While their colleagues died around them, they reported by tweet from beneath their desks. Because that is what journalists do.
They put out a paper this morning that chronicled their own tragedy, because that is what journalists do.
They hold public officials accountable for their words and their deeds. Sit through droning meetings about sewer rates so you won't have to. Poke their noses in where people who have something to hide think they don't belong ... and stage hand-to-hand combat with balky connections that always seem to fail right on top of deadline ... and quell the rising panic that comes when there's a big story to be told and a blank screen is staring at you, that lonely blinking cursor mocking your efforts to make the words come.
They afflict the comfortable, and comfort the afflicted. Because that is what journalists do.
This sometimes makes them unpopular, even in a nation whose constitution recognizes their worth. If we're doing our jobs even half right, we make people angry sometimes. In 40 years as a sports journalist, most of them as a columnist paid for my opinions, I have made plenty of people angry. I have been shouted at on the phone. Letters have come to me in what I dubbed Angry Cap Font. And I've gotten more emails than I can count questioning my parentage, my intelligence, my manhood.
One night, at a hockey game, I was standing in a hallway when a man brushed past me. He didn't stop. He didn't make eye contact. All he did, as he breezed past, was growl "Not a fan."
Then he was gone.
It was funny at the time; I actually laughed. But when I thought about it later, it seemed decidedly creepy.
And yet, I got off easy compared to some of my colleagues. None of the people I angered, to my knowledge, was mentally unhinged. Can't say that for some of those with whom a few courts and cop shop reporters I've known have had to deal.
And so in hindsight I guess I'm not surprised by what happened at the Capital Gazette in Annapolis, Md., yesterday, only that it doesn't happen more often. A madman with a grudge walked into the newsroom and killed five people, among them the brother of famed Miami Herald columnist and novelist Carl Hiaasen. The gunman apparently had a long-standing beef with this paper in particular. But it needs saying that he's not the only madman with a grudge against the free press these days.
Chief among them is the Madman in Chief, who may not have influenced the shooter in Maryland but who has poisoned the well against journalists in a way that is both unprecedented and reckless. When you daily smear the character and integrity of journalists because they're doing an indispensable job -- holding a corrupt and shameless chief executive accountable for his lies and inventions -- you do more than undermine faith in a free society's institutions. You imperil that very society.
And when you call the free press the "enemy of the people," as Our Only Available President also has?
You reveal that are you not a true defender of the American faith. Because those are the words of a despot, not the leader of a democratic republic.
It has been my privilege, and the highlight of my professional life, to call myself a journalist. To work with some of the most dedicated, passionate, decent human beings I have ever known anywhere. To accept that so much of what we do and how we do it is so badly understood by the public, especially when that public is being willfully misled by a charlatan.
"We do our best to share the stories of people, those who make our community better," the Capital Gazette's community news editor, Jimmy DeButts, tweeted yesterday. "Please understand, we do all this to serve our community. We try to expose corruption. We fight to get access to public records & bring to light the inner workings of government despite major hurdles put in our way. The reporters & editors put their all into finding the truth. That is our mission. Will always be."
And so there was no doubt what was going to happen this morning. It's what happens every day all over the country, even in a greatly diminished landscape. It's what happened the morning after the blizzard of '78 in Anderson, Indiana, where the guy driving this sentence was a kid sportswriter.
We got the paper out, is what happened. Only a handful of people made it to the office in the wake of the worst winter storm of my lifetime, but we got the paper out.
And so to yesterday, and a Capital Gazette reporter named Chase Cook.
"I can tell you this," Cook tweeted, on a day of unimaginable horror. "We are putting out a damn paper tomorrow."
Damn right they were. And did.
Friday, June 29, 2018
Thursday, June 28, 2018
Down goes Deutschland
You needed Jack Buck for this one, telling us again he couldn't believe what he just saw. You needed a South Korean Al Michaels, asking the folks back home if they believed in miracles.
You needed, maybe, the late great Howard Cosell, nasally chanting "Down goes Frazier!", only with a small but significant alteration in the script.
Down goes Deutschland. And this World Cup just got curiouser and curiouser.
You would have needed an 18-wheeler to haul away the cash if you'd bet on what happened yesterday, when Germany -- the World Cup defending champs -- bowed out of the tournament in a shocking 2-0 lost to South Korea. With that loss, the Germans, who came in with 4-1 odds to repeat as champions, not only failed to reach the knockout round, but finished dead last in its group.
Sweden -- Sweden -- won the group. Mexico finished second to advance as well. And Germany?
The last time it failed to get out of group play was 1938, when it was in the grip of a certain monster who needs no introduction here. And until yesterday, Germany had never lost to an Asian team in World Cup play.
That's "never" as in, never. Like, ever.
But the South Koreans pulled of a Miracle on Grass, scoring twice in stoppage time to send the defending champs packing. It was a stunning failure on Germany's part, matching the failures of Italy in 2010 and Spain in 2014 -- who were also the defending champs, and who also failed to get out of group play.
This, however, somehow seemed more stunning, if only for the inexplicably desultory way Germany played in its three games. It opened with a shutout loss to Mexico, the first time El Tri had beaten Germany in 32 years. Then came a near-death experience against the Swedes in which Toni Kroos brought them back from the dead in stoppage time with the goal of the tournament so far. Then came the historic failure against South Korea, in which the Germans were again uncharacteristically sloppy and listless.
So what happens next?
Well, that's the upside to this: Nobody really knows. Brazil, another of the favorites, won its group but was unimpressive in doing so. Argentina has been shockingly average, if not worse. Portugal has the best player in the world in Cristiano Ronaldo, but he was uncharacteristically listless himself in Portugal's last game.
Spain? Uruguay? Croatia? France?
Hey. Toss 'em all in a hat. Pull out a name. This is about to get interesting.
You needed, maybe, the late great Howard Cosell, nasally chanting "Down goes Frazier!", only with a small but significant alteration in the script.
Down goes Deutschland. And this World Cup just got curiouser and curiouser.
You would have needed an 18-wheeler to haul away the cash if you'd bet on what happened yesterday, when Germany -- the World Cup defending champs -- bowed out of the tournament in a shocking 2-0 lost to South Korea. With that loss, the Germans, who came in with 4-1 odds to repeat as champions, not only failed to reach the knockout round, but finished dead last in its group.
Sweden -- Sweden -- won the group. Mexico finished second to advance as well. And Germany?
The last time it failed to get out of group play was 1938, when it was in the grip of a certain monster who needs no introduction here. And until yesterday, Germany had never lost to an Asian team in World Cup play.
That's "never" as in, never. Like, ever.
But the South Koreans pulled of a Miracle on Grass, scoring twice in stoppage time to send the defending champs packing. It was a stunning failure on Germany's part, matching the failures of Italy in 2010 and Spain in 2014 -- who were also the defending champs, and who also failed to get out of group play.
This, however, somehow seemed more stunning, if only for the inexplicably desultory way Germany played in its three games. It opened with a shutout loss to Mexico, the first time El Tri had beaten Germany in 32 years. Then came a near-death experience against the Swedes in which Toni Kroos brought them back from the dead in stoppage time with the goal of the tournament so far. Then came the historic failure against South Korea, in which the Germans were again uncharacteristically sloppy and listless.
So what happens next?
Well, that's the upside to this: Nobody really knows. Brazil, another of the favorites, won its group but was unimpressive in doing so. Argentina has been shockingly average, if not worse. Portugal has the best player in the world in Cristiano Ronaldo, but he was uncharacteristically listless himself in Portugal's last game.
Spain? Uruguay? Croatia? France?
Hey. Toss 'em all in a hat. Pull out a name. This is about to get interesting.
Wednesday, June 27, 2018
The Battle is joined
That would be the Battle, the entirely made-up and overblown Battle for the Cellar in the NL Central, in which the Blob's crappy Pittsburgh Pirates and the even crappier Cincinnati Reds duke it out for Crap Supremacy in the division.
(And, yes, I know, Blobophiles: "Not this AGAIN!!" Yes, this again. Too bad. Deal with it.)
(Or not. I honestly don't care.)
Anyway ... a few weeks back, when the Reds weren't even trying and the Pirates were playing so far above their heads it looked like they'd been pumped full of helium, the Battle was as dead as rational thought in America. The Pirates were nine, 10, 11 games ahead. The Reds were flirting with relegation to Triple A.
Now?
Now, after the Reds somehow swept the mighty Cubs (a trick of the light, the Blob suspects) to go to 8-2 in their last 10 games, the gap is down to four games. Four. Games.
So it's officially a race now.
Pop some corn. This is going to get good.
OK, so bad, then. Horrendously bad.
(And, yes, I know, Blobophiles: "Not this AGAIN!!" Yes, this again. Too bad. Deal with it.)
(Or not. I honestly don't care.)
Anyway ... a few weeks back, when the Reds weren't even trying and the Pirates were playing so far above their heads it looked like they'd been pumped full of helium, the Battle was as dead as rational thought in America. The Pirates were nine, 10, 11 games ahead. The Reds were flirting with relegation to Triple A.
Now?
Now, after the Reds somehow swept the mighty Cubs (a trick of the light, the Blob suspects) to go to 8-2 in their last 10 games, the gap is down to four games. Four. Games.
So it's officially a race now.
Pop some corn. This is going to get good.
OK, so bad, then. Horrendously bad.
Tuesday, June 26, 2018
The Big Orator
Some guys you don't want to give a platform, if you're uncomfortable hearing the truth. So maybe it was a tactical mistake on someone's part to offer one to Oscar Robertson last night, on the occasion of him being given a lifetime achievement award by the NBA.
Oscar, as he is wont to do as a black man in America who has never been shy about speaking out, gave us all some hard reality to chew on.
He said there was a lot of injustice going on in this country right now, same as there was when he was coming up. Oscar grew up in Indiana in the 1950s, not an optimum time or place to grow up if you were a person of color. He lived in a segregated housing development in Indianapolis, and when he and his Crispus Attucks teammates became the first predominantly black school to win the state basketball title in a state that regarded basketball as a religious artifact, they did not get the Milan treatment from the year before.
No, sir. The white kids from Milan got what amounted to a parade all the way back from Indy. The black kids from Attucks -- even though they had just delivered the first state title ever for an Indianapolis school -- were told they couldn't even hold a parade downtown.
That sort of injustice wounds, and, if you are a man of principle and character, it makes you unafraid to speak out thereafter. And so in the '60s, when they all came of age, Oscar spoke out and Bill Russell did and Jim Brown did. Tommie Smith and John Carlos raised their fists into the Mexico City night. Muhammad Ali gave up his title and his livelihood.
In so doing, they got pretty much the same pushback from white America that Colin Kaepernick and the NFL kneelers are getting now. Which suggests we haven't moved as far as we like to believe in how we regard racial injustice. African-Americans still see it every day; too much of white America still denies it exists or it's overblown or it's just those black folk whining again.
And so to last night, when Oscar Robertson said that had to change.
"The only thing that really bothers me is where are the white athletes when this is happening?" he said. "This is not a black athlete problem. You see injustice in the world. It's all around you. Just because LeBron steps out, I'm glad he does. I hope some other players -- because this is what they believe -- I mean, what do you want players to do? Shut up and dribble?
"I think it's time for them to say what they want to say about life and about politics and things about the street and whatnot. And about education. They're a lot of players donating money back into different colleges. But it seems that what we have today is a system where you don't want players to say anything at all."
He's right about that. The effective muzzling of Kaepernick and the kneelers by the NFL is Exhibit A. Cowed as men like Robertson have never been, the NFL knuckled under to the demagoguery of a regressive oaf whose racial sensibilities align as openly with white supremacists (sanitized these days as "white nationalists") as any president's ever have. The demagogue, as demagogues are so adept at doing, stole the message of the players' and made it about something it's not. And that, Robertson intimated, can only happen if blacks and whites -- particularly those with the platform professional athletes have -- do not stand together against it as a united front.
There is, after all, so much to stand against these days in the demagogue's America. So much.
Oscar, as he is wont to do as a black man in America who has never been shy about speaking out, gave us all some hard reality to chew on.
He said there was a lot of injustice going on in this country right now, same as there was when he was coming up. Oscar grew up in Indiana in the 1950s, not an optimum time or place to grow up if you were a person of color. He lived in a segregated housing development in Indianapolis, and when he and his Crispus Attucks teammates became the first predominantly black school to win the state basketball title in a state that regarded basketball as a religious artifact, they did not get the Milan treatment from the year before.
No, sir. The white kids from Milan got what amounted to a parade all the way back from Indy. The black kids from Attucks -- even though they had just delivered the first state title ever for an Indianapolis school -- were told they couldn't even hold a parade downtown.
That sort of injustice wounds, and, if you are a man of principle and character, it makes you unafraid to speak out thereafter. And so in the '60s, when they all came of age, Oscar spoke out and Bill Russell did and Jim Brown did. Tommie Smith and John Carlos raised their fists into the Mexico City night. Muhammad Ali gave up his title and his livelihood.
In so doing, they got pretty much the same pushback from white America that Colin Kaepernick and the NFL kneelers are getting now. Which suggests we haven't moved as far as we like to believe in how we regard racial injustice. African-Americans still see it every day; too much of white America still denies it exists or it's overblown or it's just those black folk whining again.
And so to last night, when Oscar Robertson said that had to change.
"The only thing that really bothers me is where are the white athletes when this is happening?" he said. "This is not a black athlete problem. You see injustice in the world. It's all around you. Just because LeBron steps out, I'm glad he does. I hope some other players -- because this is what they believe -- I mean, what do you want players to do? Shut up and dribble?
