A world united

The young man's name was Ishaan and he was wearing a Morocco soccer jersey, but today was not about Morocco. Today it was Colombia vs. Switzerland on the big screen in the back room of JK O'Donnell's here in the Fort, and Ishaan was rooting for Colombia.

"I put $20 on Colombia to win," he said proudly.

The seven or eight men and women dressed in Colombia yellow nodded and smiled when he said that. Then they went back to laughing and watching intently and moaning whenever Colombia -- which was forcing the action -- got a chance that came thisclose to a goal, but not close enough.

None of them were speaking English. 

Yet all of them seemed to understand whenever Ishaan expressed admiration for the way Colombia played this game of futbol, which of course is why we were all here in the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday.

"Colombia's really good," Ishaan declared, and the men and women in their Colombia gear all nodded as if to say, "Thanks. And you're damn right we're good."

Something occurred to me just then.

It occurred to me that this World Cup business has been great for the human business, because it's knocked down all those flimsy, artificial barriers of language and culture and ignorance. In English or Spanish or German or Portuguese -- in French, Korean, Persian or Norwegian -- there is a universality to a man kicking a ball to another man. In every language on the planet, there's a way of saying, "That IDIOT! How did he misplay THAT ball??"

It's the mossiest cliche in the forest to say sports stitches us together like few other things, but we've seen the truth of it in close-up in America this past month or so. Foreigners our float-brain leaders encourage us to fear and loathe in other contexts have, in the context of the World Cup, seen the real America. And they have embraced it as readily as the real America has embraced them.

The Tartan Army of Scotland taking over Boston, and Boston returning the favor. The Clockwork Orange of Netherlands discovering barbecue in Kansas City. Another town in Kansas -- Lawrence -- embracing the Algerian team and fans as if they were its own.

We have learned about each other, in other words. And about ourselves in the process.

The Scots and Dutch and Norwegians and Algerians, first of all, have learned not just about barbecue and (go figure) ranch dressing; they've learned that Americans are not the worst of us.  We are not the bigots and xenophobes and bullying loudmouths who regrettably have become the official public face of our country here in the second Trump abomination. 

We are not Those Asshats, in other words. And Those Asshats do not speak for us.

So hooray for the Tartan Army, decorating Boston statuary with traffic cones and drinking up all the Sam Adams. And hooray for Norway's Erling Haaland, the Viking-est Viking ever, and the Viking row the Norwegian team and fans did everywhere they went.

Hooray for Lionel Messi and Kylian Mbappe and Mohammed Salah and Lamine Yamal, and for Switzerland's Breel Embolo and England's Jude Bellingham -- whom the English fans in their face paint and chain mail and Three Lions costumes saluted with a chorus of "Hey, Jude" after his two-goal performance against Norway, because of course they did.

Hooray, finally, for Ishaan in his Morocco jersey and the Colombian fans in their Colombian jerseys in the back room at O'Donnell's. I don't speak Spanish, regrettably, and I don't know how much English they knew. But we understood one another anyway.

Because when I got up to leave and said "Good luck",  they smiled and nodded and gave me a thumbs-up. For one small sliver of time, we were a world united.

Blessedly so.

Kickin' it with history

 England plays France today in the World Cup third-place game, and the history geek in me could not be more geeked. This is the Seven Years War and the Hundred Years War and the Second Hundred Years War all wrapped up in a tidy corner kick, or perhaps a setpiece starring Harry Kane or Kylian Mbappe.

"That's just silly, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "France and England haven't made war on each other in decades. This is just another soccer match between two strong European sides."

Is it, though? Is it REALLY?

Because the Blob's over-caffeinated imagination (and confirmed history nerdity) envisions something else when the French and English square off today. 

Like, if Mbappe scores for France, will he taunt the Brits by shouting "Cornwallis ... paging Lord Cornwallis ..."?

And if Kane or Jude Bellingham score for England, will the English fans pantomime shooting arrows while chanting "Agincourt! Agincourt!" in a mocking sort of way?

Will the French respond by raising a banner that reads "We Killed Nelson And We're Not Sorry"? Will the Brits retaliate by raising a white bedsheet that reads, "National Flag Of France"?

Oh, the insults will fly then ...

"You lost India to a guy in a loincloth!" the French will mock.

"Thanks for the Northwest Territories! Nice of you to surrender them to us!" the English will reply.

"Hastings!" "Waterloo!" "They shall not pass!" "Vini, vidi, Vichy!"

On and on.

"Silliness," you're reiterating. "Pure, undiluted silliness."

Yeah, well. Sorry not sorry.

Cruds alert!*

(* -- Pittsburgh Pirates not included.)

(*-- Because my Buccos are a .500 baseball team now, and we're already more than halfway through July. So kiss my Rennie Stennett/Iron City/Primanti Brothers hindparts, y'all.)

Now where was I?

Oh, yeah, cruds and their cruddiness. Which today features not your Colorado Rockheads, not your New York Mutts, but an exciting new entry in the Cruds Alert pantheon.

Come on down, you Don't-Say-Sacramento Athletics!

The Athlessics were riding a nine-game losing streak going into last night's clash with the "meh" Washington Nationals, after which it became a 10-game losing streak. And not just any 10-game losing streak, boys and girls!

No, this one was achieved with a football-score 23-4 loss to the Nationals, the Athlessics  apparently having scored their points on two safeties. The Nats, meanwhile, got four touchdowns, er, four hits and eight hundred yards, er, eight RBI from AndresChaparro in the win.

The A's, meanwhile, now are 41-56 and just 31/2 games clear of the AL West cellar, which is occupied by the horrific Los Angeles Angels, who are the worst team in baseball right now by a percentage point or two.

But at least the Angels (Mange-els?) have a home city. The Athlessics are not allowed to. In the standings they're just the "Athletics", because apparently MLB regards Sacramento not as a real MLB city, but as a B&B or Super Eight or something as the A's make their eventual way to Las Vegas.

Insult added to injury, if you ask me. And boy are the Athlessics good at injury, if nothing else.

Bloviators in the wind

 (In which the Blob, like Andy Dufresne, once again crawls through half a mile of s***-smelling foulness to escape Sportsball World. Those who wish to leave the room know the standard protocol.)

Sometimes the cross you bear for being from Indiana is having to admit you're from Indiana. We remain, after all, the state that once tried to legislate the value of pi.

Therefore, this morning, I declare this: Yes, I am from Indiana.

And, yes, one of my senators is the illustrious Jim "Bag O' Hammers" Banks, who recently joined several other bags of hammers to venture into the realm of satire without realizing it.

Here's what Jimbo said: "Every Summer, Canada burns. Every summer, we have to deal with their heavy smoke & hazardous air quality. Every Summer, they tell us they'll take action to fix this mess & they never do. Our patience has run out, the time for excuses is over, & if they won't fix this, we will."

Before you ask, no, this is not The Onion. Or Babylon Bee or an Andy Borowitz post or that of any other satirist. Jimbo and his fellow bloviators in the wind actually said this.

Being a former journalist, I can already envision the headlines.

Banks Decries "Invasion" Of Canadian Wildfire Smoke; "This Aggression Will Not Stand, Man," He Says, Unwittingly Quoting The Dude.

Banks Demands Canada Put The Damn Fires Out; Says "We Can't Breathe," Unwittingly Quoting George Floyd.

And so on.

In any event, Banks and his fellow BOHs say it's merely a matter of better forest management on Canada's part, and if the hosers refuse to to do it, why, the U.S. will step in and do it for them. We are, after all, masters at forest management. It's why, every Summer, we have only 13 times more wildfires than Canada does, producing mega-volumes more smoke.

Of course, Banks doesn't address that. And he doesn't say exactly how the U.S. would "step in and do it for them." Do we send in the 82nd Airborne to seize Canada's forestry service? Invade western Canada with an army of patriotic Americans wielding giant brooms? Build a wall of mammoth industrial fans to blow all that Canadian smoke back across the border? ("Mass deportation NOW!" you can imagine the MAGA crowd howling).

Now, I'm not saying the wildfire smoke isn't bad. It is. Even here in Fort Wayne, hundreds of miles from the fires, you can both see it in the air and smell it right now. It's frankly pretty crazy it's this bad this far away.

But what do Banks and the rest of the clowns want to do, start a war over it? Demand that Canada control the jet stream or we will? And what about the smoke from our own wildfires?

Because Canada isn't the only place that's burning this summer. So is Minnesota. And that smoke's blowing northwest to southeast, too.

Look. I know Banks and the rest of the dopes think they can control nature, but there's a long and disastrous history of what happens when humans try. Especially when the humans in question are our elected pinheads, and what they come up with is as vague and frankly absurd as this is.

 See, the bottom line here is you can't stop wildfires from happening, because they've been happening for millennia with or without forest management. You can't stop their smoke from riding the wind, because, well, it's the wind. And the bad part is they're only going to get worse as the planet warms and folks like Jim Banks deny human activity has anything to do with it.

Because climate change doesn't exist, you know. It's all a myth cooked up by commie socialist fascist libtards to keep America from being great.

So there goes one solution, or at least a mitigation, that might actually work.

Another, of course, is sending American crews to Canada to help fight the fires -- just as Canada (and Mexico) has done for us. But, nah, we'd rather threaten people. Because that's what our muscle-y new America is all about these days.

Unfortunately, as Bag O' Hammers and his ilk demonstrated this week, some of that muscle is in their heads.

Now about that jet stream ...

Non-preventive measures

 You play ... to win ... the game.

-- Herm Edwards

You tell 'em, Herman. And by "'em", we mean "those poor victory-averse Three Lions from England."

Who pulled defeat from the arse of victory again yesterday, just when it seemed they were about to bury 60 years of frustration in a well-marked grave. Anthony Gordon came off the bench to score an artful goal -- you try controlling an awkward cross with the side of your foot while steering it into the net in the same motion -- in the 55th minute yesterday, and suddenly England led Argentina 1-nil in the second World Cup semifinal.

If the Brits hung on, they were headed to their first final since 1966. Which is also the last time they won the whole deal. 

For 30 minutes, they did hang on. For 30 minutes, we were looking at a Spain-England final.

And then ...

And then Lionel Messi happened.

With five minutes to play plus stoppage time, the world's best player found Enzo Fernandez at the top of the box, and Fernandez ripped a gorgeous fade into the far top shelf just beyond the leaping reach of England keeper Jordan Pickford, who'd been bravely staving off Argentine attacks for half an hour.

Six or so minutes later, two minutes into stoppage time, Messi collected Alexis Mac Allister's ricochet off the near post, eluded two defenders and placed a flawless cross to the far post and Lautaro Martinez, who headed it home.

And just like that, Argentina, not England, was going to the final, its second straight. Just like that, the defending champs went from deceased to Not Dead Yet with yet another miraculous resuscitation.

And England had no one to blame but itself.

Remember what ol' Herm said?

You play ... to win ... the game.

England did not.

