Welcome to Super Roman Numeral Week

 I don't know if the groundhog or porcupine or whatever it is saw his shadow this morning, but I do know what today ushers in. It's Super Roman Numeral Week, boys and girls!

During which there will be parties and lots of patting oneself on the back by the NFL, and also parties. And other parties. And Sam Darnold being asked 900 times why he doesn't suck anymore. Followed by even more other parties.

I say this as someone who covered three of these distinctly American bacchanals, and was always left slack-jawed at the pure silliness that attends the biggest week in the nation's biggest sport. Dirty little secret: As a sportswriter, it wasn't all that hard a gig. There were news conferences every day that spoon-fed us stories only a hundred or so others wrote; there also stories just lying on the ground that, if you were lucky or enterprising enough, no one else thought to write.

It also provided some, shall we say, unique experiences.

Like the year Prince was the halftime show, and turned his pre-Super Bowl news conference into an impromptu three-number concert. Alleged journalists leaped to their feet cheering and clapping and dancing in the aisles. Weirdest presser ever.

On the other hand, nothing was weirder than Media Day. This became an event in itself -- in Indianapolis in 2012, they actually sold tickets to it -- and it had as much to do with actual Media as the Jerry Springer Show. You had legit writers and radio and TV foofs, but you also had quasi-celebrities and self-promoters and that one guy from Telemundo asking questions via sock puppet. 

For instance, I was there the day someone asked Bears tight end Desmond Clark what position he thought Chewbacca would play if Chewbacca played football.

I was there the day some Nickelodeon character named Pick Boy was traipsing around in orange-and-green tights and cape pronouncing that his muscles were real and his hair was perfect. I was there for Super Bowl Wayne -- legit handle: Wayne C. Lavelle -- who was from Honolulu and whose claim to fame was he'd been to 32 Super Bowls in a row.

I was there the day someone showed up dressed as Red Grange, complete with leather helmet.  There the day Genghis Khan made an appearance, only this Genghis Khan was wearing white sunglasses with lenses the size of dinner plates. There ... oh, look, here's Super Bowl Wayne again, handing out business cards.

"Television Radio Film Internet Personality," it read.

I hope the Television Radio Film Internet Personality is at this week's Media Day.

I mean, someone's got to ask Drake Maye, for the 500th time, if he's ready for this. And if he's ready, how ready? Is the percentage of his readiness 60 percent? Seventy-five percent? Ninety percent?

After which someone really does have to ask Sam Darnold why he doesn't suck anymore.

And, by the way, what's the percentage of his readiness?

Mother Unnatural, Part Deux

 So remember yesterday, when the Blob talked about Nelly Korda and the LPGA, and the bomb cyclone that hit Orlando and the rest of Florida before Bond could disarm it?

(Because, to reiterate, "bomb cyclone" sounds more like a doomsday weapon Goldfinger would come up with than a weather system)

Well, it's not just women's golf Mother Unnatural messed with. 

It was also NASCAR. 

Know what the folks at that venerable old bullring Bowman Gray Stadium were doing Sunday, instead of kicking off the season with the Busch Clash?

They were plowing snow off the track. Like, lots and lots of snow.

This is because Bowman Gray is in Winston-Salem, N.C., which got a foot of snow last week. A foot of snow. In North Carolina.

Meanwhile, in Tampa, Fla., the NHL played an outdoor game Sunday in what actually felt like hockey weather (game-time temp was a wintry 40 degrees without the windchill). Talk about turning the globe upside-down.

By the time the storm blew itself out, after all, Winston-Salem looked more like Helsinki,  and Charlotte -- where most of the NASCAR teams are quartered -- was doing a passable imitation of Oslo. And this in a state where you can usually handle winter with four snowplows and a salt shaker.

(OK, so I exaggerate. North Carolina prolly has five snowplows at least.)

So, yeah, on Sunday, when folks were supposed to be tuning into the Clash, they were tuning into the Highway Department 200 instead. Plus, it got down to 14 degrees in Winston-Salem last night. And a '64 Volkswagen Beetle has a better heater than your average Cup car.