"I think it's time for them to say what they want to say about life and about politics and things about the street and whatnot. And about education. They're a lot of players donating money back into different colleges. But it seems that what we have today is a system where you don't want players to say anything at all."
He's right about that. The effective muzzling of Kaepernick and the kneelers by the NFL is Exhibit A. Cowed as men like Robertson have never been, the NFL knuckled under to the demagoguery of a regressive oaf whose racial sensibilities align as openly with white supremacists (sanitized these days as "white nationalists") as any president's ever have. The demagogue, as demagogues are so adept at doing, stole the message of the players' and made it about something it's not. And that, Robertson intimated, can only happen if blacks and whites -- particularly those with the platform professional athletes have -- do not stand together against it as a united front.
There is, after all, so much to stand against these days in the demagogue's America. So much.
Monday, June 25, 2018
Your Animal Kingdom moment for today
So, remember the Rally Squirrel that became a baseball sensation in St. Louis one October?
Pffft. That was nothing.
Say hello, sheilas and blokes, to the Rally 'Roo.
Some mad skills right there, by golly.
Pffft. That was nothing.
Say hello, sheilas and blokes, to the Rally 'Roo.
Some mad skills right there, by golly.
Pitchin' woo
And now a question from a Mrs. L. James, who wants to know what everyone in America wants to know this week, or at least everyone who cares about a Mr. L. James:
"Where are you going, LeBron?"
LeBron's answer, exclusively acquired by the Blob, is that he's going to the grocery store. It seems Mrs. L. James, and all the little Jameses, are out of milk. Also bread ("Get the whole-grain kind," Mrs. L. James says). Also paper towels.
So, there you have it, America. Where LeBron Is Going.
Oh, you meant where he's going to play basketball?
Well, the Blob has the answer to that, too, which is "Somewhere in the NBA." I realize this is not helpful for those of you who will be on pins and needles this week wondering where LeBron will land. On that specific, the Blob doesn't know anything more than you do.
It may be the Lakers. It may be the 76ers. It may be he stays put in Cleveland and doesn't go anywhere, a possibility that perhaps became less improbable with the drafting of Collin Sexton of Alabama last week, a really good college guard and a possible budding superstar.
What the heck. I had a conversation last week with a guy who thought it was possible the Pacers -- a franchise on a definite upward track -- might be able to entice LeBron to Indianapolis. Although that doesn't seem likely.
I do know this: When LeBron says he doesn't want a lot of elaborate sales pitches, he is watching a ship that has already sailed disappear over the horizon.
Because, let's face it, there will be sales pitches. Lots of sales pitches. Which has sent the Blob's fertile imagination into overdrive.
Pitches, we've got pitches ...
"Come on out to L.A., Bron! It's sunshine! It's Hollywood! We'll even trade the Ball kid (and his annoying father) if you like!" (Lakers)
"Houston's your celebration destination, LeBron! Yeah, the weather sucks, especially in the summer. But, hey, you don't have to be here in the summer! And just think, we almost beat the Warriors!" (Rockets)
"Good ol' San Antone, we got everything you're lookin' for, LeBron! We got Pop! We got Kawhi! OK, so we might or might not have Kawhi. But if you come, he might stay!" (Spurs)
"Think about this, LeBron: Indianapolis. Yeah, we're not L.A., but we're not as boring as people say, either. And look at this team we got! Look how much fun they have playing basketball! You'd like to have fun playing basketball again, right?" (Pacers)
"You want to get back to the Finals again, LeBron? ('Cause, sorry, you go anywhere West except Golden State, it ain't happenin'). Wanna be part of something fresh and new and exciting? Wanna visit the Liberty Bell anytime you want? Join the Process!" (76ers)
And, of course, last but hardly least ...
"Hey, Bron! Lookit! We got you another Kyrie! (Maybe)" (Cavaliers)
"Where are you going, LeBron?"
LeBron's answer, exclusively acquired by the Blob, is that he's going to the grocery store. It seems Mrs. L. James, and all the little Jameses, are out of milk. Also bread ("Get the whole-grain kind," Mrs. L. James says). Also paper towels.
So, there you have it, America. Where LeBron Is Going.
Oh, you meant where he's going to play basketball?
Well, the Blob has the answer to that, too, which is "Somewhere in the NBA." I realize this is not helpful for those of you who will be on pins and needles this week wondering where LeBron will land. On that specific, the Blob doesn't know anything more than you do.
It may be the Lakers. It may be the 76ers. It may be he stays put in Cleveland and doesn't go anywhere, a possibility that perhaps became less improbable with the drafting of Collin Sexton of Alabama last week, a really good college guard and a possible budding superstar.
What the heck. I had a conversation last week with a guy who thought it was possible the Pacers -- a franchise on a definite upward track -- might be able to entice LeBron to Indianapolis. Although that doesn't seem likely.
I do know this: When LeBron says he doesn't want a lot of elaborate sales pitches, he is watching a ship that has already sailed disappear over the horizon.
Because, let's face it, there will be sales pitches. Lots of sales pitches. Which has sent the Blob's fertile imagination into overdrive.
Pitches, we've got pitches ...
"Come on out to L.A., Bron! It's sunshine! It's Hollywood! We'll even trade the Ball kid (and his annoying father) if you like!" (Lakers)
"Houston's your celebration destination, LeBron! Yeah, the weather sucks, especially in the summer. But, hey, you don't have to be here in the summer! And just think, we almost beat the Warriors!" (Rockets)
"Good ol' San Antone, we got everything you're lookin' for, LeBron! We got Pop! We got Kawhi! OK, so we might or might not have Kawhi. But if you come, he might stay!" (Spurs)
"Think about this, LeBron: Indianapolis. Yeah, we're not L.A., but we're not as boring as people say, either. And look at this team we got! Look how much fun they have playing basketball! You'd like to have fun playing basketball again, right?" (Pacers)
"You want to get back to the Finals again, LeBron? ('Cause, sorry, you go anywhere West except Golden State, it ain't happenin'). Wanna be part of something fresh and new and exciting? Wanna visit the Liberty Bell anytime you want? Join the Process!" (76ers)
And, of course, last but hardly least ...
"Hey, Bron! Lookit! We got you another Kyrie! (Maybe)" (Cavaliers)
Sunday, June 24, 2018
Epic
People who don't get soccer always start by saying it's boring because nobody ever scores, because too many games end 1-nil, because there are long, long stretches where it looks like nothing is going on except a lot of pointless kicking of the ball back and forth.
As one of my wittier non-soccer-getting friends likes to call the sport: Hey, Kick Me The Ball.
Of course, he's a baseball fan, which compels me to point out that all of the above also describes many of Max Scherzer's starts for the Nationals. Lots of 1-nils when Scherzer gets the ball, too, and lots of nothing going on but guys swinging and missing.
At any rate ... I used to think soccer was Hey, Kick Me The Ball, too.
Then Toni Kroos of Germany comes along and does this.
Yeah. That's just ... yeah.
As one of my wittier non-soccer-getting friends likes to call the sport: Hey, Kick Me The Ball.
Of course, he's a baseball fan, which compels me to point out that all of the above also describes many of Max Scherzer's starts for the Nationals. Lots of 1-nils when Scherzer gets the ball, too, and lots of nothing going on but guys swinging and missing.
At any rate ... I used to think soccer was Hey, Kick Me The Ball, too.
Then Toni Kroos of Germany comes along and does this.
Yeah. That's just ... yeah.
Saturday, June 23, 2018
Resumes matter
You come of age in a certain era, you are stuck with its sensibilities, no matter how deep you try to bury them. And so the idea of Uber has always unnerved me.
Don't get in cars with strangers: How many times did I hear that one, growing up?
It should have occurred to me that the opposite is true, too, in the transactional dynamic of what can only be called Picking Up Strangers In Cars Inc. And so here's this young female Uber driver picking up a drunk partygoer one night, apparently aware only that he was some celebrity athlete, because his companions told her that.
That celebrity athlete was Jameis Winston, the quarterback of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Whom the Uber driver says grabbed her crotch -- a violation, it should be noted, made notorious of by Our Only Available President, who famously extolled it in one of his many Reprehensible Human Being moments.
Winston, of course, denies this. One of his buddies who was with him that night backs him up, saying he was in the backseat with Winston the entire time. One of his other buddies calls BS on that, saying they put Winston in the front seat of the car alone and off he went, alone.
It weirdly fits the storyline, and is a regrettable sign of the times, too, that the latter buddy is a former college football player now serving time for his part in a rape at Vanderbilt University. So we have this bizarre scenario where an NFL player (and his attorneys) will no doubt try to discredit allegations of sexual assault against him by pointing out that one of the witnesses is serving time for sexual assault -- and therefore must be lying.
In the meantime, there is this woman, who (it must said) has no reason to lie. And there is Winston, who has every reason. And most of those reasons involve his personal resume, which is not going to help him here.
Winston, remember, was an incoming (and much ballyhooed) freshman at Florida State when he was accused of sexually assaulting a coed. A year later, a smirking goober of a DA refused to indict him, and a Florida State Title IX hearing cleared him. Which will happen when you've just led your school to the national title.
Still, that's on his resume, fairly or not. Being accused of stealing crab legs from a grocery store is on his resume. Firing BB guns on campus and screaming obscenities actually got him suspended for (gasp!) half a game.
None of these episodes proves anything in and of itself. Taken in total, though, they reveal at the very least a serious and persistent lack of judgment. This is especially true in this latest case. Even if the allegations are untrue, why, with what's on your resume, put yourself in a position where these sorts of allegations can happen? Why wouldn't you go to extraordinary lengths to make sure they don't happen? Particularly against the backdrop of #MeToo -- which if nothing else indicates women aren't going to be silent anymore?
This is why the NFL has slapped a pre-emptory three-game suspension on Winston. As with most NFL discipline, it is capricious and inconsistent, given that the baseline suspension for sexual misconduct and domestic abuse is supposed to be six games. But it also speaks to Winston's history of bad judgment, and that, presumably, is why he's been docked three games.
Lesser players (hello, Johnny Manziel) now are getting run out of the league on a rail for less. The zeitgeist is turning, even in the NFL. Not a good time to remain oblivious of that.
Not a good time to have chronic bad judgment, now that chronic bad judgment is out.
Don't get in cars with strangers: How many times did I hear that one, growing up?
It should have occurred to me that the opposite is true, too, in the transactional dynamic of what can only be called Picking Up Strangers In Cars Inc. And so here's this young female Uber driver picking up a drunk partygoer one night, apparently aware only that he was some celebrity athlete, because his companions told her that.
That celebrity athlete was Jameis Winston, the quarterback of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Whom the Uber driver says grabbed her crotch -- a violation, it should be noted, made notorious of by Our Only Available President, who famously extolled it in one of his many Reprehensible Human Being moments.
Winston, of course, denies this. One of his buddies who was with him that night backs him up, saying he was in the backseat with Winston the entire time. One of his other buddies calls BS on that, saying they put Winston in the front seat of the car alone and off he went, alone.
It weirdly fits the storyline, and is a regrettable sign of the times, too, that the latter buddy is a former college football player now serving time for his part in a rape at Vanderbilt University. So we have this bizarre scenario where an NFL player (and his attorneys) will no doubt try to discredit allegations of sexual assault against him by pointing out that one of the witnesses is serving time for sexual assault -- and therefore must be lying.
In the meantime, there is this woman, who (it must said) has no reason to lie. And there is Winston, who has every reason. And most of those reasons involve his personal resume, which is not going to help him here.
Winston, remember, was an incoming (and much ballyhooed) freshman at Florida State when he was accused of sexually assaulting a coed. A year later, a smirking goober of a DA refused to indict him, and a Florida State Title IX hearing cleared him. Which will happen when you've just led your school to the national title.
Still, that's on his resume, fairly or not. Being accused of stealing crab legs from a grocery store is on his resume. Firing BB guns on campus and screaming obscenities actually got him suspended for (gasp!) half a game.
None of these episodes proves anything in and of itself. Taken in total, though, they reveal at the very least a serious and persistent lack of judgment. This is especially true in this latest case. Even if the allegations are untrue, why, with what's on your resume, put yourself in a position where these sorts of allegations can happen? Why wouldn't you go to extraordinary lengths to make sure they don't happen? Particularly against the backdrop of #MeToo -- which if nothing else indicates women aren't going to be silent anymore?
This is why the NFL has slapped a pre-emptory three-game suspension on Winston. As with most NFL discipline, it is capricious and inconsistent, given that the baseline suspension for sexual misconduct and domestic abuse is supposed to be six games. But it also speaks to Winston's history of bad judgment, and that, presumably, is why he's been docked three games.
Lesser players (hello, Johnny Manziel) now are getting run out of the league on a rail for less. The zeitgeist is turning, even in the NFL. Not a good time to remain oblivious of that.
Not a good time to have chronic bad judgment, now that chronic bad judgment is out.
Today in food violence
Well. It had to happen sooner or later, right?
I mean, people are always saying how bad hotdogs are for you.
Now comes a woman named Kathy McVay, who has a nice little shiner this morning after being assaulted by a flying hotdog at a Philadelphia Phillies game. The offending wiener had an accomplice, later identified as the Phillie Phanatic, who regularly fires duct tape-wrapped hotdogs into the stands from his special hotdog artillery piece. None has ever inflicted casualties until McVay, who said she never saw it coming, got whacked in the face.
