Alma matters

 Two seconds on the clock and Eugene Parker at the stripe.

Let's begin there this morning, shall we?

Let's begin 53 years ago -- 53 years! Ye gods! -- on a March evening in Allen County War Memorial Coliseum, New Haven High School leading Concordia Lutheran High School by a skinny point. The wondrous Mr. Parker is getting ready to shoot a one-and-one for the Cadets. We're all wearing those goofy paper bowlers over in the New Haven section, because that's what you did during sectional week, and we're hissing "Miss it! Miss it!" at the wondrous Mr. Parker.

Well, OK. So not me.

Me, I'm shaking my head and saying (mostly to myself), "He's not gonna miss these."

And of course he didn't, being Eugene Parker and all.

And of course New Haven lost again, by a skinny point, 'cause it was sectional week, and losing's just what we did during sectional week.

Lost with my great senior class, Joe Vidra and Rick Rutledge and Tom Muth and them. Lost the year before -- again by a point -- in the sectional championship game, with all of the above plus 6-foot-5 Ken Ehinger, who kept getting fouled by Andy Replogle of Snider and THE OFFICIALS REFUSED TO CALL IT (Not that I'm bitter or anything). Lost with little Dave McHenry, and big Mike Sickafoose, and a whole pile of others across the years.

Wait, did I say years?

Decades. I meant decades.

Because, see, my alma mater never so much as won a sectional for the first seven decades of its existence. And it never won a regional. 

Wait, did I say "never won a regional"?

Had never won a regional. I meant "had never won a regional."

Because, see, I woke up last Sunday, and saw that my alma mater, the proud purple-and-gold, won a regional for the first time in New Haven's 103-year history. And then I woke up this morning, and saw that a kid named Tarvar Baskerville -- Tarvar Baskerville! Is that a great name, or what? -- made a driving layup with 2.9 seconds showing last night, and New Haven went on to win the Logansport 3A semistate, 59-55 over conference rival Columbia City.

Which means, of course, that New Haven is going to the state finals next week.

Give me a minute. I need to process what I just said.

New Haven ... is going ... to the state finals.

Whoa.

They're going with Baskerville, and also Daylen Jackson and DaMarcus Wright and Jadrian Ezell, and also Lavell Ledbetter. None of them are taller than 6-5, which figures. Six-five was about New Haven's limit, at least in our day.

Along with head coach Brandon Appleton, these Bulldogs will head down to Gainbridge Fieldhouse in Indy next weekend, and of course they'll be decided underdogs. Waiting will be third-ranked Indianapolis Cathedral, which knocked off No. 1 Silver Creek last night to win the southern semistate. 

Not that any of that matters, at this particular moment.

What matters is New Haven High School, the old alma mater, is going to the state finals. 

And so hand me a paper bowler. Dress me in gold and purple. Make me sing our school song, which IU stole from us, and round up Vic the Bulldog, and repeat the magic words, slowly:

New Haven ... is going ... to. the state finals.

Whoa.

Down goes David

 Begrudgingly, today, we begin with a basketball score: Tennessee 78, Miami (O.) 56.

And, yeah, yeah, yeah, yada-yada-yada, I can hear the slide-rule boys now. The RPI jockeys ... the Quad Squad ... the SOS (Strength of Schedule) Brigade ... they're all sneering, "See?"

Great. Here's a cookie. Now go away.

Don't want to hear anymore about the RedHawks getting washed by 22 in the NCAA Tournament yesterday, and not looking good doing it. A team that lived by the three died by the three, missing 22 of their 29 attempts from beyond the arc as Tennessee slammed the door on that locale. A MAC school with a MAC school inside game was Windexed by 17 rebounds, 42-25.

 A 6-seed SEC school that was bigger, faster and more athletic won laughing against an 11-seed. So what else is new?

The aforementioned sneer-ers who take that as vindication for their absurd contention that a 31-1 Mid-American Conference school did not belong in the Big Show can go fly a kite. Because Tennessee did what Tennessee was supposed to do. And if it proved Miami didn't belong what about, oh, say, Prairie View A&M?

Who lost to defending national champion Florida yesterday, 114-55.

Lost by four more points than it scored, in other words. Trailed 60-21 at halftime. Shot 27 percent (17-of-63), including 6-of-22 from beyond the arc.

In other words: Miami wasn't the only David who got ball-peened by Goliath yesterday.

It was not, shall we say, a day for busting brackets, which was a shame but also an excuse to check out every so often from wall-to-wall hoops. Tennessee and Florida rolled. 1-seed Arizona paved Long Island by 34 (92-58). Two seeds Purdue and Iowa State cremated Queens University and Tennessee State by 33 (104-71) and 34 (108-74), respectively.

(The Boilermakers, by the way, brushed aside the Royals with regal disdain, shooting 63 percent including 58 percent from the arc. Braden Smith scored 26 with eight assists and Trey Kaufman-Renn 25 to lead the Boilers; Smith and backcourt mate Fletcher Loyer combined for 38 points and were 8-of-14 from Threeville. The highlight of the night was Smith becoming the NCAA's all-time leader in assists, knocking that annoying little dweeb Bobby Hurley off the top of the ladder.)

What else?

Well, it was such a chalky sort of day we didn't even get a 12-over-5 scare.

Five-seed Texas Tech breezed past Akron, 91-71, and five-seed St. John's erased Northern Iowa, 79-53. Even the 7-vs.-10s went according to form, although 7-seed Kentucky needed Otega Oweh's buzzer-beating Hail Mary bank to force overtime and knock out Santa Clara, which had just taken the lead on Allen Graves's three with two-odd seconds to play.

That was your excitement for the day.

And the next two days?

Hey. That's why we watch, right?

Welcome to the Madness

 This is what you call in sick for, what you eat wings and drink beer at straight-up noon for, what you fill out a bracket for and then say, "Aw, hell, I knew the Tar Heels were a buncha mids this year. Why'd I pick 'em?"

Welcome to the Madness, boys and girls. Welcome to -- maybe, possibly -- the two best days of the year.

That would be the Thursday and Friday that kick off the NCAA Tournament, also known as the Burn Your Bracket Zone. This is because sometime on one of those days, and frequently on both, some trust-fund baby seed goes down to some wannabe from the sticks.

Usually, it's a 12-seed taking out a 5-seed. Because 12-over-5 has become one of those immutable March Madness laws of nature, like the Big Ten, SEC and ACC always getting eleventy-hundred teams in the show, even if occasionally some of them are Northwestern or Mississippi State.

At any rate, 12-over-5 is a tournament talisman, and, hey, guess what? We didn't go two hours until it happened yesterday.

Come on down, you High Point (N.C.) Panthers!

Who sent big-deal Wisconsin to the sidelines in the first slate of games, 83-82, a more-than-usual shocker mainly because Wisconsin came to March on something of a roll. Won five of their last six games, the Badgers did, finally losing to top-seeded (and NCAA Tournament 1-seed) Michigan by a measly three points.

But High Point, the proud champions of the Big South Conference, sent Wisky back to Madison on a late layup. Boom!

No other 12-over-5s happened on Thursday, but a couple of 11s-over-6s did, and that's almost as good. Texas took down BYU, and -- perhaps more notably -- plucky Virginia Commonwealth upset the aforementioned North Carolina Tar Heels. Came from 19 points down to win in overtime, 82-78, and hooray for the, um, Commonwealthers.

(No, that's not VCU's nickname. Its nickname is the Rams. Clip and save for your next round of sports bar trivia.)

Other than that ...

Wait, what?

Oh, man, I almost forgot!

How 'bout those mighty 16th-seeded Siena Saints, everyone?

Who, OK, wound up losing to overall top seed Duke, but only by six, 71-65. Before that, the fightin' Saints scared the pedigree out of the Blue Devils, leading by 11 at halftime and by 13 early in the second half. They continued to lead until just 4:25 remained, when Isaiah Evans drove hard to the iron and laid it in to finally put Duke in front.

Ah, well. On to today.

See ya at noon. Wings and beer on me.

Play-in payback

 Because I am a retired newspaper guy who is occasionally hijacked by his inner 8-year-old, I came up with the perfect headline for Miami (O.)'s ten-point win over SMU in Dayton last night.

"Nyah, Nyah, Nyah-Nyah Nyah" is what I would have stripped across the top of the game story. Editorial balance be hanged.

I would have done this because Miami caught a raft of grief from various shady network analysts (Come on down, Bruce Pearl!) and slide-rule dudes, who determined the 31-1 RedHawks were a fraud who had no business in the NCAA Tournament. The RedHawks' strength of schedule -- as determined either by Quad 1 wins or quad pulls, I can't remember which -- was down there with Popeye the Sailor Man, pre-spinach. Beat a lot of Dog's Breakfast States and Bricklayer A&Ms to pile up those 31 wins.

Me?

I thought that was a pile of its own, and not a fragrant one. I figured any MAC school that went 31-1 damn well deserved a role in the Big Show, on account of MAC schools have a long history of jumping up and whipping their betters in said Show.

The selection committee apparently agreed, although with some reluctance. Yeah, the bracketeers let Miami in, but only in the play-in games. To get in the actual tournament, the RedHawks would have to beat the Mustangs, who play in the hoity-toity ACC and thus were installed as 6.5-point favorites.

Well, nyah, nyah nyah-nyah -nyah. Miami won 89-79 and was rarely challenged, never trailing after going on a 14-2 run in the middle part of the second half. SMU led 49-48 at the beginning of that run; it was the only lead the Mustangs had in the second half.

The RedHawks rode 16 threes to the W, their most ever in an NCAA Tournament game. Their 89 points were the most a Miami team had scored in the Madness in 68 years. 

"The reason people love March Madness is they love to see quote, unquote, upsets," Miami coach Travis Steele said when it was done. "This wasn't an upset tonight, at all."

Indeed not. And speaking of non-upsets ...

Let's hear it out there for the Howard University Bison, who were not upset at all about winning THEIR play-in game Tuesday to advance to the first round of Da Tournament for the first time in school history.

I bring this up because occasionally my inner Civil War nerd wrestles the steering wheel away from my inner 8-year-old, and therefore I say, go, Howard. This is because Howard, a historically black research school, was founded in 1867 by Oliver Otis Howard, a Union general in the Civil War who lost an arm at Fair Oaks but went on to become one of his side's more competent combat generals. 

This is despite the fact he's been unfairly maligned for being asleep at the switch at Chancellorsville, when his Eleventh Corps crumbled before an overwhelming surprise flank attack by Stonewall Jackson. That no one else saw Jackson coming either seems not to have altered the Union Army's perception that the Eleventh Corps -- and thus Howard -- let them down.

Well, phooey on that. 16-seed Howard takes on 1-seed Michigan tonight in the first round of the Madness. I don't see any Joe Hooker or Ulysses S. Grant U.'s doing that, do you?

So there.

