Were the Manning Boys Breast Fed?

SULLIVAN: There has to be something special about the Manning clan, the only family to produce three first-round draft picks.

Was it breast-feeding? By even asking the question, Hollander and I will be banned from ever going below the Mason-Dixon line. Archie is a saint in Louisiana and Mississippi; his wife, Olivia, was homecoming queen at Ole Miss. Obviously they are very good parents, and have raised three fine sons. I believe they would do anything for their progeny. So I would answer that Olivia went against the convention of the 1970s (since proved wrong by science) that the bottle is as good as the breast.

Eli may have had a longer suckling period, and his numbers may never match Peyton's, but he seems tougher than his older brother.

HOLLANDER: C.J., look at Peyton and Eli. Look closely. Note their expressionless, almost featureless, gomeresque faces. Pay special attention to their machine-like efficiency. And don't ignore their near identical sizes: 6'5" frames carrying 220 to 230 pounds.

My friend, these are not the sons of Archie Manning but cellular reproductions of one man. Peyton and Eli are clones of Archie Manning.

It all makes sense. When Cooper, the eldest Manning son, abruptly ended a promising career as a receiver at Ole Miss, Archie didn't blink. He'd already made his deal with the devil.

In the spring of 1975, NFL commissioner Pete Rozelle approached Archie with a twisted but meticulous plan. The Hasselbeck boys, an original flawed version of the plan, were already showing imperfections during the incubation stage. A frustrated Archie, toiling futilely for yet another year and desperately craving NFL greatness, even if only vicariously, was an easy mark for the forward-thinking Rozelle. But unlike the failed Hasselbeck prototypes, Rozelle brought something extra to Manning's table.

Author and supernaturalist Anne Rice lived a few doors down from the Mannings in New Orleans. In 1972, Rice tragically lost her five-year-old daughter to leukemia and never again conceived. Longing to fill the void in her life and eager to live the stuff of her novels, Rice formed an unholy alliance with Rozelle and Manning. Months prior to, and for several years after Peyton and Eli's "inception," Rice ingested a vile Rosemary's Baby milkshake created in NFL laboratories from Archie's DNA protein and crawfish semen. Under the guise of the "friendly neighbor," Rice surreptitiously nursed both boys through their infancy. Poor Olivia never knew a thing.

What can we do about it, C.J.? What should we do?

SULLIVAN: Dave, you have clearly gone well past my ken; a specialist is needed to answer your theories. My old friend Dr. Leo Bloom of the Joyceian Psychiatry Institute will now take over.

BLOOM: Mr. Sullivan called me with a deep concern over Hollander's mental well-being. His fear for Hollander's sanity seems well-founded.

From reading his new book of interviews, 52 Weeks, I would diagnose Hollander as bipolar with a hint of oral fixation. Right now he seems to be in a manic phase; his love of wild conspiracy is part of his disease. He even fails to note the differences between the brothers.

Peyton does have that spooked-robot look. His teammates have nicknamed him R2D2. But Eli has a mischievous grin, and he has even gone on the record saying he thinks he is much better-looking than Peyton. He is. He has that tough-ass, younger-brother look. His face seems to be in a perpetual smirk.

As far as crawfish semen, the Mannings have nothing in their makeup that would suggest shellfish of any kind. I think Hollander has listened to too many Creedence Clearwater songs about the bayou. Mr. Hollander, call me for an appointment; I will see you pro bono in the interest of the public good. It is clear you need to be medicated-heavily.

HOLLANDER: C.J., you can no longer suckle at the teat of willful ignorance. Please, for a moment, step outside the warm safety of your conventional attitudes and look at the facts.

Don't you find it a bit curious that Peyton's offensive coordinator at Tennessee conveniently became Eli's head coach at Ole Miss?

Aren't you troubled that Eli was stolen from San Diego and handed to New York without any interference from the league?

And what in God's name is going on at the "Manning Passing Academy" in remote Thibodaux, Louisiana?

(Surely you know that the street term for male cloning is "manning.")

I demand a full investigation. This is a carefully orchestrated conspiracy involving great numbers of evil and brilliant people who've worked tirelessly for the past 30 years creating the NFL's own sinister version of the Parallax View. And like Warren Beatty in that film I fear that because of my findings, I'll soon find myself on the wrong end of a gun.

Look, I know you're scared. But you've got to pocket your quaint notions of sanity and listen to me.

Wait a minute?somebody's at my door. That's weird. I told the doorman, "No visitors." I gotta go. I'll get in touch from a secure line when I can. Publish this, C.J. Whatever you do publish this! n

There's Nothing Like a Knockout

A satisfying denouement.

