Waitress: Sir, would you like the pulled pork soft tacos or the chicken quesadillas?

Me: Yes, please!

But for boxing fans Cinco de Mayo also means a Saturday night full of high-profile fights, with pound-for-pound king Floyd Mayweather at the centre of the action. This time out he takes on WBC interim champ Robert “The Ghost” Guerrero, and with assistance from some very capable friends I’m helping you make sense of the action both in the ring and beyond it.

The work has already begun on my day job at the Toronto Star, where I spoke to Leonard Ellerbe  and others about the business of being Floyd Mayweather. Last year he was the world’s highest-paid athlete and this year he has given himself a raise, but his $200 million contract with Showtime is as fraught with risk as it is full of reward and you can read my feature about it here.

Wednesday afternoon I’ll join my good friend and rising star boxing analyst Corey Erdman at the Fight Network studio looking in on the final Mayweather-Guerrero news conference and helping set up Saturday’s fight. We hit the air at 4 p.m. EDT, so if you’re a Fight Network subscriber and have access to a TV make sure you tune in.

And if you miss us Wednesday afternoon we’re back at it Friday. We’ll have the feed to the weigh-in and will be there to help you read between the lines and tell you what to need to know before Saturday night’s big fight. Show goes live at 5 p.m., and you’re all invited to join us.

Between now and fight night, if you have any questions you know where to find me:

If I’m not here I’ll be on Twitter.

If I’m not on Twitter I’ll be at the gym.

And if I’m not at the gym I’ll be a restaurante Mexicano getting Cinco de Mayo fat.

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And lets not kid ourselves. If you gave Donaire more than two rounds on Saturday you either work for Top Rank, or you might as well. Yes, I realize both fighters compete under Bob Arum’s banner, but if one of them is the heir to Top Rank cash cow Manny Pacquiao it’s Donaire, who hails from the same hometown and has received a similar promotional push from Arum and HBO.

And none of it helped him against an opponent with a solid game plan and the confidence and skills to execute it. Rigondeaux neutralized Donaire’s thunderous left hook, stung him with powerful and precise counters, and forced one of the sport’s most dynamic and self-assured performers to second-guess every punch he threw. Rigondeaux, now undefeated in 13 fights, survived a 10th-round knockdown to re-assert control over the contest, sealing a thorough boxing lesson by battering Donaire in the 12th.

The win launches Rigondeaux into a place just behind Floyd Mayweather and Andre Ward in the pound-for-pound rankings, but does it make him a star?

Hardly.

Rigondeaux style is compulsively watchable for purists (like me), but is far too defensive and calculating to sell to the mainstream.That crowd wants action; Rigondeaux delivers tactical and technical brilliance. A Rigondeaux boxing master class and a close-quarters slugfest between Brandon Rios and Mike Alvarado are both highly entertaining, but the brawl entertains in a way that makes money.

It’s like the difference between Lalah Hathaway’s smouldering vocals and Rihanna’s sex-soaked pageantry. Both are engrossing, but to different crowds and for different reasons.

But whether or not you find it exciting, Rigondeaux’ blend of defensive wizardry and authoritative counterpunching is relentlessly effective. And in the aftermath of his career-defining win over Donaire, three factors stand out to me.

1. Rigondeaux’ amateur background paid big dividends

By the time he left Cuba in 2008 Rigondeaux was considered the best amateur boxer ever. He won Olympic gold in 2000 and 2004, and among his reported 400 amateur bouts lost just 12.  His track record highlights his immense skill and savvy but also hinted at a problem heading into a bout with a pro as  accomplished as Donaire.

After a lifetime spent with amateur boxing’s four-round bouts and computerized scoring, could Rigondeaux tailor his style to a pro fight game that rewards body blows, knockdowns and laundry list of intangibles?

Turns out Rigondeaux has adjusted just fine, and dismantled Donaire partly because he still employs select amateur tactics.

Chiefly, whenever Donaire landed a clean blow Rigondeaux would answer almost immediately, like fighters do when they’re aware every landed punch means a point. Amateur bouts aren’t about taking a few shots while building a case with a stronger overall round. They’re about grabbing a lead and not allowing your opponent to pull away. When he scores you need to score, lest you find yourself trailing.

So when Donaire connected, decisive replies from Rigondeaux came instantly, sometimes even before Donaire’s lead had landed. By countering like a man trying to please a computerized scoring system Rigondeaux repeatedly deadened any momentum Donaire hoped to build, showed judges he remained in control, and established the general theme for the evening.

“We fought the Cuban boxing way, hit and don’t get hit,” trainer Pedro Diaz told reporters afterward. “We made Donaire look very bad.”

2. Not calling Team Donaire liars, but…

…I’m struggling to digest the post-fight excuses. He wasn’t just injured but distracted. And not just injured and distracted, but he neglected to do any film study on Donaire.

Chris Mannix of Sports Illustrated calls that last detail an admission.

I call it a claim.

Donaire’s profession in general and style of fighting in particular demand a bulletproof self-belief, but entering the biggest fight of your career against the trickiest fighter in your weight class without bothering to watch  video on him? That’s confidence bypassing hubris and heading straight to stupidity.

And I don’t think anybody in Donaire’s camp is stupid.

Just a little embarrassed over Saturday’s showing.

So to save face they make a series of “revelations” detailing just how unprepared Donaire was for the fight.

I think Donaire was fully prepared for the bout; he just wasn’t ready for Rigondeaux’ brilliance.

3. If you thought the fight was boring, you’re probably blaming the wrong guy

Since the final bell plenty of observers — hardcore and casual fans alike — have criticized Rigondeaux’s style, a defense-first approach that’s part Pernell Whitaker, part Floyd Mayweather and all Cuban sandunga. Rigondeaux’ critics say he came to run and not to fight, but the numbers say his hands were more active than Donaire’s:

Punches thrown, Rigondeaux — 396.

Punches thrown, Donaire — 352.

And the bruises on Donaire’s face tell the story more emphatically. Rigondeaux punched plenty.

So remind me again which guy wasn’t busy enough?

You could argue that Donaire made the fight by moving forward, but moving forward without punching should win neither rounds nor moral victories. Boxing judges reward effective aggressiveness, and stalking without throwing isn’t effective. If you don’t believe me look at Donaire’s face…

And then look at Rigondeaux’.

