The P's: Pacquiao, Pawlenty, Palin

Free at last.


Another master's semester at Cal State Fullerton, another three months of TV fasting.

Now with the books finally gone and the 52-inch flat screen back on — where the hell are the Lakers?

They did what in the playoffs? Lost to whom?

You telling me L.A. blew a shot at Phil's fourth threepeat, Kobe's Jordan-tying sixth title? To Dallost? The same Mats on whom the Lakers wiped their Nikes the past five years?

Does any tradition live? Well, yes. My DVR caught enough of it.

The knockout. Don't say it didn't come in the Manny Pacquiao-Shane Mosley bout. I mean, did you see her ringside? Check the photo above. That's Bella Gonzalez, Sugar Shane's sweet girlfriend. Talk about aptly named. Bella, beautiful. She's so hot, she makes Kobe's bride — Vanessa, the previous scorch queen — look like Rocky Road.

No wonder Mosley revved in reverse all night. No way he was going down for the count and risking losing Bella.

OK, so no official KO at the MGM. PacMan simply pounded Mosley to a pulp fiction. The Pomona Pretender took such a beating, his brown mug turned red.

Mitch the Pitch. Best line of the baseball season, and it's only May: "Anything going this far oughta have a flight attendant on it." So said Mitch Williams in marvel of a Mike Stanton homer for the Florida Marlins. Such Wild Thing comments make MLB Network worth a nightly watch.

Good 'N' Pawlenty. As debates went, the GOP session in South Carolina last month had all the tension of arts and crafts at the library. Still, Herman Cain nailed the one-liners, hooking viewers. And Rick Santorum gattling-gunned us awake.

For heft, give me Tim Pawlenty. He has the stature — 6 feet 3 — and issue grasp to make for a solid standard-bearer. And thank God he said sorry for his cap-and-tax brainwashing way back when. Without that mea culpa, he was global meltdown.

Think. If McCain had picked him for veep in '08 — and he was thisclose to doing that — Pawlenty would be a nationhold name. As it is, Minnesota knows him after eight years as governor. And not many others. I asked a college conservative about him recently and drew a blank face.

Then again, Iowans have to know him. That could be Pawlenty enough.

All in for Palin. What makes Sarah even more appealing than Pawlenty is the heat. I'm fired up over her energy — especially during her drill on oil independence.

She said the other night, "I have that fire in my belly." You can only imagine the comedy routines: "I'd like to give her some fire in the belly." Can't avoid that. Sarah's simply sizzling.

And what the heck. Obummer's gonna win anway, so let's have a ball of a campaign. With Palin-Bachmann in overdrive, we're looking at a helluva '12.

Book it. The neatest mystery author bar none? Lawrence Block. His Keller assassin novels hit the bull's-eye.

Not to jinx them. But have you noticed my Mets? Didn't think so. Crept up to .500 from baseball's dead-last abyss. And with players you wouldn't know if they walked through the door: Ike Davis, Justin Turner, Josh Thole.

Not Agee. A Gee. He's Dillon Gee, to be exact. The Met righty upped his record to 3-0 by swatting the Nats the other day.

Harkens back to a similar name — Tommie Agee, who caught everything in center field while the Mets grabbed the 1969 championship.

Speaking of good times. Just heard that my sweet, brilliant sister Deb doesn't have cancer after a doctor-visiting scare. Yes!

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California.

   

The Golden Player Mine Since 1999

Now that the first decade of the 2000s is in a two-minute drill, it's time to write about what life was like before the turn of the century.
 
People looked starkly different.

For one, we stared ahead. Look around now. Everyone’s locked on their smart phone — eyes straight down.

For two, we followed muscular teams that today are pipsqueaks: the Rams, Broncos, Bills, Vikings in the NFL; the Orioles, Indians, Diamondbacks in baseball; the Knicks and Timberwolves in the NBA.

For three, we spotted the ragged that now are rugged: the Jets, Pats, Steelers, Bears, Falcons, Saints in the NFL; the Rays, Twins, Angels, Cards, Rockies in baseball; the Celtics, Mavs, Nuggets in the NBA.

For four, we tracked only big men on campus 11 years ago: UConn in basketball, Florida State in football. Butler back then was the punch line of a murder mystery. Now it’s in the national basketball conversation. As is Boise State on the gridiron.

