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. 

An American story

 The U.S. men's soccer team put on another fine show yesterday in the World Cup, smothering Australia 2-0 and winning its group after Panama clipped Turkey 1-0 later in the day.

Know what that makes our guys?

It makes them the first USMNT in history ever to clinch a spot in the knockout rounds with a group match still to play.

It also makes them about as American as America gets, for anyone who might have forgotten what America is and always should be.

This iscbecause the player who headed in the Americans' second goal in the waning minutes of the first was a 21-year-old named Alex Freeman, and you may have heard of his dad. His name is Antonio Freeman, and he has a Super Bowl ring. Won it as a stickout wide receiver for the Green Bay Packers in 1996, with whom he spent most of a career in which he caught 477 passes for 7,251 yards and 61 touchdowns.

His best season came two years later, when he was Brett Favre's go-to guy, snagging 84 balls for a league-leading 1,424 yards and 14 sixes.

In other words, his kid gets his athleticism honest.

He's fast, he's got quicks, he has a gymnast's ability to control his body in the air: Sound familiar?

So here, on America's team, you've got a young man who grew up around American football but took its DNA to the soccer pitch. And another young man (Weston McKennie) who was an Air Force brat who started playing soccer in Kaiserslautem, Germany, while his dad was stationed at Ramstein Air Force base. And yet another young man (Folarin Balogun) who grew up in London the son of Nigerian parents, but who chose to play for the U.S. because he happened to be born in Brooklyn.

Balogun scored two goals in the USMNT's 4-1 win over Paraguay in its World Cup opener. Which, as a friend of the Blob pointed out, is the best argument for birthright citizenship in a nation whose leaders want to get rid of this very American fundamental right.

On this American team, there are players who hail from 11 states, everywhere from Massachusetts to Texas and California to Delaware. There are players whose hometowns are London, Nuremberg and Almere-Stad in the Netherlands. It is, in other words, as remarkably polygot a team as America itself.

Sometimes, especially in these fractured days, we forget that. We forget that America is and always has been a patchwork of cultures, belief systems and backgrounds whose best self is our common striving -- and whose worst self is embodied by those who use fear and loathing to divide us into two camps: Americans, and some treacherous Other. 

Well, guess what, boys and girls?

In this country, we are all Others.  It's the American story right down to the ground.

As a certain soccer team keeps reminding us these days.

Open reform

 Took a peek this a.m. at the 36-hole scores in the U.S. Open at Shinnecock Hills, and, wow, apparently the USGA learned its lesson. Not a windmill or clown mouth in sight, unlike eight years ago.

No, this time around Wyndham Clark leads by four strokes at 7-under and nine other players are under par for the tournament. This is a marked contrast to 2018, when the USGA tricked up Shinnecock with everything but NHL goalies and pin placements in Manhattan, and reduced both a beautiful natural course and the best players in the world to laughingstocks.

Well, not this time. This time the USGA apparently decided to let Shinnecock be Shinnecock, which is plenty. Between the seaside wind ("If it's nae wind, it's nae golf," the Scots like to say), and the typically jungle-y rough, the course presents enough of a challenge without being ridiculous about it.

Which is what the USGA, which runs the U.S. Open, did eight years ago at Shinnecock. And rightly was ball-peened for it from just about everybody.

Well, not this time. This time, they're letting golf be golf, without any usual artificial ingredients.

Call open reform at the Open, or something. And hooray for it.

Erasing history, Part Infinity

 (In which the Blob again tunnels out of Sportsball World and is on the loose. Post your APB here if you don't want to be want to be subjected to, ugh, names and dates and demon hist'ry)

Today is Juneteenth National Independence Day in America -- Jubilee Day, Emancipation Day, Freedom Day, etc. -- and once again some folks will celebrate with picnics, barbecue, music and seminars, and other folks will make snide remarks and wonder why the hell we have to mention slavery again when President Trump says it's verboten.

This is our country now, sadly. It always has been, really -- Americans have forever been a squalling, contentious lot, a melting pot that never completely melts -- but now the divide is more stark and unhinged than ever, having been given the seal of approval by the Unhinged One himself and his various toadies and bootlicks.

On his watch, per his executive order in March of last year, it's now official policy to scrub the nation clean of any history Fearless Leader deems insufficiently worshipful of 'Merica. This of course means keeping quiet about slavery, America's original sin and one of its  messiest and most defining legacies -- i.e., the very essence of what history is, and what it's supposed to teach us about ourselves.

