Darkest of destinies

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

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

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

Dan Serafini was 19 years old.

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

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

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

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

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

After that ...

Well. After that, it never got much better.

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

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

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

Dan Serafini was 38 years old by then.

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

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

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

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

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

The wreckage of a ruined life.

Pro days

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See ya in court.

Misdirection

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

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

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

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

And the Illinois lege did, finally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

OK. Rant over.

And the Hammond Bears?

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

No to the throw

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

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

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

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

This is especially true of quarterbacks. 

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

And yet ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A hoops eclipse

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

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

And down south in Bloomington?

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

At least we're good in football ...

Because basketball?

Hoo, boy.

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

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

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

But if you think that's bad ...

Wait'll you hear what happened in Bloomington.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not to repeat myself or anything.

Dying young

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

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

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

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

The key word there being "maybe."

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

 Know what's not a maybe, though?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then ...

Ah, yes. And then.

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

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

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

But here is one more thing we do know.

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

Karma

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway ...

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