Ah, but by Wednesday, the temperature supposed to climb all the way to 40. That's when the Clash is supposed to take place now, the good Lord willing and the creek don't freeze over.

Any-hoo, I guess we can infer from all this that Mother Unnatural not only doesn't like golf, she apparently doesn't like stock-car racin', either. Which oughta be grounds for deportation, in my mind. It is what we do best these days, after all.

Mother Unnatural

 Happy February, everyone, that benighted month in which "winter wonderland" becomes an epithet and everyone thanks the calendar gods that it's also the shortest month.

I'm looking out my window right now, for instance, and it's not some Currier and Ives print of the horse pulling the sleigh over the river and through the woods. No, sir. It's  Siberia out there: Eight or so inches of snow on the ground, minus-1 degrees. . 

Everything's white, including my salt-encrusted car. Woo-hoo.

Want to know the worst thing?

You can't even go to Florida to get warm.

Hanging ten through my socials this a.m., and I saw that play was suspended yesterday in the third round of the season-opening LPGA Tournament of Champions. Not because of thunder, lightning and rain, mind you. Because it was TOO DAMN COLD AND WINDY.

That's got to be a first. Especially since they were playing in FREAKING ORLANDO.

The wind was blowing at 20 mph with gusts up to 40, dropping the windchills into the 40s. The weather boys and girls said the culprit was a bomb cyclone -- which sounds more like a weapon Bond must dismantle than a weather system -- staging a daring daylight raid on the Sunshine State.

And elsewhere. I surfed a little more, and some pictures from Myrtle Beach and Charlotte, N.C., popped up. The roads were white with snowpack, and it was still coming down. It looked like Norway had invaded the Deep South. 

Either that, or Mother Nature (Mother Unnatural?) saying, "You wanna see a War of Northern Aggression? I'll show you a War of Northern Aggression!"

Yeah, boy. Don't try to tell me our weather isn't doing some weird stuff. It is. And it's getting weirder the more our elected numbskulls keep denying our weather is doing weird stuff.

But enough about that. Let's get back to Orlando.

Where, according to my weather app, it's 28 degrees right now, with a windchill of 17. But the good news is, it's supposed to be a balmy 40 by noon.

Which means Nelly Korda, who shot 64 yesterday before play was suspended and sits atop the leaderboard, could make history today: 

First LPGA player to win a tournament while wearing a thermal mittens and a parka. Visor by Cabela's. 

The immortal one

 Look, I don't know what keeps Novak Djokovic going. Carrot juice, perhaps. Kale smoothies. Peanut M&Ms.

All I know is, yesterday down in Australia, while the wider world pretty much ignored it, he did something remarkable.

He outlasted Jannik Sinner in five sets in the Australian Open semifinal.

Won the fifth set 6-4. Walked off the court a winner after four hours and nine minutes of grinding. The match didn't end until 1:30 in the morning Australian time.

Oh, and one more thing: Novak Djokovic is 38 years old.

In tennis years, that's like 65. Maybe 70. And yet the Joker keeps on keeping on. 

Across the years he's won more majors (24), more Masters (40) and been ranked No. 1 in the world (428 weeks) more than any male player in history. He's the only player in history to achieve a career grand slam three times. He is, without much dispute, the greatest male tennis player the world has ever seen.

Maybe the most solid proof of that?

In Sinner, he beat a man 14 years his junior. And it wasn't even that big an upset, because even though Sinner is the No. 2 player in the world, Djokovic is still ranked fourth.

Fourth. At 38.

By contrast, his two major contemporaries, Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal, are 44 and 39, respectively. Federer retired three years ago, at 41. Nadal retired last year, when he was 38. Neither were ranked anywhere close to fourth in the world when they departed.

Now here is Djokovic, the only one of the Magnificent Three left standing, still standing tall. He won his first major 18 years ago. Tomorrow he could win his 25th.

It probably won't happen. Awaiting him in the final is the No. player in the world, Carlos Alcaraz. He's 16 years younger, faster and absolutely relentless. The Australian Open is also, at the tender age of 22, the only major title he hasn't won. So he has motivation on his side, too.

However.

However, he's facing a man who might just be immortal. 

