The cute British swimmer with the to-die-for accent, this is newly-minted gold medalist Adam Peaty, who just sped to his golden destiny in the 100m breaststroke, in which he also broke the world record. Congrats to Mr. Peaty on this amazing accomplishment at the Rio Olympics. The closest I’ve gotten to this sort of thing is the pair of gold Pumas I just bought on clearance.
Today marks the beginning of the Summer Olympics 2016 in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil!!! The whole thing is supposedly about the world coming together and competing with good-natured sportsmanship (and sportswomanship) but really it’s just an excuse to ogle toned bodies and the fittest people on the planet. Before we get into anyone’s Speedos just yet, let’s have a look back at other memorable Olympic posts, as they are as plentiful as they are visually-delicious.
First up is everyone’s favorite diver Tom Daley. Though the Chinese team reportedly has a lock on the diving medals, Mr. Daley is going to squeeze himself into a Speedo and do his best to bring something back for Britain.
Second, another returning champ is Michael Phelps, who aims to add to his stockpile of gold.
Third, Nathan Adrian, who’s gotten naked in the water not just once here, but twice.
Fourth, Ryan Lochte is always good for some skimpy attire and ice blue hair.
Fifth, Matt Greevers, because both swimming and diving require the best kind of wardrobe.
Salacious clickbait aside, the Olympics have always been about more than man-candy and impossibly fit bodies. They represent a coming-together of the entire world. When those athletes march onto the same field, in solidarity reaching toward perfection, they are united, and for the most part good sportspersonship prevails. I always choke up a little when that opening ceremony arrives at the entrance moment for all those smiling faces, and each country’s contingent walks in beaming, full of pride, and together as one.
Here at ALANILAGAN.com, we love ESPN for one thing and one thing only: the Body Issue of their magazine. Artistically (and gratuitously) displaying athletes in naked poses, it’s probably the biggest issue of their year, and has enough cachet to have gotten the likes of Michael Phelps and Rob Gronkowski totally starkers. In this post, we see some shots of Hunk of the Day Conor McGregor in his altogether – further evidence of the power of the Body. He joins the nude ranks of Evan Lysacek, Giancarlo Stanton, Matt Harvey, Oguchi Onyewu, Tomáš Berdych, Greg Louganis, Bryce Harper, and Kevin Love. Welcome to the Celebrity Skin Jungle.
This weekend Skip and I head back to Fenway Park to take in a ball game between the Boston Red Sox and the Toronto Blue Jays. For the record, it is a win-win scenario for me, as the Blue Jays are my second favorite team (after the Red Sox). The very first professional baseball game I’d ever attended was a match-up between these two teams in 1986, the year the Sox went on to win the pennant. (We’ll leave Bill Buckner out of this for now.) At the time, I was more interested in the brown bag of paperwhite narcissus we’d just procured at a market than I was in the game. My Dad and brother had the better seats, by the third base line, while Mom and I were further back. It meant more to them than to us.
Last year I returned to the Green Monster’s lair with Skip, and it was an unexpectedly enjoyable experience. I’m not sure what sort of scene we made, what with the beer, the insults to the other team, and the runway rating I insisted on giving every player as their visage flashed across the screen for each of their at-bats. Surely it was no more incendiary than cutting the entire ‘Thor’ movie line.
I SEE THE DAWN OF A NEW BEGINNING
THIS TIME, THIS TIME WE CAN’T GO HOME
I HEAR THE STREETS OF TOMORROW CALLING
I GO, I GO WHERE YOU GO
‘CAUSE WE BELONG TO SOMETHING
WE BELONG TO SOMETHING NEW
As we sat down for the game, I found myself once again getting philosophical about the whole idea of baseball, its place in our culture, and the attraction that gets an entire park filled with grown adults hooting and hollering like kids at Christmas. Skip explained my various questions on the game itself, while the undulations of the crowd held me transfixed. I wanted so badly to do the wave, but I don’t think they did it that day.
