I was looking at the Braves' financial commitments for the next few years, and with the money coming off the books, and the future commitments we have in place, the Braves might actually be a player in free agency this offseason. Hopefully they do better than the last time we splurged before the 2009 season, when we came away with Derek Lowe and Kawakami in what I consider to be Frank Wren's two least impressive moves.
While the Atlanta Braves are nothing more than a tax write-off for our loyal owners, our ever-thinking GM has put the team in a situation to succeed for years, and should be a big player in free agency and trades during the next offseason.
Figures were taken from Baseball Prospectus.
Looking ahead, with Larry Chipper Wayne Jones Jr. set to retire ($14M), Lowe's $10M coming off the books, nearly $7M from Bourn (who I'm not sure if I want to retain), and another $10M in the expiring contracts of Matt Diaz, Eric Hinske, Jack Wilson and a handful of superfluous reliever, the Braves could be looking at quite the spending spree. I also don't see Jair Jurrjens and his $5.5M contract being renewed at this point, and I think he is a viable non-tender/trade candidate. That's nearly 46 million dollars burning a hole in Liberty Media's pocket.
Due in arbitration for the first time this year: Jason Heyward, Everyday Jonny Venters, Christhian Martinez and Kris Medlen. Heyward and Venters are in for sizable paydays, and while Martinez has been a key cog in the Braves bullpen, he doesn't have the sample size to demand a large payday. Medlen could be a curious case, because his versatility is so valuable, but as a long man / middle reliever, he shouldn't demand more than a few million.
I see Jonny getting around $4M, Heyward around $8M, while Martinez and Medlen should combine for about an additional $6M.
Assuming Jurrjens isn't rocking a Tomahawk next year, Martin Prado and Eric O'Flaherty are the only other arbitration eligible players, each for the third time. If Prado were being paid on what my mother thinks his worth is, he'd be on the Yankees. Fortunately, I see him earning (and I mean earning) $7M, while EOF, the seventh inning man, should net himself around $4M.
According to my (admittedly questionable math), I have the Bravos shedding $46M in salary, while only having to commit (roughly) $30M to the players due raises. The $16M-ish will afford Frank Wren an opportunity he hasn't enjoyed in a few years: to make a splash during the offseason.
Let's hope he does better than the failed hunt of Furcal and A.J. Burnett and the successful haul of Derek Lowe and Kenshin Kawakami three years ago.
I was always bunting, man. Didn't matter what the count was. Sometimes you fake like you missed a sign a take a hack on a 2-0 count or something like that. I always had to contemplate just paying the fine and going into launch mode up there.
My buddy Tom and I once joked about him making a Braves app for the iPhone featuring news my writing. Well - what do you know he pulled it off. Download "Braves Ball 1.0" in the app store. It's a work in progress but there are some cool features in the works.... Including Zak! Failla Original editorial. Vote five stars!
As anyone who cares knows, it's Larry Chipper Wayne Jones Jr.'s final season on the hot corner in atlanta. It's clear to anyone watching that he is having an absolute blast this season, and is showing a true love for the game and his teammates (despite his balky knees). As a part of his final tour, Chipper is being interviewed as often as he has since '99 and as an added treat for the fans, he's been as candid and open as I can ever remember reading. Follow this train of thought, I recently remember him saying that there are days he (and people his age) simply can't catch up to the fastball. An insightful and thoughtful statement. Nothing too profound, but interesting. Fast forward to this evening's game. Former Bravo prospect Adam Wainwright is struggling mightily, has the bases loaded, can't find the plate and already walked in a run. In steps Chipper Jones. With the final verses of "Crazy Train" still blaring on the PA speaker - Chipper swings awkwardly at a fastball for strike one. After taking a poor outside fastball he missed badly on two fastballs to give the cardinals an easy first out. Any number of factors could have played into this. Did the cardinals hear that he struggles to catch up to good heat? Probably. Would they have exploited that on a 40 year old third baseman? Most likely. But I still can't help but to feel like the captain shouldn't put it out there that he can't always looks fastball and react anything else. If I'm aware of this phenomenon, I'm sure the pitchers on st Louis do too. -- Off topic: in watching just 11 innings of ball here: is it me or does Beltran look REALLY tentative playing balls near that awkward section of stands down the right field line in Busch? A return to center might benefit him because then he just has to play batters and not the field as much.
Last night's win was great, no denying it - - and the image of that ball rocketing off of Heyward's bat is going to last in my mind awhile, but that won't be the lasting memory of the game.
The fans of St. Louis gave everyone a gift when they gave Larry Chipper Wayne Jones Jr. a standing ovation before his first at bat in his final series in either Busch Stadium. You could see Chipper was visibly moved (and by the look of his first swing after the ovation, he got a little jacked up) and it's something I for one won't soon forget. Hats off to Yadier Molina for traipsing off to the mound to give Chipper the chance to step out of the box, and to home plate umpire Mike Muchlinski for giving him as much time as he needed. It's long been said that St. Louis has some of the best, most educated fans, and they really showed why they deserve that reputation last night.
Contrast that with Philadelphia fans, who have been known to boo Santa Claus, throw batteries and deride Sarah Palin (okay... maybe that one is understandable). I hope that fans getting the opportunity to see Chipper for the last time this season realize that they are witnessing the end of an era, and treat number 10 accordingly.
“To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and to endure the betrayal of false friends. To appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.”
To my adoring fan (hi, Red) - my apologies for my disappearing act recently. Things got crazy up here in north Idaho. But without further ado.. My grand return:
--
With Bones Jones championship defense last night - I thought this would be an ideal time to share one of my favorite pieces that I've written but could never manage to get published..
It was written the spring semester of my senior year at IC - for my Narrative Journalism class. In the class we explored the ideas of New Journalism, New Media, and especially long form and immersion pieces. Our biggest assignment was a semester long piece in which we would "immerse" ourselves in a culture and write a several thousand word piece for our final.
The ideas my classmates came up with were curious. Stories ranged from a girl that joined a LARPER group, to a guy who spent countless hours with the homeless community in "The Jungle" behind Wegmans, to someone who learned how to blow glass from a family of masters.