'Dog show

 Baseball is our game, Walt Whitman once wrote, but he never saw what happened in Miami last night. He never heard a bunch of scrappy underdogs -- because aren't underdogs always "scrappy"? -- singing, shouting, howling "Gloria Al Bravo Pueblo" into the south Florida night as if it were, I don't know, "The Star-Spangled Banner" or something.

"Gloria Al Bravo Pueblo", you see, is the Venezuelan national anthem. And that's what a bunch of weeping, hugging Venezuelan baseball players were singing at the end of Venezuela 3, USA 2.

Turned the championship game of the World Baseball Classic into a 'dog show, the Venezuelans did. As in, "underdog show."

The Americans were supposed to win last night, transforming what is frankly America's Passed Time into America's Pastime again. But, just as in 2023, they lost 3-2 in the title game. Three years ago to Japan; last night to the Venezuelans.

Which suggests America the Great Exporter has done a bang-up job of exporting one of its most cherished cultural treasures.

And the hugging and crying  and belting out of their national anthem by the Venezuelans?

Well, that suggested something else.

"This country needs this happiness with all the things that we've gone through," said designated hitter Eugenio Suarez, who delivered the go-ahead RBI double in the ninth inning.

And, yes, everyone knew what he meant, or at least every Venezuelan did. Assigning political motives to an athletic contest is often the most lazy of cliches, but it's impossible to view Venezuela-USA solely through the lens of runs, hits and runners left on base. Not after the United States spent months violating Venezuela's sovereignty, killing its citizens and waylaying its shipping. 

Culminating, of course, with the raid that kidnapped Venezuela's admittedly vile gangster  Nicolas Maduro, and whisked him off to the U.S. -- for the crime, essentially, of denying America access to  Venezuela's oil.

Now a new regime is installed that may or may not play ball with America's own Regime,  and may or may not survive without resorting to Maduro-esque brutality. In any event, it's welcome to more instability for another South American country.

So, yes. Venezuela needed this happiness, as Suarez said. And if winning a baseball game is pale business compared to getting kicked around geopolitically by a perceived bully, it was at least, for one night, a sliver of payback.

Gloria Al Bravo Pueblo 1, The Star-Spangled Banner 0. For one night, anyway.

Meanwhile, in soccer ...

 The World Cup is coming to America this summer, and, as with so much in these fraught and lunatic days, I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Inviting the world to come to a nation that fears and despises most of the world will do this to a guy.

In our post-funny farm reality, after all, "America First," is little more than shorthand for "America Says (Bleep) All Y'all." This is especially true right now of Iran, which the U.S. and Israel are currently bombing back to the Stone Age for fun and profit.

Here's the thing, though: Iran's soccer team has duly qualified for the World Cup. It's on the World Cup schedule. Its first two games are against New Zealand and Belgium in Los Angeles.

However.

However, now that we've attacked Iran, and Iran has retaliated, Iran's participation in the World Cup has become problematical. An Iran sports official has already said the team shouldn't compete at all.  And our very own Fearless Leader, Donald John "Do What We Say Or We'll Kill You" Trump, has said it would be a good idea if Iran's team stayed home because the U.S. can't guarantee its safety.

Not, "We'll do everything in our power to ensure the Iranian team has a safe, enjoyable tournament." No, sir. Instead, it's,"We can't guarantee the Iranian team's safety."

Which suggests pretty strongly the U.S. wouldn't put a lot of effort into trying to.

Now, that might be a tad unfair. And it's probably too much to say it's tantamount to inviting every flag-draped wack job in America to consider the Iranian soccer team a target of opportunity. More likely, Fearless Leader, as is his habit, simply didn't consider all the consequences of his words.

On the other hand ...

On the other hand, he's so far around the bend now he's forgotten there ever was a bend. So who knows?

In any event, the Iranians' latest solution, rather than staying home altogether, is to get FIFA to move the Iranians' group games to Mexico, whose government seems to at least have retained a modicum of sanity. This would be unprecedented barely three months before the start of play, and indeed FIFA seems to disinclined to do so.

The safe bet right now: FIFA won't move the games, and the Iranians won't come. As someone who spent the balance of his working life observing the healing power of athletic competition (at least sometimes), I find this dismaying -- if hardly surprising in this case.

Healing, after all, doesn't seem to be on anyone's agenda these days. Only smashing things up.

Bracketology ... ology

 So Selection Sunday is over, and now we know what's what in the coming Madness. Which means, sharpen up those pencils so you can pick Siena to knock out overall 1-seed Duke in the very first round.

(I'm kidding, of course. Duke won't lose until the Sweet Sixteen, when the Blue Devils lose to upset-minded Northern Iowa.)

Anyway, the bracket is bracketed, or something, and I must say there are travesties, as usual. Poor Auburn, a glittering hidden gem of a .500 team, didn't get in, which left Bruce Pearl all grumpy. And while the selection committee begrudgingly let 31-1 Miami (O.) into the show, it's making the RedHawks have to win a play-in game against SMU to really get in. 

(Which, all kidding aside, really is a travesty. Not when the sixth-place team in Conference USA gets in free and clear, and also the third-place team in the CAA and the fifth-place team from the SoCon.)

(Those would be Kennesaw State, Hofstra and Furman, respectively. Kennesaw lost 13 games, Hofstra 10 and Furman 12. Hofstra and Furman have cool nicknames, though -- the Pride and the Paladins, respectively -- so I can't hate on 'em too much. Plus one of my favorite authors, the late Pat Conroy, a point guard at The Citadel, played against Furman back in the day.)

"What's with all the parentheses, Mr. Blob?" you're saying now.

Beats me. I just start writing and stuff happens.

"Also, are you EVER gonna mention Purdue, for God's sake?" you're also saying.

Yes, I suppose we should get around to that.

That's because the Purdues rose from the dead last week to win the Big Ten tournament, kicking No. 1 seed Michigan's high-falutin' behinds from stem to stern in the title game. The Boilers won 80-72, never looking back -- well, almost never -- after breaking a halftime tie and leading by as many as 14 points in the second half. 

Oscar Cluff (21 points) and Trey Kaufman-Renn (20), suddenly absolute beasts down low, put a hurtin' on Michigan's gargantuan front line. Braden Smith put up a stat line for the ages -- 14 points, five rebounds, 11 assists, three steals a block and zero, zippo, nada turnovers -- and running mate Fletcher Loyer added 14 points, four boards and five dimes of his own.

And before you ask ...

No, I don't know what's gotten into the Purdues, but it's powerful stuff. They blew through four opponents in four days, none of them one-possession final scores. If I had to guess, I'd say head coach Matt Painter said one of two things to them prior to heading for Chicago:

1. "OK, guys. It's time to quit screwing around."

2. "OK, guys. We've kidnapped all your parents and are making them eat dorm food. NOW will you quit screwing around?"

In any case, Purdue enters the Madness playing impeccable basketball, and it was rewarded with the 2-seed in the West Regional. The Purdues play the Blob's favorite no-hoper Queens University in the first round, then would likely have to wade through either Miami (Fla.) or Missouri, Gonzaga and Arizona to get the Final Four. 

Some people think that means the selection committee did the Boilers dirty again. The Blob figures Purdue was possibly looking at a 4-seed going into the Big Ten tournament, so the Boilers should take their 2-seed and be thankful for it. Plus, it stands to reason to get to the Final Four you're going to have to beat a heavyweight or two at some point, so what else is new?

"How about that favorite no-hoper thing?" you're saying now.

Well, yes, I still love my Royals, especially Rex the Royal, their fuzzy lion-thing mascot with the battered crown. But I can't take them over Purdue, so I've recruited an emergency backup no-hoper.

Come on down, you Siena Saints!

Who, OK, probably should have been in a play-in game instead of Miami, too, on account of they've lost 11 games and finished third in the MAAC, whatever that is. But their two best players are a Gavin and a Justice, and how do you not love that?

Gavin is Gavin Doty, a 6-5 guard from Fulton, N.Y., who leads the Saints in scoring (17.9 ppg) and rebounding (7.0 rpg). Justice is Justice Shoats, who's 5-11, hails from Wilkes-Barre, Pa., and averages 13.2 points and 4.4 assists.

The Saints are probably going to get laminated by Duke, but, then again, maybe not. I mean, it's a Saint against a Devil. And who do you like in that matchup?

So, go, you Saints. Your hometown of Loudonville, N.Y., is behind you, and all the Franciscans who run the place, and every one of your 3,500 or so undergrads. 

Also, go, Furman, you Paladins, you. And, go, California Baptist. And, go, Hofstra and Kennesaw State and High Point and Lehigh and all the other littles who every year make the Madness the Madness.

And, yes, go, Purdue.  Play hard, Boilermakers, as Gene Keady always admonished. Your  parents can only take so much Tuna Surprise from the dining service.

Boiler bounce

Well, this is not what we expected. Seems they are full of surprises, these Purdue Boilermakers.

When last seen they were dragging a two-ton anchor into the Big Ten tournament, having lost four of their previous six games -- including four straight in Mackey Arena, where opponents usually come to have their innards rearranged. The bracket bros somehow still had them a 3-seed in the Big Show, but hardly anyone not wearing black-and-gold -- and several who were -- believed it.

And then ...

Wait, what's this?

Purdue 81, Northwestern 68 in its Big Ten tournament opener game in Chicago.

Purdue 74, Nebraska 58 in the quarterfinals.

Purdue 73, UCLA 66 in the semis.

So it's Purdue vs. top-seed Michigan in the championship this afternoon, and what in the name of Braden Smith is going on here?

Well ... Braden Smith, for one thing.

Purdue's indefatigable point guard hasn't scored a whole lot -- he was just 1-of-7 against a crippled UCLA team yesterday -- but he's done some stellar point-guarding dishing 16 assists against Northwestern, 12 against Nebraska and nine more against the Bruins. That's 37 in three games if you're keeping score at home, a Big Ten tournament record.

And among those who've been prime beneficiaries of Smith's largesse?

Trey Kaufman-Renn and Oscar Cluff, who answer to the name "Purdue's inside game."

Awakened from their intermittent slumber by either the Windex gods or a few withering stares from Purdue coach Matt Painter, they've been the most obvious reason for Purdue's own re-awakening. In three tournament games, thanks primarily to TKR and Oscar, the Boilermakers have out-rebounded their opponents by 12, eight and 11 boards, respectively. That's plus-31 on the glass by the Blob's reckoning.

What else?

How about defense?

Well, again, in three tournament games, they've held their opponents to 68, 58 and 66 points, respectively. They've held Northwestern, Nebraska and UCLA to 47-of-113 shooting, or 42 percent. This is a marked improvement over their four losses prior to this week, when opponents torched the Purdues for 86 points per game on 53 percent shooting.

So there you have it. The Boilers have their bounce back -- or at least what Purdue Pete 'n' them assumed at the top of the season their bounce would look like. 

Today?

