Cruds alert!*

(* -- i.e., not a normal Cruds alert.)

No, this Cruds alert is to alert you to the fact that Konnor Griffin, baseball's Next Great Superstar If My Pittsburgh Cruds Don't Screw Him Up, makes his MLB debut today in Pittsburgh's home opener. And I for one am extremely excited/extremely nervous.

I'm extremely excited because by all accounts Griffin, a shortstop who's still just 19 years old, could be the greatest Pirate since Roberto Clemente.

I'm extremely nervous because ... well, because he is a Pirate, aka a Crud.

Which of course means bad stuff could befall poor Konnor, catastrophic stuff, like forgetting how to play baseball. I don't think this will happen, but as someone who's followed my Cruds for the last 34 years of supreme Cruddiness, I never count my Ws until they're buried in an avalanche of Ls.

Or, you know, something like that.

In any event, Konnor Griffin is apparently the best prospect oldtimers have seen in years. He stands 6-foot-3 and weighs 222 pounds, and he can hit, hit with power, run, field and rescue puppies from fires. He went though A-ball and Double A last summer like a Kansas tornado (or rather, Mississippi, which is where he's from), batting .333 with 21 home runs and 65 stole bases in 122 games. And in five games this season Triple-A Indianapolis, all he's done is bat .438 with three doubles and three stolen bases in 21 plate appearances.

So, yes, we can hardly wait, we uncrushable Crud-ables. If Griffin's half what he's supposed to be, Primanti Bros. will name a sandwich after him. Yuengling will introduce a super-hoppy IPA in his honor. Konnor's Korner will become a thing, and even diehard Steeler fans will have to admit baseball might not be the wuss sport they thought it was.

Heck. With Konnor out there hittin', hittin' with power and stealin' bags, the Cruds might actually emerge from decades of Cruddiness and become the Pirates again, a real for-sure major league baseball team. 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "This Griffin dude may indeed prove to be Clemente with a dash of Pops Stargell and a pinch of Al Oliver, Manny Sanguillen and Rennie Stennett, but the same doofuses still run the show there. If they can trade him away for a sackful of magic beans, they will.

"I mean, we fear and loathe any mention of your stupid Cruds, as any sane person would. But let's not get carried away."

Sorry. Too late.

Blast(-off) from the past

Watched Artemis II rise into the heavens on a pillar of smoke and flame last night, and I was six-almost-seven again. Which is a nifty trick considering how far up in years I am these days.

It was the first rocket launch I've seen in eons, and it was on both TVs above the bar in my usual hang. And as I watched -- as everyone there watched -- that inner 6-year-old came roaring up from the depths, looking on with all the old wonder.

It wasn't 2026 anymore, suddenly. It was 1962, and the tech boys in mission control were saying "Godspeed, John Glenn," and the guy every 6-year-old in America wanted to be was riding a tin can into immortality.

Made three orbits, John Glenn did, while every system in the tin can slowly failed. When the heat shield warning started blaring, the tech boys decided to bring him down, hoping against hope the damn thing stayed on and Glenn didn't return to earth a cinder.

He didn't, of course. And a certain 6-year-old sitting in his living room on the southeast side of Fort Wayne became a gold-card space program fanboy.

I followed every launch after that, as the 6-year-old turned 7 and then 8 and finally 14. When Gordon Cooper made the last Mercury flight, I went out in the backyard to see if I could spot him flying over (I couldn't). I watched Ed White walk in space and Gemini 6 and 7 fly mere feet apart and Gemini 8 dock with the Agena (and then nearly kill Neil Armstrong and Dave Scott). 

White, Chaffee and Gus Grissom? Yeah, I was as shocked as anyone when they were killed in that Apollo 1 flash fire. Borman, Lovell and Anders? Damn straight I sat up late on Christmas Eve in '68 to watch the featureless gray of the moon's surface slide beneath Apollo 8, while the three of them read from the Book of Genesis.

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep ...

And then Frank Borman, giving the benediction: 

And from the crew of Apollo 8, we close with good night, good luck, a Merry Christmas -- and God bless all of you, all of you on the good Earth.

Seven months later, I stayed up late again to watch Neil Armstrong take that one small step for a man. Got deathly ill overnight. Underwent surgery the next day so the docs could yank out my hot appendix.

Needless to say I'll never forget Apollo 11. As if I would have anyway.

No, I'd remember Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins, and Alan Shepard, and Wally Schirra and  Malcom Scott Carpenter and Deke Slayton. And also the three Apollo 13 guys, Lovell, Swigert and Haise. And the crews of the Challenger and Columbia shuttles, God rest their souls, and now the crew of Artemis II.

Who are mission commander Reid Wiseman, Victor Glover, Christina Koch and Jeremy Hansen.

Godspeed, gentlemen and lady. Godspeed.

Masters of decorum ...

 ... or, you know, snobbery. Depends how you look at it.