If Donaire wanted exchanges with Rigondeaux he needed to shrink the ring and force his man to trade punches. It’s not on Rigondeaux to go toe-to-toe any more than it’s Mariano Rivera’s job to throw fastballs over the fat part of the plate… you know, because cutters lead to groundouts and groundouts are boring.

We don’t ask any other athletes to make an opponent’s job easier — unless you’re that rare sports fan who thinks giving up more home runs would make Rivera a more compelling pitcher. Yet we deride defensive-minded boxers as “unwilling to take risks.”

And people want to use Saturday’s fight to add Rigondeaux to that list, except for this:

The guy who was “forcing the action” refused to let his hands go for an all too logical reason: whenever Donaire threw Rigondeaux would stun him with sharp counterpunches. The less Donaire threw, the less he got hit in return, so he let his punch output diminish.

Which makes perfect sense, since even pro fighters tire of getting smashed in the face.

But it should also make you reconsider which fighter was unwilling to take risks Saturday night, and which one was rewarded for actually making the fight.

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Apparently Ward, the best boxer on the planet not named Mayweather, is a long-time friend of Guerrero’s and hopes the Ghost achieves an upset victory May 4.

Naturally, Mayweather wasn’t impressed, and responded by discussing in detail the beyond-the-ring flaws of the near-flawless fighter nicknamed “Son of God.”

Starting with that moniker.

“He calls himself S.O.G. If I’m not mistaken, that stands for Son of God. Last time I checked, we’re all God’s children. When one fighter is facing another fighter, God don’t choose sides. What’s going to happen in life is going to happen. Everything is already planned out. Listen man, if you’re going to be a pastor, go to church. If you’re going to be a reverend, go to church. If you’re going to be a boxer, be a boxer. I mean, one minute, they want to say all this S.O.G. stuff, and the next minute, they wanna go put tattoos on they body. I ain’t never seen a pastor boxing. I ain’t never seen a reverend boxing. I say a prayer that my opponent lives to fight another day and I live to fight another day. You got these guys trying to hurt a man on Saturday and then going to praise the Lord on Sunday”

And moving on to Ward’s (lack of) marketability.

Not knocking Andre Ward, but he can’t sell tickets nowhere. He can’t sell tickets in Las Vegas. This is the only guy I know that’s a gold medalist, but don’t nobody know he’s a gold medalist. He’s a gold medalist, but he’s making money like he don’t even got a medal. Like I said before, Andre Ward, he’s a good fighter, but who knows him? If you’re not in Oakland, you don’t even know who he is. He’s getting older and time is ticking, so I mean, when is he going to ever leave Oakland and put asses in seats somewhere else?

Predictably, a flurry of responses, counter-responses and runaway internet hype about catch-weight challenges that prompted Ward himself to speak out in the interest of stopping the madness.

Still, a few aspects of this debate bear closer scrutiny.

For example…

1. “I ain’t never seen a pastor boxing”

Mayweather’s never heard of this guy?

2. Is James Prince the common denominator?

Shortly after Mayweather’s comments hit the internet Ward’s manager, James Prince, responded with shots of his own. Prince managed Mayweather early in Floyd’s career and clearly didn’t appreciate his former protegé criticizing his current star pupil.

Not knocking Floyd Mayweather, but he knows he couldn’t draw flies to a dumpster until he beat Oscar De la Hoya.  I know this is true because I was managing him when he couldn’t sell out his hometown of Grand Rapids or the San Francisco Auditorium, which only seats 6,000 people.

Question:

If Mayweather had an Olympic medal, a big personality and several world titles yet still couldn’t sell tickets, shouldn’t we fault the people managing for not selling him correctly? Prince discusses Mayweather’s pre-2007 anonymity as if Prince played no role in making the fighter known to a broader audience. And pointing out that Mayweather wasn’t a big draw before defeating De La Hoya doesn’t remedy Ward’s dilemma.

He’s not absolutely unknown — his 147,000-plus Twitter followers make him more popular in that space than half the teams in Major League Baseball. But he still has trouble selling tickets outside Oakland, is a long way from headlining a pay-per-view event, and even with his commentating gigs on HBO is struggling to establish a big enough following to make PPVs a possibility.

Shouldn’t his manager be working to fix that problem?

Yes, but remember this. Mayweather didn’t become a star until after he left Prince.

Am I conflating correlation and causation here?

Possibly, but this much is certain:

Mayweather’s rant has earned Ward more publicity than Prince’s “managing.” So maybe instead of ripping Mayweather he should take notes on how this former client figured out how to win the fame game.

3. But Back to God — Mayweather has a point.

I’m no theologian, and I’m rarely spotted in a church aside from weddings, funerals and Martin Luther King Day vigils, but I know this:

“ For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”

So if we’re all God’s children but Jesus is God’s only Son, what is Andre Ward? God’s outside kid? Is God listing Andre Ward as a dependent on his tax returns? And while I’m sure Ward is devout, billions of other human beings are too, so what has he done to merit half-sibling-to-Jesus status?

Expressing devotion and feeling thankful for blessings is one thing, but calling yourself the Son of God requires a self-righteous sanctimony not even Tim Tebow expresses — at least not in public. Smug piety like that would make Ward one of the most polarizing figures in sport if more fans cared who he was, except… well… see above.

It also makes you wonder how Ward’s “Son of God” moniker would go over with the original Son of God.

Again, I’m no religious scholar but I can’t imagine that level of hubris sitting well with a man who so prized compassion and humility — the very two qualities that would keep Jesus from backhanding Ward for his insolence.

Yes, I understand Ward is the second-best pound-for-pound fighter on the planet while Jesus was but a humble carpenter. But Jesus walks across ponds, conjures an entire banquet from two loaves of bread and turns water into wine with the power of his mind. He’d figure out a way to outbox Ward.

And if not, he’d win the decision anyway because God would take a sudden interest in sports and rig the outcome in favour of his son.

The older one.

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Besides, Carr’s off-the-court struggles are nearly as well known as his on-court success, and the school work only gets more difficult in college. Against that backdrop the decision to circumvent academics and get paid for doing what he loves and what he does best makes sense. Now the only book he needs to study is the playbook, and that might be best for him.

If you think the move is a gamble, you might be right. But when you’re a basketball player who isn’t much bigger than a jockey either option is fraught with risk.

Injuries can happen anywhere. If Carr, god forbid, blows out an Achilles tendon next year, better that he do it for $750K than for tuition and books. And if his high-octane game doesn’t translate to high-level basketball, at least learns that harsh lesson while being paid handsomely.

