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The last moments of marathon swimmer Diana Nyad’s attempt to traverse the 103 mile distance between Cuba and Key West were heartbreaking. This is clearly a woman possessed of immense determination and fortitude, and her heart was set on completing the epic journey. As her right shoulder gave out, as her asthma assaulted her breathing, as the waves began to swell, Nyad was reduced to 40 strokes at a time before resting on her back. She couldn’t bear to quit. With her doctor in the water, she queried, do I have to swim all night, then all day, then all night again? Yes was the reply. It sometimes takes courage to do the right thing, and Nyad, pulling her exhausted and battered form out of the water, clearly made the correct choice…Nyad, at 61, covered 50 miles in 29 hours…still a bloody hero to me…

GRID IRON…the Baltimore Ravens backfield, now consisting of Ray Rice and recently signed Ricky Williams, has been given the brilliant nickname, “Speed and Weed”…the Detroit Lions were also in pursuit of one-time Toronto Argonaut Williams. Ricky apparently decided on Baltimore after watching random episodes of The Wire and concluding Baltimore offered him the best opportunity to score…

…the Indianapolis Colts are being secretive concerning the post-surgery condition of Peyton Manning. There might be reason for concern based on, firstly, Manning’s very fragile looking appearance and, secondly, on the plan to start a rookie at left tackle. The aging Colts are playing a dangerous game with a once in a lifetime quarterback…

…Albert Haynesworth has missed the last four New England practices. From the Pats, of course, no reasons for the absence will be forthcoming…

…the Minnesota Vikings are glossing over the very significant issues that emerged last year concerning Donovan McNabb’s work ethic. The older QB apparently refuses to practice at full speed and carries an enormous sense of entitlement. This signing has a big time possibility of backfiring…

PONIES…the 2011 Canadian Triple Crown was one for the ages. All three races, The Queen’s Plate, The Prince of Wales and The Breeders, were spectacular, with one jockey, Luis Contreras, and two horses, Inglorious and Pender Harbour, accounting for the top prizes…

PUG LIFE…how low can Kelly Pavlik go? After pulling out of a fight in Ohio last weekend the former star pugilist gave rambling statements where he referred to himself as a superstar and the man who brought the money to the table. Huh? Pavlik, twice a guest of Betty Ford’s, is becoming the classic drunk bore, a decrepit mess focused on the glory years of the past. Pavlik was due 50k Saturday night and he should have fought and earned that purse…

Leigh Montville’s new biography of Evel Knievel received a good review on the S I site and that was enough to send me to the library for a copy.

Montville is a talented writer and he’s clearly having the time of his life chronicling the adventures of the American daredevil. The ghost of Evel is toothless, and a good journalist can finally transcribe a full account of a man who may, truly, have been more evil than Evel.

Thief, wife beater, inveterate liar, hype merchant, alcoholic…not the image Ideal Toys had in mind when pushing their wildly successful toy line.

Knievel was a product of Butte, Montana, a mining town where the stench of death literally permuted the daily existence of the residents. Mining in the 40’s and 50’s did not have the Health and Safety strictures associated with the modern profession and it was common to have a male family member who had perished underground. The town was wild, a well paid collection of madmen who wanted to spend their cash while their feet were firmly above ground. Whorehouses and 24 hour saloons were common, mayhem saturated every corner.

Knievel was a hustler from the beginning, finding good success in the insurance business while never kicking his habit of robbery. He’d rob his local, the store where he had just done business or maybe just the business across the street. He stumbled into the carnival business and his first jump featured a hop over two sleeping mountain lions and a box full of rattlesnakes.

On the hustle, Evel had his first coup when Caesars Palace agreed to let him jump their famed fountains in 1967. The resulting crash was caught on film, by Linda Evans no less, and became a staple on ABC after the network purchased the footage. Knievel would jump on ABC’s Wide World of Sports seventeen times in the early seventies, including a jump at King’s Island that was watched by over 50 million Americans. The George Hamilton movie, the toys, the mass media coverage - in the early seventies Evel was a king, a contemporary of Elvis and Ali in the American celebrity firmament.

