When Star Wars was a limitless, Jar-Jar-less, Hayden-Christensen-less horizon of possibility – Marvel Age #4 & #10
1983 was an interesting year in the life of Star Wars. It saw the release of the last film of the original trilogy (and, as it turns out, the last non-embarrassing entry, Ewoks notwithstanding), and the concurrent anticipation and “where do we go from here” hand-wringing that bookended it. I can’t say that I was truly conscious of any of this apart from the movie itself. Though I saw the movie (it remains to this day the only of the originals, Special Editions and all, that I’ve seen in a theater), the rest was above my little kid pay grade. Perhaps because of this, I found the articles in these two issues of Marvel Age, one coming before Return of the Jedi, the other after, extremely interesting. They’re a window into the penumbra of fandom, long before there was any expanded universe to speak of, and no sections in your local Barnes & Noble devoted solely to assembly line Star Wars paperbacks.
And there are a number of other minor reasons why these two issues are noteworthy, as we’ll see.
First, 1983 wasn’t only famous Jedi. It also had the memorable large-scale inter-company clash of the Avengers and the Justice League of America. REMEMBER?:
There was only a twenty-year delay in getting it into your hands. That’s a long wait to finally revel in the above-mentioned Flash/Quicksilver duel that absolutely no one cared about.
Now. Star Wars.
One of the big things that we have to keep in mind is that our 1983 forefathers didn’t have our hindsight clouding one of the most famous reveals in cinema history. At the close of The Empire Strikes Back, Darth Vader had, as we all know, revealed to young Luke Skywalker that, horror of horrors, he was his father, which shattered our young hero’s world. And blew some minds in the audience. Now it’s a part of movie lore, but then the veracity of it was still up in the air. Was Vader lying? Was it really true? Was it just that Lucas hadn’t really planned ahead all that well when Obi-Wan Kenobi told Luke Vader killed Papa Skywalker (DINGDINGDING)? This inset from the coming soon blurbs will attest to the confusion:
(A few years ago people realized that, with Google archiving old Usenet posts, there was an archival treasure trove of impressions formed by the internet-users of the early 1980s. All five or so of them. It’s a bit like reading old telegraph dispatches, but it’s nevertheless interesting for a minute or two. Dig enough and you can find people wondering about the whole Vader/Luke parentage angle.)
As for the article previewing Jedi — written by the still paying-his-dues Peter David, at that time a non-creative cog in the Marvel machine — it not only represents the first and last time that itwould be placed alongside the engagingly bizarre Rock & Rule, but also gives some insight into the secrecy around the film, with a select few granted access to the inner sanctum, secret handshakes and all. Read all about it, NOW COMPLETE WITH 100% MORE EMPTY WORD BALLOON PREVIEW PANELS:
And then there came the lingering aftertaste, as the comic series spun out into its bizarre and now apocryphal post-Jedi universe, some denizens of which can be seen on the cover below:
The accompanying article is notable for the creative impulses driving the series editor and writer, as they talk about new directions, the movie sequels that everyone used to think were around the corner but Lucas killed (claiming they were never really planned), story angle vetoes from Lucasfilm, and HOOJIBS, BABY:
The end result of all this was, as we now know, that the series, without a going concern film franchise to gird it, petered out in a couple of years, leaving Star Wars fandom a barren wasteland. Then the Timothy Zahn Thrawn Trilogy of sequels hit bookshelves, and things ramped up again. For better or for worse. (For my broader thoughts on Star Wars and comics and the magnificent originality of this era, see the Empire adaptation discussion here. I don’t want to rehash it. Ibid., I guess.
There you go. Old-timey Star Wars fandom. They Way We Were.
For an unrelated finale, I’ll leave you with this, should you want to travel back in time and join the House of Ideas on the creative side. Ben Grimm is doing his best Uncle Sam impersonation here, and check out the hoops you have to jump through to audition as a colorist — Herculean:
I think I’d just try to be an astronaut instead. Easier.
The old Destination Moon style of rocket puts all other launchable products to shame
When men were men, rockets were rockets, and women loved them both for it. The old V-2 style of rocket, perfectly designed to impale and gouge , will never be matched by our more modern junk (or roughly contemporaneous plastic crap). Not enough chrome.
Juxtaposition notwithstanding, it’s hard to believe that Wolverine would ever go near a role-playing game. Bub.