People with a reverence for the past understand this. The people driving the bus in America now do not.

And so the National Park Service, on orders from the very top, has either removed or ticketed for removal signs and exhibits at dozens of sites. Not surprisingly, most of the removals involve slavery, the civil rights movement, America's erratic and often murderous policies toward indigenous peoples, and the trashing of the environment.

In other words, anything that suggests American history isn't all seashells and balloons, as Al McGuire used to say.

The latest erasing happened just a week or so ago, when the NPS removed several panels at Bunker Hill with quotes the Regime deemed inappropriate. These included a Vietnam War era quote suggesting the U.S. should "cease to build memorials to death and begin to glorify life", and a quote urging that immigrants should take "no second place" in America.

And another?

An editorial from the abolitionist paper "The Liberator" chastising freedom-loving Americans for also embracing slavery.

Now, none of those, obviously, is remotely controversial to any rational human. Of course we should choose glorifying life over romanticizing death. Of course the immigrant should not take a back seat in a country built by immigrants. And of course the contradiction between freedom-loving Americans and the institution of slavery is central to our national narrative.

 But, again, rational humans aren't driving the bus anymore.

This includes the woman who claimed a Bunker Hill display about the women's suffrage movement in America was -- I swear I'm not making this up -- "woke" feminism. Yet her lone complaint set in motion the aforementioned erasures.

So one nutbar says something irredeemably stupid, and the Park Service commences scrubbing. This is our country now.

It's a country where our leaders pine for either the 1890s or 1950s, when history textbooks still advanced the false catechism of  the Lost Cause, teaching a generation of young minds that most slaves were happy and, anyway, the Civil War wasn't about slavery. And it was a time when no one questioned how bizarre it was that United States military installations were named for Confederates who waged war against the United States military.

Juneteenth?

A national holiday, but one of which a disturbingly large part of the nation seems disinclined to make too much. It's OK to celebrate the end of slavery in America, but not to talk about slavery itself. Better to keep it locked in the national attic with your crazy Uncle Fred.

On the other hand ...

On the other hand, here's something I wrote on this occasion three years ago. Very little has changed, sadly. Which only means it's still a relevant way to wrap all this up:

Juneteenth ... is rightly celebrated, but you can't fully discuss it without acknowledging the backlash that followed. It led to freedom, and then the ballot, and then to representation in Congress -- and then, as night follows day, to the violent overthrow of Reconstruction in favor of the reconstruction of slavery in the form of Jim Crow.

And then to the black Holocaust of lynching and racist violence. And then to the civil rights movement, the backlash-to-the-backlash whose gains the usual suspects are now working overtime to undo.

You can't properly teach Juneteenth without mentioning that context. And yet it's everything those usual suspects are trying to suppress in the name of  -- to use one of their arguments -- not stirring up resentments that divide us. 

Know who else used that rationale?

Well, in Adam Hochschild's history of the years 1917-21 in America, "American Midnight," there's a passage describing domestic Military Intelligence chief Ralph Van Deman's strong-arming of the black press. His excuse was that they were running exposes about lynching, and that pieces like that might create "a feeling of disloyalty" among blacks.

Hmm. Sound familiar?

Windmills and clown mouths

 The U.S. Open returns to Shinnecock Hills in the Hamptons today, and for the sake of golf we can only hope the USGA doesn't turn it into Omaha Beach again. Or, failing that, Pirate Pete's Treasure Chest Mini-Golf, complete with windmills and clown mouths and the notorious Walk The Plank hole.

That's pretty much what the USGA did eight years ago, which was the last time it brought the Open to Shinnecock Hills, a lovely windswept course that surely deserved better. As did the golfers who had to play it.

By the time the tournament organizers got done tricking up Shinnecock, see, the place featured everything but land mines and machine gun nests with interlocking fields of fire.  They always do this at the Open, the goal being to make the tournament "a true test of golf" or some such thing. It's why the green are always slicker than a bald man's head and the rough is a Brazilian rainforest.

This time, however, the USGA outdid itself. And in the process made laughingstock of both a proud track and the Open itself.

What it did was, it took the best golfers in the world and turned them into Merle Fleenor The Carpet Cleaner, hacking his way around Dirt Clod Country Club on a Saturday morning. How ridiculous was it?

It was so ridiculous no one broke par for the tournament. Brooks Koepka won with a 72-hole total of 1-over.

It was so ridiculous Tommy Fleetwood, who finished second, shot a 75 and a 78. 

