TEJAY VAN GARDEREN

Imagine having the potential to be the best in the world at what you do, yet also knowing there’s a pretty good chance many people will never believe you got there honestly, no matter what proof you provide. And then just saying, “Who gives a shit. I’m doing it anyway.” That kind of mindset requires a very rare combination of qualities, including (but not exclusively): world-class talent, bulletproof confidence and balls of steel.

Welcome to the world of Tejay van Garderen, a man competing in cycling, a tarnished sport that is still on its path to resurrection following a catastrophic doping scandal that spanned and discredited the results of 20 years of accomplishments, and the best and brightest hope for America since Lance Armstrong, perhaps the most reviled athlete in the history of popular culture. If this were 2000, van Garderen, a handsome, supremely talented 26-year-old who has done everything the right way, who finished fifth in the Tour de France last year and who is now poised to take home the title this summer as the unquestioned leader of the BMC Racing Team, would be a media darling. But as it stands now, van Garderen is flying well below the radar of the zeitgeist, and that is probably a good thing. Too much scrutiny at this point would only invite cynicism by the public at large, thanks to Armstrong’s sociopathic behavior during his now discredited seven Tour wins and the revelations that every other top rider during his era was doping as well. It will all shake out this summer. No pressure.

Van Garderen was born in Tacoma, Washington, but spent his formative years in Bozeman, Montana, a picturesque Western city with ravishing mountain vistas and a noted hub for outdoor sports junkies. It was there that his stepfather, a Dutchman named Marcel van Garderen (Tejay took his last name after being legally adopted), turned the 9-year-old on to cycling. The kid was a natural, especially when it came to climbing, the sport’s most grueling, oxygen-depleting, lactic-acid-inducing, soul-crushing subdiscipline, and by the time he was 18 he had already won 10 junior national titles. He turned pro that same year, then began his ascent to potential greatness.

Regardless of his future accomplishments, it is a near certainty van Garderen will be judged within the Armstrong prism, an unwarranted fate by any standard. A much more apt—and fair—comparison would be Greg LeMond, the last clean American cycling superstar and unquestioned winner of the Tour three times (1986, 1989, 1990). Like LeMond, van Garderen married very young (van Garderen got hitched to his longtime girlfriend, Jessica, at 23; LeMond was 20 when he tied the knot), moved to Europe because it was the only way to perfect his craft, did so without the requisite linguistic or cultural skills, began his career as a domestique (a supporting player, in cycling lingo) and then emerged from the peloton with a giant target on his back thanks to his nationality. But LeMond didn’t do it in the shadow of Lance. And van Garderen is, for now, just a prospect, not a winner. Not yet.

If van Garderen does in fact bring it home on the Champs-Élysées in July, wearing the yellow jersey with the customary glass of champagne in his hand as he crosses the finish line, he insists he’s prepared for the inevitable scrutiny that will come with a Tour win, especially one from an American. “I’m proud to tell people I’m a cyclist, regardless of whatever they think, or whatever insinuations come along with that,” says van Garderen. “Cycling obviously has an unfortunate history, but there’s been a lot to clean things up, and hopefully the public starts to trust that, trust the testing and trust the athletes. It’s a clean sport now, so I can’t really speak to the past. I wasn’t there. I came in after all of that stuff.”

 

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CHIYONOFUJI MITSUGU

It was the snip heard around Japan. When champion sumo wrestler Chiyonofuji Mitsugu cut off his traditional topknot to signify his retirement from the ring in 1991, the whole country was mesmerized by the televised ceremony. For his eldest daughter, Yu Akimoto, it was a moment she’ll never forget. “When you cut your hair back to normal length, we had a lot of snow that day,” Yu tells her father in an interview. Just 8 years old at the time, Yu skipped school for the special occasion. “After you got your hair cut short, I was asked in a television interview, ‘How do you like your papa’s new haircut?’ ” Yu adds. “And I remember that I was very embarrassed. And I said, ‘It looks great,’ and that was broadcast by the show. The next day I went to school and I was teased about saying my dad looks good. I said to them, ‘What is wrong with that?’ I was mad.”

