Friday, September 19, 2025

The chill

(And so again the Blob feels it necessary to stray from its Sportsball enclosure because the guards were asleep. You know the drill: Hall pass, library, return when the Blob begins griping about his cruddy baseball team again).

Once upon a time I had an English teacher who thought Martin Luther King Jr. got what was coming to him.

It was the morning after MLK was gunned down in Memphis, and I was a seventh grader at Village Woods Junior High, which is what we called middle school back then, children. Time has done what time does -- blurring details, thinning memory -- but what I remember is this teacher asking us if we were saddened by King's death. And when many of us said yes, he replied something to the effect that MLK was a troublemaker and this was the fate of all troublemakers.

Now, I don't know if he meant that the way it sounded. I didn't then, and don't now, know anything about this teacher's political leanings, or any racial animus he might or might not have harbored. So it's possible it was not a negative reflection on MLK at all, but just a weary acknowledgment that the world is a cruel place and especially so to people who stir things up.

However.

However, it didn't come off that way. Especially to a classroom of seventh graders -- including one (me) who uttered a snort of contempt and drew a withering teacher's stare in response.

Anyway, what brings this all back is what happened at Ball State University this week, where an administrator was fired for not being properly devastated by the cold-blooded murder of right-wing provocateur Charlie Kirk. This was deemed unacceptable to Indiana governor Mike Braun, attorney general Todd Rokita and their legion of online snitches, who've sworn to purge the state of teachers who either publicly "celebrate" Kirk's death or have spoken of it with any sort of nuance.

This is how Suzanne Swierc, BSU's director of health promotion and advocacy, found herself on the street this week.

She was fired for calling Kirk's death "a tragedy" on her personal Facebook page, and that she "can (and does) feel for his wife and children."

Then she went on to invoke that old devil nuance by saying his death was a reflection of what he sowed. "It does not excuse his death, AND it's a sad truth," she wrote.

Which it is. Or which it could be more than reasonably argued, at least in the world before the current Regime.

There, it's a fireable offense. There, no deviation from the Regime's party line will be tolerated, and those who violate that will be cast into outer darkness.

Sorry. I tend to get a bit overwrought when the jackboots start marching.

In any case, Ball State eighty-sixed Swierc, because Ball State is a state institution and thus compelled (or feels it's compelled) to carry water for its bosses in Indianapolis. And it was all very legal, especially in a right-to-work state like Indiana where you can fire an employee for wearing the wrong tie if you so desire. You don't have to have, you know, a reason.

You might be expected to come up with a more defensible reason than Ball State did, however.

In its official release the University said it went strictly by official guidelines, which state that a public institution can justify a dismissal by applying a two-part test to determine whether or not an employee's speech disrupts the workplace. The release went on to say the University determined Swierc's post did exactly that.

"... Our administration evaluated the impact of the significant disruption to the University's mission and operations and the effect of the post on her ability to perform her work in her leadership position," the release said, in a masterwork of handbook-speak.

And to which the Blob -- a 1977 graduate of Ball State, by the by -- says this: Oh, balls.

Also: Tell me how, precisely, Swierc's post was a "significant disruption" to her ability to (what did she do again?) promote and advocate health issues. Tell me how, again precisely, a post entirely unrelated to her job made it difficult for her to do that job. Explain yourselves -- or to put it in more educational terms: Show me your damn work.

This is the problem, see, with all this deadening of free expression by the Regime and its compliant acolytes. Unless they get dragged into a courtroom which might or might not be presided over by their fellow travelers, they never have to show their work. They never have to prove any of what they claim; they only have to claim it. They never have to explain, in this instance, what they mean by "celebrating" Charlie Kirk's heinous murder, or "justifying" it, because they're in charge and only they get to determine that.

Even if it's total eyewash. Even if no rational person could consider a specific opinion "celebrating" or "justifying."

Suzanne Swierc's specific opinion, for instance.

Once upon a time I had a history teacher who insulted his female students in the crudest way possible.

He said, once upon a time, that the reason prostitution was such a hard dollar in the city where he worked is because they got too much competition from "the amateurs" at the school where he worked.

That city was Muncie, In. And that school was Ball State University.

As far as I know, this teacher was never so much as reprimanded, though by all rights he at the very least should have been. (And might have; again, memory is tricky). Of course, social media was years in the future then. Of course, we weren't the nation of grimy snitches we've become.

And of course, the Regime wasn't running things with an iron fist, imposing its version of reality on thoroughly cowed institutions of higher learning and television networks and news organizations.

Where I live here in northeast Indiana, the mercury's supposed to top out at 86 degrees today. But you know what?

I feel a chill in the air. A most definite chill.

Thursday, September 18, 2025

Early-onset carnage

 We've got the Dolphins at the Bills tonight in the NFL's weekly Let's See What Happens When We Make Teams Play Two Games In Four Days extravaganza, and the best thing you can say about that is both starting quarterbacks are still upright.

Josh Allen is doing Josh Allen things for the unbeaten Bills. Tua Tagovailoa went 26-of-32 for 315 yards and two scores for the Dolphins last week, but the 0-2 Fish still lost at home to the Patriots because apparently that's who they're going to be this season.

But, hey. At least they're not the Bengals, who have to get along without Joe Burrow for the next three months because he mangled his toe bad enough to require surgery.

Ditto the Vikings, who lost J.J. McCarthy to a high ankle sprain for an indeterminate length of time Sunday.

Ditto the Jets, who lost Justin Fields perhaps for the season with a concussion. Ditto the Washington Commanders, whose precocious star Jayden Daniels is day-to-day this week with a knee sprain. And ditto the 49ers, who already had lost Brock Purdy by week 2 and are hopeful he'll be good to go this week. 

So two weeks into a season that lasts longer than the director's cut of "Gone With The Wind", five QB1s have already gone on the shelf or partly on the shelf. Makes you wonder where we'll be 16 weeks from now, when the NFL finally and reluctantly says "OK, that's enough games I GUESS" and calls it a season.

I figure either Virgil Carter or Ken Anderson will be suiting up for the Bengals by then.

And where's Richard Todd these days, speaking of the Jets?

Paging Joe Kapp. Paging Joe Kapp. The Vikings need you to come down from your celestial abode, lower your head and run over a linebacker or two.

And bring Sammy Baugh's heavenly spirit with you. The Commanders aren't the Racial Slurs anymore, but they're still Slingin' Sam's old team.

I exaggerate for effect, of course, but if the league's going to lose or partly lose five starting quarterbacks every two weeks, that means all 32 starters are going to be in the MASH unit by season's end. This is highly unlikely to happen, of course, but the prospect of tuning in Colts-Texans in week 18 and seeing Riley Leonard squaring off against Graham Mertz still exists.

Look. I get it. It's the NFL, giant humans crashing into one another like Mack trucks at 70 mph. Owies are going to happen. Ligaments will tear. Muscles will pop like balloons. Joints will come unjointed.

But the annual carnage season starting so early, and including five quarterbacks, must surely be disquieting for the NFL's boardroom set. QBs being the league's most valuable asset, rule czars have bent over backwards to all but bubble-wrap them.

You can still touch a quarterback, but you can't, you know, TOUCH HIM. You can't hit him above the chest. You can't hit him below the chest. You can't throw him to ground in a disdainful manner, or plead gravity if you land on top of him, or hit him really really hard when he's not looking.

 And of course, you absolutely cannot -- cannot -- accidentally touch his helmet, because the zebras will dust for fingerprints to make sure. 

And yet.

And yet, two weeks in, the quarterback trauma unit is already filling up. 

It's gonna be a long season. Keep your phone handy, Slingin' Sam.

Wednesday, September 17, 2025

Dodging the point

 Perhaps I'm just a hair slow on the uptake. I have been accused of such. It is not an accusation devoid of evidence, regrettably.

So I'm reading this story about Tom Brady being caught on camera wearing a headset in the Las Vegas Raiders' coaching booth Monday night, and how the NFL rolled out a statement saying it was fine, A-OK, he didn't violate any league rules. This is because, as a man with a minority stake in the Raiders, there are restrictions about what he can and can't do.

The league said being in the coaching booth with a headset on wasn't a can't-do. So no problem-o.

This is where I said, "Yeah, but ..."

Yeah, but what about Tom's other gig? You know, the one for which Fox is paying him $375 million over the next 10 years?

The league didn't address that. And the story I read didn't mention the (to me, anyway) sketchy optics of a part-owner pal-ing around with the help in the coaching booth when he's also being paid a good chunk of change as an NFL broadcaster. 

At least until well down in the buried-lede section, that is.

"As a broadcaster, he gets access to other teams' players and coaches that other owners do not have, raising concerns about a conflict of interest," the story finally mentioned, nine paragraphs down.

Well, NO S***, SHERLOCK.

"Concerns about a conflict of interest"? Well, I sure would hope so. There should be concerns, because it is a conflict interest. A great big steaming pile of a conflict, especially when Tom Brady the partial-owner-who's-also-a-broadcast shows up on Monday Night Football wearing a headset in an NFL team's coaching booth.

To me, that's the story here, not that Brady may or may not have violated any rules as a partial team owner. I didn't think there was anything egregious about that, although the league clearly thought it was egregious enough to release a statement. No, the egregious part is Fox paying TB12 major jack to cover the NFL while also being a part of the NFL.

A part made glaringly obvious by what happened Monday night. Or so it seems to me, Mr. Slow-On-The-Uptake.

The less slow, after all, will point out that the NFL initially allowed Brady to work for Fox only with certain restrictions, many of which it's since relaxed. They'll also point out, by-the-by, that the league pays the networks a truckload of cash to broadcast the games, which by extension advances the NFL brand. It's a symbiosis that makes crusty old journos like me queasy, but we are after all relics of a prehistoric time when conflicts of interest were something to be avoided, not enthusiastically embraced.

The networks and the leagues threw all that over the side years ago. Ditto the Meathead Brigade steering the national tour bus right now, whose conflicts are many and brazen. The day when they were a black mark for a public servant is as over as zoot suits and rumble seats.

In which case, reserve me a seat in your '37 DeSoto. Because I think everyone dodged the point on Headset Tom, and I ain't changin' my mind.





As a broadcaster, he gets access to other teams' players and coaches that other owners do not have, raising concerns about a conflict of interest.

The NFL recently relaxed some of its restrictions for Brady in that role, including allowing him to take part in production meetings -- when a broadcast crew meets with that game's head coaches and key players -- this season. He must take part in those meetings remotely, and he isn't allowed to attend practices at team facilities.


Tuesday, September 16, 2025

Mortality 3, Hockey 0

 I don't know if the good Lord's hot at hockey, or if he's just a Maple Leafs fan who's mad at the game because the Leafs keep choking in the playoffs. But lately he sure has been kicking around the Sport of Kings (the Los Angeles Kings, that is).

Why, just look at what's happened in the last two weeks.

