Latest news with #greatness
Yahoo
a day ago
- Sport
- Yahoo
CJ McCollum explains the difference between a good and a great NBA player: "I've seen LeBron ice in the club"
CJ McCollum explains the difference between a good and a great NBA player: "I've seen LeBron ice in the club" originally appeared on Basketball Network. Every player who makes it to the NBA may not always get the chance to showcase their full potential on the biggest stage, but that doesn't mean they lack talent. On the contrary, just getting drafted or signed means they're already among the best out of thousands chasing the same dream. Every player who enters the league does so with hopes of not just being good, but of becoming great. Unfortunately, not all of them reach that next level. Advertisement That's exactly what CJ McCollum recently addressed while explaining what separates the great from the good. CJ named two players — LeBron James and Kobe Bryant — not just as legends of the game, but as perfect examples of what it truly takes to reach the very top. "There's a lot of good players in the league. But the great ones? The difference between the great ones is consistency over long periods of time, right? Excellence at a high level, whether that's shot making, defense, being in shape, taking care of your body. The great ones are willing to sacrifice more than the good ones," McCollum said. "By sacrifice, I mean it takes a lot to be great: discipline, it takes a lot of time away from your family." CJ uses LeBron and Kobe to emphasize his point It's evident that season after season, for more than two decades now, James has been in contention for individual awards and All-NBA selections, so naturally, anybody would switch places with him in an instant. But McCollum emphasized the sacrifices behind the scenes, relentless self-discipline when the world is enjoying, hours of ruthless training, and missing important dates with family, which have truly enabled Bron to unlock such greatness. While King James may arguably be the GOAT, it's the grind and sacrifice that no one will ever look upon. Advertisement The same goes for Bryant. Over the years, several former players have shared stories about his resistance to losing and his determination to practice hours before the other players arrived in the gym. So, for McCollum, it gave him an idea of the kind of "mental psyche" that Kobe always knew he had to give in order to rise above the rest. Related: "All those muscles aren't gonna help you tonight" - Kevin McHale recalls when Bird trash-talked young and overly-muscular Anthony Mason Greatness is never served on a platter Thus, CJ used these examples to illustrate a hard truth — greatness doesn't come from just raw talent or flashy moments — in fact, it's built on years of sacrifice, obsession with improvement, and an unrelenting drive to stay ahead. Legends like Kobe and LeBron didn't stop pushing themselves after winning titles or achieving stardom. In fact, once they reached the top, they went even harder to stay there. Advertisement "Look at LeBron… Mario Chalmers told a story about LeBron icing in the club. I've seen LeBron ice in the club. I've seen it. There's a different level of dedication that it takes to be successful. The great ones will do whatever it takes," McCollum continued. "So, I would say, good players like me have skills, but there's like another level mentally that you have to kick it, tap into. I worked with K, I worked out with Bron, the lock-in is crazy. The ability to switch is unlike anything you've ever seen. Like Kobe, he had an aura and a psycho mentality of just obsessive behavior when it came to preparation and sport. He was just infatuated with being great." Perhaps that is the biggest message for today's stars. Most may not be motivated enough after earning millions in their early 20s, but if they genuinely have the gene of greatness inside them, their mindset would just be to grind every day. Stardom may come soon, but true greatness only comes through sheer inadvertent sacrifice. One may have elite natural talent, but nothing can make them great if they don't have the passion and obsession to be a beast. Related: I didn't stretch, I didn't ice"—LeBron James admits he started taking care of his body pretty late in his career This story was originally reported by Basketball Network on Jul 10, 2025, where it first appeared.