But if you think the final outcome of Carr’s overseas apprenticeship provides a definitive answer on the wisdom of skipping college, you should broaden your sample size.

Yes, for every Brandon Jennings, who skipped college for pro ball in Italy and returned to the U.S. as the 10th pick in the 2009 NBA draft, there’s more than one Jeremy Tyler, who turned pro at 17 and has struggled on every team he’s joined since then.

But phenoms who don’t blossom into NBA stars fall short for several reasons.

Specifically, Tyler was a raw teenage prospect who headed to Maccabi Haifa with deficits in strength and skill, while lacking the self-assurance required to stand his ground against the hardened pros populating the Israeli league.

And generally, players don’t make it because everybody’s not supposed to make it. That’s why elite leagues are elite and other are secondary circuits,  housing players rising to or falling from the big time. When hundreds of thousands of prospects compete for a handful of jobs the attrition rate will always hover near 100 percent, and there’s not much any individual player can do to affect it.

Not if he plays three years at Duke, not if he hoops at a junior college, and not if he perfects his craft in Italy.  Carr can improve his chances by staying healthy and fine-tuning his game, but making the NBA means someone else doesn’t. He’ll have found success but the failure rate remains unchanged.

So if Carr flames out in Italy, we can’t use it as evidence that skipping college doesn’t work any more than we can point to Hasheem Thabeet’s NBA struggles as proof the draft process is irrevocably flawed.

Truth is, the entire system could use a makeover.

Major League Baseball doesn’t force high school players to wait a year before becoming draft eligible, nor does it see a problem with sending talented but raw teenagers to minor leagues for refinement. Teams draft equally from among high school and college prospects, and players can return to school and re-enter the draft later if they’re not satisfied with where they’ve been picked. The practice isn’t perfect, and college baseball becomes a lower-wattage enterprise without Mike Trouts and Bryce Harpers , but giving players options hasn’t damaged the on-field product at the highest level.

Pros become pros as long as they have a place to develop.

You can do that when each club has a network of minor league teams. As the NBA’s D-League has matured it has also grown into a place where, increasingly, teams feel comfortable sending young and unvarnished talent. But it’s still not the same as having a comprehensive farm system.

Right now the NCAA plays that role, and thus stands to suffer most if more players like Carr decide to serve basketball internships in lower-level pro leagues. The NBA would still receive rookies ready to play by age 22, but if they’re developing elsewhere the NCAA can’t profit off them along the way.

That’s a problem for a multibillion-dollar business that depends on the labour and star power of “student athletes.”

This time next week March Madness will have its hooks in many of us, our bottomless appetite for its games and Cinderella storylines turning the tournament into a must-watch TV, and a massive money-maker for CBS and Turner Sports. In 2010 the NCAA agreed to a 15-year, $10.8 billion sale of the broadcast rights to March Madness.

The tournament is compelling television no matter who plays, but even more electric with stars like Carr.

But that’s not Carr’s problem, and let’s not pretend it is.

He has a career that doesn’t require that he enrol in college, just that he find a place to help him bridge the skill gap between high school and NBA ball. People who worry about what will become of him if he forsakes education better ask the same questions about Usain Bolt, Georges St-Pierre or any other pro in a sport that produces no  revenue at the college level.

If more guys make the decision Carr did college sports will still survive. College isn’t for everyone, and every player who skips school will replaced with a guy who actually wants to be there. Schools will still field teams, Michigan and Michigan State will remain rivals and the best of the best will still graduate to the NBA.

Star power will suffer, but if you’re worried about superstar athletes’ education you can’t also argue that producing superstars is the goal of college sports. You should be happy the average “student athlete” will more closely embody whatever that term is supposed to mean.

The only losers here are the NCAA, who realize that the more college and pro basketball resemble college and pro baseball, the less lucrative the TV rights and sponsorships become.

But if college sports really are about something more fundamental than money the folks in charge shouldn’t mind taking this loss for the team.

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When Stringer laments the real estate deals he wishes he could have made Avon asks him to lighten up and think bigger.

“Forget about that for a while, man,” he says. “Just dream with me.”

“We ain’t gotta dream no more, man,” Stringer says. “We got real shit.”

While on vacation last month I had my own “We Ain’t Gotta Dream No More” moment at a boxing gym in Miami.

Back before my All Balls Don’t Bounce podcast partners went big time, we were a three man outfit operating on a shoestring budget — and I don’t mean the fat laces b-boys used to rock in the 80s. We didn’t have cash for guests, so we relied on imitations because those came at my favourite price.

Free-99.

And because I’m a man of many accents and foe-NET-tick spellings the burden of impersonation often fell on me. So during an August 2011 discussion of cult favourite and perennial light-heavyweight contender Glen “The Road Warrior” Johnson, guess who stepped up to supply the sound bite?

Exactly. Fast forward to 33:55 to hear how it sounds.

Well, we ain’t gotta imitate no more, man. On a Friday morning in Miami I tracked down The Road Warrior himself, and he shared the story of his accent while also filling us in on his plans to keep fighting.

Are you ready to see the 44-year-old Johnson confront Antonio Tarver in a Battle of the Aged?

I certainly am not.

As much as I’ve enjoyed the ride I wish Johnson would walk away. He’s given a lot to the sport and deserves to retire with his health.

And if he quit today I would hire him tomorrow if I could.

As commentator.

No need to lose the accent.

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Morgan Campbell

Business Reporter

MARACAY, VENEZUELA—Angel Guillen turns 16 in January, but his fresh face and braces make him look younger. He’s 6-foot-2 and long-limbed, thin as a praying mantis.

On the pitcher’s mound, however, he wields his right arm like a whip, unspooling fastballs that zip past hapless batters. His fastball can reach 86 m.p.h. but he hopes to hit 90 by July 2, the first day 16-year-olds in Latin America can sign contracts with Major League Baseball clubs. The lucky few become instant millionaires.

While he warms up for today’s 50-pitch practice session his teammates from the AQ Sports Agency’s baseball academy run through the first of three daily workouts.

Guillen starts training at 7 a.m. each day at the AQ Sports Agency baseball academy. The last of three workouts ends just before dusk. Academy founder Alexis Quiroz moved practice up 30 minutes because players were mugged walking home after dark.

