basivich sports illistrated
- Thread starter or1pkt
- Start date
Pete there are no Sports Illustrated special agents patrolling these forums making sure we do not post there $4.95 article. This is the Internet, it is impossible to keep copyrighted information safe.
Is there any Internet rebel out there that will post this article? I know it is living very dangerously... I thank you for your courage.
Is there any Internet rebel out there that will post this article? I know it is living very dangerously... I thank you for your courage.
1pRoscoe said:
Ya know, I was not going to respond to this, but I feel like I should.
Spend the $4.95 and read it yourself.
I am sorry, but half the problem with a lot of pool players I know is that they are too cheap to break a dollar to spend a quarter. I know this is reaching a bit, but......How can you expect corporate sponsorship if you are not willing to spend your own money be a customer of said sponsor.
I know I am not really saying this the way I mean to, but c'mon, I think some of you know what I mean. JMHO.
Now go ahead and rip me.
It's in the Feb 14th issue with the Superbowl on the cover.
The deal is...........
It's only in the issues mailed to subscribers, not the newstand issues.
It my issue (mailed) it follows page 63 and then 12 pages later, it's page 64!
Great story, I'd pay the $5 if that's the only way to read it.
I was witness to one of the stories in the article.
2 - 3 years ago, he came through Jefferson City, MO........ hooked up with the local "top dog" and proceeded to school him. He had the local guy so worked up, that by the 3rd night the poor fellow was missing shots he hadn't missed in 40 years.
To quote the SI article:
<snip>
There is a dignity, a sense of honor among players: You lose, you pay up. Delicious claims he once beat a sucker out of $6300 in Jefferson City, Mo., and the mark had to pay part of his debt with a personal check. Delicious had been taught to accept only cash, but he took the check and it cleared, no problem.
<snip>
Danny Basavich was very friendly the few days he was around here. All of us at Mike's Corner Pocket had wondered since that day "who was that masked man"?
The pictures and story have answered our question.........
The deal is...........
It's only in the issues mailed to subscribers, not the newstand issues.
It my issue (mailed) it follows page 63 and then 12 pages later, it's page 64!
Great story, I'd pay the $5 if that's the only way to read it.
I was witness to one of the stories in the article.
2 - 3 years ago, he came through Jefferson City, MO........ hooked up with the local "top dog" and proceeded to school him. He had the local guy so worked up, that by the 3rd night the poor fellow was missing shots he hadn't missed in 40 years.
To quote the SI article:
<snip>
There is a dignity, a sense of honor among players: You lose, you pay up. Delicious claims he once beat a sucker out of $6300 in Jefferson City, Mo., and the mark had to pay part of his debt with a personal check. Delicious had been taught to accept only cash, but he took the check and it cleared, no problem.
<snip>
Danny Basavich was very friendly the few days he was around here. All of us at Mike's Corner Pocket had wondered since that day "who was that masked man"?
The pictures and story have answered our question.........
MFB said:
You made an excellent point. If a lot of people read it by paying for it then SI has reason that maybe they should start including this stuff in their regular publication.
Even if only 300 buy it, statistically that may be enough to show public interest. Remember back pages, no matter the topic, do not get high volume. 300 could send an interest flag to the SI guys.
Also, regarding copyrights. Yes it is illegal to reproduce even if you are not making any money at it. Consider if you copied the entire magazine - opened a web site so everyone could view it for free. Your fined and can spend possible jail time. The same holds true for one article, no difference. It is just that most magazines do not chase this stuff. But what if they did in our case. Who is at fault? AZBilliards. Their site, their responsibility to monitor.
MFB said:
TAP TAP TAP !!! Damn, I just broke the butt of that cue I took out of some chump's truck...(I'm joking!)
Just like the smoking issue, the stolen cues issue, and most other issues, this one is again a question of property rights. When you pay $4.95, I guessing that you're agreeing to not give away the product to others? If wrong about that, I take back this argument. If you've agreed to the terms of the contract, then live by them....please!!!
