Look, I get it. First, it's not 1965 anymore. Second, it's hockey, which has a niche audience no matter how much fans of it like myself are loathe to admit otherwise.
And third?
Third ... well, yes, what I'm about to say does make me that archetypal geezer of myth and legend.
In other words: Damn kids.
And also: Don't you see me over here shaking my fist as you track dirt through my pristine green lawn?
Get off my lawn, and, NBC, get this schlock crap off my TV screen. It's the Stanley Cup Final, dammit. Why are we watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Warriors or whatever this cheap-o garbage is called?
Nobody cares. What we care about, those of us who don't have cable or DirectTV or live streaming or your fancy apps -- whose televisions operate like, yes, it really is 1965 -- is Carl Gunnarsson scoring in overtime for the St. Louis Blues last night, evening the Stanley Cup Final with the Boston Bruins at one game apiece.
We geezers didn't see it, because NBC chose not to run Game 2 on its main feed. Apparently Teenage Mutant Ninja Warriors was too big a deal to pre-empt for only the oldest major championship series on the North American continent.
Yeesh. Can Congress not pass a law dictating that major championships in American sport be required to air on network TV? I mean, since Congress isn't doing anything else these days besides ducking and running from the raving ninny in the White House?
I mean, it's one thing to pre-empt the Stanley Cup Final for something good, like "Law & Order: SVU" reruns. But for trash programming like Teenage Mutant Ninja Warriors? What, they've run out of America Sings Good contests to put on the air?
I know. I know. Shaking my fist, screaming at the damn kids.
But ... come on. It's the Stanley Cup Final.
Where's the love, NBC?
Thursday, May 30, 2019
Wednesday, May 29, 2019
Mount Lunacy
Take a good long look at the photo accompanying this story, and then tell me the human species is long for this world. That's a queue of people lined up to get to the top of Mt. Everest. That's a queue of people lined up as if Everest were, I don't know, a ride at Cedar Point or a hit Broadway show.
Which it might be now that Nepal is doling out permits to climb Everest to just about anyone with a pulse and the ability to pass the old chewing gum/walking test.
The result is this sort of logjam at the top, as climbers patiently wait their turn to stand on the highest point on Earth. Mind you, this is not a sidewalk they're standing on. This is a knife's-edge ridge 29,000 feet in the sky, where oxygen is as rare as common sense and the trail is littered with human popsicles, corpses left there after falling or running out of air or being caught out in storms that come howling out of nowhere in an eyeblink.
There are so many corpses up there now, the climbers Everest hasn't killed yet are literally stepping over them. Eleven of them are fresh corpses who have died in this season alone.
It's a damn cemetery up there, in other words. Think about that for a second.
"Are these people crazy?" you're asking now, having thought about it.
An excellent question. Here's the easy answer: Why, yes. Yes, they are.
This would include Nepalese officials, who see no problem with people queuing up in long lines to become Everest's next victims. Desperate for the money, they've issued north of 300 permits so far this year, at $11,000 a pop.
Some of them have gone to people who've actually climbed a real mountain before. The rest have gone to thrill-seekers and bucket-listers who belong on a knife's-edge ridge 29,000 feet in the sky the way an El Camino belongs in the Indianapolis 500.
I don't know how Nepal justifies this. I do know how it should sell it, however.
Wanna Die On Everest? Here's Your Chance!
That.
And Don't Forget The T-Shirt: I Kicked The Bucket (List) On Everest!
Also that.
The hell of it is, when you're lining up to reach the summit of Everest the way you'd line up at Starbucks, how much of an I Kicked The Bucket (List) deal is it? Thousands of just folks have reached the summit now, decades after Hillary and Tenzing did it. Climbers who've survived this season say it's a literal traffic jam up there now. Which suggests it's about as much an accomplishment these days as making a successful trip to Lowe's.
Yet every Tom, Dick and Harry is still doing it. And Nepal is still blithely issuing permits to them. And the human popsicles above Camp Four keep blooming like flowers in an English garden.
Oh, yes. These people are crazy. Crazy as bedbugs.
Which it might be now that Nepal is doling out permits to climb Everest to just about anyone with a pulse and the ability to pass the old chewing gum/walking test.
The result is this sort of logjam at the top, as climbers patiently wait their turn to stand on the highest point on Earth. Mind you, this is not a sidewalk they're standing on. This is a knife's-edge ridge 29,000 feet in the sky, where oxygen is as rare as common sense and the trail is littered with human popsicles, corpses left there after falling or running out of air or being caught out in storms that come howling out of nowhere in an eyeblink.
There are so many corpses up there now, the climbers Everest hasn't killed yet are literally stepping over them. Eleven of them are fresh corpses who have died in this season alone.
It's a damn cemetery up there, in other words. Think about that for a second.
"Are these people crazy?" you're asking now, having thought about it.
An excellent question. Here's the easy answer: Why, yes. Yes, they are.
This would include Nepalese officials, who see no problem with people queuing up in long lines to become Everest's next victims. Desperate for the money, they've issued north of 300 permits so far this year, at $11,000 a pop.
Some of them have gone to people who've actually climbed a real mountain before. The rest have gone to thrill-seekers and bucket-listers who belong on a knife's-edge ridge 29,000 feet in the sky the way an El Camino belongs in the Indianapolis 500.
I don't know how Nepal justifies this. I do know how it should sell it, however.
Wanna Die On Everest? Here's Your Chance!
That.
And Don't Forget The T-Shirt: I Kicked The Bucket (List) On Everest!
Also that.
The hell of it is, when you're lining up to reach the summit of Everest the way you'd line up at Starbucks, how much of an I Kicked The Bucket (List) deal is it? Thousands of just folks have reached the summit now, decades after Hillary and Tenzing did it. Climbers who've survived this season say it's a literal traffic jam up there now. Which suggests it's about as much an accomplishment these days as making a successful trip to Lowe's.
Yet every Tom, Dick and Harry is still doing it. And Nepal is still blithely issuing permits to them. And the human popsicles above Camp Four keep blooming like flowers in an English garden.
Oh, yes. These people are crazy. Crazy as bedbugs.
Tuesday, May 28, 2019
Things of remembrance lost
I have seen the hour of endless twilight, and it is no pretty thing. It is all grayness, and mumbling. It is a haze of hallucination, and words without context. It is a slow, ruinous retreat from the world and all that humans love of it, until finally the mind is a vacant room with a vacant stare looking out from it.
I have seen dementia. My father had it. It was nasty and pitiless and stole everything he had ever been -- and when his death came, it felt like mercy.
And so when I read about Bart Starr's death, I felt an extra twinge. And when Bill Buckner died the next day, I felt an even stronger twinge.
Buckner, see, died at 69 of Lewy-Body dementia, which is what my father had. And Starr, in his last years, suffered a series of strokes and seizures that so diminished his mind that, four years ago, a reporter visited him and found he could no longer remember he'd been the quarterback of one of the most iconic football teams of all time, the Vince Lombardi Packers.
Couldn't remember Lombardi. Couldn't remember any of the five championships they'd won. Couldn't remember Jerry Kramer, or Fuzzy Thurston, or Jim Taylor, or Paul Hornung.
Couldn't remember the Ice Bowl, when the wind chill was 48 below and an industrial haze hung over Lambeau Field from the frozen breath of all those hardy Cheesehead fans. Couldn't remember how, aching and weary from being slammed to the concrete turf eight times by the Dallas pass rush, he finally ended it by burrowing into the end zone behind a road-grader block from Kramer and Kenny Bowman.
And Buckner?
At the end, could he remember how great a baseball player he'd been as a young man for the Dodgers and Cubs? Could he remember how he stoically soldiered on into baseball senior citizenry with his legs mostly gone? Or did Lewy-Body show an especially cruel streak and, over and over, take him in his mind to that moment when he couldn't get down on Mookie Wilson's slow roller, opening the door to yet more ballyhooed heartache for the Boston Red Sox?
He'll always be remembered for that play, unfairly, because it plays over and over in any video from the 1986 World Series. Yet time has done its work, softening hearts while sharpening perspective. The blame for this particular Red Sox choke now rests mostly where it should have all along, with manager John McNamara.
Buckner never should have been on the field at that juncture, not with his lack of mobility. It was a late-inning defensive switch that cried out to be made, and McNamara failed to make it. So what happened is on him, not on Buckner.
I hope that moment wasn't where he was in his mind, at the end. Or if it was, that the dementia scrambled it with some other memory, some other Lewy-Body hallucination.
I hope Bart Starr regained some sense of who he was, too, before the end.
Because he played for such a legend, and on such a legendary team, he didn't always get his due. But he was the perfect quarterback for those '60s Packers, an afterthought in college and the pros until Lombardi found him and saw something in him no one else did. And in time he became as iconic as the team for which he played.
I don't know how it was elsewhere in those days, but every time my uncle, cousin and I played football in the barnyard down in Wells County, we were always the Packers. My uncle, playing the seniority card, always got to be Bart Starr. My cousin was always Paul Hornung. I was always either Boyd Dowler or Carroll Dale, I can't exactly remember.
But I do remember enough. And I hope Buckner and Starr did, too, at the end.
One last small victory, it would have been. And surely not too much to ask.
I have seen dementia. My father had it. It was nasty and pitiless and stole everything he had ever been -- and when his death came, it felt like mercy.
And so when I read about Bart Starr's death, I felt an extra twinge. And when Bill Buckner died the next day, I felt an even stronger twinge.
Buckner, see, died at 69 of Lewy-Body dementia, which is what my father had. And Starr, in his last years, suffered a series of strokes and seizures that so diminished his mind that, four years ago, a reporter visited him and found he could no longer remember he'd been the quarterback of one of the most iconic football teams of all time, the Vince Lombardi Packers.
Couldn't remember Lombardi. Couldn't remember any of the five championships they'd won. Couldn't remember Jerry Kramer, or Fuzzy Thurston, or Jim Taylor, or Paul Hornung.
Couldn't remember the Ice Bowl, when the wind chill was 48 below and an industrial haze hung over Lambeau Field from the frozen breath of all those hardy Cheesehead fans. Couldn't remember how, aching and weary from being slammed to the concrete turf eight times by the Dallas pass rush, he finally ended it by burrowing into the end zone behind a road-grader block from Kramer and Kenny Bowman.
And Buckner?
At the end, could he remember how great a baseball player he'd been as a young man for the Dodgers and Cubs? Could he remember how he stoically soldiered on into baseball senior citizenry with his legs mostly gone? Or did Lewy-Body show an especially cruel streak and, over and over, take him in his mind to that moment when he couldn't get down on Mookie Wilson's slow roller, opening the door to yet more ballyhooed heartache for the Boston Red Sox?
He'll always be remembered for that play, unfairly, because it plays over and over in any video from the 1986 World Series. Yet time has done its work, softening hearts while sharpening perspective. The blame for this particular Red Sox choke now rests mostly where it should have all along, with manager John McNamara.
Buckner never should have been on the field at that juncture, not with his lack of mobility. It was a late-inning defensive switch that cried out to be made, and McNamara failed to make it. So what happened is on him, not on Buckner.
I hope that moment wasn't where he was in his mind, at the end. Or if it was, that the dementia scrambled it with some other memory, some other Lewy-Body hallucination.
I hope Bart Starr regained some sense of who he was, too, before the end.
Because he played for such a legend, and on such a legendary team, he didn't always get his due. But he was the perfect quarterback for those '60s Packers, an afterthought in college and the pros until Lombardi found him and saw something in him no one else did. And in time he became as iconic as the team for which he played.
I don't know how it was elsewhere in those days, but every time my uncle, cousin and I played football in the barnyard down in Wells County, we were always the Packers. My uncle, playing the seniority card, always got to be Bart Starr. My cousin was always Paul Hornung. I was always either Boyd Dowler or Carroll Dale, I can't exactly remember.
But I do remember enough. And I hope Buckner and Starr did, too, at the end.
One last small victory, it would have been. And surely not too much to ask.
Monday, May 27, 2019
The vanished, and the cost
Always I remember the cemeteries, on this day when we pause to honor the ones who never came back. They are in France, the cemeteries, and too much forgotten as their war is too much forgotten, in this time without history.
They are the American cemetery at Belleau Wood. They are the American cemetery at Meuse-Argonne. They are the American cemetery at St. Mihiel.
Rows of white crosses stretch away from you in these green gardens, arrayed in perfect and awful symmetry. American boys who sang "Over There" as they marched off to the Western Front slumber eternally there, killed by German machine guns or artillery or a horrifying flu pandemic in the last great push of World War I.
They were kids, most of them, from small towns and big cities and bucolic farms. Most of them had no clue what they were in for when they went marching off singing. Some of them never would know, killed before they'd barely seen anything.
One second they were filing into a trench complex built and then abandoned by the French or British; the next, oblivion. And then a name on a white cross in a green place far from home.
Or, not a cross. Because that happened, too.
I'm reminded of this because the other day, in honor of Memorial Day weekend, the Fort Wayne TinCaps unveiled a chair and a plaque at Parkview Field. Unlike the other chairs in the 'View, this one is not green, but black. And no one will ever sit in it.
The accompanying plaque explains: The black chair is symbolic of all the Americans who were either POWs or MIAs, and who not only never came home but simply vanished. According to the plaque, there have been 92,000 of those since the Great War.
And suddenly I'm right back in France, at a country crossroads on a sun-washed summer day, standing in the cool dimness of the marble memorial at the St. Mihiel American Cemetery. The cemetery, comprising more than 4,000 of those white crosses, lies in lush farmland just outside the village of Thiaucourt, in the middle of the old St. Mihiel salient. In 1918, in their first large-scale action of the war, American military forces reduced the salient, at great cost.
Here inside the marble chamber, the cost hits home. On one wall is an immense plaque of polished black stone, stretching almost from floor to ceiling. On it, name upon name is etched in gold. They are the names of the American soldiers who simply disappeared from the earth during the St. Mihiel campaign.
The names go on forever, every one of them once a living soul with a family and a life and dreams of a future. Every one of them simply gone, from one battlefield of one war, so that other living souls could make their own families and lives and futures.
Something to think about this day. And all days.
They are the American cemetery at Belleau Wood. They are the American cemetery at Meuse-Argonne. They are the American cemetery at St. Mihiel.
Rows of white crosses stretch away from you in these green gardens, arrayed in perfect and awful symmetry. American boys who sang "Over There" as they marched off to the Western Front slumber eternally there, killed by German machine guns or artillery or a horrifying flu pandemic in the last great push of World War I.
They were kids, most of them, from small towns and big cities and bucolic farms. Most of them had no clue what they were in for when they went marching off singing. Some of them never would know, killed before they'd barely seen anything.
One second they were filing into a trench complex built and then abandoned by the French or British; the next, oblivion. And then a name on a white cross in a green place far from home.
Or, not a cross. Because that happened, too.
I'm reminded of this because the other day, in honor of Memorial Day weekend, the Fort Wayne TinCaps unveiled a chair and a plaque at Parkview Field. Unlike the other chairs in the 'View, this one is not green, but black. And no one will ever sit in it.
The accompanying plaque explains: The black chair is symbolic of all the Americans who were either POWs or MIAs, and who not only never came home but simply vanished. According to the plaque, there have been 92,000 of those since the Great War.
And suddenly I'm right back in France, at a country crossroads on a sun-washed summer day, standing in the cool dimness of the marble memorial at the St. Mihiel American Cemetery. The cemetery, comprising more than 4,000 of those white crosses, lies in lush farmland just outside the village of Thiaucourt, in the middle of the old St. Mihiel salient. In 1918, in their first large-scale action of the war, American military forces reduced the salient, at great cost.