For me, I knew if I was going to be spending 2-3 hours 3-4 days a week working on this assignment, it had to be something that could hold my interset. I didn't want to join a nature clan or a woman's group and I certainly wanted to avoid following a midwife (which a classmate did, and witnessed a live birth.) Coming up with a subject; however, was easier said than done. I knew I wanted to do something with sports - but how in the world does one immerse himself in sports? And make it unique?
After days of deliberation, I decided to get in contact with Ryan Ciotoli, a fellow Bomber who I had worked with on a story before, and who ran an up and coming Mixed Marital Arts gym outside Cortland (now based just off campus in Ithaca) to see if he would be willing to let me sit in as he trains his growing stable of fighters. Without hesitation he graciously accepted, and a story was born.
I wasn't sure what to expect - this was an assignment unlike anything I had done before. Most of my stuff required a quick turnaround, hours at most... minutes usually (our deadlines at the Journal were VERY early). I was nervous when I first made the 20 minute trek to Team Bombsquad's headquarters, not knowing what to expect or how I would be received. My fears were dumbfounded.
The experience could not have been more rewarding. By spending such an exorbitant amount of time with the guys in their gym and living quarters (which were on the same compound) I was able to build a rapport, and really get inside the heads of the fighters and trainers in a way I never had before. They accepted me with open arms, were open, honest and it was like I wasn't even there. It was a pleasure getting to know the guys and to see what was underneath the admittedly intimidating exterior.
After about two months of spending far too much time in the cramped Bombsquad gym, it was writing time. This was the part I was most looking forward to (a chance to write without limitations, and with a narrative? yes.) It was also the part I was a bit anxious about, because I had been trained and taught to write shorter pieces, 400-500 words, with maybe some 800-1,000 word features in there - never a 12 page epic.
I started working on the final product at around 6 p.m. on Thursday evening, thinking that I would make some headway to alleviate some of the pressure as the deadline neared. 15 hours later (with an hour break for video games, of course) I rose from my desk - made it rain with my notes - and stared victoriously on my masterpiece.
Then I slept. Thank the maker I didn't have class on Fridays.
So without further ado: I present "I Can't Sing or Dance, and I Want People to Pay Attention to Me," a Zak! Failla experience.
Pop! Pop! Bang! Pop! Pop!
The sounds of weapons going off can be heard throughout the Lowell Memorial Auditorium in Massachusetts. The sound reverberates off the painted white walls and the sparkling tan tiles of the hallway – making the quick sudden booms seem even larger, louder, and more frightening.
Pop!
Three men, each wearing different colored t-shirts with the same logo look on eagerly at the man wearing the pink shirt. He is the smallest of the group by far, his black warm-up pants might be more at home on a G.I. Joe, but right now he commands all the attention as he creates this ruckus in the hallway.
Pop!
The weapons that are creating all this calamity are not cannons. They are not pistols. They are not even paintball or BB guns. They are the fists of a trained fighter - potentially even more dangerous than the primitive firearms – as they collide with the pads being held in front of him by the man towering over him in the black shirt.
Pop!
Pink shirt rattles off one final strike before taking several paces to cool off and collect his nerves. Anxious energy floods his system as he continues to pace, gloved hands on hips, getting ready to put his life on the line. He pounds his pink-clad chest – he is ready. Cheers and roars can be heard from his entourage, sporting the same shirt he is in brown and green.
“Let’s go bud. All you. All you. This is yours.”
Pink shirt bounces on the toes of his bare feet – eyes focused on the challenge that lay ahead of him – knowing that for the next 25 minutes, there is going to be someone locked in a 30 foot steel cage with him, content to break every bone in his body. With some sweat dripping down his face, he is the definition of cool – breathing deeply and keeping his head held high. Suddenly the lights go dark, and the 4,000 spectators in attendance rise to their feet to see the five and a half foot man in the pink shirt make his way toward Hell.
Yeah, yeah, I’ma up at Brooklyn, now I’m down in Tribeca; right next to De Niro, but I’ll be hood forever. I’m the new Sinatra, and since I made it here I can make it anywhere, yeah, they love me everywhere.
The song choice was a no-brainer. The Long Island product is proud of his roots, and even prouder to be representing not only his home state, but the state that has given him an opportunity to pursue his dream. He and his entire entourage are wearing MMA New York shirts, complete with a silhouetted of the Statue of Liberty in the middle of the A. Pounding his fists and throwing quick mock punches, as he crosses the threshold, the fighter sees the rabid fans cheering – hoping to see some blood, and one fighter on the ground seeing stars, within the next half hour.
In New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made of – there’s nothing you can’t do – now you’re in New York.
The fighter leads the way, continuing to bounce on his toes and shuffle his feet like he is doing an Irish jig. His head bobs up and down to the beat, ignoring the fans in the stands surrounding the cage who are roaring his name and wishing him luck. Not one of them is envious of what he is about to go do. Seemingly immune to the noise, and the flashing green, purple and blue strobe lights that are signaling his impending arrival to the cage – he continues his way down the black rubber walkway toward the ring, and his fate.
These streets will make you feel brand new, big lights will inspire you – let’s hear it for New York, New York.
Pink shirt walks with a swagger in his step. He is confident, but not cocky – anxious, but not scared. Behind him, his entourage of fellow fighters follows, nodding their heads in anticipation of the big event that is almost eight weeks in the making. This isn’t just a night for the fighter – it is a night for each one of them, who have exhausted themselves for nearly two months to make this night a success – training alongside him to get him both mentally and physically prepared for this fight. Black shirt, his trainer walks closely behind him, as if to protect his fighter from any hecklers, and knowing that he will be powerless to protect his 22-year-old fighter in a matter of mere minutes. The trainer’s face is expressionless as he too ignores the lights and sounds around him – focused solely on making sure his fighter gets out of there safely, and without a blemish on his undefeated record. The rest of the entourage trails a few paces back – used to the atmosphere, but still taking in all that they can and enjoying the moment both for themselves and their teammate. Green shirt rubs his thick red beard, almost in awe, and brown shirt adjusts his hat as he nears closer to the ring, unable to contain a grin that reveals a few missing teeth. They’ve both been here before, as a fighter and as a teammate, but the mixture of excitement and foreboding floating through the air is what sustains their love for the sport.
I made the Yankee hat more famous than a Yankee can. You should know I bleed blue, but I ain’t a Crip though – but I got a gang walking with my clique, though.