But Montville depicts the boorish, bullying behaviour that grew worse with the success. The closed circuit Snake River canyon farce of 1974, when no reasonable expectation of success was ever conceived by the Knievel team, suggested the possibility of a downward spiral. His proposed attempt to jump a canyon had been an inextricable part of his marketing for years, serving to separate him from the other daredevils. When Snake River was exposed as callous cash grab, the public began to snarl back.

A brutal beating of a former publicist in 1977 sealed the deal on Knievel. Sentenced to six months in jail, he lost his sponsorship deals with Ideal Toys and Harley Davison. He would end up declaring bankruptcy shortly thereafter.

The man’s fall must have been traumatic. He had been brutal to everyone on the way up, and when he proposed a sleazy jump over live sharks one columnist wrote, “I’ll be cheering for the sharks”. The ride back down must have been one nasty tumble.

This is definitely a pre-internet story, a recollection of an age where even a brute like Knievel could massage a genteel public image by instigating an anti-narcotics campaign (this while hammered almost all the time - including during a few jumps!) and decrying the influence of hippies. The excesses of his life, the battered body of his first wife, all would demand attention today.

The book is a fascinating reminder of just how times have changed, how invasive is the modern spectator. The purported hero of Montville’s work is distinctly unlikeable but the ride through the seventies is redolent with nostalgia and popular history. It’s hard to put the book down though one will surely mourn the loss of idealized visions of youth.

My brother once, famously at our house, fired my Evel Knievel cycle off of our roof. Maybe he knew something I didn’t…

I pushed past a couple of construction workers, inhaled a mound of dust, and then sat at the brand new bar. The Rails and Ales had moved and if the opening date appeared to be in need of a one or two day reprieve, it sure wasn’t going to bother me.

Len approached.

We’re really not open yet, he said.

I didn’t move.

We’re really not open yet, he said.

I didn’t move.

Len sighed and poured a grimy pint.

Seconds later there was a commotion as the JDawg pushed his way in from the street.

We’re really not open yet, said Len.

The JDawg just cackled and said, that’s fine, just pour me a pint.

We were underway, lads, and a collection of newcomers and regulars began to stumble in, anxious to see the new pub.

I was the first customer, I yelled.

Well, said Len, the first customer is the first person to pay for their pint. He held out an open palm.

It’s really not that important to me, I said, sipping away…

***

The new Rails and Ales Pub is proving to be a glorious success. It’s packed with old regulars from Pape, old timers from the locations previous incarnations, and curious newcomers.

The decision to uproot and stagger a few hundred yards east, past Donlands on the Danforth, was intertwined with the need for the creation of a different type of environment, if even just for the preservation of Len’s sanity.

Gone would be the multiple pool tables, the long languorous bar, those cool summer breezes, yes, but also the interminable water leaks, run down decor and occasional invading crack head.

The construct of a new Rail began with the desire to run a more traditional pub. The rebuilt Seanachi (formerly the Hargrave) is lush, the floors and bar a deep, inviting chocolate brown, the lighting soft and unobtrusive. You’re free to slouch at the bar, relax on the patio, or select a more private setting along the back wall. Like all great pubs, you can choose from multiple environments depending on how you feel that night, or at that moment. High def TV’s and gleaming taps provide the perfect punctuation for a stupendous bar.

It’s a new vision and one proving immensely popular. At the core of any business, though, remains the people, and it’s here where Len has always excelled, selecting poised, interesting workers. You can come to get trashed, but if that’s not your deal, you’ll surely be regaled with provocative conversation.

We we we we so excited…or something like that.

The Rail is dead - long live The Rail.

.

PONIES…Canadian Champ Biofuel (2010 Horse of the Year) had looked decidedly lethargic while suffering defeats in her only two starts this season. Her connections have done the right thing by announcing her retirement. The irascible runner, a local favourite, has clearly lost the bloodlust for victory and a pale imitation of the filly satisfies no one…

AMY…Ginner recommended a perusal of Amy Winehouse singing “Love Is a Losing Game” from the 2007 Mercury Awards (available on You Tube) as an antidote to the prevailing sadness over her death. The performance encapsulates the genius and talent of the tiny powerhouse, and it is breathtaking to watch her silence a crowd using the majesty of her singular talent. I was thrilled to watch the three minute clip, particularly after cringing through highlights of her recent Belgrade debacle. The Mercury performance underlined the savage brilliance of the woman, the Belgrade show her terrible fragility…

THE BIG SMOKE…we have found the gravy in Toronto, and it is…the libraries?? The Ford Administration has launched an ignoble attack on these venerable institutions, all the while spewing appalling ignorance. Did Doug Ford, the Mayor’s brother, really say he didn’t know who Margaret Atwood was? That there were more libraries in his riding than Tim Horton’s?…I had a sick feeling when Mayor Ford gave a prominent role to Don Cherry at his inauguration. I was shocked when he became the first Mayor in twenty years not to attend the Pride parade. Now we’re easing into contempt and disgust….