She later went to the hospital for a CT scan to make sure she didn't incur a concussion, which no doubt would have made her the first person in history to enter a meat product-based concussion protocol.
McVay has already said she won't sue the Phillies, although that could change if some suit gets his mitts on her and whispers sweet nothings about how much she can shake them down for. In the meantime, hers becomes a cautionary tale for anyone else who ventures into the landing zone.
Keep your head on a swivel, boys and girls. You never know when food is going to come flying out of the sky at you.
I mean, people are always saying how bad hotdogs are for you.
Now comes a woman named Kathy McVay, who has a nice little shiner this morning after being assaulted by a flying hotdog at a Philadelphia Phillies game. The offending wiener had an accomplice, later identified as the Phillie Phanatic, who regularly fires duct tape-wrapped hotdogs into the stands from his special hotdog artillery piece. None has ever inflicted casualties until McVay, who said she never saw it coming, got whacked in the face.
She later went to the hospital for a CT scan to make sure she didn't incur a concussion, which no doubt would have made her the first person in history to enter a meat product-based concussion protocol.
McVay has already said she won't sue the Phillies, although that could change if some suit gets his mitts on her and whispers sweet nothings about how much she can shake them down for. In the meantime, hers becomes a cautionary tale for anyone else who ventures into the landing zone.
Keep your head on a swivel, boys and girls. You never know when food is going to come flying out of the sky at you.
Wednesday, June 20, 2018
What soccer might do
Scorching afternoon at the association pool, and a gaggle of boys are playing a game, down the way. Hard to say what it is, exactly. But it somehow involves geopolitics -- which is to say, they're all picking countries to represent.
"I'm North Korea!" one kid sings out.
"Russia!" pipes another.
I wait in vain for a Canada or a Mexico or a Germany, or an England. It never comes.
Democratic republics, it seems, just aren't where it's at these days. Traditional American allies, ditto.
And, yes, OK, so I am reading way too much into child's play. And probably reading it wrong, besides. But it is a measure of Our Only Available President's new America, and the escalating and corrupting hold of his ranting, Ugly American demagoguery, that American boys now find it cool to be murderous totalitarian regimes, even in jest. Hey, the President's tight with them, right?
Nobody wanted to be the Nazis when I was growing up. Or the Soviets. Just sayin'.
And ... yet.
And yet, the other day, I walked into a neighborhood bar and grill in Fort Wayne, a place that is not exactly a hangout for ex-pats. It's a Midwestern working-class bar in a Midwestern working-class neighborhood -- a comfortable joint that's been around for 75 years, and where you can find the Cubs game on at both ends of the bar on most summer afternoons.
But not this afternoon.
This afternoon, at both ends of the bar, the World Cup was on. Russia vs. Egypt. Soccer, for God's sake.
Which suggests to me that for all OOAP's attempts to make us regard those who are different as some hazy threat to the American Way, we remain an extraordinarily cosmopolitan nation. And so despite the vein of anti-foreigner bigotry that has always run deep in America, and that demagogues have always tried to exploit, there is a chance we may yet survive the Ugly American and his reign of error. We may yet remake America as a symbol of hope and decency, instead of the dirty word the Ugly American seems intent on making it.
Here's the thing, see, speaking of soccer: The U.S., Canada and Mexico just got selected to co-host the World Cup in 2026.
By that time, if we are still the republic we once were, the Ugly American will be out of office. And the World Cup will provide a golden opportunity to rebuild our traditional amity with our neighbors north and south, and to prove we are again worthy of the world's respect and trust.
It will be our chance again to be a welcoming, tolerant nation, instead of this cruel place of fear and loathing we have become. It will be our chance to tell the world that, yes, we lost our minds for awhile, but we're better now. The madness has passed. Another demagogue, another soulless gangster adept at tapping into our darkest urges, may again emerge. But for now ...
For now, we are America again.
Welcome. And sorry about all that.
"I'm North Korea!" one kid sings out.
"Russia!" pipes another.
I wait in vain for a Canada or a Mexico or a Germany, or an England. It never comes.
Democratic republics, it seems, just aren't where it's at these days. Traditional American allies, ditto.
And, yes, OK, so I am reading way too much into child's play. And probably reading it wrong, besides. But it is a measure of Our Only Available President's new America, and the escalating and corrupting hold of his ranting, Ugly American demagoguery, that American boys now find it cool to be murderous totalitarian regimes, even in jest. Hey, the President's tight with them, right?
Nobody wanted to be the Nazis when I was growing up. Or the Soviets. Just sayin'.
And ... yet.
And yet, the other day, I walked into a neighborhood bar and grill in Fort Wayne, a place that is not exactly a hangout for ex-pats. It's a Midwestern working-class bar in a Midwestern working-class neighborhood -- a comfortable joint that's been around for 75 years, and where you can find the Cubs game on at both ends of the bar on most summer afternoons.
But not this afternoon.
This afternoon, at both ends of the bar, the World Cup was on. Russia vs. Egypt. Soccer, for God's sake.
Which suggests to me that for all OOAP's attempts to make us regard those who are different as some hazy threat to the American Way, we remain an extraordinarily cosmopolitan nation. And so despite the vein of anti-foreigner bigotry that has always run deep in America, and that demagogues have always tried to exploit, there is a chance we may yet survive the Ugly American and his reign of error. We may yet remake America as a symbol of hope and decency, instead of the dirty word the Ugly American seems intent on making it.
Here's the thing, see, speaking of soccer: The U.S., Canada and Mexico just got selected to co-host the World Cup in 2026.
By that time, if we are still the republic we once were, the Ugly American will be out of office. And the World Cup will provide a golden opportunity to rebuild our traditional amity with our neighbors north and south, and to prove we are again worthy of the world's respect and trust.
It will be our chance again to be a welcoming, tolerant nation, instead of this cruel place of fear and loathing we have become. It will be our chance to tell the world that, yes, we lost our minds for awhile, but we're better now. The madness has passed. Another demagogue, another soulless gangster adept at tapping into our darkest urges, may again emerge. But for now ...
For now, we are America again.
Welcome. And sorry about all that.
Monday, June 18, 2018
Open to question, Part Deux
Congratulations to Brooks Koepka, first of all, who survived the windmills, clown mouths and other nonsense the USGA inflicted on him and his fellow PGA professionals to win the U.S. Open for the second year in a row. He's only the seventh golfer in history to pull that off, so good on him.
Koepka finished at 2-over for the tournament, as the USGA's knuckleheaded attempt to eradicate red numbers from the leaderboard succeeded. Sunday, Koepka shot a 2-under 68 on a day when Tommy Fleetwood strapped a young 63 on Shinnecock Hills, the USGA having at last been shamed into setting it up like an actual golf course and not Pirate Mike's Goofy Golf.
Not surprisingly, that made Sunday's final round by far the best and most watchable of the tournament. Which, of course, leaves us with a question.
Actually, three:
1. Why didn't the USGA set up the course the other three days the way it did Sunday, instead of choosing to embarrass the golfers, the game and Shinnecock Hills?
2. Why was Phil Mickelson still playing in the fourth round, instead of being disqualified for that stunt he pulled Saturday? And (even more egregiously) for refusing to own it by trotting out one of the lamest excuses ever?
3. How does the same organization that, a few years back, dinged Dustin Johnson two strokes for grounding his club in a bunker that was not really a bunker (spectators were actually standing in it), not DQ Mickelson, whose transgression was far worse?
Sensible answers welcome.
Koepka finished at 2-over for the tournament, as the USGA's knuckleheaded attempt to eradicate red numbers from the leaderboard succeeded. Sunday, Koepka shot a 2-under 68 on a day when Tommy Fleetwood strapped a young 63 on Shinnecock Hills, the USGA having at last been shamed into setting it up like an actual golf course and not Pirate Mike's Goofy Golf.
Not surprisingly, that made Sunday's final round by far the best and most watchable of the tournament. Which, of course, leaves us with a question.
Actually, three:
1. Why didn't the USGA set up the course the other three days the way it did Sunday, instead of choosing to embarrass the golfers, the game and Shinnecock Hills?
2. Why was Phil Mickelson still playing in the fourth round, instead of being disqualified for that stunt he pulled Saturday? And (even more egregiously) for refusing to own it by trotting out one of the lamest excuses ever?
3. How does the same organization that, a few years back, dinged Dustin Johnson two strokes for grounding his club in a bunker that was not really a bunker (spectators were actually standing in it), not DQ Mickelson, whose transgression was far worse?
Sensible answers welcome.
The power of the World Cup
Raise a Negra Modelo now to the lads from Mexico, who gave the World Cup an iconic moment yesterday by stunning defending champion Germany 1-nil. It was the first time El Tri had beaten Germany in 32 years, and it ignited the sort of celebration only a jaw-dropping World Cup victory could.
I mean, in the U.S. fans set cars on fire and break a few windows if their team wins the Super Bowl or the Stanley Cup or an NBA title. But this?
Setting off an earthquake. Match that, all you wanna-be sports.
I mean, in the U.S. fans set cars on fire and break a few windows if their team wins the Super Bowl or the Stanley Cup or an NBA title. But this?
Setting off an earthquake. Match that, all you wanna-be sports.
Sunday, June 17, 2018
Still Dad
We'll go see Dad on this Father's Day, and maybe he'll be with us and maybe he won't. He is 90 years old now and lives in a memory-care unit, his life force at twilight and dimming. Dementia and accompanying Parkinson's have reduced him to a shell of the Dad we once knew, a shrunken figure scrunched down in his comfy recliner, the TV endlessly tuned to old black-and-white movies that go mostly unseen and unacknowledged.
And yet.
And yet, perhaps this will be a day like the day not long ago, when his eyes briefly focused and he pointed at the TV and said, "Humphrey Bogart." And then pointed again and said "Sidney."
Which would be "Sidney Greenstreet," the old character actor. Dad was right on both counts. It was an old Bogart flick, and Sidney Greenstreet was in it.
You live for those moments, as your father recedes toward what Abraham Lincoln called the dark indefinite shore. Most days, when he's awake, he is far away from us, his mumbled words describing things and people who lived and moved 60 or 70 years ago. One day he told me he'd been visited by an old high school basketball teammate who'd been dead for decades. Another day he might greet me with the news that he'd sold his Model T, which he kept in a barn I presumed had been gone for decades -- and, oh, by the way, did he tell me they'd cut off one of his legs?
You learn to roll with all of that. You learn even to roll with it when he asks how Mom's doing, and if she's coming to visit him anytime soon.
Mom has been gone since 2013.
Still, he is Dad, and sometimes even now you see glimpses of it. You'll catch a crooked grin or a dusty chuckle, and remember how easily he smiled, and that booming, audible-three-states-away guffaw of his. And you'll remember that this was the man who taught you a reverence for history and old things, and to do a job right or don't do it at all, and to honor your commitments.
I am not half the man my father was, but some of it took. My wife frequently notes that I go at everything -- work, exercise, sports --"like a dog killing chickens," and that is Dad's doing. Do it right or don't do it at all.
And so there came a time, not long ago, when I was walking out the door after a visit, and Dad called after me. Hollered after me, truth be told. Startled, I turned around and walked back into his room.
"What is it, Dad?"
He looked at me -- really looked at me, which doesn't happen often anymore.
"Get me out of this chair," he said.
"Dad," I said, "we've been over this. Your legs don't work anymore. You can't stand up anymore."
He kept looking at me.
"Get me out of this chair," he said again.
And then his eyes softened.
"Help me," he whispered.
Well, that did it. I should have called for the aides, who knew how to move him. But those two words -- Help me -- erased my common sense.
So I lifted him up. He weighs only 140 or so now, but he was dead weight and 140 pounds of dead weight is pretty much a bridge too far for a 63-year-old man who never had any upper body strength to begin with.
But somehow, the dog killed the chickens again. I managed to get him from his chair into his wheelchair. And when he was settled, and I was trying to catch my breath, he looked at me and said two words that seemed to reverse time.
"Thank you."
Whoa. Hold on there, Dad.
That's my line.
And yet.
And yet, perhaps this will be a day like the day not long ago, when his eyes briefly focused and he pointed at the TV and said, "Humphrey Bogart." And then pointed again and said "Sidney."
Which would be "Sidney Greenstreet," the old character actor. Dad was right on both counts. It was an old Bogart flick, and Sidney Greenstreet was in it.
You live for those moments, as your father recedes toward what Abraham Lincoln called the dark indefinite shore. Most days, when he's awake, he is far away from us, his mumbled words describing things and people who lived and moved 60 or 70 years ago. One day he told me he'd been visited by an old high school basketball teammate who'd been dead for decades. Another day he might greet me with the news that he'd sold his Model T, which he kept in a barn I presumed had been gone for decades -- and, oh, by the way, did he tell me they'd cut off one of his legs?
You learn to roll with all of that. You learn even to roll with it when he asks how Mom's doing, and if she's coming to visit him anytime soon.
Mom has been gone since 2013.
Still, he is Dad, and sometimes even now you see glimpses of it. You'll catch a crooked grin or a dusty chuckle, and remember how easily he smiled, and that booming, audible-three-states-away guffaw of his. And you'll remember that this was the man who taught you a reverence for history and old things, and to do a job right or don't do it at all, and to honor your commitments.
I am not half the man my father was, but some of it took. My wife frequently notes that I go at everything -- work, exercise, sports --"like a dog killing chickens," and that is Dad's doing. Do it right or don't do it at all.