Shaded somewhere behind the third base line, I was taken back to my first Red Sox game, while very much inhabiting the game at hand. Past and present selves existed, and the solitude I so often courted and craved in both childhood and adulthood found momentary abatement in the enjoyment of a friend – and a group -“ all of us watching the same thing, sharing the same experience,
IN THE MIDST OF THE MIDNIGHT HOUR
YOU SAID TO ME
WE ARE, WE ARE A DIFFERENT KIND
OH LIKE WE’VE BEEN KISSED BY HIGHER POWER
SAYING DON’T WAIT, DON’T WAIT UNTIL IT’S GONE
‘CAUSE WE BELONG TO SOMETHING,
WE BELONG TO SOMETHING,
WE BELONG TO SOMETHING NEW…
Most of my happy summer memories go back to the 80’s, but every once in a while a new one is created, and it gets filed away for those winter days when things can get a little lonely. Ever since last year’s Red Sox trip, Skip has been part of a new summer memory. It’s reminiscent of the days of ‘Stand By Me’ or ‘The Goonies’™ when my brother and a friend would join me for an adventure. Most days it was simply riding our bikes around town or traipsing through the woods or racing around the garage if it was raining. Some boyish things are better shared. A baseball game is one of them.
Making a splash for the summer season, this is Rob Gronkowski‘s new GQ spread, in which he poses like a peacock in a Speedo and just a towel. It certainly plays up his bad-boy/frat-boy/party-boy image (eventually I had to give up on cropping out all the gratuitous bikini gals) and re-establishes his status as football-fun-guy. He’s been a little more naked here before, and has no problem with doffing his clothes for photos, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.
It’s been a while since Mr. Daley has graced these pages with his Speedo-clad package, so let us rectify that immediately. Here he is in training for this summer’s upcoming Olympics, a celebration in Rio of all things tunga. The summer Olympics are always filled with more flesh than their winter counterpart, for obvious reasons, and this year looks to be overflowing with skin-baring suits and men and women at their physical prime. Tom Daley certainly fits that fitter-than-fit bill.
While the figure skaters are having their winter’s day, upcoming Hunks will include members of the US Gymnastics Team in preparation for this summer’s big events. There will be swimmers and divers too, and Michael Phelps might even squeeze himself into a onesie again. All good things to those who wait.
Apparently it’s already football season, even if we haven’t even finished baseball season. (It’s like no planning went into these things whatsoever.) But whatever, I’m a tree, I can bend, and today I am bending to the triumvirate of Patriots who hope to make it to the Superbowl. (I’ve gone off that thing ever since Madonna stopped doing her concert in the middle of it.) For those who still believe, here are several fun and sexy shots of Tom Brady (the quarterback!), Rob Gronkowski (the giant!), and Julian Edelman (the something else!)
Those Pats love a butt-pat, but who doesn’t? (For the record: me. If you try it, you’ll get a dirty look, if not worse.)
The budding on-field bromance between Brady and The Gronk is a beautiful sight to behold.
Of course, most anything The Gronk does is a sight to behold. He likes to boogie-woogie.
But even better than The Gronk exhibiting his dance moves, is Julian Edelman exhibiting his shirtless workouts. These last three GIFs speak for themselves, and they speak volumes.
This triple threat threesome consists of Tom Daley, Jack Laugher, and Chris Mears, each of whom has been featured in solo fashion, particularly Mr. Daley, who has his own category on this website (a feat that only the iconic likes of David Beckham, Ben Cohen, Tom Ford and Madonna have managed to earn). This time, their Speedo-clad prowess combines to the power of the third, lending a prismatic status of hunkiness to the scene.
Tom Daley was christened with his first Hunk of the Day honor here, where we celebrated him in, of all things, a Speedo. It’s really the only way to celebrate Tom.
Jack Laugher got his first, and thus far only, Hunk of the Day spread here. Surely, he lacks nothing to merit a second, other than an Attitude photo shoot or such.
Finally, bringing up the proverbial rear in nothing but his own, Chris Mears stripped it off and got his Hunk of the Day crowning here.
Taken together, they make for a very merry Sunday morning, something to stave off the chill and conjure a source of heat that only the Speedo-clad can.