I'll never rip on someone who respects others' stuff...in fact, I've got your back, MFB.
Jeff Livingston
I personally do not believe in paying anything for information on the internet. I already pay too much enough for broadband to be paying for an article that you couldn't turn around and sell for a penny.
If you go to a store and pick up a magazine just to read one article and don't pay for the magazine, are you stealing? I don't know what to think of you guys making a big deal out of something so little importance.
If you go to a store and pick up a magazine just to read one article and don't pay for the magazine, are you stealing? I don't know what to think of you guys making a big deal out of something so little importance.
Great read if someone does'nt write a book or make a movie it will be a shame..We need a real road movie...Here's the first part
With an authoritative crack that pierced the chatter and the clinking of beer bottles, Basavich fired the cue ball, garnishing it with the perfect amount of draw -- a violation of physics for any other player hitting a ball on the rail. It sped through the cluster of balls and collided with its intended target. The 1 ball fell into the corner pocket with a sharp ka-tunk. It was a brilliant piece of shotmaking, and the railbirds on the makeshift bleachers whistled and shook their heads. "Dee-licious," the tournament's abundantly tattooed security guard said aloud.
With that shot Basavich -- a.k.a. Kid Delicious -- entered the zone, that blissful state in which nothing distracts him from running racks. Not the stakehorses in satin baseball jackets who'd bet big bucks on him in the Calcutta. Not the young blonde hottie in the red sweatshirt a few rows back, conspicuously tossing her hair. Not the dark clouds of depression that, for years, had rolled in with little advance warning, once keeping him in bed for six weeks. Not the awkwardness he occasionally feels about tipping the scales at more than 300 pounds.
Shrouded in gauzy light, sweat dripping profusely from his forehead, Basavich potted four straight racks with a brilliant flourish to win 10-9. After the 9 ball had disappeared from view, his vanquished opponent, 2003 U.S. Open champion Jeremy Jones, smashed his stick against the table in frustration. Basavich, a 5'10" butterball of energy, accepted a round of handshakes, high fives and backslaps before repairing to the crowded hotel bar for a few rounds of beer and tequila shots.
. At 15 Danny's sanctuary was Elite Billiards, a 25-table hall near his house in Milltown, N.J. Everything about the place appealed to him: the sound of maple cues colliding with hard plastic balls, the stale smells that lingered in the air, the menagerie of characters with faintly menacing nicknames like Frank the Exterminator and Neptune Joe. Danny had a native talent for the game, an inherent grasp of the geometry and possibility in every shot. But beyond that, cracking balls and winning games and speaking the lingo all imbued in him the ineffable quality that every teenage boy seeks. It made him feel cool.
At first he rode his bike to Elite on weekends and played for hours, winning enough to take a cab home. In the early 1990s, after he dropped out of high school in the first week of his sophomore year, he became an Elite regular, spending as many as 16 hours a day refining his skills and, just as important, picking up the finer points of the hustle.
Kid Delicious -- that marvelous nom de felt -- was coined when Danny was 17. Late one night he sauntered into Chelsea Billiards in New York City, looking as clueless and slovenly as he could, both his gut and his money hanging out of his pants. It was all a hustle, of course. He put down $1,000 to play Kid Vicious, the best player in the house. Then he bet $3,200, the rest of his stash, with the railbirds. As he ran rack after rack, one of the vultures whooped, "That boy ain't Kid Vicious, but he's Kid Delicious!" Basavich assumed it was just another crack about his weight, but he didn't much care, not when he strutted out of the joint at 6 a.m. with those 84 C-notes. Kid Delicious it was.
