Who is the most dominant athlete in the world right now?   

Ronda Rousey is on the cover of this week’s Sports Illustrated under the headline “World’s Most Dominant Athlete.” I wanted my friends’ opinion on the matter. I asked six friends who know and love sports.

Here are their responses:

Allie Burger

Credentials: Works for the Worldwide Leader in L.A., meaning she gets the coveted “ESPN” designation in the Company section of my iPhone’s contact card. Dominated the student sports media scene in Eugene. Was smart enough to combine working for ESPN with the California sunshine, which I apparently couldn’t figure out.

“Based on public opinion or talent level? LeBron, Neymar.“

“If it’s the world, Neymar. As unexciting as that is domestically. Especially right now with UEFA and Copa del Rey. I mean, it’s not a super popular answer, especially considering that most people think Messi and Ronaldo are better. But at this moment, his play is dominant, I think.

“I wouldn’t say Mayweather for obvious reasons.”

Lucas Edmands

Credentials: Might be the most intelligent person who actually believes Tom Brady is innocent. Doesn’t let living in Oregon stop him from appropriating Masshole culture. Commissioner of the first fantasy football league that let me invite my girlfriend to join. (That might be a strike against him?)

“Kelly Slater.

“The dude’s insane! He’s 20+ years into his career and still beating kids that are young enough to actually be his kids. Usain Bolt should be in that discussion, too. “

Josh Roth

Credentials: Works for the NL East-leading (!!!) New York Mets. As devoted an Oregon Duck fan as you will find east of the Mississippi. Once had a 95-minute conversation with me about the relative talents of Dillon Gee and Jacob deGrom.

“Ronda Rousey. No one dominates a sport like her. It would be like if Kentucky was up 25 on Wisconsin five minutes into the game.”

Chad Delaney

Credentials: Actually played D-I sports, which is more than anyone else whose appeared in this space can say. Works for Nike. Has probably forgotten more about personal training and what it takes to be a legitimate athlete than I will ever learn.

“Are you hinting at the Ronda Rousey article?

“She is compelling. I’d say her, Floyd, maybe Ashton Eaton. She beats a good portion of her opponents in less than a minute.

“I wish I knew more about water polo, cricket, track, rugby, and even bowling. Then I could give you a better answer.”

Christian Caccamise

Credentials: Has lived a long, tortuous life as a Buffalo fan. Gamed Madden by converting fictional Jimmy Garappolo into a monstrous 100x Super Bowl-winning quarterback, thus ensuring that Jimmy G does exactly that in real life when he replaces Brady this season.

“Hmm. I don’t like the Ronda Rousey argument. How bout we get some competition in women’s UFC… LeBron half-asses it too much lately. No football players because there are four great QBs^a and A.P. is old. I don’t know, man. I don’t know baseball, but I’d have to say Jon Jones until he loses.

“[Ronda is like Oscar Robertson beating up little white guys. Jones got his title stripped, but that doesn’t mean he’s not the best. Plus, he has real competition. Messi might be right, but I haven’t ever actually watched him, so I can’t say.”

Mark Kern

Credentials: Sports producer at Cleveland.com. Ran a mean sports desk at K-State and a meaner beer pong table. Currently forced to watch his Bulls fill their own feet with bullets against LeBron and the Cavs while living in Cleveland.

“Rousey. Without a second thought too. I’ve been saying that for a year.

I just ordered her book. She is my second favorite athlete to watch after Westbrook. People don’t like her because she isn’t scared to say what’s on her mind, but the UFC needs her. With Silva failing drug tests and Jon Jones’ problems, Rousey is the superstar in the sport.”

Watched this three times in a row already. Headed back for No. 4.

The Moped Diaries:

Remember that Spotify playlist I posted last week? The one that consisted of only girls’ first names?  C found its brilliant counterpoint.

In 2013, Esme Patterson released “Woman To Woman,” a collection of seven songs intended as rebuttals to songs named after women. Just like my playlist.

Here’s the genesis:

“I was sitting in a hotel room in Spearfish, S.D., learning to play a Townes Van Zandt tune called “Loretta,” and as I was singing the words, I started to get angry. I started thinking about how one-sided and subjective a lot of ‘love songs’ are, and how a lot of women immortalized in songs might tell a different side of the story if anyone ever asked.”

In another interview I read, she specifically brings up a famous line from “Alison” by Elvis Costello: “I don’t know if you’ve been loving somebody / I only know it isn’t mine.”

In all the times I’ve heard that song, I’ve understood it as a pun. Like, “I don’t know if you’ve been loving somebody; I only know it isn’t my body.” Sort of like, If I said you had a nice body, would you hold it against me?

She interpreted “it isn’t mine” as Alison’s baby. I’m not going to do anymore research on this because no good can come from it. Either Esme or Elvis is less clever than I thought they were. I doubt it’s Elvis.

Anyway, here’s the full track listing and her reference material.

