long line of superegos, may prove himself to be nothing more than a lot of talk and a belt, ripe to be picked apart by the twin vanities of hubris and bravado, which have laid low so many who came before him.