England, after Gordon put it ahead, unaccountably went into turtle mode, surrendering the attack to Messi and Argentina and retreating to what American football fans recognized as a prevent defense. And, just like 99 percent of the time in the NFL, the preventive measure didn't prevent anything at all -- except the "W," of course.

Instead of doing what had given it the lead to begin with, England chose to do the opposite. It began pulling attackers off the field for defenders with an astounding 18 minutes to play, giving Argentina all the opening it needed to storm the English gates.

 Which it proceeded to do for the next 30 minutes. 

Crosses and corners went into the box. Shots pelted Pickford, slid just wide, spanged off crossbars and goalposts. It seemed inevitable that one of them was eventually going to find a home.

And eventually one did, in the 85th minute.

And eventually another did. 

And not quite 10 minutes later, England was going home again, the latest victim of playing not to lose disease.

As for Argentina ...

Well, it was another high-wire act in a tournament full of them for the defending champs.

They needed overtime to knock out tiny Cape Verde in the round of 32. Trailed Egypt 2-0 with 11 minutes plus stoppage time to play in the round of 16 before scoring three goals in 14 minutes for a miracle 3-2 win. Needed overtime again to beat Switzerland in the quarterfinals, even though the Swiss were playing a man short for the last 48 minutes thanks to a dubious red card for diving against Breel Embolo.

Now, somehow, they're in the final again. Spain, European champs and an absolute machine that thoroughly smothered Kilian Mbappe and France in the other semi, will certainly be the favorite.

However ...

Ah, yes. However.

A hometown vote

 The Open Championship begins tomorrow at one of those courses not named St. Andrew's, and the Blob will not be doing the red-white-and-blue thing, 250th anniversary of America's founding or no 250th anniversary of America's founding.

I suppose this would earn me a flogging in some of the more deranged precincts of our great nation. But, sorry, it's just too easy to pick Scottie Scheffler.

I'm not picking Rory McIlroy, either, even though everyone always picks him to win The Open, on account of he's Rory McIlroy. And even though he had the quote of the year last week at the Scottish Open, after he hit a very un-Rory-like shot.

"Oh, my God, I'm so bad at golf!" cried one of the best golfers of his generation.

You gotta love that. However ...

However, I love Tommy Fleetwood better.

He's British, he's got way cool hockey-flow hair, and he's one of the more genial players on tour. Also, he's come thisclose too many times this season for the golf gods not to let him off the mat for once.

Oh, yeah.  Also, he's the hometown boy in this Open.

He hails from Southport, site of Royal  Birkdale, which is where The Open is being contested this week. Southport is a seaside town in Merseyside. What I know about Merseyside is Gary and the Pacemakers wrote a hit song called "Ferry Cross The Mersey" in the 1960s.

All the more reason to pick Tommy, I figure.

He's playing mostly terrific golf. He'll have the gallery behind him. He's even got his own song, sort of.

So, yeah. Fleetwood's my guy. If he wins -- or if, say, it's fellow Brit Matt Fitzpatrick, who's been one of the hottest golfers on tour in 2026 -- he'd be the first Englishman to win The Open since Nick Faldo in 1992. And he'd be the first to win it in England proper since Tony Jacklin at Royal Lytham & St. Annes.

That happened 57 years ago, in 1969. Which means somebody must be due.

Why not the hometown boy?

Today in un-jinxes

 The American League shut out the pathetic Nationals 4-0 in a dud of an All-Star Game last night, which you can take one of two ways by the Blob's lights.

One, it was a a complete failure of occasion by the Pastime in America's 250th year.

Two, it was exactly what host city Philadelphia deserved after its subhuman, pelting-Santa-Claus-with-snowballs fans booed everyone but the Phillies' Kyle Schwarber in the Home Run Derby.

But moving right along ...

Moving right along, it's on to the second half, and to an episode of ... well, I don't know what you'd call it. Harmonic convergence? Karmic transference? Sportsball cross-pollination?

Here's the deal: On July 1, the Boston Celtics traded Jaylen Brown -- Robin to  Jayson Tatum's Batman, or vice-versa -- to the Philadelphia 76ers for a washed Paul George and some magic beans. At the time, the Boston Red Sox were 11 games under .500 and dead last in the AL East.

Since the day of the trade, however, they've won nine straight games, and were the hottest team in the majors at the All-Star break. They've gone from last to third in the division, and are now just two games below water at 46-48.

So, Boston's basketball team trades a key player, and Boston's sorry-ass baseball team hasn't lost a game since. Honestly, what would you call that?

"Witchcraft?" you're saying now.

Clever. Way to work in the whole Salem thing.

"An interdenominational un-jinx?" 

Ooh. Good one.

"A mere coincidence?"

The un-sexy truth, perhaps.

See, the Jaylen Brown trade just happened to fall right before the schedule sent the Red Sox on a road trip, and not the sort of road trip where you get squashed on the center line like an armadillo. This was the other kind of road trip.

The kind where six of the nine games were against two of the worst four teams in MLB, the stinkin' Los Angeles Angels and the odiferous New York Mets. And so of course the Red Sox swept them both.

On the other hand, the other three-game set was in Chicago against the White Sox, who are no longer the What Sox but a slightly-better-than-.500 club that, owing to the "meh"-ness of the AL Central, are locked in a seesaw fight with Cleveland for the division lead. Still, the Red Sox swept them, too.

So three road series, three broom jobs. And 9-0 since the Jaylen Brown trade.

They ought to send the guy flowers. The Angels, Mets and White Sox could probably use some, too.

Tour de Obscure

 It's been a crowded hour lately in Sportsball World, what with the World Cup quarterfinals going head-to-head with the Wimbledon finals over the weekend, and this afternoon's mammoth France-Spain semi and tonight's MLB All-Star Game waiting in the wings. Also, did we mention the British Open starts in two days?

Well, it does. So, soccer, tennis, baseball (the Home Run Derby last night), more soccer, more baseball, and golf, all in the space of 96 hours or so. That's a heapin' helpin' of Big Sporting Moments and such.

I'm sorry, what?

What about the what?

Oh, right. There's also this bicycle thingy going on, over there in Europe.

It's the Tour de France, which once riveted the world's attention back when Lance Armstrong was cheating his glutes off, but now is the Tour de Obscure. Especially this year, with so much else going on, including NASCAR and the WNBA and professional cornhole.

The Tour these days ranks somewhere below the latter and just above professional pillow fighting (yes, there is such a thing) in the sports hierarchy, which is quite a comedown from the Lance mafioso era. Like, who are the top riders now? Does anyone remember what a peloton is ("An exercise machine?" you're saying now)? And who's wearing the leader's yellow jersey right now?

Well, that would be defending champion Tadej Pogacar, who's from Slovenia but somewhat less known than Luka Doncic, who's also Slovenian. Doncic is not another Tour de France-r. He plays basketball for the Los Angeles Lakers. You might have heard of him.

Anyway, Pogacar leads the Tour through nine stages, with a whole pile of stages to go. The winner of the ninth stage, by the way, was Mathieu van der Poel -- who is Dutch but is not  to be confused with other Dutchmen, like, say, Max Verstappen. Verstappen isn't a Tour de France-r, either. He drives a state-of-the-art F1 race car for Red Bull.

Perhaps you've heard of him, too.

Van der Poel beat out Tobias Johannessen from Norway and Tom Pidcock from Great Britain for the stage win, and, no, Tobias is not Erling Haaland, the towering Norwegian who became the breakout star of this World Cup. Nor does Pidcock's name spring as readily to English lips as Harry Kane or Jude Bellingham, who are gearing up to lead the Brits against Argentina in the other World Cup semi.

That happens tomorrow. Also tomorrow is the 11th stage of the Tour, a sprint through the Loire Valley.

If Pidcock wins it, all of England will rejoice.

Oh, wait. That's what will happen if Kane, Bellingham and England beat Lionel Messi and Argentina to reach the World Cup final. Sorry for the confusion.

Swing and a miss

 Saw an item on Awful Announcing the other day about a TV reporter in Knoxville, Tenn., missing a home run because he was reviewing a ballpark hotdog, and I thought, there but for the punishment of God went I.

Because, see, I was just a bit envious.

The reporter, Phil Stalzer, was at a Knoxville Smokies game, the Smokies being the Double-A affiliate of the Chicago Cubs. And he was reporting live on a foot-long hotdog called the Grinch Glizzy (it was "Christmas In July" night at the ballpark) when a player for the visiting Biloxi Shuckers smoked a monster home run.

The broadcast team elected to stay with ol' Phil, who kept right on talking about the Grinch Glizzy. Because, what the hell, it's the minor leagues, so why not?

Phil's laser focus on the job at hand is not why I was envious, however. I was envious because how come I never got to review ballpark hotdogs?

I scribbled about sports for almost 40 years as a professional, well, scribbler, and NOT ONCE did I get to write a review of a ballpark hotdog. I could have pulled it off, too, as someone who was somewhat conversant with ballpark 'dogs. But did my editors ever say, "Hey, why don't you review a ballpark hotdog"?

NO THEY DID NOT. 

And so this morning I'm harboring retrograde resentment toward said editors, although I say that with tongue firmly embedded in cheek. I mostly liked my editors, see. They let me scribble what I wanted for the most part, except when they were compelled to save me from myself.

But, man. Talk about a swing and a miss with the hotdog-review thing.

Had they turned me loose, I could have brought home the coveted Pulitzer For Hotdog Reviewing, a little-known category which I just made up. I could have written how my ballpark 'dog was a superbly grilled symphony of flavors, the onions and relish and mustard in perfect harmony with one another. I could have written about the 'dog's savory nose, and its subtle-yet-succulent finish.

Heck. I could even have branched out into other venues, and reviewed the Boiler Dogs at Purdue (excellent) and the 'dogs at Michigan Stadium (vile). And what's a comprehensive hotdog review without including the fabled Track Dogs at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway?

(And as a sidelight, the donuts from the Pennzoil room.)

Ah, but those days are done, and life's too short for regrets. I mean, I never got to review the strawberries-and-cream at Wimbledon, the mint juleps at the Kentucky Derby or those famous pimento-cheese sandwiches at the Masters, either.

Although I hear the latter are divine. Just divine.

Czech, and check

 Martina Navratilova, the grande dame of them all, was on hand, of course, sitting next to the Princess of Wales in the Royal Box. So was Petra Kvitova, in the same box. And crowding close, in spirit or in person, was a whole spangled lineage echoing down the years.

Because, listen, when was the last time two Czechs faced off in a Wimbledon women's final?

How about never?

So, yes, the Czechs were there yesterday, to watch their latest progeny ascend the heights. It was 21-year-old Linda Noskova against 28-year-old Karolina Muchova -- her former doubles partner -- for the women's singles title, and when it was over Noskova won 6-2, 5-7, 6-3. And there she was on Centre Court, lifting the Venus Rosewater Dish same as Martina and Kvitova and Marketa Vondrousova and Barbora Krejcikova and the late Jana Novotna before her.