And so there came a time, not long ago, when I was walking out the door after a visit, and Dad called after me. Hollered after me, truth be told. Startled, I turned around and walked back into his room.
"What is it, Dad?"
He looked at me -- really looked at me, which doesn't happen often anymore.
"Get me out of this chair," he said.
"Dad," I said, "we've been over this. Your legs don't work anymore. You can't stand up anymore."
He kept looking at me.
"Get me out of this chair," he said again.
And then his eyes softened.
"Help me," he whispered.
Well, that did it. I should have called for the aides, who knew how to move him. But those two words -- Help me -- erased my common sense.
So I lifted him up. He weighs only 140 or so now, but he was dead weight and 140 pounds of dead weight is pretty much a bridge too far for a 63-year-old man who never had any upper body strength to begin with.
But somehow, the dog killed the chickens again. I managed to get him from his chair into his wheelchair. And when he was settled, and I was trying to catch my breath, he looked at me and said two words that seemed to reverse time.
"Thank you."
Whoa. Hold on there, Dad.
That's my line.
Windmills and clown mouths
Part of you understands it, what Phil Mickelson did. Sure, golf isn't polo, and not even the usual bunch of mutts you play with every week would think to run after a putt and give it another whack before it stopped rolling. But if you're going to do something like that?
At least man up and own it. Don't come at us with some sorry-ass excuse and then get all defiant and pissy with the media when they ask about it. That's as weak as weak gets.
On the other hand ...
I can see why Lefty might have mistaken Shinnecock Hills for a polo pitch yesterday.
The third round of the U.S. Open was the day one of America's most venerable golf courses was transformed by the USGA geniuses into Pirate Mike's Goofy Golf, complete (it seemed) with windmills and bankboards. You kept expecting guys to tee it up with blue and orange balls -- and then, when they got to 18, to chip them into the clown's mouth to return them to the front desk.
They turned a major tournament into a major joke, is what the USGA did. They so tricked up Shinnecock that Dustin Johnson, leading the tournament going in, shot a 7-over 77. Rickie Fowler, another contender, shot 84. And Mickelson himself shot an 11-over 81, which perhaps explains why he swiped at that moving golf ball on 13, as unprofessional a stunt as you'll ever see on tour.
What we're left with is four guys tied for the lead going into the final round. At 3-over for tournament.
Can't wait for the scintillating 73 that wins it today.
I also can't conceive what the USGA is thinking. Do they really think a bunch of 74s and 75s and 80s is a good show? Is the desired goal to make the U.S. Open look more like the Walnut Grove City Championship ? (Hey, look! Doc Baker won again!) And how weird are golf fans, whom we're told enjoy watching the world's best players get embarrassed on national TV?
"(The) USGA found a way to make us look like fools on the course," Spanish golfer Rafa Cabrera-Bello said after shooting a 76. "A pity they managed to destroy a beautiful golf course."
Indeed they did. It was so bad, even the USGA itself agreed it had gone too far. In their hermetically-sealed Bizarro World, they thought the record-setting numbers put up in the Open last year were a bad thing. So they came to Shinnecock Hills determined not to see it happen again.
Well, it hasn't. Congratulations, boys. You've given America a True Test Of Golf this week. You've given us Rickie shooting 84 and Rory shooting 80 and Phil chasing after his ball on the way to an 81. You've turned grand old Shinnecock Hills into a punchline, and given us a U.S. Open with (for normal people, anyway) all the viewer appeal of the 9 a.m. pairing at Pile O' Dirt Country Club.
How's that workin' out for ya?
And why, after watching this debacle, would any course of any repute want to host a U.S. Open ever again?
At least man up and own it. Don't come at us with some sorry-ass excuse and then get all defiant and pissy with the media when they ask about it. That's as weak as weak gets.
On the other hand ...
I can see why Lefty might have mistaken Shinnecock Hills for a polo pitch yesterday.
The third round of the U.S. Open was the day one of America's most venerable golf courses was transformed by the USGA geniuses into Pirate Mike's Goofy Golf, complete (it seemed) with windmills and bankboards. You kept expecting guys to tee it up with blue and orange balls -- and then, when they got to 18, to chip them into the clown's mouth to return them to the front desk.
They turned a major tournament into a major joke, is what the USGA did. They so tricked up Shinnecock that Dustin Johnson, leading the tournament going in, shot a 7-over 77. Rickie Fowler, another contender, shot 84. And Mickelson himself shot an 11-over 81, which perhaps explains why he swiped at that moving golf ball on 13, as unprofessional a stunt as you'll ever see on tour.
What we're left with is four guys tied for the lead going into the final round. At 3-over for tournament.
Can't wait for the scintillating 73 that wins it today.
I also can't conceive what the USGA is thinking. Do they really think a bunch of 74s and 75s and 80s is a good show? Is the desired goal to make the U.S. Open look more like the Walnut Grove City Championship ? (Hey, look! Doc Baker won again!) And how weird are golf fans, whom we're told enjoy watching the world's best players get embarrassed on national TV?
"(The) USGA found a way to make us look like fools on the course," Spanish golfer Rafa Cabrera-Bello said after shooting a 76. "A pity they managed to destroy a beautiful golf course."
Indeed they did. It was so bad, even the USGA itself agreed it had gone too far. In their hermetically-sealed Bizarro World, they thought the record-setting numbers put up in the Open last year were a bad thing. So they came to Shinnecock Hills determined not to see it happen again.
Well, it hasn't. Congratulations, boys. You've given America a True Test Of Golf this week. You've given us Rickie shooting 84 and Rory shooting 80 and Phil chasing after his ball on the way to an 81. You've turned grand old Shinnecock Hills into a punchline, and given us a U.S. Open with (for normal people, anyway) all the viewer appeal of the 9 a.m. pairing at Pile O' Dirt Country Club.
How's that workin' out for ya?
And why, after watching this debacle, would any course of any repute want to host a U.S. Open ever again?
Saturday, June 16, 2018
Ice, ice, baby, Part Deux
Remember the other day, when the Blob said if you were looking for a team to root for in the World Cup, you really ought to consider Iceland?
Well. Here is your score from Russia for today:
Argentina 1, Iceland 1.
Yes, boys and girls, in the first World Cup game ever for the Icelandics ... Icelanders ... Guys With Viking Names, they tied one of the world's premier sides. Tied a team led by one of the world's two greatest players (Lionel Messi). Which of course means they didn't actually tie at all.
No, sir. Given the circumstances, I think the headline (stolen from an old Harvard-Yale football header) should read "Iceland Beats Argentina, 1-1."
Told ya.
Well. Here is your score from Russia for today:
Argentina 1, Iceland 1.
Yes, boys and girls, in the first World Cup game ever for the Icelandics ... Icelanders ... Guys With Viking Names, they tied one of the world's premier sides. Tied a team led by one of the world's two greatest players (Lionel Messi). Which of course means they didn't actually tie at all.
No, sir. Given the circumstances, I think the headline (stolen from an old Harvard-Yale football header) should read "Iceland Beats Argentina, 1-1."
Told ya.
Friday, June 15, 2018
Shinnecock Hell
Remember yesterday, when the Blob warned you about Shinnecock Hills, saying they'd be all but sowing land mines and hiding leg-hold traps and punji sticks in the equatorial rough?
Turns out I might not have been exaggerating all that much.
This just in from Shinnecock Hell, where the first round of the U.S. Open is in the books and gave us some really thrilling golf. OK, so not.
Actually, what we really got was a bunch of muni hacks posing as professional golfers. We got four players --- four, count 'em -- breaking par. And all four shot dazzling 1-under 69s.
Some of the biggest names in golf shot, um, considerably worse than that.
Tiger Woods, the Man Who Moves The Needle, shot an 8-over 78. So did Jordan Spieth. Phil Mickelson fared much better, shooting 77. And Rory McIlroy shot a 10-over 80.
You know who shoots 80s?
Your neighbor. Or his neighbor. Or the aforementioned Joe Schmo from Kokomo, the aluminum-siding salesman with his 30-year-old sticks and cargo shorts.
That's just insane. Know what's even more insane?
That some people think this is actually intriguing golf, watching Rory McIlroy shoot 80.
Only in the world of strangeness that is golf does this sort of logic make sense. No one thinks it's a great show when Steph Curry has an off night and goes 4-for-23. No one thought it was intriguing when Goodyear brought a tire to Indy in 2008 that couldn't handle the race course, and the best drivers in NASCAR had to pit every 10 laps or so to change rubber. And if NASCAR or IndyCar so tricked up a race course that half the field crashed or suffered mechanical failures by the 50th lap, no one would declare it a grand spectacle.
Hell, no. They'd do what fans who had to sit through Tiregate did: Demand their money back.
As would I in this instance. You want to trick up your course to absurd lengths, fine. You want to make it so the players have to putt the ball through the windmill or chip it into the hippo's mouth, have at it. But I don't want to watch it. If I wanted to watch golfers shoot 80s, I'd go to my local course on Saturday morning and just follow a group around.
But Rory or Tiger or Phil or Jordan?
I want to see them have at least a chance to play like Rory or Tiger or Phil or Jordan. I want to see more than four people break par. Call me crazy.
Turns out I might not have been exaggerating all that much.
This just in from Shinnecock Hell, where the first round of the U.S. Open is in the books and gave us some really thrilling golf. OK, so not.
Actually, what we really got was a bunch of muni hacks posing as professional golfers. We got four players --- four, count 'em -- breaking par. And all four shot dazzling 1-under 69s.
Some of the biggest names in golf shot, um, considerably worse than that.
Tiger Woods, the Man Who Moves The Needle, shot an 8-over 78. So did Jordan Spieth. Phil Mickelson fared much better, shooting 77. And Rory McIlroy shot a 10-over 80.
You know who shoots 80s?
Your neighbor. Or his neighbor. Or the aforementioned Joe Schmo from Kokomo, the aluminum-siding salesman with his 30-year-old sticks and cargo shorts.
That's just insane. Know what's even more insane?
That some people think this is actually intriguing golf, watching Rory McIlroy shoot 80.
Only in the world of strangeness that is golf does this sort of logic make sense. No one thinks it's a great show when Steph Curry has an off night and goes 4-for-23. No one thought it was intriguing when Goodyear brought a tire to Indy in 2008 that couldn't handle the race course, and the best drivers in NASCAR had to pit every 10 laps or so to change rubber. And if NASCAR or IndyCar so tricked up a race course that half the field crashed or suffered mechanical failures by the 50th lap, no one would declare it a grand spectacle.
Hell, no. They'd do what fans who had to sit through Tiregate did: Demand their money back.
As would I in this instance. You want to trick up your course to absurd lengths, fine. You want to make it so the players have to putt the ball through the windmill or chip it into the hippo's mouth, have at it. But I don't want to watch it. If I wanted to watch golfers shoot 80s, I'd go to my local course on Saturday morning and just follow a group around.
But Rory or Tiger or Phil or Jordan?
I want to see them have at least a chance to play like Rory or Tiger or Phil or Jordan. I want to see more than four people break par. Call me crazy.
Thursday, June 14, 2018
Open to question
Today the U.S. Open begins at Shinnecock Hills on Long Island, where 14 years ago an entire hole -- No. 7 -- famously became an unplayable lie. The Shinnecock people promise that will not happen again. They do not promise not to turn the world's finest golfers into Joe Schmo from Kokomo, hauling his 15 handicap around in his cargo shorts and Joe's Aluminum Siding work polo.
All U.S. Open courses are absurdly tricked up to protect par at all costs, even if it means sowing the fairways with land mines and surrounding the greens with gator-infested moats. But Shinnecock is apparently especially treacherous. There is wind. There are brutal elevation changes. There are greens sculpted like the foothills of the Adirondacks. And of course there is the requisite Open rough, thick as equatorial jungle and salted with leg-hold traps and punji sticks.
OK, so the last is an exaggeration. Saying it's so thick you could lose small children in it, on the other hand, might not be.
In any case, this does not seem to be the sort of track where Tiger Woods, even playing again like a reasonable facsimile of Tiger Woods, is going to win his first major in a decade. Everyone in America (including no doubt Tiger's competitors) would love to see it happen, because, as has been noted in this space before, no one juices the golf needle the way Tiger does. Even on the backside of his prime, he's the one guy everyone tunes in to watch.
Alas, the Blob suspects Tiger's game is not in a place where he can beat everyone he needs to beat and Shinnecock Hills, too. The painful reality is he may never be in that place, because there are simply too many Rembrandts vying for majors these days. There may be more great sticks on tour now than there has been in two generations. That's a lot of people to crawl over for a 42-year-old man with surgical knees and a surgical back.
This is not to say Tiger can't, or won't, contend. He very well could. But the likelihood of him beating not just, say, Rory, but Rory and Rickie and Dustin and Justin and Jordan and Jason and who knows how many other guys, is pretty small.
So who wins?
Lots of people like Dustin (Johnson), and also Justin (Thomas). The Blob, however, suspects it's going to be a lesser mortal, because that's what seems to happen more often than not in the U.S. Open. As fabled golf writer Dan Jenkins used to call then, logo clods.
So: Logo Clod for the win. And Tiger somewhere in the pack.
All U.S. Open courses are absurdly tricked up to protect par at all costs, even if it means sowing the fairways with land mines and surrounding the greens with gator-infested moats. But Shinnecock is apparently especially treacherous. There is wind. There are brutal elevation changes. There are greens sculpted like the foothills of the Adirondacks. And of course there is the requisite Open rough, thick as equatorial jungle and salted with leg-hold traps and punji sticks.