A few months later Delicious moved to Chicago Billiards, an appealingly seedy pool hall in a West Haven, Conn., strip mall off I-95. Chicago was to hustlers in the '90s what San Francisco's City Lights Bookstore was to beatnik poets in the '50s. Ralph Procopio, a wealthy businessman with a thing for pool and a soft spot for hustlers, owned the place, and he allowed the best players to live free of charge in the back rooms. Delicious and a half-dozen other squatters would rise in the afternoon and play money games of eight ball, nine ball and one pocket, mostly against each other, through the night. They'd spend the downtime practicing trick shots. Then, when the sun came up, everyone would crash. "There was always action there," Delicious says, "and when things got slow, Ralph would throw 500 or 1,000 bucks on a table, tell two of us to play for it, and, bam, the place would be jumping."
Delicious estimates that he won $100,000 in his first six months in West Haven. Unfortunately, he lost most of it back making what he calls "stupid bets." Like on cards? "Yeah," he says, "we played some cards -- sometimes one of the [pool] tables would be used for poker games with $1,000 hands. But I mean really stupid betting. I'd beat a guy out of $5,000 playing pool, and then I'd go double-or-nothing betting that the next car out of the driveway would turn right. It would turn left, and I'd lose the cash."
The scene in West Haven laid bare one of pool's abiding paradoxes: The game's best practitioners might be scoundrels and scalawags -- guys who live on the cultural margins, whose circadian rhythms are unlike yours and mine -- yet the sport is predicated on precision and discipline and efficiency. Hitting a clean tee shot is nothing compared with sinking the ball of your choice in the pocket of your choice, all the while leaving the cue ball positioned perfectly for your next shot. Kid Delicious was an exemplar of this.
"Danny was known for having unbelievable natural talent," recalls Procopio. "But what really impressed everyone was that he could eat a whole cake before playing and still run a bunch of racks."
It was in West Haven that Kid Delicious met Bob Begey, a.k.a. Bristol Bob, another suburban boy whose life had been hijacked by pool. To the horror of his middle-class parents in Bristol, Conn., Begey dropped out of Central Connecticut State University as a sophomore to become a shark-in-training. On the surface, at least, Bristol Bob was everything Delicious was not: strikingly handsome, trim and unremittingly serious -- "a real intense dude," Procopio recalls. The two players were united, though, in their belief that there was truth and romance to be found in hitting five-ounce balls across swaths of felt into a half-dozen unforgiving leather pockets.
In late 1997 Delicious and Bristol played in a tournament in Massachusetts. When it was over, and they had lost, neither of them wanted to return to West Haven, and neither wanted to return to his home. So they became road partners. They loaded their cues and their clothes into the back of Delicious's 1982 Cadillac Cimarron and went caroming across the country in search of action.
The most successful hustlers will spend months at a time in one town, staying in character and cultivating the trust of the locals before making their sting. Lore has it that one-pocket legend Jack Cooney, a.k.a. San Francisco Jack, assumed the guise of an unassuming schoolteacher, spent months at a billiards parlor without hitting a ball, then took on the biggest whale in town in a $100,000 game. Delicious and Bristol had a different strategy: stick and move. "I'm not going to say we didn't want to make money," says Delicious, "but our goal was to play a lot, improve on playing under pressure and become pros. We didn't have the patience to hustle the old way."
Still, they did O.K. Better than O.K. Each hustle was different, but most unfolded like this: Bob would play first and win some money. Then the big fella, invariably underestimated because of his appearance, would come in and clean up. One of their first big scores came at a pool hall in Warsaw, Ind., a backwater halfway between Fort Wayne and South Bend. Begey played first and won a grand or so. The locals demanded another match to win back their money. "But this time," they said, "we want to play the big guy."
"Danny?" Bristol Bob said, brushing off the suggestion. "Aw, he don't hardly play."
"We want a piece of the big guy."
"O.K., but you'll have to spot him three balls."
Suddenly Delicious, a decidedly better player than Bristol, was taking on Warsaw's hacks -- shortstops, in pool lingo -- with the benefit of a three-ball handicap. After dumping the first few games, he demanded a high-stakes rematch. Sure, the locals snickered, we'll gladly take more of your money. Delicious then played his best. His smile illuminated by the dim bulb overhead and the neon sign in the window, he potted ball after ball. He and Bristol walked out with $4,000. "Needless to say," says Delicious, "we didn't sleep in Warsaw that night."