It was so ridiculous Dustin Johnson, who led at the 36-hole turn, shot a 77 in the third round. Rickie Fowler shot 84 the same day. Rory McIlroy didn't shoot anything, having missed the cut after putting up a fat 80 in the first round.

And Phil Mickelson?

Well, in the midst of shooting 11-over 81 in the third round, he pulled big ol' Merle. Slid a putt wide, then trotted after his ball and swatted it back the other way before it stopped rolling.

Polo, anyone?

It's the Blob's considered opinion he should have been disqualified for that sorry little stunt, but on some level you could understand it. Professional golfers always complain about U.S. Open courses, mainly because they're professional golfers. A more pampered lot you'd be hard-pressed to find.

But eight years ago at Shinnecock, they had more than a point. And once again we were compelled to wonder why the USGA thinks golf fans flock to the Open to see Rory shoot 80 or DJ shoot 77.  Omigod, Martha, DeChambeau's workin' on an 85! Let's hustle over to 18 to watch him come in!

Yeah, no. If golf fans wanted to see that, they'd just head out to Dirt Clod to watch Merle chili-dip a wedge -- and then fling the (bleep-bleep) piece of Calloway (bleep) into the nearest pond, shouting "Hope you can swim, you (bleep-bleep) son of a (bleep)!"

Or maybe he'd just pull a Phil Mickelson. A true golf fan can never get enough polo, after all.

Or windmills. Or clown mouths.

Change of ... something

 So after all that ...

Brendan Sorsby said, "Nah, just messin' with ya."

He is not going to play quarterback for Texas Tech. He is not going to be Joe College for one last year. He's gonna go pro -- if that phrase is even relevant anymore in a world where Joe College is already a pro thanks to Name, Image and Likeness deals that could choke a horse.

Brendan Sorsby, for instance, was set to make $6 million from Texas Tech's NIL for his one season in Lubbock.

But again: Nah, just messin' with ya.

This after Sorsby announced he's entering the NFL's supplemental draft, after paying a bunch of suits heaven knows how much to drag the NCAA into court. He drew a friendly local judge who might or might not have been wearing a Texas Tech jersey under his robes, and scored an injunction on the grounds that Sorsby was a compulsive gambler and denying him one more year of eligibility would do serious harm to his mental health.

In other words: You can't bar Brendan Sorsby for being a compulsive gambler who bet on college football -- including, at Indiana, his own team -- because he's a compulsive gambler who bet on college football.

I know. And believe me, that's not going to sound less wack no matter how many times you read it.

But after paying lawyers and getting Judge Go Red Raiders to sign off and putting Texas Tech in the crosshairs of virtually everyone in college football -- and after Tech embarrassed itself with a cringe-y video defending Sorsby, and itself ("We're not either letting a compulsive gambler play for us just because we need a quarterback!") -- Sorsby's decided to tell Tech this: Sorry, guys. I've had a change of ... well, something. Have a good one!

Now there's some gratitude for ya.

This likely had much to do with the state of Texas threatening the Big 12 with a lawsuit if the conference tried to punish Texas Tech on its own hook. The Big 12 basically said "Bite me" and rolled out its own team of lawyers, who were prepared to argue the conference had every damn right in the world to enforce its own rules.

Suddenly the NFL had all sorts of appeal, one imagines. And so off to the NFL supplemental draft Sorsby will go. 

Will someone take a chance on him?

 Probably.

Will it be a hard sell given that Sorsby has an acknowledged gambling addiction and the NFL is notorious for shunning players for far less than that? 

Maybe.

Shedeur Sanders, after all, went tumbling in the draft just because teams didn't like his attitude. Now a kid who bets on everything wants in the door?

Somewhere Paul Hornung and Alex Karras, who way back in the NFL's Before Time each got a year's sitdown for betting on NFL games, must be howling. 

But that was Pete Rozelle's NFL, and that was when the league considered gambling to be the third rail of heinous crimes. Now, of course, the NFL is in business with the gamblers, or at least their enablers. Hard to get past the cognitive dissonance of rejecting Sorsby because of his gambling jones when DraftKings, Bet MGM and lord knows who else are paying big money to sponsor your team's games on Sunday afternoon.

In any event, after all the hoo-ha, Texas Tech is out one quarterback, and the NCAA is out one headache. A rare W for an organization that turned college athletics into the Wild West by basically washing its hands of the whole NIL thing once it became inevitable.

"Go with God," you can imagine them all saying now.

With God, or with mammon. Hard to say these days.

