Wednesday, September 30, 2020

North Dallas farewell

 And now the weird part, as Seth Maxwell would say.

Seth Maxwell is dead.

Rather, the man who breathed life into him, Mac Davis, is dead. He passed this week at 78 following heart surgery, and this is hard stuff to take on top of all the other hard stuff 2020 has sent down the river to us, being the year of thumbscrews and eyeball-gouging and bastard plagues and all.

Most people know Davis as the country singer/songwriter who wrote "In The Ghetto" for Elvis and a bunch of other songs for himself, but here in the Blobiverse he'll forever be known as the quarterback of the North Dallas Bulls, Seth Maxwell. That's who he played opposite Nick Nolte in "North Dallas Forty," which might not be the best football movie ever made but sure doesn't have to stand in the line very long.

It's always been the Blob's favorite because of the way it accurately portrays professional football players as disposable parts in a corporate threshing machine, and also because it's got a pile of great lines. And a lot of those belong to Seth Maxwell, who is both quarterback and gridiron Buddha.

"You had better learn how to play the game, and I don't mean just the game of football," he tells Nolte's buck-the-system character, Phil Elliott, at one point.

Of course, Elliott never does and winds up getting kicked out of the league for essentially being too much a square peg in a round hole. And then says as much to Football Buddha at the end of the film.

"They want too much," Elliott says.

"Too much ain't enough. Not for them," Football Buddha replies.

Forty-one years ago Mac Davis' character said that. Still just as true today.

RIP, Seth Maxwell.

Debatable

Decided not to watch Churchill and Gladstone last night, on account of I like my TV and wasn't  ready to fling my shoe through it yet.  But I heard there were some deep-concept policy exchanges, and Churchill and Gladstone didn't actually start throwing poo at each other, so that was good.

Although someone really needs to tell me where I can get a "Will you shut up, man?" bumper sticker.

And maybe one that references Churchill saying he saved Big Ten football, while you're at it.

Yes, that's right, America. President Donald J. "Flea Flicker" Trump gave the people Ohio State-Northwestern all by his lonesome. He saved Indiana's season and Purdue's season and Michigan's season and even Nebraska's season. He even saved Rutgers' season, though God knows why.

Anyway, it was good ol' Flea Flicker who did all that, with his magical deal-making skills. The players' parents raising a ruckus and the players themselves banding together unnervingly union-like and Nebraska's players dropping a cascade of lawsuits on the Big Ten didn't have a thing to do with it.

It was Flea Flicker and Flea Flicker alone. Just like it was Flea Flicker who saved us all from the pandemic and used his trusty rake to keep the West Coast from burning up and wants to keep us all safe from the Godless Antifa Democrats and scary brown and black people, and also from voting by mail.

Yeesh. I am so glad I didn't watch that.  The Big Ten brag alone would have caused my head to explode like all those guys in "Scanners."

And my TV would have been toast.

Instead, it's just fine this morning.

Well. Except for the way it weirdly keeps saying "Thank you for watching 'Hidden Figures' last night."

Tuesday, September 29, 2020

A few brief thoughts on NFL Week 3

And now this week's edition of The NFL In So Many Words, the quietly subversive Blob feature of which critics have said "Ha! Antifa! Found you!", and also "You can't fool America with your quiet subversion, you vile infiltrator from the Anarchist Jurisdictions!":

1. Did that guy on TV just call Patrick Mahomes "Pat"? Anarchist!

2. You think Russell Wilson could be this perfect if he weren't a vile infiltrator?

3. Speaking of infiltrators, the not-especially-3-0ish 3-0 Chicago Bears.

4. Speaking of the 3-0 Chicago Bears, Falcons head coach Dan Quinn.

5. Nick Foles thanks you for giving a brother's job status a boost.

6. Speaking of Dan Quinn, Texans coach Bill O'Brien. Also Eagles coach Doug Pederson. Also Jets coach Adam Gase.  Also that guy who coaches the 0-3 Vikings, what's-his-name, Mike Zimmer.

7. Aka, this week's cast of The Walking Dead.

8. "Ha! Not me yet, beeotches!" (Lions coach Matt Patricia, after knocking off the Cardinals on the road)

9. Speaking one last time of Dan Quinn, if you gave his Falcons a 25-mile head start in a marathon, where would they finish?

10. A) Second. B) Third. C) Behind Nick Foles.

Monday, September 28, 2020

The NBA Finals, or something

 Timeout now for a few words about the NBA 2020 Coda/2021 Preview Finals Or Whatever, which will pit the Miami Heat against LeBron James and Anthony Davis.

Doesn't seem like a fair fight, a whole team against two guys. But nobody can still handle LeBron even at his advanced age, and A.D. is pretty much unstoppable anywhere on the floor, so mayb--

I'm sorry. What was that?

Oh, right, it's not just LeBron and A.D. vs. the Heat. It's the Los Angeles Lakers against the Heat, even if you'd be excused for thinking of the Lakers as LeBron, A.D. and Them Others.

Conventional wisdom probably says Them Others will get rings because of LeBron and A.D., but I wouldn't put the whole wad down on CW. This Heat team is exactly that, a team, and they can hurt you anywhere on the floor you want to play, and if you start thinking they're just Jimmy Butler everywhere and Bam Adebayo defending the rim, they'll bring a Tyler Herro off the bench to light you up from the arc.

Herro did just that to the Celtics in Game 4, when the 20-year-old shooting guard came off the bench to score 37 points and put Boston down three-games-to-one in the Eastern Conference finals. So the Heat have that going for them and Jae Crowder and Andre Iguodala and Goran Dragic and an all-for-one, one-for-all locker room culture -- plus a head coach, Erik Spoelstra, who has never gotten his due in the Blob's humble opinion.

I don't know if all that's enough to keep LeBron's mitts off his fourth title. But I sure wouldn't sleep on 'em at this point.

Your weekend media highlights

 The Cubs just wrapped their third division title in the last five seasons, But you know they say about the Cubs. No matter how consistently successful they are, vestiges of Essential Cubness still cling to them like barnacles on a whaler.

And so we come to the first of our Weekend Media Highlights, in which athletes either channel ghostly figures from the past or reveal that no matter how old they get, they'll always be tantrum-y toddlers who throw their Cheerios on the floor when things don't go their way.

First, the former, which involves Cubs stalwart Kris Bryant and a long-ago Cubs manager named Lee Elia.

Elia became immortal for his profanity-laced trashing of Cubs fans after a game in 1983 in which the fans had booed his Cubs. Bryant performed a less-expansive homage, sort of, when asked what he thought of criticism.

“I don’t give a s***,” Bryant said. “I really don’t. That’s a good answer. I’m over it. Sometimes I go out there and go 4-for-4 and it’s not good enough for some people so I DON'T GIVE A S***."

Awesome. Didn't have the nuclear meltdown qualities of Elia's rant, nor its poetic cadence of the repetitive "My (bleepin') ass" with which Elia punctuated his, um, thoughts about Cubs fans. But it was a good effort nonetheless.

Equally good was Kyle Busch's performance after the NASCAR race the other night, 

He's been petulant even for him most of this season, but Saturday night he got into the back of lapped traffic due to spotter mixup, and he wasn't happy about it. So he took it out on the media afterwards with a succession of pouty one-word non-answers punctuated with the admission that he was only talking to them because he'd get fined if he didn't.

In other words, it was Kyle Busch being his essential jackwagon Kyle Busch self. Here's the clip.

In these profoundly altered times, it's good to know some things never change.

Sunday, September 27, 2020

One Saturday in the fall

Okey-dokey, class, one last time: Why does Professor Blob regard Saturdays in the fall to be much, much more fun than Sundays in the fall?

Because a mad scientist named Mike Leach, who may or may not be completely crazy, can take Mississippi State into Baton Rouge and introduce to the SEC his sacrilegious notions about football by knocking off defending national champion LSU.

Because the Nos. 3 and 6 teams in the nation can lose on the same day, and the No. 8 team can almost lose, and the No. 4 team has to change quarterbacks on account of it was losing to unranked Arkansas.

Because heartbreak looks like Texas Tech leading the aforementioned No. 8 team, Texas, by 15 points with 3:40 to play, only to have Texas QB Sam Ehinger channel Texas quarterbacking legend James Street to pull it out for Texas in overtime.

In order words: Professor Blob regards Saturdays in the fall to be much more fun than Sundays because the empirical evidence says so.