The Czechs and women's tennis? Check.

Serena Williams remains the greatest women's player who ever sliced a forehand down the line, but no one nation has consistently produced more women's champions in the modern era than Czechia/the Czech Republic/Czechoslovakia. It begins with Martina, of course, but it's also all those who followed her and built on a proud legacy: Four-time major winner (and two-time Wimbledon finalist) Hana Mandlikova, and 1998 Wimbledon champ Novotna, and two-time Wimby titlist Kvitova -- whom Noskova idolized growing up, and referred to Saturday as "the Petra Kvitova."

And Noskova and Muchova?

They are good friends and former doubles partners who reached the semifinals in the Olympics just two years ago. Noskova gave a nod to that in the trophy ceremony, when she told Muchova she was happy it was Karolina on the other side of the net for Noskova's first grand slam final.

"I think we made history today," she said.

More like added to it.

A touch of irony

So the defending champs are through to the World Cup semis, and here's to irony and harmonic resonance, boys and girls. Argentina gets the Three Lions of England next, and everyone will again be talking about the bleep-bleep officiating.

In 1986, after all, it was an Argentina-England quarterfinal match that spawned the most famous illegal goal in World Cup history -- i.e., the Hand of God goal that Diego Maradona scored to send England to the sidelines yet again.

Maradona steered that one into the net with his left hand, but somehow the game officials  missed it. So the goal stood, and on Argentina went to win its fourth World Cup.

And last night?

Another World Cup quarterfinal. Another officiating gift for Argentina. And, irony of ironies, not because of something the officials missed, but because of something they thought they saw.

Which was Swiss striker Breel Embolo taking a dive.

Because Embolo had been nicked for a yellow card earlier in the match, it was an automatic red card and therefore expulsion. It left Switzerland to play a man short for the duration, and it happened in the 72nd minute -- five minutes after Dan Ndoye leveled the match at 1-1.

The Swiss kept it even into the second extra-time period, before Julian Alvarez cashed the winner in the 112th minute in an eventual 3-1 Argentina victory.

The irony wrapped in irony in this case was Embolo was sent off for -- as soccer calls it, rather splendidly -- "simulation." In Americanese, that means he took a dive. Which is almost never called in the beautiful game, and hilarious on top of it, given the scenery-chewing that's considered a matter of course whenever a player is jostled, tripped or otherwise falls down with the greatest of ease.

Down goes the player, in seeming agony. Rolls around for awhile, clutching his leg and screaming. Sometimes he really is hurt, and has to be helped off the pitch; sometimes, if the officials basically say "Get up, I'm not buying this," he hops to his feet, gripes a bit at the injustice of the world, and heads back into play, miraculously cured. 

Everyone does this, including Argentina. Everyone is a thespian and a salesman. So for someone to actually get called on it -- and for it to benefit Argentina, of all sides -- surely is the soccer gods saying, "Pull my finger."

Oh, they must have been having a good chortle, up there in Corner Kick Heaven. Except, of course, in the Switzerland section -- where, as befits the Swiss, they were not amused.

Anyway, it's on the semis against England, which slid through with its own pinch of good fortune. The gritty Norwegians and their endearing fans had a go-ahead goal disallowed, and spanked point-blank shots off crossbars and into the arms of the English keeper, and generally gave the Three Lions (and Jude Bellingham) all the breathing room they needed for a 2-1 win in extra time.

Could it be? Could the soccer gods be smiling on England at last, 60 years after it last laid hands on the World Cup?

Maybe. Or, maybe they're all huddled in a corner somewhere, giggling.

"OK, guys," they're saying. "Go get the Hand of God out of storage."

A most soapy summer

 And now the latest episode of All My LeBrons, or The Guiding LeBron, or General LeBronpital, in which our hero breaks up with Laura, sending her into Luke's arms and making hope blossom in the breasts of Bam and Steph and Luke Kornet and who knows who all ...

Oh, it is a most soapy summer in the NBA, where 41-year-old LeBron James is a free man looking for one last place to steal his heart. 

Having broken up with the Los Angeles Lakers, in other words, where will LeBron land?

Steph Curry wants him with Golden State. Luke Kornet's pitched the Spurs. How about the Heat, where the Superfriends (LeBron, DwyaneWade and Chris Bosh) won a couple of titles?

Will the siren song of home again pull LeBron back to Cleveland for an auld lang syne closing of the circle?  What about the 76ers, where LeBron, Joel Embid, Tyrese Maxey and just-acquired Celtics star Jaylen Brown could be Superfriends II? Or the Timberwolves, where he'd team up with Ant (Anthony Edwards)?

Tune in, I don't know, sometime for the dramatic conclusion!

Or better yet, check out tomorrow's script, which the Blob has acquired through not at all nefarious means:

(Fade in on LeBron's palatial mansion. He and Steph Curry are having an intense confrontation)

Steph: But ... but ... you said we'd be together! You and me, the dynamic duo! That's what you said!

LeBron: Now, wait a minute, I never said that.

Steph: Yes, you did! 

LeBron: No I DIDN'T. I said we made a good couple. I never said we'd be THE couple.

Steph: So there's someone else! I knew it! Who is it? It's Embid, isn't it? Or ... or ... that trashy slut Ant! And don't think I haven't noticed you making goo-goo eyes at Cleveland! Really, LeBron? You want to go back to that well AGAIN?

LeBron: Look ... Steph ... this is a big decision. But no matter how it turns out, we'll always be tight, won't we? You know I have nothing but respect for you, brothe--

(Rustling noises and whispers from behind the closet door)

Steph: What's that? Who's in there, LeBron?

(Strides over and flings open the door. Staring back at him, slightly embarrassed, are Embid, Ant, Bam Adebayo from the Heat and Donovan Mitchell from the Cavaliers)

Steph: HA! I KNEW it! Why, you degenerate piece of crap! Sorry to interrupt your little bro-fest, 'Bron! Look, Mitchell's even wearing your old Cavs jersey, the little hussy!

(Stomps out, sobbing)

LeBron: STEPH!!

(He turns to the four men behind the door. Opens his mouth to say something. Fade to black)

What will he say? What will he do? Tune in tomorrow for the next thrilling installment of "Days Of Our Young And Restless LeBrons"!

Row, row, row your boat ...

 OK, so it's official now. I'm rooting for Norway from here on out in the World Cup.

And, no, not because I like movies about Vikings. And, no, not even because of the series "Vikings," although Ragnar Lothbrok probably would have been a hell of a striker.

I'm rooting for the Norwegians because they've never gone this deep in a World Cup, and I have a weakness for underdogs.

I'm rooting for them because, OK, I love the Viking boat-rowing thing the team and its fans do after every win. And because Leif Erikson, not that poser Christopher Columbus, is the European who really discovered America. And because Erling Haaland is a real-life Ragnar Lothbrok who can do things with his feet and head that probably aren't legal in most developed nations.

And because tomorrow, in the quarterfinals, the play England, Harry Kane and Jude Bellingham and them. Nothing against those fine lads, but I can't root for England. Not on the 250th anniversary of us kicking their limey asses out of our country. 'Merica!

Besides, England hasn't won a World Cup in 60 years. Why mess with tradition?

Anyway, I hope Erling Haaland gets five touches tomorrow and scores on three of them, which seems to happen fairly often. I hope Norway gets another chance to bring out the drum, have a designated player bang on it, and have the team and its fans pull on those imaginary oars in response. It's been the best celebratory deal in the World Cup outside of the Belgium players pantomiming that weird dance President Donald John "I'll Poke My Nose In Where It Doesn't Belong If I Feel Like It" Trump does at campaign rallies.

Their way, I guess, of saying "Nyah-nyah, nyah-nyah-nyah" after Donald John leaned on FIFA chief Gianni Infantino to get American star Folarin Balogun reinstated for the Belgium match -- and the Belgians took the USMNT apart like a cheap toy anyway, 4-1.

Any-hoo, I imagine Norway doing something similar should it continue its underdog run by knocking out the Brits. Maybe they'll form a circle and sing that one song about rowing ...

Row, row, row your boat

Gently down the stream.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,

Life is but a dream OF BEATING THE BRAKES OFF THE BLOODY ENGLISH ...

Or, you know, something like that.

Grandstand plays

 Oh, goody gumdrops. Our elected nitwits are comin' to rescue Caitlin Clark from the vile clutches of ... well, you know. Those people.

(And, no, we don't have to clarify who "those people" are. The dog whistles, especially from one side of aisle, aren't so dog whistle-y anymore. Fearless Leader has made it OK to say it right out loud.)

This upon the news that congressional Republicans have sent the WNBA a letter, signed by 11 reps including three from right'chere in Indiana, basically threatening to sic the Justice Department on it if it doesn't do something about protecting Caitlin Clark from, well, those people. Meaning the "violent targeting" they see when poor Caitlin gets fouled hard or winds up catching an elbow, a knee or even a fist while scrambling for a loose ball.

Which, you  know, never happens by accident.

It's all by design, and all by Those People -- i.e., those mean black lesbians who are picking on Caitlin because she's white and hetero, and whom our esteemed nitwits have no problem calling "thugs," no matter the racial shading of that term. 

"Republicans have consistently led the charge on protecting women's sports ..." the letter begins.

After which I had to stop reading for awhile because I was laughing too hard.

Look. As the Blob has pointed out many times before, it's almost always the Olympus of folly for politicians to comment on/meddle in the affairs of Sportsball World, because what most of them know about it you could fit in Jiminy Cricket's hat. This of course does not stop them from commenting/meddling, because there's no one so bulletproof-sure of his or her knowledge of all things as a politician.

Besides, whenever they do comment/meddle, it always reeks of political opportunism -- or as it's also known, "massaging the base." Which for the Republicans these days regrettably includes a not inconsiderable number of bigots, white supremacists and assorted other knuckleheads.

The congressional letter/gangster threat ("You got a real nice league here. Don't make us send Legal Brief Luca Brasi after you") courts all of the above, with its characterization of Clark as some of sort of great white hope under attack from the woke  mob. It's yet another meringue-and-fairy-dust narrative whipped up to keep the bigots, white supremacists and assorted other knuckleheads voting the right way.

Problem is, Caitlin Clark, who actually does know something about Sportsball World, won't play along.

The other day she released a statement about the whole Alyssa Thomas affair -- in which a still photo of Thomas' fist against Clark's neck got the congress critters all riled up -- that essentially told Congress to mind its own damn business. She wasn't some damsel in distress who needed rescuing, and she for sure didn't want to be the critters' latest political hobby horse.

She even defended Thomas, who, after the Flagrant 2 foul on Clark,was subjected to a blizzard of threats and racist garbage.

"As I've stood up here and said before, the harassment, the hate, none of that is OK," Clark said. "That goes for the opposing teams we play, that goes for my teammates, that goes for my coaches."

She also said the officiating in the WNBA needs to improve, which she correctly identifies as the problem here. Not mean black lesbians ... not "violent targeting" ... not the "woke mob." 