OK, so the last is an exaggeration. Saying it's so thick you could lose small children in it, on the other hand, might not be.
In any case, this does not seem to be the sort of track where Tiger Woods, even playing again like a reasonable facsimile of Tiger Woods, is going to win his first major in a decade. Everyone in America (including no doubt Tiger's competitors) would love to see it happen, because, as has been noted in this space before, no one juices the golf needle the way Tiger does. Even on the backside of his prime, he's the one guy everyone tunes in to watch.
Alas, the Blob suspects Tiger's game is not in a place where he can beat everyone he needs to beat and Shinnecock Hills, too. The painful reality is he may never be in that place, because there are simply too many Rembrandts vying for majors these days. There may be more great sticks on tour now than there has been in two generations. That's a lot of people to crawl over for a 42-year-old man with surgical knees and a surgical back.
This is not to say Tiger can't, or won't, contend. He very well could. But the likelihood of him beating not just, say, Rory, but Rory and Rickie and Dustin and Justin and Jordan and Jason and who knows how many other guys, is pretty small.
So who wins?
Lots of people like Dustin (Johnson), and also Justin (Thomas). The Blob, however, suspects it's going to be a lesser mortal, because that's what seems to happen more often than not in the U.S. Open. As fabled golf writer Dan Jenkins used to call then, logo clods.
So: Logo Clod for the win. And Tiger somewhere in the pack.
Wednesday, June 13, 2018
Lock and load
OK. So I guess he's really not dead yet.
That would be Andrew Luck, of course, and sorry for the obligatory "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" reference, except not really, because there literally is no situation the Blob cannot relate to the funniest movie of all time. Anyway, in case you have been living in hermetically sealed bubble, Andrew Luck threw a football yesterday. In public.
(All right. So in front of the media, then. And not a real football, but a kid football. And not, like, Joe Namath-dropping-one-from-60-yards-on-a-streaking-Don-Maynard throwing, but more like Joe-Namath-playing-in-the-backyard-with-the-grandkids throwing.)
Luck's deepest lob was about 20 yards. Most were in the swing pass range. Still, it was the first time anyone had seen him throw a football, even a fake one, since October. And it made all the happy talk from the Colts camp about Luck's progress sound much less like a bunch of people high on truly righteous weed, which perhaps was the point of the exercise.
Truth is, a whole lot professional skeptics (i.e., media folk) were starting to wonder just what the hell the Colts were talking about. Like, the way they always said Luck was making tremendous progress, but when asked if he was throwing yet, they'd always say "not yet."
Which left everyone trying to figure out what "tremendous progress" could possibly mean for a quarterback if he still wasn't throwing a football 17 months after a supposedly routine labrum procedure. What, his running form had improved? He was buttering his own toast again?
The entire thing, frankly, had gotten progressively more bizarre. There was the unexplained trip to Europe for the unexplained whatever. There was all the talk last summer that Luck would be back relatively early in the season, and then three weeks became four became five became shutting him down for the season. And, seriously, what was that whole Europe deal about?
Then came yesterday, and the big reveal: Luck has actually been throwing in secret for awhile, with actual footballs. How well, and how gingerly, we still don't know, because Luck and the Colts are still successfully hiding that just as they hid the fact he was throwing. At any rate, in front of the media, he was definitely throwing it gingerly.
Which still makes you wonder if this surgery was more extensive than anyone's letting on. Which still makes you wonder why Luck, head coach Frank Reich and the rest of the Colts hierarchy remain so supremely confident he'll be full-bore ready for a season that begins in less than three months.
Inquiring minds want to know. And I suppose they will.
At some point.
That would be Andrew Luck, of course, and sorry for the obligatory "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" reference, except not really, because there literally is no situation the Blob cannot relate to the funniest movie of all time. Anyway, in case you have been living in hermetically sealed bubble, Andrew Luck threw a football yesterday. In public.
(All right. So in front of the media, then. And not a real football, but a kid football. And not, like, Joe Namath-dropping-one-from-60-yards-on-a-streaking-Don-Maynard throwing, but more like Joe-Namath-playing-in-the-backyard-with-the-grandkids throwing.)
Luck's deepest lob was about 20 yards. Most were in the swing pass range. Still, it was the first time anyone had seen him throw a football, even a fake one, since October. And it made all the happy talk from the Colts camp about Luck's progress sound much less like a bunch of people high on truly righteous weed, which perhaps was the point of the exercise.
Truth is, a whole lot professional skeptics (i.e., media folk) were starting to wonder just what the hell the Colts were talking about. Like, the way they always said Luck was making tremendous progress, but when asked if he was throwing yet, they'd always say "not yet."
Which left everyone trying to figure out what "tremendous progress" could possibly mean for a quarterback if he still wasn't throwing a football 17 months after a supposedly routine labrum procedure. What, his running form had improved? He was buttering his own toast again?
The entire thing, frankly, had gotten progressively more bizarre. There was the unexplained trip to Europe for the unexplained whatever. There was all the talk last summer that Luck would be back relatively early in the season, and then three weeks became four became five became shutting him down for the season. And, seriously, what was that whole Europe deal about?
Then came yesterday, and the big reveal: Luck has actually been throwing in secret for awhile, with actual footballs. How well, and how gingerly, we still don't know, because Luck and the Colts are still successfully hiding that just as they hid the fact he was throwing. At any rate, in front of the media, he was definitely throwing it gingerly.
Which still makes you wonder if this surgery was more extensive than anyone's letting on. Which still makes you wonder why Luck, head coach Frank Reich and the rest of the Colts hierarchy remain so supremely confident he'll be full-bore ready for a season that begins in less than three months.
Inquiring minds want to know. And I suppose they will.
At some point.
Tuesday, June 12, 2018
Hey, look, a partisan update
Yes, that's right, Blobophiles. Now that the Cubs have regained their rightful position -- first -- in the NL Central, it's time once again to check in on the Blob's favorite crappy baseball team, the Pittsburgh Pirates.
Yes, you there in the back.
Of course I realize nobody cares about the Pirates. Of course I realize you're tired of hearing about them. My response to that is, too damn bad. They're my sorry-ass team, and it's my Blob.
What's that?
OK, fine. Goodbye. Don't let the door you-know-what in the you-know-what on the way out.
Now, then. Where was I?
Oh, yeah, my sorry-ass Pirates. If you haven't noticed lately (and why would you?) they are doing exactly what the Blob knew they were going to do, back in those heady, delusional days of May when they were impersonating an actual baseball team. Once they were actually in first place for a heartbeat; now, like water seeking its own level, they have returned to their rightful position, which is fourth place, seven-and-a-half games out of first and five behind the third-place Cardinals. They've lost seven of their last 10 games.
Only the dreary Reds remain in their wake, nine games behind. The gap was 10 games a couple of days ago. This means the Blob's cherished Battle for the Cellar could still happen before the summer's out.
In other words, there's still hope. Or reverse hope. Or whatever.
Yes, you there in the back.
Of course I realize nobody cares about the Pirates. Of course I realize you're tired of hearing about them. My response to that is, too damn bad. They're my sorry-ass team, and it's my Blob.
What's that?
OK, fine. Goodbye. Don't let the door you-know-what in the you-know-what on the way out.
Now, then. Where was I?
Oh, yeah, my sorry-ass Pirates. If you haven't noticed lately (and why would you?) they are doing exactly what the Blob knew they were going to do, back in those heady, delusional days of May when they were impersonating an actual baseball team. Once they were actually in first place for a heartbeat; now, like water seeking its own level, they have returned to their rightful position, which is fourth place, seven-and-a-half games out of first and five behind the third-place Cardinals. They've lost seven of their last 10 games.
Only the dreary Reds remain in their wake, nine games behind. The gap was 10 games a couple of days ago. This means the Blob's cherished Battle for the Cellar could still happen before the summer's out.
In other words, there's still hope. Or reverse hope. Or whatever.
Monday, June 11, 2018
Ice, ice, baby
The World Cup kicks off this week in Russia, and you know what that means, Blobophiles.
No, not that kleptocrat and master puppeteer ("Dance, Donny! Dance!") V. Putin will get to validate his criminal regime the way another murdering psychopath once did with the 1936 Berlin Olympics. Although that's certain to be a bit of history repeating itself.
No, this is the part where the Blob, a reformed soccer hater, gets to detail once again its journey from making fun of the World Cup to being wholly into it. This happened for the usual reason, i.e., education. I learned how to watch the game from hanging around people who know the game. As with any sport, the more you know about it, the more you appreciate it. Just ask anyone who doesn't know baseball what a crashing bore that game is, at least to them.
Anyway, the premier athletic event in the world is upon us again, and the Blob will be watching. Its knowledge is still imperfect, but it knows enough to tell you for whom to root. And, no, it's not the usual suspects, the Brazils and Argentinas and Spains and Germanys.
It's Iceland.
Let's hear it for the Ice ... landics, landers, whatever. They became the darlings of international soccer two summers ago, when they reached the quarterfinals of the Euro Cup, the only international tournament in which they'd ever played. They even beat England in the round of 16, for pity's sake. And they had all these awesome Viking names, and a Viking dance, and even, swear to Odin, a Thor -- Birkir Bjarnason, known by that nickname in his home country.
How could you not root for that?
Now they're back, with a roster again overserved by a glorious array of accent marks. There are Birkirs and Ragnars and Holmars, Runars and Rukiks and Olafurs. They're known by a wonderfully homey nickname ("Our Boys"), and they're still underdogs, and, really, who doesn't want to see them make another run like they did two years ago?
Are they going to win the Cup? Hell, no. They might not even get out of their group. Plus, the Brazils and the Argentinas and the Spains and the Germanys are simply better. Also France, probably. Also a bunch of other countries I'm probably leaving out.
Anyway, in a year when America played like, well, Americans in the qualifiers and missed out on the World Cup, you could do worse than to root for Iceland. Go Vikings! Pillage! Burn!
Or, just score a lot. That'll work, too.
No, not that kleptocrat and master puppeteer ("Dance, Donny! Dance!") V. Putin will get to validate his criminal regime the way another murdering psychopath once did with the 1936 Berlin Olympics. Although that's certain to be a bit of history repeating itself.
No, this is the part where the Blob, a reformed soccer hater, gets to detail once again its journey from making fun of the World Cup to being wholly into it. This happened for the usual reason, i.e., education. I learned how to watch the game from hanging around people who know the game. As with any sport, the more you know about it, the more you appreciate it. Just ask anyone who doesn't know baseball what a crashing bore that game is, at least to them.
Anyway, the premier athletic event in the world is upon us again, and the Blob will be watching. Its knowledge is still imperfect, but it knows enough to tell you for whom to root. And, no, it's not the usual suspects, the Brazils and Argentinas and Spains and Germanys.
It's Iceland.
Let's hear it for the Ice ... landics, landers, whatever. They became the darlings of international soccer two summers ago, when they reached the quarterfinals of the Euro Cup, the only international tournament in which they'd ever played. They even beat England in the round of 16, for pity's sake. And they had all these awesome Viking names, and a Viking dance, and even, swear to Odin, a Thor -- Birkir Bjarnason, known by that nickname in his home country.
How could you not root for that?
Now they're back, with a roster again overserved by a glorious array of accent marks. There are Birkirs and Ragnars and Holmars, Runars and Rukiks and Olafurs. They're known by a wonderfully homey nickname ("Our Boys"), and they're still underdogs, and, really, who doesn't want to see them make another run like they did two years ago?
Are they going to win the Cup? Hell, no. They might not even get out of their group. Plus, the Brazils and the Argentinas and the Spains and the Germanys are simply better. Also France, probably. Also a bunch of other countries I'm probably leaving out.
Anyway, in a year when America played like, well, Americans in the qualifiers and missed out on the World Cup, you could do worse than to root for Iceland. Go Vikings! Pillage! Burn!
Or, just score a lot. That'll work, too.
Sunday, June 10, 2018
Make it a Triple
And, OK, so first things first: I was wrong.
("You? No!" you're saying.)
(Also: "Again?")
(Also "How is this news?")
Anyway ... I was wrong.
I had a strong sense going in yesterday that Justify was not going to win the Belmont, that he would be just another horse among many who couldn't finish the deal. I figured the extra distance would stick a fork in him. I figured this because I saw him almost get run down at the end of the Preakness, and if he was flagging at the end of that, well ...
Well. I figured all of that because I forgot some other stuff.
I forgot how utterly dominant he was on a sloppy track in the Kentucky Derby, how he was never really challenged.
I forgot what Bob Baffert said about him that day, which was that Justify was, in his mind, every bit the horse 2015 Triple Crown winner American Pharoah was. And American Pharoah was the best racehorse I'd seen since Affirmed.
I forgot that he came to the Belmont still unbeaten, and generally 3-year-olds do not come to the Belmont undefeated.
Then I watched the Belmont. And I remembered all of that.
So here it is: I was as wrong as a man can be about Justify. From the worst starting position on the track -- the 1 hole -- he led virtually wire-to-wire. He was never really challenged. And when jockey Mike Smith turned him for home and let him go, he simply ran away from everyone.
Now, this could have been because the rest of the Triple Crown field this year were cans of Alpo with feet. But that's not what all the Horse People said. All the Horse People said this was the strongest bunch of 3-year-olds in years.
And not one of them could touch Justify yesterday. Not one of them could go with him, from gate to finish.