Guillen dreams of the big leagues but this morning he doesn’t feel like a pro. He hasn’t pitched in a week and his first few deliveries sail high of the strike zone.

Guillen’s coaches — and pro scouts — are focused on the slender pitcher’s power, poise and potential to improve. He’s a 140-pound kid with long fingers who with training might ripen into a 200-pound man. For fingers he has tendrils — lengthy and slender and lacing pitches with a backspin that makes a baseball feel like a bowling ball against your bat.

The session progresses and Guillen finds his rhythm.

His fastball sizzles as it slices the air and already pops when it hits the catcher’s mitt.

“La bola tiene vida,” says head coach Rafael Jimenez, admiring the “life” of Guillen’s pitches. “Mucha vida.”

Guillen and his young teammates dream of becoming part of Venezuela’s unprecedented baseball boom. The country of 27 million is rapidly becoming baseball’s most important source of foreign talent. This year, players from Venezuela won most valuable player awards in the American League, the National League Championship Series and the World Series. Their success is part of the country’s identity, rivalling oil as its favourite export.

But while Venezuelan talent has never been more abundant or sought-after, getting players to the major leagues has never been harder.

Venezuela is home to the region’s highest homicide and inflation rates and to anti-American President Hugo Chavez. The confluence of politics, crime and economic uncertainty weighs on Venezuelans at all levels of the game.Worried about safety, many Venezuelan stars spend off-seasons in the U.S. And even as big-league teams recruit more Venezuelan talent, they shutter their operations here. All 30 clubs have facilities in the Dominican Republic, but Venezuela has never had more than 14.

Today, there are just four.

“More and more teams have left Venezuela because of safety concerns,” says Blue Jays general manager Alex Anthopoulos. “. . . Look how much the Venezuelan Summer League has shrunk. That’s strictly from a safety standpoint. It’s not a reflection on the players.”

The talent is tough to ignore. In 2010, the Blue Jays set a Venezuelan record by giving 16-year-old pitcher Adonis Cardona a signing bonus of $2.8 million.

“You’re going to fish where the fish are at, and they know the fish are here,” says Jimmy Meayke (pronounced “Mikey”) a consultant who co-ordinates Major League Baseball’s activities in Venezuela. “The Dominican Republic is the biggest source of (baseball’s foreign) talent right now, but it can change.”

But even Venezuelan baseball’s biggest boosters aren’t sure when that will happen. The decision to end practice early for Guillen and his teammates is but a hint of the risks.

“We have talent like the Dominican,” says Felix Luzon Jr., operations director at Caracas-based 9 Stars Sports Management. “The reason major league teams don’t come here is the security. It’s a different struggle.”

* * *

Maracay is a baseball-crazed city of 1.75 million where private baseball academies dot the landscape like oil derricks.

David Torres, uncle of American League MVP Miguel Cabrera, operates a baseball school here. Quiroz, a lawyer and sports agent, opened his academy two years ago. Retired Detroit Tigers star Carlos Guillen, no relation to Angel, recently established an academy, his big name and bankroll raising the stakes. There are still more academies in Maracay, as well as in neighbouring Tumero and, a half-hour west, the state of in Carabobo.

The Dominican Republic produces more major leaguers than any country outside the U.S. But a record 105 Venezuelans appeared in the majors this year, up from 55 a decade ago and just 12 in 1992.

Average signing bonuses for Venezuelan teens rose from $100,000 in 2009 to $292,000 in 2010.

“Things have changed a lot,” says infielder Ray Olmedo, a Maracay native who has played for the Chicago White Sox, Blue Jays and Cincinnati Reds. “I signed for two baseballs and a broken bat.”

A promising 14-year-old in North America probably plays with a club team and refines his game with a private coach. But at 14, top Venezuelan players are essentially professionals.

Kids in Quiroz’s program work 40-hour weeks, drilling on-field skills every morning, strength training most afternoons and enduring sprint sessions in the early evening. Academic tutoring is available, but the teens take a two-year “sabbatical” from school, leaving their families to live in rented houses near the ballpark.

“It’s a sacrifice,” Angel Guillen says. “But sacrifices are how you learn.”

Venezuela has the most comprehensive system of youth leagues in Latin America. The three main organizations — Criollitos, Federacion and U.S.-based Little League Baseball — coach more than 4 million kids year-round.

This enriched education pays off when teens sign contracts and merge the individual brilliance the academies emphasize with the subtle skills and team strategies pro baseball demands.

“When you integrate these things you get results, and The result is that these kids advance in a very short time,” says coach Jiménez, a former New York Mets scout. “(Major league teams) don’t have to work much. They don’t have to teach much. That’s why you see so many Venezuelans in the big leagues.”

This summer, the Jays again signed one of the top teens in Latin America, paying $1.45 million to Venezuelan infielder Franklin Barreto.

“These guys haven’t even thrown a ball in the minor leagues and they’re already millionaires,” says Omar Vizquel, the former Blue Jay who retired in October as the longest-serving Venezuelan in major league history.

“There’s more competition but there are also more tools. It’s because of the money. There’s a lot of money to invest and a lot more money for people to develop players.”

But the financial foundation of Venezuela’s academies is starting to look shaky.

If a player signs a pro contract his academy typically receives a 30-per-cent commission, but the five-figure deals most players receive rarely cover a trainer’s costs — academy owners pay for food, housing and coaches’ salaries. If a player graduates without signing, the trainer collects nothing.

Quiroz racks up reward points at the Sports Authority buying equipment. He has spent $30,000 manicuring the municipal diamond where his players practice. Running his academy costs $100,000 a year. He still hasn’t recovered the $300,000 invested so far.

A big contract for Guillen could put the AQ academy in the black, but a recent rule change by Major League Baseball threatens that possibility.

Teams like the Blue Jays now face a steep tax if they spend more than $2.9 million on Latin American prospects each year. The move isn’t stopping seven-figure deals, but it means the growing number of trainers now compete for a finite pool of money.

“It’s not easy to sign $300,000 in ballplayers each year,” says Quiroz, who maintains a law practice and an electronics business. “I (train players) because I love it. It’s not a project for me to make money.”

Felix Luzon Sr., president of 9 Stars, draws a parallel to the industry that constitutes 97 per cent of Venezuela’s exports.

