Word: rooney
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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Ronald Reagan, a genius at this kind of thing, managed to recrystalize the national morale through his evocations of a simple and virtuous small-town America. He performed an optical illusion that was the equivalent of having Mickey Rooney, as Andy Hardy, standing tall in the saddle. That has been one trouble with Reaganistic good feeling: a suspicion that it was based upon camera angle...
...Abbott and Costello or any of a hundred other images. AMMI's apex is Tut's Fever, an Egyptian-style movie palace conceived by Artists Red Grooms and Lysiane Luong. Grooms' impish sculptures staff the theater: Theda Bara sits in the box office; Mae West sells you candy; Mickey Rooney is the usher; a sarcophagus creaks open to reveal the late James Dean. In the theater auditorium, its walls a splurge of film-trivia graffiti, you can watch a silent-movie serial or just gawk at the delirious decor...
...laws and rules. For instance, gamblers are generally not the National Football League's favorite types, and yet in 1933 the man who became the most beloved and benevolent citizen of the league bought his way into the business with winnings from horse bets. The Pittsburgh Steelers' owner, Art Rooney, really the city of Pittsburgh's Art Rooney, died last week at 87, still penciling the racing form. Rooney shared his hugest track windfall with his brother, a China missionary who unknowingly repaid him in soybeans. Based on a Hong Kong weather report from Father Dan, Art made another...
...much like Rembrandt, Tyson fights by the numbers. "Seven-eight," Rooney calls the tune, signaling for combinations. "Feint, two-one. Pick it up, six-one. There you go, seven-one. Now make it a six." The savage sight of Tyson advancing on his sparring partners recalls the classic moan of an early matchmaker: "He fights you like you stole something from him." Uppercuts are especially urgent. "If you move away too much," says Oliver McCall, the best gym fighter of the nine revolving lawn sprinklers, "he'll punch your hipbone and paralyze you in place." Hurricane comes...
...among boxers, Tyson has no entourage. It seems to be the only cliche he has avoided. He does his predawn roadwork by himself on the boardwalk, grateful for the solitude. "I don't have any friends. I get paranoid around a lot of people. I can't relax." Besides Rooney and Cutman Matt Baranski, only Steve Lott is admitted to the inner sanctum. "I'm the spit-bucket man," Lott says with shining eyes. "I would give my life for that." He was a handball buddy of Jimmy Jacobs', an honored player who died at 58 last March, reportedly...