Their Cup runneth even

 The thing about the World Cup is, a tie is not always like kissing your sister, as Bear Bryant liked to see. Sometimes a tie is a win -- or a loss, depending what side of the tie you're on.

"OK, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "Zen break is over. Get on with it."

Alrighty, then. Let's talk about Cape Verde, then.

It's an island nation 350 miles of the west coast of Africa that used to belong to Portugal, but that's been independent for 51 years now. This year its soccer team, which includes expats from half the countries in the world, reached the World Cup for the first time. With a population just north of half-a-million, it's the third-smallest country ever to play in the world's biggest sporting event.

And yesterday it beat Spain, 0-0.

And, OK, so officially that made it a nil-nil draw, but that didn't mean it wasn't a huge upset. It was. It was, in fact, a monumental upset, given the fact Spain is almost everyone's favorite to win the World Cup and Cape Verde is ... well, lovely bunch of islands in the eastern Atlantic.

The Verde-ians (Verdettes?) did it with guts, determination, dumb luck and a 40-year-old goalkeeper named Vozinha, who made seven saves and immediately became the star of the tournament in its early stages. In 19 years he's played professionally in six countries -- including two stops in Portugal, where he's currently with Chaves in La Liga Portugal 2.

Before yesterday only hardcore soccerheads had heard of him. Now he has five million followers on Instagram.

This is what one shining moment will do for a guy in the World Cup, just as one shining moment In the NCAA Tournament will make people aware that a Maryland-Baltimore County, a Fairleigh Dickinson or a Mercer are actual schools with actual basketball teams. Upsets make the Madness, the Madness; upsets make the World Cup, the World Cup.

This is especially true in the latter case, because upsets like Cape Verde vs. Spain happen so rarely. Many more times than not, a Cape Verde-Spain result will look like Germany-Curacao (a 7-1 rout for the Germans), or Sweden-Tunisia (in which the Swedes paved the Tunisians 5-1).

Plus, the fans are nuttier in World Cup. They just are.

Oh, sure, college kids will paint their faces and sometimes their torsos in the colors of dear old Whatsamatta U., but what about the Australia fans who show up dressed in a head-to-toe kangaroo suit (in honor of their national side, the Sockeroos)? Or how about the Egypt fan who showed up for his side's 1-1 draw with Belgium wearing the head of Anubis, the Egyptian god of graves?

I don't know what the Cape Verde equivalent is to that, but I bet it would be cool. And I bet they partied long into the night in a distinctly Cape Verde-ian (Verdette?) way after their boys brought down mighty Spain, sort of.

Their World Cup runneth even, by golly. Raise a glass.

The Great Divide

 The President of these United States celebrated his 80th birthday yesterday, and to commemorate the occasion, Ivory Coast beat Ecuador 1-nil on the soccer pitch.

OK. So that's not right.

How about this: The President of these United States celebrated his 80th birthday yesterday, and to commemorate the occasion, the Carolina Hurricanes beat the Vegas Golden Knights 3-0 to win the Stanley Cup.

No?

Fine. Here's one more:

 The President of these United States celebrated Pride Month yesterday, and to commemorate the occasion, a bunch of buff, sweaty, half-naked men brawled on the White House lawn. 

Excuse me?

Whatta you mean I'm being snarky about this?

You mean it was actually a celebration of Freedom, and the President of Freedom, and good old All-American Freedom testosterone? Strength and will and aggravated assault (but with referees!)? Everything that made America the greatest country in the history of countries, and last night's mixed martial arts card the greatest sporting event in the history of sporting events?

(Which, no lie, is how it was marketed)

Okey-dokey. Whatever floats your boat.

This is an America, after all, where there are any number of boats these days, and they're all headed off different edges of the world. Whatever commonality we have as a nation -- and, truthfully, it's never been as common as we like to think -- vanishes a bit more with every deranged social media post by Fearless Leader, his acolytes, and the fringier of his appalled opponents.

Either he's Jesus Christ, or he's the Antichrist. Either he's George Washington, or he's Attila the Hun. Either Michelle Obama is a thoughtful, educated former First Lady eminently worthy of every American's respect ... or she's a man.

Which is what one of the buff, sweaty, half-naked brawlers shouted last night after winning his fight. Right after he praised God, of course.

This not being a crowd well-versed in cognitive dissonance, they cheered.

And elsewhere?

Elsewhere, Japanese fans were observed picking up their trash after Japan and the Netherlands tied 1-1 in their opening World Cup soccer match.