“The petroleum industry, just like baseball, has a high risk centred on exploration,” he says. “But if you don’t have the product in your hand you can’t sell it. It’s the same with baseball, but baseball can be more difficult because petroleum isn’t a human being. If these kids lose their way, you’ve lost what you’ve already invested in exploration and development.”

Last year, 9 Stars coaches auditioned more than 800 players. They accepted only two.

To reach one of Maracay’s baseball landmarks you head north into the barrios abutting the mountains that separate the city from the sea. You navigate narrow, crooked, hilly streets and roll into La Pedrera.

Once there, Quiroz stops his Toyota SUV across from the duplex where Miguel Cabrera grew up. Behind the homes stands El Polideportivo David Torres, the city-owned stadium where the Detroit Tigers superstar learned to play.

You follow Quiroz inside the park. To your left looms a verdant mountain peak. In front of you, disrepair.

Between the patchy outfield grass, the trash scattered near the foul line and the rutted, all-dirt infield, this hardly looks like a training ground for future pros. Yet Torres still runs an academy here.

Walking across the outfield Quiroz says what you’re thinking.

“It shouldn’t be like this — so uncared-for.”

Then, something else.

“We should leave. This isn’t the safest neighbourhood.”

In Venezuela, this fine-tuned sensitivity to the possibility of violent crime is far from paranoia. It is common sense.

Last year, Venezuela recorded 67 homicides per 100,000 inhabitants, according to the Venezuela Violence Observatory. By comparison, the rate in drug-war-ravaged Mexico was 32 per 100,000.

In 1999, Venezuela recorded 4,550 murders. Last year — 19,336.

“It’s really hard,” says 16-year-old Adel Rodriguez, who trains with Quiroz. “You want to go to the mall and it’s not safe. You have to hide anything valuable. You never know when you’ll become a victim.”

And in a country where kidnappings for ransom aren’t unusual, major-league players’ wealth can make them targets. Last November, Washington Nationals catcher Wilson Ramos was abducted in his hometown of Valencia and held hostage for two days before being rescued by government commandos.

“Valencia’s a really pretty, really beautiful city,” says native son and former Jays pitcher Henderson Alvarez. “But because of the crime it’s not really safe. In all of Venezuela, they’ve killed a lot of innocent people.”

In Caracas and Maracay — about 100 kilometres west of the capital — you won’t see gun battles in the street. But the effects of Venezuela’s violent crime are obvious. Like the electrified wire guarding nearly every home in middle-class neighbourhoods. Or the way people from those areas discuss their own kidnappings — casually, the way you’d describe having a cavity filled.

Or the layered definition of the term “secure taxi,” which signifies the driver won’t rip you off, but might signal that along with honesty he possesses a pistol or a black belt in karate. It could also mean your honest chofer drives a rusty Ford Conquistador because he has twice been carjacked for nicer rides. Since he switched to a clunker, robbers haven’t bothered him.

Violence also forces Venezuelan baseball stars into difficult choices about their off-seasons. Pablo Sandoval of the San Francisco Giants and Houston Astros standout José Altuve will return home to play with Valencia’s winter league team, but la delincuencia keeps others in the U.S.

“Every year I spend a little less time in my country because of that,” says Elvis Andrus, a Maracay native and star for the Texas Rangers. “It’s sad. The quality of life goes down a little bit every year.”

Crime isn’t the only thing driving down the quality of life.

The inflation rate was reported at 19 per cent in August — a vast improvement over previous years. Combine that with government-imposed cost controls and Venezuela’s consumer marketplace becomes a puzzling patchwork of surprisingly high and comically low prices. A combo at McDonald’s costs the equivalent of $16, but state-run service stations sell gasoline for two Canadian cents a litre.

So, if you’re in Caracas with 25 bolivares ($5.80) in your pocket, you’ll struggle to buy lunch but you can fuel your car for a month.

Luzon Jr. says his academy’s biggest expenses are scouting players and feeding them. If food prices keep rising he may raise 9 Star’s his company’s cut of signing bonuses to 35 per cent. Players with seven-figure deals could absorb that, but most sign for significantly less and would feel squeezed.

“When you sign a player for $20,000 he can’t even buy a car to drive to work,” Quiroz says.

The government price controls mean producers of goods such as like cornmeal or coffee tire can suffer losses, prompting them to switch to more profitable products. This leads to shortages of staple goods, even in comfortable neighbourhoods.

It’s one more quirk in an economy full of twists.

In early October, the Caracas newspaper El Nacional reported that Venezuela, second only Saudi Arabia in crude oil reserves, imported 26,000 barrels of gasoline daily in July. Experts blame the state-run petroleum corporation for not maintaining refining infrastructure.

Ask people — from cab drivers to sports agents to expatriate professionals — about the Venezuelan economy’s paradoxes and they often offer a shrug and a one-word answer.

Chavez.

After winning election in 1998 on a populist platform, Chavez rebranded his administration as a socialist revolution, an ideological shift that has spurred increasing state control of private business. In addition to nationalizing the steel and gold-mining industries, the Chavez government expropriated drilling operations in the rich Orinoco Belt. In 2010, it took over a fleet of rigs belonging to a U.S. firm.

While Chavez’s oil revenue-funded social programs gained him support among the country’s poor, business takeovers have earned him enemies among Venezuela’s middle and upper classes. His friendships with states such as Cuba and Iran have made U.S. officials suspicious.

Major league stars are sharply aware of how bitterly politics have split their homeland, and they’re cognizant of the risk implicit in choosing sides. Favouring Chavez means promoting socialism — an unlikely position for a pro athlete in the U.S. But supporting the opposition means alienating the people in power at home.

So Venezuelan major leaguers tend to espouse a carefully calibrated neutrality.

“We’ll see how the country keeps evolving,” says Andrus. “As Venezuelans, we all need to respect the president.”

When Chavez developed a cancerous tumour in 2011, he Chavez had it removed in Cuba. Venezuela also sends cash and petroleum to Cuba in exchange for doctors, with more than 30,000 currently working here. The trend has prompted sarcastic suggestions that the countries are merging into a socialist superstate known either as “VeneCuba” or “CubaZuela.”

Chavez hasn’t expressed plans to ban pro sports the way Fidel Castro did in 1961. When Venezuelan Pablo Sandoval hit three home runs in a World Series game, Chavez even sent him a Twitter message asking for a fourth.

Few think Chavez plans to nationalize pro baseball, but they aren’t sure he won’t meddle. Either way, his hostility to the U.S. makes major league teams feel unwelcome.