What about sportsmen? Eleven years are eons in athlete lives. So many stars weren’t even in our conscious universe in 1999. Such as these 11:

Tom Brady. Sure, he started at quarterback for Michigan in 1999. But after he wallowed on the New England bench his rookie season of 2000 and took Drew Bledsoe’s job early in the 2001 season, a pile of fans said Tom who? His answer was an NFL title, then two more in the decade. Now he’s fifth on the list of greatest NFL QBs after Johnny Unitas, Joe Montana, Bart Starr and Terry Bradshaw. Then again, the way he's darting toward Lombardi Trophy No. 4, he could rank No. 1.

LeBron James. What, we had sports without the man who would be king? ESPN lived before endless footage of James Jams? The NBA sold jerseys before Cav 23 and Heat 6? Yes, yes and yes. Eleven years ago, he was about to turn 15. OK, he could've made the Ohio State starting five. As it was, he skipped college, or kindergartren for him, and flexed right off in the pros. Yet talk about the emperor who wore no shorts. Millions put him on a throne, but what crown has ever won? None. He could turn out to be the Ted Williams of basketball. All underwear, no hardware.

Tim Lincecum. He was 15 in 1999, no doubt into grunge and video games. Just like at 26. Only now he’s rich and just about the best pitcher in baseball. Proof? He won the Cy Young Award in 2008 and ’09. And this year his clutch arm helped wing the Giants to their first world title since moving to San Francisco in 1958. Lincecame, all right.

Roger Federer. He’s dominated courts for so long, you can’t recall tennis without the Swiss Swoosh. Yet in 1999 about the only folks who knew him were Basel boosters. He didn’t start gripping the sport until 2003. Now he owns 16 Grand Slam trophies, the most of any man in history. Is that record untouchable? Hmmm, maybe by the next fellow.

Rafa Nadal. In 1999 he was a 13-year-old twerp living at home. So he’s still crashing with Mom and Dad in Majorca. At least he’s 24 and all man — muscular and mashing out Grand Slam tennis titles that add up to nine, already one more than Andre Agassi amassed in his two-decade run. As Henry Higgins would put it, the reign in Spain falls only when the forehand wanes.

Manny Pacquiao. In 1999 he was a Filipino Fly. The few fans who knew him were hanging around his hometown in the meat of Mindanao, way in the Philippine south. Good for PacMan that he chomped his way out of that Muslim haven toward one of the great careers in boxing history. Now he’s the Filipino Fist, full of 10 titles in eight divisions. Only this Fighter of the Decade could draw 42,000 to Cowboys Stadium to see him bloody Tony Margarito last month.

Sarah Hughes. In 1999 she was 14 and unknown. Now she's 25 and pretty much still foggy. Think great figure skaters and whom do you list? Peggy Fleming, Dorothy Hamill, Michelle Kwan. And that last one didn't even win Olympic gold. Hughes did. When she was done with that magnificent final at the 2002 Salt Lake City Games, the New Yorker was the Ice Queen, and California Kwan had melted in yet another Olympic competition. I'm no skating nut, but Hughes’ big-Game routine is my frozen-in-time moment of the past 11 years.




Ichiro Suzuki. Sure, he was huge in 1999. In Japan. And real American fans know that if the action isn’t here, it might as well be on one of Mars’ moons. In Ichiro’s case, he was swinging and sprinting for something called the Orix Blue Wave in 1990s. Then he took his baseball to Seattle and, man, did we wake up to more than a major leaguer. He was a general leaguer from the get-go, catching every shot in right field, pounding pitchers and vacuuming the 2001 MVP/Rookie of the Year trophies. The dude is a streak, swatting 200 hits in 10 straight seasons. No wonder he goes by the tag of a true star: his first name.


Ben Roethlisberger. Big Ben. The Man of Steelers. You can’t miss that 6-foot-5 Berg in Pittsburgh’s backfield. Or his two NFL championships. But you couldn’t find him in 1999. He was 17, about to pass into Miami, and not even the Florida version. He was bound for the college in Oxford, and not the one in England. No, the guy with the marathon name went to Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. Seven pro seasons later, he’s rising toward the Hall of Fame.


Usain Bolt. The coolest name this side of Thabeet, which sounds like what you hear in downtown Memphis and is really the last name of the Grizzlies' 7-3 center. Back to Bolt, exactly what the Jamaican does to drive enemy sprinters Usain. What was he doing in 1999? Running around his Caribbean hometown like a fast 13-year-old. By 2008, Bolt was living up to his name something fierce. If you blinked from the Peking smog, you missed him Bolting to Olympic golds in the 100 and 200 meters and in sports' most exciting 37 seconds, the 400-meter relay. If not for Michael Phelps, this Usainity would've left the greatest mark on China since the wall.