Well, today, they run into Dusty May's Michigan juggernaut, so the Boiler Bounce more than likely gets bounced.

But, hey. At least there is a Bounce again, right?

Today in names

 I don't know who's going to do what in the conference tournament semifinals and finals this weekend, which means I for sure don't know who's going to A) make the Big Show; and, B) win the Big Show.

What I do know is San Diego State has 'em all beat in one of the Blob's favorite parlor games, Awesome Names I Have Known.

The Aztecs squeezed past New Mexico 64-62 in the Mountain West semifinals yesterday, and now they'll face top seed Utah State in the finals. Utah State is 27-6 and finished 15-5 in the conference, so the Aztecs are probably going to wind up watching the Aggies hoist the championship trophy.

However.

However, you know who saved the 'Tecs yesterday, with 17 points and six rebounds off the bench in 28 minutes?

Kid named Magoon Gwath.

Magoon Gwath!

If there's a better name in all of college basketball this year than that, I've not yet come across it. Plus, he can play a bit. 

He's a 7-foot sophomore out of Euless, Texas, who averages 8.8 points and 4.2 rebounds, and he shoots just shy of 53 percent. Friday was his ninth double-figure scoring effort this season, and he's logged 20 or minutes in a dozen games. So he's well in the Aztec mix.

But, wait, tell 'em what else they've won, Johnny Olsen!

In addition to Magoon Gwath, see, San Diego State also has a player named Pharaoh on their roster.

His full handle is Pharaoh Compton, and he's a 6-7 sophomore from Chicago. Pharaoh doesn't get near the playing time Magoon does; yesterday, he logged just seven minutes and collected a couple of rebounds. 

So to sum up: A Magoon, a Pharaoh and a berth in the conference finals. How do you not root for that?

Yay or nay?

 Your previously unbeaten Miami (O.) Red Hawks got knocked out of the Mid-American Conference Tournament the other day, and so now we wait to see if they get into the Big Tournament at 31-1.

The Blob says yay, on account of even the selection committee wouldn't be that gutless or lint-brained.

Other folks (though not many, truthfully) say nay, citing Quad 1 wins or the hypotenuse of a right triangle or other such esoterica.

The Blob maintains, as it has all along, that if you go 31-1 as a member of the MAC,  snubbing you because of some mathematical hoo-ha would suggest your tournament should not be taken seriously. The MAC, after all, has historically acquitted itself fairly well in the Madness. A 31-1 team from that conference therefore is not likely to embarrass either the Madness, nor the committee that sets its field.

Of course, this would have been a moot point had UMass not jumped up and beaten the Red Hawks the other day. This means, if the committee does the right thing, that the MAC will get two teams into Da Tournament for only the sixth time since the field jumped to 64 teams 41 years ago. The last time it happened was 27 years ago, when Kent State won the MAC tournament after -- you guessed it -- Miami won the regular-season title.

And so deja vu all over again, as Miami again awaits an at-large bid after blowing through the MAC regular season without a nick. 

In the Blob's world this means Miami should have already secured the MAC's automatic bid, because I cling to the antiquated (and thus unpopular) opinion that the team that wins the regular season ought to get the nod over, say, a "meh" team that gets hot for four days. The former proved itself the conference's best over the long haul; the latter simply happened upon a bag of magic beans.

And, yes, I know, this would reduce the conference tournament to mere sideshow. But on this one I stand with John Wooden, who once told me conference tournaments were nothing but an additional revenue stream for said conferences.

So, let them be that. And if the regular-season champ doesn't win it, whoever does will at least get a nice trophy out of the deal, and maybe a banner to hang in the home gym.

And what's wrong with that?

'Cat food

 Your Indiana Hoosiers checked out of the basketball season last night -- I suppose we should say probably checked out, or more than likely checked out -- and suddenly the taunt comes back to me, ancient now, an artifact moldering away in the history books like those five NCAA championship banners hanging at one end of Assembly Hall.

The taunt went like this, back in the days when Bob Knight and his mighty Hoosier legions used to come to Welsh-Ryan Arena and tattoo the Northwestern Wildcats eleventy-hundred to twelve or whatever:

That's all right ... that's OK ... you'll all work for us someday!

That was the go-to for those snobby smart punks in the Northwestern student section when the game was hopelessly lost. The implication, of course, being that someday Northwestern grads would be running the country, and IU grads would be asking them, "Would you like to make that a Valu Meal?"

Fast-forward to Wednesday night in the United Center up in Chicago, where it was the Wildcats once again doing the tattooing. 

The final this time was Northwestern 74, Indiana 61 in the first round of the Big Ten tournament, Darian DeVries' crew going down without much of a fight. Leading by a point at the break, the Hoosiers were outscored 38-24 in the second half, getting nothing from pretty much everyone except Lamar Wilkerson, who scored 17, and Tatyon Conerway off the bench, who added 14.

Except for Wilkerson, no Indiana starter scored more than six points. And the Hoosiers' two big men, Sam Alexis and Reed Bailey, managed all of two rebounds in a combined 50 minutes of playing time.

Two rebounds. In 50 minutes.

Northwestern's Nick Martinelli, meanwhile, flame-broiled Indiana again, going for 28 points on 10-of-18 shooting. This was just a couple of weeks after he dropped 28 on the Hoo-Hoo-Hoo-Hoosiers in Assembly Hall, as IU blew a big lead and lost 72-68.

It was one more "L" in a season-ending spiral that saw DeVries' guys lose six of their last seven games and likely fall out of the NCAA Tournament picture, although somehow the bracket bros still have them on the bubble. The loss also was a significant one, because it was Indiana's sixth straight to Northwestern going back to 2021.

Wednesday's loss made it seven straight. 'Cat food, apparently, is what the Hoosiers of the 2020s are right now.

And now the ancient taunt resurfaces, if slightly altered. It goes like this now:

That's all right ... that's OK ... at least your football team can play!

Who'd a thunk it?

That long, tall shadow

 Wilt Chamberlain was in the news twice this week, which is pretty remarkable considering the man died 27 years ago. But that's how it goes when you cast the sort of shadow across your domain Dipper does so many years after he stood bestride it.

It's a shadow longer even than his seven feet plus one inch, and the domain is still compelled to acknowledge it 53 years after Wilt Chamberlain put down the basketball.  That it continues to do so reminds us continually that no practitioner of James Naismith's humble little game has ever so dominated its fundamentals.

For instance: Did you see what Bam Adebayo of the Miami Heat did last night?

Scored 83 points in a blowout win over the Washington Wizards, Bam did. Got up 43 shots and made 20, including seven threes. Shot a mind-warping 43 free throws and made 36 of them. Got things started with a 31-point first quarter. A 31-point quarter.

The 83 points was Adebayo's season high by 43 points, and it was the most points scored by a single player in an NBA game since the late Kobe Bryant went for 81 two decades ago. And it came just a couple of nights after Shai Gilgeous-Alexander of the Oklahoma City Thunder tied an NBA record with his 126th straight 20-point game.

Know whose record he tied?

"Would it be Wilt Chamberlain's?" you're saying now.

Good guess.

Know why Bam Adebayo's 83 points is still only the second-most points scored by a single player in a game in NBA history?

"Would it be because one night in Hershey, Pa., Wilt Chamberlain scored 100?" you're saying.

You got it.

Astounding as Bam's big night was, see, he still came up 17 points short of Wilt's big night. Seventeen points. And until SGA came along, Wilt's 126 straight 20-point games was the league record by ... wait for it ... 34 games. Know who was second, with 92 straight?

"Would it be Wilt?" you're saying.

Dang. You're getting good at this.

Yes, it was Wilt. He followed his 126-point with another 92-point streak, and he did it across just three seasons. The only other player in the top three on this list, besides Wilt and SGA, is Oscar Robertson -- and he's a distant fourth with 79 straight 20-point games. 

If you're keeping score at home, that's 47 games behind Wilt and SGA -- more than half an NBA season. 

And the record for most relevant mentions in one week of a guy who's been dead for 27 years?

I'm guessing it's two, and Wilt holds that one as well. Just as he does 71 other NBA records.

He's the only player in NBA history ever to average 30 points and 20 rebounds in a season, and Wilt did it seven times. He once averaged 50 points a game for an entire season, and once grabbed 55 rebounds in a game. And he remains the only center in NBA history to lead the league in ... wait for it again ... total assists.

That long, tall shadow. It does linger, right, SGA?

"Honestly, it feels almost like a mythical creature," he said the other night, when asked about Chamberlain's legacy. "It's not real."

Indeed.

Ch-ch-changes ...

 ... to quote David Bowie.

Yes, David could tell you (although, on second thought, probably not, and only partly because he died ten years ago) what keeping track of the NFL's offseason is like, especially with the free-agency barn door opening up this week. Guys are changing teams faster than Leo DiCaprio changed identities in "Catch Me If You Can." It's almost impossible to wrap your head arou--

You there in the back, wearing the throwback Jim Kiick jersey.

"Tua's still a Dolphin, right?" 

No! Tua's an Atlanta Falcon now! Presto-chango!

"So who's our quarterback?"

Your quarterback is ... drumroll ... Malik Willis!

"Malik Willis? I thought he was in Green Bay."

Au contraire, mon frere. He's a Fish now. Double presto-chango!

Malik's a Fish, and Tua's a Dirty Bird, and Mike Evans, last seen as Baker Mayfield's go-to wideout in Tampa, is a 49er. The Bears traded DJ Moore to the Bills, and free agent Olamide Zaccheaus signed with the Falcons. Maxx Crosby, the Raiders' pass rusher par excellence, is a Raven now; the Raiders, in turn, just signed, like, five new guys. 

And your Indianapolis Colts?

They traded their top receiver, Michael Pittman Jr., to the Steelers and signed Alec Pierce to a new $116-million deal. Also, it looks like they're going to retain quarterback Daniel Jones, which suggests the Colts are banking on Jones-to-Pierce as their big-play connection.

Is this wise?

I dunno. We'll see.

Without Pittman, won't Pierce draw DBs like flies? Or will the likes of Josh Downs, Ashton Dulin and Laquon Treadwell be productive enough to keep the coverage balanced?

Again, we'll see. 

One thing's for sure, it won't be boring in Indy in 2026, or in a lot of other places. So many new faces in new places; so many questions popping up with th-

You there by the window, in the throwback Steve Largent jersey.

"At least we've still got Super Bowl MVP Kenneth Walker III, though, right?"

Ummm ...

Well, no. He just signed a choke-a-horse three-year deal with the Chiefs. The $45 million haul makes him the highest-paid free agent running back in NFL history, and now he'll be lining up in the same backfield with Patrick Mahomes. Which means more State Farm commercials starring Patrick, and more shampoo commercials starring Patrick, Kenneth Walker III, and Troy Polamalu, and more Subway commercials featuring Patrick, Kenneth, Taylor Swift's fiancee and maybe even Andy Reid.