Until this moment, Chiyonofuji hadn’t encountered a pair of scissors in more than 21 years. Born Mitsugu Akimoto on the island of Hokkaido, the young sumo began wearing a topknot at age 15, which marked the beginning of his professional career. Standing 6 feet tall and weighing only 270 pounds (in a ring that often saw competitors 500 pounds or heavier), Chiyonofuji (nick- named “The Wolf” for his intimidating stare) became known for agility in the ring, and the swift moves with which he felled his larger, overbearing opponents.

By the time he decided to retire at the ripe age of 35 (most wrestlers at his level leave the sport by age 30), Chiyonofuji had not only ascended through the ranks to win 1,045 matches and earned the elite status of Yokozuna or “grand champion” but had also won a place in the heart of his nation. Upon retirement, Chiyonofuji took on a new name, Kokonoe Mitsugu, and the role of stablemaster for the Kokonoe Stable (one of the 54 communes where wrestlers live and train, including Chiyonofuji himself). “I liked the training,” Chiyonofuji tells Yu, reflecting on his days in the ring. “There are few people who like training, I think. But most likely, by training I was able to get something back. If you do not get tired doing something, you don’t win.”

“What is the difference in the training between your current disciples and when you were younger?” Yu asks. “It is much less now,” he responds. “There are many wrestlers who have injuries. To develop a build that is not easily injured, you have to do a lot, I think.”

“When [you were] competing, I was small, and I don’t remember everything,” Yu continues. “Mama said it was not a horrible thing to lose, but [you] said you hated to lose,” adds his daughter, who was named after the Japanese character “yu,” which means friendly, and the Japanese word for winner, “yu-sho.”

It’s a work ethic that was passed down to both of the champion sumo wrestler’s daughters, who have forged their own paths in their respective fields. Today, Kozue is a rising star in Japan’s acting and modeling world, while Yu is one of the country’s fashion icons and an accomplished DJ. “Nobody was able to succeed you in the business, since I am a daughter,” muses Yu. “What do you think about that?” “That doesn’t matter at all,” replies her father. “Becoming a wrestler is not easy. But looking at it myself, if I had a son who wanted to do it, that would have been OK. But this is the life I love.”

 

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千代の富士貢
レスリー・マッケンジー:文、チャーリー・ガルシア:写真

鋏の音が日本中に響いた。1991年、大相撲の横綱力士であった千代の富士が引退を表明し、その断髪式はテレビ中継され、横綱の髷が 切り落とされる姿に日本中が心を奪われた。彼の長女である秋元優にとって、それは忘れることのできない光景である。「お父さんが 髪を切り落とした日は、大雪が降っていたのよ」とインタビュー中、優は父親に話しかけた。まだ8歳だった彼女は断髪式当日、父の特 別な日ということで学校を休んだ。「髪が切られた後、テレビのインタビューで“お父さんの新しい髪形はどう?”って聞かれたの。 とても恥ずかしかったのを覚えてるわ。そして“とてもかっこいいです”って答えたんだけれど、それがテレビで放送されたのよ。次 の日学校に行くと、父親をかっこいいと言ったことを友達にからかわれて、“それのどこがおかしいの?”って言い返したわ。とても 頭にきたんだもの」と優は続けた。

断髪式のその日まで、千代の富士は21年以上の間、髪に鋏を入れたことはなかった。千代の富士、秋元貢は北海道で生まれ育ち、15歳 で初めて髷を結って以来、力士としての道が始まった。土俵で戦う力士の多くは、体重が約226kgまたはそれ以上という中で、千代の富 士の身長は約182cm、体重は122kg程度であったが、相手を威嚇するような鋭いにらみから「ウルフ」と呼ばれ、俊敏ですばやい動きを 持ち味に自分より身体が大きく、威圧的な相手力士を倒し、その名が世間に知られるようになった。

横綱レベルの力士のほとんどが30歳までに現役を引退する中で、彼は高齢ともいえる35歳で引退を決意した。そのときまで、1045勝を あげて横綱の地位に上りつめただけでなく、彼は国民の心もつかんだ。引退後は新しく九重貢となり、力士たちが生活と稽古を共にす る場所である54箇所の相撲部屋のうち、彼自身も過ごした九重部屋の親方となった。