By Noah Fowle

I had been following the fight game for little less than a year when I saw the average-looking heavyweight Timor Ibragimov fell Ronald Bellamy, 20 pounds heavier, with a rocking left hook. At the point of contact, my head was actually lowered as I scribbled notes, but the gasp of the crowd was palpable, and I looked up in time to see Bellamy's 6'5" frame come crashing to the canvas. Wide-eyed and slackjawed, I stared as his massive body, which had bobbed in smooth cadence just seconds earlier, lay motionless. It was the first time I ever saw a knockout.

Up until that moment, I had followed mostly lightweight fighters and had come to appreciate some of the finer movements boxers make inside the ring. Attending workout sessions, I developed the eye to watch a fighter's punch from the beginning. It starts on the toes of the back foot, then the weight transfers to the forward leg, then the hips dictate the rest of the torso and finally the arm extends, putting all of the boxer's power behind a single blow.

Once at ringside, I watched in stunned envy as boxers somehow danced around the same furious blows they had perfected. More often than not, punches sailed over their heads; I began to grasp the sweet science a little more. Those who aren't fans of the sport dismiss it as too brutal, but I saw just the opposite. There is a precise gracefulness inside the ring. Boxers make spilt-second decisions, interpret their opponent's movements and adjust accordingly. The effect is a physical chess match with moments of explosive engagement.

Many of the boxers I have met, whether humble or flashy in their styles and entrances, are, outside the ring, silent workhorses who look at their competitions as business and at each opponent as a test. Shaking boxers' hands, I was surprised to find them soft and gentle. After fights, boxers remain remarkably composed even as the blood and sweat drip from their brows. Their training has made them used to everything except the audience's reaction.

In stark contrast, some fans suffer from unquenchable bloodlust. Men and women scream for heads to be taken off and for cuts to be opened. Bold performances go unrecognized for what they are while disgruntled supporters grouse about poor judging or timid referees who stop a contest too early. These demands reduce the fight to a back-alley brawl, disregarding the display of athleticism and the stamina of will defining the sport.

While boxing is a show meant to satisfy spectators, too often it is forgotten that its players are people with lives beyond the ring. They come to make a living and to show off their skills for their family and friends. Whole sections of an arena will be packed with a fighter's countrymen, neighbors or relatives. These fans, who have a close relationship with the fighters, bring an electric energy to the fights. When a fighter begins to connect and find a rhythm, the best fans sense it, and they let loose with chants that transform the fight into a spectacular display of call and response. These moments are only as rare as talented boxers, and elevate the sport from a mere competition to an epic battle. Crowds can influence what is at stake in the ring, turning strangers into bitter rivals and creating an opera of heart and determination.

A successful boxer's movement is constant and remains a testament to his training. A knockout happens in an instant, though, and can turn any match around. Although the winning punch is often too quick to be seen, the boxer is capitalizing off everything that has come before, the groundwork for a stunning finale. The punch that ends the match is a satisfying denouement to hours in the gym, miles on the road and rounds in the ring.

As Bellamy's frame was jockeyed onto a stretcher, he raised an arm to let the audience know he was alive. I double-checked with Tim Smith, the boxing columnist for the Daily News, to get the facts straight on the final punch. Leaning back in his chair like he was savoring a fine wine or an imported cigar he confirmed the left hook, smiled and gave me a knowing look. "There's nothing like a knockout," he said.

Spahn's Bad Move

A chance to get a cut of the gate.

By Evan Weiner

It'sÊNovember-free-agent season, a time for George Steinbrenner to open his vault andÊgo afterÊthe game's best available talent. ÊIf a 34-year-old relief pitcher can command $10 million a year on the open market, can you imagine what the Boss would pay if a 31-year-old left-hander with 116 victories over the past six seasons came on the open market? How about if he was a war hero? Can you imagine what George Steinbrenner would have offered Warren Spahn in the winter of 2005? The bidding would start at $15 million a year.

In the winter of 1952, though, Spahn could not shop his services around. MLB's reverse clause gave him no rights other than to withhold his services.ÊBig-leaguers had to play by the owners' rules, or not play. With no competition from other teams or other countries for players, Spahn still almost broke the bank that winter.

Spahn was coming off a poor season by his standards in 1952-14-19, with a 2.98 ERA, for a Boston Braves team that finished with a 64-89 record. Not only did the Braves do poorly on the field, but the team sold only 281,278 tickets at Braves Field.

The Red Sox were marginally better on the field, going 76-78, but 1,115,750 people paid to see games at Fenway Park.

Braves owner Lou Perini claimed he lost