Elsewhere (reportedly, because who knows these days), some Knicks fans stuck around to help sanitation workers clean up the New York streets after a night of revelry and mayhem following the Knicks first NBA title in 53 years.

Elsewhere, Carolina's ancient warrior, Jordan Staal, hoisted the Stanley Cup on enemy ice, and no one threw trash him, no one (at least within earshot) questioned his parentage, no one called his wife a man.

On Flag Day, in the midst of America's 250th year, the Great American Divide perhaps was never more starkly illustrated. To our eternal shame.

Respect vs. disrespect. Manners vs., well, something else. America vs. 'Merica.

On one side of the divide stands the crowd who believes in their heart of hearts that Fearless Leader is a Dark Lord intent on destroying every decent thing about this country, instead of what he is -- a half-senile bumbler surrounded by bumbling enablers who, yes, are intent on destroying every decent thing about this country, but who thankfully appear too stupid to complete the mission.

And on the other side?

They're the enablers, the hell-yeah bunch, the poor dupes who believe big talk and bombs equate to strength, and that God anointed the half-senile bumbler to be the GREATEST PRESIDENT EVER and save us all from diversity, inclusion and the Somali/Muslim/transgender hordes.

Oh, and from Michelle Obama, of course.

Anyway, that ensemble was on full display last night, in what was billed as UFC Freedom 250 but looked more like redneck cosplay. On the grounds of the People's House, they erected an MMA cage emblazoned with Bud Light logos. Dirt bikes sailed over jumps.  Not far away lay the trash heap that used to be the East Wing.

All that was missing were a rusted-out Chevy up on blocks and a giant oil stain in the driveway. The Ellipse as Cletus Bob's front yard, in other words.

And, yes, I know, that sounds insufferably elitist. It isn't meant to. And it's not like I'm some kale-eating dilettante who doesn't enjoy a little lowbrow culture himself on occasion. I'm a retired sportswriter, for God's sake. And so gimme a cheeseburger and a beer and dial up some stock car racing or professional axe throwing on the tube. I'm there.

This does not mean, however, that I have no standards. I do. And one of them, as a board-certified history nerd, is an admittedly pearl-clutching reverence for America's landmarks.

Civil War battlefields. Our national parks. Arlington. And, yes, the White House.

Turning its grounds into some garish Roman circus sponsored by Bud Light strikes me as obscene. I can't help it.

I suppose that makes me just another triggered lib to those on the other side of the Divide. So be it. Guilty as charged. But what else can I say, in this riven America?

You do you, in other words. And I'll do me. And maybe one of these days -- not soon, unfortunately, and maybe not before I shuffle off this mortal coil -- we'll all come to our senses.

Hopefully before Cletus Bob does some more urban renewal at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. Hopefully before then.

Knicks, and time

 The Knickerbockers of  New York won the NBA championship last night in San Antonio, led by an undersized guard who found his game in the big city (Jalen Brunson); a forward who's never been an NBA All-Star but became one in the Finals (OG Anunoby); three guys from Villanova (Brunson, Josh Hart and Mikal Bridges); and a quietly efficient center (Karl-Anthony Towns).

It was their first NBA championship since 1973, and there was a weird resonance to it.  In '73, the Knicks clinched the title in five games, on the road; last night, the Knicks clinched the title in five games, on the road.

Fifty-three years have passed between those doppelganger moments, and that is a lot of water under the Brooklyn bridge. Stephen A. Smith, the shoutin'-est Knicks fan in America, was five years old. Spike Lee, the most famous Knicks fan, was sweet 16. Benson and Stabler -- aka, Mariska Hargitay and Chris Meloni, who were at the Garden for one of the games this week -- hadn't even thought about arresting creeps yet.

Fifty-three years.

You wanna know how long ago that was?

The guy driving this sentence was 18 years old and so skinny you could fit him inside a ballpoint pen. Now he's 71 and ... not skinny.

Willis Reed, Walt Frazier, Bill Bradley and Dave DeBusschere were the Knick stars. Now Reed and DeBusschere are dead and Frazier and Bradley are 81 and 82, respectively.

"The Godfather" had yet to be sequel-ed by "The Godfather II," which means Fredo, Hyman Roth and Frank Pentangeli were all still alive. Watergate hadn't taken down Nixon yet. And because the Knicks wrapped it up on May 10, Secretariat was only a third of the way through the greatest Triple Crown run in history. 