"OH ... MY ... GOD! The Chiefs? The frigging CHIEFS?! I thought we were finally done with the Chiefs! How could you, KW3?"

I know, I know. I feel your pain. So would David Bowie if he were still alive.

OK. So probably not.

A Royal to root for

 We're still six days away from Selection Sunday -- most of your big conference tournaments have yet to be played -- but the Blob is already jacked to the gills for the Madness, on account of watching High Point tattoo Winthrop in the Big South championship yesterday.

OK. So not really.

Actually I watched a little of High Point-Winthrop and a little of the Patriot League semifinal between Lehigh and Colgate, which Lehigh won because Colgate couldn't make a shot down the stretch. So go, Mountain Hawks, and all that.

Also, go, you Queens University of Charlotte (N.C.) Royals!

Who won the Atlantic Sun (ASUN) title by beating Central Arkansas 98-93 in overtime, immediately becoming the Blob's annual little-guy-that-could-but-probably-won't favorite. There are a number of reasons for this.

One, Queens has only been D-I for four years, which means the Royals have played their way into the Big Dance/Soiree/Hootenanny the first year they were eligible for it.

Two, Queens is no fly-by-night operation. It's 169 years old, has a modest enrollment of 1,900 undergrads and was originally founded as the Charlotte Female Institute, and later the Presbyterian College for Women.

Three, among the 13 men's sports it offers is cheerleading. And among the 16 women's sports it offers are equestrian and dance.

Equestrian and dance! Now there's some refinement for ya.

And speaking of refinement ...

Should we mention the Queens' mascot? 

Of course we should mention the Queens' mascot.

His name is Rex the Royal and he's an endearingly scruffy-looking ... I don't know, lion, I guess. He wears a crown that looks as if it's seen better days, but don't hold that against him. He still looks mighty beloved:

Come on, America. Get on Rex the Royal's bandwagon before it fills up.

Mackey Daddy-ed

 Look, you can't say they didn't rise to the occasion, your Purdue Boilermakers. You can't say that at all.

Mackey Arena made its usual 747 sound on this Senior Day, and the Boilermakers put up 93 points, and they shot enough lights out to win most days. Or maybe you think 51 percent (34-of-67) and 44 percent (11-of-25) from the 3-point arc is small stuff. 

Well, it's not.

For instance, Fletcher Loyer, one-third of Purdue's most celebrated senior threesome since the Three Amigos (Troy Lewis, Todd Mitchell and Everette Stephens) almost 40 years ago, splashed six threes in nine attempts beyond the arc and scored 23 points. Braden Smith did Braden Smith things, scoring 20 points and dealing nine assists. And the third member of Purdue's senior triumvirate, Trey Kaufman-Renn, scored 17.

Heck. The Boilers even won the glass, outrebounding Senior Day opponent Wisconsin 34-22.

But speaking of Wisconsin ...

Well. The Badgers kinda went off script.

They shot even more lights out than the Purdues, making an absurd 56 percent including an even more absurd 53 percent (18-of-34) from Threeville. Four Badgers -- John Blackwell, Austin Rupp, Aleksas Bieliauskas and Andrew Rhode -- were a ridiculous 15-of-26 from downtown. And Wisky hung 97 on Matt Painter's guys, enough for a four-point win.

It was the Boilers' fourth loss in their last six games as they continue to slouch into March.

Perhaps more significantly, it was their third straight loss in Mackey, and fifth overall.

I have been to a game or two in that place, across the years. And when Purdue's on a run and the faithful get going and the sound goes up and ricochets off the roof and barrels back down, it really is like being on the inside of a giant kettle drum. Few joints get louder.

Which is a lot of why Purdue doesn't lose in Mackey very often. Or at least not usually.

This, it seems, clearly is a not-usually year, for a variety of reasons. One, the Boilers are losing games just when they ought to be doing the opposite. And, two, as evidenced by Wisconsin's 97 points yesterday, it's mostly happening because Purdue has not been very good on the end of the floor where Gene Keady's and Matt Painter's teams have traditionally made their bones.

That would be the defensive end.

In Purdue's four losses since Valentine's Day, for instance, opponents have averaged 86.5 points. They've shot 53 percent (112-of-211). And they've made 56 threes, or 14 per game.

Those are not the sort of "D" numbers that strike fear into the heart of many "O"s.

And so, the Boilers are now 23-8 and sixth in the Big Ten, three weeks after they were 21-4 and tied for second. And they've lost five games at home for the first time since 2019-2020, when Purdue finished 16-15 and missed the NCAA Tournament for the only time in the last 11 years. 

Mackey Daddy, in other words, has become Mackey Daddy-ed.

"That's a horrible pun, Mr. Blob!" you're saying now.

Yeah, well. I yam what I yam.

And these Purdue Boilermakers?

They are what they are, too, apparently. Until proven otherwise.

The persecution (or not) of Danica

 Danica Patrick will not be part of Sky Sports' coverage of F1 racing this season, and this has predictably provoked the usual howling from the usual suspects from the usual darker corners of the American psyche.

In other words:  That segment of America that loves to pretend it's put-upon, belittled or -- let's go all the way out there -- flat-out persecuted thinks she got axed because of her politics. A victim of the woke hive-mind, as it were.

Yes, I know. It does get a trifle exhausting, this endless grievance mining.

That's especially so in this case, because not only does Danica insist leaving the coverage team was her choice -- maybe so; maybe not -- but her departure seems to be little more than one of those boring corporate deals. In other words, Apple TV is taking over the Sky F1 feed this season for American viewers, as well as the F1 in-house entity. It's one of those changes that usually does result in ... well, changes.

So, Danica is out, either by jumping or being pushed. How much of that had to do with her right-wing political tilt, however, is being grossly exaggerated or out-and-out fabricated by the aforementioned usual suspects.

Mind you, Patrick's political tilt has gotten increasingly more tilt-y as the years have gone by, to the extent that even Generalissimo Francisco Franco might find her a bit off-putting. Not only has she gone full MAGA, she's apparently gone full conspiracy kook, too, as often happens. You know, the whole moon-landing-was-faked, JFK-was-shot-by-the-re-animated-corpse-of-Marilyn-Monroe catechism.

Did that make her, well, somewhat polarizing to F1 viewers?

Perhaps.

Did the fact she wasn't terribly insightful as an F1 analyst, on account of she never turned a wheel in F1?

Even more perhaps.

This is no knock on Danica's overall skills as an analyst, mind you. Put her on the mic as an analyst at the Indianapolis 500, and she's got something to say that's worth hearing, given that she made seven starts there and finished in the top ten in six of those starts. At least at Indianapolis, she has as much insight as most of her broadcast partners.

Of course, admitting that would leave the grievance-miners nowhere to park their persecution complexes. So there's that.

Fixin' to fix ... something

The Fearless Leader of America, President Donald John "Do What We Say Or We'll Bomb You Back To Antiquity" Trump, took time out from his latest military adventure to discuss college athletics yesterday. And I don't know about you, but I feel better already.

I mean, with F.L. on the case, this whole NIL/transfer portal mess will be solved lickety-split, or at least in the blink of an eye. We'll go back to the way things used to be, when college kids played for the love of the game and their school, and let the athletic departments scoop all the dough from it.

F.L. said all of this, or something akin to it, in a two-hour round table at the White House,  attended by the media and various luminaries who mostly just listened to him ramble. None of the various luminaries were college athletes, of course, because this wasn't about them. This was about  getting them back under control.

And, OK, yes, that is way cynical of me. Mark it down to 38 years of covering college sports as one of those cynical sportswriter types.

But if it's my natural state, it's hard to depart from it in this particular case. Not when the "Saving College Sports" roundtable was co-chaired by Secretary of State Marco Rubio, New York Yankees president Randy Levine and Florida governor Ron DeSantis.

"What do any of these people know about college sports?" you're saying now. "And why, in a roundtable about college sports, are the New York Yankees involved?"

Hey, don't ask me. I'm just the messenger here. 

As far as I know Rubio, Levine and DeSantis don't know jack-all about college sports, except DeSantis' state contains Florida State, Florida and Miami, college football powers all. Also Rubio went to law school at The U, so, go, 'Canes.

At any rate, Fearless Leader, as is his wont, says he has a grand plan to solve all the problems in college athletics. It's all contained in the executive order he promises to issue in the next week.

"It will be very all-encompassing," F.L. bragged, er, said. "And we're going to put it forward, and we're going to get sued, and we're going to see how it plays, OK, but I'll have an executive order, which will solve every problem in this room, every conceivable problem, within one week, and we'll put it forward."

Awesome. Terrific. Sounds wonderf--

Wait a minute.

Did he say "and we're going to get sued"?

He did. In fact, he said it's the only thing he knows for sure right now. Which suggests a couple of things to the cynical old sportswriter in me:

1. His Big Fix is supremely half-baked. (Which, let's face it, is pretty much par for the course for F.L.)

2. And a lot of it probably is illegal. (Ditto)

Now, understand, the cynical old sportswriter in me does not disagree with Fearless Leader and his various minions. The whole NIL/transfer portal deal is out of control, thanks to the NCAA's sudden passion for laissez faire stewardship. College athletics is threatening to become the Major League Baseball model, with the Power 4 conferences using the Rest Of 'Em conferences as a de facto farm system. 

Play a couple years at say, Eastern Michigan, then get called up to Ann Arbor -- or Columbus or Tuscaloosa or Athens, Georgia. That sort of thing.

However, Fearless Leader's executive order fixin' to fix everything sounds a lot like Richard Nixon's "secret plan" to end the war in Vietnam. And, look, maybe you still trust the guy, and vaya con Dios if you do. But at this point I wouldn't trust him to unclog a toilet.

Especially when even he admits his Secret Plan To Restore College Sports To Greatness has some flaws. Such as, for instance, legality.

Remember that famous line of Ronald Reagan's (speaking of cynicism), about how the worst thing you could ever hear was, "I'm from the government, and I'm here to help"?

I've got a new version of that, cynic that I am:

I'm your Fearless Leader, and I'm here to help.

Yikes.

Lou

I don't know how it's going with Lou Holtz this morning at the pearly gates, but I bet he's telling St. Peter he's still scared to death of Rice.

I bet he's doing magic tricks, and saying how "the University of Navy" used to make him tremble, and asking if the good Lord has laid in an adequate supply of Zagnut bars. I bet this tiny man -- this leprechaun, OK? -- is being every bit the Lou Holtz we knew but never really knew, because Lou was always aces at the shake-and-bake, the juke and the deke, the spin move that left us all grabbing air.

Which is to say, Lou Holtz, who died yesterday at 89, was a whole pile of things. What he wasn't was uncomplicated.

He was a comedian and a hard-ass and one hell of a football coach, to start with. He won 33 games in three seasons at William & Mary, for God's sake. At Arkansas, he once suspended his star running back right before the Orange Bowl, replaced him with some kid named Roland Sales, and Roland Sales ran for 200 yards as the Razorbacks crushed No. 2 Oklahoma 31-6.