The cage is now close enough to touch. From the top row of the audience, it seems a tame and tiny box in the middle of a mass of people. As one steps closer; however, they find an imposing octagon with six-foot high black chain link fences just waiting to get introduced to someone’s flesh. In each corner there is a black pad with the label XCFL – Extreme Cage Fighting League – and on the white canvas floor there are eight sponsors’ logos that will soon be covered by two men wrestling, squirming and trying to decapitate each other. Inside of the cage, there is the man announcing the fighters’ entrances, his hair slowly disappearing, but otherwise looking fit for his age, dressed in a black suit complete with matching bowtie. There is a bald official dressed in a plain black collared shirt and black pants with blue surgical gloves on – in case there is any bloodshed. The final man in the ring is more imposing than the two older men. He is a 24-year-old Asian fighter with spiked hair, and he too is bouncing to the beat of the music. He is sporting a white shirt that reads: “VIGILENCE,” a virtue he will need if he hopes to succeed in this profession. Barely visible under his long shirt are black tight shorts. He is staring at pink shirt with a combination of hatred and angst. Reciprocating his glare, pink shirt continues to leer at the Asian as a second official pats him down – looking for any abnormalities in his ring attire. He passes his pink MMA New York t-shirt and the pants he has just stripped off to his trainer and allows the official to pat down his grey wrestling spandex. With the referee’s approval, he turns to his entourage for last minute preparation. His manager offers some quick words of advice as his teammates yell some encouragement over the crowd, which is now growing restless with anticipation of the fight that is about to begin. He has Vaseline copiously piled onto his face to avoid any bruising or tearing of his skin, and water is dumped into his mouth out of a label-less bottle. With one final deep breath, he raises his arms three times in salute to the crowd, which roars its approval, and climbs the stairs and through the entrance of Hell, which is quickly closed and locked – leaving the sanctity of his multi-colored entourage on the outside. There are now just three people in the ring: a man trying to maintain peace and order – and two men trying to destroy it.
“And his opponent for this 135 pound Bantamweight Championship match, now entering the cage… From Team Bombsquad… Anthony Leone!”
--
For Anthony Leone and his teammates at Team Bombsquad, the road to get to this championship fight was paved with broken bones, bloody faces, and hours of tireless work each day, both in the gym and out of it. The life of a mixed martial arts fighter is not a glorious one – and it takes a rare individual to make a successful lifestyle out of this unique sport.
Mixed martial arts (MMA) is the fastest growing sport in America. It combines the exactness of Karate and Jiu-Jitsu, the brute power of boxing, the technique of amateur wrestling and the showmanship of the WWF, to create the ultimate fighting hybrid – all of which takes place in an enclosed octagon-shaped steel cage. A fighter cannot survive in MMA only being good at any one of these abilities – they need to adapt their skill-set to include multiple fighting disciplines if they hope to have any chance of success. The sport has not even been around for two decades, debuting in 1993 with the creation of the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC), which is the equivalent of the major leagues in baseball for heavyweights. Countless other MMA promotions quickly began surfacing in the decade following the UFC’s popularity explosion, including the WEC - which is the highest level for most lightweight fighters, and the M-1 Global promotion, which is where most fighters begin their professional careers. A fighter can claim victory by knocking his opponent unconscious, forcing him to admit defeat, or by pummeling his opponent into oblivion and putting him in what the referee deems as “mortal danger.”
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It is the height of winter in central New York, and McGraw, New York, on the outskirts of Cortland, looks like it would be right at home inside of a snow globe. McGraw is a tiny town where the number of trees outnumber the amount of people living there tenfold, and you are more likely to see your neighbor’s cows than their children. With the recent snowfall, McGraw has begun to resemble a Bob Ross painting: scenic, beautiful, but strangely devoid of human life. Smack in the heart of McGraw, down the highway from the central New York Tractor Store and surrounded by two farms, stands a three story house that would be considered a palace by McGraw standards. From the front it appears like any other central New York house. It has a large front yard that is punctuated by three sets of footsteps – two large and one small that clearly came from the boots of people running and playing. In front of the auburn stained wooden front door of the house is a mid-sized black truck and navy blue car, desperate for a car wash, wearing a tattered coat of sand, dirt and salt from the surrounding roads. There are several bald oak trees leading up the driveway, and two thick, full pine trees growing on either side of the house. However, when one heads towards the back, they see what sets this particular house apart from the rest of McGraw.
--
Anthony Leone heads from the side door in the back of the house and trudges through the snow. With each step, the snow crunches and compacts under his white sneakers. Despite the frigid temperatures, he is wearing only red shorts with a white and black stripe down either side, and a form-fitting, white Oklahoma Wrestling shirt that reveals every contour and muscle of his five foot, six inch frame. He is walking toward what looks like an ordinary tool shed. The unassuming building has nothing more than plain white siding, and a steely grey double door with a spot light above it. To the untrained eye, this would seem like a ridiculous outfit to be wearing to walk 30 yards to a shed, but the minute Leone swings open the double door, he reveals Mecca.
This is no shed. Instead, it is a pristine gym, spotless from front to back. The walls are all padded with blue cushions – if they were white it would resemble the padded walls of an asylum. The floor is covered by several blue wrestling mats, which encompass all but a two-foot strip of the gym. On either end of the mats, the words HOME OF THE BOMBSQUAD are stretched across in foot-wide gold letters. Adorning the walls, above the pads, there are several banners hung. Some of these banners had motivational slogans: “Last Round, Best Round.” Some of these banners had sponsors on them: “Full Contact Fighter,” “Cole Blooded,” “Knucklehead Fight Wear.” And some of them had “religious” slogans: “Jesus Didn’t Tap.” The only constant in each of the banners is one particular logo – a white bomb that has already been lit, with the name Team Bombsquad in black inside of it. There are two punching bags in the far corners hanging from an elaborate series of chains. Opposite the punching bags sits a dirty, tattered red grappling dummy that looks as if it has taken several beatings throughout its long life – with tape across its midsection and its left arm. The four frameless windows provide the light in the room along with ten fluorescent lights on the ceiling – two of which are haplessly flickering with their final breaths of life. There are four sets of beige lockers neatly lined up alongside a series of six foot high plastic shelves that hold everything from boxing gloves to mouth guards to sneakers to tape and even a boom box that looks like it once played Vanilla Ice cassettes.