So here's what I think now; I think Justify is every bit the horse American Pharoah was. I think they're two best racehorses I've seen in 40 years, or since Affirmed. Neither were Secretariat, but no horse has ever been Secretariat. Secretariat was a freak of nature we're likely never to see again in our lifetimes.
But as your Triple Crown winner?
Justify's as good as any of the others not named Secretariat. And maybe better.
("You? No!" you're saying.)
(Also: "Again?")
(Also "How is this news?")
Anyway ... I was wrong.
I had a strong sense going in yesterday that Justify was not going to win the Belmont, that he would be just another horse among many who couldn't finish the deal. I figured the extra distance would stick a fork in him. I figured this because I saw him almost get run down at the end of the Preakness, and if he was flagging at the end of that, well ...
Well. I figured all of that because I forgot some other stuff.
I forgot how utterly dominant he was on a sloppy track in the Kentucky Derby, how he was never really challenged.
I forgot what Bob Baffert said about him that day, which was that Justify was, in his mind, every bit the horse 2015 Triple Crown winner American Pharoah was. And American Pharoah was the best racehorse I'd seen since Affirmed.
I forgot that he came to the Belmont still unbeaten, and generally 3-year-olds do not come to the Belmont undefeated.
Then I watched the Belmont. And I remembered all of that.
So here it is: I was as wrong as a man can be about Justify. From the worst starting position on the track -- the 1 hole -- he led virtually wire-to-wire. He was never really challenged. And when jockey Mike Smith turned him for home and let him go, he simply ran away from everyone.
Now, this could have been because the rest of the Triple Crown field this year were cans of Alpo with feet. But that's not what all the Horse People said. All the Horse People said this was the strongest bunch of 3-year-olds in years.
And not one of them could touch Justify yesterday. Not one of them could go with him, from gate to finish.
So here's what I think now; I think Justify is every bit the horse American Pharoah was. I think they're two best racehorses I've seen in 40 years, or since Affirmed. Neither were Secretariat, but no horse has ever been Secretariat. Secretariat was a freak of nature we're likely never to see again in our lifetimes.
But as your Triple Crown winner?
Justify's as good as any of the others not named Secretariat. And maybe better.
Saturday, June 9, 2018
MVS
Yes, in the end, the Warriors had too much for everyone.
Too much Steph. Too much KD. Too much Draymond and Klay and anyone else you want to name.
And so , yes, they blew out the Cavaliers -- a much inferior team save the obvious one guy -- by 23 to complete the NBA Finals sweep, and cradled the Big Trophy again for the third time in four years. And, yes, Kevin Durant was the MVP again.
What he wasn't was the MVS -- i.e., "Most Valuable Superhero."
That of course would be the aforementioned Obvious One Guy, aka LeBron James, who did things in these playoffs that astounded even lost-in-the-nostalgia-fog geezers like myself. Even though his team was swept in the Finals, he averaged nearly a triple-double: 34 points (on 52.7 percent shooting), 10 assists and 8.5 rebounds. And he never played fewer than 41 minutes in the four games after two months of playing virtually every minute of every game.
Oh, and then there's this: He did all that playing the last three games with a broken shooting hand.
In those three games, he played 44, 47 and 41 minutes, respectively.
In those three games, he averaged 28.3 points, 10.6 assists and 8.6 rebounds.
In those three games, no one -- fans, media, people watching on TV -- knew his hand was broken. It happened after Game 1, and LeBron did it to himself, punching a whiteboard in the locker room in understandable frustration over the ridiculous reversal of an obvious charge by Durant that turned the game.
Of course, the narrative for some will now be whether you can actually consider him the GOAT, or even GOAT 1A, if you get swept in the Finals and have a 3-6 lifetime record there.
The Blob, on the other hand, will dismiss that as the nonsense it is. And wonder instead when, in 40 years covering basketball as a professional sportswriter, he's ever seen anything like what LeBron James did in the 2018 playoffs.
"Never." That's the word you're looking for.
Too much Steph. Too much KD. Too much Draymond and Klay and anyone else you want to name.
And so , yes, they blew out the Cavaliers -- a much inferior team save the obvious one guy -- by 23 to complete the NBA Finals sweep, and cradled the Big Trophy again for the third time in four years. And, yes, Kevin Durant was the MVP again.
What he wasn't was the MVS -- i.e., "Most Valuable Superhero."
That of course would be the aforementioned Obvious One Guy, aka LeBron James, who did things in these playoffs that astounded even lost-in-the-nostalgia-fog geezers like myself. Even though his team was swept in the Finals, he averaged nearly a triple-double: 34 points (on 52.7 percent shooting), 10 assists and 8.5 rebounds. And he never played fewer than 41 minutes in the four games after two months of playing virtually every minute of every game.
Oh, and then there's this: He did all that playing the last three games with a broken shooting hand.
In those three games, he played 44, 47 and 41 minutes, respectively.
In those three games, he averaged 28.3 points, 10.6 assists and 8.6 rebounds.
In those three games, no one -- fans, media, people watching on TV -- knew his hand was broken. It happened after Game 1, and LeBron did it to himself, punching a whiteboard in the locker room in understandable frustration over the ridiculous reversal of an obvious charge by Durant that turned the game.
Of course, the narrative for some will now be whether you can actually consider him the GOAT, or even GOAT 1A, if you get swept in the Finals and have a 3-6 lifetime record there.
The Blob, on the other hand, will dismiss that as the nonsense it is. And wonder instead when, in 40 years covering basketball as a professional sportswriter, he's ever seen anything like what LeBron James did in the 2018 playoffs.
"Never." That's the word you're looking for.
Friday, June 8, 2018
Me time
A man could invest entirely too much of his life paying attention to what Terrell Owens says and does. This is because what Terrell Owens says and does is not of any particular account, and also because T.O. pays more than enough attention for all of us to what he says and does.
Like a lot of great wide receivers he's the consummate narcissist, a What About Me guy in a What About Me position. That's not a criticism, necessarily. Wideout is a unique position, in that you have no real control over your work product. All you can do is get open. Whether the ball comes your way is entirely up to Peyton or Tom or Drew or Aaron. And so of course wideouts yell and holler and try to get everyone's attention.
T.O., of course, always took What About Me to a different level. So no surprise that the other day he announced he was probably going to skip the Hall of Fame induction in Canton and celebrate his induction in his own private way.
He has every right to do this, of course. That he absolutely shouldn't should be obvious to anyone who understands a bedrock truth: That no one ever achieves anything in life without standing on the shoulders of those who came before you. And so when it comes time to be recognized for that you owe something to those people.
The Hall of Fame weekend in Canton, see, is not just a celebration of the inductees. It's a celebration of the entire century-plus mosaic of which they are a part. When each HOFer slips into that canary-yellow jacket, he is honoring all those who came before them -- and all those who helped them become a member of that company.
That's why each HOF inductee gets to choose someone to introduce him, and invariably it is someone -- a coach, a family member, a close friend or business associate -- who helped make him greater than he ever thought he could be. That person gets to publicly share in the moment, and be publicly recognized. It's about him or her, and about all the family members and friends who've been invited to witness the moment themselves.
T.O. owes all of them that public moment. He owes the game. He owes all of those who went to bat for him to get into the Hall of Fame to begin with. Because it's as much about them as it is about him.
Why he's chosen to make it solely about him, we can only speculate. Maybe he's still miffed he got snubbed the first year he was eligible, which would be a T.O. thing to do. Maybe it's a show of support for the NFL protests, though that seems unlikely. The Blob doesn't know, and doesn't want to spend the energy to find out.
Like I said at the front of this, a man can invest entirely too much of his life paying attention to what Terrell Owens says and does. So I won't.
Like a lot of great wide receivers he's the consummate narcissist, a What About Me guy in a What About Me position. That's not a criticism, necessarily. Wideout is a unique position, in that you have no real control over your work product. All you can do is get open. Whether the ball comes your way is entirely up to Peyton or Tom or Drew or Aaron. And so of course wideouts yell and holler and try to get everyone's attention.
T.O., of course, always took What About Me to a different level. So no surprise that the other day he announced he was probably going to skip the Hall of Fame induction in Canton and celebrate his induction in his own private way.
He has every right to do this, of course. That he absolutely shouldn't should be obvious to anyone who understands a bedrock truth: That no one ever achieves anything in life without standing on the shoulders of those who came before you. And so when it comes time to be recognized for that you owe something to those people.
The Hall of Fame weekend in Canton, see, is not just a celebration of the inductees. It's a celebration of the entire century-plus mosaic of which they are a part. When each HOFer slips into that canary-yellow jacket, he is honoring all those who came before them -- and all those who helped them become a member of that company.
That's why each HOF inductee gets to choose someone to introduce him, and invariably it is someone -- a coach, a family member, a close friend or business associate -- who helped make him greater than he ever thought he could be. That person gets to publicly share in the moment, and be publicly recognized. It's about him or her, and about all the family members and friends who've been invited to witness the moment themselves.
T.O. owes all of them that public moment. He owes the game. He owes all of those who went to bat for him to get into the Hall of Fame to begin with. Because it's as much about them as it is about him.
Why he's chosen to make it solely about him, we can only speculate. Maybe he's still miffed he got snubbed the first year he was eligible, which would be a T.O. thing to do. Maybe it's a show of support for the NFL protests, though that seems unlikely. The Blob doesn't know, and doesn't want to spend the energy to find out.
Like I said at the front of this, a man can invest entirely too much of his life paying attention to what Terrell Owens says and does. So I won't.
Validation
Those last two minutes, the camera zoomed in on the Washington Capitals bench, and all the agony of 13 years zoomed in with it. Alex Ovechkin kept resting his forehead on the top of the boards, staring at his feet, unable to look. He appeared to gnaw on the end of his stick. He fidgeted like a kid on Christmas morning, before Mom and Dad said it was OK to enter the room.
Because surely something wretched was going to happen, right? Right?
The entire leit motif of Ovechkin's career virtually dictated this, because it has been one unrewarded run of blown 3-1 best-of-seven leads and spectacular failures. The Capitals were the most pitiless heartbreaker in D.C. sports, because neither the Nationals nor Wizards nor Redskins ever promised so much and consistently failed to deliver it the way the Caps did. And of course Ovechkin, the Caps superstar, became the living mascot of that.
He was the Great Eight until it counted. Then he became the Great Defl-Eight, never enough of a leader or able to rise to the occasion when it mattered most.
Well ... no more.
And so when the horn finally sounded last night in Vegas, and the thing was finally, finally, done, Ovechkin really was like that kid on Christmas morning. He grabbed every teammates he could find. He screamed, screamed, screamed his joy in their faces. He reveled in the moment the way few ever have -- and insisted on doing it with his teammates, as the teammate he's long been accused of not being but finally was.
It's rare that you see a man's legacy being cemented in front of your eyes, and know that's what you're seeing. But that's what we got last night. Ovechkin, the second-best player in his game, is now not just a player with singular skills, but a champion player with singular skills. When people start to debate who's the greatest hockey player never to have won the Stanley Cup, his name will no longer be at the top of the list.
No wonder he kissed the Cup over and over as he paraded around with it raised aloft. This true love took a long time to find.
Because surely something wretched was going to happen, right? Right?
The entire leit motif of Ovechkin's career virtually dictated this, because it has been one unrewarded run of blown 3-1 best-of-seven leads and spectacular failures. The Capitals were the most pitiless heartbreaker in D.C. sports, because neither the Nationals nor Wizards nor Redskins ever promised so much and consistently failed to deliver it the way the Caps did. And of course Ovechkin, the Caps superstar, became the living mascot of that.
He was the Great Eight until it counted. Then he became the Great Defl-Eight, never enough of a leader or able to rise to the occasion when it mattered most.
Well ... no more.
And so when the horn finally sounded last night in Vegas, and the thing was finally, finally, done, Ovechkin really was like that kid on Christmas morning. He grabbed every teammates he could find. He screamed, screamed, screamed his joy in their faces. He reveled in the moment the way few ever have -- and insisted on doing it with his teammates, as the teammate he's long been accused of not being but finally was.
It's rare that you see a man's legacy being cemented in front of your eyes, and know that's what you're seeing. But that's what we got last night. Ovechkin, the second-best player in his game, is now not just a player with singular skills, but a champion player with singular skills. When people start to debate who's the greatest hockey player never to have won the Stanley Cup, his name will no longer be at the top of the list.
No wonder he kissed the Cup over and over as he paraded around with it raised aloft. This true love took a long time to find.
Thursday, June 7, 2018
Superman waning
OK. Now you can say it's over.
Probably. Indubitably. Almost certainly.
The NBA Finals came to Cleveland last night, and this time the storyline made the trip. Warriors 110, Cavs 102 in Game 3, and now Golden State is up 3-0 and it's no one's idea of a hot take to say the Warriors likely are going to sweep.
That's because it's become glaringly obvious that not even Superman can lift the Cavaliers beyond themselves, no matter how Super he is. LeBron James did his LeBron thing again last night, putting up 33 points and 11 assists and 10 rebounds and two blocks and two steals. And again it wasn't enough.
That's because it's also become glaringly obvious the Cavs are what they are, a bunch of spare parts who would never have gotten within a light year of the Finals if LeBron hadn't all but burned out the highest setting of Hero Mode. Needing to hit more open looks to keep the Warriors at arm's length, they went 8-of-24 from the arc last night. Throw out LeBron's 13-of-28 shooting, and the rest of the Cavs were 27-of-64 from everywhere.
That's 42 percent. At home. Not nearly good enough, but probably the best they're capable of.