Wolverine has always been an inescapable character. Love him or hate him. Crammed into titles with only the most tangential of involvement, all in the (understandable) desire to move comics. And a handy inset in a RPG ad now and then. LOOK HERE’S WOLVERINE. SNIKT.
Learning how to play the piano without learning how to play the piano is the best way to learn how to play the piano
If the Rhythmagraph method of learning to play the piano leaves you cold — and how could it not, with its implied promise of cruel instructors rapping knuckles with every minor flub — then this comely young lass surely presents a safe haven. The “Magic Keyboard” sounds a lot like people who take a vision test after memorizing the eye chart. But you’ll be the smash hit of all piano-centric parties, and draw the loving attention of every suit-and-tie-wearing young man. Go get ’em, champ.
Sadly, this post contains no rapidly-spoken Spanish or chocolate assembly lines – I Love Lucy Comics #4
Lucille Ball is held up all the time as a pinnacle of comedy. The dirty secret? She wasn’t funny. That’s not harsh or out there, nor is it Jerry Lewis-y misogyny. Ball herself thought the same: “I’m not funny. What I am is brave.” True. (A bit of a pat on the back, but true nonetheless.) There are different kinds of bravery, and the humiliating lengths she’d put herself through, lengths that might not be seen as all that ladylike in the early post-War days, were certainly a unique brand of courage. Her comedic success didn’t depend on delivery or timing or wit. It depended on acting like a fool and twisting her face into every gruesome visage that you could imagine. (A female Lewis, if you will.) In that regard, she was a roaring success, because few other women would consent to stuffing themselves with chocolate (the I Love Lucy segment that’s to that show what the Fred Ames tomahawk toss is to Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show) and whining and crying like an overgrown baby. Being a clown has always been, and perhaps always will be, a male dominated field, and Ball tore through it.
The cartoonish onscreen persona of Lucy was tailor-made for comic books, and, lo and behold, there was indeed a companion comic. I Love Lucy Comics ran concurrently with the series in the 1950s, and its 35 issue run offered the Ricardos and the Mertzes a lot of room to be fools. The results, however, were often less than stellar. This particular issue has three stories for Lucy and Co.’s unique brand of nuttiness. In the first, she has delusions of becoming a magician, though she has about as much success as Bill Murray in Ghostbusters when it comes to doing the tablecloth yank:
Aside: She and Ethel never get all those fish back in water. Murderers.
Ricky Ricardo enters the picture, along with — surprise! — a magician who’s going to be doing his act at Ricky’s nightclub that evening. But the magician — surprise again! — is in a tight spot, because his female assistant is out of commission. Ricky then does what husbands (and wives) have been doing for eons, and fobs off his no-talent spouse on this poor trickster. And Lucy, of course, makes a mess of it:
The second story feels more like a madcap episode of the series, with Lucy and Ricky each simultaneously planning surprise anniversary parties. (Do people plan surprise anniversary parties? I guess they do. Feels like more of a birthday thing, though.) Lucy, as is her wont, causes a disaster in the kitchen, unleashing a hellish world-consuming cake monster:
Solution? That venerable, oft-cited chocolate gambit turns out to be a fairly versatile maneuver:
The last entry has Lucy going to open up a bank account with the loose change she found around the house (a couple of bucks), but wackiness ensues when the money-men mistake her for the heir to a wealthy woman named, coincidentally, “Ricardo.” They give her the royal treatment, poor Ricky somehow gets arrested, and fumblenuts Lucy locks herself and an executive inside a vault:
If I were locked in there with her, there’d only be one of us coming out alive. And it would be me. (The “locked inside a bank vault with a TV legend” gag was done much better many years later when Carol Burnett turned up on a Magnum, P.I. episode. Not this one. A different one.)
I’m not a huge fan of Lucy. Most memories I have of watching it was in syndicated reruns during weekday morning hours, which were only seen when I was out of school sick. So Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz are forever lumped in with sore throats, fevers, nausea and the smell of ginger ale and chicken soup. I’d choose The Honeymooners ten times out of ten. But no one can deny the etched in stone success of the show. The comic? It’s alright, if a little too kiddy for a show that was all-ages. And the art goes overboard in trying to capture Ball’s distinctive wide-eyed look, giving her eyes that look as if they’ve been toothpicked open like Malcolm McDowell’s in A Clockwork Orange. Switch to decaf, babe.