As Anthony sits on the floor, he begins to get himself ready. First he straps on his cup to ensure that he will be able to produce little Leone’s one day. He kicks off his shoes, pulls off his socks and places them inside of his locker. He gets his gloves and mouthpiece out, and gently places them next to him as he begins to wrap his hands in yellow tape. Staring intently at the tape, Leone wraps his hands and wrists with precision that would make a chemist blush.
As Leone is finishing his tape job and putting the finishing touches on his wardrobe, his two housemates step through the double doors and into the promise land.
Kenny “The Tooth Fairy” Foster earned his nickname based on his bizarre ability to knock out people’s teeth. The irony of this nickname is not lost on him, seeing as the tooth fairy has had to visit Kenny twice to collect teeth under his pillow that were lost during fights. He takes off his winter hat to reveal what his fellow fighters call his “Dumbo ears,” sticking out to the side awkwardly with his black hair already matted to his head before he even starts sweating. He smirks at his teammate, showing two gaps on either side of his smile where his teeth have been knocked out. After getting himself situated, he changes his t-shirt to a blue t-shirt with an ornate silhouette of a gold figure throwing a punch on top of the word “Foster.” The figure on the shirt is actually Kenny throwing a punch, though due to a mix-up he was given triple the amount of “Foster Specials” from the t-shirt company and has been giving them out like Halloween candy since then. Though he too is a Long Island product, he spent a lot of his childhood in Georgia and when he greets his fellow fighters with a “howdy guys!,” he does so with a twang that is unmistakably from the south.
Pat Bennett is the only member of Team Bombsquad who is labeled a “heavyweight,” weighing in at 235 pounds, just 45 pounds less than Leone and Foster combined. He looks more the part of an Irish lumberjack than MMA fighter, with a thick beard that covers most of his face and broad upper body that would make Paul Bunyan proud. He’s lived in upstate New York his whole life – he was raised in Syracuse, was a two time Division-I All American Wrestler at SUNY Brockport, and decided over a year ago to move south to Cortland to pursue his MMA dreams. Despite his foreboding appearance, Pat is quick to smile and quicker to make a joke. He’s been known to call Kenny a “predator” in reference to Foster’s taste in women who are too young, and once masterminded a training session in the front yard with the sole intention of working alongside a teammate’s friends who were in a sorority.
The warm, fresh gym is a refreshing contrast from the bitter cold outside of the double doors, but as the rest of the fighters begin filing in, it starts to resemble a high school locker room. Bags are haphazardly thrown everywhere, their contents being strewn about the two feet of floor not covered by the Bombsquad mats. Pants lay idle on the floor, useless in this setting, and shirts and jackets are hanging from the corners of open lockers, swaying after they are thrown off their owners’ muscular arms. The floor begins to resemble that of a discount shoe store; a pair of size 10 Adidas sneakers over here, a size 12 pair of Nike high tops over there, a pair of socks stuffed hastily in the size 8 Timberland boots that trekked through the snow. The windows that were empty minutes ago are now housing various water bottles, filled with yellow or red sports drinks, thick protein shakes, and occasionally, water.
Finally, the Godfather walks in. Ryan Ciotoli is the architect of Team Bombsquad. He contrived the idea almost a decade ago, and opened his first gym in 2002. He was a three time All-American wrestler and two-time NCAA champion runner-up. He is an unassuming man who tried his hand at participating in the sport, but found his true passion in training the young fighters of upstate New York. He has built his team, literally from his back yard into the preeminent MMA training center in the Northeast.
Once practice begins, it is clear who the regulars are and who is just beginning their MMA experience. The newer guys are less talkative, stick to themselves and are constantly waiting for instructions, apprehensive about what they’re about to get themselves into. The more experienced souls in the group began their workout before Ryan entered the room and are more apt to horse around. Troy Sterling, a freshman wrestler at Cortland quickly jumped on Leone’s back and rode him like a mechanical bull – holding his chin with one hand – wrapping his legs around his waste and throwing an imaginary lasso at his teammates while Leone ran like a bull around the gym trying unsuccessfully buck him off.
The fighters begin their practice running around the gym in circles, and following Ryan’s instructions as he shouts to them from the middle of the circle – throwing a tennis ball at them to keep their hand-eye-coordination sharp, and to make sure their focus remains.
Skip!
As the fighters begin to skip – the sounds of chains can be heard clanging and colliding from the far corner. Pat had picked up Leone and threw him into the punching bag.
Sidestep!
Raising his voice slightly to refocus his team – he begins running with them – warming himself up for the day ahead, crossing his feet alongside his team as they laterally ran around the gym. He will likely have to show some of the new guys the drills they will be participating in today.
Bear crawl!
Soon the sounds of laughter and amusement evaporate into the increasingly hot room and are replaced instead by the sounds of hands and feet dully colliding with the wrestling mats as they crawl around the gym, looking more like sick hyenas than bears.
Jumping Jacks, then Lunges!
Despite the team’s overall imposing nature and impressive physical skills, they all still surreptitiously glance over to the Godfather to see if he is watching them put their work in, desperately seeking his approval. With their warm-up complete, it is time to begin the workout for that session. Ryan puts the fighters in weight order, and breaks them off into groups of four similarly sized competitors, and instructs them to put on sparring gear – which includes protective headgear and shin guards to ensure that two teammates don’t sustain any injuries. Team Bombsquad believes in sparring – fighting against each other during practice - at full speed, whereas most teams will go at only half pace or less. Ciotoli has seen some of his fighters get knocked out during practice, but believes that by going at each other full bore, it will help mentally prepare them by taking the fear out of getting hurt during an actual fight. This has the benefit of preparing the fighters for the speed and impact of their official fights, but fighters also run the risk of injury. Leone has torn cartilage in his ribs after getting kicked during a spar, had his labrum torn during a submission attempt and had his nose broken once. Pat Audinwood, another Bombsquad fighter, had his face fractured, and missed out on an opportunity to fight in both the UFC and WEC – the two largest promotions in America.