Michael Phelps. In 1999 he was a Baltimore bass, 14 and hardly making waves. The only people watching him were parents and fellow teens. By 2004 he was a swimming shark, gulping six golds at the Athens Olympics. Then came Peking and his chance to lap the Spitz Seven. He did, winning 8 in ’08. The seventh gold, in the 100-meter butterfly, stopped the clock and every American heart. Phelps fished it out by 0.01 second. You get any closer, you push the timer to infinity. As it is, Phelps floats forever in Olympic lore.


Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern Califlornia who at the moment is euphoric over Mizzou and about to take the gaspipe with the Jets.

Sack Football's Replay; Quit The Homilitary Charade; Pacquiao's Pow

Under review.

Under review.

Under review.

Bored yet?

Zzzzzzzzebras aren't. They're out to review more plays than Randy Moss teams.

Sideline catch? Review. End zone rush? Review. Cheerleader shake? Review. I wish.

Really, can we hit the kill button?

Tell it like it is. Pro and college football reviews exist for bettors. I mean, who else really cares if a cleat lands a millimeter out of bounds? I want the game to move it, not take a siesta every other down.

The NFL is supposed to spell entertainment, not PBS. If I want a dead screen, I'll turn to Charlie Rose.

As it is, games last longer than "Ben-Hur" while refs go through marathon research every other play.


Since we're stuck with this malarkey, I say kiss the turf for three other letters: DVR.

Don't ask, don't dwell. Notice Obummer's contortions as homosexuals try to come out of the military closet?

The prez indicates he's perfectly OK with a homilitary. Yet he sends his lawyers to court to keep homos stuffed in a duffle bag while he ponders whether he should give his brass the order to let them out in public.

What? Seriously, if Obummer twisted more dramatically, he'd make the rhythmic gymnastic team.

Contrast him with Harry Truman. He wanted to integrate the armed forces in 1948, so he ordered it. Period. No focus groups. No Capitol questions. He told the generals to mix blacks and whites in the barracks. Dismissed.

The man in charge now acts more like the commander in chef. If he were a true chief, he'd open the officers club dance floor to straights, detours, who cares and worry about the true enemy: Muslim terror.

As a lez pal tells me, what the hell; the uniforms would sure look snappier.

Speaking of rear echelon: Can we do away with the pandering gay tag? Homos are as blah as anyone, and 20% of Americans are even ment, as some survey figured. I don't buy that, but for damn sure hardly anyone is really upbeat.

As for unis. Please, NFL, trash these old school outfit. The Bears and Steelers show up in colors so foreign, you'd think NFL Europe is back.

Word to Commish Goodell: They're really uglier than a Favre sext shot.

I'm not a bitch. I'm certainly not you. What I want as I play off Christine O'Donnell's recent campaign ad is a lard-free government. That means cut the fat and the crap.

Cut government salaries 25%.

Cut drug laws and the billions in DEA waste.

Cut the Cuban embargo.

Cut D.C.'s education, energy and commerce departments.

Cut anti-gambling edicts.

Cut troops from South Korea and A-bomb the North if it trip-wires the DMZ.

Pac's the Man. If Manny Pacquiao had made Tony Margarito any redder Saturday, they'd have had a Bloody Mary. "Margarita shaken, stirred," came a friend's text.

Yet there was the Mexican after the raw rout spouting arrogance about not quitting. How about a dish of praise for the Filipino Fist? Call Jimmy Buffett and order some "Margaritaville" humility.

W. Great to see George Bush again. And not just in book tour interviews. Also on the mound, where he lasered that first pitch in the World Series. The Rangers could've used a giant like him.

Makes you go to YouTube for other Bush zingers, such as his 2002 anti-terror spiel to the press on the golf course followed by "Now watch this drive." Natch, perfect swing.

Now that's a replay worth watching.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

Filly's Fab Flyers

The soaringest sportsmen this year have to be ... let's see:

The Sun-dousing Lakers? No.

The James-jamming Celtics? No.

The Mosley-mopping Mayweather? No.

The Mayweather-hunting, vote-producing Pacquiao? No.

The Favre-flogging, Super-balling Saints? No.