Here inside the marble chamber, the cost hits home. On one wall is an immense plaque of polished black stone, stretching almost from floor to ceiling. On it, name upon name is etched in gold. They are the names of the American soldiers who simply disappeared from the earth during the St. Mihiel campaign.
The names go on forever, every one of them once a living soul with a family and a life and dreams of a future. Every one of them simply gone, from one battlefield of one war, so that other living souls could make their own families and lives and futures.
Something to think about this day. And all days.
Peerless
This is how you put on a Greatest Spectacle, in case the NASCAR posers and Indy-Ain't-The-Same deniers are wondering. You give 'em a duel for the ages at America's loudest, fastest historic landmark.
You flood this ancient place with the population of a mid-size city, and you put in a heavenly call to Tony Hulman and put him in charge of the weather ("Outta the way, Mr. Accuweather Forecast. Lemme show you how it's done"). Then you bring it down two determined men and two rocket ships: Simon Pagenaud, who owned May like few have in recent memory, and Alexander Rossi, who ran the wheels off it in as breathtaking a charge as Indy has seen in ... well, 103 years.
Then you let 'em settle it in a 15-lap dash to the finish, after the one big crash of a mostly clean day shut things down for awhile.
In the end, Rossi caught Pagenaud with three laps to run, and Pagenaud blew back past him on the outside in turn three on lap 199. Then Pagenaud, who had been masterful all day (and all month), masterfully kept the flat-footing Rossi in his wake by weaving back and forth on lap 200, breaking Rossi's draft and keeping him from getting one final run.
You wanna talk defensive driving? That, boys and girls, was defensive driving on steroids.
Like all great Indy duels, this one stirred echoes of other duels on other days. It was Rodger Ward and Jim Rathmann swapping the lead time and again in 1960. It was Rick Mears almost-but-not-quite chasing down Gordon Johncock in 1982. It was Ryan Hunter-Reay and Helio Castroneves going into the grass to pass as the laps ran down in 2014; Emmo punting Al Jr. into the wall in turn three in 1989; Junior and Scott Goodyear drag-racing to the yard of brick three years later.
Now you can add Pagenaud and Rossi to the collection. Celebrate them both, because as with all great duels it took both to make the moment -- and because both put on peerless drives that made this day.
Pagenaud broke the pole jinx -- it had been a full decade since the polesitter wound up in victory lane -- by putting everyone in his mirrors and keeping them there, leading more laps (116) than any driver in nine years. Rossi, meanwhile, drove like a man possessed by either demons or road rage, passing people high and low and in places no earthly soul would have thought to pass people.
The dominant images of his day?
Pounding his hands on the steering column in frustration tration when his fuel hose malfunctioned on a pit stop. Taking one hand off the wheel -- at 220 mph -- and shaking his fist at back marker Oriol Servia, who for reasons known only to him kept blocking Rossi during Rossi's mad dash to the front, even though Servia was a lap down.
Riveting stuff. And, yes, even the predicted storms stayed away, the Speedway doused instead by a downpour of sunshine as an overcome Pagenaud took the checkers, stopped on the yard of brick to salute the fans, and then dumped an entire bottle of milk in his own face.
Bathed in white, it looked briefly as if his face had been etched in marble. Which seemed fitting, somehow.
After all, not too many days from now, his face will be etched on the Borg-Warner Trophy.
You flood this ancient place with the population of a mid-size city, and you put in a heavenly call to Tony Hulman and put him in charge of the weather ("Outta the way, Mr. Accuweather Forecast. Lemme show you how it's done"). Then you bring it down two determined men and two rocket ships: Simon Pagenaud, who owned May like few have in recent memory, and Alexander Rossi, who ran the wheels off it in as breathtaking a charge as Indy has seen in ... well, 103 years.
Then you let 'em settle it in a 15-lap dash to the finish, after the one big crash of a mostly clean day shut things down for awhile.
In the end, Rossi caught Pagenaud with three laps to run, and Pagenaud blew back past him on the outside in turn three on lap 199. Then Pagenaud, who had been masterful all day (and all month), masterfully kept the flat-footing Rossi in his wake by weaving back and forth on lap 200, breaking Rossi's draft and keeping him from getting one final run.
You wanna talk defensive driving? That, boys and girls, was defensive driving on steroids.
Like all great Indy duels, this one stirred echoes of other duels on other days. It was Rodger Ward and Jim Rathmann swapping the lead time and again in 1960. It was Rick Mears almost-but-not-quite chasing down Gordon Johncock in 1982. It was Ryan Hunter-Reay and Helio Castroneves going into the grass to pass as the laps ran down in 2014; Emmo punting Al Jr. into the wall in turn three in 1989; Junior and Scott Goodyear drag-racing to the yard of brick three years later.
Now you can add Pagenaud and Rossi to the collection. Celebrate them both, because as with all great duels it took both to make the moment -- and because both put on peerless drives that made this day.
Pagenaud broke the pole jinx -- it had been a full decade since the polesitter wound up in victory lane -- by putting everyone in his mirrors and keeping them there, leading more laps (116) than any driver in nine years. Rossi, meanwhile, drove like a man possessed by either demons or road rage, passing people high and low and in places no earthly soul would have thought to pass people.
The dominant images of his day?
Pounding his hands on the steering column in frustration tration when his fuel hose malfunctioned on a pit stop. Taking one hand off the wheel -- at 220 mph -- and shaking his fist at back marker Oriol Servia, who for reasons known only to him kept blocking Rossi during Rossi's mad dash to the front, even though Servia was a lap down.
Riveting stuff. And, yes, even the predicted storms stayed away, the Speedway doused instead by a downpour of sunshine as an overcome Pagenaud took the checkers, stopped on the yard of brick to salute the fans, and then dumped an entire bottle of milk in his own face.
Bathed in white, it looked briefly as if his face had been etched in marble. Which seemed fitting, somehow.
After all, not too many days from now, his face will be etched on the Borg-Warner Trophy.
Da prediction
In which the Blob once again embarrasses itself by, I don't know, picking Marco Andretti again, or Scott Dixon again, or Helio Castroneves because he's gotta win No. 4 sometime, right?
The Blob is supposed to know this stuff, on account of it's been hanging around the Indianapolis Motor Speedway in May for most of its life, and therefore knows all of its quirks and odd currents of luck, hard and otherwise. And yet I got nothin', here on the morning of the 103rd running of the Indianapolis 500.
Wait. I do have something.
The Blob predicts rain. In mass quantities or otherwise.
("Oh, bold pick there!" you're saying. "Everyone who can look at a radar screen knows folks are gonna get wet today!")
OK, fine. I will predict. I correctly predicted the winner exactly three times in 40 years of covering the 500 as an Allegedly Knowledgeable Observer, but my willingness to look the fool has rarely been fazed by epic ineptitude. So ...
So, I predict the winner will not be Sage Karam, James Hinchcliffe or Kyle Kaiser. I also predict it will not be Dixon, which might come as a shock to some considering how many times I've picked the guy since he won in 2008.
This is because Karam, Hinchcliffe and Kaiser start in Row 11 today, and no one, in 102 tries, has ever won the 500 from Row 11. In fact, no one has ever won the 500 from deeper in the field than 28th, and the last time that happened was 1936.
So. No soup for Sage, Hinch or Kyle.
And Dixon?
He starts 18th. No driver has ever won the 500 from the 18 hole. In fact, only one driver has won from farther back than 18th starting position in 21 years.
This does not mean it couldn't happen, of course. In a place that is its traditions, no tradition is more ironclad than Indy's stubborn unpredictability. Weirdness tends to happen at this ancient, haunted sprawl, and whether that is the work of all the impish ghosts that walk the grounds or simply history throwing its weight around, it is as much a part of the fabric here as all those bricks that lie beneath decades of asphalt.
A $6 part fails, and one of the most iconic racecars in Indy history -- Andy Granatelli's STP turbine -- dies six laps from a dominating victory.
Young JR Hildebrand successfully negotiates 799 left turns, then can't make the last one, hits the wall and an astonished Dan Wheldon winds up chugging the milk in victory lane.
Sam Hornish Jr. comes out of nowhere to catch Marco. A rookie of whom no one had heard a lot -- Alexander Rossi -- stretches his last tank of fuel to its final vapors and wins the 100th running. Scott Goodyear gets docked for passing the pace car, and a youngster with a shining name, Jacques Villeneuve, winds up taking the checkers despite at one time being two laps down.
On and on. As the late, great Hunter S. Thompson was fond of saying, bad craziness.
So what happens today, if it happens today?
Symmetry tempts the Blob to, yes, once again pick Marco, on account of it's the 50th anniversary of Grandpa Mario's lone 500 victory. He's had a brutal season so far, but he always seems to run well at Indy -- he's finished in the top ten eight times in 13 starts -- and he rolls away from the inside of Row 4 today. So, it could happen.
Of course, it won't. Indy is notoriously allergic to symmetry, for one thing. And Marco is, well, an Andretti. So, no.
Maybe this is the Year of the Kids, because half the first two rows are 25 or younger. You've got Spencer Pigot (25), Ed Jones (24) and Colton Herta (19) up there, a sign that a new generation is ready to emerge. But the Blob doesn't get a strong vibe from any of them. Maybe next year.
Helio?
It's been a full decade since he won his third 500, and history says he's due. A.J. Foyt went a full decade before finally winning his fourth in 1977, after all. Symmetry again.
But ... see above.
Will Power? Josef Newgarden? Rossi?
You couldn't go wrong picking any of them, and Newgarden in particular feels like a guy whose time is eventually going to come around here. He comes to Indy leading the points, he starts in the middle of Row 3, and he has one win and three podium finishes in five starts this year. So you figure he'll be there at the end.
Dixon, too, voodoo starting position and all. He has four podium finishes himself so far this season, and, after 11 dry years, he's due, too. And what would be more Indy than defying convention?
Which is why, after much deliberation and with much trepidation, I'm picking ... Simon Pagenaud.
As the polesitter, his is a voodoo starting spot, too, given that no one has won the 500 from the pole since Castroneves did it a decade ago. Yet the polesitter has won 43 times in 102 races, and, if Pagenaud came to Indy in danger of losing his ride after an extended dry spell, this has demonstrably been his May.
At the front of the month, he won the IndyCar Grand Prix of Indianapolis with a masterful drive in the rain. A week ago, he won the pole for the 500. And, like Newgarden, he's another Penske driver who feels like a 500 winner in waiting.
The Blob says the wait ends today -- or tomorrow, if the rains come as predicted. And you know what that means.
It means James Hinchcliffe is going to win, probably.
It is, after all, Indy. Let the bad craziness begin.
The Blob is supposed to know this stuff, on account of it's been hanging around the Indianapolis Motor Speedway in May for most of its life, and therefore knows all of its quirks and odd currents of luck, hard and otherwise. And yet I got nothin', here on the morning of the 103rd running of the Indianapolis 500.
Wait. I do have something.
The Blob predicts rain. In mass quantities or otherwise.
("Oh, bold pick there!" you're saying. "Everyone who can look at a radar screen knows folks are gonna get wet today!")
OK, fine. I will predict. I correctly predicted the winner exactly three times in 40 years of covering the 500 as an Allegedly Knowledgeable Observer, but my willingness to look the fool has rarely been fazed by epic ineptitude. So ...
So, I predict the winner will not be Sage Karam, James Hinchcliffe or Kyle Kaiser. I also predict it will not be Dixon, which might come as a shock to some considering how many times I've picked the guy since he won in 2008.
This is because Karam, Hinchcliffe and Kaiser start in Row 11 today, and no one, in 102 tries, has ever won the 500 from Row 11. In fact, no one has ever won the 500 from deeper in the field than 28th, and the last time that happened was 1936.
So. No soup for Sage, Hinch or Kyle.
And Dixon?
He starts 18th. No driver has ever won the 500 from the 18 hole. In fact, only one driver has won from farther back than 18th starting position in 21 years.
This does not mean it couldn't happen, of course. In a place that is its traditions, no tradition is more ironclad than Indy's stubborn unpredictability. Weirdness tends to happen at this ancient, haunted sprawl, and whether that is the work of all the impish ghosts that walk the grounds or simply history throwing its weight around, it is as much a part of the fabric here as all those bricks that lie beneath decades of asphalt.
A $6 part fails, and one of the most iconic racecars in Indy history -- Andy Granatelli's STP turbine -- dies six laps from a dominating victory.
Young JR Hildebrand successfully negotiates 799 left turns, then can't make the last one, hits the wall and an astonished Dan Wheldon winds up chugging the milk in victory lane.
Sam Hornish Jr. comes out of nowhere to catch Marco. A rookie of whom no one had heard a lot -- Alexander Rossi -- stretches his last tank of fuel to its final vapors and wins the 100th running. Scott Goodyear gets docked for passing the pace car, and a youngster with a shining name, Jacques Villeneuve, winds up taking the checkers despite at one time being two laps down.
On and on. As the late, great Hunter S. Thompson was fond of saying, bad craziness.
So what happens today, if it happens today?
Symmetry tempts the Blob to, yes, once again pick Marco, on account of it's the 50th anniversary of Grandpa Mario's lone 500 victory. He's had a brutal season so far, but he always seems to run well at Indy -- he's finished in the top ten eight times in 13 starts -- and he rolls away from the inside of Row 4 today. So, it could happen.
Of course, it won't. Indy is notoriously allergic to symmetry, for one thing. And Marco is, well, an Andretti. So, no.
Maybe this is the Year of the Kids, because half the first two rows are 25 or younger. You've got Spencer Pigot (25), Ed Jones (24) and Colton Herta (19) up there, a sign that a new generation is ready to emerge. But the Blob doesn't get a strong vibe from any of them. Maybe next year.
Helio?
It's been a full decade since he won his third 500, and history says he's due. A.J. Foyt went a full decade before finally winning his fourth in 1977, after all. Symmetry again.
But ... see above.
Will Power? Josef Newgarden? Rossi?
You couldn't go wrong picking any of them, and Newgarden in particular feels like a guy whose time is eventually going to come around here. He comes to Indy leading the points, he starts in the middle of Row 3, and he has one win and three podium finishes in five starts this year. So you figure he'll be there at the end.
Dixon, too, voodoo starting position and all. He has four podium finishes himself so far this season, and, after 11 dry years, he's due, too. And what would be more Indy than defying convention?
Which is why, after much deliberation and with much trepidation, I'm picking ... Simon Pagenaud.
As the polesitter, his is a voodoo starting spot, too, given that no one has won the 500 from the pole since Castroneves did it a decade ago. Yet the polesitter has won 43 times in 102 races, and, if Pagenaud came to Indy in danger of losing his ride after an extended dry spell, this has demonstrably been his May.
At the front of the month, he won the IndyCar Grand Prix of Indianapolis with a masterful drive in the rain. A week ago, he won the pole for the 500. And, like Newgarden, he's another Penske driver who feels like a 500 winner in waiting.
The Blob says the wait ends today -- or tomorrow, if the rains come as predicted. And you know what that means.
It means James Hinchcliffe is going to win, probably.
It is, after all, Indy. Let the bad craziness begin.
Friday, May 24, 2019
A tale of George and Mario
Two days now until they line 'em up in rows of three and come screaming down that long ribbon of asphalt to the green, and a medium-sized city rises to its feet with its heart in its throat.
The Greatest Spectacle In Racing, y'all. Also, 50 years since the Greatest Spectacle In Inappropriate Behavior At An Historic Landmark, wherein hangs a tale.