“Clubs don’t feel secure making an investment here. A lot depends on what happens on the seventh,” says consultant Meayke, referring to the Oct. 7 election in which Chavez confronted centrist governor Henrique Capriles Radonski.

Chavez won by 1.5 million votes, securing six more years in power.

* * *

Crime has also helped drive major league organizations out of Venezuela, even as signing bonuses flow in. For most teams, it’s simpler to circumvent violence.

“It’s unfortunate there have been so many teams that have left, but they’re always going to come here,” says Jorge Velandia, assistant field co-ordinator for the Philadelphia Phillies, one of four teams still in Venezuela. “They’ll sign players and send them to the Dominican Republic or United States.”

But critics say that strategy limits access to the networks vital to getting prospects seen and signed. While Venezuelan trainers deal chiefly with regional scouts, the general managers who make important personnel decisions are much more likely to visit the Dominican Republic and foster relationships with trainers there.

For Valencia-based trainer José Blasini, the question isn’t why Venezuela produces so many major leaguers, it is how much more talent would emerge if the country were more stable.

“I hope teams come back to Venezuela like they were before,” says Blasini, who trained a teenage Sandoval. “Right now we can’t compete with the Dominicans because all the organizations are there.”

That’s the dilemma Meayke hopes to remedy.

“My biggest mission is trying to sell my country to these clubs, telling them they can operate here safely,” he says. “But we can’t tell the clubs how to operate. We can facilitate . . . but they have the final call.”

On Maracay’s main streets you see new, bright-red buses, sent from China, which buys 640,000 barrels of discounted Venezuelan crude oil daily. On Caracas’ western edge, construction crews working under Venezuelan and Russian flags erect massive highrise housing developments.

In exchange for the natural resource they extract every summer, do big-league clubs have a similar duty to restore Venezuela’s crumbling baseball infrastructure? Are they obligated to operate academies that would create local jobs?

Maybe, except for stories like this: In mid-September, the president of the Venezuelan professional baseball league, José Grasso Vecchio, was outside an ice cream shop in a posh Caracas neighbourhood when he was robbed at gunpoint

Until crime calms down not even Meayke blames organizations for staying away.

“Clubs don’t feel secure making an investment here,” he repeats. “We’d recommend not to make an investment in this country under this situation.”

But next summer, major league teams will again invest millions in the country’s top teenage players.

* * *

Daylight dwindling and their final workout finished, Guillen and a few friends wander out of a sprawling city park and on to Avenida David Concepcion, named for the Cincinnati Reds star of the 1970s and ’80s.

Across the wide avenue lies Carlos Guillen’s academy. Eleven of its players have turned pro the last two summers. Twenty prospects are set to graduate next year. Quiroz’s 2013 class is a third that size, but just as dedicated.

Angel Guillen has his eyes on July 2 — and a potential seven-figure bonus.

As they walk, the teens are aware that last month a gunman held up some players strolling home from this same park. Approaching an intersection, their pace quickens. They round the corner and vanish into the heart of Maracay.

Practice starts tomorrow at dawn.

Copyright 2012 Toronto Star

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This is big news for a track nerds like me, and for anybody else who wonders whether the U.S. track & field program will continue to lose top sprinters to football. I’ve dedicated an entire section of this blog to Ridiculous Football vs Track Debates and welcome any news that adds to it.

Of course for guys like Demps the debate isn’t ridiculous. It’s beyond serious because it’s about money. And according to NFL.com, it’s ongoing.

Demps was a member of the 4×100-meter relay team that finished second to Jamaica in the 2012 Olympic Games in London. He signed a three-year, $1.451 million contract with the Patriots last August and already has received the $211,000 that was guaranteed in the deal.

Demps has no intention of leaving football and would like to play both sports, his agent, Daniel Rose, told Rapoport. But the Patriots might not be interested in continuing a relationship with a player whose focus isn’t completely on an NFL career.

Essentially Demps intends to return to the life he lived in college, the one most athletes lived before early specialization came into vogue, and the life a few talented and driven collegians lead before turning pro forces them to choose the most lucrative option. Football will be his fall sport, track will occupy the spring and summer and he’ll shuttle between the two for as long as his body will allow it.

That’s an issue.

A big one.

A lot of NFL players claim to possess the “world-class speed” that would earn them a living on the pro track circuit, but Demps actually has it, and that distinction is crucial. Vikings running back Adrian Peterson risks popping a hamstring just to reach the 10.3 wasteland — faster than all but a handful of people in the world over 100 metres, yet too slow to make big money. But Demps is a sub-10 second 100 waiting to happen, so his potential better justifies the risk involved in competitive sprinting in the off-season.

But that risk is significant, which is why teams work to keep players from off-season activities where injuries are likely.

One hundred metre sprinters are the highest-revving athletes in sport, pushing their bodies to the redline in every final and often paying a steep price. At the highest levels sprinters often move at speeds their bodies can’t withstand, muscles and ligaments snapping like fan belts. But when a car part gives way a few hours with a good mechanic will have your engine purring like new. If an adductor tears you’re out for the season.

And Demps intends to jump straight from that high-intensity training into the most dangerous job in the NFL — returning kickoffs.

A Herculean task, but I’m not qualified to counsel him not to tackle it.

I can’t say it can’t be done in this age of specialized athletes and protective team owners. Clearly it can be done because Demps is doing it. He’s selling a speed 40-yard dash times can’t measure, and he’s selling it year-round. The more buyers, the better.

There are, however, several reasons few people maintain this schedule past college. One is money, and the other is that none of us is 21 forever. When adulthood sets in, competing at the highest level of two high-impact sports is about as tenable an idea as working two full-time jobs. It’s possible, but not an option for somebody who values his long-term health.

Logic says he’ll have to choose one sport soon.

But physics and the unforgiving economics of the NFL say the decision ultimately might not be his to make.

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Read it all.

A Day in the Life of a Freelance Journalist—2013.

Two quick thoughts.

1. This exchange is especially rich coming from The Atlantic.

Remember, this is the same Atlantic that won a ton of praise two years ago for publishing Taylor Branch’s opus, “The Shame of College Sports,” which spelled out how the NCAA transformed itself into one of the most lucrative ventures in the sports industry, profiting from unpaid student labour and inventing the term “student-athlete” simply to avoid payroll taxes and compensation claims.

