Thursday 30 April Friday 1 May Saturday 2 May Sunday 3 May Monday 4 May Tuesday 5 May Wednesday 6 May Thursday 7 May Friday 8 May Saturday 9 May Sunday 10 May Monday 11 May Tuesday 12 May Wednesday 13 May Thursday 14 May Friday 15 May Saturday 16 May Sunday 17 May Monday 18 May Tuesday 19 May Wednesday 20 May Thursday 21 May Friday 22 May Saturday 23 May Sunday 24 May Monday 25 May Tuesday 26 May Wednesday 27 May Thursday 28 May Friday 29 May Saturday 30 May Sunday 31 May Monday 1 June Tuesday 2 June Thursday 4 June Friday 5 June Saturday 6 June Sunday 7 June Monday 8 June Tuesday 9 June Monday 15 June Tuesday 16 June Wednesday 17 June Friday 19 June Saturday 20 June Sunday 21 June Monday 22 June Tuesday 23 June Wednesday 24 June Thursday 25 June Friday 26 June Saturday 27 June When he writes it's the concentration of his whole being.
He goes through the emotional wringer. I have no idea what Jimmy would do if he weren't writing that column, he'd be so lonesome. That is to say that unlike many other columnists he did not make fun of the black athletes he covered, he did not transform their speech into Amos 'n' Andy routines.
He gave them their due. As much as he adored DiMaggio, a fighter like Archie Moore captured his schmaltz-clogged heart just as easily: "Someone should write a song about Archie Moore who in the Polo Grounds knocked out Bobo Olson in three rounds.
I don't mean big composers such as Harold Arlen or Duke Ellington. It should be a song that comes out of the backroom of sloughed saloons on night-drowned streets in morning-worried parts of bad towns. The guy who writes this one must be a piano player who can be dignified when he picks a quarter out of the marsh of a sawdust floor. They're dead, most of those piano players, their mouths full of dust instead of songs. But I'll bet Archie could dig one up in any town he ever made.
Very often he would title his column "Nobody Asked Me, But. You ran slower than the other guy. What makes a dumb broad smart all of a sudden? They don't even let broads in a joint like Yale.
But they're all wised up once a fighter starts making a few. Even some of Mencken dates, and Cannon was no Mencken. The wised-up one-liners and the world-weary sentiment were of a time and a place, and as Cannon aged he gruffly resisted the new trends in sportswriting and athletic behavior.
In the press box, he encountered a new generation of beat writers and columnists, men such as Maury Allen and Leonard Schecter on the Post. He didn't much like the sound of them. Cannon called the younger men "Chipmunks" because they were always chattering away in the press box. He hated their impudence, their irreverence, their striving to get outside the game and into the heads of the people they covered. Cannon had always said that his intention as a sportswriter was to bring the "world in over the bleacher wall," but he failed to see that this generation was trying to do much the same thing.
He could not bear their lack of respect for the old verities. They regard this as a sort of bravery. There were seven newspapers in those days in New York, and there was terrific competition to stay on top, to be original, to get a scoop, an extra detail.
But the Chipmunks knew they were in competition now not so much with one another as with the growing power of television. Unlike Cannon, who was almost entirely self-educated, these were young men and they were all men who had gone to college in the age of Freud.
In time, this, too, would no longer seem especially voguish--soon just about every schnook with a microphone would be asking the day's goat, "What were you thinking when you missed that ball? Part of Cannon's generational anxiety was that he wrote about ballplayers in an elegiac voice.
He had plenty of scorn for the scoundrels of sport--Jim Norris, Frankie Carbo, Fat Tony Salerno--but you would never learn from Cannon that DiMaggio was perhaps the most imperious personality in sport or that Joe Louis, in retirement, was going slowly mad with drugs, that to guard himself against imagined predators from the IRS and the CIA he clogged the air-conditioning vents with cotton and smeared his windows with Vaseline. The new generation, men like Pete Hamill and Jack Newfield, Jerry Izenberg and Gay Talese, all admired Cannon's immediacy, but Cannon begrudged them their new outlook, their education, their youth.
In the late fifties, Talese wrote countless elegant features for the Times and then, even more impressively, a series of profiles in the sixties for Esquire on Patterson, Louis, DiMaggio, Frank Sinatra, and the theater director Joshua Logan. None of the pieces were what writers would call "trash jobs"--they were filled with affection for the person and admiration for craft--but they also delved into Patterson's fears, Louis's terrible decline, DiMaggio's loneliness, Sinatra's nastiness, and Logan's mental breakdowns.
Talese combined the techniques of reporting and fiction; he filled his notebooks with facts, interviews, and observations, but structured his pieces like short stories. When Talese was still at the Times and writing about his favorite subjects, Patterson and Cus D'Amato, he was considered an eccentric.