Lonnie Loach, local Fort Wayne Komets legend and the guy who scored maybe the most important goal in the franchise's 74-year-old history, was taken from us by cancer at the way-too-soon age of 57.

A couple of days later, cancer also took Ken Dryden -- arguably the greatest goaltender in the history of the game, and certainly the greatest for the nine years he backstopped the mighty Montreal Canadiens in the 1970s. Apparently the Big C was being even more of a jackwagon than usual that week.

And just today, a week after Dryden passed ...

Comes now the news that Eddie Giacomin has died at the age of 86.

If you don't remember Eddie G, hop a plane to New York and you'll get an education. Rangers fans remember him well there, and not just because no Ranger has worn his No. 1 since 1989, when the club retired it. It's the least they could do for the prematurely graying goalie who wore the Ranger blue for 11 seasons, finished up with the Detroit Red Wings and retired after the 1977-78 season with 290 wins and 54 shutouts in 610 regular-season games.

Nine years later, he was inducted into the Hall of Fame. Probably shouldn't have taken that long.

So, not quite three weeks, three hockey leges gone. Mortality 3, Eddie Shore 0, some such thing.

Please, Lord. Root for someone else. Hockey needs a break.

A few brief thoughts about NFL Week 2

 And now another edition of The NFL In So Many Words, the ecumenical Blob feature in which the lowly rise and the mighty fall, and of which critics have said "How 'bout you FALL down these stairs?", and also "How 'bout I RISE from this chair and smack you in the chops?":

1. A week after 65-year-old Aaron Rodgers threw four touchdown passes against the Jets and folks in Pittsburgh were saying "See, he can so be 29 again," he throws two picks, puts up a 58.0 quarterback rating and gets outplayed by Sam Darnold in a two-touchdown loss to the Seahawks.

2. "Ah, I knew he was washed." (Folks in Pittsburgh)

3. "Hey, look! We beat the Chiefs again!" (The Eagles)

4. "Yeah, but it was only the Chiefs. THE 0-2 CHIEFS." (America)

5. "Ya know, Caleb Williams played pretty well this week." (Bears fans)

6. "Ya know, I threw five touchdown passes this week and we rose from last week's humiliation to pound the Bears into a shapeless mass, 52-21." (Lions QB Jared Goff)

7. "Great. Now someone ELSE owns us." (Bears fans)

8. In other news, the Cowboys needed a 64-yard field goal and overtime to beat the not-really-all-that-big Giants; the winless Dolphins lost to the unbeaten Patriots in Miami;  the Falcons (the Falcons!) beat up the Vikings as Minnesota QB J.J. McCarthy (the New Franchise Quarterback!) threw two picks, fumbled three times and put up a quarterback rating of 37.5; and Cincinnati's impeccable Joe Burrow suffered a might-as-well-be-season-ending injury.

9. "Oh, no! Poor Joe Burrow!" (America)

10. "Woo-hoo! Now I get an ENTIRE SEASON where I don't have to be perfect every week for this sorry-ass franchise to win!" (Joe Burrow)

Monday, September 15, 2025

Wait ... what?

 And now to introduce a new Blob feature "Wait ... What?", which may or may not be an entire series or just a made-for-TV movie depending on whether or not the circumstances call for it, or how fast the Blob gets bored with it:

* Wait ... what? You mean the Indianapolis Colts might actually be, you know, good?

Beat the Denver Broncos 29-28 on a walk-off field goal by Spencer Shrader because -- irony alert -- the Broncos did a Colts thing. Which was, get tagged for a penalty that erased Shrader's initial miss from 60 yards and moved him 15 yards closer. The 45-yarder was true and the Horsies beat the other Horsies while fans in Denver no doubt gnashed their teeth and threw salsa and clam dip at their TV screens.

* Wait ... what? You mean Daniel Jones -- DANIEL JONES! -- might actually be good, too?

Two starts, two wins. Racked a 107.0 quarterback rating after a 23-of-34, 316-yard day. Threw one touchdown pass and no interceptions. So far this season he's completed 71 percent of his throws (45-of-63) for 588 yards and two scores, and has yet to throw a pick. His season rating so far is 111.1.

"But, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "What about how crummy he was with the Gi-"

Shhh.

* Wait ... what? You mean Tennessee's running another play?

Aw, you bet. Ball's on the Georgia 19 with seven seconds to play. Thirty-six yard field goal, or thereabouts, for the win, which would be the Volunteers' first against the Bulldogs in the last nine meetings.

But, noooo!

Tennessee coach Josh Heupel decided to run one more play instead. No, I don't know why. Some short circuit in the cranial region, I assume.

Anyway, the Vols line up, get stuffed on a run into the line, and ... get flagged for illegal procedure. Ball is moved back five yards, making it a 43-yard attempt for kicker Max Gilbert instead of a 36-yard attempt. Gilbert pushes the 43-yarder wide right, the game goes to overtime, and Georgia beats Rocky Top for the night straight time, 44-41.

Oopsie.

* Wait ... what? You mean Mickey Mantle's in the news AGAIN?

Sure is, boys and girls. Just a handful of days after Yankees slugger Aaron Judge passed Joe DiMaggio on the Pinstripes' career homer list, leaving only Babe Ruth, Mantle and Lou Gehrig ahead of him, Cal Raleigh of the Mariners his 54th homer of the 2025 campaign. This got Mantle's name in print once more, because Raleigh's latest jack broke the Mick's record for most home runs in a season by a switch hitter.

Two keyword mentions in a week. Not bad for a guy who's been gone for 30 years.

And last but not least ...

* Wait ... what? You mean the Colorado Rockheads only need one win in their last 12 games to avoid tying the 2024 Chicago What Sox for the most losses in a season in the modern baseball era?

You better believe it, bubba.

The Rockheads have lost their last two and eight of their last 10, but on Friday they beat the San Diego Padres 4-2 and much joy was heard throughout the land. That's because it was their 41st win of the season, which means they can do no worse than tie the '24 What Sox, who finished 41-121. And if they can go 1-11 to end the season, they they can officially lord it over the What Sox forever and ever, so phooey on you.

"Plus, we got mountains!" the Rockheads will no doubt add.

Sunday, September 14, 2025

Art, meet life

 God bless that John Daly. He is a man of the people. He is as normal as normal gets -- if, that is, "normal" is a grown man who wears Garanimal-style pants and a Devil Anse Hatfield beard, and travels around hitting golf balls at places far too refined for the likes of him.

See what he did the other day?

Went full Chili-Dip Chuck in an actual for-real PGA event. Channeled one of them-there movie stars. Made life imitate art.

What Daly did was, on the par-5 12th hole at Minnehaha Country Club in Sioux City, S.D., card a 19. No, that is not a misprint. And, no, that was not the old lady in "Caddyshack" playing the hole, the one who keeps swatting her ball into the water while saying "Whee!"

It was John Daly. Professional golfer.

Who hit his tee ball into the rough, and then proceeded to knock his next seven shots into the water hazard on the 12th. When he finally cleared the water, his ball found another patch of rough. Eventually, on his 17th hack, he reached the collar of the green, then got it up and down for his 19.

"Dee-yam, Martha, come look at this!" you can imagine Chili-Dip Chuck saying, taking another swig of his Natty Light. "John Daly played that hole just like I woulda! We are  brothers under the skin, ya can't tell me otherwise!"

Well, of course he is. He's also Kevin Costner from "Tin Cup", who played a driving-range pro who blows the U.S. Open because he stubbornly keeps hitting balls into the water on the 72nd hole trying to prove he can clear it.

Who's that sound like?

Aw, you bet it sounds like John Daly. In fact it sounds exactly like the John Daly who, back in 1998, carded an 18 on a par-5 in the Bay Hill Invitational by hitting a 3-wood into the water six straight times.

"Gee, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "Why didn't he club up?"

I dunno. Why didn't Roy "Tin Cup" McAvoy club up in the movie?

"'Cause he was tryin' to prove something, dummy!" Chili-Dip Chuck would no doubt reply. "Just like ol' John Daly! Hell, I'd have done the same thing, and I'm not even a pro or a movie guy!"

For sure. Oh, and one last thing: Daly finished the round with an 88. Which means he somehow shot a halfway decent 71 on the other 17 holes.

Let's see art imitate that.

A Doomerville too far

 Mid-September in South Bend, Indiana, and the saints already are rending their garments. Saint Lou of Holtz is saying he's scared to death of Rice (again!). Saint Frank of Leahy is moaning, "Oh, lads." And Saint Knute of Rockne is wondering if it's time to make up another story about George Gipp.

Heard the news?

 It's mid-September, and the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame are 0-2.

Lost on the road at Miami. Had two weeks to prepare for their home opener against Texas A&M, and lost again.

This means Domerville is now Doomerville, or something akin. Or maybe it doesn't.

Consider, first of all, that the Irish lost by three on the road against a Miami team that's now ranked fifth by the Associated Press. Consider, also, that they lost by one at home last night to another ranked team when A&M quarterback Marcel Reed threw a touchdown pass on fourth down with 13 seconds to play.

So what does this mean?

It means Notre Dame, at the moment, is not quite as good as it was a year ago. It means the Irish aren't quite as deep in certain places, particularly on defense, and that they're breaking in a redshirt freshman at QB1,and that the combination of the two are going to make it a lot harder to beat teams like Miami and Texas A&M, both of whom brought experienced quarterbacks to the table with Swiss-knife skill sets.

None of this should shock have shocked anyone. But of course it will, because it's Notre Dame, and because the Irish blew two 10-point leads at home last night, and because when you're ranked as high as sixth in the notoriously value-thin preseason polls, you're supposed to be better than that. Also, again, you're Notre Dame.

Except sometimes you're not. Or at least you're not that Notre Dame, the one that rode a crushing ground game and a suffocating defense to the national title game nine months ago.

And so Not That Notre Dame traveled down to Miami, which was waiting with Chip Beck, last seen starting at quarterback for Georgia. And then they came back to Notre Dame Stadium to face 16th-ranked A&M, which had Reed, a sophomore who threw for 1,834 yards and 15 touchdowns and ran for 547 yards and seven sixes last year  as a redshirt freshman.

Last  night, Reed averaged 5.3 yards per carry on seven totes and threw for 360 yards and two scores, including the clutch pitch to tight end Nate Boerkircher to pull out the 41-40 win.

Notre Dame quarterback C.J. Carr, meanwhile, was 20-of-32 for 293 yards and a touchdown to running back Jeremiyah Love, who once again carried the bulk of the offensive load: 94 yards and a touchdown on the ground; four catches for 53 yards and a touchdown as a receiver.

Carr, meanwhile, made some big throws. He also missed a few, and threw a pick. Still, the Irish churned out 23 first downs and 429 total yards, which should have been sufficient for the W had the D been able to stop Reed and Co.