The Butler-besting Dukin' Blue Devils? No.

The Bobby Hull-reliving Blackhawks? No.

Getting warm.

Try another bunch on the ice, this one with wings in their logo: the Flyers of Philadelphia.

You want fabled? The Flyers of 2010 already are.

We're not halfway through the year, and they're flying at a historic clip.

The Flyers shot into the National Hockey League finals by:

1. Outshooting the New York Rangers in the regular season's last game to squeak into the playoffs.

2. Facing a 0-3 series hole and winning the next four games against the Boston Bruins.

3. Facing a 0-3 hole in that seventh game and finishing off those Bruins 4-3.

4. Meeting hockey's other playoff shocker, the Montreal Canadiens, and skating to a 4-1 series triumph.

Fightin', fantastic, folkloric. The Flyers rule the 4-F Club.

And who knows them? Philly fans, no doubt. A few of those loyalists might line your office. Other than them, no one would recognize Michael Leighton if he buzzed in. Or Peter Laviolette.

Introducing:

Goalie Leighton. The Petrolia, Ontario, native has his skate to the gas, with the Flyers riding him to what they hope is their first title since 1975. And what a shift into high gear. Leighton was always how he sounded — late in games. He played backup in Chicago, Nashville, Carolina, even Philly until taking over for an injured starter. Now Leighton is simply IN, stopping every shot that matters. Three shutouts in the five-game mauling of Montreal? Talk about a re-enactment of Ken Dryden circa '71.

Coach Laviollete. He's that rarity in the NHL, a stud American. He directed Carolina to the 2006 Stanley Cup and has Phenomenal Philly on the brink. Boston fans surely are bummed a neighbor nailed them, what with the First Flyer hailing from Norwood, Mass.

Speaking of Boston, it also had to be sickening to swallow its own medicine. Recall the Red Sox rose from 0-3 in the 2004 pennant series. That nuking of the New York Yankees capped baseball's greatest rebound. Six years later, Bostonians had to feel queasy.

The Flyers of 2010. The Sox of 2004. Makes you ponder sports' top comebacks.

How about:

The Giants of 1962. Sure, Bobby Thomson's Giants of 1951 gave New York drama worthy of Broadway. But the San Francisco version 11 years later was more improbable. Behind by four games in the standing with seven to go, the Giants were done. Really? Somehow they rallied to tie the Dodgers and force a three-game playoff. Then in the deciding game, the Giants looked dead again. They trailed 4-2 in the ninth inning. Yet they woke up to walk over Los Angeles for the pennant.

The Bengals of 1970. They started 1-6, hardly surprising for a team in just its third season. Forget it, right? Wrong. Winning its last seven games, Cincy gave Paul Brown the AFC Central title.

The lesson: Never say bye.


Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

PacMan's Pounding Of Pack-It-In Man

The best bet was on the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders.

Did they ever beat boxing to the punch the other night.

Whereas the welterweight title fight had all the sting of a swatted bee, the Cowgirls sang like miked butterflies.

Did you catch their act? The trio — decked out in stars and not much else — made "The Star-Spangled Banner" flutter. Their a cappella voices had as much beauty as their bodies.

And after "home of the brave," every fight fan was indeed ready to rumble.

Only the main event wasn't much of an encore.

It featured Manny Pacquiao living up to his PacMan billing — chomping nonstop for 12 rounds.

But from the other corner? A turtle, as an office colleague called Joshua Clottey. He crawled all the way out of Africa to spend the whole fight in a shell.

Shades of Ali's 1974 rope a dope in the Congo. That time it turned into Foreman's stumble in the jungle.

This time it was a grope a dope in Texas. With that cover-up plot, Clottey was a Ghana, all right.

So what were fans to do? The 50,000 at Dallas Cowboys Stadium — most of whom had to be Filipinos — erupted for their hero. And booed stuck-like-a-blood Clottey.

Why join them? Glad I avoided the marathon drive from the West Coast and $50 parking. The best way to watch was at a Filipino party near Disneyland. Deep dishes of Philippine food, topped by cheering. The only thing that tasted bad was my $5 raffle ticket. I pulled out a 3, off by nine rounds.

So what's next on the menu? PacMan and whoever else he wants to devour.

The Filipino Fist stands 51-3-2 and on top of the world. Make his win total 52 if he captures his congressional seat he's fighting for in May.

The Honorable Manny Pacquiao would then fly back to strafe Mayweather or Mosley in one rich goodbye party.