Malibu reprinted some of these old comics in the early 1990s boom, when everything that could be crammed into a spinner rack was. There’s never been a loving trade collection of the series (to my knowledge). It’s not an oversight that would send anyone into a frothing, rapid-fire Ricardo-esque rage.
A sleepy-eyed Johnny Bench hopes you make Louisville Slugger your bat of choice (and buy some crap)
It seems somewhat demeaning to the longstanding Louisville Slugger brand supremacy for them to hawk dopey pens and pencils. Nothing like a fake Johnny Bench autograph to really put your memorabilia collection over the top. (Perhaps Pete Rose was giving Johnny some “put your name on anything for a dollar” tips.)
Maybe all this is why Bench’s expression doesn’t match the enthusiasm of his written words.
I’m all for physical culture, but what you really shooting for here? To get with the bitch of a broad who’d go with some jackass that bullies those weaker than himself? Who does everything but the classic Atlas sand-kick, and probably cackles like the Million Dollar Man? Tell her that you hope she drowns and her new boyfriend’s organs are lethally squeezed by his teeny-tiny waist, and go read a book. You’ll feel better, and you won’t have to have George F. Jowett’s muscular he-man fist wagged in your face.
Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh-Jennings have never blocked a spike from bikini-clad She-Hulk, NOW HAVE THEY? – Marvel Age #53
As we start to wind down the summer, it seems as fitting a time as any to delve into Marvel’s in-house hype mag, Marvel Age, which featured a number of beach/picnic/general summeriness covers over its length run. I recently acquired a whole pile of them, and I was surprised how enjoyable they were to read. They’re like snapshots of what comics were like back in the day — this is helped by the run starting right in my 1980s wheelhouse — with original articles and fresh art that catches the eye. This month I’ll highlight a number of them here on the blog, and then spread them out a bit more going forward. They make for a nice change of pace. I think you’ll agree.
So, about this one. Let’s start with the cover. Though She-Hulk isn’t the only bikini-clad babe, she’s the one that draws your eyes first. It’s not a Marvel summertime without She-Hulk half-naked, you know? There’s something about her that’s so conducive bared flesh — probably because her earliest incarnation was always clothed in shredded fabric. Plus she got so hyper-sexual as her character progressed. But she’s not alone here, with the unmistakable hair-dos of Rogue, Storm and Medusa, Wasp with her wings and Tigra doing her high-flying beach volleyball thing. All jiggling and giggling and lounging to their hearts’ content.
And then you look closer, and it occurs to you that not even Marvel characters gave a hoot about the New Universe. Rogue’ll stick with her Amazing Spider-Man Annual, thank you very much. Merc and Star-Brand can try again some other time. ROGUE AIN’T NO FOOL, and their can be no more stinging commentary than this. A subliminal dagger. (An argument could be made that she has them, so she or someone else bought them. But image is everything. And their they lay, forlorn and unread.)
Amongst the features inside is a brief summary of what has to be one of the nicest things ever done in the comic book universe. Timmy Cox, a sixteen year old kid, had spinal cancer. (SPINAL CANCER. SPINAL. CANCER. There but for the grace of God…) When the Make-A-Wish folks came calling, he had a burning desire that I think a lot of us would have. Here’s the brief blurb, including a shot of Tim with Spider-Man and the 40-foot tall Jim Shooter (in a photograph far less intimidating than some others):
Balls are busted on here at times. None to be busted here. Good for you, Mr. Shooter. (And whoever pitted out that Spider-Man costume.)
What forgotten tales was Marvel pimping in the Summer of 1987? Emperor Doom. Silverhawks. The pornographic-sounding Transformers: Headmasters. The yearly crop of annuals. Nothing all that interesting in the coming attractions department.
But there’s that cover. Horndog men — and lesbians, I guess — can imagine the ladies rubbing lotion all over each other. SO THERE’S THAT.
If you want some more beach fare, I’ll leave you with this Fred Hembeck strip featuring the Vision and the Scarlett Witch and a gratuitous dig at the Defenders — enjoy (I keep waiting for Cathy to pop up and say “Ack!”):
More to come.
The IOC is infamous for its corruption, and the Olympics, while sought after by nations and municipalities across the globe, leave nothing but financial ruin in their wake. See: Athens. Captain O and his Olympic Sales Club have scheme written all over them as well, using bikes and goodies to lure children in like creepy pedophiles. Though it’s nice that this ad takes the usual “store window” approach and throws in a little sequential magic. HOOK ‘EM YOUNG.