It's a tale worth telling now because 1) my dear Moms has passed, and can't dispute my version of events; and 2) it's also the 50th anniversary of Mario Andretti's only 500 victory, which has been celebrated all month at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. This has been Mario's month to be feted as one of the greatest race drivers who ever turned a wheel, and no one deserves it more -- unless, that is, you can name someone else who won the Indianapolis 500, the Daytona 500, the 24 Hours of LeMans and the Formula One World Driving Championship in four peerless decades.
It is probably not as notable to point out that he also played a pivotal role in the aformentioned Greatest Spectacle In Inappropriate Behavior, etc., etc.
In 1969 I was a 14-year-old boy already hopelessly in love with all things Indy, and when Memorial Day arrived that year the air was sweet with honeysuckle. But it wasn't Indiana air I was breathing. It was Virginia air.
Virginia: Where I was standing in line with the fam waiting to tour Mount Vernon, ancestral home of the Father of Our Country, George Washington.
I couldn't have cared less. It was Race Day, after all.
Back in Indiana, the Purdue band was playing "On The Banks of the Wabash." "Taps" was filling the morning air. The National Anthem was being sung and the drivers were strapping in and Tony Hulman was telling 'em to start their engines, gearhead invocation rolling out over the flags and the multitudes and those 33 rocket ships sitting in rows of three on a strip of asphalt that looked entirely too narrow for its purpose.
Meanwhile, there I was.
Standing in line to get into Mount Vernon.
Clutching a portable radio the size of a Stephen King novel.
Turning it up juuuust a tad, because you didn't want to miss the radio boys running down the starting lineup.
And on the outside of Row 2, from Tucson, Arizona, Roger McCluskey ...
I turned up the radio a bit more. And that's when Mom got involved.
"Turn that off," she hissed.
And now she was glaring at me, and I knew that meant Dad was about to get called in on a consult. And so, to the bemusement of a couple of nuns standing behind us in line, I reluctantly turned off the radio.
It was just a ruse, of course. No sooner were we inside than I slipped away to the gardens (which are, yes, as spectacular as you've heard) and turned on the radio again.
Mario was leading, on his way to the win that would be so celebrated 50 years later. McCluskey was hanging around. Jim McElreath was already gone, the back of his car suddenly bursting into flame as he thundered down the front stretch in Lap 24.
I wandered on. Hey, look, here's a hedge animal. Here's some more honeysuckle. Here are George and Martha Washington's grav--
Distressing news now from the radio.
A tinny voice was saying Lloyd Ruby -- a huge fan favorite in those days -- had pulled away too fast on a pit stop. His fuel hose, still attached, ripped out the side of his car like a cork being popped from a wine bottle. The hardest of Indy's hard luck guys was done again.
"(Bleep)!" I blurted out.
Heads cranked around. Eyebrows were hoisted. And suddenly I realized I was still standing in front of George and Martha's graves.
Oops.
For the rest of the day I slinked around, radio pressed to my ear as Mario sailed toward the finish of his big day. And trying not to hear what I was sure people around me were whispering.
Look, Floyd. There's that weird little kid with the radio who cussed at George Washington's grave. I wonder who his parents are.
I bet they're drug fiends, Lurlene.
Or bank robbers, Floyd. You can always tell a bank robber.
Well. Floyd ... Lurlene ... it's 50 years later now, and time to set the record straight. At least for my mom's sake.
My parents were not drug fiends. They weren't bank robber, either.
They did, however, raise a sportswriter who grew up to cover the Indy 500, and who hasn't cursed at the grave of a founding father in quite some time. And who actually wound up interviewing Mario Andretti a couple of times.
Though not at Mount Vernon.
See, Mom. Everything you told me didn't go in one ear and out the other.
The Greatest Spectacle In Racing, y'all. Also, 50 years since the Greatest Spectacle In Inappropriate Behavior At An Historic Landmark, wherein hangs a tale.
It's a tale worth telling now because 1) my dear Moms has passed, and can't dispute my version of events; and 2) it's also the 50th anniversary of Mario Andretti's only 500 victory, which has been celebrated all month at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. This has been Mario's month to be feted as one of the greatest race drivers who ever turned a wheel, and no one deserves it more -- unless, that is, you can name someone else who won the Indianapolis 500, the Daytona 500, the 24 Hours of LeMans and the Formula One World Driving Championship in four peerless decades.
It is probably not as notable to point out that he also played a pivotal role in the aformentioned Greatest Spectacle In Inappropriate Behavior, etc., etc.
In 1969 I was a 14-year-old boy already hopelessly in love with all things Indy, and when Memorial Day arrived that year the air was sweet with honeysuckle. But it wasn't Indiana air I was breathing. It was Virginia air.
Virginia: Where I was standing in line with the fam waiting to tour Mount Vernon, ancestral home of the Father of Our Country, George Washington.
I couldn't have cared less. It was Race Day, after all.
Back in Indiana, the Purdue band was playing "On The Banks of the Wabash." "Taps" was filling the morning air. The National Anthem was being sung and the drivers were strapping in and Tony Hulman was telling 'em to start their engines, gearhead invocation rolling out over the flags and the multitudes and those 33 rocket ships sitting in rows of three on a strip of asphalt that looked entirely too narrow for its purpose.
Meanwhile, there I was.
Standing in line to get into Mount Vernon.
Clutching a portable radio the size of a Stephen King novel.
Turning it up juuuust a tad, because you didn't want to miss the radio boys running down the starting lineup.
And on the outside of Row 2, from Tucson, Arizona, Roger McCluskey ...
I turned up the radio a bit more. And that's when Mom got involved.
"Turn that off," she hissed.
And now she was glaring at me, and I knew that meant Dad was about to get called in on a consult. And so, to the bemusement of a couple of nuns standing behind us in line, I reluctantly turned off the radio.
It was just a ruse, of course. No sooner were we inside than I slipped away to the gardens (which are, yes, as spectacular as you've heard) and turned on the radio again.
Mario was leading, on his way to the win that would be so celebrated 50 years later. McCluskey was hanging around. Jim McElreath was already gone, the back of his car suddenly bursting into flame as he thundered down the front stretch in Lap 24.
I wandered on. Hey, look, here's a hedge animal. Here's some more honeysuckle. Here are George and Martha Washington's grav--
Distressing news now from the radio.
A tinny voice was saying Lloyd Ruby -- a huge fan favorite in those days -- had pulled away too fast on a pit stop. His fuel hose, still attached, ripped out the side of his car like a cork being popped from a wine bottle. The hardest of Indy's hard luck guys was done again.
"(Bleep)!" I blurted out.
Heads cranked around. Eyebrows were hoisted. And suddenly I realized I was still standing in front of George and Martha's graves.
Oops.
For the rest of the day I slinked around, radio pressed to my ear as Mario sailed toward the finish of his big day. And trying not to hear what I was sure people around me were whispering.
Look, Floyd. There's that weird little kid with the radio who cussed at George Washington's grave. I wonder who his parents are.
I bet they're drug fiends, Lurlene.
Or bank robbers, Floyd. You can always tell a bank robber.
Well. Floyd ... Lurlene ... it's 50 years later now, and time to set the record straight. At least for my mom's sake.
My parents were not drug fiends. They weren't bank robber, either.
They did, however, raise a sportswriter who grew up to cover the Indy 500, and who hasn't cursed at the grave of a founding father in quite some time. And who actually wound up interviewing Mario Andretti a couple of times.
Though not at Mount Vernon.
See, Mom. Everything you told me didn't go in one ear and out the other.
Thursday, May 23, 2019
Straying from your lane
I wouldn't know Milwaukee Bucks coach Mike Budenholzer if he designed an iso play for Giannis Antetokounmpo to post me up and take me to the tin. But the guy does know what boundaries are.
There are players and coaches, see, and then there are fans. And never the twain should mingle.
Which brings us to the subject of Drake, the entertainer who is the Toronto Raptors' designated superfan. Or, as Budenholzer wonderfully describes him: "Whatever it is exactly that Drake is for the Toronto Raptors."
Budenholzer's wondering that, and we're wondering that, because Drake pulled this little stunt the other night.
Now, Raptors Nick Nurse said he didn't even realize Drake had given him a quick shoulder rub, he was so locked in to the job at hand. This may actually be true. Or it may be Nick Nurse not wanting to offend a supporter who, after all, is not just a supporter but a Superstar Rapper.*
(* -- Drake's official title, apparently).
In any case, it put Drake squarely on the wrong side of those aforementioned boundaries, and prompted Budenholzer to wonder aloud what exactly he is. Is he a fan? Is he like, you know, a mascot or something, in which case he's a quasi-employee of the Raptors? Or is he just a quasi-famous guy who's as cluelessly self-absorbed as a lot of quasi-famous guys?
Inquiring minds want to know. Because giving the head coach a shoulder squeeze in the middle of a game -- or wandering up and down the sideline behind Coach, as Drake was also doing -- certainly isn't normal fan behavior. In fact, it's kind of fun to wonder what the reaction would be if everyday Joe Fan decided to do some of the stuff Drake does.
JOE FAN: (giving Nurse a shoulder squeeze): "You got this, Coach! Yeaah, baby!"
NURSE (wheeling around): "The hell?!"
After which security arrives to escort Joe Fan from the premises.
Of course, that's not going to happen if Joe Fan is named Drake, which is why Drake can get away with what he gets away with. Whether or not he should is another question. Budenholzer says no, and the Blob heartily agrees. I've seen what happens when fans have no boundaries, and it rarely ends well.
In the county lockup, generally. Or sometimes in contusions, abrasions and worse.
The iconic example of the latter, of course, happened back in the 1960s, when a rambunctious fan in Baltimore got loose on the old Memorial Stadium turf between plays of a Colts NFL game. Grabbed the football, this fan did, and gleefully took off running.
For about five or six steps.
At which point Colts linebacker Mike Curtis did this.
No one's going to do that to Drake, of course. No matter how obnoxious and inappropriately he behaves, no one's going to come flying over the sideline and Mike Curtis his Superstar Rapper ass.
Well. Not without making it look like an accident, that is.
There are players and coaches, see, and then there are fans. And never the twain should mingle.
Which brings us to the subject of Drake, the entertainer who is the Toronto Raptors' designated superfan. Or, as Budenholzer wonderfully describes him: "Whatever it is exactly that Drake is for the Toronto Raptors."
Budenholzer's wondering that, and we're wondering that, because Drake pulled this little stunt the other night.
Now, Raptors Nick Nurse said he didn't even realize Drake had given him a quick shoulder rub, he was so locked in to the job at hand. This may actually be true. Or it may be Nick Nurse not wanting to offend a supporter who, after all, is not just a supporter but a Superstar Rapper.*
(* -- Drake's official title, apparently).
In any case, it put Drake squarely on the wrong side of those aforementioned boundaries, and prompted Budenholzer to wonder aloud what exactly he is. Is he a fan? Is he like, you know, a mascot or something, in which case he's a quasi-employee of the Raptors? Or is he just a quasi-famous guy who's as cluelessly self-absorbed as a lot of quasi-famous guys?
Inquiring minds want to know. Because giving the head coach a shoulder squeeze in the middle of a game -- or wandering up and down the sideline behind Coach, as Drake was also doing -- certainly isn't normal fan behavior. In fact, it's kind of fun to wonder what the reaction would be if everyday Joe Fan decided to do some of the stuff Drake does.
JOE FAN: (giving Nurse a shoulder squeeze): "You got this, Coach! Yeaah, baby!"
NURSE (wheeling around): "The hell?!"
After which security arrives to escort Joe Fan from the premises.
Of course, that's not going to happen if Joe Fan is named Drake, which is why Drake can get away with what he gets away with. Whether or not he should is another question. Budenholzer says no, and the Blob heartily agrees. I've seen what happens when fans have no boundaries, and it rarely ends well.
In the county lockup, generally. Or sometimes in contusions, abrasions and worse.
The iconic example of the latter, of course, happened back in the 1960s, when a rambunctious fan in Baltimore got loose on the old Memorial Stadium turf between plays of a Colts NFL game. Grabbed the football, this fan did, and gleefully took off running.
For about five or six steps.
At which point Colts linebacker Mike Curtis did this.
No one's going to do that to Drake, of course. No matter how obnoxious and inappropriately he behaves, no one's going to come flying over the sideline and Mike Curtis his Superstar Rapper ass.
Well. Not without making it look like an accident, that is.
Wednesday, May 22, 2019
Throwback Stanley
"Your Song" is on the radio, as the horns moan and the towels whirl and all of St. Louis loses its mind inside the home of the Blues. The kids are in the streets. Nixon is in the White House. The Beatles are dying, and our boys in 'Nam are now in Cambodia, too, and we gotta get down to it, 'cause there are four dead in Ohio.
Welcome back to 1970, America. Yes, it does seem like it was only yesterday.
Or last night, perhaps, as the Blues finished off the San Jose Sharks in that madhouse in St. Louis. They're headed to the Stanley Cup Final for the first time since 1970, and, yes, once again the Boston Bruins are waiting for them, just like in 1970.
Throwback Stanley, boys and girls. Does it get better than this?
This is Bobby Orr going full Superman after scoring the Cup-winning goal, the most iconic photo in Stanley Cup history. It's the Plager Trifecta, Bob, Bill and Barclay. It's a living legend in one goal (Glenn Hall) and a guy everyone called "Cheesey" (Gerry Cheevers) in the other.
It's Phil Esposito, Wayne Cashman, Johnny Bucyk and Derek Sanderson. It's the Red Baron (Red Berenson), Garry Unger, Ab McDonald and Noel Picard. It's Dan Kelly on the call, and Scotty Bowman and Harry Sinden behind the benches.
Today, it's Bruce Cassidy behind one bench and Craig Berube behind the other. Tuuka Rask and Jordan Binnington are between the pipes. And it's Brad Marchand, Patrick Bergeron, David Pastrnak and Zdeno Chara; Brayden Schenn, Patrick Maroon, Vladimir Tarasenko and Colton Parayko.
Drop the puck, boys. 1970 awaits.
Welcome back to 1970, America. Yes, it does seem like it was only yesterday.
Or last night, perhaps, as the Blues finished off the San Jose Sharks in that madhouse in St. Louis. They're headed to the Stanley Cup Final for the first time since 1970, and, yes, once again the Boston Bruins are waiting for them, just like in 1970.
Throwback Stanley, boys and girls. Does it get better than this?
This is Bobby Orr going full Superman after scoring the Cup-winning goal, the most iconic photo in Stanley Cup history. It's the Plager Trifecta, Bob, Bill and Barclay. It's a living legend in one goal (Glenn Hall) and a guy everyone called "Cheesey" (Gerry Cheevers) in the other.
It's Phil Esposito, Wayne Cashman, Johnny Bucyk and Derek Sanderson. It's the Red Baron (Red Berenson), Garry Unger, Ab McDonald and Noel Picard. It's Dan Kelly on the call, and Scotty Bowman and Harry Sinden behind the benches.
Today, it's Bruce Cassidy behind one bench and Craig Berube behind the other. Tuuka Rask and Jordan Binnington are between the pipes. And it's Brad Marchand, Patrick Bergeron, David Pastrnak and Zdeno Chara; Brayden Schenn, Patrick Maroon, Vladimir Tarasenko and Colton Parayko.
Drop the puck, boys. 1970 awaits.
Tuesday, May 21, 2019
The Lake Show, Act Whatever Plus One
Family spats are always the ugliest. This is because only family knows exactly what buttons to push, and how hard, and how insistently.
Which brings us to the unrelieved soap opera/clown car that are the Los Angeles Lakers, where there's more backstabbing and throwing-under-the-bus going on than at a Lannister family picnic.
Our latest episode finds Magic Johnson, who quit as president of the Lakers in April without telling anyone, going on ESPN to hang out the unwashed laundry. Among other things, Magic said he quit because he'd been told he would answer only to Jeannie Buss, chauffeur of the clown car and unofficial family member. Instead, Magic says he also found himself answering to Tim Harris, president of business operations, and GM Rob Pelinka. Magic didn't like that, so he quit.