Brilliant work, and a well-timed defense of the self-evident idea that if you work like a professional and that work generates revenue, you’re entitled to some of it.

Unless you’re re-writing stories for The Atlantic, apparently.

2. PAGE VIEWS DON’T PAY BILLS!!!!!

If they did, Chief Keef really would finally be rich. If you haven’t been following, he’s the Chicago gang member-turned-teenage rapper who parlayed a massive YouTube following (24.6 million views for this version of this single alone) into a deal with Interscope worth up to $6 million.

The words “up to” are important here, because Keef’s contract contains several clauses tied to record sales — which have been weak. His album debuted at number 29 on Billboard’s hip-hop and R&B chart, selling just 50,000 copies. And reception for his tour was similarly tepid, with soft sales and high insurance prices combining to force Interscope to cancel it entirely.

Meanwhile on YouTube, where access to Chief Keef’s music is free, “business” is still booming.

And what does this have to do with Nate Thayer and the Atlantic?

Everything, because it proves that while page views provide a certain type currency they don’t, by themselves, pay anybody’s bills.

Not Chief Keef’s.

Not The Atlantic’s.

And not those of an adult who, like Thayer, makes a living telling and selling stories.

Imagine if me at the self-checkout aisle in the grocery store, scanning two pounds of chicken breasts, learning they cost $16.99, and telling the attendant I’d rather pay with page views.

*Crickets*

“Oh you want money? I’m out of grocery money right now but I got 3,000 page views on my blog in January, and at least 20 times that for stories I wrote at The Star.”

*Arms akimbo*

*Cocked head*

*Crickets*

“I don’t think you get it. Page views. That’s exposure!And the exposure is worth money. Right>”

*Sighs*

*Calls security*

And I’ll leave the store in handcuffs or of own my free will, but empty-handed either way. Because while “exposure” may lead indirectly to revenue, page views alone won’t buy you a thing.

Not even if they come from The Atlantic.

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On the banks of the Detroit River stands the Renaissance Center, opened in 1977 as the symbol of a dynamic new Detroit finally rising from the cinders of race riots that exploded 10 years earlier.

The current talk about revitalizing Detroit’s downtown? It’s been circulating since before 1999, when I began my first paid gig as a journalist at the Detroit News.

Meanwhile speculation rages about how the debt-burdened City of Detroit might re-invent the iconic park at Belle Isle, a debate that includes ideas both reasonable (converting it to a pay-per-use state park) and outlandish (the Independent Commonwealth of Belle Isle? Seriously?).

And this past Saturday, as boxer/promoter Floyd Mayweather addressed the media after a fight card at Detroit’s Masonic Temple, I wondered if the Motor City had served as the stage for the reinvention of the fighter who calls himself “Money.”

If so, the folks at Showtime — who just signed boxing’s biggest attraction to a six-fight mega deal — better be worried. They’ve just bet a ton of money on a fighter who breaks pay-per-view records because a large segment of the sports public hates him enough to pay to see him lose.

That aspect of the Mayweather brand works perfectly, and has made him a pile of cash in recent years.

Yet Saturday night Mayweather arrived at the theatre surrounded by four megalithic bodyguards, and greeted Showtime host Brian Kenny with a warm hand-shake hug. The pair are famous for the tense exchanges they shared when Kenny worked as one of ESPN’s boxing analysts, but by all reports their latest interview was the type of warm-and-friendly promotional job Mayweather hasn’t enjoyed since he was “Pretty Boy Floyd.”

And in the minutes after the main event, in which Mayweather sparring partner and promotional protegé Ishe Smith decisioned Detroit’s Cornelius Bundrage to win a 154-pound world title, Mayweather held court at a news conference, opening up in ways he rarely does in the ring.

He spoke of a summer spent at Clark County Jail in Las Vegas, answering fan mail and banging out 1,300 push-ups daily.

He talked up his roster at Mayweather Promotions, touting his ragged collection of prospects and journeymen as future champions.

And he discussed living a less drama-filled life — squashing a long-simmering dispute with his father, working more peacefully with the networks broadcasting his fights, and positioning himself as a mentor for the next generation of superstars, even if they work for rival promoters.

For Floyd Mayweather the man, these developments are overwhelmingly positive. None of us should feud with family members, even the ones we can’t stand. Nor should we be ashamed to show a little humility after a lifetime of arrogance.

It’s called adulthood, and in showing the public his grown-up Mayweather helps prove what his supporters have contended all along — that in real life he’s not that bad of a guy.

That would be a development worth celebrating if Mayweather’s massive personal brand and pay-per-view fortune weren’t built on being detestable.

Before his 2007 bout with Oscar de la Hoya, Mayweather and his advisors made a calculated — and ultimately lucrative — decision to ditch the “Pretty Boy Floyd” persona in favour of the conceited and obnoxious “Money” Mayweather persona, whose trash talk carried the 24-7 documentary series, which in turn drove that bout to a record 2.4 million pay per view buys.

Since then “Money” has dived deeper into character,  spewing steroid accusations and ethnic stereotypes at the beloved Manny Pacquiao, then accusing Victor Ortiz of fabricating his hard-luck backstory before cold-cocking him when they met in the ring.

The act drove Mayweather’s approval rating down and his income up.

Way up.

Last year Forbes placed Mayweather atop its list of the world’s highest-paid athletes, thanks to in-ring earnings of $85 million over the previous 12 months. The “in-ring” distinction is critical because Mayweather, who used to shill for Reebok and At&T, now makes little to no money from endorsements. His income depends on selling tickets and pay-per-views, and that rests on a cockiness that inflames hatred toward him.

The same loud-mouthed brashness that chases sponsors away attracts mainstream fans, who line up behind whoever Mayweather confronts, hoping somebody can finally put marks on Money’s face and unblemished record. You sell the idea of good versus evil, and you sell the idea that good (whichever fighter isn’t Mayweather) can triumph, and you have a foolproof revenue generator.

Mayweather and Showtime may one day regret meddling with that formula.

After Saturday’s fight Mayweather told reporters he hoped for a “positive” relationship with the broadcast crews for his future fights, which is natural.  If rank-and-file fight fans have grown tired of HBO’s pro-Pacquiao slant, imagine how Mayweather feels.

And the retirement of Larry Merchant probably hasn’t made Mayweather any less apprehensive about his next postfight interview on HBO.