Delicious and Bristol had their big scores -- $20,000 in Davenport, Iowa; $20,000 in Philadelphia; $5,000 in Myrtle Beach, S.C.; and $5,000 in Charlotte, they say -- but on nights when there wasn't a game to be had, they could make nice cake by performing sleight-of-hand. If you gave Bristol a few tries and bet $100 against him, he'd throw your car keys into a pocket on a table 50 feet away. If you stood back five feet from a table and held the cue ball in the air, he could hit a clean break out of your hand. Delicious would place a quarter atop an 8 ball in the middle of the table and bet $100 that, with 10 tries, he could hit the cue ball and make it carom off five rails and finally touch the 8 ball so softly that it would not knock off the coin. If you gave him odds, Delicious would also bet you that he could throw a stack of quarters onto the table and have all the coins land on heads. These, of course, were tricks he and Bristol had perfected on those slow nights in West Haven.
Nor were they beyond basic grifting. A favorite scheme entailed setting up the cue ball along one rail and the 8 ball along the opposite one. They'd bet a local that he couldn't walk around the table three times and then hit the cue ball into the 8 ball. Easy, right? As the poor sap took his three laps and everyone in the hall crowded around to watch him make his money, Delicious would remove the chalker from the table while Bristol surreptitiously wiped the chalk from the tip of the guy's cue. The sap would hit the cue ball, and it would leave the chalk-deprived cue and miss the target. "Everyone would have a good laugh," Bristol says, "and we would have our hotel money for that night."
Before leaving a town, the two always asked if anyone knew where else they could find action. But they also relied on Greg Smith, a pool spy -- 007, they called him -- to alert them to money games. A former road player from outside Chicago, Smith has a folder as thick as a phone book filled with information about pool halls and players throughout the country. Name a pool hall, and he knows not only the names of the money players there but also the order in which to play them. Whenever 007 heard about a whale looking for action, he would tip Delicious and Bristol. All he asked in return was a cut of the booty.
Delicious and Bristol would be hustling games in, say Bessemer, Ala., and 007 would send word that big money was rolling into a pool hall in Watervliet, Mich., or Beloit, Wis., or Sarasota, Fla. "Boom!" says Delicious, banging his hand on a table. "We'd get into our car, look at a map, drive through the night, crash at a motel and then show up that next night to get in on the action. We made a ton of money thanks to him."
Early in their four-year road trip the relationship between Delicious and Bristol started to evolve into something out of a classic buddy movie. They divided everything 50-50: the loot, the expenses, even the girls. When one of them was playing poorly, the other headed to the jukebox and put on a song that would jack up his partner's confidence -- Zeppelin or the Doors for Bristol, Kid Rock for Delicious. Each also tried like hell to help the other improve his stick. Stuck one week in St. Louis without any action, Bristol spent a few days dissecting the mechanics of Delicious's break, making it at once more powerful and more accurate. The tutorial came with only one proviso: Whenever anyone asks Delicious about his break, he's obligated to say, "Bristol Bob taught me everything I know."
With an authoritative crack that pierced the chatter and the clinking of beer bottles, Basavich fired the cue ball, garnishing it with the perfect amount of draw -- a violation of physics for any other player hitting a ball on the rail. It sped through the cluster of balls and collided with its intended target. The 1 ball fell into the corner pocket with a sharp ka-tunk. It was a brilliant piece of shotmaking, and the railbirds on the makeshift bleachers whistled and shook their heads. "Dee-licious," the tournament's abundantly tattooed security guard said aloud.