After all, you're not gonna see the mix of heroics and pain in a Dolphins-Jets clash like you saw in Lubbock, Texas, yesterday, where it was 100 degrees and Tech looked like a lock after the splendidly named SaRodorick Thompson raced 75 yards to Six City with 3:40 left.

That made it 56-41 and Texas was taking on water in alarming fashion, but it still had Ehinger. He started throwing and Joshua Moore and Brennan Eagles started catching, and Texas recovered an onside kick in there somewhere. And the Horns hooked 'em.

That was also about the same time No. 3 Oklahoma was blowing a three-touchdown lead in Norman and losing to Kansas State, 38-35. This despite the dazzlement of OU freshman Spencer Rattler, who threw for 387 yards and four touchdowns and was at times as awesome as his name, which is exactly the sort of name a big-deal college quarterback ought to have.

If he was named John Smith you wouldn't have been nearly as impressed. Trust me on this.

Trust me, too, that Mike Leach is the most interesting possibly deranged individual in college football. He has this weird pirate fetish, and he's prone to bizarre soliloquies at times, and he plays this loony offense that throws the football a promiscuous amount of the time.  And yesterday he took it into Baton Rouge and beat LSU with it.

Stacked up 44 points, Leach's boys did, which might be about average for Mississippi State this year. The Bulldogs quarterback, a grad transfer with the suitably quarterback-y name of  K.J. Costello, threw the ball 60 times and shattered the SEC record for passing yards right out of the chute. Threw for 623 yards and five touchdowns and left the LSUs gasping for air. 

Remember when people said you can only do that in Big 12, where defense is just a rumor?

Well. Hmm. Costello threw for five touchdowns, and Florida quarterback Kyle Trask threw for six in a win at Ole Miss in which the teams combined for 86 points, and I guess the SEC is just the Big 12 with a snootier rep now.

Of course, it now also has Mike Leach.

And can the Dolphins or Jets say that?

Saturday, September 26, 2020

The Stanley Cuppa This Ain't Right

 Sometimes the weirdness just blindsides you, like reality's purse-snatcher or that scene in "The Usual Suspects" where Keyser Soze stops limping. 

You think you've got this new usual figured out. You think it seems perfectly normal to you now that the Indianapolis 500 is in August and the Kentucky Derby is in September and the NBA, NHL, MLB and college and pro football are all going on at the same time ...

And then it happens.

Then you see that the Tampa Bay Lightning, up three-games-to-one in the Stanley Cup Final, could be parading around the ice with Lord Stanley's hardware tonight.

You say it like that, of course, and it doesn't seem all that weird. But say it like this:

A hockey team from Florida is about to beat a hockey team from Texas for the Stanley Cup.

In Edmonton, Alberta, 2,000 miles away from either Tampa or Dallas.

In an empty building.

On September 26.

Now that is weird, boys and girls.

Also weird: The Reds, Padres and Marlins have all clinched spots in baseball's postseason. 

The Reds haven't seen the postseason in eight years. The Padres haven't in 22, or before Fernando Tatis Jr. was born. And the Marlins lost 105 games just last season.

Of course, the Fish are in only because MLB is letting everybody and his brother into the playoffs now, which is weird in itself. Eight teams in both the AL and NL will make the playoffs. If the poobahs had been any more lenient, even my cruddy Pittsburgh Pirates might have made the playoffs. 

Well, OK. So the Cruds were never going to be there.

But you take my point.

Point is, Sportsball World gets more bizarre every day. And you really can't predict when its bizarreness is going to hit you. About all you can do is follow the lead of Emperor Joseph in "Amadeus," whose standard way of ending a conversation (particularly a contentious one) was to say "Well. There it is."

So when Weber State winds up playing Army for the national title in the Our Boys Didn't Get Sick Bowl, you'll know what to say.

Well. There it is.

Thursday, September 24, 2020

The new usual

So now we'll hear it again. Because now, wearily, we've seen it again.

The seeing part: Police kick in a door on a no-knock and exchange gunfire with one of the occupants, who draws down because that's what some people do in a home invasion situation.

Sleeping young Black woman gets riddled in the ensuing shootout.

Sleeping young Black woman takes 20 minutes to die while she lies unattended.

One officer gets indicted on a D felony-- not because he went OK Corral and shot the hell out of  a sleeping human being (who, again, took 20 minutes to die while no one did a damn thing), but because he put some other shots in some drywall.

Shooting up drywall, bad. Shooting up a sleeping human of color ... well, that was just self-defense.

And now you know what happens next in Sportsball World, and what we'll hear because of it.

Shut up and dribble.

Stick to sports.

How dare you disrespect the flag/troops/anthem/'Merica!

Get that sonofabitch off the field!

Because athletes are not human beings, you see. They are minstrels who are paid absurdly well to entertain us. 

And so how dare they stop dancing.

How dare they actually tell us what they think about anything besides touchdowns and slam dunks and defending the low post.

Well, gee. I don't know. Maybe it's because they can see that scoreboard over there, being athletes and all.

Here's what it says: Drywall 1, Humans 0.

Stick to sports. Really.

Wednesday, September 23, 2020

Bleaker and bleaker

 You might want to cover your ears now, if you are inclined to civil discourse. The Blob is going to cuss for awhile here.

Dammit. Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit ... DAMMIT.

Gale Sayers is dead.

He passed today at 77, and 2020 can kiss my wrinkly old-man ass. It's been nothing but a neon prick of a son of a bitch since it blew in at midnight on January 1, and now it's hauled off and darkened my childhood Sunday afternoons yet again. And dammit, dammit, dammit, DAMMIT.

Told ya I was gonna cuss some.

I do it here because I'm way past civil discourse at this point, and that's because No. 40 was No. 1 and always will be. He and Butkus were the only reasons to watch the early NFL game in these parts in the late '60s, when the Bears were mostly wretched and you could fit all the logos of the NFL teams on one seat cushion. (I know. I had one.) Life, and football, were simpler then, and less bizarre.

Well. Except for that crazy Fran Tarkenton, who ran around back there like a chicken with his head cut off and didn't act anything like a quarterback was supposed to act.

Sayers, though ... that man was pure art. There has never been a running back before or since who ran through defenses with such fluid grace, seeming to move in slow motion even in full flight. His most breathtaking excursions should have been set to Mozart. 

Don't even try to argue with me on this. You will lose.

That his career numbers are so modest (4,956 yards and 39 touchdowns) owes less to his artistry than to the crudities of orthopedic medicine in the 1960s. Two knee injuries that wouldn't have derailed his career in 2020 wrecked his, limiting him to just seven seasons and 68 games. Twice, in 1966 and 1969, he rushed for more than 1,000 yards, then the benchmark for running backs in the NFL. He also caught 112 passes for 1,307 yards and nine more touchdowns.

Throw in eight return touchdowns, and in 68 games he scored 56 touchdowns, for a football team that won more than seven games only once in his seven seasons -- his rookie year in 1965, when the Bears went 9-5. It was a whole lot of 7-7, 6-8 and 1-13 thereafter.

Not that the essence of Gale Sayers ever was about numbers.

It was about a man who played football the way Baryshnikov would have played it, for a team that was not the Bolshoi but the Hooterville Ballet And Repertory Company. 

And now 2020 has taken him. 

Cover your ears. It's time to cuss some more.

Creeping attrition

So the Bastard Plague has sidelined Notre Dame this week, and here are the predictions of all us Nervous Nellies outlined in red. The national pathogen can put Directional Hyphen Tech in stasis, and everyone will just carry on as usual. But when it's Notre Dame that gets bitten ...

Here are the numbers: Seven positive tests on top of four last week and now there's 10 players in quarantine and 13 in isolation following contact tracing and positive tests, and there goes the Wake Forest game this week. And there has already gone a multitude of other games among the Power 5s, and we're not even through September yet.

I don't know what this bodes for October and November. A fine mess, I suspect.

Creeping attrition being what it is, the deeper we go into the season, the more players are going to wind up in 14-day quarantines, and that will eventually necessitate not just postponing but canceling games. And what happens then? How do you schedule around a pandemic?

That has always been the question here, and it's one the Play Football And Let The Virus Sort 'Em Out crowd has tried hard to ignore. The assumption was if you took every possible precaution and protected your players like the valuable assets/line workers they are (I'm sorry, "student-athletes" bwah-ha-ha-ha), that this would be just another college football autumn -- albeit without fans and tailgaters and parking lot alumni reunions and, you know, pretty much everything that makes college football what it is.