He won everywhere he coached, unless you count that ill-considered foray into the NFL with the New York Jets. A man who always knew himself and where he belonged better than any of us, Lou bailed on that deal after just 13 games. The Jets were 3-10 at the time.

Of course, Notre Dame is where he made his bones, and if you put him on the coaching Mt. Rushmore two things are going to happen: No Domer's gonna kick, and Lou's gonna crack wise. Say something like, "Fine, but make sure you get the nose right."

Lou took over the wreckage of the Gerry Faust years and produced a national champion in just three seasons, beating archrival Miami 31-30 in an epic October clash and then taking down West Virginia 34-21 in the Fiesta Bowl. He had Tony Rice and Tony Brooks and a freshman named Rocket Ismail on offense, and scary dudes like Michael Stonebreaker and Frank Stams and Ned Bolcar on defense, and the Irish ran the table, finishing 12-0.

That remains, of course, Notre Dame's only national title in the last 50 years. It's partly why there's a statue of Lou outside Notre Dame Stadium now, same as Knute Rockne and Frank Leahy and longtime athletic director Moose Krause.

Lou went on to win 100 games in 11 seasons in South Bend, third on the all-time list behind Brian Kelly and Rockne himself.  His departure in November 1996, on the other hand, was hardly as straightforward. In fact it was downright weird.

On the day he talked about it, see, there were no magic tricks or jokes or one-liners about how special it was to walk outside at night and see the snow falling on the Lady atop the Golden Dome. ("And it's July," was always the punchline). The teevees and deadline grunts kept asking Lou why he was leaving, and all he kept saying was, "It's the right thing to do."

I was there that day, and what comes back to me now is a linebacker named Bert Berry, one of that year's stickout players. He was sitting behind the TV cameras with his head down and his hands folded. His eyes kept opening and closing, and every time he opened them to stare at his shoes, he looked every bit as bewildered as the rest of us.

Lou could do that you. Never uncomplicated, remember?

And so on the day he announced he was walking away from the only place he ever really wanted to coach, he said it was his decision but left the impression it wasn't. That he didn't want to step down, but was somehow left with no choice. And of course, being Lou, he never explained why that was.

There was talk, of course. It was rumored he and athletic director Mike Wadsworth got crosswise over an eligibility crackdown, which Lou vehemently denied. And there were all these stories about a booster/sort-of booster named Kimberly Dunbar who lavished gifts on Notre Dame's players right under Lou's nose.

Notre Dame got in dutch with the NCAA for that -- but not until after Lou left. Same thing happened at North Carolina State, Arkansas, Minnesota and South Carolina, too. And so the perception, fair or not, that Lou got out of Dodge each time just ahead of the law became part of his legacy, too.

On balance, though?

On balance -- the only way truly to measure a man's life -- he belongs up there on Rushmore. He deserves his statuary. Even if, at this very moment, he really is telling St. Peter he's still scared to death of Rice.

Know what the punchline is to that one?

The very week Lou said it, Notre Dame beat Rice 54-11.

Rimshot.

 

Opting out

 I wouldn't know Drew Dalman if he left tread marks on my chest, which, as a Pro Bowl center for the Chicago Bears, it's highly likely he might do. So I can't tell you why he's now a former Chicago Bear.

All I know is what I read in the papers, as they say, and the papers say Drew Dalman is retiring from professional football. This is news because Dalman is only 27 years old.

Other than that, I got nothin', because Dalman hasn't said anything. But it's worth noting because he's just the latest NFL player to walk away from the game in his 20s, before he was forced to limp away.

The most notable, of course, is Andrew Luck, who abruptly retired right before the 2019 season at the age of 29. There are still lint-brains out there who think he's a big wuss for doing that, but that's why they're lint-brains. Plus none of them ever took a hit on a Sunday afternoon from some 280-pound assassin with 4.5 speed.

Luck did, too many times, and paid the price for it. He left pieces of himself all over the En Eff Ell, and finally he wondered why the hell he kept doing it. As has been noted many times, Luck's a smart guy. So it's likely he looked into the future and decided it would be fun to still be able to walk up a flight of stairs by the time he was 45. 

Again, I don't know if that's what Drew Dalman is thinking. But he is a center, and centers get hit on every play with foot-pounds of force the lint-brains and big-talkin' tough guys can't even imagine. So maybe he looked into the future and thought it would be fun to still have a melon that wasn't squash by the time he was 45.

At any rate, after five years, Dalman's decided to opt out of this child's game. You can blame him if you want, but I won't. I've never stood on an NFL sideline during a game, but I have stood on  a few big-boy college sidelines and heard the scholars collide at full speed. It literally sounds like a car crash -- and that's just college.

I can't imagine what it must sound like in the NFL. And neither can you.

So color me un-shocked at Dalman's decision, even though he'll leave a vault of money on the table. He signed a three-year deal with the Bears worth $42 million before last season, and the Bears got their money's worth. Dalman wound up anchoring a rebuilt offensive line that gave quarterback Caleb Williams a fighting chance to avoid being killed, and Williams responded by throwing for 3,942 yards, 27 touchdowns and just seven interceptions. 

He also was sacked only 25 times. And I say "only" because he was sacked 68 times the year before.

Dalman, meanwhile, started all 17 games as a free-agent signing from Atlanta, where he started 40 games in four seasons. Last year he played every one of the Bears' 1,154 offensive snaps.

That's a lot of hits. A lot of car crashes, if you will.

So out the door Dalman goes, leaving the Bears to go looking for another center. It is, of course, a totally Bears sort of deal: Two months ago they won the NFC North title and a playoff game, and now they're shopping for a center for the second offseason in a row.

"Oh, for bleep's sake!" you can imagine them yelping.

Me?

I'll just say what long-suffering fans in Chi have been saying since the days of Bobby Douglass, Jack Concannon and the immortal Ralph Kurek:

Bears gonna Bears.

No littles allowed

 I've never been Bruce Pearl's biggest fan. I suppose we should get that out there right off the hop.

I've always thought he was too slick by half, a genial bender of rules who got Tennessee in trouble with the NCAA and then lit out for Auburn, where he never got caught doing anything shady but probably did. Or so I always figured, perhaps unfairly.

In any case, I freely confess to some bias where he's concerned. So keep that in mind when I say this: Bruce Pearl is an idiot.

The other day he got up in his analyst halftime gig to say Miami (O.), which is 29-0, should have to win its conference tournament to get into the big show. This is because Miami plays in the Mid-American Conference, a mid-major loop considered a rung or two below big-boy conferences like the Big Ten, ACC or SEC. As such, Pearl figures, Miami simply doesn't have the resume to get into the NCAA Tournament as an at-large team.

The Blob considers this elitist garbage. Over and above the fact Pearl has a dog in this particular hunt.

See, his previous gig, Auburn, now is coached by his son. The Tigers are 15-14at the moment, 6-10 in the SEC. But because it is the SEC, they're somehow still regarded as a bubble team.

To his credit, Pearl acknowledged the conflict of interest the other day. But that doesn't let him off the hook for his ridiculous take about Miami, and his apparent cluelessness about the nature of March Madness.

Which is this: It's not mid-or-worse SEC or Big Ten or ACC teams that make the Madness the Madness. It's the Miamis of Ohio.

Everything we all love about the NCAA's big show is about the Miamis, and also the Fairleigh Dickinsons, Maryland Baltimore Countys (UMBC) and Yales or Princetons. No one's tuning into that first weekend, which sells the whole deal, to see some lame seventh-or-eighth-place major conference team take on some other lame seventh-or-eighth-place major conference team.

Except for alums, no one cares about, say, 17-12 West Virginia taking on 18-12 Texas. No, sirree.

What they care about is Miami (O.) vs. whomever.

They want to see if the Red Hawks really are as good as all that. Or to see 16-seed UMBC upend 1-seed Virginia. Or to see Fairleigh Dickenson knock off Purdue. Or to see some kid with a '50s haircut light up lordly Kentucky with 10 threes.

That happened two years ago in the first round of the South Regional. The kid's name was Jack Gohlke, who scored 30 of his 32 points that day from behind the arc. And his team, Oakland out of the Horizon League, did indeed knock out UK, 80-76.

Alas, the ride didn't last long for Oakland; it lost in overtime to North Carolina State in the second round. But did that matter? Hell, no, it didn't matter. For four days, the previously unknown Gohlke was the talk of the tournament.

Meanwhile, on that same day, in the same regional, 20-14 Texas A&M beat 23-9 Nebraska. I know this only because I looked it up. Jack Gohlke, I didn't have to.

And so Bruce Pearl can go on all he wants about strength of schedule and Quad 1 wins and how unbeaten littles like Miami shouldn't be allowed inside the big tent if they lose in their conference tournament. A 15-14 Auburn has it all over, say, a 30-1 Miami in that case.

To which the Blob has but one suitable response:

Yeah, OK, buddy. Whatev'.

Deja Palou

 America's best racing series started up again yesterday, as drab February gave way hey-maybe-there's-hope-after-all March. It started up again, but if it seemed like it never left ... well, in this case that was more than just a saying.

When last seen, after all, Alex Palou was winning a pile of races and his fourth IndyCar title in five years.

When last seen yesterday down in St. Petersburg, Fla., he was leading 59 laps and winning the season opener in a snoozer.

Meet the new boss, same as-

Ah. You know the rest.

All told, Palou and polesitter Scott McLaughlin, who finished second, led 93 of  the 100 laps, and the top ten was stuffed with familiar names. Look, there's Christian Lundgaard in third! And Kyle Kirkwood in fourth! And Pato O'Ward, Marcus Ericsson and Josef Newgarden!

Oh, there were some off-script developments. Old heads Will Power -- driving his new  Andretti ride with the bumblebee paint scheme -- and Scott Dixon wound up at the bottom of the scoring sheet after completing just 55 and 39 laps, respectively. The only thing that saved them from finishing next-to-last and last were Santino Ferrucci and celebrated newcomer Mick Schumacher, who failed to complete lap before getting tangled up one another's deal.

So, yeah. There was that.

Otherwise, here's hoping someone, familiar or not, gives Palou a push and avoids what happened last year, when the back half of the season became something of a coronation because Palou was just too damn good. He won five of the first six races -- including the  the Indianapolis 500, the only significant achievement in IndyCar he hadn't scooped. After that, the points chase was no chase at all.

But, hey. At least this time we've got the Will Power storyline and the Mick Schumacher storyline to go with the Alex Palou storyline. That's something, right?

Um, right?

Playing out

 Weellll ... at least it wasn't in Mackey this time.

Just trying to say something positive here, you Purdue faithful, because, listen, the Blob loves ya and hates to see you down in the dumps. And speaking of "down in the dumps" ...

Come on down, Braden Smith and Fletcher Loyer 'n' them!