Of course, if you're a politician looking to make a grandstand play, that doesn't leave you much to go on. Can't justify taking time out from doing what you were elected to do -- legislatin', serving the people, boring stuff like that -- if it's just basketball we're talking about.

And, sorry, boys and girls, but it is.

All that "violent targeting" the grandstanders referred to in their letter?

Boil it down to the kernels, and it's jus defenders following the book on Clark -- i.e., getting physical with a player who doesn't like being defended physically.

It's lousy officiating that lets the physicality get out of hand way too often.

And it's, yes, Clark's habit of turning virtually every bump or contact into a Shakespearean deathbed scene.

Know how I know all that? And know why I suspect this political grandstand play is just another craven pitch to the worst elements of the Republican base?

Because not long ago, Isabelle Harrison of the Toronto Tempo was issued a Flagrant 2 and ejected from a game for violently throwing another player to the floor. It was as egregious as anything to which Caitlin Clark has been subjected, except this time the victim wasn't Caitlin Clark.

It was Angel Reese of the Atlanta Dream -- a black player often vilified by the usual suspects because she tends to say what she thinks.

You'll therefore be unsurprised to know her mauling didn't spark a letter from our elected nitwits. Make of that what you will.

Goin' all in

 A few thoughts this morning about the seismic news from IndyCar, which I realize isn't seismic at all to any Blobophile who's not a gearhead, which is most of them.

("Oh, lord, car racing AGAIN? Ugh," Most Of Them are saying).

Anyway, the seismic news is that Scott Dixon, the greatest IndyCar driver of his generation, is leaving Chip Ganassi after 24 years, 59 wins and six championships to join Arrow McLaren next season. Ditto Indianapolis 500 winner Felix Rosenqvist, who's leaving Meyer-Shank Racing to don McLaren's papaya livery.

Along with front man Pato O'Ward, that fills McLaren's three-car lineup next year, with Ryan Hunter-Reay coming on board as a one-off for Indy. 

"Wait, what about Christian Lundgaard?" you're saying.

(OK, so you're not. I'm saying that.)

But what about Christian Lundgaard?

That's a legit question, because Lundgaard's 24 years old and just coming into his own as a major talent. He won the Indy Grand Prix back in May; he's actually two spots ahead of O'Ward in the points (third vs. fifth); and Sunday he finished right on O'Ward's tailpipes as McLaren went 1-2 at Mid-Ohio.

Curious timing for this sort of shakeup. So what gives?

Was Lundgaard  becoming just a bit too good, challenging O'Ward's primacy on the team? Was O'Ward starting to feel threatened by that, or Lundgaard by O'Ward's tight relationship with team principal Tony Kanaan? Did team CEO Zak Brown see a budding conflict there that might split Arrow McLaren into rival camps, and wreck the cohesion that is every successful team's signature?

Maybe. Possibly. Could well be.

In any case, Lundgaard is out (along with Nolan Siegel) and Dixon and Rosenqvist are in. Two seasoned veterans to back O'Ward, two proven winners on the IndyCar circuit, and -- no small thing -- two men with a wealth of engine and program development experience. How valuable in particular will Dixon be, both as an iconic presence and someone with more than two decades of R&D experience at one of the premier IndyCar outfits?

So in that sense, the shakeup makes sense. Lundgaard notwithstanding, it's clearly an upgrade on the track -- even if Dixon, at 45, is in the late twilight of his run. You can read all this in a number of ways, but certainly a few are obvious.

One, the Papaya is going all in to win Indy, because Zak Brown wants to win Indy. Like, really, really wants to win Indy.

Two, in Dixon's case, this is a legacy deal.  He is, after all,  a New Zealander coming home to the team founded by the godfather of New Zealand motorsport, the late Bruce McLaren. It's unlikely Dixie would have left Ganassi for anyone else.

And three?

Three, Zak Brown really, really wants to win Indy. Or did I say that already?

Meanwhile, at Wimbledon ...

 You've probably never heard of Arthur Fery, but that's OK. Hardly anyone else has, either.

But yesterday, on the hallowed Wimbledon grass (and by this stage of the tournament, the threadbare Wimbledon grass) he did something no player representing Great Britain had ever done: Knocked off Grigor Dimitrov in five sets to become the first British wild-card in the modern era to advance to the Wimbledon singles quarterfinals. 

Scores were 7-5, 3-6, 4-6, 6-4, 7-6, the second five-set win in a row for a guy who'd never before won a five-set match. And once again he had to stage a miracle comeback to do it.

Against Zizou Bergs last weekend, he trailed 4-1 in both the fourth and fifth sets before pulling it out. Then, on Monday, Dimitrov, leading the match two-sets-to-one, had Fery down a break twice in the fourth set before the irrepressible Brit clawed his way back.

Not bad for a 23-year-old who's ranked 114th in the world and had, until this fortnight, had won only two grand slam matches in his career.

He made his Wimbledon singles debut as a wild card in 2023, and he's been ranked 114th for barely a week. It's the highest he's ever been ranked.

Something else: He's actually not British. He's French.

He was born in Sevries outside Paris to Olivia and Loic Fery; his mother was a professional tennis player herself. But as a child he attended King's College School in London, and later played collegiately at Stanford. And he plays for Britain internationally.

So, good on you, French/British guy. You're the best 2026 Wimbledon story not named Naomi Osaka, who just upset top-seeded Aryna Sabalenka on the women's side.

You go, mon ami. Or mate. Or whatever.

Karma. Curses. Reality.

So, okey-dokey, then. That's that.

Belgium 4, USA 1, and welcome to big-boy soccer, you striving Americans. 

Belgium 4, USA 1, a certified butt-kicking -- Adjusted NFL Score: 49-7 -- and a reality check for the Americans, who captivated the host country with some smart, sharp and at times even elegant play for four magical games on its own soi.

In the end, though, it was the same old World Cup saga for the USMNT, which came up as flat, tentative and occasionally brainless as so many American sides before it. And in arguably its biggest match in history.

So, yes, reality. And with maybe some karma and a curse of two thrown in.

Karma, because the U.S. team got one of the keys to its offense back thanks to one of FIFA's notoriously shady backroom deals, this one involving a behind-closed-doors call from the Meddler-In-Chief, President Donald John "Everything's My Business" Trump. We'll likely never know what threats were made or sleazy deals agreed upon by Fearless Leader and FIFA boss Gianni Infantino, but suddenly Folarin Balogun was magically unsuspended.

Curse, because once again Fearless Leader poking his nose in proved very bad juju. First F.L.'s in the house for the New York Knicks' only loss in the NBA Finals; then he intercedes on behalf of the USMNT and it turns in its worst performance in memory against a superior and -- let's face it -- supremely pissed Belgian side.

It may not be true, as Fearless Leader's harshest critics say, that everything he touches turns to kaka. But it certainly tries real hard to.

In any case, the jacked Red Devils all but erased Balogun, who was a non-factor, and exposed the helpless American backline again and again. The signature of the night happened in the 57th minute, when American keeper Matt Freese inexplicably came completely out of the box to play a long clearing ball, hesitated, and had his pocket picked by Charles De Ketelaere, and Hans Vanaken was there to collect the ball and fire it into the all-but-open net.

That jumped a 2-1 Belgian lead to 3-1, and essentially ended the Americans' tournament. Romelu Lukaku's easy stoppage time goal was simply piling on.

Karma. Curses. Reality.

FIFA gonna FIFA

 The rules are clear, and the penalties severe.

-- Former IHSAA commissioner Gene Cato

You're darn tootin', Commissioner Cato, God rest your soul.

In eight humble words you laid out succinctly what law and order means in Sportsball World, and whether you came up with the words yourself or swiped them from someone else doesn't matter, at least to me.  You're the guy I'll always associate with them.

The rules are clear, and the penalties severe. Yessir.

Except ...

Except now here comes FIFA, the international ruling body for soccer, to say, "Weeelll ..."

Remember last week, when USMNT star Folarin Balogun was red-carded for cleating a Bosnian player in the round of 32?

FIFA declared him automatically suspended for the Americans' round of 16 match against Belgium, because that's the penalty for a red card. There would be no appeal, FIFA said. Balogun was out.

Altogether now: Weeelll ...

Suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, FIFA announced Balogun was NOT suspended. Well, he was, but the suspension was being suspended for a year. So tonight he'll take the pitch for the stars-and-stripes after all.

Befuddlement, bumfuzzlement and bewildered outrage (from the Belgians, justifiably) followed. And on the heels of that, resigned acknowledgment of international soccer's basic reality.

Which is, FIFA gonna FIFA.

It's the master of chronic inconsistency, among other things. Several of which are, how shall we put it, not altogether kosher.

 You'll be unsurprised, for instance, to learn the Balogun reversal apparently followed a phone call from President Donald John "Let Me Insert Myself Into Stuff That's None Of My Business" Trump. Donald John asked FIFA president Gianni Infantino if FIFA could perhaps review the Balogun matter. Infantino, of course, has been shamelessly smooching the presidential hindparts for months. And so ...

Well. Far be it from me to raise an eyebrow of suspicion. Far be it from me, also, to suggest there might have been threats (You got a real nice World Cup here. Be a shame if something happened to it) and/or some sort of sleazy quid-pro-quo involved. Probably not -- but considering who we're talking about, you're certainly allowed to wonder.

And this Balogun business?

You're allowed, also, to be conflicted about that, because the red card he was issued was a horrible call. So if you're looking at the world through red-white-and-blue glasses, FIFA's reversal was simply justice being served. It even had precedence: Last fall Portguese icon Cristiano Ronaldo got a three-match sitdown for elbowing an opponent in the head, but FIFA decided to suspend two of them so Ronaldo wouldn't miss Portugal's World Cup opener. 

And yet ...

And yet: The rules are clear, and the penalties severe.

Until they're not.

Until one of the World Cup host countries is involved, and it's pouring Niagaras of cash into FIFA's pockets, and backroom dealing is that organization's preferred business model.

To retierate: FIFA gonna FIFA. And did, once again.

Hotdoggery

 I managed to scarf down two hotdogs (with relish and mustard) yesterday on our nation's 250th birthday, which means I did my patriotic duty, I suppose. It also means I came up 64 'dogs short of Joey Chestnut, Indiana native and the Michael Jordan/Babe Ruth/Tom Brady of competitive eaters.

Chestnut won his 18th Famous Nathan's Hotdog Eating Contest by shoving 66 'dogs and buns down his gullet, and they really ought to just retire the belt. He beat the field by 16, and it doesn't seem as if anyone's going to remotely challenge him in the near future.

I do wonder something, though, besides the fact only in America do we have something so bizarre and clueless as eating contests. The significant chunk of the world that's starving must regard it as such, anyway.

No, I just wonder what Joey's digestive tract must have felt like after the 66-'dog invasion. Especially because it was dryer-vent weather yesterday in New York, with a high of 93 under an equatorial sun, and a heat index of 105 or so.