Little wonder that James finally vented a little frustration the other day, when asked by a reporter why he was so disengaged in the huddle before overtime in Game 1. Why wasn't he in there trying to lift his teammates? Why wasn't he (in so many words) being a better leader?
LeBron's reaction to this splendid bit of nitpickery was to basically say "Are you serious with this stuff?" Said he was carrying the weight as much as he could, and how much more did you want him to do? Said this was the NBA Finals, which means no one should have to lift you up.
For this he was gnawed on by the usual radio chipmunks, which prompted the Blob to echo LeBron: Are you people serious with this stuff? The cold fact is, he was absolutely correct, if not exactly politic, in everything he said. He has carried this team as much as he could, as anyone with a working set of eyeballs should be able to see. It is the NBA Finals, which means no one should have to lift you up.
His teammates are, after all, alleged professionals, not 7-year-olds playing for orange slices. Shouldn't they bear some responsibility for lifting themselves? And, good heavens, given the way his teammates had just so spectacularly let him down there in Game 1, does even Superman not get a pass for being ever-so-briefly human?
Hey, he was disgusted. He was pissed. He had a moment. It happens.
Even Superman, after all, had his Kryptonite.
Probably. Indubitably. Almost certainly.
The NBA Finals came to Cleveland last night, and this time the storyline made the trip. Warriors 110, Cavs 102 in Game 3, and now Golden State is up 3-0 and it's no one's idea of a hot take to say the Warriors likely are going to sweep.
That's because it's become glaringly obvious that not even Superman can lift the Cavaliers beyond themselves, no matter how Super he is. LeBron James did his LeBron thing again last night, putting up 33 points and 11 assists and 10 rebounds and two blocks and two steals. And again it wasn't enough.
That's because it's also become glaringly obvious the Cavs are what they are, a bunch of spare parts who would never have gotten within a light year of the Finals if LeBron hadn't all but burned out the highest setting of Hero Mode. Needing to hit more open looks to keep the Warriors at arm's length, they went 8-of-24 from the arc last night. Throw out LeBron's 13-of-28 shooting, and the rest of the Cavs were 27-of-64 from everywhere.
That's 42 percent. At home. Not nearly good enough, but probably the best they're capable of.
Little wonder that James finally vented a little frustration the other day, when asked by a reporter why he was so disengaged in the huddle before overtime in Game 1. Why wasn't he in there trying to lift his teammates? Why wasn't he (in so many words) being a better leader?
LeBron's reaction to this splendid bit of nitpickery was to basically say "Are you serious with this stuff?" Said he was carrying the weight as much as he could, and how much more did you want him to do? Said this was the NBA Finals, which means no one should have to lift you up.
For this he was gnawed on by the usual radio chipmunks, which prompted the Blob to echo LeBron: Are you people serious with this stuff? The cold fact is, he was absolutely correct, if not exactly politic, in everything he said. He has carried this team as much as he could, as anyone with a working set of eyeballs should be able to see. It is the NBA Finals, which means no one should have to lift you up.
His teammates are, after all, alleged professionals, not 7-year-olds playing for orange slices. Shouldn't they bear some responsibility for lifting themselves? And, good heavens, given the way his teammates had just so spectacularly let him down there in Game 1, does even Superman not get a pass for being ever-so-briefly human?
Hey, he was disgusted. He was pissed. He had a moment. It happens.
Even Superman, after all, had his Kryptonite.
Wednesday, June 6, 2018
History vs. history
Now comes the real test, with the Washington Capitals up 3-1 in the Stanley Cup Final. Now we find just whose weight of history is weightier, and to what lengths the Caps will go to raise their level of epic failure to truly epic failure.
The Caps have broken the hearts of D.C. many times across the years, part of a thirsty mosaic that goes back 27 years. Not since 1991, when the Washington Football Team won the Super Bowl, has the nation's capital celebrated a professional sports championship. It's been nothing but blowing dust, tumbleweeds and echoing emptiness since.
Which brings us back to history, and also ... history.
On one side stand the Caps, who have blown 3-1 leads in the playoffs five times.
On the other stands the Stanley Cup Final, which has not seen a team blow a 3-1 lead since the Red Wings did it in 1942.
That's 76 years to you and me, kids.
So, yes, blowing a 3-1 lead now would be the ultimate Capitals thing. And it would rip out the heart of a city that is so ready to celebrate a championship it can barely contain itself.
The Blob thinks containment should not be required this time.
It says this because this Capitals team is different than all the others, in the sense that its greatest player -- Alexander Ovechkin -- finally has a center skilled enough to turn him loose. It's no accident that Ovechkin is having his finest playoff performance (14 goals, 12 assists, 26 points) in the same season when the Caps decided to center his line with Evgeny Kuznetsov. The latter has scored 31 points on 12 goals and 19 assists, and he's like to win the Conn Smythe Trophy as the playoff MVP. He's also the heir apparent to Ovechkin as the Capitals' resident superstar, a hugely gifted player who's the primary reason the Caps are where they are.
So it says here the Caps' history loses to Stanley Cup Final history, and the ticker will go to 77 years since a team blew a 3-1 lead in the Final.
I imagine that's one loss the Caps', and their city, will gladly take.
The Caps have broken the hearts of D.C. many times across the years, part of a thirsty mosaic that goes back 27 years. Not since 1991, when the Washington Football Team won the Super Bowl, has the nation's capital celebrated a professional sports championship. It's been nothing but blowing dust, tumbleweeds and echoing emptiness since.
Which brings us back to history, and also ... history.
On one side stand the Caps, who have blown 3-1 leads in the playoffs five times.
On the other stands the Stanley Cup Final, which has not seen a team blow a 3-1 lead since the Red Wings did it in 1942.
That's 76 years to you and me, kids.
So, yes, blowing a 3-1 lead now would be the ultimate Capitals thing. And it would rip out the heart of a city that is so ready to celebrate a championship it can barely contain itself.
The Blob thinks containment should not be required this time.
It says this because this Capitals team is different than all the others, in the sense that its greatest player -- Alexander Ovechkin -- finally has a center skilled enough to turn him loose. It's no accident that Ovechkin is having his finest playoff performance (14 goals, 12 assists, 26 points) in the same season when the Caps decided to center his line with Evgeny Kuznetsov. The latter has scored 31 points on 12 goals and 19 assists, and he's like to win the Conn Smythe Trophy as the playoff MVP. He's also the heir apparent to Ovechkin as the Capitals' resident superstar, a hugely gifted player who's the primary reason the Caps are where they are.
So it says here the Caps' history loses to Stanley Cup Final history, and the ticker will go to 77 years since a team blew a 3-1 lead in the Final.
I imagine that's one loss the Caps', and their city, will gladly take.
One more thought
And then I'll let go this whole business of Our Only Available President (and his propaganda ministry) continuing to misrepresent the respectful NFL player protests by playing the phony Disrespecting America card.
The latest in this farcical bit of political theater comes from the Propaganda Ministry itself, aka FOX "News," which ran photos of Eagles tight end Zach Ertz kneeling with his head bowed and claimed the Eagles were part of the player protests. Turns out, they weren't. Turns out, Ertz was just doing what he always does before games.
He was kneeling in prayer.
The Propaganda Ministry immediately mimicked Emily Litella of SNL fame: "Well. That's very different." And it apologized, because kneeling in prayer is completely A-OK.
Which makes the Blob once again shake its head in wonder at what a profoundly absurd country this has become.
You see, a lot of the players Our Only Available President and his minions have smeared as un-American were doing exactly what Zach Ertz does: Kneeling with their heads bowed.
In prayer.
For a country they supposedly hate.
In other words: It's perfectly acceptable to kneel with your head bowed in prayer. But only at a time approved by OOAP and his Propaganda Ministry. And only if you're praying for the right reasons, which do not include in protest over people of color getting shot in situations where they shouldn't be getting shot.
This sends the quite reasonable message that America is not perfect and can do better. But in the world of OOAP and his fellow travelers, that is simply unacceptable.
What a country. What a crazy, crazy country.
The latest in this farcical bit of political theater comes from the Propaganda Ministry itself, aka FOX "News," which ran photos of Eagles tight end Zach Ertz kneeling with his head bowed and claimed the Eagles were part of the player protests. Turns out, they weren't. Turns out, Ertz was just doing what he always does before games.
He was kneeling in prayer.
The Propaganda Ministry immediately mimicked Emily Litella of SNL fame: "Well. That's very different." And it apologized, because kneeling in prayer is completely A-OK.
Which makes the Blob once again shake its head in wonder at what a profoundly absurd country this has become.
You see, a lot of the players Our Only Available President and his minions have smeared as un-American were doing exactly what Zach Ertz does: Kneeling with their heads bowed.
In prayer.
For a country they supposedly hate.
In other words: It's perfectly acceptable to kneel with your head bowed in prayer. But only at a time approved by OOAP and his Propaganda Ministry. And only if you're praying for the right reasons, which do not include in protest over people of color getting shot in situations where they shouldn't be getting shot.
This sends the quite reasonable message that America is not perfect and can do better. But in the world of OOAP and his fellow travelers, that is simply unacceptable.
What a country. What a crazy, crazy country.
Tuesday, June 5, 2018
Requiem for a Catch
The moment has replayed so many times in memory and in fact that every detail is hardwired into the brainpan now, every tiny incremental nuance.
Joe Montana rolling, rolling, rolling, running out of room, leaning away from the rush as the sideline looms.
The football leaving his hand, rotating in slow motion as it sails higher and higher -- too high, surely, the eye already tracking its imagined trajectory and seeing it ending well beyond the end zone, seeing it coming to rest impotently in the stands beyond.
The man in red and gold entering the frame suddenly from the right of the viewer, tiptoeing the endline, reaching higher, higher, grasping the football at the apex of a careful leap with the very end of clawed fingers.
Every time you see it, for a split second, you think the ball is too high and the fingers don't have enough purchase.
Every time you see it, No. 87 in red and gold pulls it down anyway.
This, of course, has gone down in NFL lore as The Catch, and it made the man who executed it famous. He was a 10th-round draft pick out of Clemson named Dwight Clark. The Catch he made that day beat the Cowboys and sent the 49ers to their first Super Bowl, launching one of the great dynasties in NFL history.
Yesterday, too soon, Dwight Clark died of ALS at the age of 61.
Today and tomorrow and for any number of tomorrows beyond, he will remain an icon in the way icons are made -- by one defining moment in their lives that we all see, in memory and in fact, for as long as memory and videotape exist.
For Dwight Clark, that moment was The Catch, and it took him beyond simply a 10th-round draft pick who became Montana's favorite target. Just as Michael Jordan had The Shot over Craig Ehlo and Bobby Thomson had The Shot Heard 'Round The World and Bobby Orr had The Flying Goal and John Elway had The Drive, Clark had The Catch.
He'll live forever because of it.
Joe Montana rolling, rolling, rolling, running out of room, leaning away from the rush as the sideline looms.
The football leaving his hand, rotating in slow motion as it sails higher and higher -- too high, surely, the eye already tracking its imagined trajectory and seeing it ending well beyond the end zone, seeing it coming to rest impotently in the stands beyond.
The man in red and gold entering the frame suddenly from the right of the viewer, tiptoeing the endline, reaching higher, higher, grasping the football at the apex of a careful leap with the very end of clawed fingers.
Every time you see it, for a split second, you think the ball is too high and the fingers don't have enough purchase.
Every time you see it, No. 87 in red and gold pulls it down anyway.
This, of course, has gone down in NFL lore as The Catch, and it made the man who executed it famous. He was a 10th-round draft pick out of Clemson named Dwight Clark. The Catch he made that day beat the Cowboys and sent the 49ers to their first Super Bowl, launching one of the great dynasties in NFL history.
Yesterday, too soon, Dwight Clark died of ALS at the age of 61.
Today and tomorrow and for any number of tomorrows beyond, he will remain an icon in the way icons are made -- by one defining moment in their lives that we all see, in memory and in fact, for as long as memory and videotape exist.
For Dwight Clark, that moment was The Catch, and it took him beyond simply a 10th-round draft pick who became Montana's favorite target. Just as Michael Jordan had The Shot over Craig Ehlo and Bobby Thomson had The Shot Heard 'Round The World and Bobby Orr had The Flying Goal and John Elway had The Drive, Clark had The Catch.
He'll live forever because of it.
Anthem of the clueless
He's a crude man-child whose only consistency is being consistently wrong about virtually everything, except when he's being consistently and intentionally misleading.
And so no surprise Our Only Available President disinvited the Super Bowl champion Eagles from the traditional White House visit, on account of some of them decided not to show up for a photo op with a man who's called NFL players "sons of bitches." That OOAP did the disinviting with a series of infantile taunts about the National Anthem and how the players couldn't hide from it in the locker room at HIS White House was entirely in character for him -- if character is in fact a word you can ever use in relation to him.
OOAP has always deliberately misrepresented the players' anthem protests, which of course are not and never have been about the anthem or the troops or disrespecting America at all. He's done this because he's as pure a demagogue as ever occupied the Oval Office, and his rants about these "unpatriotic" players are the sort of phony red meat that is the sustenance for any demagogue. And he's done it because he doesn't acknowledge as legitimate what all the respectful kneeling really was about -- African-Americans winding up dead in situations where they shouldn't, and how America would be greater again (to coin a phrase) if that didn't happen as often.
None of that, shall we say, fits OOAP's worldview. And that means exactly what you think it means.
The ironic thing?
None of the Eagles participated in the protests. So hard telling to whom OOAP thought he was aiming his taunting.