Once the sparring begins, it is impossible to tell that just minutes ago these men were smiling and laughing and joking with each other. Once Ryan yells “Go!” all bets are off and the men are charging at each other like lionesses protecting their cubs. With three tandems fighting at once, the practice has turned into semi-organized chaos, but remarkably, Ciotoli manages to keep his eyes on all three spars – commenting on certain things that he believes need to be worked on. He notices the most minute things, from an elbow being three inches too far out, or that one-foot was slightly tilted the wrong way. His experience affords him this unparalleled knowledge, and his attention to detail gives him the opportunity to correct the smallest imperfections in his fighters as he turns them into machines of fury.
“Dig your fingers under the elbow, and get from the under hook to the over hook!”
“Bump your elbows out, and get your own hands in there so you have some position!”
“It is the basics that will win you fights! Work the body – a lot of guys are head hunters and you won’t win in this sport that way!”
The sounds of bodies slamming to the mat begins to create an almost rhythmic tune. The dull thud of sparring gloves hitting opponents’ gloves is more and more prevalent as fatigue sets in and fighters are easier to take down. Some of the men tackle like linebackers, others punch like Rocky Balboa. A few of the fighters kick like they’re taking a penalty shot in soccer and others use wrestling tactics: a double leg takedown or a fireman’s carry. Bodies are flying everywhere, and limbs are flailing like tree branches in a hurricane. One particular newcomer, a student at SUNY Cortland just down the road, was having a difficult time in his first spar against Foster, an accomplished opponent. Leone did his best to motivate and help the rookie learn, while still keeping the pressure on.
“Don’t feel bad for yourself! No one is going to help you. Stop looking away! You’re in the shark tank now and you’re the goldfish! You have to fight back,” Leone said while pounding on a punching bag. “You can’t be afraid to hurt or hit someone because they aren’t worried, and they aren’t your friend in this minute. You’ll feel bad after each practice if you don’t work hard. Just keep working.” At this point, when the round was over, despite his seemingly harsh words, he picked the rookie up off the ground, gave him a hug, and took him aside to give him some advice about what to do in that situation. Camaraderie is a vital aspect in a sport with the physical and violent nature of this one – without it, no one can survive.
Contrary to what some believe, MMA fighters are not just goons looking for a legal way to beat people up, and they aren’t WWF rejects. There is a precision and artwork that goes into each and every move that the untrained eye might struggle to see. Every inch of the body is used – and each body part is a methodical part of a much bigger plan. They are constantly trying to be one step ahead of each other. Both know that there could be nothing exciting going on, but with one well placed punch or kick the fight could be over in five seconds. These men are engaging in a chess match against each other at NASCAR speeds.
The room begins to become thick with the scent of sticky sweat and hard work. From inside the gym, it is impossible to tell that it is 20 degrees outside with snow on the ground. Some fighters choose to take their shirts off – others just try to regain their stamina by laying face up and staring at the ceiling, almost willing God to help them. Soon the room becomes sauna-like – and ceases to resemble an MMA gym and begins looking more like the Degobah system in Star Wars as windows and mirrors fog up.
Sweat is flying off of the fighters more than it used to fly off of Patrick Ewing during his two-year retirement tour with the Supersonics and Orlando Magic. Dark shirts now appear a different shade as perspiration permeates the fabric, and white shirts have become translucent. Each time one of the fighters goes down and gets back up, there is a sweat outline on the mat where he landed. It is easy to track the fighters’ movements; with each step they all leave a footprint of sweat where they previously stood. Chests are heaving, rising up and down trying to suck life into their beaten bodies. The sounds of breathing can be heard over music, and the sound of skin slapping skin as bodies are colliding with each other.
Finally, almost mercifully, the practice is declared complete. The sound of Velcro being undone and tape being ripped fills the air. Bodies begin crumpling to the ground in exhaustion with dramatic “thumps.” The group went from being a young, energetic bunch to a poor wounded mass, resembling soldiers after battle. Everyone’s faces have gone from white and smiling to red and exhausted. Those who have any energy left are trying to rally the troops. “Good practice!” Leone yelled as he slapped hands with everyone in the gym. “Good job.. Good job.. Good job..” Foster said as he went around patting everyone on the back and seeing how they were doing. One by one, the huddled masses slowly begin to rise, say their goodbyes and stumble with their backs hunched to their cars to leave, until all that is left are the three most dedicated fighters, Pat, Anthony and Kenny.
The three of them need not run to their cars to go relax, they simply have to make their way 33 steps from the gym to the side door in the backyard, which leads to where they are living: in Ryan’s basement, or as they affectionately call it, The Dungeon. For beginning MMA fighters, the pay scale is not exceptionally high, so for three young fighters to have the opportunity to live rent free, just yards away from where they train, is a tremendous opportunity, especially when they work out twice a day, six days a week, on top of their normally scheduled cardio workouts. The opportunity to stay with their trainer allows them to focus entirely on their careers in the sport. The isolation gives them the opportunity to shut out the world and concentrate solely on their training and advancing their careers. They simply have to walk the 30 yards to the gym, where they train two or three times a day, and prepare themselves mentally and physically for their team workouts later in the day. In essence, all the fighters do is eat, sleep, workout and train. “If you look out of our window, you can see our neighbors, the cows, and when the bulls come out there, we wear red for our workout,” Bennett adds with a sheepish grin.
In sports they often compare teams to families, but in this instance, Team Bombsquad truly is a family. Ciotoli’s wife, Melanie, cooks them all dinner occasionally, and his young son Anthony, has come to regard the fighters, who have lived there almost nine months, as older brother figures. The accommodations are quaint, the three of them live in between the baby toys the Godfather stored in the basement, and two of them sleep on pullout beds, but it is an opportunity that not many fighters are afforded.
By taking one look at the living space provided for the three fighters, it is clear that three men live there who have no energy left to clean by the end of the day. Foster’s bed is shoved in a corner behind a few support beams and next to several boxes that have been stored. Only half of the white sheets are on the mattress, revealing the green and yellow mattress underneath. On top of the half-made bed, there is laundry and several gallon bottles of water piled up atop an unmade blanket. Bennett’s bed, a futon, has the sheets hanging off of either side, blankets hanging off of every edge of the bed, and features two pillows with no pillow cases. Leone was not even afforded a bed, instead he removes the cushion on the brown leather couch - that sits in front of the television where they watch tapes of their past fights - and pulls out his mattress. The trio’s kitchen consists of a small table, bearing a microwave, a hot plate and a foreman grill. The table that holds all of their supplements and workout enhancing products is actually an old poker table that is no longer in use. The only other piece of furniture in their room is a treadmill that has never been used, and instead hangs some of the boys’ clothes. Their basement home has the feel of a 12-year-old’s first time at sleep away camp. The beds are unmade, the rooms a mess, but they’re having the time of their lives doing it.