「稽古は好きだったな」と当時を振り返りながら、彼は優に話した。「稽古が好きな力士なんて、ほとんどいないと思う。だけど自分 は、稽古することによって何かを得たという経験が多かった。同じことを飽きもせず続けるだけでは、勝つことはできないんだ。」
「今のお弟子さんたちとお父さんの若い頃を比べて、稽古に何か違いはある?」と優は質問した。「稽古が少ないね」と彼は答えた。
「怪我をする力士が多いね。簡単に怪我をしない身体を作るには、稽古をたくさんしないといけないと思うよ」 優は続けた。「お父さんが力士だった頃、私はまだ小さかったから、全部は覚えていないんだけれど、お母さんが“負けるのはそんなに ひどいことじゃないわ”と言ったのに、お父さんは“俺は負けるのが嫌いだ”と言ったのよ」彼女の「優」という名前は、「優しい」 と「優勝」の文字から名付けられたのだった。

元横綱の仕事に対する姿勢は、それぞれの分野で自分の道を進む二人の娘にも受け継がれている。現在、梢は女優、モデルとして人気 急上昇中であり、優はファッションリーダーの1人、そして名DJとしても活躍中である。「私は娘だから、誰も力士になって部屋を継ぐ ことができなかったんだけれど、それはどう思う?」と優は思いをめぐらせながら聞いた。「それは全く構わないよ」彼は答えた。「 力士になるのは簡単なことじゃないからね。自分自身を省みて、もし力士になりたいという息子がいたら、それはそれでいいと思うけ れど、お父さんは今のこの自分の人生が好きなのさ」

 

 

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Anderson Silva

The video went viral. “Anderson Silva’s leg wraps around Chris Weidman’s waist like a piece of spaghetti!” exclaimed a journalist for ESPN the day after 38-year-old Brazilian UFC champion Anderson Silva broke his leg dramatically in a fight against New York-born Weidman, a fighter nine years his junior. It’s impossible to watch Silva kick at Weidman then fall back without cringing, and equally impossible to imagine the pain. In the footage from that night, December 28, 2013, in Las Vegas, the fighter’s leg does indeed wrap unnaturally and limply around his opponent’s torso. Those standing or sitting cage-side heard a cracking sound.

“I don’t remember much about fights,” Silva says in retrospect. “It happens very fast. But this match, when I suffered the injury, I remember certain things perfectly.”

The fighter, who was born into poverty in Curitiba, Brazil, and initially learned martial arts by watching neighbor kids who could afford lessons, heard the cracking sound, too.

“I was preoccupied with holding my leg, but I held it in a lot of pain,” he remembers, “and my trainer, Rogério Camões, and Ed Soares, my manager, came. When they allowed my manager in, I still remember I said: ‘Boss, why did God allow this to happen to me? Why did God do this to me?’ In that moment, I thought it was all over. I was in a state of shock. I was worried about my family. I was worried about my leg, if I would walk again, train again, if I could fight again. A thousand things came to mind.”

Silva would be carted off that night on a stretcher and have emergency surgery to repair the tibia and reset the fibula in his left leg. Later, it took nearly six months for him to recover, he would wonder if God had indeed been trying to tell him something that night. Was it time for him to slow down?

Silva is 6-foot-2 and stoic with a square jaw and a defined, serious brow. Before his fateful fight against Weidman, The Spider, as he is often called, had gone undefeated for seven years, winning 16 consecutive fights and defending his UFC Middleweight Champion title a record 10 times. He had defeated one great fighter after the next, including Forrest Griffin, Chael Sonnen, Vitor Belfort and Dan Henderson. He could beat his rivals at their own games, and he was starting to seem unstoppable. “There have been plenty of moments in The Spider’s career that have already cemented him as the best of all time,” wrote Adam Hill for Bleacher Report in spring 2013.

But six months before his potentially career-ending fight, Silva had faced Weidman at MGM Grand Garden Arena for UFC 162, a middleweight championship fight, and lost his title.

“I lost the first time due to lack of focus,” he says in retrospect, and the reasons for that lack of focus ran deep: “Because I was thinking of other things, because I was unhappy with myself within what I was doing in my sport and disappointed even with the organizers of fighting, and the downfalls of celebrity and fighting itself.”

A few months later, as he geared up for his December rematch with Weidman, he had regained his composure, calmed his self-questioning.