GRID IRON…I’m fascinated by the permutations of the recently signed owner/player agreement. As an outsider, I’m not subjected to propaganda or lobbying. And I’ll tell you; this resolution is not even remotely close to being the “fair” settlement being portrayed in the media. No, it’s a slam dunk win for the owners. The rookie cap, and the ability to control your rookie for a stunning five years (four years and a club option on an additional year), means the majority of NFL players will only ever have one contract (based on average career tenure of just over three years). Think about it. The controlled, managed initial contract given to a player will, in the majority of instances, be the only contractual negotiation a player ever has with his team. Superstars, and those who can thrive into a sixth, seventh year in the NFL, will definitely be richly rewarded - they are the winners. But the “working class” player, the dude who is just above average, is now likely to play for a grossly underwhelming amount and then be  drummed out of the league after an injury or through a simple recycling program which keeps filtering in young cheap players. The monies available to a Brady or a Manning figure to be staggering, but the bulk of NFL players will be considerably poorer as a result of this deal…

GRID IRON…one of the quick ways to evaluate the NFL contract talks is to use traditional benchmarks of revenue distribution. In “Net Worth”, the brilliant study of the NHL labour wars, it was noted that the athlete cut of income in professional sport almost always gravitates to 57%. That’s the number that seems fair. When it explodes to the 60’s, owners invariably feel squeezed and get cranky, when it dips to the 40’s, players get ripped off.

The current offer on the table by the NFL owners offers 47% of revenues to the players. It’s a big time cash grab and one that would immediately boost the value of franchises, on top of promising extraordinary cash flow through the run of the ten year deal. It’s a crooked offer, one that needlessly exploits the finest athletes in the world.

The implausibility of owners crafting an agreement by themselves, “ratifying it”, and then expecting the players to approve, made yesterday one of the most puzzling days in the history of NFL labour negotiations. The owners want the 800 million generated by preseason and hungrily attempted to cow players into acquiescence. It didn’t work, and the players should stick to their guns until a far more realistic division of the spoils is offered…

GREEN LANTERN…utterly disappointed by this dog of a film. The dialogue hits the George Lucas level of woodenness and triviality. The enemy, Paracrap, looks like a hunk of dust that a good green vacuum cleaner should have cleaned up. Pithy statements about humanity (”we are young, but can learn”, this said to midgets living on narrow grey columns) are grating, particularly when aliens cast those knowing looks at the end of the film that say, “We have misjudged you, you have surprised us with your courage, human”. Oh, blow it out your ass. This film is horrific, a zero out of ten load of baby poo that should have never seen the light of day. And Ryan Reynolds? Nice abs, can’t act…

PONIES…Woodbine cancelled racing this afternoon due to “extreme heat”. That’s a Big Smoke first but the city is just that hot…

…the Canadian Triple Crown has completed two jewels and both races were outstanding. Inglorious, currently awaiting an Aug 20^th engagement at Saratoga in the hugely important Alabama Stakes, has had her Queens Plate speed figure revised to a boisterous 96 (from 90). Prince of Wales winner Pender Harbour has been awarded a 93 for his smashing win last Sunday in a three horse photo with Bowman’s Causeway and Oh Canada…the American Triple Crown was a tepid affair this year, tilting to somewhat sleazy when that hamster Ruler On ice upended the Belmont. This year the Canadian three year olds offered a more wholesome and enjoyable competition…the final jewel, the Breeders, will be run at a mile and a half on the Woodbine lawn Aug 7^th…