Who lost for the third time in the last four games yesterday, 82-74, over there at Ohio State. They're 22-7 and 12-6 in the Big Ten right now; Ohio State is 18-11 and 10-8 in the Big Overinflated. And if it seems like only nine days or so ago that Purdue was 22-4 and being penciled in as a 2-seed by the NCAA Tournament bracketheads ... well, that's because it was only nine days or so ago.

On Feb. 20, the Purdues ball-peened archrival Indiana by 29 in Mackey, their fourth W in five games. The only loss, also at Mackey, was to No. 1 Michigan by 11. It looked like the Boilermakers were going to come to March playing their best basketball.

And then they lost by two to Michigan State -- again in Mackey -- when Smith's 3-pointer for the win wouldn't bed down. No worries, a "meh" Ohio State team was up next, just what the Boilers needed to reset the narrati--

Oops.

Oops, because, yeah, Meh Ohio State beat 'em, shooting 51 percent and outrebounding the Boilers 36-29. Smith, Loyer and Trey Kaufman-Renn, Purdue's three-legged stool, combined for 54 of its 74 points, with Smith scoring 20, TKR 19 and Loyer 15 on five threes in nine tries. C.J. Cox added 13.

Everyone else, however, never showed up. Oscar Cluff, who's been Robin to TKR's Batman inside on occasion, scored just two points to go with five rebounds. And Matt Painter got just five points from his bench, which has proved thinner than previously thought.

And speaking of thin benches ...

Come on down, Indiana!

Who got clipped in Assembly Hall by Michigan State yesterday, 77-64, and are now warming up the NIT  bus. The loss was IU's fourth straight, which means, like Purdue, they're entering March on whatever is the opposite of a roll. The Hoosiers did, however, beat their counterparts in West Lafayette in bench ineffectiveness, however: While the Boilers chair jockeys managed a whole five points, Indiana's managed a whole zero.

Zero points in eight minutes from Reed Bailey. Zero in seven minutes from Tayton Conerway. Zero in 19 minutes from Jasai Miles.

Lamar Wilkerson and Tucker DeVries, meanwhile, scored 26 of Indiana's 27 second-half points, with Wilkerson scoring 29 points an DeVries 20 on the day. He and DeVries, however, were a combined 8-of-26 from Threeville, where Indiana coach Darian DeVries' offense lives and mostly dies. Yesterday the Hoosiers jacked 35 shots from the arc and bottomed just 10 of them; they were 12-of-21 from everywhere else.

Oh, yeah. Also, Michigan State got 22 points -- a 22-0 margin, if you're keeping score at home -- from its bench. Also-also, it outrebounded Indiana 35-27, including 22-12 in the second half. 

"So why didn't Indiana play Reed Bailey more, on account of he's been one of its few effective guys in the paint?" you're asking now.

I dunno. 

"And why did Conerway only play seven minutes?" you're also asking.

Beats me.

"And how come it's March, when you're supposed to be playing your way into stuff, and Purdue and Indiana seem to be playing their way out of stuff? Like, you know, a 2-seed (Purdue) or a seat at the Madness table altogether (Indiana)?" you're also-also asking.

Hey. Do I LOOK like the Shell Answer Man?

(Obligatory geezer reference)

All I know is, yes, there's a lot more playing out than playing in going on in West Lafayette and Bloomington these days. And that figures to make March a lot less fun than it should be.

 

Not dead yet

 I suppose there's some sort of whack duality at work when I say I despise social media with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns, but also spend a disturbing amount of time cruising  the Majik Intertoobz Emporium in search of even more social media.

"That's not duality, that's hypocrisy," someone just said.

Yeah, well. How 'bout I forward you this TikTok of Donald Trump playing hockey naked? That'll learn ya to crack wise.

Anyway, there I was scrolling through my Facebutt wall the other day, and, holy gee, Gene Keady DIED? And Tony Dungy, too?

Uh ... no.

Actually, they're both still alive, but ha-ha, tee-hee, some sick twists thought it would be hilarious to put up virtually identical posts about Keady and Dungy dying enroute to hospice care. This, mind you, was a week or so after some other sick twists put up the same exact post about Lou Holtz and Daniel "Rudy" Ruettiger, star of book tours and the movie "Rudy."

"Watch us mess with those Notre Dame (bleeps)!", you can imagine the sick twists saying as they created the latter two posts.

'Cause, see, Holtz and Rudy are not dead yet, either, to quote Monty Python. Or at least they weren't as of this morning.

Now, I'll be the first to admit I don't know what Facebutt (legit, non-mocking handle: Facebook) is talking about when it occasionally tells me I've violated its "community standards." As far as I can tell, Facebutt doesn't have any community standards. It just dings you when you've crossed some mystical algorithmic line or other -- which no one can identify, either, because no one knows who exactly Algo Rithm is, and why the miserable son-of-a-biscuit seems to have no discernible sense of humor.

Point is, how can telling people someone's dead when they're not dead NOT be a massive violation of "community standards"? And why do I think the folks who post this stuff are the Intertoobz equivalent of the drunken redneck whose last words are always "Hey, ya'll! Watch this!"? 

Then they try to jump the General Lee over Farmer Bob's hog barn or some such thing.

These fake-death clowns aren't attempting anything as catastrophically spectacular, but the aim is generally the same. Because it's the Interbooz, see, people actually get sucked in by this cruel hoax-ery. This is true even when they're posted on fan sites with names like Purdue Pete And His Big-A** Hammer and Jesus Saves But Rockne Gets The Rebound.

(OK. So there are no fan sites with those names. But there is a fan site named Black & Gold Hoops Community, which recycled the Gene-Keady-died-on-his-way-to-hospice meme. Doomscrollers beware.)

The rule of thumb here, of course, is don't believe anything you see on the Majik Intertoobz Emporium until you can verify it via a legitimate news source. (Of which there are fewer and fewer these days, thanks to billionaires buying up American media companies and Sovietizing them into Trump State Media. Ah, the good old days of Tass and Pravda, we remember them well!).

But enough about that. Just remember one thing: The next time someone tells you Gene Keady or Tony Dungy or the Great and Terrible Oz has died, consider the source.

Unless, of course, the source is Abe Lincoln. He did tell us never to believe anything you see on the internet, remember.

Saw that on the internet.

Darkest of destinies

 The last time I talked to Dan Serafini it was raining.

It was early September and 1993 and he was wandering around the Fort Wayne Wizards clubhouse in shorts and a B.U.M. T-shirt -- remember B.U.M.? -- waiting to see if he would play that day. It was the last day of his second professional season, and his bags were packed. He was ready to head home to California, where his family and his new pup were waiting for him.

"She's a Rottweiler," he said. "She's like nine months old and, like, 85 pounds now."

Dan Serafini was 19 years old.

Now he's 52 and headed to prison for the rest of his natural life.

He was convicted last year of killing his father-in-law and seriously wounding his mother-in-law, and yesterday he was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole for it. Of all the destinies any of us might have seen for him that dreary, dripping day 33 years ago, few could have been darker or less forseeable.

At 19, see, Serafini was a lefty pitcher who could throw baseballs past batters on the regular, or at least on the regular enough. He'd made 27 starts with a 10-8 record and 3.65 ERA in the Wizards' inaugural season as the Minnesota Twins low-A affiliate, and it seemed the Twins might have some plans for him.

For awhile, they did. And then they didn't.

They dutifully kept bumping him up the minor-league ladder until June 25, 1996, when he made his first major-league start against the New York Yankees. The Yanks tattooed him for five runs and seven hits in 4 1/3 innings, and Serafini hit one batter and gave up a home run to Bernie Williams. The Yankees won 6-2.

After that ...

Well. After that, it never got much better.

After a couple of seasons the Twins traded Serafini to the Cubs, and after that, across the next decade, he bounced around from the Bear Cubs to the Padres to the Pirates to the minor league stints with the Giants, Mets, Brewers and Cardinals. His last MLB gig was with the Colorado Rockies in 2007, where he pitched three games and posted a 54.00 ERA.

No, that's not a misprint. His ERA really was 54.00.

In any event, that was end for him. He finished with a 15-16 lifetime record in MLB to go with a 6.04 ERA and 127 strikeouts. Five years after his last start, he was still pitching in the Mexican League, chasing a dead dream or clinging to his vanished youth or who the hell knows.

Dan Serafini was 38 years old by then.

Nine years later, he walked into his in-laws' home, shot and killed his father-in-law and shot and almost killed his mother-in-law. Then he burgled the place.

All of that was in the news story I read this morning, the one that said Dan Serafini was going behind bars forever. And suddenly it was a rainy day in September again, and Serafini was just a teenager in shorts and a B.U.M. T-shirt, talking happily about his dog the jobs he had lined up for the offseason.

"I'll be working six, eight hours a day, seven days a week," he said. "I work Monday through Thursday at a pet store, and at a garbage company I work Friday through Sunday. I'll be driving a truck and collecting garbage and stuff like that."

At the time I wrote that made Dan Serafini the perfect symbol for Labor Day, which had just passed.

Now I'm compelled to write he's the perfect symbol for something much sadder, and infinitely darker:

The wreckage of a ruined life.

Pro days

 A long, long time ago -- mere seconds in College Athletics New Reality time; eons in real time -- you knew Brendan Sorsby.

He was a quarterback from Texas who landed at Indiana University, where he suited up and played some for the Hoosiers in the pre-Cignetti years. Then he hopped in the transfer portal and vagabonded to the University of Cincinnati.

Now, a century later (OK, so only a couple of years or so), he's vagabonding again to Texas Tech. Along the way, he took the Bearcats for a cool million.

That, at least, is UC's contention, which is why they're suing Sorsby for breaching his NIL contract. Apparently there was a $1 million exit fee if he decided to transfer somewhere else, which Cincinnati's complaint alleges Sorsby refused to pay on the advice of his "representative."

In other words, the kid's stiffing them, allegedly. And if so, good on Cincinnati.

 Someone has to try to tame the Wild West college athletics have become. And if it takes hauling your student-athletes (or, these days, ""student-athletes") into court, so be it.

Of course, this was never the way it was supposed to work when the NCAA was finally compelled to cut its "student-athletes" in on the billions it was generating, but let's face it: The NCAA painted itself into this corner. It went from "You'll get nothing and like it!" to "Aw, hell, do whatever you want" virtually overnight, with the predictable consequence that the "student-athletes" are now professionals with all the trimmings.

They can go to the highest bidder now, same as any professional. They have contracts, same as any professional. And -- same as any professional -- when there's a dispute over those contracts, it usually winds up in court.

And so, here we are: A university suing one of its scholars (or presumed scholars) over money. We're a long way from those quaint times when cheating on a test was the biggest dispute a university had with its "student-athletes."

But then, those were the back-in-the-day days. These are the pro days. 

See ya in court.