Also, he says Pelinka backstabbed him by whispering about how Magic was never in the office. This despite Magic pretty much admitting that he was never in the office.
Of course, Buss brought this on herself by telling Magic his job would be kinda-sorta part-time. And Magic brought it on himself by, again, not showing up for said job, not bothering to tell anyone in the Lakers organization he was quitting (not even Buss, which seems like a lousy way to treat "family"), and never letting on to Buss he specifically had a problem with Pelinka until he dropped that bombshell on national TV.
So, to summarize: Pelinka backstabs Magic. Magic backstabs Buss. Buss backstabs herself, which is a hell of a trick if you think about it.
That's a lot of stabbiness. That's more stabbiness than March 15 in the Roman senate.
And, meanwhile, what's LeBron James thinking?
A few possibilities:
1. "Damn. I picked the wrong L.A. team."
2. "Maybe I can go home AGAIN."
3. "Zion for me? Sure. I bet I can sell 'em on that."
4. "I mean, AD says New Orleans is awesome."
Which brings us to the unrelieved soap opera/clown car that are the Los Angeles Lakers, where there's more backstabbing and throwing-under-the-bus going on than at a Lannister family picnic.
Our latest episode finds Magic Johnson, who quit as president of the Lakers in April without telling anyone, going on ESPN to hang out the unwashed laundry. Among other things, Magic said he quit because he'd been told he would answer only to Jeannie Buss, chauffeur of the clown car and unofficial family member. Instead, Magic says he also found himself answering to Tim Harris, president of business operations, and GM Rob Pelinka. Magic didn't like that, so he quit.
Also, he says Pelinka backstabbed him by whispering about how Magic was never in the office. This despite Magic pretty much admitting that he was never in the office.
Of course, Buss brought this on herself by telling Magic his job would be kinda-sorta part-time. And Magic brought it on himself by, again, not showing up for said job, not bothering to tell anyone in the Lakers organization he was quitting (not even Buss, which seems like a lousy way to treat "family"), and never letting on to Buss he specifically had a problem with Pelinka until he dropped that bombshell on national TV.
So, to summarize: Pelinka backstabs Magic. Magic backstabs Buss. Buss backstabs herself, which is a hell of a trick if you think about it.
That's a lot of stabbiness. That's more stabbiness than March 15 in the Roman senate.
And, meanwhile, what's LeBron James thinking?
A few possibilities:
1. "Damn. I picked the wrong L.A. team."
2. "Maybe I can go home AGAIN."
3. "Zion for me? Sure. I bet I can sell 'em on that."
4. "I mean, AD says New Orleans is awesome."
Death by degrees
Formula One legend Niki Lauda died the other day, killed in a racing accident that happened 43 years ago. And, yes, the Blob understands how off-kilter that sounds.
Nonetheless, there is more than a particle of truth in it. Everything that killed him, after all, traces back to a fiery 1976 crash at the Nurburgring, when Lauda spent a minute or so trapped in a hellscape that burned off most of one ear and fried his lungs when he breathed in pure flame.
That he lived through all that, and miraculously returned to the race car just six weeks later, is chronicled in the 2013 Ron Howard film "Rush," about Lauda's duel with British driver James Hunt that epic season. Daniel Bruhl's fine portrayal of Lauda undoubtedly is why far more Americans know who he was than otherwise would have, Americans being the generally parochial lot they are.
In any case, Lauda recovered, but not really. The accident stole some incalculable amount of vitality from him, and it's a virtual certainty that had it not happened he wouldn't have died this week at the relatively young age of 70.
He died as an airline mogul and an F1 icon who won three world championships, the last in 1984. McLaren lured him out of an early retirement that year, an early retirement that was surely another legacy of that nightmare day in Germany. And so when Lauda died Monday, McLaren sent its condolences.
A fair amount of irony attaches to that. Because McLaren could have sent itself a few condolences at the same time.
Lauda's death, after all, came a day after McLaren failed to put two-time F1 champion Fernando Alonso in the Indianapolis 500, through no fault of Alonso's. The McLaren Indy effort was a thrown-together clown show from beginning to end, and a major disservice to a driver as accomplished as Alonso. This surely comes as no particular surprise to anyone who's kept track of McLaren's F1 program, which gave Alonso certified mutts to drive last season, and continues to lag well behind the big three constructors -- Mercedes, Ferrari and Red Bull -- so far this season.
Lauda's death only further illuminates how far a proud and once-dominant team has fallen. If what happened last weekend at Indy didn't already.
Nonetheless, there is more than a particle of truth in it. Everything that killed him, after all, traces back to a fiery 1976 crash at the Nurburgring, when Lauda spent a minute or so trapped in a hellscape that burned off most of one ear and fried his lungs when he breathed in pure flame.
That he lived through all that, and miraculously returned to the race car just six weeks later, is chronicled in the 2013 Ron Howard film "Rush," about Lauda's duel with British driver James Hunt that epic season. Daniel Bruhl's fine portrayal of Lauda undoubtedly is why far more Americans know who he was than otherwise would have, Americans being the generally parochial lot they are.
In any case, Lauda recovered, but not really. The accident stole some incalculable amount of vitality from him, and it's a virtual certainty that had it not happened he wouldn't have died this week at the relatively young age of 70.
He died as an airline mogul and an F1 icon who won three world championships, the last in 1984. McLaren lured him out of an early retirement that year, an early retirement that was surely another legacy of that nightmare day in Germany. And so when Lauda died Monday, McLaren sent its condolences.
A fair amount of irony attaches to that. Because McLaren could have sent itself a few condolences at the same time.
Lauda's death, after all, came a day after McLaren failed to put two-time F1 champion Fernando Alonso in the Indianapolis 500, through no fault of Alonso's. The McLaren Indy effort was a thrown-together clown show from beginning to end, and a major disservice to a driver as accomplished as Alonso. This surely comes as no particular surprise to anyone who's kept track of McLaren's F1 program, which gave Alonso certified mutts to drive last season, and continues to lag well behind the big three constructors -- Mercedes, Ferrari and Red Bull -- so far this season.
Lauda's death only further illuminates how far a proud and once-dominant team has fallen. If what happened last weekend at Indy didn't already.
Monday, May 20, 2019
Dominance meets survival
I know what I was thinking, as Brooks Koepka tried to Greg Norman his way out of the PGA Championship. I was thinking Jazz Janewattananond might have a shot at this after all.
Alas, the golfer from Thailand soared to a 77 Sunday at wind-whipped Bethpage Black, saving news readers and headline writers from some Greg Norman-ing of their own. Not to say all the put-upon scribes who would have spent a sleepless night wondering if they'd inserted a rogue "n" in Jazz's name (or omitted one) in their dispatches from the wilds of Long Island.
They owe a round of drinks to Koepka for saving them from that, even if for long stretches on this darkening Sunday it looked as if Koepka was going to commit the epic choke of all time, eclipsing both Norman and Jean van de Velde as an immortal golf verb. You come to Sunday with a seven-stroke lead, and somehow you lose?
Whoa. "I done Koepke-d the thing" would have been the go-to line for golfing chokery until judgment trump.
But with Dustin Johnson within a stroke and Koepka weaving all over the road, the latter somehow channeled his inner Young Tiger once more. He scraped together a few golf shots, DJ paused in his run of birdies to serve up a bogey, and Koepka staggered home with a 74 and a two-stroke W.
It wasn't exactly the victory lap everyone was anticipating. But it was enough to get Koepka his second straight PGA title, his third win in the last five majors, and his fourth in the last eight.
That's a run no one's seen since, yes, Young Tiger. And if Sunday demonstrated there is still something vaguely human about Koepka -- a notion Tiger rarely displayed when he was android-ing his way past everyone back in the day -- it also demonstrated he's got the same sort of pitiless steel in his spine Tiger does.
Which is not to say Koepka is Young Tiger reborn, nor anything like it. This current run certainly stirs echoes, but, as 29, Koepka has four majors. Tiger had 14 by the time he was 32. So the comparison falls apart pretty rapidly.
Still ... this two-year stretch might be the closest we're going to get to the total Tiger Woods experience. At least for awhile.
Alas, the golfer from Thailand soared to a 77 Sunday at wind-whipped Bethpage Black, saving news readers and headline writers from some Greg Norman-ing of their own. Not to say all the put-upon scribes who would have spent a sleepless night wondering if they'd inserted a rogue "n" in Jazz's name (or omitted one) in their dispatches from the wilds of Long Island.
They owe a round of drinks to Koepka for saving them from that, even if for long stretches on this darkening Sunday it looked as if Koepka was going to commit the epic choke of all time, eclipsing both Norman and Jean van de Velde as an immortal golf verb. You come to Sunday with a seven-stroke lead, and somehow you lose?
Whoa. "I done Koepke-d the thing" would have been the go-to line for golfing chokery until judgment trump.
But with Dustin Johnson within a stroke and Koepka weaving all over the road, the latter somehow channeled his inner Young Tiger once more. He scraped together a few golf shots, DJ paused in his run of birdies to serve up a bogey, and Koepka staggered home with a 74 and a two-stroke W.
It wasn't exactly the victory lap everyone was anticipating. But it was enough to get Koepka his second straight PGA title, his third win in the last five majors, and his fourth in the last eight.
That's a run no one's seen since, yes, Young Tiger. And if Sunday demonstrated there is still something vaguely human about Koepka -- a notion Tiger rarely displayed when he was android-ing his way past everyone back in the day -- it also demonstrated he's got the same sort of pitiless steel in his spine Tiger does.
Which is not to say Koepka is Young Tiger reborn, nor anything like it. This current run certainly stirs echoes, but, as 29, Koepka has four majors. Tiger had 14 by the time he was 32. So the comparison falls apart pretty rapidly.
Still ... this two-year stretch might be the closest we're going to get to the total Tiger Woods experience. At least for awhile.
Sunday, May 19, 2019
Run like the wind, Bullseye!
Or, you know, some other suitable "Toy Story" reference.
This upon the occasion of the 144th running of the Preakness Stakes, which was lacking the weirdness of the Kentucky Derby but substituted other weirdness. War of Will won, but not really. No, sir. The real winner of the Preakness was a rambunctious gamer named Bodexpress -- who, in the spirit of ol' Bullseye, ran like the wind without any human assistance whatsoever.
What happened was, when the gate opened, Bodexpress threw his jockey, Hall of Famer John Velazquez, who thankfully escaped unscathed. But that was only the beginning of the hijinks.
Apparently deciding the show must go on, Bodexpress proceeded to run the entirety of the Preakness riderless, and even surged past a clutch of horses down the stretch. That his bold dash didn't count -- he was ruled "did not finish" in the official tally -- doesn't change the fact he actually did finish, then ran one more lap around the track for good measure before being corralled without incident.
It also doesn't keep many of us from wondering just what sort of mutts Bodexpress finished in front of. Beaten by a riderless horse in the Preakness? Now there's a day you have to think will live in infamy for those Alpos.
In any event, it at least made the middle jewel of the Triple Crown interesting in a way it never would have otherwise, given that the horse that actually won the Kentucky Derby (Maximum Security) was pulled from the Preakness in a classic I'll-just-take-my-ball-and-go-home move by the owner. And the horse that was awarded the win after Maximum Security was DQ'ed, Country House, was ailing and didn't run, either.
So much for the drama. At least until Bodexpress' immortal solo journey.
Think Lindbergh. Only with four feet, fetlocks and withers.
This upon the occasion of the 144th running of the Preakness Stakes, which was lacking the weirdness of the Kentucky Derby but substituted other weirdness. War of Will won, but not really. No, sir. The real winner of the Preakness was a rambunctious gamer named Bodexpress -- who, in the spirit of ol' Bullseye, ran like the wind without any human assistance whatsoever.
What happened was, when the gate opened, Bodexpress threw his jockey, Hall of Famer John Velazquez, who thankfully escaped unscathed. But that was only the beginning of the hijinks.
Apparently deciding the show must go on, Bodexpress proceeded to run the entirety of the Preakness riderless, and even surged past a clutch of horses down the stretch. That his bold dash didn't count -- he was ruled "did not finish" in the official tally -- doesn't change the fact he actually did finish, then ran one more lap around the track for good measure before being corralled without incident.
It also doesn't keep many of us from wondering just what sort of mutts Bodexpress finished in front of. Beaten by a riderless horse in the Preakness? Now there's a day you have to think will live in infamy for those Alpos.
In any event, it at least made the middle jewel of the Triple Crown interesting in a way it never would have otherwise, given that the horse that actually won the Kentucky Derby (Maximum Security) was pulled from the Preakness in a classic I'll-just-take-my-ball-and-go-home move by the owner. And the horse that was awarded the win after Maximum Security was DQ'ed, Country House, was ailing and didn't run, either.
So much for the drama. At least until Bodexpress' immortal solo journey.
Think Lindbergh. Only with four feet, fetlocks and withers.
Saturday, May 18, 2019
The pitiless march of time
Well. I guess once again Old Lodge Skins spoke the truth.
Old Lodge Skins, aka Chief Dan George's character in "Little Big Man" (if you haven't seen it, consider yourself culturally deprived), whose immortal words at the end of the film come back once again as Tiger Woods stacks a 73 on top of a 72 and misses the cut in the PGA Championships. It happens just a month after winning the Masters and giving golf its moment of the year and, probably, moment of the decade.
As Old Lodge Skins said: "Sometimes the magic works. Sometimes it doesn't."
This is especially true when you're 43 years old and have multiple back surgeries on your resume, a reality Woods himself seemed to acknowledge when he said he was "disappointed" to have missed the cut, then went back to marveling at his Masters win. A younger Tiger would have been seething; this one seems to be accepting the fact that he's no longer Young Tiger, nor ever will be.
For all the magic of those four days in April, see, time remains undefeated in these matters. Even Woods knows that. He may yet find the magic again over another four days at a major championship, but the Blob remains doubtful his pursuit of Jack Nicklaus' record 18 majors is anything but a media fantasy now. Forty-three with a bum back is still 43 with a bum back, after all. And that's especially true against a field crowded with more gifted young golfers than any time in the past four decades.
Chief among them right now is Brooks Koepka, who's done a fairly passable Young Tiger imitation across the first two days at Bethpage Black. He opened with a 63 and followed it with a 65, a 36-hole record, and stands seven strokes clear of the field at the turn. If he continues to bury everyone over the weekend, this will be his third victory in the last five majors. A Tiger-esque riff to be sure.
As for the actual Tiger, Augusta proved enough of his game is left, and still enough of his aura, to occasionally make this splendid generation of golfers bend to his will. But there are also going to be more weeks like this one.
Time ensures it. Time, the undefeated.
Old Lodge Skins, aka Chief Dan George's character in "Little Big Man" (if you haven't seen it, consider yourself culturally deprived), whose immortal words at the end of the film come back once again as Tiger Woods stacks a 73 on top of a 72 and misses the cut in the PGA Championships. It happens just a month after winning the Masters and giving golf its moment of the year and, probably, moment of the decade.
As Old Lodge Skins said: "Sometimes the magic works. Sometimes it doesn't."
This is especially true when you're 43 years old and have multiple back surgeries on your resume, a reality Woods himself seemed to acknowledge when he said he was "disappointed" to have missed the cut, then went back to marveling at his Masters win. A younger Tiger would have been seething; this one seems to be accepting the fact that he's no longer Young Tiger, nor ever will be.