Talk about political pull.

With PacMan calling and dealing the shots, he better corral the Cowboy cheerleaders for another national anthem.

That would be the patriotic thing to do.


Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

Jets In The Clouds

The Amazin' Jets?

You bet. By reaching the playoffs. By winning their first-rounder in Cincy. By sticking it to San Diego in Sunday’s second-rounder.

The Jets have fans like me flush with green bliss.

Watching the Sanchise tame the Bengals two straight weeks trumped Broadway Joe in one respect. Namath faced the Oakland Raiders twice in the 1968 American Football League season and could only split.

Only? What Joe Willie did was lose the Heidi Game, then black out Oakland in the AFL final. That gave New York a ticket to the Super Bowl, where Namath backed his guarantee with football's greatest upset, beating Baltimore 16-7.

The Jets looked Super in their all-white unis and helmets that sport the second coolest NFL logo after the Colts' horseshoe. And haven't won a championship since.

Buddy Ryan was an assistant coach on those Jets. His son Rex is head coach of these Jets. And made a Namath-like call heading into this month's playoffs. "We should be the favorites," Rex said two weeks ago.

Now here the Jets are calling out the Colts again, this time for the AFC championship.

Even if the Jets don’t make it to the Feb. 7 Super Bowl — in Miami, just like 41 years ago — they've been the shock of early 2010. What other surprises can we expect the following 11 months?

February: Lindsey Vonn. As the Olympics hit the snow of Vancouver midmonth, the Babe of Burnsville, Minn., hopes to shed memories of 2006. That's when she crashed while training for the Torino Games and failed to win a medal. Since then, she's skied past them all on the World Cup circuit. Will she come through in Canada? Yes.

March: Manny Pacquiao. The Filipino Fist is coming off a battered eardrum during his otherwise safe pounding of Miguel Cotto last November. With that injury, PacMan is sure to be shaky as he enters the ring against a gun from Ghana named Joshua Clottey. Nah. Pacquiao will somehow pull the trigger on this triumph in Texas in time to return home and win in the political arena.

April: Mizzou. My Tigers own exactly one national championship. It came in baseball in 1954. Now make it two, with the Tigers leaping atop the Final Four in Indy.

May: Andrew Bynum. I've been on a trade-Drew campaign recently. Now he makes me and fellow naysayers look silly by standing tall for the Lakers. Right in the thick of the NBA playoffs.

June: Jo-Willie Tsonga. The Muhammad Ali double jabbed to the 2008 Aussie final, but needs a knockout to put him on tennis' list of big hits. He'll swing his way there with a Paris-poppin' performance in the French Open.

July: Lance Armstrong. He pedals all the way back to the peak — over the Alps and into Paris to grip his eighth Tour de France championship. And we thought he really was done after his seventh straight Tour title in 2005.

August: Tiger Woods. Gotta admit I loved seeing this stealth thug mug himself with his thong chasing. But kiss off his career? No way. Thanks to his new sex appeal, Tiger will roar beyond the rough. In time to win the PGA in Wisconsin.

September: Justine Henin. The Belgian Waffles keep stacking up tennis titles. Kim Clijsters won the U.S. Open in 2005, retired a couple of years later, changed her mind, then won it again in 2009. Henin also owns two Open crowns. Her last came in 2007. The next year she left the court as No. 1 in the world. Now she's back and conquers New York for Open trophy No. 3.

October: Garrett Gilbert. No one but his family heard of this alliterative ace. Until he almost won college football's national title game to start the year. Now the Texas quarterback's in his second season. Or in the vernacular of the TV dopes, a true sophomore. And winging the Longhorns past Oklahoma in the Red River Shootout.

November: The Mets. No way they'll let the Jets steal the Amazin' tag all year. New York's National Leaguers claimed that crown in 1969. Now they wear it again, with Carlos Beltran joining Jason Bay in time to power atop the World Series.

December: Pacquiao-Mayweather. Just when you thought this megabout was KO'd, off the deck it comes. Only kidding, says Pretty Boy Floyd after his drug slap at PacMan. The Filipino isn't laughing. He bloodies Floyd's smirk and perfect record. Now Pacquiao stands 52-3-2, on top of the world. And waving bye to boxing.


Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

Dandy Decade

Line of the decade hit the office the other day:

Tiger Woods needs a new driver.