Alas, it couldn't. The Aggies dinged the Irish for 488 total yards, averaging 7.07 per snap. It pushed Notre Dame around up front, where Le'Veon Moss gashed the Irish for 81 yards and three sixes on 20 carries. And the A&M wideouts absolutely flamed the Irish secondary -- particularly Mario Craver (seven catches, 207 yards, one score) and KC Concepcion (four catches, 82 yards).

Conclusion: Notre Dame has enough weapons on offense. It doesn't yet have enough on defense.

Other, less gloomy conclusion: It's still going to be good enough to beat everyone else on its schedule, starting with Purdue next week. USC might give the Irish pause, but the Trojans don't come to South Bend until Oct. 18. Ditto Arkansas on the road in two weeks. Ditto, I don't know, North Carolina or Pitt or Syracuse, none of whom the Irish play until November.

Call this Doomerville a Doomerville too far, in other words. At least right now. Remember, in the meantime, last Sept. 7, when Doomerville was up in arms after the Irish jacked around and lost to Northern Illinois in their 2024 home opener.

Notre Dame never lost again until the national championship game.

Saturday, September 13, 2025

Cupcakin'

 High school football came to Memorial Stadium in Bloomington last night, or at least it seemed so. Those were Friday night lights, after all, America's Institutions of Higher Earning horning in on someone else's turf again. And Indiana University's opponent ...

Well. Far be it from the Blob to besmirch a fine academic institution by calling it Indiana State High School. But the way Curt Cignetti's Hoosiers wolfed down its latest MRE (meal ready to eat), again, made it seem so.

The final score was 73-0, and that's not the half of it. Actually, it sort of is the half of it, because the Hoosiers led 45-0 at halftime and their starters were all but done for the night.

Quarterback Fernando Mendoza, after all, had already passed for five scores and run for another, completing 19-of-20 throws against the helpless Sycamores. Khobie Martin was on his way to a 109-yard rushing night on just 11 carries, just shy of a first down per tote. Omar Cooper Jr. was on his way to a four-touchdown, 10-reception, 207-yard receiving night. 

By the end, Indiana had gobbled up 33 first downs and 680 total yards, 379 in the air and 301 on the ground. Indiana State, meanwhile, had wheezed out just five first downs, 38 yards passing and 77 total yards. The Hoosiers averaged 12.6 yards per pass and 8.1 per rush; the Trees averaged 1.9 yards per pass and 1.3 yards per rush.

You know that scene toward the end of "Stand By Me" where Kiefer Sutherland and his  hoodlum friends beat up on poor Gordie and his grade-school buds? 

That's kind of what this was like. Either that or beating your 6-year-old nephew in basketball.

And, yeah, OK, we all know the economics involved in it. In return for getting tossed around like Raggedy Andy, Indiana State cashed a fat check to keep their athletic department in clover. And Indiana got another feel-good W, although how the Hoosier could feel good about dunking on nephew Joey is a question only they could answer.

The skinny is, they're now 3-0, and none the Hoosiers' three victims has been Ohio State or Texas. Or even Northwestern or Rutgers. Which means we really don't know, a quarter of the season in, if they're actually any good.

And so although I'm well aware of what Indiana State got out of last night, I'm at a loss to tell you what Indiana did. Did any of this cupcakin' in its first three games prepare the Hoosiers for the rigors of the Big Ten, which begins for them next week against Illinois? Might at least one tilt against someone with reasonably equitable talent have perhaps been more beneficial?

You grow your football team on competition. Like Wonder Bread, it helps build strong bodies 12 ways. Also it's part of a balanced breakfast, and a bunch of other marketing slogans I can't recall at the moment.

What I will remember is this: Last year it was the Hoosiers' arch-enemy Purdue who invited Indiana State in for an early-season paycheck game. The Boilermakers pruned the Trees 49-0.

The next week they lost to Notre Dame, 66-7. And proceeded to go 1-11 in Ryan Walters' final season.

Not sayin'. Just sayin'.

Friday, September 12, 2025

Sublimely ridiculous

 Aaron Judge sent two more baseballs fleeing Yankee Stadium in terror last night, and now he's in monument territory as far as horsehide abuse is concerned. Which is to say, a couple of days ago he passed Yogi Berra (Yogi Berra!) on the Yankees career home run list, and last night he tied Joe DiMaggio (Joe DiMaggio!).

That means only Babe Ruth, Mickey Mantle and Lou Gehrig are still ahead of him. Each of whom, Joe D included, has his own personal monument in Monument Park out there beyond center field in the Stadium.

So, yeah, Judge is communing with the statuary now. And he's got a lot of tread left on the tires to commune even further with it.

That's your sublime baseball happening for the week, boys and girls.

And the most sublimely ridiculous happening?

Well, that would be what my Pittsburgh Cruds accomplished the other day.

"Ohhhh, no," you're saying now. "Not the stupid Pirates again. Not-"

Ah, dummy up. Here's a hall pass. Go on down to the caf and grab yourself a big ol' plate of Tuna Surprise.

(The surprise: Does not contain tuna.)

Now where were we?

Oh, yeah. My Cruds. Being sublimely ridiculous.

See, while Aaron Judge was hangin' with all those magisterial Yankee ghosts, the Cruds were achieving their own landmark. With a 2-1 loss in extras to the lowly Orioles, they assured themselves of yet another losing season. It will be their seventh in a row and ninth in the last 10 years.

That is some epically chronic cruddiness (or chronically epic cruddiness) right there.

You don't put up that kind of sustained failure without a ton of want-to, and lord knows cheapskate owner Bob Nutting and his guys have want-to to spare. Consider, for instance, that they have the most dominant pitcher in baseball right now (Paul Skenes), and they still manage to keep losing. Right now they're in the middle of a six-game skid  that's left them nineteen games under .500, 25 games out of first in the NL Central and eight games out of next-to-last.

Skenes, on the other hand, is killing it. In 30 starts and 178 innings this season, he has an MLB-leading 1.92 ERA, a National League-leading 203 strikeouts, and just 38 walks. Opposing hitters are batting just .193 against him.

His won-loss record in those 30 starts?

9-9.

How long before he and his agent start lobbying for someone -- anyone -- to get him the hell out of P-town?

It hasn't happened yet because the Cruds actually decided to pay him not long ago, and also because Skenes isn't the complaining type. But metaphorically speaking, Skenes continuing to pitch for the Cruds would be like Sandy Koufax pitching for the early-'60s Cubs or Senators instead of the Dodgers: A waste of genius.

But enough sad tales. There's too much sadness in the land right now as it is.

Let's go watch Aaron Judge chase some more monuments instead.

Thursday, September 11, 2025

The bloody boomerang

 Unavoidably, now, and with ineffable sadness, his own words come back on him. You reap what you sow, and everything right-wing provocateur Charlie Kirk sowed in his young life led, perhaps inevitably, to its end.

He lived by the tenet that living by the gun in America was worth a few dead schoolkids  here and there, and then he himself died by the gun. The irony is cruel and stark and almost perfect in its symmetry.

It was, in fact, just after answering a college kid's question about mass shootings that a rooftop sniper squeezed off a shot and Kirk's neck began to spew blood. He died not long after -- a martyr to the truth on one side of our national divide, and a soulless bully getting his just desserts on the other.

I won't subscribe to either, because the former is the product of delusion and the latter presumes the personally unknowable. I don't know, in other words, if the demagoguery upon which Kirk built a comfortable life was genuine or simply a profitable business model. All I do know is it exploited that aforementioned divide, feeding on all its fear and loathing and blindness and hate.

Sad way to make your bones, casting the marginalized in our society -- immigrants, the homeless, transgenders and gays, "wokeness" -- as depraved, evil predators responsible for the nation's ills.  That was Charlie Kirk's gig, and what a waste of a bright young life. In a tragedy that spreads out and out in concentric circles, that is the seminal one.

And that's what this is, a tragedy. It's the tale of a young man who sent a bloody boomerang out into the world, never imagining he would be its victim. It's the tale of a young man who could have done something affirming with the life God gave him, but chose a different path.

You reap what you sow. And the worst part of all this is what Charlie Kirk sowed continues to bear fruit. Not even his assassination -- a horrific act of political violence that never solves anything and has been the undoing of more than one great empire -- has taught us a damn thing.

Almost immediately, after all, the MAGA crazies took to the Magic Interwhatsis to rail that the Democrats and the media must be made to pay for Kirk's death, that they're all evil creatures who must either be exterminated or brutally suppressed.

And on the other side?

Not a few arch observations wondering where all this right-wing outrage was when a Democratic legislator and her husband were gunned down in Minnesota, and when schoolkids and grocery shoppers and church-goers die at the hands of yet another locked-and-loaded nutjob. A legit question, perhaps, but hardly the time to be asking it.

 Meanwhile, on the day after, we again commemorate what fear and loathing and hate wrought on Sept. 11, 2001. And on the Magic Interwhatsis this morning, I ran across a short video that suggested, not for the first time, that the reason WNBA star Caitlyn Clark has been "targeted" (quotation marks mine) is because she's not gay.

Which implies those depraved gays are out to get us, just like Charlie Kirk said.

When will we learn? When?

I think it's worth (it) to have a cost of, unfortunately, some gun deaths every single year so that we can have the Second Amendment to protect our other God-given rights. That is a prudent deal. It is rational.

- Charlie Kirk

Wednesday, September 10, 2025

Crabby old fart alert!

 "Because it's NEWS, Vincenzo! NEWWWS!"

-- Carl Kolchak, ace reporter

Look, I don't know if Deion Sanders can coach his way out of a paper bag, or if his kid Shedeur and Travis Hunter just made him look like he could.  I also don't know if he's the most objective guy to analyze media behavior in these here 2020s, seeing how he's spent most of his life either basking in its blandishments or warring with it when the blandishments didn't come.

(Cue clip of Deion dumping a bucket of ice water on TV analyst Tim McCarver back in the day, after McCarver wasn't properly fawning in his commentary.)

However ...

However, when the guy's right, he's right, dammit. Even if he's only partly right.

The other day, it seems, he went off on These Media Types Today, sounding not unlike a certain crabby old fart with whom I am sort of familiar. At issue was a report by Pete Thamel that a kid named Ryan Staub was going to start at quarterback for Deion's Colorado Buffaloes against Houston this weekend. Even though Deion admitted Staub had been practicing with the No. 1s all week, he thought Thamel jumped the gun a tad.

Then he said this: You know, in today's media, we don't care about being right anymore. We just want to be first. And there's no subjection to you when you're wrong. Nobody says nothing. You just go with it. I'm not saying that's the case (here), but that's where we are in the media. Nobody gives a darn about being correct and being right ... I would love to have the integrity we once had with media.

OK, first off, as a crabby old fart who once dabbled in journalism: I'd love to have that, too, Deion.

Of course, I'd also love to have integrity on Wall Street and in the billionaire class and in the corporate medical industry and in law enforcement and the DOJ, and mostly in the Meathead Brigade that runs our American show these days.  But one insurmountable task at a time.