With that shot Basavich -- a.k.a. Kid Delicious -- entered the zone, that blissful state in which nothing distracts him from running racks. Not the stakehorses in satin baseball jackets who'd bet big bucks on him in the Calcutta. Not the young blonde hottie in the red sweatshirt a few rows back, conspicuously tossing her hair. Not the dark clouds of depression that, for years, had rolled in with little advance warning, once keeping him in bed for six weeks. Not the awkwardness he occasionally feels about tipping the scales at more than 300 pounds.
Shrouded in gauzy light, sweat dripping profusely from his forehead, Basavich potted four straight racks with a brilliant flourish to win 10-9. After the 9 ball had disappeared from view, his vanquished opponent, 2003 U.S. Open champion Jeremy Jones, smashed his stick against the table in frustration. Basavich, a 5'10" butterball of energy, accepted a round of handshakes, high fives and backslaps before repairing to the crowded hotel bar for a few rounds of beer and tequila shots.
. At 15 Danny's sanctuary was Elite Billiards, a 25-table hall near his house in Milltown, N.J. Everything about the place appealed to him: the sound of maple cues colliding with hard plastic balls, the stale smells that lingered in the air, the menagerie of characters with faintly menacing nicknames like Frank the Exterminator and Neptune Joe. Danny had a native talent for the game, an inherent grasp of the geometry and possibility in every shot. But beyond that, cracking balls and winning games and speaking the lingo all imbued in him the ineffable quality that every teenage boy seeks. It made him feel cool.
At first he rode his bike to Elite on weekends and played for hours, winning enough to take a cab home. In the early 1990s, after he dropped out of high school in the first week of his sophomore year, he became an Elite regular, spending as many as 16 hours a day refining his skills and, just as important, picking up the finer points of the hustle.
Kid Delicious -- that marvelous nom de felt -- was coined when Danny was 17. Late one night he sauntered into Chelsea Billiards in New York City, looking as clueless and slovenly as he could, both his gut and his money hanging out of his pants. It was all a hustle, of course. He put down $1,000 to play Kid Vicious, the best player in the house. Then he bet $3,200, the rest of his stash, with the railbirds. As he ran rack after rack, one of the vultures whooped, "That boy ain't Kid Vicious, but he's Kid Delicious!" Basavich assumed it was just another crack about his weight, but he didn't much care, not when he strutted out of the joint at 6 a.m. with those 84 C-notes. Kid Delicious it was.
A few months later Delicious moved to Chicago Billiards, an appealingly seedy pool hall in a West Haven, Conn., strip mall off I-95. Chicago was to hustlers in the '90s what San Francisco's City Lights Bookstore was to beatnik poets in the '50s. Ralph Procopio, a wealthy businessman with a thing for pool and a soft spot for hustlers, owned the place, and he allowed the best players to live free of charge in the back rooms. Delicious and a half-dozen other squatters would rise in the afternoon and play money games of eight ball, nine ball and one pocket, mostly against each other, through the night. They'd spend the downtime practicing trick shots. Then, when the sun came up, everyone would crash. "There was always action there," Delicious says, "and when things got slow, Ralph would throw 500 or 1,000 bucks on a table, tell two of us to play for it, and, bam, the place would be jumping."
Delicious estimates that he won $100,000 in his first six months in West Haven. Unfortunately, he lost most of it back making what he calls "stupid bets." Like on cards? "Yeah," he says, "we played some cards -- sometimes one of the [pool] tables would be used for poker games with $1,000 hands. But I mean really stupid betting. I'd beat a guy out of $5,000 playing pool, and then I'd go double-or-nothing betting that the next car out of the driveway would turn right. It would turn left, and I'd lose the cash."
The scene in West Haven laid bare one of pool's abiding paradoxes: The game's best practitioners might be scoundrels and scalawags -- guys who live on the cultural margins, whose circadian rhythms are unlike yours and mine -- yet the sport is predicated on precision and discipline and efficiency. Hitting a clean tee shot is nothing compared with sinking the ball of your choice in the pocket of your choice, all the while leaving the cue ball positioned perfectly for your next shot. Kid Delicious was an exemplar of this.