So perhaps it's just my imagination, but I didn't think Joey looked all that triumphant standing there in the sun. He managed a smile when they presented him with the Nathan's belt, and even raised his fist to the crowd. But mostly he looked like a guy who was about to ralph.

On the other hand, appearances can sometimes deceive. Maybe he was just digesting.

The meek (almost) inherit

 Let's hear it today for plucky little Cape Verde, and fierce little Paraguay, and, heck, all the underdogs out there on a weekend that, in a sense, is a celebration of underdogs.

After all, who were those plucky 13 colonies if not the underdogs of underdogs?

Whipped the greatest army on the planet thanks to the French and the bullheadedness of George Washington, who'd never admit he was beaten even when he was beaten. Finally Lord Cornwallis, the big dope, got himself penned up at Yorktown, and the British said, "Ah, to hell with it" and went home.

The Cape Verdeans and Paraguays didn't quite manage that. But they sure made the royalty sweat, just like Washington 'n' them.

The Verdeans, tiniest nation in the tournament and this World Cup's most heartwarming story, were supposed to get crushed by Lionel Messi and Argentina after reaching the knockout phase in their very first World Cup. Instead the Blue Sharks were tied 2-2 with the Argentinians at the end of regulation and stoppage time, and didn't fall until the 111th minute, when Cristiano Romero's header glanced off Verdean defender Diney Borges for the 3-2 winner.

It was a wrenching way to lose, but had it not happened, the match could have easily progressed to PKs. And who knows what happens then, because PKs are an absolute lottery.

In any case, Cape Verde did their teensy island nation proud, coming thisclose to pulling off what would have been one of history's greatest upsets. Think the Miracle on Ice and you're on the right track.

 And Paraguay?

It had no chance against France's offensive juggernaut, but it roughnecked its way to a 0-0 tie until Kylian Mbappe (who else?) untied it in the 70th minute. The French survived on that lone score, 1-0, and everyone from Le Havre to Marseille likely expelled a shaky breath of relief.

So good on both of them, the Blue Sharks and the La Albirroja of Paraguay may not have inherited the earth, but it was a good two days for the meek, anyway. Raise a glass.

American Reset

 The other day someone I'm close to called the American flag a "MAGA flag."

Pretty much sums up where we are as a nation on our 250th birthday, doesn't it?

We are America the fissured, America the appropriated, America the For Me But Not For Thee. Patriotism is defined by the harshest and most clueless voices; as William Butler Yeats observed, "The best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity."

And, yes, some people look at the American flag and think of it as a MAGA flag, because that species of American has wrapped itself in it and covered their front lawns with it and turned it into hideous sports jackets and sparkly Spandex and who knows what all.

The great irony, of course, is that those who most loudly (and garishly) proclaim their lover for 'Merica are frequently those who understand it the least. They have claimed if for their own, yet are vandals of its history. What they know of it is only what our current Vandal-In-Chief tells them -- and never mind his own famously tenuous grasp of the American story.

Enough. On this Independence Day, I'm declaring my independence from all of that. I'm going to take my small American flag and put it on the lamppost, and I don't give a tinker's damn what anyone thinks that says about me. 

Because it's not about their smug assumptions. Nor is it about the arrogance of the vandal/patriots and their haughty claims that only they know who is a Real American and who is not.

To hell with all of them, and to hell with their ignorance. It's not for them I'm putting out that humble little American flag today.

I'm doing it for John Adams and Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin and James Madison, with whom I share a birthday.

I'm doing it for the men who launched this great experiment, which has somehow survived 250 years despite its contradictions and moral conundrums and its occasionally cotton-headed leaders.

I'm doing it for Harlon Block and Ira Hayes and Michael Strank; for Franklin Sousley and Harold Schultz and Harold Keller. They're the six men who raised the flag on Iwo Jima. Three of them never made it off the island.

I'm doing it for all of those who never made it off their own islands in defense of America, and for those who did but who remain there in heart and mind. I'm doing it for the 1st Minnesota at Gettysburg, for the 101st Airborne at Bastogne, for the Marines who took Belleau Wood. For Bloody Nose Ridge on Peleliu ... and Bloody Lane at Antietam ... and LZ X-Ray in the Ia Drang valley.

Who else am I doing it for?

I'm doing it for John Glenn and Gus Grissom and Gordo Cooper. For Alan Shepard and Wally Schirra and Malcolm Scott Carpenter. For Borman, Lovell and Anders ... and Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins ... for all the star voyagers, past and present, who've gone into space wearing an American flag patch, and who sometimes died wearing it.

I'm doing it for the strivers, the entrepreneurs and the smartest people in the room, all of whom came from somewhere else. For Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse and Tecumseh and Little Turtle, who did not. For the Irish and Italians and Germans and Eastern Europeans -- and, yes, for the Somalis, the Haitians, the Hondurans, the Venezuelans, on and on. 

To say one group or other doesn't belong here misses the entire point of that flag and the  country it represents -- even if at one time or another some of the most ardent flag-wavers have said it about all of them.

Today I put out that flag not for them, and not for the distortion of America they represent. I'm putting it out there to honor the America that has survived them and untold other idiots for two-and-a-half centuries. I'm putting it out there not only for the Great Experiment, but for the Great American Reset it has always made possible.

Happy Fourth, everyone. Enjoy the beer, the hotdogs and the potato salad, and try not to blow off any appendages.

Conspiracy bleary

 I've had it, people. There's your public service announcement for today.

I am fed up with being fed up, disgusted with being disgusted, sick to death of being sick to death. And if I roll my eyes one more time, it will fulfill my mother's prophecy that if I'm not careful my face will freeze that way.

As Madeleine Kahn put it in "Blazing Saddles": Let's face it, I'm tired.

What I'm mainly tired of is how everything has to be a big deal these days, even (or especially) the little deals. Everything is a GREAT BIG FAT CONSPIRACY to take down America, make war on Christianity and inflict upon us electric cars, kale and the heartbreak of psoriasis. 

I jest, of course. But conspiracy theories have made me conspiracy weary.

Mostly this is just the times in which we live; just look at what's coming out of the conspiracy-kookiest administration in American history, if American history itself isn't a conspiracy against America with all its talk of slavery and such. The sheer idiocy will make you want to go lie down somewhere.

(For instance, have you seen what our very own Sen. Jim "If Trump Says The Moon Is Made Of Ice Cream, Then By God It Must Be" Banks and the rest of the hysteria crew are going on about? It's New York's mayor, Zohran Mandami, asking -- not ordering; asking --residents to dial up their AC a couple of degrees and not waste electricity to avoid blowing the power grid during the current heat wave. Reasonable request, right? Nah. Senator Jimbo 'n' them called it insane and COMMUNISM! and who knows what all.) 

Where was I again?

Oh, yeah. On to my main point ("About time!" you're saying), which is something that has pushed me over the edge the last few days.

It's this notion that the WNBA is anti-white and anti-heterosexual because the mean girls in the league supposedly are all black and gay. This supposedly is why the entire league is out to get poor Caitlin Clark, who is neither.

You think I'm kidding? I'm not kidding. That 's actually a thing now. It's so crazy it'll drive you crazy, as it almost has me.

It's being framed, of course, by the usual suspects employing the slickest of their magic tricks, which is that white folk (and especially white Christian folk!) are the new persecuted class. As if the levers of power in this country aren't firmly in the hands of that exact demographic.

Our Caitlin, though, is being picked on because she's white and hetero, and the league is secretly all for it. This despite the fact she herself thinks it's ridiculous, and that she was just named as an All-Star starter -- for the third straight year -- in a vote by players, media and fans.

"But ... but what about Alyssa Thomas, one of those black lesbian thugs, getting only a one-game suspension for punching Caitlin in the throat and kneeing her in the groin?" you're asking now.

What about it? Yes, Thomas should have gotten more than a game. But if you watch the incident in real time, it's a scrum for a loose ball, with arms and legs flailing everywhere. At the end of which Thomas plants her fist on Clark's neck to push herself up. In slow-motion it looks intentional; in real time, quite a bit less so.

(That whole slo-mo-vs.-real-time thing, by the way, played into USMNT World Cup star Folarin Balogun getting red-carded the other night. The VAR system shows infractions in still photos and slow motion, which indeed makes it look as if Balogun deliberately cleated Bosnia's Tarik Muharemovic in the back of the leg. In real time, however, it just looks like two players getting their legs tangled up trying to play the ball. Surely not a red card infraction in a game that was on the physical side.)

Anyway ...

Anyway, Thomas was suspended, and also was subjected to a bunch of racist garbage from the aforementioned usual suspects. And when WNBA commissioner Cathy Engelbert and Indiana Fever coach Stephanie White (who is gay) properly said that was unacceptable, the usual suspects said, see, there they go again. The lesbian league is sticking up for the lesbians and not poor Caitlin.

In so doing, of course, they gave away the magic trick: By calling out what they see as racism and bigotry, they reveal their own while trying to conceal it. As in: We don't like lesbians, and especially black lesbians. But look who THEY don't like. 

And Caitlin Clark?

She gets knocked around a lot for sure. But as the Blob has pointed out before, it's mostly because A) WNBA officiating is appallingly bad, and B) teams have figured out playing Clark physically can throw her off her game, both mentally and otherwise.

They're not doing it because she's white and hetero, no matter what the fake outrage crowd says; if that were the case, Sabrina Ionescu, who's also white and hetero, would be getting knocked around a lot, too. But she's not -- at least anymore than anyone else in a league that has allowed itself to become overly physical.

Of course, the Great Big Fat Conspiracy society probably has an explanation for that, too. They always do.

Today in nuptuality

 The word is Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce are getting hitched tomorrow night in Madison Square Garden, and, man, I am jacked. Celebrity weddings always make me cry.

And by "make me cry", I mean, "Make me cry 'Holy crap, how much did THAT cost??'"

And by "THAT", I mean the fanfare trumpeters dressed as 17th century lords, the solid gold coach pulled by four horses bred from Secretariat's DNA, and of course the miniature Lake Como, complete with swans.

Now, I don't know if Tay and Trav will have any of those in MSG. But since it's MSG, I do wonder if Trav will complete the nuptualities with a ceremonial dunk.

I also wonder some other things ...

* Will Tay sing at her own wedding?

(I'm guessing no. But if so, I suggest "We're Never Ever Ever Getting Back Together" as a final shot at all her previous boyfriends.)

* What will the cake look like?

(I'm guessing a painstakingly faithful recreation of Arrowhead Stadium as big as a Tournament of Roses parade float.)

* Will there be tiny figures of Tay in Spandex and Trav in his Chiefs jersey on top? 

(Please. Like you even have to ask that?)

* Will Tay's dress have a train so long it ties up traffic out on 33rd Street?

(Nah. Manhattan traffic's bad enough as it is, and consequently it would just piss off a lot of New Yorkers. And you never want to piss off New Yorkers.)

* Will the groomsmen hang a "Just Married" sign on the back of the gold coach, and tie empty PBR cans to it? 