Circumstantial evidence that our forefathers may indeed have walked to school through snow uphill both ways
It takes a lot for a comic book advertisement to give me pause. This did. I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised that hot water was still an optional feature for many back in the 1940s, but if you have electricity, it seems that you wouldn’t need to attach a coffeepot to a faucet to get a meager sprinkling of warm aqua. That this would be found amongst the ads for (Dick Tracy) cameras and dumb wallets is crazy from here on our comfortable Western post-millennial perch. You know, where we get all in a twist if Twitter is down for an hour.
AC or DC current. Who could resist?
London’s Olympics have so far lacked a melting Metamorpho je ne sais quoi – Batman and the Outsiders #15 & #16
If you’re a child of the ’80s and a comic book fan, there’s good chance that the above cover springs to mind every four (or every two) years. Batman and the Outsiders went all in with the 1984 Summer Olympics, incorporating that year’s Opening Ceremonies at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum into a two-part story. Therefore, though these games were boycotted by the Soviet Bloc, they still had a “villain” presence in the DC Universe, as a C-level Batman villain got a nutty idea into his head and ruined everyone’s good time. Except the reader’s. Because these two issues are odd and enjoyable, and a nice tie-in to a historical event.
If there’s one demerit here, it’s that Jim Aparo, so closely associated with Batman and his kooky young team of misfits, isn’t handling the interior art, replaced by Bill Willingham/Bill Anderson and Trevor Von Eeden. This is a gut-punch because that torch image is, seriously, one of the best covers that Aparo ever did, and it’s a bit of a letdown to not see his stuff on the inside (though the replacements do creditable work, as we’ll see). If I had to rank the top five covers of my youth, it would make the top five. And it might be at the top of the top. Metamorpho spilling over the side of the torch like an over-heated candle is beyond words. (Aparo had a magic touch when it came to BatO covers.)
On we go. The set up in this Mike W. Barr-penned tale is Maxie Zeus breaking out of Arkham Asylum after reading a newspaper article talking about the upcoming L.A. Olympics and American athlete Lacinia Nitocris. Batman is on the case, and stakes out the Opening Ceremonies with the Outsiders, where Zeus still manages to sneak in and muck everything up.
Before we get to the Olympics-ish action, though, there’s a little bit of broader DC Universe business to attend to. Zeus, to arm himself for his kooky little escapade, calls on his old friend the Monitor. Yes, that Monitor, the guy that would by the glue for the company-altering Crisis on Infinite Earths and numerous cross-overs that would ripple out in that maxi-series’ wake. He made off-panel appearances in the two years leading up to that event (an admirable bit of planning and seeding on the DC staff’s part — reap what you sow), coming across as an armorer of Earth’s villains. An Adnan Khashoggi in a gold satellite, if you will. (It was all part of his master plan to probe and examine the capabilities of various heroes.) Anyway, here he is, or at least his arm, along with the large-breasted one-day Harbinger (and an odd reference to Marv Wolfman):
The Monitor looks like he should be petting a cat.
He provides Zeus with a suitably mythological platoon of goons, and, as stated, they’re soon disrupting the opening ceremonies in the Coliseum. Here are the respective lineups, after Batman challenges them — Outsiders vs. New Olympians — to a test of athletic mettle, winner take all:
That’s a clown team, bro. (The New Olympians are, left to right, Antaeus, Vulcanus, Diana, Nox, and Proteus. There’s a little guy in a suit behind Zeus named Argus.)
Zeus agrees to Batman’s civilian-protecting challenge so he can impress Miss Nitocris, whom he had taken her hostage upon arrival. And Batman gets a bit of encouragement from an interesting quarter. If it’s a year that has a Summer Olympics, then it’s also a year that has a United States presidential election. Back in 1984, the incumbent was of course the Gipper, and Ronald Reagan is present at these aborted opening ceremonies. Depending on your political persuasion, he comes across as either a dithering, indecisive old fool or a compassionate soul only concerned about his fellow Americans:
One wonders why he didn’t just tie a bandana around his head, grease up his chest muscles and wade into the fray himself. A wasted opportunity. (The allusion to Munich is ironic these days, when the IOC has issues with a moment of silence for that massacre.)