For all the magic of those four days in April, see, time remains undefeated in these matters. Even Woods knows that. He may yet find the magic again over another four days at a major championship, but the Blob remains doubtful his pursuit of Jack Nicklaus' record 18 majors is anything but a media fantasy now. Forty-three with a bum back is still 43 with a bum back, after all. And that's especially true against a field crowded with more gifted young golfers than any time in the past four decades.
Chief among them right now is Brooks Koepka, who's done a fairly passable Young Tiger imitation across the first two days at Bethpage Black. He opened with a 63 and followed it with a 65, a 36-hole record, and stands seven strokes clear of the field at the turn. If he continues to bury everyone over the weekend, this will be his third victory in the last five majors. A Tiger-esque riff to be sure.
As for the actual Tiger, Augusta proved enough of his game is left, and still enough of his aura, to occasionally make this splendid generation of golfers bend to his will. But there are also going to be more weeks like this one.
Time ensures it. Time, the undefeated.
Friday, May 17, 2019
Exit sign?
When we last left those poor Golden State Warriors, they were locked in a death struggle with the Houston Rockets and without Kevin Durant, the best basketball player on the planet now that LeBron James has disappeared into the wormhole that is the Los Angeles Lakers.
It looked like curtains for the Warriors ... maybe ... finally. The Rockets were making Steph Curry play defense and wearing him out, meaning he wasn't Steph-ing like usual. Neither was the other Splash Brother, Klay Thompson, who was mostly chucking anvils up there from his home base on the 3-point line.
So what happened?
Um ... well ...
The Warriors dispatched the Rockets in Game 6, on the road, without the injured Durant.
And now they're up two-games-to-nil on the Portland Trail Blazers in the Western Conference finals, still without Durant.
Which means they are 3-0 in the playoffs without KD, whom team officials now say might not be back for the duration of the series. And yet somehow the Warriors have regained their Warrior-ness, in a very retro sort of way. It's like 2015 all over again, with Steph killing it and everyone else following his lead the way they did before KD ever arrived.
The takeaway from that for some is that the Warriors are actually better without KD, that they spread the floor better and play a more cohesive game. This is probably not true; more likely, they play a different game with KD on the floor, and his presence gives them a powerful go-to when everything else breaks down. Because no one yet has figured out how to stop him when he decides not to be stopped.
Tell you what this We're Better Without KD trope does do, however.
It makes the coming separation between the Warriors and KD a lot smaller deal.
Absence doesn't always make the heart grow fonder, you see. Sometimes it just makes the heart see things through a different lens.
This one suggests the Warriors would still be the Warriors without KD, a notion one would think changes both KD's and the Warriors' perspective on Durant's coming free agency.
In other words: Wherever he goes, it'll likely be shrugs all around.
It looked like curtains for the Warriors ... maybe ... finally. The Rockets were making Steph Curry play defense and wearing him out, meaning he wasn't Steph-ing like usual. Neither was the other Splash Brother, Klay Thompson, who was mostly chucking anvils up there from his home base on the 3-point line.
So what happened?
Um ... well ...
The Warriors dispatched the Rockets in Game 6, on the road, without the injured Durant.
And now they're up two-games-to-nil on the Portland Trail Blazers in the Western Conference finals, still without Durant.
Which means they are 3-0 in the playoffs without KD, whom team officials now say might not be back for the duration of the series. And yet somehow the Warriors have regained their Warrior-ness, in a very retro sort of way. It's like 2015 all over again, with Steph killing it and everyone else following his lead the way they did before KD ever arrived.
The takeaway from that for some is that the Warriors are actually better without KD, that they spread the floor better and play a more cohesive game. This is probably not true; more likely, they play a different game with KD on the floor, and his presence gives them a powerful go-to when everything else breaks down. Because no one yet has figured out how to stop him when he decides not to be stopped.
Tell you what this We're Better Without KD trope does do, however.
It makes the coming separation between the Warriors and KD a lot smaller deal.
Absence doesn't always make the heart grow fonder, you see. Sometimes it just makes the heart see things through a different lens.
This one suggests the Warriors would still be the Warriors without KD, a notion one would think changes both KD's and the Warriors' perspective on Durant's coming free agency.
In other words: Wherever he goes, it'll likely be shrugs all around.
Thursday, May 16, 2019
Hitchin' a ride
The PGA Championship gets underway today at Bethpage Black, which of course ramps up the Tiger Woods Storyline once more, this Storyline being Can Tiger Do It Again.
The Blob says no. OK, maybe. OK, after Augusta, the wager book is closed and the Blob isn't taking bets against him anymore.
What it will do is revisit an even more venerable storyline, the one about whether or not a debilitated player should be allowed to use a cart in a PGA event, and whether or not it's an advantage.
This comes up again because John Daly is on wheels this week at Bethpage, smoking cigarettes down to the filters and cursing his 53-year-old body, which he has frequently (and famously) abused and which is predictably betraying him these days. It seems Daly has some serious arthritis issues in his right knee, which makes walking pretty much impossible. So he got an exemption from the PGA to use a cart this week.
Some people, Tiger Woods the most notable, scoffed at that. Daly himself wishes like hell he didn't have to ride, and says he's only doing it because the PGA Championship means the world to him. It is, after all, where he first burst into the golf world's consciousness by coming off the alternate list to win the PGA at Crooked Stick in 1991.
So, he'll ride. And once more -- as happened when Casey Martin needed a cart to get around -- we'll wonder if it's somehow an advantage.
The Blob's take: Of course it isn't. Don't be ridiculous.
Look. I get it. Golf is its traditions, and one of its most impenetrable is that you walk the course in PGA events. Using a cart ... well, it's kinda like cheating.
As a confirmed hacker and distinct non-athlete who's walked a few courses himself, I find this absurd. The guy on the cart -- Daly in this case -- still has to get out eventually and hit his shots. The cart has zero, zilch, no impact on how well he does that. In fact I would argue that an arthritic knee puts Daly at a disadvantage in that regard, ride or no ride.
After all, it's just walking. It's not like these guys have to lug their own bags around (as my chronically out-of-shape self has also done). And it's not like they're running the Boston Marathon between shots. They're just loping casually along.
If that takes something out of them, they shouldn't be professional athletes. They should be lying on the couch at home watching professional athletes.
So ... yeah.
Ride on, Big John.
The Blob says no. OK, maybe. OK, after Augusta, the wager book is closed and the Blob isn't taking bets against him anymore.
What it will do is revisit an even more venerable storyline, the one about whether or not a debilitated player should be allowed to use a cart in a PGA event, and whether or not it's an advantage.
This comes up again because John Daly is on wheels this week at Bethpage, smoking cigarettes down to the filters and cursing his 53-year-old body, which he has frequently (and famously) abused and which is predictably betraying him these days. It seems Daly has some serious arthritis issues in his right knee, which makes walking pretty much impossible. So he got an exemption from the PGA to use a cart this week.
Some people, Tiger Woods the most notable, scoffed at that. Daly himself wishes like hell he didn't have to ride, and says he's only doing it because the PGA Championship means the world to him. It is, after all, where he first burst into the golf world's consciousness by coming off the alternate list to win the PGA at Crooked Stick in 1991.
So, he'll ride. And once more -- as happened when Casey Martin needed a cart to get around -- we'll wonder if it's somehow an advantage.
The Blob's take: Of course it isn't. Don't be ridiculous.
Look. I get it. Golf is its traditions, and one of its most impenetrable is that you walk the course in PGA events. Using a cart ... well, it's kinda like cheating.
As a confirmed hacker and distinct non-athlete who's walked a few courses himself, I find this absurd. The guy on the cart -- Daly in this case -- still has to get out eventually and hit his shots. The cart has zero, zilch, no impact on how well he does that. In fact I would argue that an arthritic knee puts Daly at a disadvantage in that regard, ride or no ride.
After all, it's just walking. It's not like these guys have to lug their own bags around (as my chronically out-of-shape self has also done). And it's not like they're running the Boston Marathon between shots. They're just loping casually along.
If that takes something out of them, they shouldn't be professional athletes. They should be lying on the couch at home watching professional athletes.
So ... yeah.
Ride on, Big John.
Wednesday, May 15, 2019
Escape from New York
Well. This must have bummed out all those Major Markets Matter folks.
"This," of course, being the NBA draft lottery, aka the Who Gets Zion Williamson sweepstakes, won last night by ... the New Orleans Pelicans. Who at once not only get the top pick in the draft (i.e., the Zion Pick), but a viable argument to retain current superstar Anthony Davis, whom the Pelicans have unsuccessfully been trying to offload for several months now.
I mean, Zion and AD? That's something you can build around without resorting to a wholesale teardown.
Also, barring a trade, it rescues Zion from the clutches of the Knicks, official gulag of the NBA.
Look. Everyone talks all the time about how important it is to a major sport to have a franchise in New York that doesn't burst into flames every time you look at it. And, yes, the Knicks have the Garden, and this storied history, and blah-blah-blah, yadda-yadda-yadda.
And yet ...
And yet, they've been the next thing to a vacant lot ever since Crazy Jimmy Dolan bought them. And the NBA is somehow more ragingly popular than perhaps it's ever been.
And why is that?
Because stars sell your product, and it doesn't matter where they sell it from. A Zion Williamson landing with the Knicks would have been great, but it's not necessary. Steph, Klay and KD in the Bay Area, James Harden in Houston, Kawhi in Toronto and Giannis in Milwaukee seem to be doing just fine keeping their league front-and-center in the public consciousness -- with, of course, a big assist from ESPN, which relentlessly flogs the NBA at every opportunity.
So Zion in New Orleans will be just valuable as Zion in New York, with the added benefit of Zion not being in New York. I mean ... if the Knicks had won the lottery, and Zion had wound up with them, is there anyone who seriously believes Crazy Jimmy and the boys wouldn't find some way to screw it up? Is there anyone who seriously believes he wouldn't be better off in New Orleans for that very reason?
Zion in New York?
If you're an NBA fan, you're praying hard right now.
No, not that Crazy Jimmy finds some way to trade into the top pick.
That he doesn't.
"This," of course, being the NBA draft lottery, aka the Who Gets Zion Williamson sweepstakes, won last night by ... the New Orleans Pelicans. Who at once not only get the top pick in the draft (i.e., the Zion Pick), but a viable argument to retain current superstar Anthony Davis, whom the Pelicans have unsuccessfully been trying to offload for several months now.
I mean, Zion and AD? That's something you can build around without resorting to a wholesale teardown.
Also, barring a trade, it rescues Zion from the clutches of the Knicks, official gulag of the NBA.
Look. Everyone talks all the time about how important it is to a major sport to have a franchise in New York that doesn't burst into flames every time you look at it. And, yes, the Knicks have the Garden, and this storied history, and blah-blah-blah, yadda-yadda-yadda.
And yet ...
And yet, they've been the next thing to a vacant lot ever since Crazy Jimmy Dolan bought them. And the NBA is somehow more ragingly popular than perhaps it's ever been.
And why is that?
Because stars sell your product, and it doesn't matter where they sell it from. A Zion Williamson landing with the Knicks would have been great, but it's not necessary. Steph, Klay and KD in the Bay Area, James Harden in Houston, Kawhi in Toronto and Giannis in Milwaukee seem to be doing just fine keeping their league front-and-center in the public consciousness -- with, of course, a big assist from ESPN, which relentlessly flogs the NBA at every opportunity.
So Zion in New Orleans will be just valuable as Zion in New York, with the added benefit of Zion not being in New York. I mean ... if the Knicks had won the lottery, and Zion had wound up with them, is there anyone who seriously believes Crazy Jimmy and the boys wouldn't find some way to screw it up? Is there anyone who seriously believes he wouldn't be better off in New Orleans for that very reason?
Zion in New York?
If you're an NBA fan, you're praying hard right now.
No, not that Crazy Jimmy finds some way to trade into the top pick.
That he doesn't.
Tuesday, May 14, 2019
A higher hire?
There's always an urge to ramp up the theme from "Jaws" when this sort of news comes down the pipe, or some other appropriate Music of Foreboding. Because how many times have we seen elite college basketball coaches meet Robert Shaw's fate when they make the leap to the NBA?
Bitten in half and dragged under. That's about the size of it most times.
Most times.
But now comes John Beilein, who took a lot of folks by surprise (a fair amount of them in Ann Arbor) when word got out he would be the next coach of the Cleveland Cavaliers at the advanced age of 66. In so doing, he follows a path that's been blazed by many, and conquered by few. The pecking order, after all, is so upside-down and inside-out.
Few despots in history, you see, have wielded the kind of power a head coach at an elite college program has traditionally wielded. They are benign despots, with some notable exceptions -- (cough) Bob Knight (cough) -- but everything in the program, the entire culture, flows from them. It's why Rick Pitino pleading innocence to his assistant running a whorehouse at Louisville, or Sean Miller pleading innocence to the buyer's market that apparently is Arizona basketball, is ludicrous on its face.
And in the NBA?
In the NBA, the coach serves at the pleasure of a team's superstar, and occasionally at the pleasure of an assistant coach if the assistant coach and the superstar are particularly tight. That's a reality Frank Vogel is about to discover in L.A.; in signing on as head coach of the clown show that is the Lakers, he willingly agreed to be subservient to LeBron, and to LeBron's bud Jason Kidd as assistant coach -- and to some extent, to front office chief Rob Pelinka.
That's a lot of names above his on the masthead.
And yet ...
And yet, this could work, for the team LeBron fled. And that is entirely because of who John Beilein is and how he approaches the job.
Certainly there's no disputing his coaching bonafides. To begin with, he's never been anything but a head coach, from high school through junior college through all three divisions of NCAA basketball. Recognized everywhere as an offensive whiz and impeccable teacher of the game, he coached Michigan to two Final Fours and four Big Ten tournament and regular-season titles in 12 seasons. If Tom Izzo over in East Lansing is generally recognized as the No. 1coach in the Big Ten, Beilein was ranked no lower than 1A.
More importantly, he has never been the sort of autocrat that so often fails at the NBA level. Never pedantic, always willing to adapt to the game's shifting constructs, he also possesses an awareness of others not commonly found among his species. That will serve him well when dealing with a room crowded with the sort of egos that populate the NBA; Brad Stevens, who went from Butler to success in Boston with Celtics, seems to possess a similar gift.
So ... yeah. This could work.
This time.
Bitten in half and dragged under. That's about the size of it most times.
Most times.
But now comes John Beilein, who took a lot of folks by surprise (a fair amount of them in Ann Arbor) when word got out he would be the next coach of the Cleveland Cavaliers at the advanced age of 66. In so doing, he follows a path that's been blazed by many, and conquered by few. The pecking order, after all, is so upside-down and inside-out.
Few despots in history, you see, have wielded the kind of power a head coach at an elite college program has traditionally wielded. They are benign despots, with some notable exceptions -- (cough) Bob Knight (cough) -- but everything in the program, the entire culture, flows from them. It's why Rick Pitino pleading innocence to his assistant running a whorehouse at Louisville, or Sean Miller pleading innocence to the buyer's market that apparently is Arizona basketball, is ludicrous on its face.
And in the NBA?
In the NBA, the coach serves at the pleasure of a team's superstar, and occasionally at the pleasure of an assistant coach if the assistant coach and the superstar are particularly tight. That's a reality Frank Vogel is about to discover in L.A.; in signing on as head coach of the clown show that is the Lakers, he willingly agreed to be subservient to LeBron, and to LeBron's bud Jason Kidd as assistant coach -- and to some extent, to front office chief Rob Pelinka.
That's a lot of names above his on the masthead.
And yet ...
And yet, this could work, for the team LeBron fled. And that is entirely because of who John Beilein is and how he approaches the job.