But let's look at Notre Dame, which for the second time in two months has hit pause on all football-related activities.

The ACC has incorporated a number of bye weeks into its rewired schedule to remedy just the situation that's arisen in South Bend. And so the Fighting Irish and Wake Forest have several open dates they could play the game that was supposed to be played Saturday.

They could make it up Oct. 3, but that's only if there are no more positive tests and no more players going on the quarantine shelf for 14 days. And if there are, that would not only make Oct. 3 a no-go, but it would also put the Irish's Oct. 10 date with Florida State in jeopardy. That would leave two games to make up and only one more scheduled bye week (Nov. 21) to do so.

Now, teams with postponed games could always make them up Dec. 12, the date of the ACC championship game. The ACC has said in that case, it would simply move the title game to Dec. 19. 

Of course, that's assuming the two teams involved don't themselves have a pile of players in quarantine by then. 

I know. It makes my head ache, too.

Tuesday, September 22, 2020

Shut up and play

 I remember what Nebraska football used to be. So do you if you're as old as dirt like I am.

Nebraska football used to be a lot square-jawed old boys named Jeff (Kinney) and Jerry (Tagge) and Rich (Glover) and Dave (Rimington), and the occasional streak of lightning named Johnny (Rodgers).

It used to be crusty old Bob Devaney sending his Jeffs and Jerrys and Riches and Daves out there to crush some poor Iowa State 75-0 or something.

It used to be, you know, really good.

Now it's a lot of 5-7 and 4-8 and complaining and lawsuits. And wouldn't crusty old Bob grind his molars over THAT.

No, Bob would be saying, "Criminiddly, shut up and play" or something like that, and hiding his head in shame. Because his beloved Cornhuskers have become a bunch of candy-you-know-what bellyachers. A bunch of fraidy cats scared of a good challenge.

This is because everyone in Lincoln, it seemed, cried and whined and even filed a lawsuit against the Big Ten when the Big Ten initially decided not to play football this fall. Even threatened to bolt back to the Big 12 at one point.

And now?

Now that they've gotten their way, they've decided to bellyache about that.

Their athletic director the other day expressed some displeasure over the Cornhuskers' revised eight-game schedule, which includes games with Ohio State, Wisconsin and Penn State in their first four games. This despite the fact both OSU and PSU were on the Huskers' original schedule.

This despite the fact the Huskers still don't have Indiana's schedule, which includes Penn State, Michigan, Michigan State and Ohio State in its first five games.

Of course, the Hoosiers aren't complaining about that. They're just getting ready to buckle their chin straps and play.

In other words, they're kind of taking the attitude Nebraska used to have. 

Ouch.

A few brief thoughts on NFL Week 2

 And now this week's edition The NFL In So Many Words, the irrepressible Blob feature that is sweeping the nation as the critics say, "Aieee! It's sweeping the nation!", and also "Oh my God, it's EVERYWHERE! Save us, Russell Wilson!"

1. It's Tuesday morning and Russell Wilson just saved us with another touchdown pa--

2. Wait, there's anoth-

3. Stop it, Russell!

4. It's Tuesday morning and the critics are saying "Aieee! Everyone in the NFL is injured! They shoulda let 'em play the three-quarters of one preseason game the starters usually play! Then they wouldn't be hurt!"

5. "Hey, look at me. I'M not hurt!" (Russell Wilson)

6. Stop it, Russell!

7. It's Tuesday morning and OH MY GOD DEREK CARR IS BETTER THAN DREW BREES!

8. OK, so probably not. Probably not even as good as Patrick Mahomes, who was again behind by eleventy-hundred points and pulled it out for the Chiefs.

9. "Just like I did for the Seahawks!" (Russell Wilson)

10. Stop it, Russell!

Monday, September 21, 2020

Well worn

Such a wonderful thing, when apparel and moment come together.

And so come with us to last night in the bubble in Orlando, where the Los Angeles Lakers and the Denver Nuggets were duking it out in Game 2 of the NBA Western Conference 2020 Coda/2021 Preview Finals. The clock was down to scraps. The ball swung around on the Lakers end. And there was Anthony Davis, left unattended out on the 3-point arc.

He rose. He released. The ball described a perfect arc, rotating gently, and then splashed down as the horn blared.

Boom. Lakers 105, Nuggets 103, two-games-to-none lead in the series.

And AD shouting "Kobe!" as the ball sluiced through the net.

Because, you bet, this was a Kobe dagger to a fare-thee-well, and not only that, it was a Kobe dagger dressed for the occasion. Because the Lakers were sporting the all-black Black Mamba unis designed by the Black Mamba himself.

If there were any further evidence needed that there celestial hands sometimes guide the works of man, I don't know what it would be. 

Or that Kobe may be gone, but he will never be forgotten.

"It's a constant reminder that Kobe is with us, and we kind of have the spirit in those jerseys," Davis said later.

So it would seem.

Sunday, September 20, 2020

Perfectly imperfect

 We've all been where young Matthew Wolff is this morning. OK, so we haven't.

Where the 21-year-old is, is leading the U.S. Open by two strokes going into the final round at Winged Foot, and the ghost of Francis Ouimet rides with him. Like Ouimet, the former caddie who famously won the U.S. Open in 1913 and became the face of American golf, Wolff is playing in his first U.S. Open. And if he wins today he'll be the first golfer to win the U.S. Open in September since ... Francis Ouimet.

So we haven't been where Matthew Wolff is. Although we've certainly been to some of the places he has on his way there.

Wolff gouged a 65 out of Winged Foot yesterday, and by "gouged" I mean, "gouged." He hit only two fairways in 18 holes. The rest of the time he was inventing amazing shots from the trackless wastes of Winged Foot's rough. It might have been both the ugliest, and impressive, 65s ever shot.

This is because no one else could do it, and pretty much everyone was playing from the trackless wastes. Winged Foot's fairways being skinnier than a bolo tie, hardly anyone could keep it in play. Bryson DeChambeau, who trails Wolff by two shots, hit only three fairways himself. Patrick Reed, the Open leader through the first two rounds, missed a whole pile of fairways, too, and blew to a 77. He started the day with a two-shot lead and finished it eight shots back.

This likely finishes one of the PGA Tour's less amicable figures (the Blob would use the term "punk," but let's play nice), which might not be a bad thing. DeChambeau, however, is right there, and he's also one of the Tour's less amicable figures. You take the bad with the good in these deals.

Or, if you're Matthew Wolff, you turn the bad into the good -- and phooey on the conventional U.S. Open wisdom  that says you tiptoe your way around, as if the course were seeded with land mines.

"I like to go out there and do what I feel comfortable with, rip dog and see how it goes from there," Wolff said.

You gotta love a guy who says stuff like "rip dog."

Spray it some more out there today, young man.

Saturday, September 19, 2020

A study in cruddiness

And now -- because it is Talk Like A Pirate Day, and also because 2020 just punched us in the face again by taking Ruth Bader Ginsburg from us -- the Blob has decided to get in the torturin' spirit of things by making your day even worse than it already was.

It's time to check in with my cruddy Pittsburgh Pirates again!

(But first, a word about RBG: Her death steals from the world one of the giants of her time, while at the same time again revealing the smallness of her ideological opposites. It took Moscow Mitch McConnell all of 90 minutes after she died to announce he would violate his own edict and ram through her replacement before the November election. This immediately drew him even with Our Only Available Impeached President in the hotly contested Worst Person In America race.)

But back to my cruddy Pirates.

The Cruds are now 15-36 and planted like a mighty oak in last place in all of baseball, with no challengers anywhere visible. They're the worst team in the National League by five games and the worst in both leagues by three games. After 51 games, they're 16 games out of first in the NL Central. And their 5-20 road record is matched only by the Texas Rangers, who are also 5-20 away from home.

So if you're a Crud or a Crud fan and you're talking like a Pirate today, here's what you're saying:

"Arrrr, does this benighted season ever end? Or must we suffer until Judgment trump?"

"Arrrr, fetch me another flagon of ale, matey. Watching this team brings a mighty thirst."

"Arrrr, where's the scurvy lot who put this team together? To the yardarm with 'em!'

And last but not least ...