Living in one area, under the supervision of their manager and trainer also has certain advantages others do not have. The fighters get to watch fight film under the well-trained eye of Ciotoli. While his child was spinning around one of the support beams playing, Ciotoli was making small observations while crowding around the couch with his fighters.
“You’ve gotten in much better shape, but instead of pushing off – try to bump off and strike him.”
“If you could knock his elbows out when he clinches, side step and you’ll have a clear shot to finish him.”
Moving away from home into less than stellar living conditions is only one small sacrifice compared to the ones made by some of the members of Team Bombsquad. Shortly after linking up with the team, Pat Bennett realized that he couldn’t continue his job in Syracuse and pursue his fighting career at the same time.
“I had a full-time job that I quit after I graduated college. I gave it up to give this a shot and see what I can do with it,” he said. “I train six days a week – we train here six days a week and I’m going to the gym six days a week. This is my complete life, and I’m going to give it my best shot.”
Pat Audinwood, another Bombsquad member who is trying to make it to the WEC, and his cousin, John Franchi – an accomplished fighter who has already competed in the WEC, travel from Elmira to Cortland to train with Team Bombsquad and have made sacrifices constantly throughout their careers, specifically with their diets and social lives. While most 23 year olds are beginning their careers, going out every weekend, drinking excessively and eating bad food in their impaired state, the cousins are working out, cutting weight and training to become the next great MMA fighter.
“You have to be really healthy and watch what you put in or take out of yourself,” Audinwood said. “I really hate sucking weight – I really hate it but I can’t complain too much. I also don’t get to go out as much as I’d like, being only 23 – but I’ll make up for them eventually.”
“I really just have to focus on not eating too much food. I have to cut 25 pounds for each fight to make my division,” Franchi added.
Everyone fights for their own reasons. Some, like Kenny Foster are “Just so passionate about it. It’s been a dream of mine, and I want to live it out – take it to the limit. This is life – it’s worth it. Live it.” Others, like Franchi, enjoy entertaining people and the lifestyle that an MMA fighter lives. “You beat the Hell out of each other for five rounds, and then afterwards it’s nothing but praise on both sides. The respect shared amongst fighters is incredible, because we’re both doing the same things everyday to get there. It’s a life experience for me. Everyday I learn something, I get to meet a lot of great people. Competing and entertaining is the easiest thing for me. I went to college, but who wants to sit at a desk when you can fight all day?” Leone has his own reasoning for why he competes. “I love it, and I have a passion for it – it’s something I’ve wanted to do for awhile. I’ve been on this journey for three years now, and it’s really cool to see how it’s developing and I’m going to continue my goal of trying to be a world champion.” Finally, Don Carlo-Clauss, one of the elder statesmen of the team added his version. “I can’t sing or dance, and I want people to pay attention to me. We have to do what we’re good at. We have to do what God put us here to do. Everyone has something they’re good at – you just have to figure out what it is.
--
Twenty-five grueling minutes weren’t enough. Neither pink shirt, nor his counterpart could finish the other off to claim the vacant Bantamweight title belt. It was going to be up to the judges to decide who was crowned the champion. With his right eye visibly swollen and bruised, his trainer helped get his seven-ounce sparring gloves off and handed him his pink MMA New York shirt to put on as they waited for the decision. Filing in behind the fighter, his trainer and his entourage stand alongside the cage that just witnessed a true test of stamina, and a war of wills.
Let’s hear it one more time for Anthony Leone and his opponent, Tateki Matsuda!
The referee, still in monochromatic black with blue surgical gloves holds each of their arms, waiting to raise the winner’s hand and send the loser home disappointed. Pink shirt shows his appreciation to the crowd by raising his fist, still taped from the fight, in the air twice as a salute, while his opponent flexed his muscle – signaling that he thought he had won the battle.
Judge Mike Wall scored the bout, 48 to 47 for Matsuda!
From the other side of the ring, several brawny members of the Asian’s team celebrated happily, while the competitor himself barely acknowledged that he was within one judge’s ruling in his favor to winning the title. Pink shirt had no reaction, other than to close his eyes for a second. With his heart pounding in his chest, he got ready to hear the rest of the judges’ scorecards.
David Ginsburg scored the bout, 48 to 47 for Leone!
Boos chorused through the crowd for the first time as the previously impartial crowd disagreed with the judge’s decision while both entourages applauded lightly. With both competitors breathing deeply and nervously, they both prepared themselves for the worst, but hoped for the best.
Mark Alberi scores the bout 48 to 47 to your winner by split decision, and the new XCFL Bantamweight champion… Anthony Leone!
After weeks of preparing for this moment, Anthony Leone could finally relax, and let his emotions overcome him. With a grin that could rival a little boy whose fish somehow came back to life after passing away several hours earlier, Leone raised his left arm as the referee lifted his right arm in victory – proclaiming him the new champion. Even the boos that rang down through the rafters into the steel cage could not dampen the spirits of Leone and Team Bombsquad. After a congratulatory embrace by the losing fighter, Leone was free to celebrate with his team that had got him here, and was mobbed by his team in the ring. With the title belt draped over his shoulder, Leone walked back toward his locker room, calm, cool and collected. Only when he was out of sight of the crowd, and of any opponents did he show his real giddiness. Jumping up and down like a little boy on Christmas he couldn’t contain the euphoria and adrenaline he felt coursing through his system. No matter how much his head, hands, legs, body and feet hurt from the beating that was just unleashed on him – defying the odds and bringing a title back to New York was the perfect medicine. And the handful of aspirin helped too.
Coming off of a season in which those Atlanta Braves won 89 games (fifth best in the NL) and, barring one of the worst collapses in the history of the sport (thank you, Boston) would have coasted into the playoffs as the wild card team, I have just one question: Where is the love?
The Braves did very little this offseason. They dumped Derek Lowe’s salary, clearing some room for their stable of young pitchers, and signed Jack Wilson – he of Pittsburg Pirate fame. They let Alex Gonzalez (an ace with the glove, one of the most frustrating players to watch at bat) walk, and will replace him with one of two untested rookies.