1. Valentine
(Elvis Costello – ‘Alison’)

2. Never Chase A Man
(Dolly Parton – ‘Jolene’)

3. Tumbleweed
(Townes Van Zandt – ‘Loretta’)

4. The Glow
(The Beach Boys – ‘Caroline, No’)

5. Bluebird
(The Beatles – ‘Eleanor Rigby’)

6. Louder Than the Sound
(The Band – ‘Evangeline’)

7. A Dream
(Leadbelly – ‘Goodnight Irene’)

Been going through a little Norman Mailer phase. I read his dispatches from the Rumble In The Jungle to get pumped for Mayweather/Pacquaio, and now that has bled into The Executioner’s Song and The Naked and the Dead.  

Today I found a Mailer edition of the Paris Review’s Art Of Fiction, and that may just be the most pretentious sentence I’ve ever typed. It’s from 2007, the year Mailer died. Here are my favorite excerpts:

On Hemingway’s style

He’s a trap. If you’re not careful you end up writing like him. It’s very dangerous to write like Hemingway, but on the other hand it’s almost like a rite of passage. I almost wouldn’t trust a young novelist—I won’t speak for the women here, but for a male novelist—who doesn’t imitate Hemingway in his youth. 

On his theory of Hemingway’s suicide

I came up with a thesis: Hemingway had learned early in life that the closer he came to daring death the healthier it was for him. He saw that as the great medicine, to dare to engage in a nearness to death. And so I had this notion that night after night when he was alone, after he said goodnight to Mary, Hemingway would go to his bedroom and he’d put his thumb on the shotgun trigger and put the barrel in his mouth and squeeze down on the trigger a little bit, and—trembling, shaking—he’d try to see how close he could come without having the thing go off. On the final night he went too far. That to me made more sense than him just deciding to blow it all to bits. However, it’s nothing but a theory. The fact of the matter is that Hemingway committed suicide. 

(God, that gives me the chills.)

On reputations

If you’ve been in five — say, five — fights in your life, the public sees it as fifty fights or one hundred and fifty. 

On competitiveness

What’s not understood sufficiently about novelists is how competitive we all are. We’re as competitive as star athletes. Particularly the ones who break through into public renown. And we don’t say, Oh, what do you all have to be so envious of each other for? Isn’t it enough that we’re all talented? Why can’t we just enjoy each other? It doesn’t work that way. We’re competitive. You can’t say to athletes, What are you all competitive for? Isn’t it marvelous that you can catch a football with great ease and run quickly? Why do you have to be in competition with the other men? Anyone who talks like that is the silliest sort of liberal. 

Just finished my new favorite Spotify playlist.

What’s her name again? is 50 songs, each titled a different girl’s name. Because this is the kind of dumb stuff I obsess over, I set ground rules for myself.

(I was explaining this to Jesselyn, and she put it better than I could: “Oh, so this is one of those weird personal challenges you give yourself and then agonize over even though no one else really cares?” She wasn’t trying to be mean, but she is 100 percent right.)

• I can only include songs with titles that consist entirely of the name. Nothing else, aside from punctuation or proper titles. ^a
  “Martha, My Dear”
  “Corrina, Corrina”
  “Jenny Was A Friend Of Mine”

• I can only include one entry per artist.
  “Jane” or “Enid”
  “Melissa” or “Jessica”
  “Aja” or “Peg”

• I can only include songs I already know and like. No padding the playlist with Spotify hunting or settling for something mediocre.
  “Amanda”
  “Isabel”
  “Christie Lee” 

• I can only include one song per name, but the names must match exactly. So, if I include “Laura” by Girls, I can’t include “Laura” by Billy Joel. But if I include “Valerie” by Amy Winehouse, I can still include “Valerie Plame” by The Decemberists. It’s an arbitrary world I’ve built for myself.

Here is the finished product. What did I forget?^b

If you actually liked this, here are some of the other theme playlists I’ve done:

“Girls”
Lady Vox
Gettin’ Saxy

If I made you put $50 on whether Peyton Manning will start all 16 games next season, which side would you stake?  

I sent that question to six friends who love sports and know football. Here are their responses:

Russell Walks

Credentials: Fathered a brilliant sports mind while toiling away as a Vikings fan; Used to disappointment in December like its a bad Christmas present.

“Against.

Choking away trivia.
Angry.”

Levi Hunt

Credentials: Lifelong Denver Broncos fan; Career-long Peyton Manning fan; Unusually honest about his fanhood; Reasonable, smart, and puts his head above his heart in matters of football.

“The under, definitely.

In fact, the really pessimistic part of me thinks he’s going to miss like half the season. … As a Broncos fan, I’m ready for the rebuild, but as a career-long Peyton Manning fan, I want for him to shut some more people up this year.”

Andrew Bolognesi

Credentials: Excellent Madden player; Likes the 49ers ostensibly when its convenient; Makes fun of Trent Dilfer on the reg.

“I’d say yes only if they didn’t lock up the playoffs before Week 14.

“Yeah, I don’t think he can last a whole season. He’s old and his arm is weaker. But he’s a legend.”

Jesselyn Parks

Credentials: Lifelong Jim Rome fan, for some reason; Seems to absorb sports knowledge through osmosis; Hates Steve Nash for no good reason.

“He will miss at least one. I say 2.”