"Arrrr, where's me favorite cutlass? All these flagons of ale have put me in the mood to board the front office and lop off a few of their mewling blackguard heads! God's blood but THAT will set things to right!"

Arrrr. If only.

Friday, September 18, 2020

Whitewashing history

 You can leave the room now, all of you who think history is just a bunch of boring dates and junk. The Blob is temporarily removing its Sportsball Guy hat and donning its History Nerd hat.

It's going to lament again, for approximately the 4,932nd time, that certain swatches of America are either appallingly ignorant of its history, or would rather it weren't so inconvenient. Kids today, right?

Wrong.

Because the certain swatch of America I'm talking about are Our Only Available Impeached President, and his flunky Attorney General, William Barr.

It was Barr the other day who told some folks at Hillsdale College that the lockdowns ordered by governors around the country to combat a vicious pandemic were "the greatest intrusion on civil liberties" since slavery. And it was OOAIP who said teaching kids about slavery -- and, you know, all that racial stuff -- was "child abuse," and that he, Donald J. "Paul Revere" Trump, was going to sign an executive order to get America back to teaching history the white, er, right, way.

As a history nerd of the first order all of this makes my teeth ache.

First, the President's attorney-general-on-retainer, who conveniently forgot about some things when he said what he did about common-sense efforts to fight a pathogen that's now killed 200,000 Americans.

Greatest intrusion on civil liberties since slavery?

Um, Billy boy, allow me to remind you of some stuff:

1. The internment of Americans of Japanese descent during World War II.

2. The imprisonment of anyone who uttered a dissenting word about America's involvement in the First World War, with sentences that sometimes exceeded 10 years.

3. The suspension of habeas corpus during the Civil War.

4. Jim Crow.

5. The Alien and Sedition Acts.

But, yeah, telling people they have to shelter in place for awhile to avoid spreading a killer virus  is MUCH worse than all that.

Lord. Give me strength.

Give me strength, too, to listen to OOAIP talk about American history without yanking my hair out in double handfuls. My History Nerd hat doesn't always fit me perfectly, but when Paul Revere Trump dons his he looks like '70s baseball star Oscar Gamble with his batting helmet perched precariously atop one of history's more glorious Afros. 

Paul Revere knows less than nothing about a whole lot of things, but his dim vision of our history is so wanting as to be comical at times. Not so comical is the Sovietization of American history OOAIP seems to be suggesting, with the greatness of America extolled while glossing over its flaws -- as if America's greatness were so fragile it could not stand up to honest scrutiny.

This is not history but propaganda, and it feeds the yearning for an unrecoverable and largely imaginary past that animates OOAIP and much of his base. You can find it in history textbooks from the first half of the 20th century, which taught schoolchildren that slavery wasn't such a bad deal for the enslaved, and that slaveholders actually treated many of their slaves like members of the family.

Those sorts of gross distortions apparently are what OOAIP and his constituency yearn for. It's a literal whitewashing of history that either ignores or out-and-out falsifies half of America's story -- but which the most openly white supremacist politician since George Wallace clearly finds comforting.

It's why he calls teaching schoolkids about race and its clear role in shaping America "toxic propaganda" that teaches "hateful lies about this country." As is often the case with this president, what he condemns is exactly what he himself is proposing. 

The unvarnished truth is, you cannot honestly teach American history without examining the role of race in the nation's narrative. African slaves, after all, literally built America -- including the house in which OOAIP currently resides. The contradictions between our founding principles and the institution of slavery and its racist assumptions go all the way back to the founders, who struggled with those contradictions themselves until kicking the can down the road.

The contradictions remain, of course. Witness, for example, the hoo-ha over removing monuments of icons of the dead Confederacy, which was founded on the principle of white supremacy and which fought a bloody civil war to defend it.

The post-war rewriting of that narrative to ennoble a cause that couldn't be ennobled leads directly to the present, of course. The monument flap is its enduring legacy; a whole segment of America honestly believes removing from the public square tributes to those who took up arms against the United States is somehow an erasure of "our" history.

It is not, of course. It is merely a course correction back to the history neo-Confederates have attempted themselves to erase. 

As is teaching the role of race in America's story.

Yes, it's a messy tale, but history is inherently messy. Most endeavors that involve human beings are.

Quick story: When I was in high school, one of my favorite teachers was Thomas Lamb, who taught history in a way that made it come alive -- and that showed us it was never subject to assumption. On one occasion, he did this by splitting the class into two "legal teams" and conducting a trial of the British soldiers who were involved in the Boston Massacre.

What this taught us (me, anyway) is there were two sides to that story. The traditional version is that British soldiers killed five innocent patriots in cold blood. The more nuanced version is the innocents were not so innocent; they taunted the soldiers and attacked them with rocks, chunks of ice and oyster shells until the soldiers finally opened fire. So there was blame to be laid on both sides.

I didn't come away from that exercise hating America, as OOAIP would no doubt contend. I came away with a clearer picture of an historical event.

And shouldn't that be the goal here?

Thursday, September 17, 2020

Football Inc.

Look, I wouldn't know Northwestern president Morton Schapiro if he faceguarded me on a go route. So it's possible he believed in his heart of hearts what he said yesterday. It's possible they all did.

What Schapiro said was, it wasn't public pressure or the threat of lawsuits or, God forbid, FILTHY LUCRE that convinced the Big Ten to give in and decide to play a half-assed season of football after all. It was because stringent guidelines had been hammered out that would KEEP OUR STUDENT-ATHLETES SAFE, which after all was their HIGHEST PRIORITY.

Maybe he did believe all that. It's possible I could believe it, too, so long as I could also believe there's a giant invisible bird over Montana that makes the wind blow.

In other words: Nah.

This is not about Keeping Our Student-Athletes safe or Enhanced Testing or any of that other noise. This is about Football Inc., and its insatiable appetite. It's about getting the cash cow milking again, about bidness and the prerogatives of bidness.

And so, like the ACC and the SEC, they'll play football in the middle of a pandemic. Every precaution will be taken. Daily antigen testing will be conducted on players and coaches. The workforce will be protected to the fullest extent possible, and after that the Bastard Plague will sort 'em out.

Think that sounds a tad cynical?

Ask yourself, then, how many actual students on the 14 campuses of the Big Ten will be getting daily antigen tests on their universities' dime.

I'll take "What is 'none'?" for a thousand, Alex.

Actual students -- your garden variety grade-point grunts -- don't fuel a multi-billion dollar industry, after all. They don't go out there on Saturday afternoons in the fall wearing the logos of the apparel companies with whom their schools have juicy deals. They don't provide ABC or Fox or ESPN or whomever with lucrative content.

And so, the Big Ten will have football beginning the weekend of October 23-24. That this decision comes days after they all sat home and watched the SEC and ACC and Big 12 play last Saturday afternoon and evening is just an amazing coincidence.

Listen. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad the Big Ten is going to play football. I'm ecstatic it's going to play football. And that's because there are few things on this planet I love more than college football on a Saturday afternoon in the fall.

However.

However, as the Blob has noted before, half of what makes college football special is the social ramble: Cornhole and foodie spreads in the parking lot at Notre Dame, cocktail parties in The Grove at Ole Miss, the unearthly roar of the faithful during a night game at LSU. Without that, it's just the bidness of bidness.

And that's all we'll get from the Big Ten, which has decided the games will be played in empty stadiums. The show will go on, but without the show. And the reality presidents and ADs and publicists continually deny -- that college football is as transactional as a corporate merger -- will be right there with its face hanging out.

It will be a final tacit admission these are not humble college students crackin' books and playin' for the glory of Whatsamatta U.after all, but unpaid employees. And that will have its repercussions down the road, I'm thinking.

In the meantime ... enjoy the games.

Just be aware of what you're watching. 

Wednesday, September 16, 2020

The unity thing

 It's not about the song. It's not about the flag. It's not about The Troops.

Man, am I tired of writing that. Man, are you tired of me writing that.

But a certain segment of America needs to hear it and keep hearing it, I've decided, until they hear it. They can boo when players kneel with their arms linked during the National Anthem, claiming they're disrespecting America even though the act of kneeling has never been associated with disrespect. They can even tell those kneeling to "get the hell out of the country," as Mike Ditka did the other day, dredging up the oldest refrain in the book for those who don't want to be reminded that America can always be better than it is.