Batman and Zeus look on while the two groups split, singly and in pairs, and engage in various odd and lethal sports. Katana does some fencing, Metamorpho and Black Lightning toss around a deadly spiked handball, and Halo does gymnastics at a construction site. Geo-Force? Geo-Force wrestles, but it’s clear that he’s not up on his Greek myths, a rough handicap when you’re grappling with a huge guy named Antaeus:
You have powers that can easily suspend him in the air. I suggest you use them.
While all this is going on, Batman’s brain is working overtime trying to figure out what Zeus is up to and what his interest in a single athlete is. He starts to figure it out, and when Zeus makes a getaway with his hostage in tow, Batman has to commandeer a ride to what he deduces to be their destination. It’s a goofball sequence worthy of the Adam West series:
Batman driving any car other than the Batmobile is a recipe for laughter, and a boxy 1980s cop car, one that he has to duck down in to accomodate his pointy ears, magnifies it. It’s very Toonces. (And the police are involved in city planning? What?)
He arrives at a building where Zeus’ daughter is being held, and then we understand the big plan. Maxie was just trying to impress a new Mommy:
Well, the man is, after all, crazy. As long as it makes sense to him, that’s all that matters. Fin.
Zeus was shipped on back to Arkham, and the New Olympians fell off the face of the Earth after this blip of an appearance. They returned only to be killed off rather memorably in Gog’s false god murder-spree in a 2008 Justice Society of America run. We weren’t dealing with the 1927 Yankees of bad guys is what I’m trying to say.
Though there was that disappointment at not getting Aparo interiors — like understudies at a big Broadway show — the replacements were solid. Von Eeden’s thick, bold inks and sharp style are visually refreshing. It’s a style you don’t often see in mainstream superhero comics, and echoes what Keith Giffen could do with masks and capes. The story is fairly silly, what with heroes and one-off villains making up their own odd little sports, but the Olympic tie-in makes it fun and memorable. And that cover — magnifique. A gold medal winner, to be sure. If you’re interested in these stories, or any other 1980s Outsider tales, they’ve had Showcase reprintings. There’s no better time to step into the ineffectual Olympics criminality of Maxie Zeus.
I love digests. They’re neat. They don’t take up much room. There’s something about them that makes the reprints inside feel new again.
Superman doesn’t seem all that thrilled, though, and I’m not sure that I blame him. “Binky and His Buddies” and a bunch of cross-eyed animals aren’t enough to move his needle. Or mine. I’m guessing he followed that meek “Thanks heaps” with a quick “Gotta go.”
You want Olympic excitement? Devise a Mario-themed sport and make it a medal event. VOILA.
Thrill at the simplicity of the old Mario Bros. game, before they became Super and everything got all complicated for them. You know, when they started selling crappy cereal and all. Ever wonder if these mustached boys at any point wanted to return to the days when all they had to do was contend with pipes, crabs, turtles and hovering platforms? Everything must have made sense back then.
(This is a chicken/egg question which others have asked, one that will probably never be answered, and I’m sure there’s a logical reason, but why was the game called Mario Bros. when Mario was one of the brothers? Is his name Mario Mario? This makes brains hurt.)
It’s been a while since we’ve wallowed in a terrible J’onn J’onzz story. ENJOY. – House of Mystery #172
J’onn J’onzz, the suspendered Martian Manhunter of the DC Comics hero pantheon, is a character with great inherent dignity. Because of his alien status and his otherworldly natural appearance, he’s stood from his earliest interactions with his peers somewhat aloof from those (mostly) native champions of his adopted world. Always somewhat taciturn, ever the quiet conscience of any assemblage of which he’s a part, he’s earned his place among the greats without flash and sizzle, and in spite of a hyper-goofy costume that would make a Chippendale dancer proud.
Most of us like J’onn. He might not be the life of the party, but he seems like a nice guy. You’d like to have him as a neighbor.
But his hasn’t been a charmed existence. He’s come to this place in the world the hard way. Because, make no mistake, J’onn J’onzz wandered through some unspeakably awful storytelling in his early days, and has been embarrassed on multiple occasions within the confines of his own book. He’s been bested by huge-headed clowns, which, by the comic book logical rules, makes him lower than clowns on any hierarchy. He’s had to take a backseat to the most annoying superhero alter-ego in all of comicdom, a dorky kid (the bespectacled Robby Reed) who spares no opportunity to bleat out the nonsensical “SOCKAMAGEE!”