"Danny was known for having unbelievable natural talent," recalls Procopio. "But what really impressed everyone was that he could eat a whole cake before playing and still run a bunch of racks."
It was in West Haven that Kid Delicious met Bob Begey, a.k.a. Bristol Bob, another suburban boy whose life had been hijacked by pool. To the horror of his middle-class parents in Bristol, Conn., Begey dropped out of Central Connecticut State University as a sophomore to become a shark-in-training. On the surface, at least, Bristol Bob was everything Delicious was not: strikingly handsome, trim and unremittingly serious -- "a real intense dude," Procopio recalls. The two players were united, though, in their belief that there was truth and romance to be found in hitting five-ounce balls across swaths of felt into a half-dozen unforgiving leather pockets.
In late 1997 Delicious and Bristol played in a tournament in Massachusetts. When it was over, and they had lost, neither of them wanted to return to West Haven, and neither wanted to return to his home. So they became road partners. They loaded their cues and their clothes into the back of Delicious's 1982 Cadillac Cimarron and went caroming across the country in search of action.
The most successful hustlers will spend months at a time in one town, staying in character and cultivating the trust of the locals before making their sting. Lore has it that one-pocket legend Jack Cooney, a.k.a. San Francisco Jack, assumed the guise of an unassuming schoolteacher, spent months at a billiards parlor without hitting a ball, then took on the biggest whale in town in a $100,000 game. Delicious and Bristol had a different strategy: stick and move. "I'm not going to say we didn't want to make money," says Delicious, "but our goal was to play a lot, improve on playing under pressure and become pros. We didn't have the patience to hustle the old way."
Still, they did O.K. Better than O.K. Each hustle was different, but most unfolded like this: Bob would play first and win some money. Then the big fella, invariably underestimated because of his appearance, would come in and clean up. One of their first big scores came at a pool hall in Warsaw, Ind., a backwater halfway between Fort Wayne and South Bend. Begey played first and won a grand or so. The locals demanded another match to win back their money. "But this time," they said, "we want to play the big guy."
"Danny?" Bristol Bob said, brushing off the suggestion. "Aw, he don't hardly play."
"We want a piece of the big guy."
"O.K., but you'll have to spot him three balls."
Suddenly Delicious, a decidedly better player than Bristol, was taking on Warsaw's hacks -- shortstops, in pool lingo -- with the benefit of a three-ball handicap. After dumping the first few games, he demanded a high-stakes rematch. Sure, the locals snickered, we'll gladly take more of your money. Delicious then played his best. His smile illuminated by the dim bulb overhead and the neon sign in the window, he potted ball after ball. He and Bristol walked out with $4,000. "Needless to say," says Delicious, "we didn't sleep in Warsaw that night."
Delicious and Bristol had their big scores -- $20,000 in Davenport, Iowa; $20,000 in Philadelphia; $5,000 in Myrtle Beach, S.C.; and $5,000 in Charlotte, they say -- but on nights when there wasn't a game to be had, they could make nice cake by performing sleight-of-hand. If you gave Bristol a few tries and bet $100 against him, he'd throw your car keys into a pocket on a table 50 feet away. If you stood back five feet from a table and held the cue ball in the air, he could hit a clean break out of your hand. Delicious would place a quarter atop an 8 ball in the middle of the table and bet $100 that, with 10 tries, he could hit the cue ball and make it carom off five rails and finally touch the 8 ball so softly that it would not knock off the coin. If you gave him odds, Delicious would also bet you that he could throw a stack of quarters onto the table and have all the coins land on heads. These, of course, were tricks he and Bristol had perfected on those slow nights in West Haven.