Donald Trump was still a young punk and not a half-senile punk. Disco wasn't a thing yet, thank God. Neither were Michael Jordan, Larry Bird, Joe Montana, Wayne Gretzky, LeBron James, Taylor Swift or Snoop Dog.

How long ago was 1973?

These things didn't exist: T-Mobile, Netflix, Atari, Betamax and DraftKings. Also the internet; Al Gore claiming/not claiming to have invented the internet; laptops with access to the internet; social media on the internet; Zoom meetings on the internet.

You know what was still around, in 1973?

The Big Shef.  Pizza Spins. Whistles and Daisies. The Plymouth Barracuda  ... the original Pontiac GTO ... Winston Cup ... Hai Karate aftershave ... Chess King.

Oh, yeah: And the New York Knicks winning an NBA championship.

USA! USA!

 OK, so first off on this glorious star-spangled morning, here is a name you are duty-bound to remember now: Folarin Balogun.

Folarin Balugon is a professional soccer player born to Nigerian parents who'd emigrated to London, but who just happened to be in Brooklyn when Folarin's mother went into labor. So he grew up in London, but, because he was born in the U.S., he was eligible to play internationally for either the United States or England.

He chose the U.S., God bless his red-white-and-blue soul. I don't know how the Brits feel about that, but, seeing how this is the 250th anniversary of us kicking them the hell out of our freshly-minted nation, perhaps it's karma. Sucks for you, limeys.

Anyway, Balogun plays for the United States Men's National Team, and last night he was spectacular in the USMNT's World Cup opener as a co-host of the tournament. Scored two goals in the first half as the U.S. beat Paraguay like a dusty rug, 4-1. This was sort of like the Dallas Cowboys beating someone 42-14 (as if), so, you know, USA! USA!

"Question, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "Does this mean the USMNT is going to give us the Miracle on Fake Grass the way the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team gave us the Miracle on Ice in Lake Placid? Or to put it another way, is the USMNT that good, or does Paraguay just blow chunks?"

Well ...

Heck, I don't know. Maybe. Or not. Bit of both, perhaps.

In any case, the USMNT looked damn good last night, after looking sort of "meh" in some of the World Cup run-up matches. They controlled play in the midfield with panache and style. Established star Christian Pulisic dazzled on the wing and set up strikers in the box. And Balogun's goals were both quality -- especially the second, when he fought off a couple of defenders and sent a rocket into the top corner.

So, who knows. Maybe it's destiny, 250th national birthday and all. Or maybe it was just a win over Paraguay.

Next up for the U.S.?

That would be Australia, six days from now in Seattle. I hear the Socceroos are tough. OK, so I didn't, but they could be. 

Anyway ... onward.

A summerish interlude

 Fine June morning here in the Midwest 'burbs, and that mean old baseball ain't playin' fair.

It inscribes a high soft arc against a blue sky gauzed with cirrus-cloud lace, but the kid still can't find it. He bends low at the plate, trying to time his swing. The ball floats in; the kid swings too slow or late or high or low; and the ball passes untouched.

Stee-rike one.

And then: Stee-rike two. 

And then: Stee-rike three.

"Good swing!" some grandpa sings out from the cool morning shade.  But I'm watching the kid, and he's trudging back through the beige dust, hot summerish sunlight pouring down -- and, oh, lord here it comes: my own summerish interlude.

The kid, see, is wearing the same Wildcat Baseball T-shirt and cap I wore, what, 62 years ago now (Sixty-two years! Good lord). The shirt is white with blue trim and a blue Wildcat etched on the front, same as ever. The cap is red-and-blue with a Wildcat patch on the crown, same as ever. The swing-and-three-misses are achingly familiar, too.

And so I stand in the cool shade and look around and it all just washes over me abruptly and unbidden, everything summer was then and is now in the late fall of my years.

Solstice sun beating down. Hieroglyphic imprint of Keds in flour-like dust. The sting of sweat in the eyes; the baseball sailing in; heartbeat jumping as I lunge at it, the bat in my hands less a deadly weapon than a tchotchke in a knickknack shop.

Swing and a miss. Swing and a miss. Swing and a miss. And then it's back out to left field, where the highlight of my Wildcat days was finding a four-leaf clover once.

There may have been worse baseball players born to America's game than me, but you'd hunt for a good long time finding him. Nearsighted, mite-sized and so slow (as the saying goes) it took me two trips to haul ass, I was also blessed with the hand-eye coordination of a tree stump. I might have gotten a hit once in my couple of years playing Wildcat, but after six decades it might have just been a walk. Hard to say.