Other than that, you won’t see mention of him in this breakdown of the 2000s. This is about sports, not golf.

2000: The Lakers win the first of three straight NBA titles. On their way to Team of the Decade. Shaq provides the muscle, but in four years he’ll flee and rip L.A. The city’s hero is Kobe. He sticks it out during the drag days of mid-decade, scores 81 in a 2006 game against Toronto and wins a fourth championship in 2009. No question. Bryant is Player of the Decade.

2001: The 9/11 World Series. The massacre pushed the Diamondback-Yankee clash so far back, Derek Jeter turned into Mr. November. So much drama at Yankee Stadium: late homers, “God Bless America.” Then came the ninth inning, Game 7, Arizona’s stadium. The D-comebacks won it, thanks to Luis going Gonzo against the arm with the Mo, Rivera.

2002: The Angels win it all. And what a World Series. Seven gut games against San Francisco that rivaled the Fall Classic of the year before. Tim Salmon’s Game 2 heroics. Spiezio’s Scott Heard Round the World in Game 6. As AngelsWin.com relays: By now, most Angels fans can recite Rory Markas' call verbatim: "Here's the pitch to Lofton. Fly ball, center field. Erstad says he's got it. Erstaaaaaad MAKES THE CATCH! The Anaheim Angels are the champions of baseball!"

2003: Andre Agassi is forever Grand. This was his third Aussie Open trophy in four years. While so many players sobbed about the tropical oven Down Under, Agassi simply sizzled. This made his Slam haul eight, up there with tennis’ greats. Yes, Sampras and Fed were better. But they didn’t have that Andre aura. Maury Allen put it this way in a recent piece at TheColumnists.com: “When you are around athletes all your professional life, as some of us have been lucky enough to be, you can spot stardom. . . . Andre Agassi took over the breakfast room.” So Andre lied about his long hair. As a fellow baldy, I’ll give him a pass. And keep remembering how cool he was, from Frankfurt to Paris to London to New York to L.A. to Melbourne.

2004: The Red Sox vault from nearly dead to Yankee killers. Really the Comeback of the Decade. No baseball team had shed an 0-3 series deficit. And Boston had played mitt to New York’s pounding going back to the Joe D days. Not this time. Riding the crunch-time bat of David Ortiz, the Sox stuck it to the Yanks for the pennant and swept St. Louis for the world title. Their first in 86 years.

2005: City of the Decade? Boston, hands down. The Red Sox won two titles, the Celtics one. And the Patriots three. Their third came in the ’05 Super Bowl, a 24-21 thriller over Philly. Tom Brady lasered the football mostly to Deion Branch. In the end, the Eagles were sick of seeing them.

2006: Texas 41, Southern Cal 38. Vince Young with the winning touchdown in the January BCS title game to cap the 2005 season. The Longhorns national champions for the first time since 1969, the last time you’ll ever see an all-white gang pull that off. This was simply the Game of the Decade. I figured the Trojans would blow out the Horns. The California kids had more talent and the best coach, Pete Carroll. They also had a backyard field, the Rose Bowl. And a 12-point lead late. All Young did was win, just as the QB keeps doing with the Tennessee Titans.

2007: Mizzou No. 1. The snapshot was so rare, I bought two Sports Illustrateds freezing my Tigers’ spot atop college football. The Chase Daniel cover and Jeremy Maclin inside page adorn the Fox Den. I knew the moment wouldn’t last long. It didn’t. The next week, Oklahoma dealt us misery in the Big 12 title game. When will Missouri place first in the land again? Maybe 2017 or 2027. The wait is on.

2008: Phil Jackson. Now this is a giant. Not just because he stands 6-8. Also way up there is his championship number: 10. Six with the Chicago Bulls, four with the Lakers. He would get that fourth in L.A. by 2009, but his handling of this team in 2007-08 was exceptional. SI’s preseason edition predicted a Laker sinking. No one figured anything much better. Except me. Early in the campaign I wrote here something that almost came true, if only the Lakers had overcome Boston in the NBA Finals: Many fans dismiss him as lucky to have coached Jordan, Shaq and Kobe. The Jackson jeers get so loud, listen when he leads the Lakers to the NBA championship this season. Instead of lauding him for landing a record 10th trophy, some will grouse that of course he won; who wouldn’t with Kobe and Andrew Bynum? You see how silly this gets?