Nor were they beyond basic grifting. A favorite scheme entailed setting up the cue ball along one rail and the 8 ball along the opposite one. They'd bet a local that he couldn't walk around the table three times and then hit the cue ball into the 8 ball. Easy, right? As the poor sap took his three laps and everyone in the hall crowded around to watch him make his money, Delicious would remove the chalker from the table while Bristol surreptitiously wiped the chalk from the tip of the guy's cue. The sap would hit the cue ball, and it would leave the chalk-deprived cue and miss the target. "Everyone would have a good laugh," Bristol says, "and we would have our hotel money for that night."
Before leaving a town, the two always asked if anyone knew where else they could find action. But they also relied on Greg Smith, a pool spy -- 007, they called him -- to alert them to money games. A former road player from outside Chicago, Smith has a folder as thick as a phone book filled with information about pool halls and players throughout the country. Name a pool hall, and he knows not only the names of the money players there but also the order in which to play them. Whenever 007 heard about a whale looking for action, he would tip Delicious and Bristol. All he asked in return was a cut of the booty.
Delicious and Bristol would be hustling games in, say Bessemer, Ala., and 007 would send word that big money was rolling into a pool hall in Watervliet, Mich., or Beloit, Wis., or Sarasota, Fla. "Boom!" says Delicious, banging his hand on a table. "We'd get into our car, look at a map, drive through the night, crash at a motel and then show up that next night to get in on the action. We made a ton of money thanks to him."
Early in their four-year road trip the relationship between Delicious and Bristol started to evolve into something out of a classic buddy movie. They divided everything 50-50: the loot, the expenses, even the girls. When one of them was playing poorly, the other headed to the jukebox and put on a song that would jack up his partner's confidence -- Zeppelin or the Doors for Bristol, Kid Rock for Delicious. Each also tried like hell to help the other improve his stick. Stuck one week in St. Louis without any action, Bristol spent a few days dissecting the mechanics of Delicious's break, making it at once more powerful and more accurate. The tutorial came with only one proviso: Whenever anyone asks Delicious about his break, he's obligated to say, "Bristol Bob taught me everything I know."
Click me now, thank me later
Folks,
Ya'll spend too much time reading this forum, get out there and see what else the web can offer!
http://www.bugmenot.com/
I haven't found a site yet that I couldn't get into.
Kepp this quiet though, I wouldnt want to see this posted on the internet or anything.
Folks,
Ya'll spend too much time reading this forum, get out there and see what else the web can offer!
http://www.bugmenot.com/
I haven't found a site yet that I couldn't get into.
Kepp this quiet though, I wouldnt want to see this posted on the internet or anything.
MFB said:
Here is what you got for your $4.95....you were able to view the article and 13 issues of SI....a darn good deal IMO...UNTIL...you read the disclaimer:
Subscriber's Advantage Automatic Renewal Program:
You authorize SPORTS ILLUSTRATED to charge your credit/debit card at the price above now and in time to renew your SPORTS ILLUSTRATED subscription, without interruption, before the start of each new term at the guaranteed low rate then in effect unless you tell us to stop. The price for one year (56 issues) is $39.00 for the first renewal and at the guaranteed low rate then in effect thereafter. You may cancel at any time during your subscription and receive a full refund on all unmailed issues. If your credit/debit card cannot be charged, we'll bill you directly instead.
So unless you cancel, you just gave SI unlimited billing access to your card. IMO, THAT sucks as it is a pain to cancel these types of things. I was all ready to pay too.
I guess I will be tracking down someone who subscribes so that I can read this article. It is a shame that they can not print this in the newsstand magazines, as they would have sold at least one additional copy.
DeadPoked said:
Little importance to whom, DeadPoked????? Did YOU spend years learning how to write so eloquently, and months and thousand of dollars researching, writing, editing, the article? Did you spend years and years creating a publication that millions pay to read? Did you set up a successful website that creates jobs, profits and values for others?
And on a personal note: Do you let others steal what you produce in your job? Well, why not? Would it be right if they did?
This is no different than Crawdaddios cues walking out of his apartment, and THIS IS A LOUSY REFLECTION ON THE POOL WORLD!!!
Jeff Livingston