Misdirection

 OK, gotta be honest here, on account of the Blob values honesty in all things except his basketball prowess back in the day: I almost bought the Bears-to-Indiana thing. I mean, I was thisclose.

Oh, all along I suspected it was a just big ol' misdirection play on the part of the McCaskeys, a bit of strong-arming to put the arm on Illinois for a better deal. But the chatter kept chattering, and there was talk of an actual stadium site in the Wolf Lake area around Hammond, and then the Indiana lege and Gov. Mike Braun pushed through a bill to basically hand the Bears anything they wanted ...

And, well. For a second or two there, I could see the Hammond Bears becoming a reality. 

More astute minds kept telling me, nah, no way, and that I was right the first time. Wait 'til the unions get involved over there in Illinois, they said. Wait 'til the Illinois lege gets off the schneid.

And the Illinois lege did, finally.

Just as our lawmakers and our Guv were passing a bill that would, as usual, ding the taxpayers for a chunk of the cost, the Illinois lege was hard at work this week pushing a measure that would ... well, ding their taxpayers for a chunk of the cost. It basically gives the Bears the property tax break they were looking for out in Arlington Heights, which critics say would in turn cut into funding for schools and other local agencies.

In other words, same-old, same-old, world without end, amen.

The Blob takes the very libertarian stance that if an organization worth $8 billion -- i.e., the Bears -- wants to build itself a new home, it should by God foot the bill for it. And I mean the entire bill. Getting into Joe Citizen's pocket to help defray the cost shouldn't be an option.

I say this because the long-term economic impact of athletic facilities is almost always oversold, which means the owners are the primary beneficiaries. And if the owners are the primary beneficiaries -- especially if they own as valuable a property as an NFL franchise -- they can damn well pay for their new digs. Not like they can't afford to and then some.

And, yeah, I know, that's not how it works in bidness. But it should.

It should, because a fancy new stadium with plush skyboxes and videoboards you can see from space doesn't mean jack to a public schoolteacher who already has to buy his or her own supplies thanks to the "school choice" leeches. It doesn't mean jack to the kids at P.S. Poorhouse who subsist on hand-me-downs thanks to the aforementioned leeches, and to legislators who think it would super neato keen to score seats on the 50-yard line.

OK. Rant over.

And the Hammond Bears?

Over, too, apparently. But as always, stay tuned.

No to the throw

 The NFL combine begins today in Indianapolis, and I know this because I looked up at the TV screen the other day and Mel Kuiper Jr. was on it.

Mel Kuiper Jr., if you've been living in a cave for the last 40 years like one of those Japanese soldiers who didn't know the war was over, is the guru-iest of ESPN's NFL Draft gurus. So if Mel's on my screen in February, it means the combine can't be far behind.

And, listen, I love the combine. It's sillier than coked-up kittens: Bunch of extra-large humans in shorts and T-shirts running and jumping and being measured like Holsteins, and taking a test (the Wonderlic) that generally indicates nothing about a prospect's prospects. Also they sit for interviews with various NFL GMs, who ask weird questions that, again, indicate nothing except that NFL GMs are a profoundly weird lot.

All of this is ostensibly a safeguard against NFL teams throwing huge dollars at, say, Ryan Leaf or Jamarcus Russell. Of course, they wind up doing it anyway, so whatever value the combine has -- aside from the hilarious sight of some 340-pound left tackle huffing his way through the 40 yards he'll never run in an actual game -- remains open to question.

This is especially true of quarterbacks. 

Who, more and more, are rejecting the idea that they need to throw at the combine, because, why? It's 2026, not 1926. NFL scouts have access to miles and miles of game-action video, plus a virtually endless array of analytic widgets that enable them to break down a quarterback's throwing mechanics to the molecular level. 

And yet ...

And yet, there is always a subset of scouts, ex-scouts, GMs and jersey-wearing NFL junkies who'll take it as a negative when a high-profile QB says no to the throw at the combine.

Which brings us to Indiana's Heisman Trophy quarterback, Fernando Mendoza.

He's caught some flack this week for (wisely, in the Blob's opinion) choosing not to throw at the combine this week. He's also not caught flack from wiser heads. There's a couple of reasons for the latter.

One, he already knows he's the Raiders' guy. Throwing against air to unfamiliar receivers isn't going to change that.

Two, going back to the 2026-not-1926 thing, how could any scout worth the name not already know what Mendoza can do? With all the video and tech at their disposal, any NFL scout who doesn't already have the full book on Fernando is, let's face it, not very good at his job. In fact you can say he's pretty darn lousy at it.

Oh, Mendoza will still play the game. He'll have his own Pro Day in Bloomington, where he'll be throwing to (as he puts it) "his guys"  -- not for his benefit, but for theirs. Give the scouts a look at them, because they've already gotten an eyeful of him. 

I don't know about you, but I think that ought to be worth at least a couple of bonus points on the Wonderlic. But that's just me.

A hoops eclipse

 Repeat after me this a.m., all you winter-weary souls in South Bend and Bloomington: At least we're good in football.

At least Notre Dame, way up there in Lake Effect Hell, still has Marcus Freeman and Here Come The Irish and the House That Rockne Built And A Whole Pile Of  Rich Alumni Built Onto. At least they've got a football program that, yes, got robbed by the College Football Playoff float-brains in 2025, but has the makings of another big winner this fall.

And down south in Bloomington?

Do we really need to mention again that they've got Curt Cignetti and Fernando Mendoza's Heisman and 16-0 and a CFP national championship?

At least we're good in football ...

Because basketball?

Hoo, boy.

Up in South Bend last night, No. 1 Duke came into the cozy lair where No. 1 has more than once come to die, and ... well, didn't die. Instead the Dukies killed the once-upon-a-time giant killers, 100-56. It was Notre Dame's worst home loss since 1898.

Eighteen ninety-eight!  Heck, they were still shooting at peach baskets then. The set shot was just crazy talk. And a fast break was Hiram "Stretch" Wannamaker, a veritable giant at 5-11, bolting for the restroom mid-game because lunch hadn't agreed with him.

The 44-point loss dropped the Irish to 12-16 overall and 3-12 in the ACC, where only Boston College and Georgia Tech saves them from last place. And, no, it's not likely to get a lot better considering their two best players, Markus Burton and freshman Jalen Haralson, are on the shelf with ankle injuries -- Burton for the season.

But if you think that's bad ...

Wait'll you hear what happened in Bloomington.

Where your Indiana basketball Hoosiers continued their big push to miss the Big Dance by losing to Northwestern, 72-68. They managed this despite leading by nine at halftime, and despite the fact Northwestern came in 11-16 and 3-13 in the Big Ten. Only sorry Oregon and even sorrier Penn State are worse.

But Northwestern was playing IU in Bloomington last night where the Wildcats have unaccountably made themselves quite at home. Last night's come-from-behind win was their fourth straight in Assembly Hall, and, no, I can't tell you why, either

Maybe they're inspired by those five musty national championship banners swaying in the air currents at one end of the floor ("Hey, that could be us!"). Or maybe it's the fact they're Northwestern, and strike fear into the hearts of no one -- least of all the INDIANA HOOSIERS, who traditionally have treated the Northwesterns like baggage handlers in the Hall, winning 39 of 42 meetings there until 2023.

(Hat tip to Dylan Sinn of the Blob's former home, The Fort Wayne Journal Gazette, for that nugget.)

In which case, too bad for them. The Hoosiers shot their way into that halftime lead, and then shot their way out of it, hitting 63 percent of their tries in the first 20 minutes and just 31 percent in the second.

This astounding feat was led by Lamar Wilkerson, who scored 18 points in the first 13 minutes and 12 seconds, and zero points in the last 26:48. He missed his last 12 shots as Indiana scored just nine points across the last eight minutes.

"So what does that mean, Mr. Blob?" you're asking now.

Well, it means the Hoo-Hoo-Hoo Hoosiers are now 17-11 and 8-9 in the conference, and have lost their last three games. Which in turn means they've likely played their way off the NCAA Tournament bubble. It is a slippery rascal, after all.

But, hey: At least they're good in football.

Not to repeat myself or anything.

Dying young

 Perhaps his gift was just too dazzling. There's a thought for this winter's morn, among many.

There's a thought, because NFL wide receiver Rondale Moore is dead by his own hand at 25, and as always we are compelled to wonder why. He shot himself in the garage of his New Albany home three days ago, and we want answers, because we are human. We crave resolution -- and never mores so than when a fellow human takes his own life with so much of it still spread out before him.

In the meantime, English poet A.E. Houseman enters stage left again, because how could he not? One-hundred thirty years ago he penned "To An Athlete Dying Young", an ode to youth and vitality and the mirror images of triumph and tragedy, and now here is another athlete dying young.

Thus, we think of Housman. And of the twin edges of dazzling gifts. And of what happens, maybe, when fate or circumstance or plain old bad luck shows a young man the mean edge of those gifts.

The key word there being "maybe."

Because, listen, it's all maybes right now with Rondale Moore, all could-be's and here's-a-theory's and perhapses. And so, yes, maybe Rondale Moore's gift was too dazzling. And maybe it had nothing whatever to do with why he picked up that gun the other day.

 Know what's not a maybe, though?

That Moore had a gift. And that, piece by piece, hit by hit, it seemed to be dimming.

The Rondale Moore who came to Purdue University in 2018 was, after all, a blinding talent who lit up football fields all over the Big Ten from the moment he showed up. In his first game as a true freshman -- his first game -- he broke the school record for yards in a single game with 313 against Northwestern. Not only that. but he put up 192 of those yards in the first quarter of that first game.

Hell of an entrance, in other words. And it only got better after that.

 In October, against No. 2 Ohio State, Moore caught 12 balls for 170 yards and two touchdowns as the Purdues delivered a shocking 49-20 upset for then-coach Jeff Brohm. He went on to lead the nation in receiving with 114 catches for 1,258 yards and 12 touchdowns; averaged 10 yards per carry and scored two more touchdowns rushing; and averaged 20.8 yards on 33 kickoff returns.

For all of that, the diminutive Moore (he topped out at just 5-7) was named an All-American and the Big Ten Receiver of the Year. And he won the Paul Hornung Award as the most versatile player in the nation.

That was the best it ever got for him, however.

Across the next two seasons, Moore played just seven games thanks to injury and the COVID-19 pandemic. Arizona took him with the 49th pick in the 2021 NFL draft, and he caught a 77-yard touchdown pass in his second pro game. In three seasons with the Cardinals, he caught 135 passes for 1,201 yards and three touchdowns, and ran for 249 more yards and another score.

And then ...

Ah, yes. And then.

And then, the Cardinals traded him to Atlanta, where he dislocated his right knee in training camp and never played a down. After that came the Minnesota Vikings, where he again never made it to the season, suffering another knee injury while returning a punt in the first exhibition game. For the second year in a row, he spent the season on injured reserve.