I get where those folks are coming from. I do. Especially in matters of race, an area where America could always be better, they do not want to be reminded that the Greatest Nation On The Face Of The Earth still hasn't solved the problem after 400 years.

Much easier to deny there is a problem. Much easier not to be made to feel uncomfortable, which is what happens when all those players kneel. 

So they boo even the most innocuous gestures of unity. They haul out the tattered old "America, love it or leave it," refrain, never considering that perhaps it's the folks who want America to live up to its cherished ideals who are actually the ones who love America most.

They want their dancing minstrels to dance. They don't want them to think, or to make anyone who watches them think.

It's a theory. It may not be a wholly accurate theory, but it's mine and I'm stickin' to it.

Been thinking about this since other night, when the Chiefs and Texans didn't kneel but stood, and not just the Black players but all of them, and not during the anthem but after it. And they still got booed.

Then I read this on Deadspin. And it made me wonder how all those folks I've just been writing about are going to take the news that the players might understand more about America and what makes it Great than every person who ever donned a MAGA hat. 

See, they didn't care if Jonathan Isaac or Meyers Leonard or Gregg Popovich or Becky Hammonds stood for the anthem. They cared where their hearts were, not their knees. And if Isaac, a Black man, and Leonard, a white man, got abuse from the left wing of the Outrage Brigade for doing what they did, they got nothing but support from their teammates.

"His being out there with us, as out brother, it's still showing strength, it's still showing unity, it's still showing we're coming together for a common cause," Udonis Haslem, Leonard's teammate on the Miami Heat, told the Associated Press. "People will question, 'Why isn't he doing it their way?' Well, he's standing by us. He's supporting us. He's with us."

And Leonard, who donated $100,000 to Black areas of Miami hit hard by COVID?

"I believe in my heart I did the right thing," he said. "Our world right now is black and white. There is a line in the sand, and it says if I don't kneel, then I'm not with Black Lives Matter. That is not true."

So he stands, with a teammate's arm locked around each of his knees. And what does the love-it-or-leave-it crowd do with that? Do they boo Meyers Leonard anyway, because he's not standing for the right reason?

And do they then not reveal what we've long suspected, which is that it's not about the flag or the song or The Troops for them, either? 

Do they then not reveal it's the politics -- the legitimacy of systemic racism -- with which they have a problem?

As if they haven't already revealed that.

Tuesday, September 15, 2020

A few brief thoughts on NFL Week One

 And now the triumphant return of The NFL In So Many Words, the execrable, made-for-2020 Blob feature of which critics have said "Good lord, this is execrable!" ...  and also "I thought the Bastard Plague killed this!" ...  and also "My God, 2020, what's next? Thumbscrews?":

1. Forty-three. Four. Unknown.

2. Tom Brady's age. Number of kicks Stephen Gostkowski floofed before finally kicking the game-winner for the Titans. Number of times Bill Belichick secretly smiled.

3. "What?! He DROPPED that?!" (Lions fan)

4. "Well, OF COURSE HE DID!" (Lions fan, upon further reflection)

5. Yay! We got Philip Rivers!" (Colts fan)

6. "Wait ... I thought we were getting a different Philip Rivers!" (Colts fan, three hours later)

7. "You still suck, Trubisky!" (Bears fan, before the fourth quarter)

8. "I'M NAMING MY FIRSTBORN AFTER YOU, TRUBISKY!" (Bears fan, after the fourth quarter)

9.  "What?! He DROPPED that?!" (Also Bears fan)

10. "What?! He CAUGHT 14 balls?!" (Texan fan, watching DeAndre Hopkins play for the Cardinals)

Monday, September 14, 2020

Message delivered, at least

The first NFL Sunday in the Year of the Bastard Plague went off as scheduled yesterday, and we learned some things we likely already should have  known.

One, the Browns gonna Browns and the Lions gonna Lions.

Two, Philip Rivers is who we thought he was, which is a 38-year-old quarterback with a fondness for the timely miscue.

Three, Tom Brady is still Tom Brady, but living outside the Patriots' biosphere might prove to be a tad problematical when one is 43 years old.

And, of course, four: Some people still don't get it and never will.

Players and coaches knelt or stood and linked arms or didn't come out of the locker room for the National Anthem -- standard practice in the NFL until about a decade ago -- and the usual suspects booed or called them names or vowed never again to watch the NFL, except when their team's on the regional game this week.

They're people who still think this is about the flag or the anthem or The Troops, that kneeling quietly or standing quietly with arms linked is somehow a slur on any and all. And no amount of reason will convince them otherwise.

But God love the Indianapolis Colts and head coach Frank Reich. At least they tried.

The players and coaches stood with arms linked for the anthem, while Reich, a 58-year-old white man, volunteered to be the designated kneeler. The knucklehead brigade of course gave him unshirted hell about it on social media.

This despite Reich telling Gregg Doyel of the Indianapolis Star that America had to do something about systemic racism in order to be "great" again, and gave concrete examples of the problem for those who still think it's some sort of sociological Bigfoot.

And this despite the Colts issuing a statement that read in part: "TO BE CLEAR - we were not protesting the flag, the anthem, or the men and women who wear the uniform. The timing of this action is meant to highlight that the presence, the power, and oppression of racism remains inconsistent with the unity and freedoms of what it means to be an American. Our Black communities feel the weight of this issue and they are hurting."

This is somewhat more eloquent a manifesto than Our Only Available Impeached President spluttering "Get that sonofabitch off the field!" when the players knelt a couple of years ago. But then OOAIP doesn't believe systemic racism in America exists, either, being one of its enablers and not one of his victims.

Hey, it never happened to him. Never happened to any of the knuckleheads, either. So of course it's just Black folk whining and getting all honked off over imaginary slights.

They should just get over it: Isn't that the mantra?

Of course, this is coming from a crowd who, in a lot of cases, still can't get over losing a war 155 years ago. Or can't handle wearing a mask in a pandemic. Or can't abide professional athletes who insist on being fully formed human beings with perspectives and consciences, and who refuse to just be well-paid minstrels whose only purpose in life is to entertain the knuckleheads.

New message to those folks: That stuff won't fly anymore. So just get over it.

Sunday, September 13, 2020

Day of rest

I could write about stuff, on this Sunday morning.

I could write about the first Sunday in the NFL season and how players will kneel or link arms or stay in the locker room during the National Anthem, as they all did until about 10 years ago. And how people will boo that when they didn't before because the message -- racial inequality and what we should do about it -- is not one they believe is legitimate.

I could write about radio blowhole Skip Bayless saying something clueless on the air about Dak Prescott talking publicly about his struggles with depression, but Skippy-doo is always saying something clueless on the air so that's not exactly news.

I could write about the weirdness of seeing Notre Dame Stadium drained of almost all its Domer Nation. Or seeing the same thing at Doak Campbell Stadium in Tallahassee, Fla., home of Florida State. Or of Naomi Osaka wearing a mask with Tamir Rice's name on it to her U.S. Open final against Victoria Azarenka.

I'm not going to write about any of that.

Instead I'm going to write about my sister and I freezing our hindparts off in Lake Huron yesterday, because it was time to bring our parents home.

It was a gray day weeping drizzle and Lake Huron was gray, too, and rolling with big swells. And so we got soaked, my sister and I.

She fell down. I tottered around and almost fell down. The water, as you can imagine it would be on September 12, was steal-your-breath cold.

But we brought our parents home.

Mom died in 2013. Dad passed in 2018. We've had their ashes in storage since, and this weekend we carried them commingled in a square biodegradable box up to northern Michigan, where they lived for 25 years and where their hearts were and always will be. And a mile or so down from their lakefront home -- out in front of the house where Bob and Norma Carmin, their dearest friends in the world,  lived -- we waded out a few yards and let the lake take them.

Of course, it didn't go smoothly. We set the box loose, and it didn't sink nearly as well as we did. It kept bobbing among the swells, threatening to wash right back to the beach.

I blamed Mom, of course. She was always the stubborn one. 

Finally I waded back out, carried the box a few more yards out, and held it under the water. A small cloud of ash blossomed around it, and finally it sank out of sight.

I looked up at the sky. I looked out toward the horizon, where the ghost outline of a freighter was barely visible through the gloom. I thought about all the years my parents spent up here in this God's country, and how they loved it, and how there was no resting place they would have chosen except right here, in the gray roiled lake, with the freighters passing by out on the horizon, ghostly or sun-splashed or all lit up at night like some gaudy beacon.