Ridiculous, I know. Or is it?

Movie time!

(In which the Blob once again escapes the Sportsball compound to maraud freely through the landscape of America, pillaging small villages and frightening the children. You know what to do.)

The long awaited action rom-com "Melania" opened around the country this weekend, and like many of you I am super excited to stop at the gas station, buy some Junior Mints to sneak in and head off to the movie theater. So much anticipation! So much mystery! So many questions!

For instance, in the climactic light saber fight, will Melania take on the giant space centipede in the obligatory Thong Bikini That Leaves Nothing To The Imagination?

(I'm guessing yes)

Also, will there be an epic catfight with Joan Collins at some point? 

(Because there always has to be an epic catfight with Joan Collins at some point)

Will there be a torrid love scene with Glen Powell, who plays the obligatory Wisecracking Secret Service Agent With A Heart Of Gold? And will Melania's husband, President Donald John Trump Esq. -- portrayed by the late Soupy Sales -- discover them, fly into a rage and invade, I don't know, Uruguay, perhaps?

(Unquestionably)

Will Dr. Evil make an appearance? And will he capture Melania, whisk her off to  Mar-a-Lago and inflate her lips to the size of dirigibles?

(Surprise cameos by Kristi Noem, Kimberley Guilfoyle, Lara Loomer et al)

Will Melania then find Diana Rigg's long-lost martial arts unitard from "The Avengers", and, inspired, put it on and kick the hell out of Dr. Evil?

(Surprise cameo by Mr. Miyagi)

Will Melania and Glen Powell live happily ever after, like Sigourney Weaver and Kevin Kline in "Dave"? Will there be yet another surprise cameo, this one by Martin Sheen as former President Jed Bartlet? And will the real Donald John Trump Esq. demand his own cameo, which then will magically be expanded into a Major Starring Role?

Do we even have to ask that last question?

And now, the Non-Grump Factor

 The Blob had some tongue-in-cheek fun yesterday at the expense of its four-decade profession -- "stupid sportswriters" was the unifying theme -- but today it's time to abandon the standup routine. That's because a couple of those sportswriters have come forward to explain why they didn't vote for Bill Belichick on his first crack at the Pro Football Hall of Fame. 

One of those sportswriters, Vahe Gregorian, is from Kansas City. The other, Mike Chappell, is from Indianapolis.

Which undoubtedly will get all the Sullys in Boston seriously espousing what the Blob largely played for laughs. 

The Colts and New England Patriots, after all, always seemed to wind up on opposite sides of the field back in the day, and the Patriots almost always won. This surely made all the sportswriters from Indianapolis bitter and looking for payback. And so ...

And so, Chappell took it out on poor Bill by voting against him.

Chappell's word for that was "asinine." It's a good word. And it's especially true if you're talking about Mike Chappell.

Full disclosure time: I've known Chap for almost 50 years, and a journalist with more decency and integrity you'll not find if you search forever. He was my mentor in Anderson, In., when I landed my first job as a punk kid out of college, and of all the good fortune with which I've been blessed over the years, that was the ... goodest. Everything I knew about doing the job right, I learned from Chap.

And as an NFL beat writer?

Well, there's a reason his colleagues call him The Dean.

He's been covering the Colts, and the NFL, since the former moved to Indianapolis 42 years ago. Few beat writers, if any, have done it better or with a more even hand. And few, if any, are more familiar with the vagaries of an HOF vote.

So when all the ruckus got ruckus-ing about the Big Belichick Snub, Chap picked up his pen to explain his vote. And it made all kinds of sense.

What he wrote was the the reason he voted for Patriots owner Robert Kraft and a couple of senior candidates was partly because his hands were tied; coaches and contributors are lumped in with senior candidates, so he could only vote for three. He went with Kraft because of his role in building the Patriots' dynasty and forging labor peace in 2011; he went with the senior candidates because they might not get another chance at induction.

Belichick, he figured, had lots of chances left. And it'll probably only take one more for him to get in.

Chappell also admitted that the Spygate scandal of 2007 played a role in his decision to go with Kraft over Belichick. "This wasn't alleged," he wrote, noting the maximum league fine of $500,000 levied against Belichick and the Patriots' forfeiture of $250,000 and a first-round draft pick. 