Who knows what went through his mind, sitting out one season and then another, two precious years of his career slipping through his fingers? Who knows what goes through anyone's mind when extraordinary athletic gifts are betrayed by an ordinary, too-mortal body?

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything. I don't know, and neither do you. 

But here is one more thing we do know.

Rondale Moore is dead. At 25. And the athlete dying young has another sad, sad verse.

Karma

 Forty-six years to the day, Mike Eruzione was up in the booth, telling America it was Our Boys' time again. 

Forty-six years to the day, it was again George Washington's birthday, his 294th, and who wants to disappoint George on his big day?

Forty-six years to the day, and Our Boys even had a lucky talisman: The No. 13 jersey of the fallen Johnny Gaudreau, who likely would have been one of the Boys had a drunken fool in New Jersey not run down him and his brother Matthew 18 months ago.

So, 46 years to the day from the Miracle on Ice ... Eruzione in the house ... George Washington's birthday ... the Team USA jersey of a martyred American hockey star. As someone in "Star Wars" kinda-sorta almost said at some point: The karma was strong in this one.

"This one," of course, being Connor Hellebuyck and Matt Boldy and bloody-toothed Jack Hughes, and, oh, heck, all of them, really. Raise a glass, or several, to every old-time board-crashin' one of them, because they brought USA hockey Olympic gold for just the third time in history -- and, yes, 46 years to the day since the last time it happened.

This one was no Miracle, of course, because this wasn't a bunch of college kids and minor-league sloggers against the unbeatable Soviet juggernaut. It was one crew of NHL stars against another, with the boys in the red, white and blue beating the team dressed in red again.

Oh, there were echoes, of course. As Hellebuyck made one Houdini save after another -- the Canadians put 42 shots on net, 33 across the last two periods, Hellebuyck turned away all but one -- couldn't you see Jim Craig kicking out shot after shot almost half-a-century ago? Wasn't Jack Hughes staying out there after getting a tooth knocked out just another way of saying "Jack O'Callahan", who also played hurt in the Miracle game?

And that nifty flip-the-puck-over-the-D-man's-stick-and-regaining-control move Boldy put on the Canadians for the first American goal ...

Come on, now. Who didn't at least momentarily think of Mark Johnson, Team USA's slickest skate-and-stick man  back in 1980?

The difference this time was the Canadians didn't panic the way the Soviets did when they got down, because they were all seasoned NHL heads who'd been down before. Their first line -- Nathan McKinnon, Connor McDavid and 18-year-old phenom Macklin Celebrini -- was the best in the world. And if Hellebuyck was standing on his head at one end, his Canadian counterpart Jordan Binnington was pulling rabbits out of hats at the other end, too.

Now, I have no idea how you measure such things. But if there's ever been better goaltending in an Olympic gold medal game, I've never seen  it.

And so on it went into overtime, and finally here was Jack Hughes, gory Chiclets and all, taking a laser cross-ice pass from Zach Werensky and hammering the puck past Binnington, and then everyone in red, white and blue was throwing his gloves and stick down and forming a happy scrum that went on and on, same as 46 years ago. 

American flags materialized, seemingly from nowhere, and the boys put them on like Superman capes. They brought out Johnny Gaudreau's No. 13 and skated around with it. Then they scooped up Gaudreau's two young children and posed them with their father's jersey in the team photo.

If there was a dry eye in the house by that point -- or in sports bars or living rooms all over America, truth be told -- whoever it belonged to was missing a soul. 

(Also missing a soul: Anyone who didn't yelp "What the HELL?" upon seeing FBI director/jock-sniffing dweeb Kash Patel slamming beers with Our Boys like he belonged there. And on the taxpayers' dime, no less.)

Anyway ...

Karma 1, World 0, by God. Bless those Boys.

Take that

 Now this, ladies and gentlemen, is what you call your "payback."

Purdue 93, Indiana 64.

Thirty rebounds for the Boilers; 15 for the Hoosiers.

Sixty-five percent shooting for the Purdues, including 10-of-18 from the 3-point arc.

Fletcher Loyer couldn't miss, hitting all five of his shots including all four from Threeville. Braden Smith did Braden Smith things, bottoming half his 10 shots and dishing eight assists. Down low, meanwhile, Trey Kaufman-Renn and Oscar Cluff combined for 26 points, 14 boards and eight assists, with TKR collecting 20, six and five of those.

After Smith and Loyer opened the game with matching threes, and Tucker DeVries flushed a triple of his own, Indiana never got closer than four points again. Down 17 at halftime, the Hoosiers never trailed by fewer than 16 points  the rest of the way, and were down by as many as 34 in the late going.

"So, in other words, Purdue did what the No. 7 team in the nation is supposed to do against an unranked opponent," you're saying now. "How was this payback, exactly?"

Well, because it's Indiana, silly. And Purdue, silly.

Never the bonhomie will meet with these two, and that was especially true last night, with the Hoosiers coming to Mackey and the Boilermakers ... well, just laying for them. A month ago, see, they walked into Assembly Hall as the better team, and the Hoosiers rolled out Curt Cignetti and the CFP national championship trophy for the paying customers. As you might imagine, that blew the roof off the joint, and the basketball Hoosiers, properly stoked, took down the Boilers 72-67.

Doubtful that left a mark, and especially so for Smith, Loyer, TKR and the rest of the seniors, who were 3-4 in their careers vs. the Hoosiers after that one. Acknowledged as perhaps the greatest class in the school's history, you think they wanted to exit with a losing record against, omigod, Indiana?

Of course they didn't. And of course they, well, didn't.

By 29 points, they didn't, and if it was some major Take That, you could also see it coming from several light years away. The question, of course, is just how much carryover there'll be for Matt Painter's crew.

Four nights ago they played well against the best team in the nation, but ultimately fell by 11 to the Michigan Wolverines. The win last night was their fifth in the six games since the loss in Assembly Hall, and four winnable games remain against 15th-ranked Michigan State and unranked Ohio State, Northwestern and Wisconsin. 

On the other hand ...

On the other hand, they've been maddeningly inconsistent at times this season, losing games they shouldn't have lost and struggling to survive against opponents they should have launched into orbit. They were 10-of-18 from the arc last night, but next time out they might just as easily be 3-of-18. So it goes with this bunch.

On the further other hand (yes, the Blob has three, deal with it), they're playing their best basketball of the season precisely when a basketball team wants to be doing that. So that goes, too.

At any rate, onward. Where else?

A day for the USA

 Raise a glass this a.m. to U-S-A!, U-S-A!, which had itself a day yesterday over in Italy.

There was the women's Olympic hockey team, which beat Canada for the gold medal  but not as easily as it beat Canada a week ago in the group phase. That final was a resounding 5-0 keister-tanning; this time it was like pulling teeth, which is what it's usually like when the Americans and Canadians have at it.

Final score was 2-1, and it took overtime to decide it. Megan Keller scored the winner after Hilary Knight, playing in her last Olympics, saved the day on a deflection with 2:04 to play in regulation to force OT. The Americans, down 1-0 since the second period, had pulled their goalie in a desperate attempt to get even.

So hooray for them, and also, whew. And hooray, also, for America's latest golden girl, the irrepressible Alysa Liu, who came to Milan/Cortina just hoping to skate well but wound up skating the, um, well-est of them all.

Her flawless long program, full of triple axels and toe loops and what-not, overhauled the two Japanese skaters in front of her for the gold medal. She's the first American gold medalist in women's figure skating since Sarah Hughes -- remember her? -- 24 years ago.

And also the least likely.

Liu, you see, dropped out of the sport after the Beijing Games four years ago, citing burnout. She was 16 years old at the time, and for the next couple of years did what teenage girls do who don't know a toe loop from a Froot Loop. A year or so ago she took it up again, and came to these Games with no expectations of a medal. Maybe a bronze, if she was lucky.

It's better left to the psychologists to determine if that open-ended, I'm-just-here-to-express-myself approach is what won her gold. Certainly it would seem to have lifted any pressure she might have felt; when you come at something with no expectations, the expectations can't weigh you down or make you turn a blade wrong. 

"We never actually had a goal of winning," said one Liu's two coaches, Phillip DiGuglielmo, noting that the goal for this season was simply to make the Olympic team. "That was the really big deal for her."

And Liu?

"I don't need this (medal)," she told D'arcy Maine of ESPN. "But what I needed was the stage and I got that, so I was all good."

Which may be why she got the medal, too.

A death in the late afternoon

 Twenty-five years on, I can still hear it in Darrell Waltrip's voice. It was the first clue, the initial inkling, that something had gone terribly wrong down there at the end of Daytona International Speedway's long backstretch, and that an awful vacancy had just swallowed an entire sport.

Hope Dale's OK ...

Darrell Waltrip, suddenly saying that as he gabbled on and on in the wake of his brother winning the Daytona 500.

Darrell Waltrip, who'd seen death in the afternoon before -- who'd cheated it on at least one shrieking, metal-shredding occasion himself, and never fully recovered -- belatedly sensing what had happened behind brother Mikey as the checkers flew.

Hope Dale's OK ...

Dale, as in Dale Earnhardt, who'd been blocking for Michael Waltrip entering turn three when he got bumped from behind, slewed up toward the wall, and then got turned directly into it a millisecond before impact.

It didn't look like much. A gentle nudge, as these things go at Daytona. But the angle was all wrong, and the black No. 3 slid back down the banking into the infield, and Waltrip up in the broadcast booth must have belatedly noticed nothing was moving inside the car when he looked in that direction ...

Hope Dale's OK ...

Well, Dale wasn't OK, of course. Dale was dead. Twenty-five years ago yesterday.

Physics turned that gentle nudge into a killer there in the late afternoon, and as I watched the sports shows commemorating the 25th anniversary, it all came back to me. Waltrip's odd, troubling segue. The conspicuous silence on the race broadcast about the crash. And then an aerial shot of an ambulance leaving the sprawling facility, slowly, with no lights flashing.

Final confirmation, that was. Final confirmation for those of us who've been at a million racetracks and know what it looks and sounds and feels like when it's really bad. 

Dale Earnhardt was dead, of a basilar skull fracture, which is what happens when a sudden, catastrophic stop whips the head violently forward. Earnhardt was the fourth NASCAR driver in nine months to be killed by one, and by far the most notable. The man was an icon -- hell, he was NASCAR to a significant portion of the fan base -- and his absence would dominate every NASCAR Cup race for the rest of the season.

Fans all over the country holding up three fingers on the third lap of every race. Broadcasters going silent on every third lap. That sort of thing.

Along the way, that absence would also change the sport, and for the better. The HANS device that holds the head rigid would become mandatory. Soft-wall technology originally introduced by IndyCar would come to the stock-car circuits. And the consequence?

No driver in NASCAR's top three series has died in a racing accident since.

An ironic legacy, perhaps, for a man who never gave safety issues a second thought when he climbed into that black No. 3. But the best legacy, surely, for the death of an icon in he late afternoon, 25 years on.