While the world continues its debate over Steve Grand and his sexy posturing, I’m focusing this blog’s heat-seeking lens on Jack Laugher, the British diver who more than amply fills his Speedo to the brim. Mr. Laugher is no laughing matter when it comes to looking seriously good in his work uniform. He’s been named Hunk of the Day once before, and while this is not an official Hunk of the Day post, it’s a sure sign that his second crowning is not far off, particularly if he’s going to gift the world with photo shoots like this one by the amazing Paul Cooper.
Like Greek Gods and Goddesses, the most stunning wardrobe most athletes can don is nothing but their skin. It’s an art form really, to sculpt your frame into something akin to a statue through hard work and competition. Luckily, that is being captured, and by an entity whose acronym remains a mystery to me. There’s only one thing that ESPN has proven good for over the years: the Body Issue of their publication, in which they coax the fittest players into taking off all their clothes and posing for action shots of their preferred sport in the buff. It’s resulted in some stellar exhibitions by Michael Phelps, Rob Gronkowski, Evan Lysacek, Matt Harvey, Giancarlo Stanton and Tomas Berdych.
The latest edition provides a pair of pectacular gentlemen: Bryce Harper and Stan Wawrinka. Feast your eyes upon their fit bodies, and a bonus video of Mr. Harper for those who want to see things in motion.
Writing a blog with such regularity has replaced the need/desire for keeping a diary, and as such there are certain entries that, selfishly, only I and a few select others will ever understand. That’s the beautiful and infuriating aspect of a personal website which has not yet been monetized: I owe nothing to anyone. Because of that, my recounting of the trip that Skip and I took to see the Red Sox last weekend is going to be light on details, heavy on obscure references, and mostly function as a memory holder for lonelier moments in which I’ll want to look back and remember.
The game itself was more fun than I remember my previous visits being. On the trusted advice of my brother (a risky endeavor at best) we showed up to Lansdowne without any tickets. There were a number of scalpers hawking their wares, so we went up to the second guy we saw (the first was way too shady) and procured two of the ‘best seats in the house’ for $50 a pop. Skip could have talked him down, but it was already 4 PM and the game was slated to start at 4:05 (and they meant it.) This shit was more punctual than a Broadway show. I was impressed. When we sat down a few minutes later they had already begun.
Our seats were much better than either of us had anticipated, and the gorgeous green of real grass glowed in the afternoon sunlight. It was the perfect day for a baseball game, with a light breeze that refreshed as the game wore on. They were playing the Oakland Athletics and soon were up by four. They would retain their lead to win the game, but from what I understand the season has been so lackluster there was less excitement in the air that usual. It made no matter ~ this marked my first time back to Fenway in a double-decade, and I got to listen to Skip expound upon the game and what was going on. He gamely answered all of my questions, no matter how ridiculous: Why did they all have beards? Who is the fox in the #20 outfit? When do they change their costumes?
At some point in every major sporting event I’ve attended over the years, my mind will wander and ponder the philosophical. Maybe it was sun going down in the West, maybe it was the lull in the sixth inning, or maybe it was the Miller Lite, but I took a moment then to look around at the crowd. Made up mostly of fellow Red Sox fans, many of whom were in red t-shirts supporting their favorite team, they shouted and clapped and root-root-rooted for a common goal. As different as we all were, we were there together, united. After Skip let out a few supportive screams and some good-natured digs at the other team, a guy walked by us and smiled. He paused at Skip, and gave him an exuberant seal of approval: “I LOVE what you’re saying!!”
My heart always swells when I see something like that coming from a stranger. Chances are his delivery was backed by beer (so much was at that point) but it still matters. It still counts. It still reminds me of how we can treat each other, and how good it feels. That sort of affectionate extending of enjoyment is not something that has ever come easily or naturally to me. When I see it, it breaks my heart a little, in the best way.
As for the rest of the weekend, I’ll merely sum it up in a litany of obscurity: The muddled-not-muddled beer-bathing bartender who drove home with a drunk guy in the backseat of her car, the Conquistador/Churrasco, The Elephant Walk and its get-your-own chopsticks, Joanne Weir, Larry, gin rummy and a 7-11 that was closed until 6 AM. Our run-in with the police will get its own post, coming later…
It’s been over two decades since I’ve been to a Red Sox game. Hell, they’ve won the World Series a couple of times in that time span. This weekend, I’m returning to Fenway Park with my pal Skip, and we’re going to take in a game, with a hopefully happier outcome than the last one I attended.