Know what, though?

Wildcat was summer to me, in a way nothing else was. It remains one of my most vivid memories of a time when you slung your Ted Williams baseball glove over the handlebars of your bike and set off for some ballfield vaguely carved from the grass, the long summer days stretching out before you to infinity.

Summer lasted a year back then. Don't even try convincing me otherwise.

In Wildcat, I played for the Beckerts, our team named for the Cubs' second-baseman. My best friend played for the Fords, as in Whitey Ford. Wildcat was divided into age groups -- Kitty, Kat and Tiger -- and the team names in each all had a different motif.

Real-life baseball players for us. Car names for others. So on a given day you had the Beckerts beating the Fords (or vice-versa) and the Pontiacs beating the Buicks.

 Now?

I don't what they call teams now. I don't know, on this nostalgia-thick morning, if I'm watching the Reds play the Royals or the Skittles vs. the KitKats. All I know is how achingly familiar it all looks.

Same caps and shirts. Same chatter rising from the infield (Hey, battah, hey, battah, hey, battah-battah-battah). Same moms and grandparents and brothers and sisters sitting in their camp chairs under the shade trees, one eye on the diamond while they chatter themselves.

Oh, sure, there are differences.  It's 2026, not 1962, and so Mom periodically pulls out her cellphone to take a call. The kids wear Day-Glo kicks and Day-Glo batting gloves and Day-Glo shades. Some of them are girls, because, heck, why not? 

And now I'm reading back over this, and I'm cringing a little, because it sounds unforgivably mawkish to me. One of those rambling, back-in-my-day essays that go on and on and on and on -- and over which I used to roll my eyes, until I became a back-in-my-day guy myself.

I can't help it, in other words. Can't help how watching a kid strike out hits me around the heart. Can't help looking around and seeing another kid over here in the shade, tossing a baseball into the sky and catching it.

He's wearing a boot on one leg, so he won't be playing today. But he's still geared out in his Wildcat cap and shirt, still communing with the game.

Up the ball goes. Down into the glove it falls. Up, down. Up, down.

 Summer, by heaven. Summer, at full, flood tide.

Comeback spring

 Maybe you walked away when the Knickerbockers of New York went down 27 points at halftime last night ... in Madison Square Garden ... where they'd already broken everyone's heart by losing two nights before.

Now the San Antonio Spurs were crushing them like bugs, and an NBA Finals that looked to be firmly in New York's control was about to be level at two wins apiece. Little wonder that a city that greeted them like Caesars two days before escorted them off the floor with a scattering of boos.

New Yorkers are like that. Win and you're the best EVER; go down 27 at the half and you're a bunch of bums who should never be allowed to darken whatever door it is you've had the privilege of darkening.

Anyway, if you said "I'm out," and switched over to Netflix when the Spurs went up by 29 early in the second half, you were only being rational. The Knicks were done on both sides. They were a Big Apple turnover poppin' fresh from the oven. Who climbs out of a 29-point hole in less than a half, against a team good enough to make the Finals.

"This guy!" cried Jalen Brunson, or OG Anunoby, or Karl-Anthony Towns.

OK, so they didn't.

But they did climb out of that hole, and come all the way back, and then won it when Anunoby -- who had the game of his life in the series of his life -- outleaped Dylan Harper and Devin Vassell to tip in Brunson's miss with 1.2 seconds showing.

Knicks 107, Spurs 106.

No, really. That was the final score, in case you just woke up, checked your sports app of choice and yelped "WHAT?"

Knicks 107, Spurs 106.  You read that right.

It happened because the Spurs, who shot a blistering 60 percent in the first half, couldn't throw it in the East River in the second. Shot 20 percent. Built a brick edifice, as they say. Let the Knicks back into it, and that got the Garden crowd back into it, and then Anunoby got, I don't know, maybe half a finger on the ball for the Tip-In Heard 'Round The World.

Scootch over, Bobby Thomson. You just got some company in the New York Greatest Sports Moments pantheon.

The tip was the 32nd and 33rd points of the night for Anunoby, the former Indiana Hoosier who just may wind up as the Finals MVP. Brunson dropped another 36. Towns had a double-double; Josh Hart had eight boards, six assists and two steals; and now the Knicks lead the series 3-1 and are one trembling step away from their first NBA title in 53 years.

Accounts vary, but some say there were still laces on the basketball then.

And the comeback?

Well, it's just this year's seasonal motif. Or so it seems.

