Athletes have always been superstitious. I was willing to back Floyd Mayweather on wanting little Ricky Schroeder redux in his corner to bring the leprechaun champ mojo, but when the two started taking selfies and tweeting teen love notes to each other and sharing videos of their joint pre-fight pedicures, I found myself picking up my imaginary sat phone and ordering an airstrike on all of Las Vegas. Fuck Britney and the hundreds of thousands of tubby innocents. I know what Bieber is getting out of his one and only social attachment to something resembling a man, what Mayweather sees in this unholy alliance between boxer and grinning Make-a-Wish stand-in, I do not know. I’m going to go ahead and assume there’s somebody being held in a basement somewhere.