Of integrity in media, I'll say this: There's both less than there should be at times, and more than those who've been conditioned to hate and distrust the media believe.

Truth is, America -- or at least its power elite -- has always had a contentious and queasy relationship with the free-press part of the First Amendment, because the closed door is the power elite's bedrock and a free press, if it's doing its job right, exists almost exclusively to kick closed doors open. Sunlight may be the best disinfectant, but the folks at the top of the pyramid are as notoriously allergic to it as a dirty kid is to soap and water.

It's why they spend so much time, effort and money to brand the free press as untrustworthy and dishonest, because doing so keeps that closed door shut tight on whatever griminess they're up to behind it.  The Meathead Brigade and its Fearless Leader are hardly the first to take that low road in America, only the latest and most openly totalitarian. Killing the messenger in our allegedly free society -- or at least de-legitimizing him -- has a rich and shameful history.

Which does not mean, again, that Deion is entirely wrong when he says the media cares more about being first than right. With what constitutes media having become extremely sketchy in the Techie '20s, the chances of getting it first and wrong have grown exponentially. And some of those who do that really don't seem to care all that much, or even understand why they should.

But say NO ONE gives a darn about being correct and right?

That's where Deion and I part company. Not that he'd ever know it.

In my scribe days, see, I worked with plenty of people who gave a darn about being correct and right. I know plenty of people who give a darn about it now. They also work their asses off to get it correct and right, even if some of them are young and crabby old farts like me are supposed to believe the young don't know squat from squadoosh.

Sorry, but not this crabby old fart. I know better. And I know they're in turn encouraged (i.e., "threatened within an inch of their lives") by editors who give a darn, too, just like I was. They also understand why: That Getting It Right is the most valuable coin in the realm for a news entity, because if you get it wrong too often you become worthless in the public mind as a disseminator of information. You become ... untrusworthy.

You become, in essence, exactly what those with a vested interested in discrediting you with the public say you are. And therefore you make their job easier, and whatever skeevy stuff they were doing away from the public eye easier to hide.

Does the media get stuff wrong?

Sure it does. Especially when, as previously noted, it's more concerned with beating the competition to the punch than making sure the punch lands with accuracy and authority.

However.

However, do they get it wrong deliberately, as the Meathead Brigade continually insists to an increasingly credulous audience? Do they actually sit around in newsrooms (or in front of their laptops at home, this being 2025) and say, for instance, "OK, what kind of lies can we spread about President Trump these days? And, sports, how are we coming with that Aaron Rodgers Is A Space Alien piece?"

Hardly ever. Or at least the legit news outlets don't.

No, most of the time when a legit news outlet screws up, it's because whoever was in charge that day was either careless or a chronic numbskull or just, you know, human. To be honest, there's more than the usual quota of the latter two in most newsrooms. 

You can choose to believe that or not. You can choose to believe "legacy media" is a shameless disseminator of propaganda and deliberate falsehood because it reports stuff you don't want to hear. You can, like Deion, believe it has no integrity whatsoever, and every ink-stained grunt out there is a con man and a liar.

Give me a heads up before you say so, though. Just so I know when to shake my head and laugh.

Tuesday, September 9, 2025

A few brief thoughts about NFL Week 1

 And now the thrilling return of The NFL In So Many Words, the thrilling Blob feature that provokes thrilling overreaction from critics -- such as, "This is the worst thing that ever happened in the history of the entire world!", and also, "It's an extinction event!  Aieee!":

1. And speaking of extinction events ...

2. The Ravens!

3. Thought they could ... thought they could ... thought they could ... couldn't. 

4. "Hey, watch me make a 15-point Ravens lead disappear!" (Bills QB Josh Allen)

5. "Hey, watch me make an 11-point Bears lead disappear!' (Vikings QB J.J. McCarthy)

6. "Hey, where'd our 15-point/11-point lead go?" (The Ravens and Bears)

7. In other news, the Packers whupped the Lions; the Cowboys tried really hard to beat the Eagles, the Chiefs beat, er, the Chargers beat the Chiefs; and the Colts, with Daniel Jones suddenly playing like either Dan Fouts or Bert Jones, laid an almighty woodsheddin' on the Dolphins.

8. "Woo-hoo! We're goin' to the Super Bowl, baby!" (The Packers, the Cowboys, the Chargers, the Colts)

9. "Woo-hoo! Daniel Jones is a GOLDEN GOD!" (Colts fans)

10. "Wait ... what?" (Daniel Jones)

Monday, September 8, 2025

A-Aron strikes back

 I don't know what Aaron Rodgers was saying under his breath at the end of Steelers 34, Jets 32 yesterday, but I bet there was a much-more-than-zero chance it was what Steve McQueen said at the end of "Papillon."

Hey, you bastards! I'm still here!

Right?

I also bet there was a much-more-than-zero chance he was making a few less cinematic pronouncements, such as Bleep you, Jets. Or maybe, Can't play anymore, huh? BLEEP YOU.  Or, maybe-maybe, Here's a four-touchdown hoagie to munch on, losers. BLEEP YOU WITH MY 136.7 QUARTERBACK RATING.

"Gee, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "I sense a bleeping theme here."

Well, sure. I mean, Rodgers wouldn't be human if he didn't take a certain vicious pleasure in showing up the Jets, who all but declared him washed when they parted company after last season. The guy may be a weirdo, but he's not that weird.

OK. So maybe he is.

But you have to think it was a prime neener-neener-neener moment for him when he took the Steelers right down the field on their first possession and stuck it in the end zone with a throw to Ben Skowronek -- the fabled (or not) geezer-to-Fort-Wayne connection.

At any rate, that was only the beginning of the in-your-face-ing of the Jets. Rodgers went on to finish 22-of-30 for 244 yards and three more sixes, and didn't throw a pick. Only got sacked a couple of times. Finished with that aforementioned 136.7 QBR.

Neener. Neener. Neener.

Also, A-Aron is BACK, baby!

"Yeah, but what about next week, Mr. Blob?" you're saying now. "And the 147 weeks of the interminable NFL season after that?"

Ah. Yes.

That is the question here, as it is every time someone lights it up in Week 1. Has 41-year-old A-Aron discovered a magic portal to his youthful greatness? Or is he just a 41-year-old who had a day?

"Oh, come on," some yinzer is no doubt saying, taking another swig of his Iron City. "Leave us enjoy this for five minutes, why doncha?"

Fine. But then I'm going to take a look back at last year's Week 1, and you know which NFL quarterback had the best day?

Tua Tagovailoa of the Dolphins, who threw for 338 yards and a score against the Jaguars and had a QBR of 101.0.

Know what Tua did the rest of the year?

Played just 10 more games and finished 21st in passing, just ahead of 36-year-old Russell Wilson, Bryce Young and Drake Maye.

In other words: Stay tuned.

Sunday, September 7, 2025

Cheap Thrills Week

 Your Indiana Hoosiers beat the mortal stuffing out of poor Kennesaw State yesterday, 56-9, a week after they kinda-sorta beat the mortal stuffing out of poor Old Dominion, and you know what that tells us about Curt Cignetti's team?

Exactly nothing.

OK, so not nothing, but pretty close. New quarterback Fernando Mendoza threw four touchdown passes Saturday, so that was good. Elijah Surratt caught three of them, so that was good, too. And the Hoosiers outscored the Kennesaws 35-0 in the second half, scoring on five straight possessions.

So that was also good, I suppose. Of course, it was a little like scoring on five straight possessions against the cardboard cutouts the citizens of Rock Ridge used to fool Slim Pickens and his gang in "Blazing Saddles," but, still. Pretty, pretty good.

This is not to single out the Hoosiers for being unbeaten and untried, mind you, because that indictment fits a lot of Power 4 teams right now. Purdue, for instance, is off to a 2-0 start as well after doubling up Southern Illinois 34-17. This means, on September 7, the Boilermakers have already doubled their win total from a year ago.

And never mind that Southern Illinois is not, you know, Real Illinois, or perhaps even Real Rutgers. Also never mind the W follows on the heels of last week's 31-0 splattering of my alma mater, Ball State.

Which got splattered again Saturday by Auburn, 42-3, in another human-sacrifice-for-dollars game. Those of us who have diplomas from BSU will take comfort in the fact that at least the Cardinals scored this time, a sure sign they're improving.*

(*Sarcasm Alert) 

Thing is, in defense of IU and Purdue, this was Cheap Thrills Week for a lot of Power 4 teams. (Notre Dame, the state's other football biggie, had a bye. Reportedly, the Irish were supposed to play the The Little Sisters of the Poor Only Littler And Poorer, but canceled the game because they figured Bye would more boost their strength of schedule.) 

At any rate, there were some truly ridiculous matchups. Ohio State batted Grambling around like a ball of string, 70-0. Florida State edged East Dillon, er, East Texas A&M 77-3. Alabama played with its food against Louisiana-Monroe, 73-0; Texas Tech paved Kan't, er, Kent State, 62-14; Utah tracked mud all over Cal Poly, 63-9; Tennessee staked out East Tennessee State on an anthill, 72-17.

Oh, and Arch Manning, whom everyone declared a generational talent before declaring he was the WORST GENERATIONAL TALENT EVER in that 14-7 loss to Ohio State?

Threw for four touchdowns and ran for another in Texas' 38-7 goring of its live sacrifice, San Jose State. So there, sort of.

"But ... but ... what about South Florida upsetting Florida, Mr. Blob? Or the Ohio University Bobcats upholding the honor of the MAC by taking down West Virginia?" you're saying now.

Only proves that if you play Payola For Patsies often enough, the football gods are going to say "Why the hell are you playing these guys?" and allow These Guys to take a bite out of you.

Otherwise ...

Otherwise, except for the dough (which admittedly is not inconsiderable), what does East A&M get out of being a hot lunch for Florida State? Or Grambling for lying down on the white line and letting Ohio State run over it? Or my alma mater's athletic department for telling the football program, "Quit whining and get your asses down there with the lions. It'll only hurt for awhile, and we need the cash."

And thus the East A&Ms, Gramblings and Ball States wind up with 0-2 starts and, presumably, longer casualty lists than they would have otherwise had this early. 

And what do the Power 4s get out of all this comic opera?

Beats me. Ask Minnesota, which dragged a directional school (Northwestern State) up to Minneapolis so the Golden Gophers could enjoy a 66-0 meal. Or ask Nebraska, which brought Akron in so Big Red could pelt the poor schmucks with corncobs, 68-0.

I fail to see how any of these mismatches advances the development of the muscle programs. Yeah, Purdue is 2-0 under new head coach Barry Odom, but what does that mean? Yeah, the Mendoza-Sarratt connection was dazzling for IU, but against whom? 

I will say this, though: Oregon beat someone 69-3 yesterday, and it wasn't the Oklahoma Institute of Learning How To Type Fast. It was Oklahoma State, a supposedly legit Big 12 school. So at least the Ducks had something to quack about.

Unless.