And then there’s Zook. Oh yes, Zook. The little orange nude guy with antennae and poor grammar. J’onn J’onzz’s comrade in arms. Robin. Kid Flash. Aqualad. ZOOK. J’onn drew the sidekick short straw that day, that’s for damn sure.
J’onn’s pain and suffering is front and center in this random House of Mystery sampling. Before you start to hope that Zook is absent from this issue’s Manhunter story (Script: Jack Miller, Art: Joe Certa), perhaps vacationing wherever it is that Zook’s go to vacation (a nude beach?), know that he’s in this too. While not omnipresent, he plays a crucial (sigh) role in the outcome of poor J’onn’s tribulations. But even J’onn, who has the patience of Job, seems to have grown tired of him by this point:
That’s a superhero version of the “I have to get up early tomorrow” bad date escape hatch.
Boy, is the snakebit Martian Manhunter ever raked over the coals in this one. J’onn tracks his arch-foe quarry, Faceless, to a mountain hideout, and there confronts Ivor Sandez, one of his beefy goons. THIS DOES NOT GO WELL:
Faux-J’onn goes on a rampage of douchebaggery, presaging the dickish deeds (*gasp* extinguishing the Olympic flame) that the evil Kal-El would perform in Superman III:
The Leaning Tower of Pisa escapes unharmed and unstraightened. Meaning that when J’onn gets his powers back he won’t have to knock it back off-kilter and send a poor model vendor off the deep end.
All this bad guy stuff is terrible for the apparently image-conscious J’onn. He’s going to need a hell of a PR firm to dig him out of this Q-rating hole, and with a bank robbery it just keeps getting worse and worse:
Is he more upset that his body is seen robbing a bank or squealing “WHEEEEEE!”? YOU DECIDE.
It’s not all bad, though. Mussolini made the trains run on time, and un-J’onn has some fresh ideas in the Zook department:
YES! YES! LIKE CYBORG SUPERMAN CHOKING SUPERBOY, THE EVIL FAUX-MANHUNTER SPEAKS FOR ALL OF US!
Even when J’onn, trapped in the rather useless form of a big fat lummox, works up the stones to fight back, it’s a rather pathetic display:
Listen: If you’re a superhero and your hyper-strong body is ever switched out with that of a low-level criminal, and you best your old shell with A PACK OF GODDAMN MATCHES, it might not be worth getting your former self back. (Granted, this scenario won’t form a great reservoir of concern for anyone in the reading audience. But still. One to grow on.)
How does it all end? Zook. A Martian meteorite burning with green flame. I don’t even want to get into it. Know only this: I weep for the Martian Manhunter and all the indignities he has endured in his terrestrial crimefighting career.
But that’s not all. What’s that? You want to delve further into the Dial H for Hero cover story (Script: Dick Wood, Art: Frank Springer), with a Native American (Chief Mighty Arrow) on a flying horse fighting what looks to be a fusion of the 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea giant squid and the giant face-hugger at the end of Prometheus? NO YOU DON’T:
Robby Reed turned into a pendulum. A f—ing pendulum. Or the thing that the pon farred Spock swung at Kirk in “Amok Time.” Or an anchor. Or a shovel. Sockamagee indeed.
A lot of times I end a post reflecting on the good points and bad of the book at hand. Not in this case. (Okay, one small point: Frank Springer’s art is pretty nice.) I’m left simply shaking my head. Should you be a glutton for punishment (like our Martian friend), both halves of this comic have been reprinted in separate Showcase Presents tomes. If you’re brave enough to seek them out, good for you. But be prepared. THE PITS and the Pendulum.
Now, to go all Brian’s Song: I love J’onn J’onzz, and I’d like all of you to love him too. And so tonight, when you hit your knees, please ask God to love him.
Have Olympics fever? Tape-delayed London games not cooling it? Perhaps 1984 M&M’s trading cards will.
Shouldn’t Muhammad Ali’s card be a Cassius Clay card? Wasn’t he Cassius Clay at the 1960 Rome games? How does that work? “Clay-Liston” is often called “Ali-Liston,” so I suppose retroactive name-changes are okay, but this trips some obsessive-compulsive wire. That’s my challenge, I guess.
Anyway, if you get that time machine working, go back and time and scarf down M&M’s, a noted Olympic training nutritional staple. (Feel free to pair it with another venerable Olympic sponsor, McDonald’s.) Get your hands on those trading cards and stare at Mike Eruzione to your heart’s content.
Jared
blog into mystery 