FOOTIE…the Women’s World Cup Final made a mockery of the male version. The passion and sportsmanship on display seemed to hearken back to a time, one I thought existed only as a fairytale, where the ideals of sports were not hollow bromides but flesh and blood realities. Utterly fantastic performances and exquisite drama punctuated a match where the Japanese team would just not quit. I am as far away as I’ve ever been from wanting to watch an afternoon of diving, crying, whining, squealing men…

PUG LIFE…the seemingly directionless Antonio Tarver scored a nice win in Australia yesterday, pulling an upset over local hero Danny Green. Tarver had lost all career momentum after a disappointing loss to Bernard Hopkins and had recently flirted with the heavyweight division. His score yesterday, as a cruiserweight, could be the harbinger of a title shot in the 200 lb division. Green, red hot recently, discussed retirement after the loss…

BRIDESMAIDS…look, I found this movie funnier than The Hangover, massive praise indeed, and would rank its viewing as one of the great times I’ve ever had a theatre. With a guest from overseas in tow, I went to the flick with the impression that it was fairly pedestrian but with a couple of good scenes. Nothing could be further from the truth! It’s a comic masterpiece, with the “fitting” scene and the “plane” scene scandalously funny. It’s a shame the film is being pushed as a “chick flick” when it really is just pure comedic gold…

..I also saw Horrible Bosses and its quite good, an entertaining diversion on these hot humid nights…

This summer is driving me crazy, for reasons other than the oppressive, overarching heat;

THE BLOOR…the staple of my movie going life has been sold and is currently undergoing a massive renovation. Yes, that’s what people wanted, all the seats torn out and the character of the grand dame scrubbed clean. Sickening. The new owners are targeting the documentary crowd, a group, according to a writer to NOW, notorious for “brittle genitals”. Not sure what that means but I will sorely miss my battered little Bloor - sticky, torn and yet still the jewel of my rancid eye…

THE LEAFS…fans spent an entire season waiting for the off-season dispersement of the 20 million bucks available in cap space…and the new regime produces nothing but squalid bed wetters and public transit wankers. Sickening. I slipped into a depression and couldn’t even speak of the Buds as they spat wads of filthy lucre at refuse like Liles, Connelly and some lackeys from Nashville.

This, in a summer where Jeff Carter, Brad Richards and Mike Richards were available.

Burke goes AWOL and the squawking donkeys of the press fail, with the exception of Steve Simmons, to grasp what an utter disgrace that action was. Grandpa told me you gel old, you get fat, you lose the hunger. Brian Burke is looking greasy and Dave Nonis vacuous as the Toronto Maple Leafs prepare for yet another year where their chances of a post season berth were squandered by incompetent management before Labour Day…

PUG LIFE…so Vladimir Klitschko holds three title belts after dusting nine toed sloth David Hayes and what does the hideous WBA decide to do? They declare him a “Super” Champion, creating a new title, while vacating their “regular” heavyweight title.

Yes, the alphabet boys are now designating more than one champ per division. Sickening.

Not to be outdone, the WBC simply lifted their middleweight title from rightful champ Sergio Martinez and staged a scrap where the belt could be awarded to Mexico’s favourite son, Julio Caesar Chavez Jr.

Boxing is beyond gross. It is skin crawlingly corrupt with the belts having no significance and the entire edifice devoid of an ethical spine…

GRID IRON…please come back, all is forgiven, you all deserve your millions, and I deserve something to watch…

While cleaning out a closet - no, not a metaphor, I was cleaning out a closet, a real one - I was confronted by the final two tomes in the Harry Potter series. The first five had been digested before I decided enough was enough, condemning the two concluding volumes to a life co-exisitng with winter boots, gloves and battered copies of Ring Magazine. But staggered by all the hype surrounding the release of the final film, I grabbed the books and succumbed to Hogwarts mania, finally reading the last pair of books.

In three days.

Twelve hundred pages of leaden prose in a mind numbing 72 hours. Basically if I wasn’t reading J K Rowling I was either sleeping, eating or in the shower.

The books string you along with one mystery after another. Rowling is excellent at plot twists and creative entanglements. And, of course, one must profess delight that so many children have been encouraged to read by the series phenomenal success - and I envy their good luck in growing up with Harry, Hermione and Ron.

But while everyone is looking to cell phones and power lines, it may be reading Rowling that is the surest factor in the development of a brain tumour.