And then I thought about what Mom and Dad must have been saying, watching their offspring wallow around in the icy water.

Mom: "Those two don't have the sense God gave a goose."

Dad: "Oh, good grief."

And then, along with their friends the Carmins, they'd all laugh fit to burst.

And somehow that seemed perfect, too.

Friday, September 11, 2020

That day and the night before

So this is not about the flag after all, as we always suspected. It is not about the flag or the anthem or "the troops" after all, not about the appropriateness or inappropriateness of using the framework of a football or basketball game as a vehicle of protest.

This is, and always was, about what the protests are about.

Racial inequality. The killing of Black people in situations where they shouldn't be getting killed. That sort of thing.

The people who say they'll never watch another NFL game unless those players get off their knees aren't saying that because they love the flag or the anthem or 'Merica. They're doing it because they don't think Black people have a legitimate gripe and should just shut up about it. 

I know this because last night in Kansas City, after the anthem and the flag and all that, both the Houston Texans and Kansas City Chiefs met at midfield and stood arm-in-arm with one another, a gesture of unity in these fractious times. And the scattered fans in attendance booed them.

Booed unity. Not "disrespecting" the flag or 'Merica, because the players weren't. They booed unity: Black men and white men joining arms in a time of pain for America, but mostly for Americans of color.

I don't know how anyone with a scrap of human decency could do that. Especially now. Especially just a few hours before the planes flew into the buildings 19 years ago, and America knew pain and loss in a way that was utterly foreign to it.

And you remember what happened after that? After September 11, 2001?

All those "My (heart breaks) for NY" bumper stickers, blossoming thousands of miles away in the heartland. All those American flag stickers on football helmets. A certain sunwashed Saturday afternoon in Bishop John M. D'Arcy Stadium on the University of St. Francis campus, when two football teams gathered together at midfield in a gesture of unity before strapping 'em up and gettin' after it.

Strange. I don't remember anyone booing that day.

That's because we were all Americans and all feeling one another's pain in those days and weeks and months after September 11, and now we are not. Now we refuse to feel one another's pain,  a lot of us, because it's not our pain, and therefore must be nonexistent or overblown or just an excuse for some drama kings and queens to loot and burn.

And so we boo unity now, rather than celebrating it. And we cling to our prejudices and preconceptions as some sort of warped points of pride. We think it's honorable not to walk a mile in someone else's shoes, led by a President who all but smirked when asked by Bob Woodward if he ever tried to put himself in a Black person's place to better understand where they're coming from.

The President responded with some snide remark about Kool-Aid and then said "No."

No wonder we're where we are now.

No wonder today is a day to remember all that was lost on September 11, and all that's been lost since.

Thursday, September 10, 2020

The Big Silent

The first weekend of the NFL season kicks off tonight, and in Arrowhead Stadium there will be fans turning the night red for the their Super Bowl champion Chiefs, and down on the field Patrick Mahomes and Deshaun Watson will be doing the usual wondrous things, and it will be like football never left.

Well ... kinda.

Those fans, for instance, will only be turning the night kinda red, because only about 17,000 fans will be allowed in the place on account of this is the year of our Lord 2020, aka What A Year Would Look Like If Salvador Dali Or Edvard Munch Were In Charge.

And so on Sunday and Sunday night and Monday night, they'll be mostly playing the games in ghost towns, all the usual suspects doing their thing to the moaning of a lonely prairie wind blowing tumbleweeds and banging shutters in empty windows in the great vacancy of the stadiums.

This is because the great majority of teams have opted to play without fans until at least October, and then allow only a tiny fraction of the usual multitude to attend. The Indianapolis Colts are one of the few exceptions, and even then they're only going to let about 2,500 in Lucas Oil for the home opener on Sept. 20. That's a whole lot of seats that won't be filled with the usual Jeff Saturday or Peyton Manning or T.Y. Hilton jerseys.

So it will not be normal -- a concept that seems increasingly alien in a nation that's apparently decided a killer pandemic is just something else to be ignored, and if it kills Granny ... well, she was old, anyway. We're gonna do whatever we want to do regardless, because that's just who we are.

But a monument to American capitalism like the NFL has to at least pretend it cares about such matters, and so there will be masks and social distancing on the sidelines and the Big Silent in the stands. And frankly it won't change very much your viewing experience at home, because it's not like this is college football -- where half the experience is the alumni and the tailgating and the social ramble, with a football game merely providing the framework for all that.

The NFL is different. Fans have their allegiances, to be sure, but it's not like they invested four years of their precious youth at Colts University. Their team is just their team, not an integral part of their life experience.

And yet, pro football is America's game. And it's back, of a fashion. And maybe it lasts and maybe it doesn't. So that's something at least.

Mantra for our times, that.

Wednesday, September 9, 2020

Exiting, quietly

I know I shouldn't be this way. I know it's a function of age and general crotchetiness and resentment that the world has changed and moved on without me, even though I recognize that change and the world moving on is an essential component of human existence and always has been.

Still. Sometimes I feel like Walt Kowalski, the embittered Korean War vet portrayed with splendid old-guy surliness by Clint Eastwood in "Gran Torino."

Maybe you missed it, but last night the Miami Heat closed out the Milwaukee Bucks in the Eastern Conference semifinals of the NBA's weird 2020 coda/2021 warmup ... thing. The Heat did it in just five games, which wasn't supposed to happen because the Bucks were everybody's favorite to get to the Finals of the coda/warmup.

This is because the Bucks have Giannis Antetokounmpo, one of the two or three best players on the planet.

Oh, wait. They didn't have him, on account of he sat out Game 5 with a sprained right ankle.

Sat out an elimination game. Linchpin of the whole team. Sat. Out.

The crazy part of that?

It wasn't even the Greek Freak's call. It was the ballclub's.

"I wanted to play. You know I wanted to play. My coach knows I wanted to play," he said afterward, clearly unhappy with, well, not playing.

I know what you're thinking. It's the same thing I'm thinking in my crotchety Walt Kowalski way.

He shoulda just said, 'Hell, no, I'm playing. We lose, we're done. So tape me up and get the hell out of my way because there's NO WAY you're gonna stop me.'"

In the movies, this is how it happens. And then he goes out and drops 40, 15 and 12 on the Heat, and the Bucks live to fight another day.

But this is not the movies. This is corporate professional sports in the third decade of the millennium.

In the third decade of the millennium, players are not players; they are financial assets. They are  expensive long-term investments. And so short-term heroics of the sort us geezers recall went out with Jack Youngblood playing the Super Bowl on a broken leg, and Willis Reed limping onto the floor at the Garden to save the Knicks in the NBA Finals.

So quaint, all of that. So old-timey, the way doilies and ice-cream socials and gazebos in the park on a summer's day are old-timey.

No, today, it's the medical staff and the organization who makes these calls. The player has very little say in it. If the docs and corporate say you don't play, you don't play.

Even if it makes your organization look like a bunch of quitters. Which it kinda did.

But the long view of this is Antetokounmpo's deal is expiring and he'll be a free agent if the Bucks don't re-sign him, which everyone agrees they'll try to do. The presumption is they'll offer him a supermax deal that could be worth $220 million, a good deal more than he could get as a free agent. So in that context it made sense for them to sacrifice 2020 to the franchise's future.

Plus, it's a chip on their pile that they put the Greek Freak's health above the team's playoff prospects.

"That's big," Antetokounmpo conceded.

I know. I'm snarling, too.

Tuesday, September 8, 2020

Your moment of weird

Lots of weird stuff has happened in this Year of the Bastard Plague, most of it on account of the Bastard Plague.  This is not exactly a statement bursting with insight.

After all, in 2020, they threw an Indianapolis 500 and a Kentucky Derby and no one was there to watch it.

And it's early September and the NHL and NBA are pretending it's late May, with both the Stanley Cup and NBA playoffs ongoing.

And baseball didn't start until almost August, and football will start on time but who knows how long that will last.

Weird on weird. And so you can probably just say it was 2020 that bit Novak Djokovic the other day.

What happened was Djokovic, the No. 1 seed in the U.S. Open and No. 1 player in the world, got booted from the Open for hitting a linesperson with a ball.

He didn't mean to hit her. He just kind of swiped without looking at a spare ball because he was miffed and his shoulder hurt, and of course it hit this linesperson square in the throat. Some moments of distress followed as she tried to catch her breath.