That wasn't Mike Chappell and a bunch of bitter Indy guys who did that. It was the NFL itself.

And so ...

And so, Robert Kraft got the nod on Chappell's ballot. Belichick could cool his heels for a year. And it was the Non-Grump Factor that decided it.

"Stupid sportswriters"?

Yeah, OK. Whatever.

The Grump Factor

 Couple of days now since Bill Belichick got the big snub from the Pro Football Hall of Fame voters, and the prevailing zeitgeist has boiled down to two basic reactions:

1. This is (choose one) completely ridiculous ... an abomination ... or, as Woody Allen famously said in "Bananas", a travesty of a mockery of a sham of a mockery of a travesty of two mockeries of a sham.

2. Stupid sportswriters.

The first, of course, is absolutely on the mark. That perhaps the greatest coach in NFL history will not be a first-ballot Hall of Famer is ... well, a travesty of a mockery of a sham of a mockery of a travesty of two mockeries of a sham. The man has eight Super Bowl rings, six as a head coach and two as a defensive coordinator. Only Don Shula won more games as a head coach. If there were a Mount Rushmore of NFL coaches, his face would be on it.

His scowling face.

And therein lies the rub.

It is not, see, that Belichick did not have the resume of a first-ballot Hall-of-Famer. He so plainly did it's hardly worth saying so. If Belichick wasn't a first-ballot HOFer based on accomplishment, no coach from here until judgment trump should ever go in on the first ballot.

No, sir. The reason Belichick got the big nuh-uh, more than likely, was the Grump Factor.

Which is to say, he didn't play nice with the stupid sportswriters, and we are a vindictive lot. All of those years of gruff one-word answers and obvious reluctance to provide them came back to bite him. In every interaction with the media, he looked like he was being waterboarded -- while someone yanked out his fingernails with pliers.

If only he'd smiled once or twice. Cracked a joke or two. Been more down-home-y, spinning yarns like some codger down at the feed store.

Or as an acquaintance put it: "That's what you get for being an a**hole."

Which is entirely unfair to the man, sure, but,  again, sportswriters. If only we'd written more about Bill's zany side, like the time he dressed up as a pirate for a Halloween party. Or that other time when, at the geriatric age of 72, he started dating a 24-year-old hottie.

Oh, wait. We did write about that.

Are writing about it.

Ad nauseum.

Of course, the main reason we're doing that is to paint Belichick as some sort of weirdo. Which, let's face it, he kinda is. But he's also a damn smart weirdo.

Now, some folks will say another reason the stupid sportswriters might have snubbed Belichick is because of Spygate and Deflategate and all his other 'Gates. The guy did get caught cheating a few times, after all.

(Although Deflategate, in the Blob's opinion, wasn't all that scandalous. It basically was a psych job -- the lineal descendant, if you will, of Hayden Fry painting the walls of the visitors' locker room pink when he was at Iowa, or Red Auerbach putting visiting teams in a locker room where the windows didn't open, and then cranking up the heat.)

But enough of that. The point is, it was the Grump Factor that mainly did in Belichick, not the Sleaze Factor. And as illustration, I offer a moment back in 2012, when Belichick's New England Patriots were taking on the New York Giants in the Super Bowl in Indianapolis.

It was Media Day in Lucas Oil Stadium, which anyone who's ever attended will tell you is about anything but Media. It's a three-ring circus -- and, as one of the featured acts, Belichick was penned up in a booth down on the field, surrounded by Media..

Including yours truly.

Anyway, at one point in the proceedings, some radio foof next to me started waving a red plastic tricorn hat at Belichick. "Bill!" he cried. "Bill! Will you  put this on?"

To which Belichick growled, with perfect Belichickian form: "No, I'm not gonna do that."

See what I mean?

If only he'd put on the hat.

If only he'd, I don't know, done a little dance, sung a few bars of "Yankee Doodle," maybe made an off-color joke or two about Paul Revere and his horse.

Why, the man would have soared into the Hall of Fame this week on the wings of eagles. Guaranteed.