(Oh, come on. PBR? Guinness talboys, maybe. Or special edition Cristal-In-A-Can.)

* Since it's MSG, will Spike Lee get to sit in his usual courtside seat, and will Caitlin Clark show up?

(No on both counts. But if Caitlin's there, I figure Alyssa Thomas or Chennedy Carter will run out and knock her down, just out of habit.)

And last but not least ...

* Will Patrick Mahomes be the ring boy? Will Jake from State Farm be a good neighbor? Will Jason Kelce wear pants?

(Answers: No ... of course ... maybe.)

(At least initially.)

Youth will out, but ...

 OK, then. So Maya Joint was not thinking "OMG! It's Serena Williams!" after all.

Won the first set yesterday on Centre Court at Wimbledon, 6-3.

Lost the second set in a tiebreaker, 7-6 (OMG! It's Serena Williams!).

Sucked it up and won the third and deciding set, 6-3.

Thus it was the kid taking down the GOAT in the match everyone was looking forward to, and, listen, it lived up to the billing. The 20-year-old was, well, 20 years old. The 44-year-old, icon or no, was 44. Youth will out, more times than not, no matter how unequal the resume.

At least it wasn't a 6-3, 6-3 snoozer, as one might have reasonably expected when a woman more than half her opponent's age -- and who's been a professional for three years -- faces a woman who's been retired four years but decided, for whatever reason, to give Wimbledon another go.

Even Serena was wondering if Serena was nuts. Or something very like it.

But a champion remains a champion, no matter what the driver's license says. And so after losing the first set, Serena Williams did not just say "Ah, I knew this was crazy", take a 6-0 bagel in the second set and wave to the crowd on her way (presumably) back into retirement.

Not a chance. In the second set the champion, and the champion's will, emerged. She matched the kid shot for shot and game for game, and when it came time to settle it in the tiebreaker, the resume won out over the young heart and legs.

Call it a curtain call, of sorts -- one glimpse of Serena before leaving Centre Court for (presumably) the final time.

Doesn't matter what happens for the next two weeks. That second set was your Wimby moment for 2026.

Net gulp

 Serena Williams is 44 years old and plays her first singles match at Wimbledon in four years today, so of course she's all over media, social and otherwise. She is THE story of this Wimbledon, because she's not only come out of what was presumed to be retirement to do this, she's also playing doubles with her sister Venus.

And so everyone's wondering what a 44-year-old icon's game will look like, after so long away.

Will there still be echoes of who she was, which is the most decorated player in women's tennis history? Will there be a laser forehand from, oh, say 2009, or a blistering volley from 2010? Will there be even a whisper of her 23 major singles titles, or will she just look like a rust-laden 44-year-old trying to keep up with the kiddos?

Inquiring minds want to know.

Me, I want to know what Maya Joint's thinking right now.

"Who the heck is Maya Joint?" you're asking now.

Well, she's a 20-year-old from Melbourne who grew up in Grosse Pointe, Mich., the daughter of an Australian dad and a German mom. She turned pro in 2024, and in her only previous Wimby last year she was knocked out in the first round. She's ranked 87th in the world, and her biggest career achievement so far was reaching the second round of the U.S. Open in 2024 and 2025.

Now, in a couple of hours, she's going be on Centre Court at Wimbledon, looking across the net at Serena Williams.

Serena Williams, who's been on Centre Court so many times they should charge her rent.

Serena Williams, who's won Wimbledon seven times -- the last time a decade ago, when Maya Joint was in grade school, and the first time in 2002, when Maya was still four years away from being the proverbial gleam in her parents' eyes.

Fun fact to know and tell: Serena won her first major title at the U.S. Open in 1999, when she was 17 years old. That's 27 freaking years ago to you and me, kids.

Now Maya Joint's going to be on the other side of the net from her. I don't know if that constitutes a net gain for the young'un, or a net gulp.

Holy crap, it's really her. SERENA WILLIAMS. Greatest women's player in history. Twenty-three major titles. There's probably a statue of her somewhere. Several statues, even. Would it be weird if I asked for her autograph?

I'm guessing Maya Joint will be trying super hard not to think that.

I'm guessing she'll be trying super hard to think this instead: Look, Serena's a 44-year-old woman who wasn't even sure if she wanted to do this until the very last minute. I'm younger. I've been playing professionally for three years; she's been having babies. She's ambivalent; I'm not. So I figure she'll be gassed  by the middle of the second set, and th-

OMG! I'm playing SERENA WILLIAMS!

Gulp. 

Powers that were

 So remember the other day, when tiny Ecuador stunned Germany 2-1 in the group stage of the World Cup?

Well ... as Johnny Olsen used to say, "But wait, there's more!"

"More" in this case being, "Germany is out of the World Cup."

Got nicked 4-3 in PKs by Paraguay -- just a suggestion, but maybe Deutschland should avoid South America from here on out -- and was bounced in its first game in the knockout round. The game ended in a 1-1 draw after a German goal was disallowed that apparently shouldn't have been disallowed.

But wait, there's more!

Not only are the once-mighty Germans gone with the expanded knockout round barely begun, so is the Netherlands. The Dutch went down to Morocco in their round-of-32 match, also on PKs. It was their earliest World Cup exit ever.

So two powers-that-be are gone, calling into question whether they're now just powers-that-were. One can only imagine what great departed souls from each country must be saying, having gloried in the spangled days of the Franz Beckenbauer Germans and Johan Cruyff and the Clockwork Orange.

"For cripe's sake, Paraguay? We got knocked out by PARAGUAY?? Can anyone even find Paraguay on a map?", Bismarck and  Goethe must be spluttering.

And from the Dutch?

"Dutch Masters, my a**!" Van Gogh is surely fuming. "This team looks like it was conceived by that lunatic Bosch!"

"Hey!" Hieronymus Bosch weighs in. "Bite me, you one-eared freak!"

Whereupon they commence throwing paint at one another.

In all seriousness, though, maybe Germany and Netherlands bowing out is just a nod to the world's game actually becoming more worldly.

South America has always been strong, of course, so no surprise that Argentina, Brazil, Paraguay, Ecuador and Colombia all reached the knockout phase. A bit more revealing, however, is the fact Canada just notched its first knockout win ever, and eight African nations made the round of 32 -- including tiny Cape Verde, playing in its first World Cup, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo, which got in by beating Uzbekistan 3-1 the other day.

It was DR Congo's first World Cup win ever. Les Leopards get England next in their first knockout game.

England: Another traditional power, and one which has already been played to a nil-nil draw by Ghana. 

Bet the Three Lions if you must. But beware the prevailing theme.

Priorities

 NBC blew off "Major League Baseball" last night to air the finish of the weather-delayed Travelers golf tournament, farming out the latest Yankees-Red Sox tilt to MSNBC and Peacock. It even stuck with golf during the rain delay, switching over to the Women's PGA Championship.

This immediately got the pearl-clutchers saying this proved America's Pastime truly is Past its Time, because back in the day it would never have taken a backseat to golf in the Sportsball World pecking order. The priorities have changed, in other words, and heaven knows if they'll ever un-change.

I don't think it was quite so seismic. I suspect it just meant NBC chose struggling Nelly Korda missing another putt over the 937th rendition this season of Yankees-Red Sox.

Which, OK, was a big deal for suffering Rolled Sox fans, because Sonny Gray almost hung a no-no on the snooty pinstriped one-percenters from New York, and the Sox went to a finish a weekend sweep of the Yankees' caviar-munching tushes with a 5-4 win in ten innings.

This either signified the long-awaited stirring of the Bostons, or a brief sunlit moment in what has been a relentlessly gray season. After all, even after racking four straight Ws, and seven in their last 10 games, they're still last in the AL East by a game-and-a-half.

That's not why NBC chose golf over baseball, though. I suspect it goes back to the 937th rendition thing.

Which is to say, yes, Yankees-Red Sox is baseball's marquee rivalry, but it's not as if we've never seen it before. Like, every other week, it seems. Or every week. Seriously, do these two ever play anyone else?

Doesn't feel like it, at least to the casual observer. No, yesterday was not the 937th rendition this season, but if it's exaggeration for effect, the point pertains: Every time they play one another, it's on the tube. No wonder a good part of America thinks Yankees-Red Sox is the "Law & Order" of baseball: On all the time somewhere.

"Hey, look, Martha, it's the Red Sox and Yankees!"

"AGAIN??"

That sort of thing. 

Anyway, it's Golf 1, Baseball 0 this time around. So hooray for Haeran Ryu (who won the Women's PGA while Korda tied for eighth), and Scottie Scheffler and Viktor Hovland, who resume their playoff today.

I'm going with Scheffler. Better changeup, I hear.

O Canada

 Happy Monday, Blobophiles, and here's your name to remember for today: Stephen Eustaquio.

He became, I don't know, the Wayne Gretzky of Canadian soccer or something yesterday, when he knocked an attempted clear smartly into the goal in extra time to give Canada a 1-0 victory over South Africa in the knockout round of the World Cup.

It was Canada's first knockout round victory, like, ever. Thousands of young Canadians will now forsake hockey and start kicking soccer balls around, on account of they're bigger than hockey pucks and you don't have to learn to skate.

OK. So I jest.

But imagine -- just imagine -- what would happen if Canada were to jack around and win a second knockout game, in which case Les Rouges (the Reds) would advance to the quarterfinals of the whole shootin' match. Now imagine if you're a kid growing up in Toronto with a throwback Dave Keon Maple Leafs jersey. Or a kid in Montreal, Edmonton, Calgary or Vancouver who's never seen a Canadian team in the Stanley Cup Final in his or her lifetime.

Canadian Dad: Come on, son, strap on the blades, grab the lumber and let's head out to the rink!

Canadian Kid: Aw, geez, Pop. I was gonna go kick a soccer ball around with the guys.

Dad: WHAT?! You mean you don't want to be the next Gretzky or Lemieux or, goodness gracious, Gordie Howe?

Kid: Nah, hockey's for losers. I want to be the next Stephen Eustaquio.

(Dad clutches his heart and immediately expires. They bury him in his throwback Yvan Cournoyer jersey.)

(Les Rouges send flowers and offer his son a spot on their developmental team. Word is he's such a dazzling striker he's started going by one name, like Pele. Everyone just calls him Jacques.)

(No Longer) Cruds Alert!

 Didja see? Didja see what happened last night in Major League Baseball?

"The Cubs lost to the Brewers again?" you're saying.

Well, yes.

"Your Pittsburgh Cruds (about whom we've heard quite enough, by the way) lost to the sorry Cincinnati Deads?" you're saying.

Uh-huh.

"Well, what else, then?"

Chicago White Sox 22, Kansas City Royals 1. That's what else.

Yes, the baseball team formerly known as the What Sox absolutely beat the brakes off those pathetic Royals, and not only that, but the Cleveland Guardians lost, too. Which means guess who's sitting atop the AL Central this morning with the third-best record in the entire league?