The Guardian
a day ago
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
When women fight: Taylor v Serrano and the meaning of choice in the ring
There are two salient pictures of the Katie Taylor–Amanda Serrano trilogy: Taylor walking to the ring on Friday night under the green, orange and white bars of light, her neck like a tree trunk, eyes fixed ahead with stoic grandeur as Even Though I Walk played overhead – and the image, hours earlier, of Yulihan Luna bloodied and bruised, standing beside a ring girl whose hoisted breasts had been shellacked in oil, smiling rigidly at a camera that wasn't looking at the fighter. That's boxing. That's also being a woman. At Madison Square Garden – half cathedral, half Thunderdome – Katie Taylor approached the ring like a martyr. Her arms stayed low and still, her expression stony, the moment at once subdued and transcendent. I am not religious. I was personally rooting for Serrano. But when I heard that worship music and saw Taylor ascend and bow between the ropes, I seemed to see stars as tears blurred the lights of the Garden's lofted ceiling into a constellation: The Fighter. A spectacle like this ought to be mawkish. But it isn't. Because when the song ends, two women risk their legacies, their health, their lives – however unlikely – to feel something like greatness. And unlike most sports, in boxing, the risk is not metaphorical. The danger is useless. It protects no country. No one is conscripted. But it underwrites everything that feels noble about this violent, anachronistic art. And when women, historically deemed too fragile to fight, headline an iconic arena that has never before granted them that right, the danger takes on a new meaning. They say styles make fights. They also make stories. Taylor, the pride of Ireland, is all monkish discipline and point-winning speed. Serrano, the southpaw from Puerto Rico by way of Brooklyn, combines firepower with grit. One boxed her way through 15 years of amateur pedigree, the other turned pro at 19 and never looked back. Both are in their mid-30s, both single, both quiet. Sainted recluses with 17 world titles between them and a lifetime of sacrifice. If Taylor is the tactician, Serrano is the flamethrower. This polarization is what produced lightning in the first two fights. But by Friday night, their plans of attack had changed. Serrano, seeking alternatives after two contentious decisions that didn't go her way, tried to outbox the boxer. Taylor, burned before in brawls, circled and struck, then slipped away. From round one, it was clear: this was no longer a firestorm. The fight bore more resemblance to Mayweather-Pacquiao than Ali-Frazier I. Smart. Tactical. Controlled. For some, disappointing. But why do we need chaos to believe in a woman's greatness? In other sports, I root for my team to win, ugly or not. But in women's boxing, I confess to a double standard: I want glory and a good show. I want drama, blood, something irrefutable. That fear – that if women don't entertain, the sport will vanish – lingers like smoke above the ring. But Taylor and Serrano were not performing for our approval. They were fighting to win. This, in itself, is progress. True equality in boxing is not the right to inspire. It's the right to be boring. To clinch and move. To fight safe. To win ugly. Taylor-Serrano III wasn't transcendent because it was thrilling. It was transcendent because it didn't have to be. And yet boxing remains a sport of contradictions. To protect yourself, you must risk everything. To gain glory, you court death. And still – some would deny women the choice to do so. When Amanda Serrano and more than a dozen elite fighters issued a joint call last year for 12 three-minute rounds – the same as men – they framed it not as a demand, but as a right: 'We have earned the CHOICE,' they said. The irony is that boxing is one of the only spaces in Western society where a woman can risk her life and be compensated. But even then, OnlyFans logos hover over ring posts and girls in bikinis parade cards while bloodied fighters wait for judgment. Fans call the athletes they flew across oceans to support 'autistic lesbians'. Serrano gets seven figures. Some women on the undercard get $1,500 and no health insurance – turning, more ironic still, to OnlyFans for financial security. What do we mean when we talk about choice? We fight for a woman's right to have a child – or not. But what about the right to bleed for nothing more than self-belief? What about the right to hurt for glory, not survival? Women are told their bodies are sacred, but only in service of others – children, husbands, God. In boxing, they reclaim them. Not for nurture, but for risk. Not for life, but for something more defiant. Not Madonna. Not whore. Something else. Katie Taylor and Amanda Serrano did not ask for sainthood. They asked for a trilogy. They made history, then made it again, then closed the book. Now, whether Friday night becomes a watershed or a footnote is not up to them. But for those of us watching, feeling the hush before the bell, the flutter of green, orange, red and blue fabric, the rush when Taylor's glove was raised and an Irish flag drifted gently down from the upper seats – whether Catholic or atheist, Irish or Puerto Rican, man, woman, or something in between – these two ensured one thing: Watching them time after time after finally time again will do something more than impress you. It will resolve contradictions – between styles, between images of a fight, between even life and death – into a single indelible reckoning.