Shannon Rahn

Credentials: Fantasy football queen; Sings the Green Bay Packers’ siren song; Unfazed by the mythology of Peyton Manning.

“Why hello, it is nice to talk to you too.

I’d probably put it on no… I’m thinking he is getting older, has had a lot of injuries in the past, and will continue to be more injury prone and therefore be out a bare minimum 1 game.”

Max Richter

Credentials: Raiders fan (!); Gets drunk on the phone with me and wakes up with Troy Williamson’s career stats page open as a tab on his computer; Refuses to take my serious sports inquiries seriously.

“$50!?! I ain’t neva done seen $50 befoe. I do declare that is too rich for my blood, comrade.

“I’m Jeb Montgomery Kirsanovich, the Good Ol’ Southern Gentleman Bolshevik. I specialize in the manufacturing of Red Rebel Yell, a corn-based vodka distilled in my grandpappy’s abandoned plantation just outside of Moscow.”

C’s last day at 116 Landers was yesterday, and I’m genuinely sad to see him go.  

We were never BFFs, but when you live with someone for nine months, you learn certain things about them and adjust to a level of comfortable living around them. He’s a good guy, and he’s moving on to New York City to take a job he actually doesn’t hate every single moment of working.

I met him a little less than a year ago, in a Chelsea restaurant that was terrible at refilling our New Year’s Day “bottomless” mimosa. Now, we’ve officially swapped cities.

He’s going to keep the house and its tenants — even the furry one — and two more roommates, J & K, will join me over the next two weeks. It will be an interesting shift… suddenly, I’m the Old Lion who’s lived here the longest.

Last night, we played some cards and a little pong on the patio after dark. Not the most momentous sendoff, but it was fitting considering how low key the last nine months have been for both us.

I think I could be really satisfied having a career like Doris Kearns Goodwin.   

She basically pours years into a historical subject – the relationship between William Howard Taft and Teddy Roosevelt, for instance – and then writes a massive 900-page book about it that wins Peabody Awards and Nobel Prizes.

Her professional life is almost entirely demarcated by what she’s studying, and I’m not crazy about the idea of only having something like five books to show for my entire career, but diving into a historical subject that deeply, divining out the truth from the apocryphal crap, sounds massively appealing.

Goodwin’s not alone; she has a bunch of contemporaries that do essentially the same thing, and I wonder if they ever get together and plan out their topics, so two of them aren’t both studying Lewis and Clark ^a for eight years.

But ever since I saw her consistently hold her own on Colbert, she’s my favorite. Although she did become a gentle punchline every time a segment took a raunchy turn – “Once again, my apologies to Doris Kearns Goodwin.”

I guess the impetus for all this is the constant barrage of brick walls I keep running into as I continue my quest to track down that stupid Chris Engler block from weeks ago. I know I should probably give up. At this point, everyone else is over it.

But I can’t stand the feeling of leaving an itch unscratched.

The long hot of the day had ended, but the heat hadn’t burned off. It was warm for the first night in half a year.  

I opened the driver’s side door, and he climbed over to the passenger side. He was patient as he waited for me to roll down his window. After two years with each other, we have certain understandings about things. The window is one of them. The towel that hangs next to the back door, blackened by the dirt that never made it into the carpet — that’s another.

He set his head on the window, resting an ear outside. When he sits like that, a world of smells can drift by his nose. Sometimes, he’ll close his eyes, his nose in overdrive, for the length of the drive.

I stretched my arm into the night and took a lazy left onto Ellis. Tick meds. Now that it’s warm, I have to get back into the habit of treating him. They make his skin crawl, and the thought of him escorting them into my bed makes my skin crawl.

A and I took him to the reservoir for his birthday, and I was disappointed that I didn’t realize until days later that during the trip, he was a literal Reservoir Dog. He got peanut butter for breakfast, half a pork chop for dinner. And he was too tired to move after a full day of hiking. That’s a pretty good third birthday for a pup, right?

Coffee in hand, I turned my music up and drove past my street. He was enjoying the night as much as I was. No need to hurry.

Dogs are funny. Having one, or even how you treat one, says as much about you than anything else. A good dog, who listens, who loves and knows… What’s better than that? What does that say about you, about your capacity for love and patience? Am I patting myself on the back too much for taking a West Coast farm rescue and turning him into my East Coast wingman?

When his legs got tired from propping himself up, he curled into a ball on the seat. Dog geometry is so naturally abstract. That was my cue. I looped back onto Lander and pulled into the driveway. He perked up. Home. He ran ahead of me to the front step and licked the hand holding the coffee when I dug around for my house key.

Ten years. That’s the goal. Good dogs, healthy dogs, get ten years. Anything else is frosting on the cake. He’ll get gray around the muzzle. Maybe the hips will go. The geometry is untenable. His eyes will cloud up, and one day he won’t retrieve. There will be a vet appointment, a shot, an easy lasting sleep. Tears. Later, much later, another pup.

But not yet, buddy. Not for a long time.

Happy third birthday, Chiefers. Thanks for everything.

Guess I can't pretend I live in West Hartford with the rich kids anymore pic.twitter.com/VzAbV6tS8K

— Matt Walks (@mgwalks) April 10, 2015