Any other year, the ball would have sailed harmlessly into the backstop, and Joker would have gotten a severe warning or been docked a point or two for his small show of temper. But not in 2020. Oh, no. In 2020 it hits a linesperson in the throat and steals her air for a few frightening moments, and Joker is gone because it's an automatic default to hit a linesperson with a ball not in play.

So he's gone and the other two members of the ruling triumvirate in men's tennis, Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal, skipped the Open, so whoever wins will be a first-time Grand Slam champ. Which is kind of cool, I guess, unless 2020 has something else up its sleeve we haven't seen yet.

A double default in the finals, perhaps?

Stay tuned.

Monday, September 7, 2020

The hits keep comin'

And now Lou Brock, dammit.

First Tom Seaver and now Lou and it's been a hard week for those of us who grew up wearing Red Ball Jets and collecting baseball cards. The rule was, Chico Salmon and Gary Bell always went in the spokes of your bike, because who didn't have three or four Chico Salmons and Gary Bells?

All that was a long time ago, of course, and this week has done nothing but remind us of just how long ago. The pieces of those days peel away, one by one by one. And so Tom Seaver goes and Lou Brock goes, and each erasing comes with its own memories, hazy and ever more distant.

For me Lou Brock will always remind me of 1964, the first year I can actually remember following a World Series. It was Brock's Cardinals against the Yankees, and we snuck our transistor radios into class because they played the games in the afternoon then, the way God intended. And if I dig hard enough, I can pull up one specific memory from all that.

It was late in the afternoon and the light was all burnished in that particular way October light in the afternoon tends to get, and I was on the bus home. And as we pulled away from the school, I looked out the window and saw one of my classmates grimly clomping down the sidewalk with a piece of poster board stuck in his cap.

On it he'd written one word: YANKS.

It was a gesture of pure defiance, because Lou Brock and the Cardinals had beaten the Yanks that day and the Series was over. End of an era for the Yankees; beginning of one for the Cardinals.

And now the end of Lou Brock, and one more piece gone from both of those eras.

Dammit.

A bit of the normal. Sort of.

They were playing football again Saturday, out there at West Point. The sun shone, on this first weekend in September. The Black Knights of the Hudson were moving the football. There were even a few of the Corps in the stands, judiciously spaced, dressed in desert camo khaki.

Down on the field, the ball was snapped. The quarterback wheeled. He extended the ball, pulled it back, the Army option, its same old rhythms, the same old clash of bodies at the point of attack.

I went to a sports bar to watch this.

I wore a mask. The bartender drawing me a beer wore a mask. I sat alone, raising a fist when the QB plowed over the right side for six, pretending it was just another college football Saturday.

It was not, of course. It is not going to be this fall -- if in fact there is a college football fall by the time October comes and the Bastard Plague has put half of everyone's roster in quarantine.

Maybe that happens. Maybe it won't. Opinions varym to quote Patrick Swayze in "Roadhouse."

The Blob's opinion is they shouldn't be playing, and that all this Play Football And Let The Coronavirus Sort 'Em Out is nothing but greed talking. Athletic departments need the money, so send the employees back to work. And make it sound like we're doing it for the players who, being players, desperately want to play.

However.

However, this does not mean I don't miss it fiercely.

This does not mean I don't want to go to a sports bar on a Saturday afternoon in September and watch who ever is on, Army-Middle Tennessee State or Marshall-Eastern Kentucky or Whatsammatta U.-Directional Hyphen Tech. For me, Saturday, it was mostly the Army game, because to me the service academies represent what college football used to be before it became Alabama/Clemson Inc.

Actual students actually playing for their schools, first-round draft picks or not. Imagine that.

Point is, it was September and it was college football, two of my favorite things. So I watched. And I guess that probably makes me greedy, too, because while I was watching I didn't really care if any of those kids breathing on one another for three hours wound up getting this nasty-ass disease. I was just happy to be watching college football again.

I was just happy for a bit of the normal, or what passes for it these days. God help me.

Saturday, September 5, 2020

Your horse sense for today

Today is Kentucky Derby Day, out of order and at the wrong end of summer, but still Kentucky Derby Day. And loyal Blobophiles  ("'Loyal'," you're saying. "Get him") know what that means.

It means once again it's time for the Blob to tell you who to lay your two bucks on, being a Horse Guy who's up on all things Derbyish, like what breezing is and how to know when your horse's withers ain't witherin' properly as he walks the shedrow.

The big news today is the Derby will be run in front of ghosts and echoes, on account of no spectators will be allowed to avoid the Bastard Plague and various catastrophic structural hat failures. And no mint juleps, unless you make the vile things at home.

If not, a good slug of Robitussin will suffice.

But on to the analysis!

1. Tiz the Law is the overwhelming favorite.

This means you should probably bet him if you want to win, but betting the overwhelming favorite is weak and cowardly and betrays a lack of imagination that makes you no fun at parties. So go ahead and bet him, but don't expect the Blob to hang with you.

2. Mr. Big News is not big news.

That's because he stands 40-1 in the latest line, which means a lot of Horse Guys think he's Alpo. But he's a brown horse and kinda handsome and his trainer is W. Bret Calhoun, which sounds very trainer-ish in a stuffy cigars-and-cognac-in-the-boardroom way.

I'd drop a bundle on him.

3. Your annual gray horse alert.

Gray horses are frequently bow-wows in the Horse Guy's completely uninformed opinion, And so, as a public service, here is your Gray Horse Alert for today: Beware Ny Traffic.

That's because he's, well, gray, and he was born in New York, and his trainer is named Saffie A. Joseph Jr., which doesn't sound very trainer-ish. He's also 32 years old and has hair-band hair and hails from Barbados, and is regarded as quite the up-and-comer.

So I suppose it would be a great story if Saffie A. Joseph Jr.'s horse won. That's because of Saffie, of course, but also Ny Traffic's jockey, Paco Lopez, a 34-year-old Mexican-born American who's won a whole pile of stuff but has never been up on a Derby winner.

This almost makes the Horse Guy reconsider the whole gray horse thing. But, nah.

4. And the winner is ...

A horse.

Ha! Got ya!

No, I'll go with another brown horse, Money Moves, a 14-1 shot. This is because he looks really fast in his picture and his trainer, Todd Pletcher, is a guy I've heard of.

I've also heard he walks the shedrow like a champ.

So there ya go. Lay down those simoleons.

Friday, September 4, 2020

These (dis)honored dead

There are roses in Aisne-Marne American Cemetery, hard by the shaded expanse of Belleau Wood. Lovingly cared for in manicured beds, they bloom blood-red along the walkways through the bone-white crosses, which stretch away in precise concentric arcs from the tall stone chapel.

It is a lovely place, Aisne-Marne. Not far away is the village of Belleau, where the Commune de Belleau has another name: the Place du General Pershing. Just outside town there is a country crossroads, one road sign pointing to Chateau-Thierry and one pointing to Bouresches.

Both places are etched deep in American military annals. As of course is Belleau Wood.

In June 1918 1,800 Americans were killed there trying to clear a vicious complex of trenches, barbed wire and German machine gun nests. A lot of them were Marines, for whom Belleau Wood is a sacred name now. For some 20 days they engaged the Germans in some of the most savage fighting of the entire Great War, until finally clearing the Wood.

In that fighting, a gunnery sergeant named Ernest A, Janson became the first Marine in the war to receive a Medal of Honor, staving off a dozen Germans with his bayonet.  On a single day, 31 officers and 1,056 men in one Marine unit were killed or wounded, the highest casualty rate in Marine Corps history to that time.

Now some of them, many of them, sleep their eternal sleep among the roses in Aisne-Marne. Losers and suckers all, according to the President of the United States.

Yes, I am going to write about this. Yes, you can leave the room now if you're of a mind, because I am again not going to be kind to Our Only Available Impeached President, and I know some of you are tired of that.

I couldn't care less. Leave. And don't let the door hit you on the way out.

I say this because I have been to Aisne-Marne, which OOAP was supposed to visit in 2018, the hundredth anniversary of Belleau Wood. He begged off. The official story was it was too wet for his helicopter to make the trip. That turned out to be a lie.

According to Jeffrey Goldberg's piece in the Atlantic, it was because he couldn't be bothered honoring the dead of Belleau Wood. In his estimation, the fact they got killed made them losers. And suckers. He even questioned why we fought on the side of the Allies -- a statement that rings utterly true, given his fanboy admiration for brutal totalitarian regimes and his lack of enthusiasm for democratic republics.