Unless, of course, that really was the Oklahoma Institute of Learning How To Type Fast, and part of the deal was dressing up as Oklahoma State so everyone would think the Ducks were really, really good.

Instead of, you know, just pretty, pretty good.

Saturday, September 6, 2025

Down for the count

 Caitlin Clark officially announced Thursday night she was done for the season, and there goes that fairy tale finish. The force of nature that put the WNBA on the national radar  a year ago chose, along with her team, the force of nurture. 

In other words: Take the rest of the season off, kid. Heal up. Don't hurry back on our account, because our account ain't as hefty as we hoped it would be.

No, it's not. What began with some fairy-tale ruminating -- Can Caitlin lead the beefed-up Fever to the WNBA title in her second year? -- has devolved into a quiet and mostly mundane reality: This Fever team isn't going much of anywhere.

After Clark went down for good on July 15 (although no one knew it would be for good at the time), and her enforcer/sidekick/provocateur Sophie Cunningham went down with a season-ending knee injury, the air went out of all those lofty hopes. Those injuries and a spate of others, the defection of DeWanna Bonner, and head coach Stephanie White's odd periodic absences have resulted in a win-a-couple, lose-a-couple season in which the strobe-lit Fever has become just another .barely-above-.500 basketball team.

They'll likely still make the playoffs, because they still have players: Kelsey Mitchell, Natasha Howard, Aliyah Boston, Lexie Hull. But they're more and more looking like a first-round bow-out, same as last year.

Do you rush Clark back for that?

Absolutely you do not.

So she's done for 2025, and, meanwhile, the league goes on without her drawing power and, frankly, without all the racially-charged they're-pickin'-on-Our Caitlyn noise. Down in Dallas, Paige Bueckers is having a Caitlyn-esque rookie season; if she's not quite the phenomenon Clark was a year ago, she's proving every bit her on-court equal. Aja Thomas and Brianna Stewart and Sabrina Ionescu are still around. And Angel Reese is still stirring things up as the semi-official Lightning Rod of Chicago.

In the latest episode of What Angel Craziness Is This, she voiced her frustration in the Chicago Tribune with her miserable Sky, saying the team had to get better players and that they "can't rely" on point guard Courtney Vandersloot to come back from an ACL tear "at the age she's at."  This undoubtedly landed with a booming thud in the Sky locker room, and it got Reese suspended by the ballclub.

So the WNBA still has that going for it, I guess.

As for Clark, her sophomore season wasn't so much a sophomore slump as a sophomore wash. Plagued by both left and right groin injuries and a quad strain, she played in just 13 games, averaging 16.5 points, 8.8 assists and 5.0 rebounds. But she shot just 36 percent from the field and under 30 percent from the 3-point arc, where she made her rep as the Step-Back Logo Three Girl.

In this truncated season, unfortunately, she was more the Step-Back Logo Brick Girl. Or the Damn, She's Hurt Again? Girl.

It was both dismaying and shocking, considering she'd been injury-free at Iowa and in her spectacular rookie season in the Dub. The Blob's pet theory, which is likely as full of sawdust as most pet theories, is that what happened to her this season might have something to do with how hard she worked in the gym to bulk up during the offseason. More muscles, more muscles to strain or pull or tweak.

And, no, I'm not a doctor or a physical therapist or a trainer. I don't even play one on TV.

Sadly, Caitlyn Clark won't be playing a Genuine Phenomenon on TV anymore this year, either. It's the smart play. It's also, needless to say, a damn shame.

Friday, September 5, 2025

Geezer-cuffs

 Exciting news today from the world of boxing -- which used to be the World Of Boxing until MMA stole its capital letters, along with its fan base.

Mike Tyson is going to fight again!

Also, Floyd Mayweather!

"You mean, like, each other?" you're saying now.

Hell, yes, each other. Preliminary plans are in motion to have them fight an exhibition sometime next spring, with date and site to be determined. This despite the fact Tyson was the heavyweight champion when Tone Loc was a thing, and Mayweather was the middleweight champion -- the undefeated middleweight champion -- when Facebook, Twitter and TicToc were not yet a thing.

In other words ...

In other words, Tyson is now 59 years old, no longer Iron Mike but Iron Supplement Mike. And Floyd is 48, and no longer Money Mayweather but Barter System Mayweather.

"So who's on the undercard? Jim Braddock and Max Baer?" you're saying.

Not as far as we know.

"Also, how's this going to work? Tyson outweighs him by almost 70 pounds," you're saying.

Yes, but he also out-years him by a decade. So he's got that not going for him.

Besides, it's an exhibition. Nothing's on the line except bragging rights, and even those are slim pickings. It's not like there's a ton of demand for "I Beat Up A Senior Citizen" bumper stickers, after all.

"So who's gonna watch this thing?" you're saying now.

Beats me, although if there's a market for professional cornhole -- and there is -- there's probably a market for geezer-cuffs. Guys who can't get dates on Saturday nights, perhaps. Fans of Grit TV, the western movie channel. People who watch Turner Classic Movies all day, or scour YouTube for old-school roller derby. Hey, Myrtle, come 'ere. The San Francisco Bay Area Bombers are on!

Or ...

Or maybe, instead of pay-per-view, there'll be reverse pay-for-view.

You shell out 35 bucks or so, and HBO or whoever will block the feed. Pay up or they'll make you watch.

Works for me.

A few brief thoughts ...

 ... on the NFL, because the NFL is BACK, baby!

Got off to a whiz-bang start last night when Jalen Carter SPIT IN DAK PRESCOTT'S FACE, after which Jalen's Super Bowl champion Eagles spit in Dak's Cowboys' faces, 24-20. But, look, the Cowboys outgained the Iggles! And Dak out-passing-yard-ed Jalen Hurts! And the Iggles had 110 yards in penalties, which proves once again the officials will punish anyone who dares beat the Chiefs!

(Which the Iggles did, remember, in the Super Bowl)

Anyway, it's time once more to fill your Sundays and Monday nights and Thursday nights and -- this week anyway -- Friday nights with NFL action. To place your prop bets that the Saints will surely kick a field goal on This Very Drive. To curse yourself for deciding to start Joe Flacco instead of Joe Burrow in the home opener for your fantasy team, Mahomie Don't Play That.

A few thoughts, as it all begins again ...

* The Senior Bowl happens on October 12.

That's when the Pittsburgh Steelers, quarterbacked by 57-year-old Aaron Rodgers, play host to the Cleveland Browns, quarterbacked by 72-year-old Joe Flacco.  It will be Walker Night in Heinz Stadium. The featured stadium cocktail will be an Old Fashioned. Rodgers will reach back to his youth, when he was only 42, to throw a couple of touchdown passes in a 27-12 Steelers win.

Shedeur Sanders will make a brief appearance for the Brownies. He won't play, he'll just make a brief appearance on the sideline, wearing a cowboy hat and Wrangler jeans and a clipboard slung low on his hips.

* Daniel Jones will be the Colts starting quarterback. Until he's not.

Despite assurances from head coach Shane Steichen that Jones is his season-long QB1, precedent tells us this will not be so. Jones will play until he proves he's still the same "meh" dude he was with the Giants, and then Anthony Richardson will play until he throws another souvenir into the stands and/or gets hurt. 

Then Jones will reappear long enough to remind Steichen why he benched him in the first place. Then Riley Leonard will get a shot. Then, heck, maybe they bring back Bert Jones or someone.

* Kansas City will not make it to the Super Bowl again, no matter what the Grassy Knoll Brigade thinks.

All signs point to a step back for the Chiefs, even if they do get all the calls because the zebras are on their payroll. Travis Kelce, preoccupied by wedding plans (Gardenias or African violets?), will take a step or two back himself because that's how many steps he's lost. This means Patrick Mahomes' only safety-valve option will be either the ghost of Otis Taylor or the ghost of Fred Arbanas.

Which leaves the road to the Big Roman Numeral open for ...

* ... Lamar Jackson and the Baltimore Ravens.

Or, maybe ...

* ... Josh Allen and the Buffalo Bills.

Could this finally be the year for the Ravens/Bills?

"Don't we hear that every year?" you're saying now.

Well, yes. But this time it could really, really happen. Really.

* Who will be the league's breakout rookie?

If you said Jaxson Dart of the Giants, you're wrong. I mean, it's the Giants.

Cam Ward of the Titans?

No. Because, again, the Titans.

Tyler Warren of the Colts?

Nope. See above.

I'm picking Ashton Jeanty, stud running back from Boise State. Yeah, he's playing for the Raiders, who are still the Raiders. But there've been hints he could be special in a Christian McCaffrey/Saquon Barkley sort of way. We'll see.

And last but not least ...

* The NFC North.

Undisputedly the toughest division in football, it will be a gorgeous bloodletting from Week 1. The Lions are still as nasty as ever; to prove it, head coach Dan Campbell  floated the idea of having an actual lion lead the team onto the field each week. The Vikings have J.J. McCarthy back. The Packers stole Micah Parsons from Dallas. Even the Bears might be formidable if new head coach Ben Johnson can get them to stop doing Bears things.

Monday night they open against the Vikings. Then it's on to Detroit to face the Lions. Be there or be square.

Wednesday, September 3, 2025

Once upon a Komet

 Always now, I suppose, it will be an April night in 1991, and Lonnie Loach will be 23 years old, slogging up ice one last time. Slogging up ice on dead legs like everyone's legs were dead by then, because the thing had gone on and on and it badly wanted an end.

And then here was Lonnie Loach, with the end on his stick.

One final rush, one final slow-motion breakaway, and then he was re-directing a shot Indianapolis goalie Jimmy Waite -- who'd handled everything through the long night -- couldn't handle. The puck found the back of the net, the red light glared, and at last it was over.

Fort Wayne Komets 4, Indianapolis Ice 3. Game 7. Eighteen minutes and twenty seconds into overtime. A first-round IHL playoff series going to the K's over their most bitter rival, by the skinniest of margins.

Also, the greatest hockey game I ever saw in person, in 38 years as a scribe.

Waite was grab-your-head magnificent at one end. Stephane Beauregard in the Komets net was equally grab-your-head magnificent. They traded magic tricks all night long, as the Ice and Komets skated up and down and banged on one another and took everything out of one another either had to give.

And then, finally, Lonnie Loach ended it.

And now he's gone.  

Word came down today that he died on Monday at his home in Ontario, at the still-young age of 57. This of course is impossible, because Komets 4, Ice 3 happened just yesterday. Or the day before, perhaps.

In any case, there was first shock when I heard the news -- Lonnie Loach? What? No way -- and then that one particular night came flooding back fresh from the wrapper. I remember thinking it made all kinds of sense for Loach to have ended it, because he ended so many games that year with his sniper's eye. In 81 games he scored 55 goals and assisted on 76 others, and led the Komets to the Turner Cup finals in the first year of the Franke family's ownership. 