The year was 1993. I had just arrived at Brandeis University, and one of the icebreaker events was a Red Sox game. (Even then, the only icebreaker I wanted any part of was the sound of a martini being shaken.) I signed up for it because it was a Boston event, and my heart was set on spending as much time as possible in the city I loved. Plus, I knew my way around and could navigate in the event that my new classmates needed any guidance. (And when they listened to me, we found our way just fine. I wasn’t as forthright then as I might seem now.)
The game was a snooze. My mind wasn’t on it, partly because no one else seemed very into it (none of them had become as enamored of Boston as me) and the Red Sox kind of sucked. By the bottom of the 7th inning, when they were down by 11 runs (not points, as someone recently corrected me) I’d had enough. Itching to get back in the city and away from the Brandeis pack so I wouldn’t have to join them in returning to campus as soon as the game was over, I excused myself and went shopping on Newbury Street. That will always trump a ball game. Any ball game.
This weekend, I’m going to do it all over again, thanks in large part to Skip, who will imbue the business with knowledge and witty explanations that will be ten times more fun than any icebreaker. (Our ice broke years ago.)
I toyed with the term ‘Asshat of the Day‘ but I eventually opted for alliteration, as I almost always will. (Douchebag of the Day would work just as well. So would Just Plain Stupid.) This is Daniel Murphy, a Mets player who recently made a few ridiculously-off-putting comments when addressing the day the Mets spent with former baseball player, and openly gay athlete, Billy Bean:
“I disagree with his lifestyle… I do disagree with the fact that Billy is a homosexual. That doesn’t mean I can’t still invest in him and get to know him. I don’t think the fact that someone is a homosexual should completely shut the door on investing in them in a relational aspect. Getting to know him. That, I would say, you can still accept them but I do disagree with the lifestyle, 100 percent.
Maybe, as a Christian, that we haven’t been as articulate enough in describing what our actual stance is on homosexuality. We love the people. We disagree the lifestyle. That’s the way I would describe it for me. It’s the same way that there are aspects of my life that I’m trying to surrender to Christ in my own life. There’s a great deal of many things, like my pride. I just think that as a believer trying to articulate it in a way that says just because I disagree with the lifestyle doesn’t mean I’m just never going to speak to Billy Bean every time he walks through the door. That’s not love. That’s not love at all.”
Mr. Murphy, you have a lot to learn about love. Mets’ general manager Sandy Alderson had invited Mr. Bean to address the team in an effort to make the environment more inclusive for all people. Mr. Murphy proved that he needed the lesson most of all, and then failed to glean anything from it. That’s just stupid – and sad.
First things first: is it ‘SuperBowl‘ or ‘Super Bowl’? I have never been able to determine the correct version. (And you’ll find that it is used both ways in the labyrinth of SuperBowl/Super Bowl entries here. Second, let’s just face the fact: it will never be like it was in 2012. That was the year that Madonna performed at the halftime show. It was the only year I really paid any attention. It was the only SuperBowl that mattered.
But for the bi-coastal match-up and the Buffalo chicken dip (this is the one day a year I make that delicious but rather unhealthy concoction) I will get into the jockstrap fun of the day and post this link-filled rambling in honor of our national pastime. Wait, wrong sport? No matter – jockstraps contain all kinds of balls.
We begin our look back at Super Bowls past with the glorious year that sparked it all: 2012. The Patriots were once again in the game, but more importantly was the fact that Madonna was bringing her special brand of magic to the halftime proceedings. In the weeks leading up to the big game, I boned up on football knowledge with the aid of my brother and some sports-minded friends.
While Madonna’s part in the process was my main motivation in figuring out the pigskin pumptitude that is American football, there were other draws as well, the kind that can be found in any profession that involves physical prowess: hunks.
From Tom Brady and Danny Amedola to Wes Welker (traitor!), Keith Carlos and Cam Newton, the sport had a thick roster of studs who represented the results of working out like your job depended on it. Drew Brees, Steve Weatherford, Scotty McKnight and these sexy bottoms showed off their physiques, Jon Ryan showed off his gingery locks, Jimmy Garoppolo showed off his sexy smile, but all paled in comparison to what Rob Gronkowski put on display.