We went from a 2010 version of Jason Heyward that was blew the doors off the baseball world before he even made his debut. His towering shots in Spring Training became the stuff of legend, and prompted the Braves’ brass to install nets in the right field parking lot to protect the cars. Move forward a year, and Heyward, nursing a sore shoulder for much of the year that caused him to adjust and subsequently destroy his mechanics, struggles mightily. Where’s the praise for him now? Few mentions of the weight he’s put off, or his new off-season regiment. Instead, all one reads about is how ‘Heyward has to bounce back if the Braves have a shot’ or ‘Heyward is the X-Factor that will define the Braves’ season.’ Well we were simply one game out of a playoff berth a year ago, and with the advent of the asinine second wild card, would have cruised into postseason play. We did all that with Jason Heyward, our “x-factor,” batting below .220. If he comes back and is even a shade of his rookie-self, why are the Braves still projected to finish FOURTH.
J-Hey isn’t the only Bravo we should expect big things from. We will have a full year of Michael Bourn terrorizing opposing pitchers on the base paths. We get a full year of a more mature Freddie Freeman, who has noticeably bulked up since his rookie campaign, and recently hit five homeruns in a span of eight official at bats. McCann and Prado aren’t going to slump down the stretch after returning from injuries too quickly, and Dan Uggla – if this spring is any indication – is due for a monster year (and will be aided by his second full year as a Brave, not putting too much pressure on himself). Combine all of that with Chipper Jones’ retirement announcement, and you’ve got a team poised for a big year. Certainly not a team that is going to finish fourth.
The Braves are going to pitch. We know that. We unloaded our “number one” starter from a year ago, and will start the year with our current “number one” on the DL. Most teams would be crippled by such. The Braves simply put the next guy in. Atlanta easily features the major’s deepest rotation, with seven viable starters (JJ, Hanson, Hudson, Minor, Beachy, Delgado, Teheran), including three of the top 50 Baseball America prospects. Their bullpen, a great bright spot last year, is only going to get better as O’Flaherty/Venters/Kimbrel are each a year older and strong, and won’t be abused by Fredi this season after he learned his lesson in the first half last year.
You’ve got a young pitching staff, anchored by three studs in the bullpen and a stable of starters any team would be envious of, and a lineup loaded with talent that is a year older, and more developed. The team chemistry is there, the talent is there, and the motivation (looking at you, Larry) is there. Then WHY WHY WHY are we picked to finish fourth in the NL East?
Lets start with the Mets. I love to hate the Mets. I get almost as much joy out of the misery of the Mets as I do when the Braves are succeeding. I come from a family of reformed Met fans (they’ve since joined the light side) and my best friend is a Met fan (easily, the thing I dislike most about him. Or the way he stomps his Sasquatch feet too early in the morning when Red and I are trying to sleep). I think we can all agree the Mets are destined for the cellar this year – and even the most ardent Met fans have to be realistic about their team. Their rotation is held together by whatever ligaments are holding Johan’s arm to the rest of his body, and the face of their franchise is likely to be traded by the deadline. They’re a joke, and they can’t even get rid of their owners, who nearly ran out of money this offseason. Their lineup is a black hole nine deep and if I’m not mistaken, their big offseason acquisition was Frank Francisco. Makes the Jack Wilson pick-up look big.
This brings us to the Miami Marlins –the dolls of the offseason (if that title wasn’t stripped by the Angels out west). The Marlins had an undeniably good offseason. Buoyed by their move to a new ballpark, and an owner with a penchant to spend (and then sell), the Marlins were able to bring in the talent that has lacked in south Florida since their last World Series team. They brought in manager Ozzie Guillen, certainly an upgrade, but it remains to be seen how he will co-exist with Loria – who fired the last talented manager he had – Manager of the Year Joe Girardi. Jose Reyes is a stud, and a Brave-killer at that, but he can’t stay on the field, and one player does not a team make. That said, the left side of their infield is nasty good – if they both stay healthy, they could both probably finish in the top three in MVP voting. I’m underwhelmed by Mark Buehrle, who has a rubber arm, but that’s all, and Carlos Zambrano is a joke. Need I remind the world that it was the Braves’ destruction of him last summer that prompted his most recent tirade, subsequent suspension and eventual trade. He’s got stuff but is there a bigger head case in the MLB? If he is able to regain his form, I have NO faith in him competing during a playoff stretch. For all of their good free agency fortune, few seem to remember that they swung and missed on Pujols, C.J. Wilson, and Yoenis Cespedes. The Marlins are going to be better than last year, and I expect them to be competing with the Braves and Phillies for NL East supremacy all season. Their best pitcher, Josh Johnson, is a perennial Cy Young candidate who can’t stay on the mound. He averages 19 starts a season and has surpassed 30 only once. Behind him, what is there? They lack the pitching depth to compete with the top of the division. They have some nice pieces, and Giancarlo Stanton is a beast, but I simply don’t see a head and shoulders improvement over a team that was 72-90 a year ago and finished 30 (THIRTY) games out of first.
Speaking of crowning a champion before the season begins, people are awfully impressed by the Nationals. The future is bright. Exceptionally bright. Their upside could mirror the 90s Braves if everyone develops the way they look like they might. The future; however, is not now. The top of their rotation can go pitch for pitch with anyone in the league. Strasburg, Gio Gonzalez and Jordan Zimmerman can compete with any top three in the league, but what is behind them? Edwin Jackson – who has never gotten it together enough to live up to his potential, and Chien-Mien Wang? John Lannan? Ross Detwiler? I’m unimpressed by their depth chart. They have a wealth of young talent – led by those three and uber-prosect Bryce Harper in the outfield – but a lot of their team is unproven. Adam LaRoche is a second half player. Their defense up the middle is worse than questionable, and Ryan Zimmerman isn’t worth the contract he just signed up for. The future is bright for the Nationals, and the future begins this year, but I can’t help but to feel like they are one, if not two seasons away from elite status.