The Guardian
a day ago
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
When women fight: Taylor v Serrano and the meaning of choice in the ring
There are two salient pictures of the Katie Taylor–Amanda Serrano trilogy: Taylor walking to the ring on Friday night under the green, orange and white bars of light, her neck like a tree trunk, eyes fixed ahead with stoic grandeur as Even Though I Walk played overhead – and the image, hours earlier, of Yulihan Luna bloodied and bruised, standing beside a ring girl whose hoisted breasts had been shellacked in oil, smiling rigidly at a camera that wasn't looking at the fighter. That's boxing. That's also being a woman. At Madison Square Garden – half cathedral, half Thunderdome – Katie Taylor approached the ring like a martyr. Her arms stayed low and still, her expression stony, the moment at once subdued and transcendent. I am not religious. I was personally rooting for Serrano. But when I heard that worship music and saw Taylor ascend and bow between the ropes, I seemed to see stars as tears blurred the lights of the Garden's lofted ceiling into a constellation: The Fighter. A spectacle like this ought to be mawkish. But it isn't. Because when the song ends, two women risk their legacies, their health, their lives – however unlikely – to feel something like greatness. And unlike most sports, in boxing, the risk is not metaphorical. The danger is useless. It protects no country. No one is conscripted. But it underwrites everything that feels noble about this violent, anachronistic art. And when women, historically deemed too fragile to fight, headline an iconic arena that has never before granted them that right, the danger takes on a new meaning. They say styles make fights. They also make stories. Taylor, the pride of Ireland, is all monkish discipline and point-winning speed. Serrano, the southpaw from Puerto Rico by way of Brooklyn, combines firepower with grit. One boxed her way through 15 years of amateur pedigree, the other turned pro at 19 and never looked back. Both are in their mid-30s, both single, both quiet. Sainted recluses with 17 world titles between them and a lifetime of sacrifice. If Taylor is the tactician, Serrano is the flamethrower. This polarization is what produced lightning in the first two fights. But by Friday night, their plans of attack had changed. Serrano, seeking alternatives after two contentious decisions that didn't go her way, tried to outbox the boxer. Taylor, burned before in brawls, circled and struck, then slipped away. From round one, it was clear: this was no longer a firestorm. The fight bore more resemblance to Mayweather-Pacquiao than Ali-Frazier I. Smart. Tactical. Controlled. For some, disappointing. But why do we need chaos to believe in a woman's greatness? In other sports, I root for my team to win, ugly or not. But in women's boxing, I confess to a double standard: I want glory and a good show. I want drama, blood, something irrefutable. That fear – that if women don't entertain, the sport will vanish – lingers like smoke above the ring. But Taylor and Serrano were not performing for our approval. They were fighting to win. This, in itself, is progress. True equality in boxing is not the right to inspire. It's the right to be boring. To clinch and move. To fight safe. To win ugly. Taylor-Serrano III wasn't transcendent because it was thrilling. It was transcendent because it didn't have to be. And yet boxing remains a sport of contradictions. To protect yourself, you must risk everything. To gain glory, you court death. And still – some would deny women the choice to do so. When Amanda Serrano and more than a dozen elite fighters issued a joint call last year for 12 three-minute rounds – the same as men – they framed it not as a demand, but as a right: 'We have earned the CHOICE,' they said. The irony is that boxing is one of the only spaces in Western society where a woman can risk her life and be compensated. But even then, OnlyFans logos hover over ring posts and girls in bikinis parade cards while bloodied fighters wait for judgment. Fans call the athletes they flew across oceans to support 'autistic lesbians'. Serrano gets seven figures. Some women on the undercard get $1,500 and no health insurance – turning, more ironic still, to OnlyFans for financial security. What do we mean when we talk about choice? We fight for a woman's right to have a child – or not. But what about the right to bleed for nothing more than self-belief? What about the right to hurt for glory, not survival? Women are told their bodies are sacred, but only in service of others – children, husbands, God. In boxing, they reclaim them. Not for nurture, but for risk. Not for life, but for something more defiant. Not Madonna. Not whore. Something else. Katie Taylor and Amanda Serrano did not ask for sainthood. They asked for a trilogy. They made history, then made it again, then closed the book. Now, whether Friday night becomes a watershed or a footnote is not up to them. But for those of us watching, feeling the hush before the bell, the flutter of green, orange, red and blue fabric, the rush when Taylor's glove was raised and an Irish flag drifted gently down from the upper seats – whether Catholic or atheist, Irish or Puerto Rican, man, woman, or something in between – these two ensured one thing: Watching them time after time after finally time again will do something more than impress you. It will resolve contradictions – between styles, between images of a fight, between even life and death – into a single indelible reckoning.