In the newsroom, Talese wore immaculate hand-tailored suits; he was, in the words of one colleague, "blindingly handsome. In those days, this was un-Times-like for the sports department. Daley, who was the dominant columnist since the forties, derived his prestige from the paper itself; when he won the Pulitzer Prize, many of his colleagues grumbled and said that it should have gone to Red Smith at the Herald Tribune or Cannon at the Post.
Daley's prose was flat, but it was the prose that the Pulitzer committee read, if they read sports at all. Most of the other sportswriters on the Times were no less imperial: they carried themselves as if they were The New York Times's ambassador to the court of baseball or the court of basketball.
When Allison Danzig covered the U. Open at Forest Hills he did not deign to seek out a tennis player for an interview; the player sought out Allison Danzig. Not a few of the deskmen and reporters were appalled by the unorthodox presence of Gay Talese, and they could never figure out why the managing editor, Turner Catledge, had set him loose on the sporting world.
When Talese left the paper in to write books and longer magazine articles, he had one inheritor in place, a reporter in his mid-twenties named Robert Lipsyte. He went from his junior year at Forest Hills High School straight to Columbia University, from which he graduated in After mulling over a career as a screenwriter or an English professor, Lipsyte applied for a job as a copy boy at the Times and, to his astonishment, got it.
As a copy boy, Lipsyte admired Talese for his sense of style and innovation, for his ability to squeeze a distinct voice onto the uniform pages of the Times. Lipsyte made the staff at twenty-one when he showed hustle: one day the hunting and fishing columnist failed to send in a column from Cuba, and so Lipsyte sat down and, on deadline, knocked out a strange and funny column on how fish and birds were striking back at anglers and hunters.
Lipsyte wrote about high school basketball players like Connie Hawkins and Roger Brown. He helped cover the Mets with Louis Effrat, a Timesman who had lost the Dodgers beat when they moved out of Brooklyn. Effrat's admiration for his younger colleague was, to say the least, grudging: "Kid, they say in New York you can really write but you don't know what the fuck you're writing about.
In , he met Dick Gregory, one of the funniest comics in the country and a constant presence in the civil rights movement. The two men became close friends, and eventually Lipsyte helped Gregory write Nigger, his autobiography. Even as a sports reporter, Lipsyte contrived ways to write about race. He covered rallies at which black protesters expressed their outrage against a country that would celebrate blacks only when they carried a football or boxed in a twenty-foot ring.
In the winter of , the Times's regular boxing writer, Joe Nichols, declared that the Liston-Clay fight was a dog and that he was going off to spend the season covering racing at Hialeah. The assignment went to Lipsyte. Unlike Jimmy Cannon and the other village elders, Lipsyte found himself entranced with Clay. Here was this funny, beautiful, skilled young man who could fill your notebook in fifteen minutes. The blacks he liked were the blacks of the thirties and the forties. They knew their place.
Joe Louis called Jimmy Cannon 'Mr. Cannon' for a long time. He was a humble kid. Now here comes Cassius Clay popping off and abrasive and loud, and it was a jolt for a lot of sportswriters, like Cannon.
That was a transition period. What Clay did was make guys stand up and decide which side of the fence they were on. The idea that he was a loud braggart brought disrespect to this noble sport. Or so the Cannon people said. Never mind that Rocky Marciano was a slob who would show up at events in a T-shirt so that the locals would buy him good clothes. They said that Clay 'lacked dignity. He was not the sort of sweet dumb pet that writers were accustomed to.
Clay also did not need the sportswriters as a prism to find his way. He transcended the sports press. Jimmy Cannon, Red Smith, so many of them, were appalled. They didn't see the fun in it. And, above all, it was fun. The visit had been arranged, of course, by the eternally hip Harold Conrad, who was publicizing the fight for MacDonald.
I'm king of the world Chief of the sea High in the wind At least I try to be And I'm king of the world Please set me free I had the power and the promise Give me back my family Why are we punished for wanting to explore? Why am I sitting in this cell? This dynasty ruled for an entire century after he died.
Sargon is believed to have ruled from his capital named Akkad; however, the exact archaeological whereabouts of this city are still unknown. He is considered to have been a legendary figure, appearing in many works of literature. Are There Tigers In Africa? Is The Irukandji Jellyfish Deadly? Do Starfish Have Eyes?Voodoo // King of the World - 02 CINCINNATI Same old trouble // King of the World - 02 CINCINNATI Murder in the first degree // King of the World - 02 CINCINNATI Hurt so bad // King of the World - 02 CINCINNATI World on fire // King of the World - 02 CINCINNATI Feel that flame // King of the World - 02 CINCINNATI The waiting game // King of the World - 02 CINCINNATI.