Certainly there's no disputing his coaching bonafides. To begin with, he's never been anything but a head coach, from high school through junior college through all three divisions of NCAA basketball. Recognized everywhere as an offensive whiz and impeccable teacher of the game, he coached Michigan to two Final Fours and four Big Ten tournament and regular-season titles in 12 seasons. If Tom Izzo over in East Lansing is generally recognized as the No. 1coach in the Big Ten, Beilein was ranked no lower than 1A.
More importantly, he has never been the sort of autocrat that so often fails at the NBA level. Never pedantic, always willing to adapt to the game's shifting constructs, he also possesses an awareness of others not commonly found among his species. That will serve him well when dealing with a room crowded with the sort of egos that populate the NBA; Brad Stevens, who went from Butler to success in Boston with Celtics, seems to possess a similar gift.
So ... yeah. This could work.
This time.
Monday, May 13, 2019
Dive of the year
First of all, there is the kid's name: Infinite Tucker. Which kinda means he was destined to do something epic somewhere along the line.
That somewhere was the SEC conference track meet, where Tucker, a Texas A&M hurdler, did this to win the 110 hurdles. I don't think that's a method of leaning into the tape that's taught in respectable track-and-field circles, unless respectable track-and-field circles hired Superman when none of us were looking. But, what the heck.
As for Superman, it worked. And you have to applaud the all-out effort.
Even if it was a bit, you know, derivative.
That somewhere was the SEC conference track meet, where Tucker, a Texas A&M hurdler, did this to win the 110 hurdles. I don't think that's a method of leaning into the tape that's taught in respectable track-and-field circles, unless respectable track-and-field circles hired Superman when none of us were looking. But, what the heck.
As for Superman, it worked. And you have to applaud the all-out effort.
Even if it was a bit, you know, derivative.
Your nutshell moment for today
Two images from your weekend, one from up north in Toronto, one from the desert in Arizona ...
The first, a basketball falling from the sky just short but not too short, dancing on one rim, dancing on the other, unleashing bedlam as it finally dropped without a peep through the net.
The second, a man holding a baseball on a pitching mound, holding it, holding it ... wait, still holding it ...
Two images. Two sports. The virtue of patience, versus the agony of being imprisoned by it.
The former revealed itself up there in Toronto, where Kawhi Leonard hit a shot that will be replayed in every NBA promotional montage from now until judgment's trump. With the scored in Game 7, with the clock down to a couple of hitched breaths, Leonard drove right past Ben Simmons and Joel Embiid, elevated, and sent an awkward-looking shot into sub-orbital flight over Embiid's outstretched hand.
It came down on the rim. Bounced twice, teetering. Kicked over to the far rim and teetered there. And then, exhausted, dropped through the net without a ripple.
Buzzer. Game. Series. Madness unleashed.
And, patience rewarded, because the NBA makes you wait an eternity for moments like this. The season begins when football has barely begun; it doesn't end until baseball is deep into its own season. Children have grown to respectable adulthood in that time. The Tudors reigned longer.
But at last, patience releases you. As opposed to what happened in Arizona.
Where, on Saturday night, fans did a stretch in Shawshank thanks to Diamondbacks pitcher Zack Greinke, and baseball's stubborn cling to the rhythms of another era.
What happened was, with two men on and the count full against the Braves' Ozzie Albies, Greinke decided to ... not pitch. He held the ball. Held it. Albies called time and stepped out of the box to, um, re-adjust his stance (whatever that means). Greinke kept holding the ball. His catcher came out to confer a couple of times. Albies called time out again to, again, "re-adjust his stance."
Finally, after more than two minutes, Greinke came set and threw. It was a changeup, the same pitch he'd thrown on the previous pitch a decade earlier. Albies popped it up.
The entire sequence was so ludicrous that Rob Friedman, on his Twitter account @PitchingNinja, cleverly overlaid it with video of the Kentucky Derby. The Derby finished faster.
And if you're asking now who, in 2019, could possibly find anything about this sequence entertaining, I would tell you plenty of 70-year-olds might. Or 80-year-olds.
They are, after all, baseball's apparent target audience these days. It's a sport seemingly trapped in a time before electricity was a thing, a sport whose idea of transportation is the horse-and-buggy and whose idea of live streaming involves a man with a fishing pole standing in some rushing mountain current. And that is to its everlasting detriment.
You know that Kentucky Derby overlay, for instance?
Try overlaying the entire Greinke sequence with the last minute of Game 7 in Toronto, concluding with Leonard's soon-to-pass-into-legend buzzer-beater.
Your nutshell moment for today.
The first, a basketball falling from the sky just short but not too short, dancing on one rim, dancing on the other, unleashing bedlam as it finally dropped without a peep through the net.
The second, a man holding a baseball on a pitching mound, holding it, holding it ... wait, still holding it ...
Two images. Two sports. The virtue of patience, versus the agony of being imprisoned by it.
The former revealed itself up there in Toronto, where Kawhi Leonard hit a shot that will be replayed in every NBA promotional montage from now until judgment's trump. With the scored in Game 7, with the clock down to a couple of hitched breaths, Leonard drove right past Ben Simmons and Joel Embiid, elevated, and sent an awkward-looking shot into sub-orbital flight over Embiid's outstretched hand.
It came down on the rim. Bounced twice, teetering. Kicked over to the far rim and teetered there. And then, exhausted, dropped through the net without a ripple.
Buzzer. Game. Series. Madness unleashed.
And, patience rewarded, because the NBA makes you wait an eternity for moments like this. The season begins when football has barely begun; it doesn't end until baseball is deep into its own season. Children have grown to respectable adulthood in that time. The Tudors reigned longer.
But at last, patience releases you. As opposed to what happened in Arizona.
Where, on Saturday night, fans did a stretch in Shawshank thanks to Diamondbacks pitcher Zack Greinke, and baseball's stubborn cling to the rhythms of another era.
What happened was, with two men on and the count full against the Braves' Ozzie Albies, Greinke decided to ... not pitch. He held the ball. Held it. Albies called time and stepped out of the box to, um, re-adjust his stance (whatever that means). Greinke kept holding the ball. His catcher came out to confer a couple of times. Albies called time out again to, again, "re-adjust his stance."
Finally, after more than two minutes, Greinke came set and threw. It was a changeup, the same pitch he'd thrown on the previous pitch a decade earlier. Albies popped it up.
The entire sequence was so ludicrous that Rob Friedman, on his Twitter account @PitchingNinja, cleverly overlaid it with video of the Kentucky Derby. The Derby finished faster.
And if you're asking now who, in 2019, could possibly find anything about this sequence entertaining, I would tell you plenty of 70-year-olds might. Or 80-year-olds.
They are, after all, baseball's apparent target audience these days. It's a sport seemingly trapped in a time before electricity was a thing, a sport whose idea of transportation is the horse-and-buggy and whose idea of live streaming involves a man with a fishing pole standing in some rushing mountain current. And that is to its everlasting detriment.
You know that Kentucky Derby overlay, for instance?
Try overlaying the entire Greinke sequence with the last minute of Game 7 in Toronto, concluding with Leonard's soon-to-pass-into-legend buzzer-beater.
Your nutshell moment for today.
Sunday, May 12, 2019
And now ... May
May came in for me 11 days late, trailed by a rooster tail of spray and the oddest sense that no one at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway was hearing what used to be the rhythm section to a soggy day in May: The whine of track driers and the whoosh of utility trucks whirling around and around, trying to dry out the most hallowed 2.5 miles in motorsports.
In other words, the rain came and they ran in it anyway, because you can do that on a road course. The sixth IndyCar Grand Prix of Indianapolis ran in the wet on Saturday, and I watched it from my couch, on account of I'm out of that scene these days. And what was fascinating to watch was the way it turned the usual rainy-day-at-Indy trope inside-out.
Which is to say, everyone was glued to the weather radar, but not to see when the rain would stop. They were glued to it to see when it would begin.
It made for some fascinating strategizin' on everyone's part, as teams tried to figure out the exact moment to switch from dry slicks to rain tires. Some did it too soon. Some waited too long. And then there was Simon Pagenaud, who did everything exactly right.
If you didn't see it -- and, sure, it's IndyCar, so a lot of you probably didn't -- you missed a virtuoso performance. Sitting fourth with 15 laps to run, and with his allowable push-to-pass boost exhausted, Pagenaud hunted and pecked and expertly found the fastest line and braking points on the wet track, running down first Matheus Leist, then Jack Harvey, and finally leader Scott Dixon with a lap-and-a-half to run.
It was master-class stuff, Pagenaud relentlessly whittling an impossible deficit -- Dixon had a seven-second lead on him with 15 laps remaining -- while finding the wettest spots on the track to run through to keep his soft rain tires from burning up. It was the drive of his life, and it snapped a two-year drought for him.
And if it's any indication of what awaits us two weeks hence in the biggest race in the world, this is going to be a hell of a May. Tardy or not.
In other words, the rain came and they ran in it anyway, because you can do that on a road course. The sixth IndyCar Grand Prix of Indianapolis ran in the wet on Saturday, and I watched it from my couch, on account of I'm out of that scene these days. And what was fascinating to watch was the way it turned the usual rainy-day-at-Indy trope inside-out.
Which is to say, everyone was glued to the weather radar, but not to see when the rain would stop. They were glued to it to see when it would begin.
It made for some fascinating strategizin' on everyone's part, as teams tried to figure out the exact moment to switch from dry slicks to rain tires. Some did it too soon. Some waited too long. And then there was Simon Pagenaud, who did everything exactly right.
If you didn't see it -- and, sure, it's IndyCar, so a lot of you probably didn't -- you missed a virtuoso performance. Sitting fourth with 15 laps to run, and with his allowable push-to-pass boost exhausted, Pagenaud hunted and pecked and expertly found the fastest line and braking points on the wet track, running down first Matheus Leist, then Jack Harvey, and finally leader Scott Dixon with a lap-and-a-half to run.
It was master-class stuff, Pagenaud relentlessly whittling an impossible deficit -- Dixon had a seven-second lead on him with 15 laps remaining -- while finding the wettest spots on the track to run through to keep his soft rain tires from burning up. It was the drive of his life, and it snapped a two-year drought for him.
And if it's any indication of what awaits us two weeks hence in the biggest race in the world, this is going to be a hell of a May. Tardy or not.
Friday, May 10, 2019
Escaping the moment, Part Deux
Remember the other day, when the Blob said you could never keep that darned prisoner of the moment locked up in the NBA playoffs, because the moment is always changing the locks and the prisoner keeps fleeing for some other Moment?
Well ... ahem.
Philadelphia 112, Toronto 101.
Yes, that's right. The 76ers, who looked all but done after losing Game 5 by 36 points, of course rallied to force Game 7. Joel Embiid, who was rumored to have been either A) desperately ill; B) malingering; or C) perhaps actually dead, mysteriously became Joel Embiid again, putting up a double-double and blocking a couple shots. And Ben Simmons, who has spent most of these playoffs vacationing in St. Tropez or some such tropical paradise, abruptly up and played himself some basketball, scoring 21 points and hitting 9-of-13 shots.
Which only goes to show you, again, that there is no such thing as momentum in the NBA playoffs. Every game is its own hermetically sealed entity, signifying nothing. And you know what that means.
It means Embiid has found Embiid again, or not. It means Simmons finally is going to become the playoff player he is in the regular season ... or not. It means the Raptors really are going to pull the standard playoff choke job we keep expecting.
Or, not.
Not. I vote not.
OK. So maybe.
Well ... ahem.
Philadelphia 112, Toronto 101.
Yes, that's right. The 76ers, who looked all but done after losing Game 5 by 36 points, of course rallied to force Game 7. Joel Embiid, who was rumored to have been either A) desperately ill; B) malingering; or C) perhaps actually dead, mysteriously became Joel Embiid again, putting up a double-double and blocking a couple shots. And Ben Simmons, who has spent most of these playoffs vacationing in St. Tropez or some such tropical paradise, abruptly up and played himself some basketball, scoring 21 points and hitting 9-of-13 shots.
Which only goes to show you, again, that there is no such thing as momentum in the NBA playoffs. Every game is its own hermetically sealed entity, signifying nothing. And you know what that means.
It means Embiid has found Embiid again, or not. It means Simmons finally is going to become the playoff player he is in the regular season ... or not. It means the Raptors really are going to pull the standard playoff choke job we keep expecting.
Or, not.
Not. I vote not.
OK. So maybe.
Thursday, May 9, 2019
The Lake Show, Act Whatever
So I see where talks have broken down between the Los Angeles Lakers and Tyronn Lue (aka, "LeBron's favorite") in the Lake Show's quest to find a new coach.
In other words, they've now screwed up negotiations for a coach the way they screwed up negotiations for LeBron's Helper, aka, Anthony Davis.
Which means the Clippers have now become the stable ones in L.A.
Or, in other words ...
They're the Lakers now. And the Lakers are the Clippers.
Craziness. Bad craziness.
In other words, they've now screwed up negotiations for a coach the way they screwed up negotiations for LeBron's Helper, aka, Anthony Davis.
Which means the Clippers have now become the stable ones in L.A.
Or, in other words ...
They're the Lakers now. And the Lakers are the Clippers.
Craziness. Bad craziness.
Wednesday, May 8, 2019
Escaping the moment
And now a quick check-in on the NBA playoffs, which seem like they've been going on since the heyday of the Hapsburgs but really haven't been, and which so far have revealed these truths:
1. The Golden State Warriors are invincible and they're gonna sweep the Rockets.
2. The Celtics are peaking at exactly the right time.
3. Look, it's another playoff choke by the Raptors!
Oh, wait. Those were last week's truths.
This week ... well, this week has revealed that nowhere is a moment more escapable by its prisoners than in the NBA playoffs, where what's declared as a bedrock surety gets replaced by another bedrock surety the next day. Or so it seems.
Those Warriors, for instance?
Yeah, everyone said they were a lock after winning the first two games against the Rockets despite long stretches of apparent disinterest. But then James Harden started doing all his annoying James Harden things, and Rockets started making Steph Curry play defense, and Klay Thompson forgot how to shoot ...
And, voila. Series tied. And the latest take is that the Warriors might be in a spot of trouble.
Kinda like the Celtics, who took the Bucks apart in Game 1 and now have lost three straight, including two straight soul-crushing losses on their home floor. Kyrie Irving has missed his last 247 shots or some such thing, and can be found on the side of a milk carton now.
Latest take: Spread some jam on 'em. They're toast.
Oh, and the Raptors?
Headed for their usual flameout after going down 2-1 to Philly and losing Game 3 by 21 points.
And then?
And then, of course, Kawhi Leonard emerged from the phone booth in cape and tights, Joel Embiid reverted to an ailing Clark Kent, and the Raptors now lead the series three games to two after winning Games 4 and 5 -- the latter by 36 points.
Latest take: Kawhi is going to LeBron the Raptors all the way to the NBA Finals.
Stay tuned for whatever Moment comes next.
1. The Golden State Warriors are invincible and they're gonna sweep the Rockets.
2. The Celtics are peaking at exactly the right time.
3. Look, it's another playoff choke by the Raptors!
Oh, wait. Those were last week's truths.
This week ... well, this week has revealed that nowhere is a moment more escapable by its prisoners than in the NBA playoffs, where what's declared as a bedrock surety gets replaced by another bedrock surety the next day. Or so it seems.
Those Warriors, for instance?
Yeah, everyone said they were a lock after winning the first two games against the Rockets despite long stretches of apparent disinterest. But then James Harden started doing all his annoying James Harden things, and Rockets started making Steph Curry play defense, and Klay Thompson forgot how to shoot ...
And, voila. Series tied. And the latest take is that the Warriors might be in a spot of trouble.