Then again, facts never matter very much to demagogues.
I mean, the man who was wrapping himself in the flag with such zeal?
When it was his turn to stand up for it, he did more than just kneel. He fled.
And so no surprise Our Only Available President disinvited the Super Bowl champion Eagles from the traditional White House visit, on account of some of them decided not to show up for a photo op with a man who's called NFL players "sons of bitches." That OOAP did the disinviting with a series of infantile taunts about the National Anthem and how the players couldn't hide from it in the locker room at HIS White House was entirely in character for him -- if character is in fact a word you can ever use in relation to him.
OOAP has always deliberately misrepresented the players' anthem protests, which of course are not and never have been about the anthem or the troops or disrespecting America at all. He's done this because he's as pure a demagogue as ever occupied the Oval Office, and his rants about these "unpatriotic" players are the sort of phony red meat that is the sustenance for any demagogue. And he's done it because he doesn't acknowledge as legitimate what all the respectful kneeling really was about -- African-Americans winding up dead in situations where they shouldn't, and how America would be greater again (to coin a phrase) if that didn't happen as often.
None of that, shall we say, fits OOAP's worldview. And that means exactly what you think it means.
The ironic thing?
None of the Eagles participated in the protests. So hard telling to whom OOAP thought he was aiming his taunting.
Then again, facts never matter very much to demagogues.
I mean, the man who was wrapping himself in the flag with such zeal?
When it was his turn to stand up for it, he did more than just kneel. He fled.
Monday, June 4, 2018
Dead yet? Well ...
Look, we all know what the obvious is here. Right? The obvious?
The obvious is that Golden State is a better basketball team than Cleveland, much better, and that when Steph Curry lapses into unconsciousness the way he did last night, the Warriors are going win by 19. Which they did in Game 2 of the NBA Finals to take a 2-0 lead in the best-of-seven.
It was never much of a contest, really, even though LeBron James LeBronned again, going for 29 points, 8 rebounds and 13 assists that probably would have been 20 if his teammates knew how to move off the ball.
But Curry dropped 33 points and a record nine 3s, one of them a ridiculous off-balance fallaway from close to 30 feet that should have had no prayer, because no one should be able to hit off-balance fallaways from 30 feet. Of course, because it was Curry, it plunged right down the throat. You pretty much knew right then the Cavs were done like dinner.
And now?
Well. Now it gets interesting.
Now the temptation, the severe temptation, is to think the Warriors are so much better that even if LeBron continues to LeBron at the very top setting of Hero Mode, the Warriors are going to sweep. The greatest basketball player on the planet, and likely ever, can beat a lot of people by himself, and has. But he can't beat the Warriors by himself.
You might want to resist that temptation.
That's because the Cavs were in this very position after Game 2 of the Eastern Conference finals, going back home down 2-0 to a Celtics team that had absolutely handled them in the first two games. And what happened?
The Cavs won the next two at home. And went on to win the series.
So the Blob will hold off on the anointing. The Blob still thinks Game 1 proved this could be an actual series. The Blob says "Let's wait and see what happens in Cleveland."
Because if there's one thing we know about LeBron and the Cavaliers, it's that they're never more dangerous than when they look the deadest. Down 2-0 to a clearly superior team?
Really. They're feeling much better.
The obvious is that Golden State is a better basketball team than Cleveland, much better, and that when Steph Curry lapses into unconsciousness the way he did last night, the Warriors are going win by 19. Which they did in Game 2 of the NBA Finals to take a 2-0 lead in the best-of-seven.
It was never much of a contest, really, even though LeBron James LeBronned again, going for 29 points, 8 rebounds and 13 assists that probably would have been 20 if his teammates knew how to move off the ball.
But Curry dropped 33 points and a record nine 3s, one of them a ridiculous off-balance fallaway from close to 30 feet that should have had no prayer, because no one should be able to hit off-balance fallaways from 30 feet. Of course, because it was Curry, it plunged right down the throat. You pretty much knew right then the Cavs were done like dinner.
And now?
Well. Now it gets interesting.
Now the temptation, the severe temptation, is to think the Warriors are so much better that even if LeBron continues to LeBron at the very top setting of Hero Mode, the Warriors are going to sweep. The greatest basketball player on the planet, and likely ever, can beat a lot of people by himself, and has. But he can't beat the Warriors by himself.
You might want to resist that temptation.
That's because the Cavs were in this very position after Game 2 of the Eastern Conference finals, going back home down 2-0 to a Celtics team that had absolutely handled them in the first two games. And what happened?
The Cavs won the next two at home. And went on to win the series.
So the Blob will hold off on the anointing. The Blob still thinks Game 1 proved this could be an actual series. The Blob says "Let's wait and see what happens in Cleveland."
Because if there's one thing we know about LeBron and the Cavaliers, it's that they're never more dangerous than when they look the deadest. Down 2-0 to a clearly superior team?
Really. They're feeling much better.
Car people cannot drive
You would have thought old Eldon Palmer would have learned 'em something.
That would be the Eldon Palmer who went down in Indianapolis 500 lore as the only man ever to crash a pace car, which he did in 1971. Just after veering off into the pits as the field came to the green at the start of the race, Palmer, a local Dodge dealer who got to drive the pace car because it was a Dodge Challenger, came in too hot, missed his braking point and crashed into a photographer's stand. Twenty-nine people were injured, one severely.
The obvious lesson: Don't let the seller handle the merchandise.
All these years later, IndyCar apparently forgot about Eldon, and forgot the lesson. They let a GM exec drive the Corvette pace car at Belle Isle yesterday, and this happened.
Well, you know that new aero package is a handful. Taking away the downforce makes things really dicey.
Oh, wait. That's the Indy cars themselves.
And the pace car?
Operator error. Clearly.
That would be the Eldon Palmer who went down in Indianapolis 500 lore as the only man ever to crash a pace car, which he did in 1971. Just after veering off into the pits as the field came to the green at the start of the race, Palmer, a local Dodge dealer who got to drive the pace car because it was a Dodge Challenger, came in too hot, missed his braking point and crashed into a photographer's stand. Twenty-nine people were injured, one severely.
The obvious lesson: Don't let the seller handle the merchandise.
All these years later, IndyCar apparently forgot about Eldon, and forgot the lesson. They let a GM exec drive the Corvette pace car at Belle Isle yesterday, and this happened.
Well, you know that new aero package is a handful. Taking away the downforce makes things really dicey.
Oh, wait. That's the Indy cars themselves.
And the pace car?
Operator error. Clearly.
Saturday, June 2, 2018
To the ramparts, hosers!
Well. I guess now we know why the hockey gods decided to favor an expansion team from Las Vegas over a real bonafide Canadian city (Winnipeg) in the Stanley Cup playoffs.
And, no, it wasn't just because the hockey gods knew a boffo storyline (Expansion team wins Stanley Cup!) when they saw one.
It was the first blow in the war against our neighbors to the north. Which, if you haven't been paying attention, is what Our Only Available President started the other day with his latest excursion into nitwittery.
It's probably too obvious at this point to note that OOAP never met a historically awful idea he wouldn't wholeheartedly embrace, since he's embraced so many of them in his 16-odd months in office. So we probably shouldn't have been surprised when he wholeheartedly embraced another one: Starting a trade war with, of all people, Canada.
Trade wars historically almost always backfire, but (again, probably too obvious) it's highly unlikely OOAP is aware of that. It is, after all, history. Best evidence suggests Donny slept through that class.
And so of course Canada has struck back by slapping tariffs on a variety of U.S. goods, which will of course hurt the industries that produce those goods. And of course, none of this had to happen. There simply wasn't a compelling reason to do it, other than the fact OOAP likes to play at being a tough guy.
In any case, the war is on. Vegas struck a ruinous blow by eliminating the last Canadian hockey team in the playoffs, but according to information to which only the Blob has access, the Canadians are planning to retaliate by sending an Alberta Clipper into the upper Midwest just in time for the Fourth of July. Happy Independence Day, Yanks! How do like those windchills?
The U.S., of course, will retaliate by deporting Justin Bieber, Celine Dion and Nickelback. No more lucrative American tours for you, ya hosers! Keep your crappy music on your own side of the border!
It's on after that. Canada will replace the Canadian bacon (i.e., ham) in your Egg McMuffin with Sidney Crosby's game-worn socks. America will seize the Canadian side of Niagara Falls, on account of it's never been fair that the Canadians got the good side. Canada will send Johnny Manziel back where he came from and scramble Sirius XM so it's all Nickelback all the time. America will send the Browns to Canada, and rewire the NBA schedule so the Raptors have to play LeBron James in the first round of the playoffs every single year.
Then the U.S. will simply invade. And the Canadians will simply snicker.
After all, they're 2-0 lifetime against American invasions.
And, no, it wasn't just because the hockey gods knew a boffo storyline (Expansion team wins Stanley Cup!) when they saw one.
It was the first blow in the war against our neighbors to the north. Which, if you haven't been paying attention, is what Our Only Available President started the other day with his latest excursion into nitwittery.
It's probably too obvious at this point to note that OOAP never met a historically awful idea he wouldn't wholeheartedly embrace, since he's embraced so many of them in his 16-odd months in office. So we probably shouldn't have been surprised when he wholeheartedly embraced another one: Starting a trade war with, of all people, Canada.
Trade wars historically almost always backfire, but (again, probably too obvious) it's highly unlikely OOAP is aware of that. It is, after all, history. Best evidence suggests Donny slept through that class.
And so of course Canada has struck back by slapping tariffs on a variety of U.S. goods, which will of course hurt the industries that produce those goods. And of course, none of this had to happen. There simply wasn't a compelling reason to do it, other than the fact OOAP likes to play at being a tough guy.
In any case, the war is on. Vegas struck a ruinous blow by eliminating the last Canadian hockey team in the playoffs, but according to information to which only the Blob has access, the Canadians are planning to retaliate by sending an Alberta Clipper into the upper Midwest just in time for the Fourth of July. Happy Independence Day, Yanks! How do like those windchills?
The U.S., of course, will retaliate by deporting Justin Bieber, Celine Dion and Nickelback. No more lucrative American tours for you, ya hosers! Keep your crappy music on your own side of the border!
It's on after that. Canada will replace the Canadian bacon (i.e., ham) in your Egg McMuffin with Sidney Crosby's game-worn socks. America will seize the Canadian side of Niagara Falls, on account of it's never been fair that the Canadians got the good side. Canada will send Johnny Manziel back where he came from and scramble Sirius XM so it's all Nickelback all the time. America will send the Browns to Canada, and rewire the NBA schedule so the Raptors have to play LeBron James in the first round of the playoffs every single year.
Then the U.S. will simply invade. And the Canadians will simply snicker.
After all, they're 2-0 lifetime against American invasions.
Friday, June 1, 2018
Why replay stinks
And, OK, first off, a Blob disclaimer: I have no dog in the NBA Finals hunt. None.
I like LeBron James. I like Steph Curry and Steve Kerr and the Warriors, love the way they play basketball.
But hosed is hosed. And last night, in Game 1 of the NBA Finals, LeBron 'n' them got hosed.
They got hosed when, with the Cavs leading by two with 40 seconds remaining, he stepped in to draw a charge on Kevin Durant. He was clearly -- clearly, from every conceivable angle -- well outside the crescent-shaped charge line in the lane when he did it. It was also pretty clearly a charge on Durant, who couldn't have more blatantly run over LeBron if he'd been driving a bulldozer.
Whistle. Charge on Durant. Nothing to see here, right?
Wrong. Even though the call was the right one, and even though it wasn't remotely in question, they went to the video replay. Decided ... well, I don't know what they decided, because the charge line wasn't in play on the, well, play. In any case, they decided it was a block instead of a charge, and reversed the call.
Durant stepped to the line, hit the free throws, and we all know what happened after that. The Warriors got it to overtime when J.R. Smith inexplicably dribbled out the clock for Cleveland with the score tied, and then the Warriors won by 10 despite LeBron dropping 51 on them.
Replay played a huge role in making that happen.
Replay that should never have been engaged on the play to begin with.
Replay that reversed a correct call.
Tell me again how it's supposed to ensure officials get calls right. I'll wait.
Then I'll laugh.
I like LeBron James. I like Steph Curry and Steve Kerr and the Warriors, love the way they play basketball.
But hosed is hosed. And last night, in Game 1 of the NBA Finals, LeBron 'n' them got hosed.
They got hosed when, with the Cavs leading by two with 40 seconds remaining, he stepped in to draw a charge on Kevin Durant. He was clearly -- clearly, from every conceivable angle -- well outside the crescent-shaped charge line in the lane when he did it. It was also pretty clearly a charge on Durant, who couldn't have more blatantly run over LeBron if he'd been driving a bulldozer.
Whistle. Charge on Durant. Nothing to see here, right?
Wrong. Even though the call was the right one, and even though it wasn't remotely in question, they went to the video replay. Decided ... well, I don't know what they decided, because the charge line wasn't in play on the, well, play. In any case, they decided it was a block instead of a charge, and reversed the call.
Durant stepped to the line, hit the free throws, and we all know what happened after that. The Warriors got it to overtime when J.R. Smith inexplicably dribbled out the clock for Cleveland with the score tied, and then the Warriors won by 10 despite LeBron dropping 51 on them.
Replay played a huge role in making that happen.
Replay that should never have been engaged on the play to begin with.
Replay that reversed a correct call.
Tell me again how it's supposed to ensure officials get calls right. I'll wait.
Then I'll laugh.