The Gronk got naked. The Gronk got nude. The Gronk took it all off and eventually even the other team tried to do it. If only Tom Brady would take note and show off more than his pout, the world would be a better place. (If we’re talking hottest Patriot, however, that honor may go to protein-packing Julian Edelman.)Â 
In all honesty, though, my interest in this football thing is waning, but I’ll do my best to rally in the face of deflated dreams and the absence of Madonna. This year the New England Patriots face the Seattle Seahawks. In the race for sexiness, it comes down to Rob Gronkowski versus Cooper Helfet, and in this battle of hotness I’ve got to give the edge to Helfet. He’s simply got more hair on his chest. In these parts, that’s the most important game of all. Sorry Gronk. Go peddle your hairless cornflakes elsewhere. In the meantime, let’s see what Katy Perry can do to pay homage to the Queen.
Play ball!
It might surprise some of you to know that I once dabbled in basketball. Stop shaking your heads in disbelief, it happened. I may not be your average basketball player, being about half the height of most basketball players, and to be honest I didn’t actually play the sport, but I was a “manager” for the girls’ basketball team at Amsterdam High School. Junior Varsity, of course. It was in ninth grade, and by “manager” it meant bookkeeper and scorekeeper, though in the end I turned out to be more of a cheerleader and entertainment-provider than anything else.
I still remember when Kate and Missy approached me in the hall and asked if it was something I would consider doing. I didn’t know if it was their idea of a joke, nor did I know the first thing about basketball, but I accepted because I wanted to add to my extra-curriculum activities to get into a good college. Yes, I was fun like that. Still am.
I suppose part of it was that I was starting to feel lonely, and the reaching out of a friend or two meant a lot.
On the radio, Billy Joel sang, ‘We Didn’t Start the FIre’ and it seemed the perfect catch-phrase for a fourteen-year-old at any point in time, when blame was all we had and the beginning of adolescent angst settled in.
Back to basketball. I got to attend the games at home and, more excitingly, away, when we’d board a bus and I’d be the only guy in a pool of girls and feel perfectly safe and happy. Even back then, I was one of the girls, and I relished the role and trust implicit in my accepted presence there. Missy was the other manager for the Junior Varsity team, and she had done it all before. Thank God, because I had no clue what was going on.
There were a few times when she couldn’t make it to the game, and I was on my own. I could keep track of the fouls that each player had, but not much else. At one of the home games, someone foolishly left me in charge of the big scoreboard, and let me tell you, people get so bent out of shape if one little point is given to the wrong team. They will let you know as soon as it happens. Like, from all the way across the gymnasium. It’s palpable. Every single time. I never understood that – there are so many points flying left and right, what’s the big damn deal?
And that thirty-second clock? What a nightmare. Who has the sense and wherewithal to reset that thing over and over again? But people will pay attention to that too. Eventually (well, in short order) they took me off the scoreboard part of things, and I went back to keeping track of fouls with a pencil and paper. I’m always better old-school.
It obviously wasn’t the basketball part of the experience that appealed to me, nor, in the end, was it the addition of another extra-curricular activity that thrilled me, but the simple relaxed friendships I made with girls. Far less treacherous than my tricky dealings with boys, my friendships with girls were easy and fun. Girls may be awful to each other, but as a boy I had some bit of protection from that drama. I was also too small and well-dressed to be much of a threat or object of desire. They could confide in me (and too often did, something that I didn’t always honor, to my eternal shame) and I could count on them to appreciate my sense of style and humor.
For a young gay guy, there was safety with girls, something that was always in question in a locker room of guys. Being part of the girls’ basketball team saved me in ways I wouldn’t realize until later, forming a bedrock of security that would be missing from some of my own family sometimes. It was an acceptance that was unhesitating and sure, and when you’re fourteen and unsure about everything, that was of paramount importance. Those of us who have trouble as adults are usually missing that foundation. I was lucky to find it when I did – on the girls’ basketball team.
(Just don’t ask me to keep score.)