This grim, humourless woman squeezes any ounce of genuine fun or revelry out of her works. I can’t get a bead on her at all. The whole Severus Snape conundrum - is he good or really, really bad? - was utterly compelling and kept me glued to the books. The question of Albus Dumbledore and his hidden agenda was fantastic and an excellent warning to young people to be careful of their mentors and guardians.

The themes were good, the overriding message intoxicating…the writing seemingly concocted by a hedgehog with a pencil up his arse.

My head still hurts and the pillow I had to keep beside me while I read the final books (I needed to lash out and punch something in frustration as Rowling time-and-time-again seemed incapable of making a point with any style or swagger) is in need of repair. I would still advise a young reader to go to Susan Coopers The Dark Is Rising series, and then the Hobbit and, when 14 or 15, The Lord of the Rings. Must reads along the way include the works of Roald Dahl, C S Lewis and, the favourite in my young ‘hood, Watership Down.

I don’t think there is long term nutritional value in the Potter series, and possibly its best use is as an inducement for a child to read something else. The ideas rumbling around in J K’s head are first class, the means of delivery decidedly third rate.

On Dec 5^th, 1998, Wladimir Klitschko was stopped by 24-13 (win-loss) tub of goo Ross Purity. He never avenged the loss. Subsequently, the Ukrainian wunderkind was decimated by both Corrie Sanders, in March of 2003, and Lamont Brewster, in April of 2004.

Excuse me if I choke on the laudatory comments heaped on the timid heavyweight champ.

His effort against Sultan Ibramigov, in February of 2008, was the most disgracefully impoverished showing ever registered by a purported heavyweight champ.

Klitschko has brought the division to its knees with his underwhelming showings. The fact he has faced the worst collection of challengers in the divisions history serves to undermine both his credibility and his claim to greatness.

Make no mistake; I’ll be cheering for undersized David Haye tonight. Boxing needs the charisma and passion of the Englishman in order to ignite interest in the dormant class.

A serious concern is the admission by Haye that he has not sparred in the past three weeks. My experience is that a fighter would only lay off combat for that extended period if he was nursing an injury. Politics and the past meant Haye could not postpone this bout, not after dodging the Ukrainian for two years.

Haye has four wins at heavyweight, his most impressive a savage beat down of John Ruiz last year. He is being bet heavily, currently on offer at a skimpy +200 (Klitschko at -170) and is in with a chance if he is fit and healthy.

It’s not a nice time to be thoughtful in The Big Smoke.

Two of our purported leaders have botched affairs with radically stupid actions.

Mayor Rob Ford declines to attend Toronto’s biggest parade, Sundays Pride event, while Brian Burke, the Leaf GM, is noticeably absent while his underlings pitch Brad Richards, a player the team desperately needed.

Is the concept of leadership and responsibility dead in this city?

***

The Pride parade puts Toronto on the right side of history. A contentious and controversial event, this year the celebration is conducted against the backdrop of the rise of Michelle Bachman and The Tea Party in the United States, along with the continued expression of Islamic anti-homosexual sentiment, including the demand by a speaker in Toronto this weekend that gays be executed.

Toronto’s mayor should be at the parade, emphatically letting the “haters” know where this great city stands in terms of the fundamental human rights of its citizens.

***

Brian Burke, an American citizen, opted to fly to Afghanistan to spend time with the troops instead of doing his job on one of the most important days on the hockey calendar.

What a moronic move.

Burke moved heaven and earth to be in Sweden when the Sedin twins stood on the verge of free agency; he clearly understands the importance of the face of the franchise being present when a pitch is delivered.

When Brad Richards, a point a game centre, and one with inclinations to abscond to New York, sat in Mississauga, I can only imagine his disappointment in being wooed by Leaf second raters. He opted to go with his original plan and go to the Big Apple.

The Leafs have tons of cap space and the price on Richard was appallingly reasonable, a cap hit in the range of 6 million a year. The Leafs have no one to give the puck to sniper Phil Kessel and no plan to obtain a player who will fill the void.

For a franchise out of the playoff for seven years now, Richards was a no brainer. An absolute go all-in necessity.

Burke didn’t even attend the meeting and that sealed the Leafs chances immediately.