But moments like those are great TV. Moments like those sell. They might make mainstream fans hate Mayweather but they prompt those same fans to tune in to see if the next man up (Robert Guerrero, May 4) can silence him. Lose those moments and you risk forfeiting a large part of Mayweather’s appeal.

The fans who find a humbled and sympathetic Mayweather endearing probably loved him already. But if the fans who hated him in the past discover he’s not really a boor they probably won’t grow to love him. They might simply hate him less.

And if those fans, who constitute a large segment of Mayweather’s pay-per-view customers, exchange hate for mere tolerance Showtime is in trouble. Marketing abhors indifference like nature abhors a vacuum.

It’s not a problem for Mayweather, who doubtless received a ton of his money up front. But it’s a huge dilemma for Showtime, which will have to recoup its investment by selling pay-per-views to a public that might no longer hate a made-over Mayweather enough to pay to watch his downfall.

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“Seismic” works.

Mayweather’s movement tilts the pay-per-view landscape, instantly transforming Showtime from a big-time suburb to the centre of attention and action, and maybe not just on Mayweather fight nights. In signing boxing’s biggest name to a long-term deal Showtime signals to the sports public that its ready to go chequebook-to-chequebook with HBO to acquire boxing’s top free agents.

“Unprecedented” fits too.

Mayweather’s deal includes perks that bring boxing into the mainstream in ways it hasn’t been in a generation. The pre-fight documentary series moves from cable to CBS, while the introductory news conference for Mayweather’s springtime title fight against Robert Guerrero is slated to take place during the network’s NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament broadcast.

Boxing fans can’t ask for more exposure than Mayweather during March Madness.

But as much as this deal boosts boxing by reshaping its relationship with mainstream broadcast outlets and sports fans, two more words describing it continue to surface in my mind.

Insanely risky.

Not for Mayweather, who, I’m sure, received a ton of money up front without having to commit himself to the entirety of a deal that could span up to six fights spread over up to 30 months. If he decides to fight twice and go home, I’m sure he’ll do exactly that.

But for Showtime to stake the long-term future of their boxing program on a welterweight days away from turning 36 is a gamble worthy of any Las Vegas baccarat table.

Terms of the deal weren’t published but a Mayweather Promotions news release touts the Showtime contract as “record-breaking,” with estimates pegging the value at $200 million if Mayweather sticks around for all six fights. Either way Mayweather’s arrangement with HBO, plus his high-risk, high-reward business model had already made him the world’s highest paid athlete. And the guy who walks around with hundred-dollar bills bundled like bricks has never hinted he’s open to a pay cut.

Showtime knew it, and anted up.

“HBO, they made a great offer, but the Showtime PPV/CBS offer was substantially greater in every facet, from top to bottom,” Mayweather adviser Leonard Ellerbe told ESPN.com. ”So bottom line, HBO was outgunned. They came to a gun fight with a knife. At the end of the day, it’s business.”

And right now it looks like a smart investment.

Mayweather remains the highest-profile on the planet, standing alone among boxers since Juan Manuel Marquez flattened Manny Pacquiao in December. His last nine bouts have drawn an average of nearly 1.1 million pay-per-view buys, and with CBS’ promotional muscle behind him he figures to shatter that barrier again May 4, even if Guerrero brings few fans to the event.

But will Showtime’s bet on Mayweather look this good midway through 2015?

I can’t say with certainty that the network is any smarter than a baseball team that bestows a decade long, nine-figure contract on a free agent in his early 30s.

When I look at Mayweather in the context of this deal I see Albert Pujols, who at 33 should still eclipse 30 home runs and hit close to .300 in his second season with the Los Angeles Angels. It’s the least he can do to justify a 10-year contract that will pay him $240 million. And if his rebound from a disappointing 2012 helps propel the Angels to the playoffs few fans will grumble about the size of Pujols’ salary.

But check back with them around 2019, as Pujols pushes 40 years old, his salary escalating as steeply as his performance declines:

$28 million in 2019.

$29 million the next year.

$30 million the season after that.

What kind of performance will justify a salary that size?

A triple crown and a division title? Fifty homers and a World Series? All of the above plus 15 stolen bases?

And how likely is it that a 42-year-old can produce the type of numbers that will keep fans from complaining about his gigantic salary and demanding the team dump it?

About as likely that Floyd Mayweather, at 36,  can line up six of the top fighters in the world and beat every one in a manner convincing and entertaining enough to keep a broad audience tuning in, all while maintaining a pace (one fight every five months) he hasn’t kept up since 2005.

Which is to say, not likely at all.

Not because Mayweather isn’t the best fighter on the planet right now, and one of the greatest ever to lace up gloves. He’s definitely both of those things. And  he’s not just willing but eager to return to the ring regularly, vowing not to relapse into the long layoffs that have defined the second half of his career.

Except that Mayweather’s schedule isn’t entirely his choice, not with age and injuries constantly threatening to pull a vicious double-team on a fighter who will be 36 the next time he competes. Right now Mayweather can still dismantle just about any fighter between 147 and 154 pounds and should outclass Guerrero in May. But well see what happens to his clinical ring efficiency at 38, as his reflexes slow, along with the recovery times between intense workouts and long fights.

As we’ve discussed before, Time has never lost and never will. 

So justifying Mayweather’s massive contract might mean that over its six-fight life span the quality of his opponents drops off along with his skill, which is a great way to keep him undefeated but a lousy way to persuade fans to drop $60 or more on a PPV broadcast. Pujols can hit .325 until he’s 50 in the Dominican Winter League, but he makes big money to perform against the best.

The problem with matching an aging Mayweather against the best a year or two from now is that he might lose. Not because someone like Austin Trout is a superior technician, but because very good fighters in their primes can handle great ones headed to retirement. If you don’t believe me, ask yourself why Felix ‘Tito” Trinidad’s record includes a win over Pernell Whitaker.

Then ask yourself how wise Showtime’s six-fight deal looks if Mayweather drops a decision in fight number three.

Probably about as smart as the Yankees’ 10-year, $275-million pact with Alex Rodriguez looks right now, as the 37-year-old tries to rehab a hip that’s been surgically repaired and a rep battered by his links to the Biogenesis steroid scandal.

Notice the Yankees are working to get out from under that deal.

The Mayweather-Showtime partnership doesn’t have to end that badly, but if Showtime execs don’t recognize the risk in signing a fighter that old to a contract that long they should probably watch more baseball.

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