Finally, there’s the Phillies. The new beast in the east. Their domination of the division is reminiscent of the Braves during their hey-day, but I believe that tenuous grip atop the division is slipping. The season hasn’t begun yet, but the injury bug is already making its way through the lockerroom, picking the aging veterans off one by one. The Phillies will rely on Jim Thome and Ty Wigginton to replace Ryan Howard while he recovers from the Achilles injury he suffered last October. Out is stud second baseman Chase Utley and in is…. Fred Galvis… a talented, but unproven commodity. The left side of the infield is a combined 71 years old, and they’re still waiting on Dom Brown to start in the outfield. Shane Victorino, John Mayberry and Hunter Pence make up a formidable outfield that can cover some ground, but can Philly fans really rely on them with the stick? The Phillies are going to pitch. Their top three starters finished in the top five in Cy Young voting, and they brought in Jonathon Papelbon from Boston to close. But again – who else besides those studs are going to throw the ball? Their fourth and fifth starters are Vance Worley and Joe Blanton. Blanton is a joke, and Worley is due to regress to his career norms after last season’s explosion out of the gate. The Phillies are the division champions, and will be the favorites to repeat, but it’s not unfair to say that they could be vulnerable if they are crippled by many more injuries.
It’s going to be a great 2012 season, with some great division games. We won’t know who will be hoisting the pennant come September, but we’re in for a hell of a ride to get there.
Random musings and observations heard from over the wall of a small-town newspaper office. I'll update this periodically when hilarity ensues.
Showing the north Idaho way of thinking... "I'm going to vote for whomever runs against Obama."
In response to a friend who's pregnant... "They're going to keep her at Sacred Heart for a few days to make sure the baby don't pop out or anything on accident."
Questioning everything John Cusack... "Why do we follow the Mayan calendar anyway? We're in America."
Wishing for simpler times... "I need money. I wish we were still in a time that we could barter for everything. Then I wouldn't have to pay for nothing. I could just trade for any pair of pants or shoes I want."
Coming off one of the most exciting regular seasons in history, and a seven-game World Series that produced a lovable champion, Major League Baseball is doing what any sensible multi-billion dollar business would do: blowing the damn thing up.
While Major League Baseball has yet to officially announce the addition of a second wild card, word on the interwebs is that “Bud Selig’s baby” is close, meaning that effective this season, Major League Baseball’s great money grab goes into action.
After the Red Sox (oh, and the Braves, to a far, far, far, far, far lesser extent) Hindenburg of a September last year, baseball lost one of its great draws for the playoffs. That’s a problem for those capitalists in the commissioner’s office who rely on the lovable bunch of “idiots” to help fund their Christmas bonuses.
Which is going to draw a bigger crowd and merit more minutes on Sportscenter, the Red Sox nation, heading to a potential ALCS showdown with the Yankees, or the Rays, who couldn’t even draw local fans to Tropicana Field during one of the most exciting stretch runs in years?
Baseball’s media darlings are clear and obvious. They push the markets that best serve their interests (how many Royals-White Sox games were the FOX game of the week?) and push aside the meek. Simply look at the way the collapses in Boston and Atlanta were handled and covered. The Red Sox made the front pages of newspapers, not just sports sections. Beer and friend chicken have become universal jokes for ineptitude and indifference. When Boston misses the playoffs, the sport suffers, or so it would seem to baseball’s decision-makers.
Meanwhile, did anyone know the Braves blew a 10.5 game August lead? What should have been a booming national story to rival the Red Sox equally abhorrent collapse was covered locally, and brushed over by the media. If Atlanta misses the playoffs, and no one was around to watch it besides Brit and I, did it really happen?
Which brings us back to the point. Major League Baseball’s overreaction to Boston missing the playoffs. Their media darling narrowly missed out on a playoff berth they rightfully should have earned, so they needed to make a change. Their proposal: add a second wild card to each league, to compete against one another in a one game playoff to determine who advances to the division series.
On paper, a plus one playoff (listening, BCS?) sounds like a great idea. More money. More drama. More opportunity. That is very nearsighted.
Sure, two extra playoff games means the MLB lines their pockets, and gives their media partners two more chances to have their ideal playoff matchups. This is ignoring the fact that adding a second wild card dilutes an unquestionably long 162-game season. Why play such a long and drawn out regular season if you are going to let one third of teams make it to the postseason? What’s the purpose of going through all of those games, limiting statistical anomalies, and battling through the daily grind if you’re just going to allow any team into the playoffs?
The second wild card just gives teams another mulligan in a season that doesn’t need any. One wild card diluted division races, making it unnecessary to be in first to make the playoffs. When the Braves ran away with the NL East in 2003, it mattered very little to the eventual world champion Florida Marlins, who were a second place team hoisting the trophy come October. A second wild card team will certainly add more drama to the playoffs, but it only further serves to dilute the regular season. Yes, division races are once again important – because the three winners will advance straight to the division series – but even if you aren’t good enough to win your division, you can be a second, potentially even a third place team (would have happened last years with the Rays-Red Sox) and still make a deep playoff run. Why not simply do away with the division-format altogether and just send the top five teams to the playoffs, with the bottom two facing off for the last spot? This is not dissimilar from Alabama, who didn’t win their division, or their conference, earning a spot in the BCS title game over Oklahoma State and other teams that were at least capable of claiming their conference crowns.
None of these issues even begin to showcase the competitive imbalances of having a team - already physically fatigued from a 162-game season, and mentally fatigued from the playoff races - burn through their top starter in a one game playoff before going on to face the (probable - unless the wild card and top seed are in the same division) top seeded team in the conference. So not only has the team proven to be less talented over a long season, but they are then forced to burn through their top starter, and possibly top bullpen options, before advancing to a short series against a top team. Makes sense. Fans are going to go wild watching Randy Wolf against Cliff Lee in the NLCS. Good move, baseball.
Major League Baseball is tinkering with something that doesn’t need fixing. They have a cash cow already, which is only growing in popularity as the shroud of the steroid era continues to dissipate. They have a perfectly good system in place, which leads to a wildly popular playoff. Bud Selig and his cronies in New York need to get the dollar signs out of their eyes, and realize that baseball is a game steeped in tradition that they are poking the bear.
I don’t do anything. I listen to the news all day. I go back and forth between channels, and just shake my head going, “These people are whack!” [laughs]. NBC is all skewed to liberals, CBS is kind of split, MSNBC is real left-wing and Fox News is real right-wing.
Meat Loaf, pointing out how "whack" national news networks have become.