The rest ... well, of course OOAIP denies it all, and so his cult will, too. Once again they will haul out their battered Fake News armor to fend it off. They will say Goldberg made it all up, or the people he talked to made it all up, or yada-yada-yada.

But Goldberg's reporting is solid. He quotes numerous sources who were there. And what he reports has been confirmed multiple times now by other independent sources.

And it is not so hard to believe, is it? After all, OOAIP's disdain for the late John McCain's combat experiences, and for America POWs in general, is a matter of public record. I like guys who don't get captured. Remember that?

So calling American soldiers killed in combat "losers" and "suckers" hardly seems like much of a leap. Coddled by wealth and privilege his entire life, he has no concept of sacrifice, and even less of honor. His station kept him out of his own war, and therefore he is incapable of understanding those who fought that war and others for him.

He is a coward, and they were not. Which is why any appalling thing he has to say on the matter of military valor, President or not, is counterfeit.

And why it's just as well he didn't visit Aisne-Marne that day anyway.

He's not fit to set foot there.

Thursday, September 3, 2020

The fading of eras

And now it is the fall of '69 again, suddenly.

It's the fall of '69 and my lungs are shallowing up, and out toward the elementary school the acorns are flying again. We peg one another with them because we know Coach Nash can't see us back here, and we have to do something to break up the monotony of cross country practice for the hallowed Vikings of Village Woods Junior High.

It's the fall of '69, and I'm in ninth grade, and I look like what Ant Man would look like if the shrinking process stopped halfway. I have no speed and no endurance, and so I and a couple of other tail-enders have been dubbed the Rinky-Dinks. But that's OK.

I have my heroes that fall, anyway.

They are the New York Mets. And they have been the laughingstocks of baseball for seven years.

Now they're in the World Series, somehow, and they're supposed to get crushed by Earl Weaver's mighty Baltimore Orioles, who won 109 games that summer and have Frank Robinson and the impeccable Brooks Robinson and Boog Powell and Paul Blair, and a three-headed hydra of flamethrower arms: Palmer, McNally, Cuellar.

The Mets?

The Mets have Tom Seaver.

He's the Arm, the Talent, Tom Terrific. He was not quite 25 that fall and he led a staff that included Jerry Koosman and Nolan Ryan, and somehow they beat the Orioles in five games. Someone named Donn Clendenen hit some home runs and someone else named Al Weis, who reminded me of me, hit a big home run despite batting only .219 for the season with just one other home run.  A couple of other someones named Ron Swoboda and Tommie Agee made some miraculous catches in the outfield, and Tom was Terrific.

And now he's gone, as September comes in and fall again beckons.

He departed in the half-light of Lewy body dementia, a filthy SOB that steals a man's life by slow degrees, and he died from complications of that and the Bastard Plague. Though he pitched a no-hitter and was a two-time All-Star for the Cincinnati Reds, he is remembered best as a New York Met.

This is because the Mets became a baseball team while he was taking the bump for them every four or five days, becoming first the Miracle Mets of '69 and then the Sequel Mets of '73, when they again reached the World Series but lost to the Oakland A's. Trading him to the Reds in 1978 has gone down in history as one of the worst decisions in baseball history.

That he would find wall space as a plaque in Cooperstown was never in doubt, and he went in in 1992. Only two pitchers in history have ever compiled 300 career wins with an ERA under 3.00 and 3,000 strikeouts. The other is named Walter Johnson.

But he was more than that, to those of us of a certain age. He also  represented an entire era that seems especially golden because we were all young and coming of age, and everything seemed golden. So there was Seaver and the Big Red Machine and the Lumber Company Pirates and the Charlie Finley A's, and there was also the Dallas Cowboys and the perfect Miami Dolphins and Kareem and Clyde Frazier and Pistol Pete -- and the zany ABA with its red-white-and-blue basketball and it 3-point shot  and of course the Indiana Pacers.

Pieces of that era have been taking their leave for awhile now. Tom Seaver is only the latest, but he's a big piece.

Stupid time. It just keeps passing.

Wednesday, September 2, 2020

Strategic initiative

So now Our Only Available Impeached President has injected himself into the Big Ten's football mess, and this ain't rocket science, folks. It's not even earth science or health science or that science Batman used to invent the Utility Belt, and also the Bat Phone.

It's geography, folks. And it's pretty much Captain Obvious stuff.

Pretty plain to see, after all, that Donald J. "Woody" "Bo" Trump doesn't really care a fig whether or not the Big Ten plays football this fall. He doesn't. But he's gonna side with the Play Football Now And Let The Coronavirus Sort 'Em Out crowd because the schools caterwauling most about it are the football powers, and we all know where the football powers are located.

Pennsylvania. Ohio. Michigan. Wisconsin. To name four.

To name four states Our Only Available Impeached President needs to win in November.

So, yes, duh, this is all political, as everything is in an election year. To suggest Donald Trump cares passionately about all those hardworking kids whose lives will be ruined -- ruined, I tell you -- if they have to wait a couple of months to play football is ludicrous. Donald Trump cares about Donald Trump, and that's all he's ever cared about. Everything else is just playing the rubes to get what he wants.

Any cursory examination of his life will scream that at you in neon. Not that even cursory examination is a thing in America these days.

But in any case ... there's your geography lesson for today. Class dismissed.

Tuesday, September 1, 2020

Two farewells

I'll always see one of them weeping in the desert sun on the day Dan Wheldon died, because friends are friends and no one has ever had more friends than Tony Kanaan.

I'll see the other one looming over our breakfast table one morning in Springfield, Mass., because he was John Thompson and John Thompson was larger than life both physically and in every conceivable way a man can be larger than life.

Both exited the stage in their different ways the last two days. No two men could have less in common. And yet both are splendid examples for how to move through this world.

Tony Kanaan is a Brazilian IndyCar driver who stands all of 5-5 and won the Indianapolis 500 in 2013 after a dozen tries, and Sunday he drove what could well be his last IndyCar race after two decades in the seat. John Thompson was an American college basketball coach and a mountain of a man at 6-10, and Monday he died at the age of 74.

The former became first famous and then beloved not just for the way he drove a race car, but for the way he lived his life outside it. In a sport that is one giant exposed nerve, it's easy to get under one another's skins. Yet TK seemingly never has. If there's a better man who's ever wheeled an IndyCar, history does not record it.

He led all those laps at Indy for all those years, and year after year bad stuff kept happening to him. . Yet he maintained his perspective, not to say a cheerful countenance. There's a word for that, and it's not one we get to use very much in these uncharitable times.

That word is grace.

And John Thompson?

Well. There was grace to John Thompson's life, too, even if manifested itself in entirely different ways.

He took over a barely breathing Georgetown program as that rarity of rarities in the mid-1970s -- a Black college basketball coach -- and he built it into a national powerhouse. His Georgetown teams went to 24 straight NCAA tournaments and won the national title in 1984, and Thompson ended up winning almost 600 games as a Hall of Fame coach.

But those are just numbers. Far outweighing them in the ledger are the doors he opened for all the Black coaches who came after him, and the influence he had on the lives of all the young Black men he coached -- and for whom he was a shining example of what a man can achieve in America if he lives his life correctly and fearlessly and with unwavering integrity.

That was John Thompson to a fare-thee-well. Sure, he coached teams that beat you with talent and discipline and unrelenting defensive pressure, but he also stood up when the standing up required a measure of gumption.

He was a fierce advocate for his players, to begin with. And he was fiercely aware of his place in the game; in 1989, for instance, he staged a walkout during a Big East game to protest Proposition 42 because it targeted Black athletes in particular.

He took some heat for that from the usual suspects, naturally. Not that John Thompson gave a damn. He saw a wrong and called attention to it, and anyone who had a problem with that could let the door hit him in the you-know-what on his way out.

It's one reason he loomed so large that morning in Springfield.

It was 1999 and I was there as the guest of a wonderful gentleman named Carl Bennett to cover the Hall of Fame induction of Fred Zollner. As it happened, John Thompson went in the same year. And here he came over to our table, where Carl introduced us.

I don't remember what we said. I only remember how awed I was, because how could you not be in the presence of a man who had done so much and impacted so many lives?

Would that there were more like him. We could certainly use them.