Kinda like the Celtics, who took the Bucks apart in Game 1 and now have lost three straight, including two straight soul-crushing losses on their home floor. Kyrie Irving has missed his last 247 shots or some such thing, and can be found on the side of a milk carton now.
Latest take: Spread some jam on 'em. They're toast.
Oh, and the Raptors?
Headed for their usual flameout after going down 2-1 to Philly and losing Game 3 by 21 points.
And then?
And then, of course, Kawhi Leonard emerged from the phone booth in cape and tights, Joel Embiid reverted to an ailing Clark Kent, and the Raptors now lead the series three games to two after winning Games 4 and 5 -- the latter by 36 points.
Latest take: Kawhi is going to LeBron the Raptors all the way to the NBA Finals.
Stay tuned for whatever Moment comes next.
Tuesday, May 7, 2019
That medal deal, explained
And now, briefly, a few explanations for why Our Only Available President awarded Tiger Woods the Presidential Medal of Freedom yesterday:
1. Because it's almost an election year and he needs all the photo ops with black guys he can get.
2. Because Tiger Woods did something really cool at the Masters, and OOAP, a noted celebrity whore, wanted to bask in the reflected glory.
3. Because Tiger Woods did something really cool at the Masters after recovering from several serious injuries, something no other elite athlete has ever done in the entire recorded history of time.
4. Because OOAP and Tiger have played golf together before, which means (given OOAP's rep on the golf course) Tiger has no doubt discreetly looked the other way while OOAP kicked his ball out of the rough, or "found" it on dry land after hitting it in the water, or doctored the scorecard so it looked like he and Tiger shot identical 68s.
5. Because he and Tiger are business partners in the Trump Foundation and, when Tiger won the Masters, OOAP saw a chance to cash in.
"Gee, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "That last one seems awfully cynical. It's almost like you're saying OOAP did this mostly out of self-interest."
Um, well ... look who we're talkin' about here.
"Yeah, but haven't tons of sporting figures been honored by various presidents with the Presidential Medal of Freedom?" you're saying.
Well, yes. In fact, three golfers in the last 20 years have been awarded the Medal of Freedom: Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus and Charlie Sifford.
But in all those cases, and many others, the Medal was bestowed as a de facto lifetime achievement award, or because an athlete had some social significance. Sifford, for instance, was honored by Barack Obama as the "Jackie Robinson of golf." Rarely has an active athlete been so honored.
So basically, what we've got here is not a lifetime achievement award but an award to a business partner of the president's who did something really cool at the Masters ... and who is really, really good at golf ... and who was a serial philanderer when he was married, and not a particularly nice person by plenty of accounts.
Hmmm.
No wonder he and OOAP get along so well.
1. Because it's almost an election year and he needs all the photo ops with black guys he can get.
2. Because Tiger Woods did something really cool at the Masters, and OOAP, a noted celebrity whore, wanted to bask in the reflected glory.
3. Because Tiger Woods did something really cool at the Masters after recovering from several serious injuries, something no other elite athlete has ever done in the entire recorded history of time.
4. Because OOAP and Tiger have played golf together before, which means (given OOAP's rep on the golf course) Tiger has no doubt discreetly looked the other way while OOAP kicked his ball out of the rough, or "found" it on dry land after hitting it in the water, or doctored the scorecard so it looked like he and Tiger shot identical 68s.
5. Because he and Tiger are business partners in the Trump Foundation and, when Tiger won the Masters, OOAP saw a chance to cash in.
"Gee, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "That last one seems awfully cynical. It's almost like you're saying OOAP did this mostly out of self-interest."
Um, well ... look who we're talkin' about here.
"Yeah, but haven't tons of sporting figures been honored by various presidents with the Presidential Medal of Freedom?" you're saying.
Well, yes. In fact, three golfers in the last 20 years have been awarded the Medal of Freedom: Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus and Charlie Sifford.
But in all those cases, and many others, the Medal was bestowed as a de facto lifetime achievement award, or because an athlete had some social significance. Sifford, for instance, was honored by Barack Obama as the "Jackie Robinson of golf." Rarely has an active athlete been so honored.
So basically, what we've got here is not a lifetime achievement award but an award to a business partner of the president's who did something really cool at the Masters ... and who is really, really good at golf ... and who was a serial philanderer when he was married, and not a particularly nice person by plenty of accounts.
Hmmm.
No wonder he and OOAP get along so well.
Monday, May 6, 2019
Kickin' it in Chi
This is the day you always dreamed of on fall afternoons in the backyard, kicking footballs over the hedge into the neighbor's yard. How hard could it be, this placekicking deal? Why, you didn't have to look like Dick Butkus or Gale Sayers to play in the NFL. You could be a kicker! You could play in the NFL, even if you wore really huge glasses and were knee-high to a dust mite!
All you needed was a chance. You know, a tryout, or something.
This is exactly what happened the other day at the Chicago Bears' rookie camp, where head coach Matt Nagy brought in eight kickers and had them attempt a 43-yard field goal. The 43 yards was significant, because it was a 43-yarder Cody Parker double-doinked to end the Bears' 2018 season in a playoff loss to the Eagles. Surely someone among these guys could stick a 43-yarder, right?
Well ... yes. And, no.
Here were the eight guys Nagy lined up: Chris Blewitt, Elliott Fry, Redford Jones, John Baron II, Casey Bednarski, Emmit Carpenter, Justin Yoon and Spencer Evans, who last kicked for Purdue. He's also one of only two of the aforementioned who made the 43-yarder. Which means, maybe, you still have a chance.
OK. So probably not.
But imagine what a great movie there would be in it if you did!
It would be like "Invincible," the film about Eagles' walk-on star Vince Papale, only with more instep shots. It would be like "Rudy," only more accurate.
Just think of the possibilities ...
Exterior. Night. It's raining. Actually, it's POURING. Forty-three-year-old Eddie "Runt" Fleegleman (portrayed by Tobey Maguire) is kneeling in the mud on his old high school football field, water dripping off his soaked hair, looking utterly defeated. His old high school coach, the legendary Robert "Hardcase" Spitflinger (R. Lee Ermey in his final role), is standing over him, shaking his head sadly.
HARDCASE: What are you doin' here, Runt? Why, you ain't kicked a football since high school. And you weren't worth a damn even then! What makes you think you've got what it takes to kick in the National Football League, for God's sake?
RUNT (rising to his knees, looking his old coach dead in the eye): Because, all my life, Coach, people have been calling me a loser. A quitter. A little ol' nothingbug, about to be squashed on the windshield of life.
(He lifts himself higher. His jaw sets. His eyes blaze.)
Well, not THIS time, Coach! NOT TODAY!
Or something like that.
Anyway ... you see my point. And so, if you're like me, you'll find that old scratched-up football of yours and head into the backyard again. The dream awaits!
Wow. This hedge is a lot taller than I remember.
All you needed was a chance. You know, a tryout, or something.
This is exactly what happened the other day at the Chicago Bears' rookie camp, where head coach Matt Nagy brought in eight kickers and had them attempt a 43-yard field goal. The 43 yards was significant, because it was a 43-yarder Cody Parker double-doinked to end the Bears' 2018 season in a playoff loss to the Eagles. Surely someone among these guys could stick a 43-yarder, right?
Well ... yes. And, no.
Here were the eight guys Nagy lined up: Chris Blewitt, Elliott Fry, Redford Jones, John Baron II, Casey Bednarski, Emmit Carpenter, Justin Yoon and Spencer Evans, who last kicked for Purdue. He's also one of only two of the aforementioned who made the 43-yarder. Which means, maybe, you still have a chance.
OK. So probably not.
But imagine what a great movie there would be in it if you did!
It would be like "Invincible," the film about Eagles' walk-on star Vince Papale, only with more instep shots. It would be like "Rudy," only more accurate.
Just think of the possibilities ...
Exterior. Night. It's raining. Actually, it's POURING. Forty-three-year-old Eddie "Runt" Fleegleman (portrayed by Tobey Maguire) is kneeling in the mud on his old high school football field, water dripping off his soaked hair, looking utterly defeated. His old high school coach, the legendary Robert "Hardcase" Spitflinger (R. Lee Ermey in his final role), is standing over him, shaking his head sadly.
HARDCASE: What are you doin' here, Runt? Why, you ain't kicked a football since high school. And you weren't worth a damn even then! What makes you think you've got what it takes to kick in the National Football League, for God's sake?
RUNT (rising to his knees, looking his old coach dead in the eye): Because, all my life, Coach, people have been calling me a loser. A quitter. A little ol' nothingbug, about to be squashed on the windshield of life.
(He lifts himself higher. His jaw sets. His eyes blaze.)
Well, not THIS time, Coach! NOT TODAY!
Or something like that.
Anyway ... you see my point. And so, if you're like me, you'll find that old scratched-up football of yours and head into the backyard again. The dream awaits!
Wow. This hedge is a lot taller than I remember.
S*** your POTUS says
Never let it be said Our Only Available President is afraid of weighing in on stuff, especially via the Twitter whatsis, especially on stuff he knows little to nothing about, which is most stuff.
And so ... of course OOAP had an opinion about the mess that was the 145th Kentucky Derby, in which Country House, a 65-1 longshot, "won" because the actual winner, Maximum Security, was disqualified for aggravated jostling.
Officials determined this after 22 minutes of the two most dreaded words in Sportsball World: Video Review.
Anyway, OOAP tweeted that this was a darn shame. It was total nonsense. It was ... wait for it ... POLITICAL CORRECTNESS RUN AMOK.
I'm sure I speak for many of you when I say, "Huh?"
Look. The Blob is on record that Maximum Security got hosed. Yes, he drifted into the path of a couple of horses. Yes, it caused those horses to check up a bit. But, no, it didn't seem egregious enough a violation to warrant a DQ. Especially in the Kentucky Derby.
But "political correctness"? I'm sorry, what?
I get that POLITICAL CORRECTNESS RUN AMOK is a favorite trope of the loony right these days. I also get that a lot of what the loony right considers POLITICAL CORRECTNESS RUN AMOK is, at bottom, simple common decency. What I don't get is how a disqualification in a horse race is "political correctness."
Or, maybe I do. Any examination of OOAP's background reveals an entitled trust-fund baby who thinks the only thing that matters is winning, and it doesn't matter how. Lying, cheating and out-and-out stealing? Completely fair. So if you get caught doing it, and someone rightly tries to punish you for it, it's a travesty of justice. It's a hoax. It's just jealous people who can't stand that I'm winning, and are out to get me.
It's, yes, POLITICAL CORRECTNESS RUN AMOK.
Even if we're just talking horses, apparently.
And so ... of course OOAP had an opinion about the mess that was the 145th Kentucky Derby, in which Country House, a 65-1 longshot, "won" because the actual winner, Maximum Security, was disqualified for aggravated jostling.
Officials determined this after 22 minutes of the two most dreaded words in Sportsball World: Video Review.
Anyway, OOAP tweeted that this was a darn shame. It was total nonsense. It was ... wait for it ... POLITICAL CORRECTNESS RUN AMOK.
I'm sure I speak for many of you when I say, "Huh?"
Look. The Blob is on record that Maximum Security got hosed. Yes, he drifted into the path of a couple of horses. Yes, it caused those horses to check up a bit. But, no, it didn't seem egregious enough a violation to warrant a DQ. Especially in the Kentucky Derby.
But "political correctness"? I'm sorry, what?
I get that POLITICAL CORRECTNESS RUN AMOK is a favorite trope of the loony right these days. I also get that a lot of what the loony right considers POLITICAL CORRECTNESS RUN AMOK is, at bottom, simple common decency. What I don't get is how a disqualification in a horse race is "political correctness."
Or, maybe I do. Any examination of OOAP's background reveals an entitled trust-fund baby who thinks the only thing that matters is winning, and it doesn't matter how. Lying, cheating and out-and-out stealing? Completely fair. So if you get caught doing it, and someone rightly tries to punish you for it, it's a travesty of justice. It's a hoax. It's just jealous people who can't stand that I'm winning, and are out to get me.
It's, yes, POLITICAL CORRECTNESS RUN AMOK.
Even if we're just talking horses, apparently.
Sunday, May 5, 2019
Photo un-finish
Maybe you saw it differently, which was a thing that was going around at soggy Churchill Downs yesterday. But the Blob knows what the Blob saw, and I'm stickin' with my story.
Which is, that was a hell of a race in the 145th Kentucky Derby, muck and all. Lawyer Up over For Now by a nose.
And if you're saying now you didn't realize there were horses named For Now and Lawyer Up in the field ... well, you weren't paying attention. You were too busy trying to figure out how 65-1 shot Country House, with a big assist from Instant Replay, wound up with the roses instead of Maximum Security, who actually won.
What happened was, the track stewards went to the tape after Country House's people filed a protest, and did something no track stewards in 145 years had ever done: They gave the victory to Instant Replay. Or, actually, Country House, which finished second but was awarded the W after Maximum Security was disqualified for what can be best described as "aggravated jostling."
Here's the deal: Maximum Security led virtually starting gate to wire, but as the pack came to the head of the stretch, he bore out slightly from the rail. This squeezed War of Will, who was immediately behind. This caused War of Will to veer into Long Range Toddy, causing both horses to briefly break stride.
And where was Country House in all this?
Coming fast on the outside. If you watch the tape five or six or a hundred times, you can see -- maybe -- Country House affected by the traffic jam for a nanosecond. And you have to look really, really close, in max slow motion, even to see that.
Nonetheless, Country House's people filed a complaint. What the hell, you're already a 65-1 shot, and it's the Kentucky Derby, not some claiming race. Why not try to beat even bigger odds?
Darned if they didn't. And meanwhile, the two horses truly affected by Maximum Security's hitch in its get-along -- War of Will and Long Range Toddy -- finished eighth and second-to-last.
Which suggests they were non-factors down the stretch anyway.
Look. It's the Kentucky Derby. There's like 96 horses in it. Traffic jams and aggravated jostling happen every year. It's like a restrictor plate race in NASCAR -- everybody bumpin' and bangin', everybody looking for the fast lane. No one ever files a complaint at the end, unless something completely egregious happens.
Which, in this case at Churchill Downs yesterday, nothing did.
So Maximum Security got robbed, and that takes us back to For Now and Lawyer Up. Those are your real winners here, because if this doesn't land in court before it's all said and done, the Blob will once again be shocked. Maximum Security's folks will Lawyer Up, and that means Country House is the Derby winner For Now.
Oh, and Instant Replay?
It has a new name now. One the Blob gave it a good long time ago.
Bleeping Instant Replay.
Which is, that was a hell of a race in the 145th Kentucky Derby, muck and all. Lawyer Up over For Now by a nose.
And if you're saying now you didn't realize there were horses named For Now and Lawyer Up in the field ... well, you weren't paying attention. You were too busy trying to figure out how 65-1 shot Country House, with a big assist from Instant Replay, wound up with the roses instead of Maximum Security, who actually won.
What happened was, the track stewards went to the tape after Country House's people filed a protest, and did something no track stewards in 145 years had ever done: They gave the victory to Instant Replay. Or, actually, Country House, which finished second but was awarded the W after Maximum Security was disqualified for what can be best described as "aggravated jostling."
Here's the deal: Maximum Security led virtually starting gate to wire, but as the pack came to the head of the stretch, he bore out slightly from the rail. This squeezed War of Will, who was immediately behind. This caused War of Will to veer into Long Range Toddy, causing both horses to briefly break stride.
And where was Country House in all this?
Coming fast on the outside. If you watch the tape five or six or a hundred times, you can see -- maybe -- Country House affected by the traffic jam for a nanosecond. And you have to look really, really close, in max slow motion, even to see that.