It energized the city, and its iconic franchise, a year after the former almost lost the latter. Did, actually, for a couple of days, before the Frankes bought the defunct Flint franchise and brought it to Fort Wayne to replace the team the previous owner had whisked away  to Albany, N.Y.

Thirty-four years later, the Komets are about to enter their 74th season. Only the Hershey Bears of the AHL have been around longer in minor-league hockey.

And Lonnie Loach, who was so much a part of keeping it going?

Still the last Komet to score 50 goals in a season, he went on to play 56 games with three teams in the NHL before retiring in 2006. But once upon a time, on one special night, he was a once-upon-a-Komet. 

May his weary legs forever be 23 years old. And blessedly un-weary.

Swiftie Derangement Syndrome alert!

 I'm with Vice-President Mini-Me, doggone it. I'm fearfully afraid (or afraid-ly fearful) Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce getting engaged is just a super-secret plan to get the Kansas City Chiefs to the Super Bowl again, and therefore commissioner Roger "The Hammer" Goodell needs to be super-duper vigilant about any such nefarious designs.

No, really. Mini-Me (straight name, J.D. Vance) said just that the other day.

Admitted he's a Bengals fan, at least, and thus naturally biased against the Chiefs, who used to beat his Bengals back when the Bengals still mattered. So that was big of him.

The rest, though, was your standard Swiftie Derangement Syndrome, a malady folks with Mini-Me's particular ideology are especially prone to. Taylor Swift is a woman, after all, and worse than that, she's a woman with so much money, clout and common decency Mini-Me and them can't drag her down to their level. What are they gonna do, bash her for donating armloads of cash to local food banks at all her concert venues?

Ah, but now she's not just dating, but is actually engaged, to a bleeping-bleep Chief. Cry havoc and loose the dogs of paranoia, or some such thing.

"I hope that the NFL does not put a thumb on the scale for the Kansas City Chiefs just because Travis Kelce is now getting married to maybe the most famous woman in the world," Mini-Me said, noting that the NFL could arrange a "Super Bowl wedding" by making sure its game officials play extra nice with the Chiefs.

Let me say this about that, as Richard Nixon used to say.

One, even if the Chiefs somehow jacked around and reached the Big Roman Numeral again, there's no way the Kelce-Swift nuptials would happen Super Bowl week. Travis might miss what used to be called Media Day, and that's a burn-'em-at-the-stake offense in the NASH-unal FOOT-ball League.

Two, the national scribes and TV yaks would raise six kinds of hell, because, dammit, it would cut into their Super Bowl party time. Also, while they're writing/yakking about wedding stuff, they might miss the 2,345th Patrick Mahomes feature at least a hundred of them were planning to write/yak about.

Three, Roger 'n' them already get a raft of doo-doo about the shoddiness of NFL officiating. Even though everyone who's not a Chiefs fan already thinks it's BLATANTLY OBVIOUS the Chiefs get all the calls, not even the NFL is dumb enough to make sure they actually do get all the calls. This isn't the WWE, for God's sake. Yet.

Of course, the league could avoid all this simply by making sure Mini-Me's Bengals get all the calls. Or, more likely, those eternal bridesmaids the Bills.

In which case, Josh Allen Derangement Syndrome would become a thing.

Prove me wrong, America.

Those other Cruds

 And just when you thought the Blob was going to stop torturing you with tales of my Pittsburgh Cruds, on account of they're not nearly as Cruddy these days as the Colorado Rockheads, Chicago What Sox or, heck, even the Miami Merlins ...

How 'bout my alma-hardly-matters, the Ball State Cardinals/Cruds 2.0?

("Not another one!" you're saying now)

("Please, no one cares about stupid Ball State!" you're saying)

("I mean, it's in Muncie, for God's sake!" you're saying)

Well, TOO BAD. Imma gonna talk about my Cardinals/Cruds 2.0 anyway. 

They have, after all, achieved some national pub this week, after that splendid 31-0 rollover against, geez, Purdue last weekend. It was Geez, Purdue's first win since shutting out Indiana State 49-0 in last season's opener, and their first FBS win since beating Indiana in the Old Oaken Bucket Game on Thanksgiving weekend of 2023.

All of which, I noticed, landed my Cruds 2.0 at No. 8 on ESPN's satirical Bottom Ten list this week. Yes, sir, there they are -- Baller State, just behind No. 7 the FA(not I)U Owls and the Charlotte 0-and-1ers.

The good news?

The Cruds 2.0 have an excellent shot at moving up in the rankings this week, because they follow up their trip to Ross-Ade Stadium with a trip to Jordan-Hare Stadium at Auburn. Frying pan, meet fire.

Of course, the Ball State athletic department will get to add $2.5 million to its bank account thanks to these voluntary human sacrifices, guarantee games being what they are. And at least my Cruds 2.0 aren't skeered of the big boys like those pansies down in Bloomington, who opened the season against Old Dominion and now must prepare for the mighty Owls of Kennesaw State.

Who, I notice, are an honorable mention (as Kennesaw Mountain Landis State) in this week's Bottom Ten.

Lose on, you Owls!

Tuesday, September 2, 2025

Beli-chucked

Hey, didja hear the one about Bill Belichick?

Knock-knock.

Who's there?

Bill Belichick.

Bill Belichick who?

Bill Belichick who is the Dean Wormer of college football.

Because Chapel Hill was ready to get down last night, ready to par-tay, because Belichick was making his college football coaching debut and every Tar Heel who was any Tar Heel was there. Roy Williams was there. Mia Hamm was there. Hey, look, it's Lawrence Taylor! And MJ! And a bunch of guys who didn't even go to North Carolina, the University of!

It was gonna be a celebration, a coronation, a big ol' powder blue lord-it-over-you-ification. Prime-time game. Labor Day evening. ESPN, which was on the Full Hype  setting, constantly rolling out graphics about all the Super Bowls Bill Belichick had won with the Patriots, and all the division titles and all the games he'd won, and OMG, look, the Tar Heels marched right down the field and scored on Bill Belichick's very first possession!

And then ...

And then, Bill Belichick went all Dean Wormer on them.

Which is to say, no more fun of any kind.

Not long after Belichick, er, North Carolina scored on its first possession, see, here came Josh Hoover and TCU. On their second possession the Horned Frogs went 58 yards in just six plays, and Hoover dropped a throw right down the bucket to Jordan Dwyer for six, and the air went out of everything. Hoover kept completing passes and transfer running back Kevorian Barnes kept punching holes in the Tar Heels' D, and over on the sideline, ESPN kept cutting to Belichick with his brow all knit up, looking down at his play sheet as if it were written in Klingon.

Meanwhile, TCU scored to go up 14-7.  And then, as ESPN comically kept running Belichick graphics, the Horned Frogs turned hanging curve from North Carolina quarterback Gio Lopez  into a pick six to go up 20-7. And then Barnes opened the second half with a jaunt down the sideline that seemed to cross three state lines on the way to the end zone, and TCU kept scoring, and suddenly the Horned Frogs had reeled off 41 straight points and the Belichick Tar Heels looked like just another cruddy college team the couldn't stop anyone and couldn't move the football.

Final score: TCU 48, North Carolina 14.

Final stats: Twenty-nine first downs for TCU; 10 for North Carolina. Five-hundred forty-two total yards for TCU; 222 for UNC. Hoover was 27-of-36 for 284 yards and two scores. Barnes lugged it 13 times for 113 yards and the cross-country TD, an 8.7-yard per-carry average. The Horned Frogs 7.4 yards per carry as a team.

Which meant Carolina couldn't stop the run or the pass, and it couldn't run the football, either. Offensive coordinator Freddie Kitchens' old-school plan to establish the run went kablooey as soon as TCU got the Tar Heels down, and the plan wasn't such a great one anyway.  Not when you get no push up front and average a barely-visible 1.8 yards per carry.

Meanwhile, ESPN was telling us Belichick's 13-man coaching staff includes seven assistants with extensive NFL coaching or playing experience, including Kitchens and Belichick's sons, Steve and Brian.

Maybe they shoulda got more college guys.

The college game ain't the pro game, after all, and at least now Belichick knows that. There is less you control, because you're dealing not with grown professionals but with 19-, 20-, 21-year-old college kids who occasionally do goofy college-kid stuff. Also there is the utterly ungovernable transfer portal to deal with. Also Gio Lopez and his (at least last night) more competent backup, Max Johnson, are not, you know, Tom Brady.

Who was not Tom Brady, either, when he was a college backup at Michigan.

The good news?

At least Belichick doesn't get the Chiefs or the Ravens next week. He gets Charlotte, which went 5-7 last season and lost 38-20 to the Tar Heels. Then he gets Richmond. Then he gets Central Florida.

Lot less likely he gets Beli-chucked in those three. Lot more likely he'll be 3-1 heading into the showdown with No. 4 Clemson.

In the words: Hang onto that hype.

Monday, September 1, 2025

Jerk of the year

I wouldn't know Piotr Szczerej if he snatched me bald-headed, which by all available evidence he would. But he's exactly the sort of self-absorbed, entitled rich guy who gives other self-absorbed entitled rich guys a bad name.

Szczerej, it seems, is the CEO of a Polish paving company, and last week he almost literally stole candy from a baby. Then he sneered like a self-absorbed, entitled rich guy at everyone who called him on it.

The candy in this case was a hat, which Polish tennis star Kamil Majchrzak was handing to a small boy after a recent match at the U.S. Open. As the boy reached for it, however, Szczerej, an allegedly grown man, leaned over and grabbed it away, leaving the poor kid gaping helplessly with his hands outstretched.

The moment, as pretty much everything is these days, was caught on video. A shitestorm of social media reaction quickly followed, with one poster after another correctly identifying Szczerej as a giant douche. Szczerej then assured himself first-class accommodations in the Giant Douche Hall of Fame by posting a response to his critics fairly brimming with self-absorbed, entitled rich guy hubris.

"Yes, I took it," he bragged. "Yes, I did it quickly. But as I've always said, life is first come, first served ... It's just a hat. If you were faster, you would have it."

He then wrapped up this douche-y gem by threatening to sue anyone online who dared call him ... well, a giant douche.

The Blob's response: Good luck with that, pal. Maybe.

As a big-deal CEO, see, Szczerej is a public figure, and public figures are and always have been fair game for public ridicule in these United States. Or at least they were until the Great And Terrible Oz got himself elected President/Supreme Leader again, and brought the privileged ethos of the gated community to American governance.

In other words, we're Piotr Szczerej's kind of place now. The evidence is a handful of responses to Szczerej's response that actually backed the hat stealer's play, reasoning that it was a teachable moment for the young victim. See, kid? Bein' selfish and grabby ain't wrong. It's how you get ahead in the world.

No, really. A couple of folks actually said that.

Now, this being the world we live in now, the standard caveat must be stated: Not only is it possible the aforementioned posts on the Great Social Media Whatsis might be deep fakes, but Szczerej's might be, too. Anything's possible here in the mad days of 2025, when even the official pronouncements of the Regime sound like badly-written fiction. And frequently are. 