2009: Manny Pacquiao. If not for Kobe, the Filipino Fist would be 2000s’ Tops. So let’s make him the Foreign First. How stout was he in bouts? Won seven world titles in seven weight classes this decade. By the time he was fitting his last belt after belting Puerto Rico’s Miguel Cotto last month, he needed to let it out a few notches. Suddenly the skinny slug getting rice kicked in his face is flexing welterweight muscles. And aiming to nail Floyd Mayweather. But that’s next decade.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

Pacquiao, And How

Heard the one about PacMan?

Ring the opening bell, and he slams the door shut.

Saturday night he swung it into Miguel Cotto's face.

Now PacMan -- the Filipino Fist whose real name is Manny Pacquiao -- stands at boxing's top step. His technical knockout 55 seconds into the 12th round gave him a seventh world title in seven weight divisions.

No wonder he's called the face of boxing. Really, who else is there? A couple of Russians at heavyweight you wouldn't know if they walked in the room?

No, you might not be able to spell Pacquiao. You couldn't care less about the alphabet boxing outfits. But you know numbers, and seven for seven? With the seventh belt coming in the World Boxing Organization's welterweight colors that Cotto had owned?

Now that's seventh heaven. For Pacquiao, one of the greatest pound-for-pound, punch-for-punch, dance-for-dance boxers you ever saw. For Vegas, his second home, where he packed 16,000 into the MGM's Grand Garden party. For the Philippines, where he's the hero for the ages. What, you heard of Flash Elrode, the super-featherweight champ of the 1960s? Didn't think so.

The island country is so wild about Manny, countrymen shelled out $50 a pop to catch him on screen at theaters around Las Vegas. The fight's promoter, Bob Arum, reported that his TV halls in Sin City drew 15,000, and you can bet most of them were Filipinos.

As for the live event, Cotto's Puerto Rican rooters raised the roof to an even higher level. Could that be because they had bet against the overdog Pacquiao? Partly.

In the end, the PacMan masses drowned them out. The Filipino Five in front of me in the nosebleed section locked arms the whole bout and in the end were bellowing "We want Floyd!"

That would be Floyd Mayweather Jr., the 40-0 former Ring magazine Fighter of the Year. Pacquiao will take his 50-3-2 record to him next year. The stack of cash awaiting that clash is exactly the right bribe.

Arum: "If Mayweather wants to fight Manny Pacquiao, have him call me."

What to call Pacquiao-Mayweather? Stormy Weather?

Pacquiao-Cotto was billed as Firepower. That worked, especially when the thousands squeezing out of the arena into the MGM casino saw what a fire trap they were in.

On the canvas, the only firepower came from Pacquiao, who weighed 144 pounds. His uppercut in the fourth round decked the 145-pound Cotto. The rest of the fight had this choreography: PacMan charging, Cotto reversing.

Cotto tried to jab his way to safety. PacMan timed it and cleaned his clock.

No wonder the Filipino was smiling on the way to his stool after the sixth round.

"Cotto couldn't win this with a gun," said Anthony Pepe, a radio guy from Boston who stood with me the whole fight.

Pepe was on target, especially since he bet Pacquiao by knockout. I made the same prediction, although didn't bet the fight. I was too satisfied with my $20 winner on Mizzou over Kansas State earlier in the day.

Anyway, we called this one right, which was more than what plenty of other media dudes can claim. Take Tim Smith. He's a biggie with New York's Daily News. And a fine fellow. But he told me Saturday morning Cotto would win.

What? As Pepe and I said as we met in the stands, we're not picking against PacMan's speed.

And did I mention nosebleed? No matter how far up we were, Cotto wasn't a pretty sight.

I'll tell you what was. The round girls. The blonde and brunette who traipsed around the ring holding the round number high were in better shape than the boxers. And wore outfits just as scanty.

So yes, Firepower was worth it. PacMan collected over $13 million, Cotto $7 million.

Vegas drew thousands of gamblers.

Nevada vacuumed millions in taxes. Arum told us press folk that Pacquiao pays 30% of his winnings to the state. If he fought in that old boxing mecca, New York City, he would have to shell out an additional 15%.

"That means," the old promoter said, "Manny Pacquiao will never fight in New York."

And it was worth it to fight fans. Nothing in sports matches a title fight. The atmosphere for Firepower was smokin'.

That's because Manny Pacquiao was packin' heat. Now he can cool off in his hometown, General Santos City, and see about renaming it as he ponders Mayweather.

President Santos City, anyone?


Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.