Over in the Stanley Cup Final, for instance, the Vegas Golden Knights and Carolina Hurricanes keep blowing leads left and right, then un-blowing them. In four games so far, the Hurricanes have lost 5-4 after jumping out 2-0; the Golden Knights have jumped out to a 2-0 lead, fallen behind 3-2, tied it at 3-3, and then lost in overtime.

So it's gone. In Game 3, Vegas led 4-0 in the second period, Carolina rallied to tie it 4-4, then Vegas won it on Shea Theodore's goal in the second overtime. And in Game 4 the other night, the 'Canes jumped out to leads of 2-0 and 3-1, watched Vegas tie it at 3-3, then rallied for two more goals in the third period to win 5-3.

It's a comeback spring, everyone. Enjoy.

World Cup feverish

 Asked a guy the other day if he was jacked about the World Cup, and he kind of chuckled a bit and maybe smirked and said "nah," as if I'd asked him if he were jacked about putting the coffee on in the morning.

So there's that.

On the other hand, I talked to another guy who's going to be visiting friends reasonably near one of the game sites, and he's planning to score a ticket and go watch, I don't know, someone play someone. Because, hey, it's the World Cup, and it's in the U.S., so how could he not?

I concluded from this admittedly unscientific study that we're only mildly feverish about the world's most-watched sporting event coming to out shores, and not running a raging temp of 102 degrees or so. More like 99.7, which hardly counts as a fever at all.

Now, I know that's probably inaccurate as all get out. I know there are lots of folks here in America who are completely charged up about the World Cup, which begins in Mexico tomorrow when the home team takes on South Africa in Mexico City and the South Koreans battle the Czechs in Guadalajara. 

This is despite the fact that FIFA, which runs the World Cup, is brazenly trying to siphon every last dollar and peso it can from the lucrative American market.

Its most egregious cash grab was trying to bar spectators from bringing their own water into the Cup sites, on account of that would mean vendors couldn't gouge the paying customers for as many ten-buck bottles or whatever. Imagine that: Making water a strictly for-profit concern. 

That takes some big brass ones, as someone once said, but organizers quickly walked it back after getting massive pushback. Apparently robbing fans at thirst-point in summertime heat was too criminal even for FIFA.

Besides, have you seen those ticket prices?

Now, granted, it's the World Cup, and, granted, you needed to take out a second mortgage to afford tickets to Game 3 of the NBA Finals in Madison Square Garden the other night, too. Big events command big money -- even absurdly outrageous money. The world is a rich man's playground, and thus has it ever been.

And so it will likely not surprise you that (at least on the online ticket outlet I checked) a pair of primo midfield tickets for the U.S.-Paraguay match at Sofi Stadium in L.A. Friday will run you a cool $7,757. Then again, you can snag two in the remotest reaches of one corner for a mere 854 smackers.

Eight-hundred fifty-four!  And with that you get complimentary oxygen and your own sherpa to lug your gear up to Section Himalaya.

Of course, that's for the home team's opening match. Not every first-rounder this week is going to impoverish you that much.

For instance, let's check out that big Haiti-Scotland showdown Saturday in the New England Patriots home digs in Foxborough, Mass. Primo midfield seats were going for just $777 a pair for that one. Heck, even club seats only ran you $1,359 for two.

Bargain.

"Enough griping about ticket prices like some sad old coot," you're saying now. "Tell us who's going to win the gold Oscar-sized statuette."

Well ... probably not Haiti. Or Scotland. Or, sad to say, Team USA, for that matter.

According to folks who know immeasurably more about this than the Blob, Spain is your favorite, followed closely by France. Both teams are apparently loaded with stars from the Premier League, La Liga, Serie A, all the major circuits. 

England will be in thick of it, too, it seems, although the Brits always pucker up in the World Cup, having not won it since the Beatles released "Revolver" (i.e., 1966). Somewhere in there will be Brazil, because it's Brazil and it still has a full complement of guys with one name (Casemiro, Vinicius Jr., Rapinha, even Estevao, who's out with an injury).

Also Portugal, because Cristiano Ronaldo still plays for the red-and-green. Also defending champion Argentina, which still has Lionel Messi.

Me?

I'm picking the Dutch. 

Not because they're one of the powerhouses, but because I still remember the Clockwork Orange group from 52 years ago, Johan Cruyff and that bunch. They lost to Gerd Muller, Franz Beckenbauer and West Germany in the World Cup final that year, but, what the hell, maybe their spiritual descendants get it done this time.

Anyway, enjoy, America. And don't forget your water.