But given that there's visual confirmation of Szczerej's heinous act, his subsequent post  sounds just like a guy who'd steal a kid's hat. In other words, a giant douche.

Sue away, Piotr.

Sunday, August 31, 2025

Red Sux alert!

 Oops, sorry. I meant "Red Sox."

Whom my wife the Red Sox fan keeps telling me I need to Blob about, on account of they're absolutely kicking butt in the American League East. So, OK, fine, I will.

I will begin by pointing out that Paul Skenes and my Pittsburgh Cruds went into Fenway and beat them 4-2 Friday night, because the Red Sox bullpen ... well, sux.

I will continue by pointing out that my Cruds beat the Sox in Fenway again yesterday, this time thoroughly warming their fannies by the embarrassing score of 10-3. Spencer Horwitz, Nick Gonzalez and my man Andrew McCutcheon all had two hits to lead a 12-hit attack. Oneal Cruz homered. Neener-neener-neener.

This means the Red Sox -- who, remember, are absolutely killing everyone in the AL East -- have dropped two in a row at home to the worst team in the National League Central. And not just by a little. Even after somehow winning eight of their last 10 games, the Cruds are still a full seven games adrift of next-to-last St. Louis.

So there you have it. My Red Sox post.

Neener-neener-neener.

Grating expectations

 So didja see what happened in Columbus, O., yesterday?

Arch Manning FAILED!

Took No. 1 Texas into Ohio Stadium and lost to the defending national champions, 14-7. Did not leap tall buildings in a single bound, or catch a speeding bullet in his teeth. Did not throw for 470 gazillion yards and five touchdowns and run for another 1,000 yards. FAILED!

Or so more than a few addled souls likely thought.

Truth is, Manning and Texas lost in a place where the Ohio State Buckeyes hardly ever lose -- especially when it's the first game of the season, and especially when they're (again) the defending national champions. This was hardly earth-shattering news. Heck,  even Lee Corso, in his last College Gameday, knew what was up, making Brutus Buckeye his final mascot-head donning.

And Manning?

Threw for 170 yards on 17-of-30 passing, with a touchdown and an interception. In his first start as the Longhorns' QB1, although he started a few games last season. Against a scheme new Ohio State defensive coordinator Matt Patricia dialed up to stop him.

So does that mean he, you know, FAILED?

Nah. It just means the people whose job it is to whip hype like meringue really went overboard this time.

Mainly this is because Arch's last name is Manning and his uncles are Peyton and Eli, and his granddad is Archie Manning, pater familias of the clan and a quarterbacking legend at Ole Miss. All of that is why people have been talking about Arch since he was a freshman  -- in high school. And when he turned out to be pretty damned good, fast and athletic and more the second coming of gramps than his uncles, some folks lost all ability to reason.

Said he was not just a talent, but a generational talent. Predicted he'd be the No. 1 pick in the 2026 NFL Draft. Handed him the Heisman before he'd ever taken a snap this season.

Now, he might yet make all of that come true. But it's ridiculous to say these things now about a sophomore who started all of two games last season as Quinn Ewer's backup. In those two games, he completed 41-of-60 passes for 583 yards, four touchdowns and two picks, and ran seven times for 32 yards and another score. 

But his first start was against overmatched Louisiana-Monroe. And his second start was against Mississippi State, which went 2-10 last season and gave up 26.6 points per game.

And so, great expectations at the moment are more grating expectations. Slow the roll.

Ebb Tide

 I wouldn't want to be the guy who starts Kalen DeBoer's car this morning.

I might want to be his realtor, however. 

This after DeBoer took his eighth-ranked Alabama Crimson Tide down to unranked Florida State yesterday on the first big Saturday of the college football season, and got thoroughly Crimson-ed. The Seminoles ran on the Tide like Secretariat, outrushing  'Bama 236-87 and averaging five yards per carry. The final score wasn't close either, the 'Noles paving the Tide by two scores, 31-17.

This would not go over well in, say, East Lansing, Mich. Just imagine how it's going to play in Tuscaloosa, Ala.

Where Football Crazy is not a disease, it's a job description. If southern football fans are bonkers generally, 'Bama fans are off-the-charts bonkers. Saint Bear of Bryant and Saint Nick of Saban are mostly to blame for this, having elevated the Crimson Tide (and the expectations thereof) to impossible heights. If the Tide doesn't win the national title in a given year, their fans demand a congressional investigation. And if, say, Georgia or some other SEC school wins the natty instead?

Well, shoot. That's when you know the cheating in college football has gotten totally out of hand.

So I can't imagine what sort of seventh circle of hell DeBoer's life is going to be like this week, especially after 'Bama lost an inconceivable three games in his first season and missed the College Football Playoff.

For sale signs may sprout in his front yard like they did in "Friday Night Lights" after Coach Gaines lost the big one to Midland Lee. The sportstalk poodles will bash him from pillar to post. Bernie from Blountsville and Myrtle from Magnolia Springs will call in to say this is the most embarrassing thing to happen to the University since the last time the Tide lost to those hilljacks from Auburn.

"Ol' Bear never woulda lost this game!" they'll say. "Saban wouldna either! Why, they'da sawed off a limb before they lost this game!"

The only saving grace for DeBoer is last night happened on August 30. That gives him three months to right the ship and get the Tide back into the top ten or even top five where every 'Bama fan knows they DAMN WELL BELONG. After all, Notre Dame lost to Northern Illinois early last season, and the Fighting Irish wound up in the national championship game.

Notre Dame, for glory's sake. Why, if those gold-hatted cruds could do it, Alabama can surely do it. 

After all, they're the Crimson Tide. And you're not.

The reason for all this

 You forget, sometimes, when you're inside the ropes. You've got your press pass and your parking pass and you lug your gear past all those regular folks waiting in line in their hats and school-color stripe overalls, and you forget.

You forget they're the beating heart of all this, all those alums and frat boys and coeds playing cornhole and drinking beer at 9:30 in the morning. They're the reason you've got your press pass and your parking pass and your seat in the climate-controlled press box, because if they weren't here every week to wonder why Coach Slobberknocker is dialing up a five-yard pass on third-and-nine, you wouldn't be here, either.

All of which is a long-way-around-the-barn way of saying I was invited to join my college roommate and his brother and sister-in-law at Ross-Ade Stadium for Purdue's season opener against Ball State yesterday, and it reminded me why I loved covering college football.  I hadn't been to a game at Ross-Ade as one of the Regular People since Knute Rockne invented the forward pass, and it was enormous fun. 

I got to wear my Ball State hat and bitch and moan like any other alum when my Cardinals went down 31-0 to the Purdues, doinking one field-goal attempt off a goalpost and slicing another wide right from spitting distance. 

"Well, at least we preserved the shutout," I thought.

My college roommate and I, meanwhile, agreed that the Cardinals did not impress in new head Mike Uremovich's debut. They had a quarterback who ran more than he threw (22 rushes; 16 pass attempts), and who bailed with unbecoming haste when he did drop back to throw. They looked like Army only not as good.

Purdue, meanwhile, looked occasionally sharp on offense behind quarterback Ryan Browne, who completed 18-of-26 throws for 311 yards and two scores. Of course, he did this partly because the Ball State secondary played so far off his receivers you'd have thought they were radioactive shrimp from Walmart. 

On the other hand, the Cardinals did crush the Boilermakers in time of possession, 33:40 to 26:20, mainly because the Boilers wasted so little time in scoring when they had the ball. Nonetheless, my roomie and I decided this counted as a victory of sorts.

As did the whole day, frankly. The sun was warm and it was cool in the shade and I discovered that the new fashion trend for college-age women is apparently boots, cowboy and otherwise. I saw a Purdue fan wearing a black-and-gold fool's cap, and wondered what message that was supposed to convey. Purdue Pete rode past our lot on that little Purdue train, and I noted he still has lifeless eyes, as Quint said in "Jaws." I also saw a fair amount of fans decked out in Cardinals red-and-white.

"Chirp-chirp!" we greeted one another.

"Ball State's got to get a better slogan," my roomie observed, correctly.

"Well, you know what David Letterman says," I replied. "The cardinal is the fiercest of the small robin-sized birds."

And we laughed. It was, after all, the thing to do on this day.

Friday, August 29, 2025

Unconquerable demons

 Indianapolis Colts owner Jim Irsay has been gone for three months now, and what you can say about that is what you can now forever say. Which is, he had a heart and a soul and a closetful of demons, all the makings for tragedy in the classic sense.

 Had he not possessed the first two, after all, the unconquerable third would not have seemed so insufferably cruel. And so damnedly inevitable.

Irsay's primary demon was an addiction to painkillers, which he fought bare-knuckled for years and never quite beat. To the very end, apparently.

According to a Washington Post story that broke this week, Irsay, who died in a Beverly Hills hotel room back in May, was back on the painkillers when he died, and managed to successfully hide it. In the last five years of his life, according to multiple sources with direct knowledge, he overdosed three times. And when he died at 65 in that hotel room, he was also on a ketamine scrip written by one of his doctors.

None of this is scandalous, understand, except perhaps for the latter. And the reason it's not scandalous is Irsay himself, and that aforementioned heart and soul.

Those are the things that compelled him to be intermittently open about his struggles with addiction and mental health, in the hope (one assumes) that his own example could somehow help others engaged in the same struggle. At the very least, it let them know  there was no shame in that struggle, and so they shouldn't be afraid to reach out for help.

To that end, Irsay put his money where his mouth was. In 2020, he, his family and his football team launched a mental health initiative called Kick The Stigma, designed to aid Hoosiers battling mental health issues get the treatment they needed. Coincidentally or not, it was about this same time that Irsay's addiction demons came for him yet again.

The great irony in that -- and go ahead, call it hypocrisy if you have to -- is that this time, for whatever reason, the Colts and Irsay's family went to great lengths to hide Irsay's final relapse. At the same time they were urging others to Kick The Stigma, they allowed the stigma to very much kick them.

In any case, once again, and for the last time, Irsay couldn't quite beat the demons. You can decide for yourselves if that goes on the board as a loss.

Me?

Despite everything, I'll reserve the "L" for those who far more deserve it. Despite everything.

Etiquette? Schmetiquette

 Tennis is a weird sport. Come on, it is.

It's almost as weird as golf, but not quite. At least in tennis you can't touch off a major feud by coughing in the middle of a guy's backswing, or taking half-an-hour to line up a putt.

Or maybe you can.

See, the other day at the U.S. Open a Latvian tennis player named Jelena Ostapenko got smoked by an American named Taylor Townsend, who happened to be ranked 139th in the world. This did not please Jelena, who played lousy and then pretty much gave up when it became obvious she was going to lose. So she took it out on Townsend.

At the net, eschewing the traditional post-match handshake, she shook her finger at Townsend and gave her what-for, telling her she was "uncultured" and "uneducated" and, if Jelena ever got her outside of America, things would be very different.