“The second fight, I was completely ready for,” he says. Then his leg broke, dramatically and severely. “God gave me a signal there: ‘Dude, you gotta stop. You have to stop. I gave you a sign; you didn’t understand…’ But more than that, it was about being able to see yourself, to see yourself, which is very hard, and realize, ‘Darn, I’ve been doing everything wrong.’ ”

That’s what he had time to think about as he began his slow, multi-month recovery, going from lying on his back to using crutches to limping. The pressure of being and staying a champion had distracted him. “I didn’t have time to live my life, my reality, which was to be with my kids, to be with my family,” he says. The push—traveling to promote the fights, handling the back talk and insults opponents throw at each other, talking to journalists, playing the champion—had been wearing on him.

 

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“People don’t care if you’re injured, if your head is in the right place,” he says. “They want you to make it happen; the show must go on, and it has to be real. But this isn’t real. For me, it was never real. The system takes away the truth from you, takes fighting away from you as something you love.”

Silva, who had an obsession with superheroes as a child and began learning martial arts first through magazines and then by hanging around neighbor kids who trained in Tae Kwon Do, lived with his aunt and uncle for much of his childhood—his parents had been unable to afford his upbringing. During his middle-school years, he used to slip into a local Tae Kwon Do gym just to watch the kids in white uniforms train. After a while, an instructor who had noticed him lurking offered to teach him if he agreed to clean the gym in exchange. In high school, he took the same approach again, lingering around a nearby Muay Thai gym that he had to pass each day to and from home. That’s how he met his first trainer, Edmar. “Do you train in Muay Thai?” Edmar asked him one day when Silva was standing outside. “I train in Tae Kwon Do,” Silva answered. “Come over and I’ll train you,” Edmar said. Silva did, and stayed at that gym until he’d become a mixed martial arts phenomenon. The physical prowess, elation and magic that came with being a skilled fighter was probably as close as he could get in real life to the Spiderman and Superman fantasies he entertained as a child.

The fighter stayed in São Paulo until 2007, when his success in MMA made it financially possible, and also perhaps necessary, for him to move to the U.S. In Brazil he had been driving around in an armored car and worried about the safety of his family. He has €five children, three in the U.S. now and two in Brazil.

So he was in Los Angeles during his long, self-reflective recovery. Friendship, family, children, legacy: Those were the things he thought about most often, he says now. “One fight or two can’t define the human being, or the man,” he explains. “What defines you is your attitude as a friend, as a brother, as a father, as a son, as a citizen. This, yes, defines me as a person.” But watching his children at sports practice, running, jumping and
making plans for their futures, the fighter began to itch to return to his own love. “I still don’t know if I’m ready and if I can do what I did with such excellence before,” he says, though the apprehension wasn’t great enough to keep him from trying.

In the summer of 2014, speculation that Silva would return began circulating in MMA press. When he announced he would be facing Nick Diaz in January 2015, MMA Junkie referred to him as an “ex-champion” who, it was “safe to say,” was “returning with a bit more humility.” Silva won that fight against Diaz.

It wasn’t the same, though. He was the older, once-defeated fighter making a comeback.

“This thing, being a champion,” he says, “I can’t say that I don’t miss it sometimes… but when I started fighting, you just went there, fought, won if you won. Tomorrow it was all over, water under the bridge. All the victories I always had, the successful results I obtained, were always based on this: I go there, I fight, it’s over. I win, it’s over. I lift my arm, I go home. I lift my arm, it’s over. And then back to the start again.”

 

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THE FLETCHERS BY JULIAN SCHNABEL

I met Herbie Fletcher when I was 16 years old. I had no idea what effect he would have on my life and how important that meeting would be. It happened through surfing-a path he would follow and guide his family on for life. I am a painter and have followed the practice of the artist, which in fact is no different from that of the surfer, who inscribes him-or herself in the ocean-a bigger canvas could not be engaged-defining their humanity in the most personal way using themselves to draw their life lines through the massive, fleeting freedom of that power. The power and majesty of the sea-Herbie shared that with me and my family as well as his own. I love and respect the Fletchers and treasure the gift of camaraderie and surfing that we have enjoyed together for what has turned out to be a lifetime.

 

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