Nonetheless, Country House's people filed a complaint. What the hell, you're already a 65-1 shot, and it's the Kentucky Derby, not some claiming race. Why not try to beat even bigger odds?
Darned if they didn't. And meanwhile, the two horses truly affected by Maximum Security's hitch in its get-along -- War of Will and Long Range Toddy -- finished eighth and second-to-last.
Which suggests they were non-factors down the stretch anyway.
Look. It's the Kentucky Derby. There's like 96 horses in it. Traffic jams and aggravated jostling happen every year. It's like a restrictor plate race in NASCAR -- everybody bumpin' and bangin', everybody looking for the fast lane. No one ever files a complaint at the end, unless something completely egregious happens.
Which, in this case at Churchill Downs yesterday, nothing did.
So Maximum Security got robbed, and that takes us back to For Now and Lawyer Up. Those are your real winners here, because if this doesn't land in court before it's all said and done, the Blob will once again be shocked. Maximum Security's folks will Lawyer Up, and that means Country House is the Derby winner For Now.
Oh, and Instant Replay?
It has a new name now. One the Blob gave it a good long time ago.
Bleeping Instant Replay.
Friday, May 3, 2019
Punished for being
So I'm thinking of this short story today, a nifty bit of satirical scribbling from the late, great Kurt Vonnegut. The name of the story is "Harrison Bergeron." It's about a 14-year-old boy who's taller, stronger, smarter and better looking than the average bear.
This is a problem.
It's a problem because, in Vonnegut's tale, the year is 2081. Amendments to the Constitution have decreed that every American is finally and completely equal. Which means that by law, no one can be smarter, better-looking, stronger or faster than anyone else. There's even a Handicapper General, name of Diana Moon Glampers, whose job it is to make sure the Harrison Bergerons of the world are appropriately punished for being smarter, better-looking, stronger and faster.
This means Harrison Bergeron must, by law, carry around 300 pounds of metal. He also has to wear huge headphones and big glasses meant to blind him and give him headaches. Oh, and he also has to wear a red rubber nose and black caps on his perfect teeth.
I'm thinking of this today because it turns out Harrison Bergeron is real. Only she's a woman, and her name is Caster Semenya.
Semenya is a two-time Olympic track champion from South Africa, and the other day she lost an appeal against the IAAF, track's governing body. This means, like Harrison Bergeron, she has to handicap herself if she wants to compete in international track-and-field.
Semenya, it seems, naturally produces higher levels of testosterone than the average woman. (She is not, however, transgender. This is a Fox News invention designed to incite backlash against transgender people among Trump groupies seeking validation for their disdain of transgenders.)
Anyway ... the IAAF has decided it's unfair to her competitors that she was born this way. So it's decreed that Semenya must take medication to lower her testosterone levels if she wants to compete.
"But Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "Isn't that discriminatory on its face?"
Why, yes it is. The IAAF even admits as much. Its rationale for this is that's it's necessary, because ... well, because Semenya is just darn too good. Or at least that's what it boils down to.
The hypocrisy in this, of course, is that Semenya is being targeted for genetic advantages that have propelled athletes to greatness since time immemorial. As Monica Hesse of the Washington Post points out here, no one forced Michael Phelps to have corrective surgery on his double-jointed ankles or made him take meds to boost his absurdly low lactic acid levels. We just celebrated all the gold medals he won because he was a genetic freak -- or at least in part because of that.
But then, Phelps is male. Semenya is female. Thereby, presumably, hangs a tale.
And Harrison Bergeron?
In Vonnegut's story, he breaks out of prison, sheds his handicaps, and is gunned down as a subversive by Diana Moon Glampers herself.
That's not going to happen to Semenya, of course.
Although Diana Moon Glampers sure sounds like the IAAF's kinda gal.
This is a problem.
It's a problem because, in Vonnegut's tale, the year is 2081. Amendments to the Constitution have decreed that every American is finally and completely equal. Which means that by law, no one can be smarter, better-looking, stronger or faster than anyone else. There's even a Handicapper General, name of Diana Moon Glampers, whose job it is to make sure the Harrison Bergerons of the world are appropriately punished for being smarter, better-looking, stronger and faster.
This means Harrison Bergeron must, by law, carry around 300 pounds of metal. He also has to wear huge headphones and big glasses meant to blind him and give him headaches. Oh, and he also has to wear a red rubber nose and black caps on his perfect teeth.
I'm thinking of this today because it turns out Harrison Bergeron is real. Only she's a woman, and her name is Caster Semenya.
Semenya is a two-time Olympic track champion from South Africa, and the other day she lost an appeal against the IAAF, track's governing body. This means, like Harrison Bergeron, she has to handicap herself if she wants to compete in international track-and-field.
Semenya, it seems, naturally produces higher levels of testosterone than the average woman. (She is not, however, transgender. This is a Fox News invention designed to incite backlash against transgender people among Trump groupies seeking validation for their disdain of transgenders.)
Anyway ... the IAAF has decided it's unfair to her competitors that she was born this way. So it's decreed that Semenya must take medication to lower her testosterone levels if she wants to compete.
"But Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "Isn't that discriminatory on its face?"
Why, yes it is. The IAAF even admits as much. Its rationale for this is that's it's necessary, because ... well, because Semenya is just darn too good. Or at least that's what it boils down to.
The hypocrisy in this, of course, is that Semenya is being targeted for genetic advantages that have propelled athletes to greatness since time immemorial. As Monica Hesse of the Washington Post points out here, no one forced Michael Phelps to have corrective surgery on his double-jointed ankles or made him take meds to boost his absurdly low lactic acid levels. We just celebrated all the gold medals he won because he was a genetic freak -- or at least in part because of that.
But then, Phelps is male. Semenya is female. Thereby, presumably, hangs a tale.
And Harrison Bergeron?
In Vonnegut's story, he breaks out of prison, sheds his handicaps, and is gunned down as a subversive by Diana Moon Glampers herself.
That's not going to happen to Semenya, of course.
Although Diana Moon Glampers sure sounds like the IAAF's kinda gal.
Thursday, May 2, 2019
A little horse pucky
Two days now until the Kentucky Derby, which means it's high time for the Blob's annual paean to the Twin Spires ("Look! Two of 'em!"), and that song by Dan Fogelberg ("Run for the Roses"), and the worst mixed drink ever concocted by man or beast, the mint julep.
(Also, Kentucky Colonels. Also, ladies' hats designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. Also, gratuitous references to Mister Ted, the main character in the Blob's unfortunate column about a talking horse, and the line "gray horses are frequently Alpo," which the Blob recycles every year.)
("Yes, we're aware," you're saying.)
Anyway ... the Eleventy-Hundredth running of the Derby is Saturday, which compels the Blob to again make stupid puns involving the word "furlong," and to confuse "fetlock" with "Matlock" and "withers" with "Bill Withers." It also means it's time for the Blob to spit out a whole lot of useless observations that will tell you nothing about which horse to put your money on this year.
1. Do not put your money on Omaha Beach.
This is because Omaha Beach, the presumptive favorite, has been scratched. Apparently he has an entrapped epiglottis, which is correctable by minor surgery but inhibits his breathing.
In strict medical terms, this means Omaha Beach has "an owie."
2. Do not bet Gray Magician, either.
This is because Gray Magician is the longest shot in the field at (as of yesterday) 50-1. He also hasn't won a race this year. He also has a trainer (Peter Miller) whose only other Derby horse finished next-to-last.
On the other hand, his jockey is Drayden Van Drake, which might be the coolest jockey name ever. Drayden Van Drake is 23 years old according to his driver's license. Actually, though, he's 12.
I mean, look at the guy.
3. On the other hand, you might consider putting a couple bucks down on Plus Que Parfait.
He's a longshot, too (30-1). But, come on, it's Plus Que Parfait. And as Donkey said in "Shrek," parfaits are delicious.
Also, everybody likes 'em.
4. Also, there's Win Win Win.
He'll come out of the 14 hole and has a jockey (Julian Pimentel) who's never ridden in a Derby before, and a trainer (Mike Trombella) who's only had a mount in one.
On the other hand, he is named Win Win Win. So how can he lose?
"Seriously, though, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "Who do you like to win?"
I like a horse to win this year.
"Dammit!" you're saying.
A horse with fetlocks and withers and all the other requisite horse parts, as long as they're not gray.
"Stop it!"
OK, OK. Actually, you could do worse with the new favorite, Game Winner. He was the 2-year-old champion. His trainer, that guy with the white hair (Baffle? Buffet? Something like that) says he's a "fighter" and a general bad-ass. Plus, the trainer, whose actual name is Bob Baffert, has trained a Triple Crown winner twice in the last four years.
So, yeah. Game Winner. Or maybe Improbable, another White-Hair Guy horse, despite his name. Or maybe Tacitus -- who won the Wood Memorial even though he's gray, and even though his jockey and trainer (Jose Ortiz and Bill Mott) are a combined 0-for-12 in the Derby.
This means Gray Magician might actually run faster than Tacitus come Saturday.
Though probably not furlong.
(Also, Kentucky Colonels. Also, ladies' hats designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. Also, gratuitous references to Mister Ted, the main character in the Blob's unfortunate column about a talking horse, and the line "gray horses are frequently Alpo," which the Blob recycles every year.)
("Yes, we're aware," you're saying.)
Anyway ... the Eleventy-Hundredth running of the Derby is Saturday, which compels the Blob to again make stupid puns involving the word "furlong," and to confuse "fetlock" with "Matlock" and "withers" with "Bill Withers." It also means it's time for the Blob to spit out a whole lot of useless observations that will tell you nothing about which horse to put your money on this year.
1. Do not put your money on Omaha Beach.
This is because Omaha Beach, the presumptive favorite, has been scratched. Apparently he has an entrapped epiglottis, which is correctable by minor surgery but inhibits his breathing.
In strict medical terms, this means Omaha Beach has "an owie."
2. Do not bet Gray Magician, either.
This is because Gray Magician is the longest shot in the field at (as of yesterday) 50-1. He also hasn't won a race this year. He also has a trainer (Peter Miller) whose only other Derby horse finished next-to-last.
On the other hand, his jockey is Drayden Van Drake, which might be the coolest jockey name ever. Drayden Van Drake is 23 years old according to his driver's license. Actually, though, he's 12.
I mean, look at the guy.
3. On the other hand, you might consider putting a couple bucks down on Plus Que Parfait.
He's a longshot, too (30-1). But, come on, it's Plus Que Parfait. And as Donkey said in "Shrek," parfaits are delicious.
Also, everybody likes 'em.
4. Also, there's Win Win Win.
He'll come out of the 14 hole and has a jockey (Julian Pimentel) who's never ridden in a Derby before, and a trainer (Mike Trombella) who's only had a mount in one.
On the other hand, he is named Win Win Win. So how can he lose?
"Seriously, though, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "Who do you like to win?"
I like a horse to win this year.
"Dammit!" you're saying.
A horse with fetlocks and withers and all the other requisite horse parts, as long as they're not gray.
"Stop it!"
OK, OK. Actually, you could do worse with the new favorite, Game Winner. He was the 2-year-old champion. His trainer, that guy with the white hair (Baffle? Buffet? Something like that) says he's a "fighter" and a general bad-ass. Plus, the trainer, whose actual name is Bob Baffert, has trained a Triple Crown winner twice in the last four years.
So, yeah. Game Winner. Or maybe Improbable, another White-Hair Guy horse, despite his name. Or maybe Tacitus -- who won the Wood Memorial even though he's gray, and even though his jockey and trainer (Jose Ortiz and Bill Mott) are a combined 0-for-12 in the Derby.
This means Gray Magician might actually run faster than Tacitus come Saturday.
Though probably not furlong.
Wednesday, May 1, 2019
Fools and their money
They're ... they're ...
How does that go again?
Oh, yeah. They're soon parted.
No one likes to disparage men and women of faith, but there is faith, and then there is blind faith. And then there is whatever it is that compels people to hand over their money to minor-league indoor football entities.
The Blob's cynicism about the aforementioned hardened a long time ago, just about the time indoor football in Fort Wayne died gasping for the third or fourth or eleventy-hundredth time. And it pretty much red-lined when Joe McClendon traipsed into town promising a shiny new model, the National Gridiron League, which would begin play in May.
Well, today is the first day of May. And we all know what's happened since McClendon said that.
The Fort Wayne franchise, the Indiana Blue Blombers -- not to be confused with the other NGL team named "Indiana" -- hired a convicted felon as head coach, who didn't even show up for the introductory news conference. The team had zero presence in town other than a website offering to take your money for season tickets. Some people did, which brings us back to our little homily about faith, blind faith and whatever else.
See, what happened was, the NGL pulled the plug on the 2019 season before it ever began. Stories began to surface about team staff who hadn't seen a dime of their promised salaries, and arena deals that hadn't happened even though some of the said arenas were listed as the home fields for NGL teams. And now some of the prospective fans who plunked down money for 2019 season tickets still haven't heard from the NGL about either promised refunds or rolling those tickets over to 2020.
(I'm not sure there's even a name for people who'd even consider doing the latter at this point. There is faith, after all, and then there is the sheer, inexplicable gullibility of hopeless rubes.)
One of those fans who hasn't seen his money, but who shall remain nameless here, dropped more than $900 for Blue Bombers season tickets. Six weeks have gone by since the NGL promised to refund season ticket money. This particular fan hasn't heard a word. He hasn't tried to contacting the league office, he says, because he's had no luck doing so in the past.
McClendon's explanation for this is that these things take time. He still maintains that 100 percent of those who bought tickets will eventually be contacted, and says about 70 percent already have been.
This might be true. It might also be true there's a giant invisible bird in the sky that flaps its wings and makes the wind blow.
Even money which is more likely at this point.
How does that go again?
Oh, yeah. They're soon parted.
No one likes to disparage men and women of faith, but there is faith, and then there is blind faith. And then there is whatever it is that compels people to hand over their money to minor-league indoor football entities.
The Blob's cynicism about the aforementioned hardened a long time ago, just about the time indoor football in Fort Wayne died gasping for the third or fourth or eleventy-hundredth time. And it pretty much red-lined when Joe McClendon traipsed into town promising a shiny new model, the National Gridiron League, which would begin play in May.
Well, today is the first day of May. And we all know what's happened since McClendon said that.
The Fort Wayne franchise, the Indiana Blue Blombers -- not to be confused with the other NGL team named "Indiana" -- hired a convicted felon as head coach, who didn't even show up for the introductory news conference. The team had zero presence in town other than a website offering to take your money for season tickets. Some people did, which brings us back to our little homily about faith, blind faith and whatever else.
See, what happened was, the NGL pulled the plug on the 2019 season before it ever began. Stories began to surface about team staff who hadn't seen a dime of their promised salaries, and arena deals that hadn't happened even though some of the said arenas were listed as the home fields for NGL teams. And now some of the prospective fans who plunked down money for 2019 season tickets still haven't heard from the NGL about either promised refunds or rolling those tickets over to 2020.
(I'm not sure there's even a name for people who'd even consider doing the latter at this point. There is faith, after all, and then there is the sheer, inexplicable gullibility of hopeless rubes.)
One of those fans who hasn't seen his money, but who shall remain nameless here, dropped more than $900 for Blue Bombers season tickets. Six weeks have gone by since the NGL promised to refund season ticket money. This particular fan hasn't heard a word. He hasn't tried to contacting the league office, he says, because he's had no luck doing so in the past.
McClendon's explanation for this is that these things take time. He still maintains that 100 percent of those who bought tickets will eventually be contacted, and says about 70 percent already have been.
This might be true. It might also be true there's a giant invisible bird in the sky that flaps its wings and makes the wind blow.
Even money which is more likely at this point.
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