Now, "uncultured" and "uneducated" are not words you want to use when talking to a black person, which Townsend is. That's because white supremacists have been using those words forever to advance their racist philosophy, which maintains blacks are inherently inferior beings and therefore can't be trusted to think or act for themselves.

Townsend, to her credit, didn't go there. That's because Ostapenko wasn't calling her uncultured and uneducated because she was black, necessarily, but because at one point in the match Townsend won a crucial point on a net cord and didn't apologize.

No, really. Apparently this is a thing in tennis.

It seems proper tennis etiquette dictates that when a player wins on a lucky bounce (like a net cord), that player is supposed to either say "Sorry" to his or her opponent, or make some sort of apologetic gesture. No, I don't know why. Like I said, tennis is weird.

Unfortunately for Ostapenko, her post-match lecture simply made her look like a sore loser. Even more unfortunately, Ostapenko has a reputation for being one. And it's not like she was exactly the Emily Post of tennis etiquette herself against Townsend; when she began to lose she pulled a Cool Hand Luke ("Bathroom break, boss?") and left the court for, well, a bathroom break. An extended one.

Later on, she declared a medical issue and stopped the match again.

The gamesmanship didn't work, alas for her. Townsend still steamrolled her in straight sets, 7-5, 6-1. And Ostapenko was as ungracious in defeat as she was during the match.

Call it a double L.

Jerry, Jonesing it up

 Not long ago I asked someone I know is a Dallas Cowboys fan if he was counting the days until Jerry Jones finally departs this earthly realm, and then I felt bad because I left the Cowboys fan with no real answer except, "Yes, I wish the old buzzard would kick the bucket already and free my Cowboys from captivity."

This would make the aforementioned Cowboys fan sound heartless and cruel. Which he's not.

Anyway, I thought about that again yesterday when the news broke that Jerry had once more screwed up. This time the screw-up was a royal one, even for Jerry: He got into a totally unnecessary pissing match with his best player, edge rusher and general disruptor Micah Parsons, who was up for a contract reboot. The situation eroded to the point where Parsons simply stopped coming to practice, with Jerry all the while reassuring us the contract talks were going fine, just fine.

They weren't, of course. And that was mainly on Jerry, who could have ended the drama at any time simply by paying the man. But he didn't, and the situation further eroded, and yesterday the Cowboys traded Parsons to the Green Bay Packers for some colored beads and a box of Cracker Jacks.

OK, so that's not true. They traded him for some guys. OK, so, one guy -- Pro Bowl defensive tackle Kenny Clark -- and a couple of first-round draft picks.

This sounds like a fairly equitable deal until you consider Parsons is a four-time Pro Bowler himself, and maybe the best defensive player in the league. He is, for want of a better cliche, a game-changer. 

Now he's with ancient nemesis Green Bay, and somewhere in the great beyond Lombardi and Nitschke and a bunch of other Packers are laughing at Landry and Dandy Don and a bunch of other Cowboys. Beat you again, schmuck-o's. Neener, neener, neener. 

In the meantime, here is Jerry, still with us and Jones-ing it up again. And here are his Cowboys, now three decades removed from their last Super Bowl appearance. All of those Supe-less years have come with Jerry running the show as his own de facto GM.

Will this latest blunder cause Jerry to finally see the light and hire an actual GM?

Of course it won't. Longhorn steer will land on Mars first.

Sorry, Cowboys fans. And I really mean that.

Thursday, August 28, 2025

Nothing left to say

 Some nutjob armed to the teeth -- rifle, shotgun, handgun, the whole Second Amendment Valu-Pak -- shot into a chapel-full of schoolkids at Mass the other day, and I am all out of words. I have used them all, again and yet again. I have watched them go out into the ether, again and yet again, and seen them blow to tatters like old smoke.

Two kids died and 17 others were wounded this time around, at Annunciation Catholic Church in Minneapolis. Thoughts and prayers went out from the usual suspects, many of whom were too het up about some chain restaurant's logo to actually give a damn. But, boy, they're good at acting like they do.

It was left to Minneapolis' mayor, Jacob Frey, to put that to rights.

"Don't say this is about thoughts and prayers right now, these kids were literally praying," he said.

Me?

I have nothing new to add to that, as noted. Said it all before, as also noted. Words in the ether; shreds of exhausted smoke.

So I'll just offer again some of the old words, from two years ago: 

In the country where we live now, a college campus (North Carolina) gets locked down twice in two weeks because some meathead decided to show up on campus packing heat.

In the country where we live now, news organizations in American cities have a new feature: Shooting Of The Day.

In the country where we live now, in one of the cities referenced above, players and spectators at a high school football game flee the field when they hear what they think is gunfire -- only to have police discover it was merely homecoming fireworks ...

Fireworks used to just sound like fireworks. Now they sound like gunfire, because gunfire has become the musical score of  too many daily lives in America. It's a musical score as familiar to us now as the theme from "Star Wars", and what it too often precedes is blood and maiming and heartache and funerals, so many damn funerals.

In the country where we live now, some people think this is just America being America ...

And so it is, sadly.

And so the words I wrote two years ago, and now again today, will change nothing, just as they changed nothing two years ago. Only the human conscience can do that -- and right now the human conscience, at least where it could make a difference, is subservient to the financial interests that fuel our ongoing carnage.

Some people think this is just America being America ...

And God bless it. Or save it, as the case may be.

Pre-gamin'

 Somewhere the U.S. Open tennis tournament is going on, and somewhere else they're gearing up for the last IndyCar race of a season whose narrative is already concluded (Congrats, King Alex of Palou!). And somewhere else, baseball games are happening, and WNBA games/professional wrestling matches, and in Columbus, Ohio, Texas is about to play Ohio State in a Great Big Huge College Football Game.

But you know what has folks really excited?

Preseason NFL games.

What, you think I'm lying?

Well, I'm not. Thanks to Drew Lerner of Awful Announcing, I have the official NFL Media stats, and what they say is more TV eyeballs were on NFL preseason games than any year since 2018. An average of 2.2 million viewers tuned in to preseason tilts on the NFL Network and assorted broadcast partners. That's a 17 percent jump over last year's viewership.

What that tells me is Roger Goodell's magic kingdom is still the Colossus that bestrides Sportsball World. 

What it also tells me is some people have no lives, but that's not exactly revealed wisdom. If people had lives, there would be no fantasy football.

But of course there is, and it's a cottage industry for ESPN and others, so there you go. Every fall Jack Spratt from North Platte is convinced his team, "Is That A Pledge Pin On Your Uniform?", is going to finally win the league because only he was astute enough to foresee a breakout season for Drew Lock. 

And so Jack, and 2.1 million others, tuned in the preseason games to see if that fourth-round pick from Western Eastern Tech was good enough to make the 53-man roster. Or if Caleb Williams' great half against next Monday's Ravens cuts means the Bears will finally have an elite QB for the first time since Sid Luckman was tromping around out there.

"Wow," you're saying now. "Is that sad or what, Mr. Blob?"

Of course it's sad. Two point one million people watching a bunch of guys they've never heard of and probably never will means they'd probably watch a test pattern for three hours if it featured the NFL logo. It's also a trifle awe-inspiring, because if the NFL can sell something as worthless as preseason games, what can't it sell?

"Huge-ass linemen running timed 40s for no particular reason?" you're saying.

Already happening. It's called the combine, and people actually watch that, too.

"Training camp calisthenics?" you're saying.

Again, already happening. Some teams even charge admission to training camp sessions. And people actually pay.

"Gee, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "There really isn't anything the NFL can't sell."

True. But look on the bright side.

The league hasn't figured out how to market a player game-day wardrobe show yet. Although that's probably coming.

"Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome to this edition of  'Ruffle-ing The Passer,' with your host, Cam Newton. Today we're in Philadelphia for Eagles-Cowboys, and the anticipation is already building for an epic style matchup between Jalen Hurts and Dak Prescott. Will Pres break out the diamond-encrusted Stetson again? Will Jalen counter with his now-famous Salute To Cheesesteak tux? Stay tuned ..."

And 2.1 million viewers will.

Wednesday, August 27, 2025

Biggest thing ever!

 So didja hear the news? Didja? Didja? DIDJA??

The Cincinnati Bengals finally signed Trey Hendrickson.

"Come on, Mr. Blob!" you're saying now.

OK, so Cal Raleigh hit his 50th home run the other day.

"Oh, puh-eeze!" you're saying.

Micah Parsons is still unsigned, in much the way Generalissimo Francisco Franco is still dead?

Coco Gauff is still alive in the U.S. Open?

Orioles' pitcher Kyle Bradish struck out 10 but still lost 5-0 to the surging Red Sox, whom my wife the Red Sox fan insists I should be writing about, like, every day?

"MR. BLOB!" you're saying, no, shouting.

Oh, OK. So, Travis Kelce proposed to Taylor Swift, and, instead of writing a mean song about him, she accepted. Sportsball World's No. 1 power couple is now officially engaged.

Trav even got down on one knee (what a guy!). After which, of course, a friendly ref jumped out of the bushes and declared, no, his knee was not down, so he could get up and run for another10 or 12 or eleventy-umpteen yards. 

(Stole that meme, sort of, from the satirical site Babylon Bee. Tip of the hat and all that.)

Anyway, they're engaged now, and it is the BIGGEST THING EVER. Everyone is thrilled -- except for the grumps who hate Kelce because he's a Kansas City Chief and the Chiefs get all the damn calls, and except for the MAGA grumps who hate Swift because she's a woman with so much money they can't sue her or deport her or even make her notice them. 

Why, not even the Great And Terrible Oz in the White House can steal her thunder. Which must piss him off something fierce.

Anyway, they seem like two grounded, decent human beings who just happen to be stupid successful and stupid rich, so hooray for them. I'm sure all the Swifties and Travies (if there is such a thing) will be flooding them with congratulatory messages, and possibly wedding gifts. In fact, one of my friends on the Mighty Social Media Thingy has already called dibs on a salad shooter or spinner or whatever it's called.

This leaves the field open for the rest of us. Being a public-service Blob, I have a few ideas ...

1. Candlesticks always make a nice gift.

Hey, Robert Wuhl said so in "Bull Durham," so it's gotta be true, right?

2. His-and-her gold lame pantsuits (complete with gold sneakers and gold top hats). Also expensive-looking-but-cheesy gold sconces, picture frames, tchotchkes and --

Oh, wait. That's my Great And Terrible Oz gift list.

3. A personal NFL ref, suitable for light housework and the occasional timely pass interference call.

Ah, but ... Trav and the Chiefs already have that.

4.  Keychains.

Because who doesn't love a good keychain?

And last but hardly least ...

5. A Christmas tree from the Christmas Tree Emporium Of The Whole Midwest.

Ain't no needles coming off this tree.

Or so the salesman said in "A Christmas Story."