"The baseball team formerly known as the What Sox?" you're saying.

Correct!

They're 42-38 here on June 27th, a game clear of the Guardians. This is quite impressive, all things considering. In fact it's a damn miracle, or something close.

A year ago on this date, after all, the still-the-What-Sox-then were 26-56 and dead last in the division. And two years ago on this date, when the What Sox put on the field the all-time worst team in the modern era, they were 22-61.

That's 20 more wins and 23 fewer losses, if you're keeping score at home. And untold less suffering for fans of the Pale Hose.

And so forget the Blob's periodic Cruds Alert, at least for today. Today, it's the No Longer Cruds Alert.

Grab another Old Style, you south siders. You've earned it.

Cinderella Men

 The best story of the World Cup so far got even better yesterday, when those plucky islanders from Cape Verde played Saudi Arabia to a nil-nil tie. It was the Verdeans' third draw in three games, which means they're still undefeated, and which also means they're on to the knockout round.

You remember how they played Cup favorite Spain to a scoreless draw in their first-ever World Cup match, a stunning upset approached so far only by Ecuador, which shocked mighty Germany 2-1 the other day. ("Wait, we lost to ECUADOR??" -- Otto von Bismarck. "Great, now I gotta write another tragic opera." -- Richard Wagner). 

Well, now the Cinderella Men are on to the round of 32, just like Spain and France and all the other big boys. Led by 40-year-old keeper Vozinha, who's given up just two goals in three games, they're the smallest nation in the tournament. With a population of just 525,000, in fact, they're smaller than every one of our 50 states.

So, go, you Cape Verdeans. May we all wrap ourselves in the national flag (blue with red and white stripes and gold stars), and sing the praises of the Tubaroes Azuis ("Blue Sharks") on July 3 as they march fearlessly into their first knockout match against defending World Cup champion Argentina.

Yeah, Lionel Messi 'n' them will probably crush 'em. But July 3 is the day before America's 250th birthday, and nobody thought we'd kick British booty, either. So maybe Cape Verde will catch some of that vibe.

"We are small," Vozinha said, echoing Washington or Thomas Paine or someone. "But we have big hearts and we are fighters."

Added Cape Verde coach Bubista, echoing, I don't know, maybe Herb Brooks: "Everyone is entitled to dream, and nothing is impossible."

"Darn skippy!" shouted Ben Franklin, banging his fist on the table.

OK, so he didn't. But you get the gist.

Justice delayed

 Look, by now we all know what the WNBA is. And, no, not a bunch of black lesbian white-girl haters, which is what some people say who swear they have nothing against black or gay folk, but sure talk like they do.

Nah, nah. What the WNBA is, it's Dick Van Dyke tripping over that ottoman.

(And for you younger Blobophiles who don't get the reference, the Blob suggests you jump on YouTube and punch in "The Dick Van Dyke Show" opening. Consider it a learning experience.)

Anyway, the Can't Get Out Of Their Own Way Bunch did it again this week, after Alyssa Thomas of the Phoenix Mercury kneed Indiana Fever star Caitlin Clark in the groin and pushed herself up with a fist to Clark's throat in a loose ball scrum.

Now, I have watched the video half a dozen times, and I still can't tell how much of that was intentional. When the ball comes loose and players scramble after it, stuff happens. Players catch elbows and knees and, yes, fists, in unfortunate places. So I certainly don't think Thomas should have been charged with assault, as some of the more unhinged Caitlin worshippers were hollering.

What I do think is it shouldn't have taken a whole day to slap Thomas with a Flagrant 2, and it should have resulted in far more than a puny one-game suspension. The WNBA, tripping over the ottoman again.

The league's officiating has faced a well-deserved tsunami of criticism since Clark's star power turned a spotlight on the WNBA, and it bought another wave with this latest hoo-ha. Thomas, you see, not only was NOT charged with a Flagrant 2 on the spot, she wasn't even assessed a regular old garden-variety foul. Apparently the officials didn't see nuthin'.

How that could be when four players -- Thomas, Clark and two other Mercury players -- were wrestling on the floor for the ball is a mystery undreamt of in your philosophy, as the Bard would say. What were the on-court officials looking at? Freddy Fever, the Indiana mascot? Some superfan up in section Triple Ought Z?

Beats me. The upshot, though, was the WNBA's delayed justice ("Oh, crap! We're getting crap! We need to do something!", you can almost hear league officials saying) further stoked the narrative that the league isn't doing enough to protect its golden goose. And there's more than a little truth to that.

It is not, however, as neat a storyline as it seems. Or so it says here.

Yes, there's no question Clark gets knocked around a lot. But while some say it's jealousy (and stupidity, considering how much money Clark has made for everyone in the league), it's also that opponents have figured out that aggressive defense throws Clark off her considerable game. 

That's not jealousy or stupidity. That's just strategy.

And, listen, Clark plays into it, to an extent. There is, let's face it, more than a little thespian in her: The exaggerated flying backward at the slightest bump; the blatant selling of the foul; the theatrical pleading her case to the officials.

She is, in other words, a Bill Laimbeer Class flopper on occasion. Defenders also shove, trip, elbow and beat on her like a guy pounding out dents in his '85 Corolla. Both things can be true.

This also is true: After the Mercury shoved, tripped, elbowed and beat on her the other night, she left the floor with a sore back. 

And not from carrying an entire ham-fisted league, either.

Little big man

 So Braden Smith is an Indiana Pacer now, and go ahead, tell him he's got no chance. He's 5-10 and 166 pounds and his quicks are decent, but he's not exactly a streak of fire. Why, the NBA will chew him up and spit him out to the G-League, where he'll play for whatever they're calling the late, great Mad Ants these days.

Or so some people undoubtedly will say.

They'll say he's an undersized guard who's not, say, Allen Iverson or Jalen Brunson, or even Nate Archibald. Whom everyone called "Tiny" even though he was a full three inches taller than Braden Smith.

So what will they call Smith?

How about "survivor"?

Because, listen, he's been too small and not quick enough to make up for it his entire life, and all he's done is stick out that stubborn Hoosier chin and say "Oh, yeah, smart guy?" He was Indiana's Mr. Basketball as a senior at Westfield High School, and the only major college coach who offered him was Matt Painter. Know who else offered him?

Appalachian State. Belmont. North Texas. Montana. Toledo. Not exactly Duke or UConn.

So he headed up the road to Purdue, grew a funky Amish beard and became ... well, you know what he became: The best point guard in America. He started all four years for Painter, and when he was done he, Fletcher Loyer and Trey Kaufman-Renn had won more games than any trio in Purdue's decorated basketball history. Oh, and Braden Smith also wound up as college basketball's all-time career assists leader.

Knocked Bobby Hurley off that mountaintop, God bless him.

Yesterday the Chicago Bulls took Smith with the 38th overall pick in the NBA Draft, the eighth in the second round. Then they traded him to the Pacers, who really, really wanted the hometown kid. And now we'll sit back and see what happens.

He'll back up T.J. McConnell at the point, or so the gurus say. And, yes, opposing will begin drooling uncontrollably when they bring the ball up against him. And, yes, he could -- could -- wind up spending time in Noblesville with the Pacers' G-League team.

Me?

I think Braden Smith is going to read that and say, "Oh, yeah, smart guy?"

And then prove us all wrong again.

Because, yeah, he may be a little man, as these things go. But he's the biggest little man you'll ever see.

One pooch, screwed

 At some point you hurt for the kid, if you're at all human. A little, anyway. A ... smidge.

You do this because Brendan Sorsby is 22 years old and has a gambling jones that wrecked his college career, which doesn't even take into account he's 22 years old and prone to doing the dumb stuff 22-year-olds do. Like, for instance, listening to the wrong people. 

Surely he did that. Sued the NCAA when it told him he couldn't play college football anymore, because he gambled on college football like ... well, like a hooked-through-the-gills addict. Won an injunction to play for Texas Tech from some local Go Red Raiders judge. Decided, nah, never mind, when the NCAA's lawyers came after him again.

He'd enter the NFL's supplemental draft instead. Yeah, sure. Perfect. Why, that's just what he'd d--

Oops.

Turns out he won't be entering the NFL's supplemental draft, because the other day the NFL said, "No, you won't be entering our supplemental draft." That's on account of the NFL announced it wouldn't be conducting a supplemental draft this year.

Sooo ...

So, Brendan Sorsby is a football player without a football, so to speak.

He can't go back to college. No NFL team will be rolling the dice (pun, well intended) on him for the 2026 season. He can't even head north to hook up with a Canadian Football League team, because it's June and the CFL already is well into its season.

So he sits until next April's draft, where there's no guarantee any team will risk a pick on a chronic gambler. In fact it would be an upset of any team did, given how hinky NFL front offices are about players with baggage, and especially quarterbacks with baggage.

That means Brendan Sorsby would come to training camp as a free agent, if he comes to an NFL training camp at all. Likely he will, because he's a quarterback with skills, and if you're a quarterback with skills someone will give you a look. Heck, someone would have given Pablo Escobar a look if he could throw the deep out, on the off chance he was the next Kurt Warner.

This does not mean Brendan Sorsby isn't the latest 22-year-old who's screwed the proverbial pooch. He is. At least for now.

Youth is wasted on the young. Home truth.

American History 1, England 0

 Underdog Ghana beat the mighty Three Lions of England 0-0 yesterday (because a draw is a win, in this case), and it happened in Foxborough, Mass., which prompted a fellow Civil War/history nerd friend to make an especially witty observation on Facebook.

He said the British not being able to handle a big underdog in Massachusetts seemed vaguely familiar.

Absolutely.

In fact, if you watched Ghana repeatedly blunt one scoring chance after another from Harry Kane and the Brits, you wondered (or at least I did) if Thomas Gage was looking on from the great infinite. 

Gage, for the history-challenged in the audience, was the commander of the British occupation forces in Boston. He's also the guy who lost Boston thanks to his disastrous search for weapons on Lexington and Concord Day, and to Henry Knox hauling Fort Ticonderoga's artillery over the Berkshires to George Washington, who placed them on the Dorchester Heights and put Gage literally under the gun.

"Gee, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "That's a lot of history. Now my head hurts."

Well, TOO BAD. 'Cause the Blob's famously twisted imagination has been working overtime again, and it's conjured up a juicy scenario: Gage, King George and a bunch of ordinary British soccer fans sitting in a working-class pub watching the last ten minutes or so of England-Ghana, when Kane and Co. should have scored multiple times but did what England always does in the World Cup, which is ... well, choke, not to put too fine a point on it.

Hit the crossbar and post a time or two. Booted the ricochet off one of those high, from point-blank range. Got robbed by Ghana's keeper a couple times, then robbed again when a Ghana defender, at the very last split second, headed clear a ball bound for the top corner.

In the end, England outshot Ghana 19-2 in the match. And couldn't find the back of the net with a single one of those 19 shots.

And so to that imaginary pub we go ...

George III: Nineteen shots! For God's sake, I could have scored if you'd given me 19 shots. This is all your fault, Gage.