Yahoo
3 days ago
- Sport
- Yahoo
"People can identify with me more than they can with somebody like a Magic or Michael" - Larry Bird knew fans could easily relate to him
"People can identify with me more than they can with somebody like a Magic or Michael" - Larry Bird knew fans could easily relate to him originally appeared on Basketball Network. Larry Bird was the model of how greatness could be wrapped in grit. He didn't glide across courts with Michael Jordan's air or dazzle the world with Magic Johnson's smile. Bird's appeal came from the hardwood itself, his relentless hustle and his blue-collar demeanor. At the height of the NBA's 1980s rebirth, no player embodied the working man's mythos quite like Bird. He wasn't a television-made superstar. He was the real thing. Bird understood the spectacle that came with the territory. He had his share of endorsements, participated in glitzy NBA campaigns, and played in some of the most-watched Finals in league history. But even at his peak, his fame was never about the optics. "People can identify with me more than they can with somebody like a Magic or Michael," Bird said. "When people look at Magic or Michael, they see them do a lot of national commercials ... but they always see them in real fancy clothes, and I don't think a lot of people can identify with that." The league had never seen anything quite like Bird when he entered in 1979. Fresh off a legendary collegiate career that lifted Indiana State to the NCAA championship game, Bird was drafted by the Boston Celtics and immediately transformed a struggling franchise. The C's went from 29–53 the year before his arrival to 61–21 in his rookie season. That turnaround wasn't by luck; it was Bird, steady as a metronome, delivering every night. He didn't jump the highest or run the fastest, but he understood angles, space and tempo in a way that carved defenses like clockwork. His rivalry with Johnson gave the NBA its pulse back. Their Finals clashes in 1984, 1985 and 1987 generated ratings the league hadn't seen in years. Bird brought Boston pride, elbow grease and an attitude that refused to shrink under pressure. Off the court, however, he remained grounded. While Magic was setting fashion trends and Jordan was sculpting a billion-dollar brand, Larry stuck close to the simplicity that raised him in French the early '90s, Jordan had surged past both Bird and Johnson in terms of global fame and brand power. The game had changed. It became more about marketability, style and individual icons. The Chicago Bulls icon was the perfect storm: explosive on the court and elegant off it. Yet even as the MJ era took full hold, Bird's legacy remained firmly intact, not only because of what he did but also because of who he was. "Young kids say, 'Hey, I like to be like that, I like to have the fancy cars and fancy clothes and stuff like that,'" Bird said. "But the people back home, and the people I know can identify with me more, so they can identify with Michael or Magic." Despite retiring in 1992, Bird's jersey remains one of the top-selling retro jerseys worldwide. That fact alone speaks to a legacy less built on hype and more on heart. His No. 33 uniform, with its blocky Celtics script and classic green, is still spotted courtside from Boston to Beijing. For fans who value substance over style, Bird remains the guy. He's not just a Hall of Famer, not just a three-time MVP or a two-time Finals MVP; he's a symbol of what basketball looked like before the marketing machines took over. More than thirty years after his final game, he remains one of the most universally respected figures in the sport. He once said he never wanted to be seen as anything more than a basketball player, and his legend continues to soar above the arena rafters long after the lights have story was originally reported by Basketball Network on Jul 11, 2025, where it first appeared.
Wall Street Journal
06-07-2025
- Politics
- Wall Street Journal
Trump Needs His Own Shultz
Regarding 'Trump Seeks Greatness as Mamdani Rises' (Declarations, June 28): As Peggy Noonan knows from personal experience, a key attribute of great presidents is an inclination to staff administrations with people who will tell them what they don't want to hear. If President Trump truly wants the title, he ought to find himself a George Shultz or Frank Carlucci. David Hill