Gage: MY fault? How can it be MY fault, your Majesty? I've been dead for 200 years!

George III: Because if you hadn't screwed up and lost us Boston, America would still be ours, which means Christian Pulisic, Alex Freeman, Folarin Balogun and that lot would be playing for us. And maybe THEN that choking dog Kane could have scored.

Ordinary British Soccer Fan (dressed in a Kane jersey and wearing a St. George's flag like a cape): 'Ey, 'ey, 'ey now, your Majesty. 'Arry's our man. He just had a spot of bad luck today, like all the boys.

George III: And I had a spot of bad luck when I sent Gage to Boston to quell Adams and Hancock and that rabble.

Gage: "I'm SORRY, OK? How many times do I have to say I'm sorry?"

George III: As many times as we hit the bloody crossbar today. For the love of the resurrected Christ, it's as if Ghana had Adams and Hancock sitting on top of the Ghana goal swatting away our shots.

Ordinary British Soccer Fan: Yeah! Up those colonials!

George III: And that's another thing. Not only did we lose -- OK, drew, but still -- we drew with another bunch of colonials. And Ghana wasn't even OUR colony. It was a French colony. Which I suppose means those idiots will think of this as payback for the Seven Years' War or some such thing.

Gage (hopefully): Does this mean I'm off the hook?

George III: Nah, this is still on you. I shoulda sent Johnny Burgoyne to Boston instead.

Gage: But ... but your Majesty, didn't Burgoyne lose his entire army at Sarato-

George III: Ah, crap. You're right. What a lame-ass empire. Why couldn't I have been king of Ghana? At least they can play this bloody game.

Pros to pros

 You know how it used to be, back in the Before Time. Some NBA team threw a wad of cash at some big-deal college coach, and the big-deal college coach went off to wrangle the paid professionals, and, ah, geez, how did THAT work out?

Not well, usually.

Usually Rick Pitino would fail with the Knicks. Or John Calipari would fail with the Nets. Or a Billy Donovan or P.J. Carlesimo would do well enough to stick around, but would never be confused with, say, Phil Jackson or Pat Riley.

That's because coaching kids in college and pros in the NBA were two utterly different dynamics, requiring two different mind and skill sets. Authoritarianism worked in one world; it rarely did in the other.

Now?

Now comes the news that Dusty May is headed to the Dallas Mavericks from the University of Michigan, where in two seasons he took the Wolverines from 8-24 to 37-3 and a national title. Went 64-13 in those two seasons overall.

No wonder the Mavericks wanted him.

And no wonder, by the way, it's not nearly so much a leap of faith as it used to be.

This is because Dusty May has one huge advantage over those who followed this path before him:

He's not going from college to the pros. He's going from the pros to the pros.

That's because the virtually unregulated Name, Image and Likeness money and wide-open transfer portal has transformed the college game into the NBA without guardrails. Kids chase the money now as avidly as the grownups do, and with fewer restraints. So the dynamic between the college game and the pro game, in terms of how a coach manages both the Xs-and-Os and the human beings charged with executing them, isn't much different.

Oh, you can still be a my-way-or-the-highway hardass, in college buckets. But with few exceptions -- Matt Painter's Purdue springs to mind, and Tom Izzo's Michigan State -- your players more than likely will choose the highway.

Because the highway's wide open these days. Plus it pays more.

That's why, in more and more places, rosters turn over almost entirely every year now. Even May, after winning a national title, was going to be bringing in a whole raft of newbies he would have had to integrate with the holdovers. But with the Mavericks?

He'll still have Cooper Flagg, the NBA Rookie of the Year. He'll still have, barring any trades, Kyrie Irving and Khris Middleton and Klay Thompson. None of them will be entering the transfer portal.

In that sense, then, the NBA actually offers less chaos and more control now for a head coach.  That's the polar opposite of  the Before Time, which is why so many prominent college coaches (Paging Mike Krzyzewski ... Paging Bob Knight ...) chose to stay at Western Northeastern Tech State rather than take the NBA's money and run.

Or as a longtime friend and former sportswriting colleague texted me when the news came down: "Who could have guessed five years ago that in 2026 the NBA would provide coaches with a more predictable, stable and desirable work environment than college basketball?"

Indeed.

Stinkin' decorum

 Wyndham Clark wrestled Shinnecock Hills to the ground and pried the U.S. Open from its grasp yesterday, hanging on to beat Sam Burns by a skinny stroke after leading by a fat six going into the final round.

Futzed around and put up a 3-over 73 Sunday, Wyndham did. Burns shot a 67 to leapfrog Scottie Scheffler and a pile of others. The win was Clark's second Open title, and he led this one wire-to-wire.

And the gallery hated it.

Maybe it's just a New York thing, although the Blob is loathe to stereotype. But this was not the genteel golf-clap crowd at which those outside the golfsphere like to poke gentle fun. These were the knuckleheads from "Caddyshack", pooping in the club pool and shouting "Noonan!" and "Miss it!" as poor Danny lined up his winning putt in the Bushwood caddies tournament. 

They clapped and cheered, but only when Wyndham flubbed a shot. They shouted "Don't choke, Wyndham!" in the middle of his backswing. Security escorted a few of the worst offenders from the premises, so at least some measure of decorum was maintained.

The fans -- or at least a vocal chunk of them -- decided they didn't need no stinkin' decorum, of course. But then, as a friend of mine occasionally reminds, fans are (bleep)holes.

These (bleep)holes in particular apparently were cut from the same cloth as the (bleep)holes who heckled Rory McIlroy and some of the other Europeans last year during the Ryder Cup, which was also played at a New York track (Bethpage Black). Again, not to stereotype New Yorkers in general as (bleep)holes or anything. I'm sure some of them actually were not raised by wolves and know how to behave in public at least half the time.

Which, you know, is the company golf used to keep.

Not any more, apparently. Now it's just the upper deck on an NFL Sunday in Philly, only better dressed.

Not that the players are a lot more civilized, these days.

As some guardians of the game have observed, there's a serious outbreak of f-bombs among the golfers when they "over-pure" or simply hack a shot these days. Also a thrown club here and there. Which, according to the guardians, never happened when Jack and Arnie and Tom Watson went around collecting majors like boxtops.

They have a point. Maybe even more than a point.

Part of all the ungentlemanly rooting against Wyndham Clark yesterday, for instance, is because Wyndham Clark has not always been a gentleman himself. He's kind of arrogant, although most of his pampered lot are to one extent or other. And in last year's U.S. Open at historic old Oakmont, he threw a toddler's fit after missing the cut and destroyed three lockers in the players' dressing room.

An orange slice and juicebox calmed him right down, however. OK, so I made that part up.

In any case, not always the most likable guy, our Wyndham. Which doesn't excuse the (bleep)holes who taunted him, of course. And it's another point for the guardians when they bemoan the erosion of standards in professional golf, both on the course and behind the ropes.

It used to be a gentleman's game, or so the lore tells us.

Now, apparently, it's just a game. Like, I don't know, demolition derby or something.

OK. So not that.

Yet.

Of fathers and sons

 Father's Day again, and again a reminder that time is a relentless taskmaster, forever demanding a receding present. It has been almost eight years now since my dad laid down his burden, and every day, in small ways and big, it strikes me how quickly the years fly by, and yet how much so many of their echoes linger.

Just the other day, for instance, I found cornmeal mush at the local Amish market.

Bought some. Took it home. Fried up a mess of it, and remembered how my dad, a Depression kid who grew up eating mush, taught his kids to grow up eating it, too.

"Well, I'll be, Jackie, he DOES know what's good!" I imagine him telling Mom in the great holy forever, because he so often told my sister and me the opposite.

Usually when he was devouring liver and onions. Ewww.

Anyway, this morning I came across something I wrote in 2018, on the occasion of our last Father's Day with Dad. He died five months later, 11 days after his 91st birthday. But by Father's Day the Lewy-Body dementia that took him had already stolen much of the man we knew from us, cruel bastard affliction that it is.

And so, on another Father's Day, here's what I wrote on that one. I can't express what fathers mean to us, and the legacies they pass on, any better than this:

We'll go see Dad on this Father's Day, and maybe he'll be with us and maybe he won't. He is 90 years old now and lives in a memory-care unit, his life force at twilight and dimming. Dementia and accompanying Parkinson's have reduced him to a shell of the Dad we once knew, a shrunken figure scrunched down in his comfy recliner, the TV endlessly tuned to old black-and-white movies that go mostly unseen and unacknowledged.

And yet.

And yet, perhaps this will be a day like the day not long ago, when his eyes briefly focused and he pointed at the TV and said, "Humphrey Bogart." And then pointed again and said "Sidney."

Which would be "Sidney Greenstreet," the old character actor. Dad was right on both counts. It was an old Bogart flick, and Sidney Greenstreet was in it.

You live for those moments, as your father recedes toward what Abraham Lincoln called the dark indefinite shore. Most days, when he's awake, he is far away from us, his mumbled words describing things and people who lived and moved 60 or 70 years ago. One day he told me he'd been visited by an old high school basketball teammate who'd been dead for decades. Another day he might greet me with the news that he'd sold his Model T, which he kept in a barn I presumed had been gone for decades -- and, oh, by the way, did he tell me they'd cut off one of his legs?

You learn to roll with all of that. You learn even to roll with it when he asks how Mom's doing, and if she's coming to visit him anytime soon.

Mom has been gone since 2013.

Still, he is Dad, and sometimes even now you see glimpses of it. You'll catch a crooked grin or a dusty chuckle, and remember how easily he smiled, and that booming, audible-three-states-away guffaw of his. And you'll remember that this was the man who taught you a reverence for history and old things, and to do a job right or don't do it at all, and to honor your commitments.

I am not half the man my father was, but some of it took. My wife frequently notes that I go at everything -- work, exercise, sports --"like a dog killing chickens," and that is Dad's doing. Do it right or don't do it at all.

And so there came a time, not long ago, when I was walking out the door after a visit, and Dad called after me. Hollered after me, truth be told. Startled, I turned around and walked back into his room.

"What is it, Dad?"

He looked at me -- really looked at me, which doesn't happen often anymore.

"Get me out of this chair," he said.

"Dad," I said, "we've been over this. Your legs don't work anymore. You can't stand up anymore."

He kept looking at me.

"Get me out of this chair," he said again.

And then his eyes softened.

"Help me," he whispered.

Well, that did it. I should have called for the aides, who knew how to move him. But those two words -- "Help me" -- erased my common sense.

So I lifted him up. He weighs only 140 or so now, but he was dead weight and 140 pounds of dead weight is pretty much a bridge too far for a 63-year-old man who never had any upper body strength to begin with.

But somehow, the dog killed the chickens again. I managed to get him from his chair into his wheelchair. And when he was settled, and I was trying to catch my breath, he looked at me and said two words that seemed to reverse time.

"Thank you."

Whoa. Hold on there, Dad.

That's my line.