This upon the news the grand poobahs who run Augusta National, and the Masters golf tournament, have somewhat surprisingly given the OK to let wild man/famous-for-being-famous Jason Kelce on the premises next week as a broadcaster. Now, I can't be sure about this, but I'm guessing this means Kelce has signed a blood oath NOT to do the following things:

1. Take his shirt off.

2. Take his pants off.

3. Address the "patrons" as "My golf bros!" while taking his pants off.

4. Try to jump Rae's Creek in a golf cart while taking his pants off.

5. Smoke the azaleas.

6. Ride a Harley down Magnolia Lane and pop a wheelie in front of the clubhouse.

All of these might or might not be in Kelce's toolkit; past performance, at least in this case, does not guarantee future results. Certainly you'd have to lean hard on the latter, given Augusta's draconian rules about behavior within its gates.

The place has always had an almost comical reverence for itself, aided and abetted by the genuflection of its longtime broadcast partner CBS. By now you're as familiar with the CBS treatment as you are with breathing: The tinkly piano, the sunlight-through-the-pines camera shot, the soft-focus closeups of azaleas and immaculate greens and various other flora. And then of course the traditional benediction: The Masters ... A tradition unlike any other.

No one deviates from that script at Augusta, lest they be cast into outer darkness. Jack Whitaker once was banned from the premises for half a dozen years or so because he used the word "mob" to describe the patrons' mass pursuit of a certain golfer. And irreverent quipper Gary McCord was excommunicated for quipping, "I don't think they mow these greens, I think they bikini wax them."

Now, that's a funny line, and McCord likely could have gotten away with it at, say, the Greater Cheez Whiz Open. But not at Augusta, and not at the Masters. He might as well have unzipped and answered nature's call in the Cathedral of Pines.

("Good heavens!" you can imagine some green-jacketed Smedley Chesterfield III saying. "This McCord fellow is an utter barbarian. Why, we provide PLENTY of Port-a-Johns here for his sort. Someone ring the gendarmes and have him escorted from the premises. And not gently, by Jove!")

Anyway, Augusta is Augusta -- and so, as Michaleen Flynn said in "The Quiet Man," the proprieties at all times. Which means Jason Kelce signing his name in blood, presumably. And it means Pat McAfee, yapping little poodle of the airwaves, will once again be denied entrance, the poobahs having decided his show would desecrate the sacred grounds.

"We have attempted to be part of the Masters at the Wednesday Par-3 thing for three consecutive years now," McAfee said on his show the other day, according to the website Awful Announcing. "They told us to go to hell. So I think you should be happy about that, that they do try to preserve it as a whole. They have a certain thing that they are looking for."

And it ain't Pat McAfee in one of his vast collection of tank tops, obviously. Or, apparently, Jason Kelce poppin' wheelies.

Foolery vanisheth

 (In which the Blob once again escapes the Sportsball corral. You know the drill.)

Today is April 1, which used to be a day for gags, practical jokes and general seventh-grade boy tomfoolery. Hey, look, your barn door's open! April fool! Hey, didja hear the cafeteria puts catfood in its meatloaf? April fool! Omigod, you've got a HUGE booger hanging out of your  left nostril! April fool!

Or how about this one: Hey, look! There's a picture on the internet of Kristi Noem's husband wearing ginormous fake boobs!

Oh, wait. Turns out that one's real.

Which of course is the whole problem with April Fool's Day here in 2026.

See, America, and the world in general, has become such a galactically bizarre place that fooling people with tomfoolery has become passe. All those outlandish pranks we used to pull on April Fool's Day pale in comparison to simple reality now.

Like, you know, Kristi Noem's husband being revealed as an alleged cross-dresser with ginormous fake boobs.

I admit this did sound like an April Fool's joke to me, initially. Raised a skeptical eyebrow. Thought it was social media doing its usual social media thing, a sort of an enhanced version of little Joey putting fake vomit on little Susie's seat in math class.

Only later did it become clear it was real vomit.

Which is a shame, sort of, because it means foolery of the April 1 sort is vanishing because, seriously, how can it top Kristi Noem's hubby and his Hindenburg mammaries?  Just when you think you've seen it all, Bryon Noem pops up on your feed to say, "Nah, bro. Not even close."

(In all fairness, it's hard to blame him. I mean, if you were married to Cosplay Rambolina, you, too, might occasionally get the urge to slip into a sleek little Prada number and dab some Chanel No. 5 behind your ears. Especially if you kept hearing about her cattin' around with that sorry-ass Corey Lewandoski.)

(And how rich is all this, by the by? A woman who thinks drag queens are evil sorcerers forcing our children to wear bouffant wigs and stilletto heels has a husband who's ... a drag queen? Beauty.)

Anyway ...

Anyway, Bryon Noem's just the tip of the iceberg of April Fool's-like weirdness these days, beginning of course with our Fearless Leader and his clown-car cabinet. Hey, didja hear our Secretary of Defense is a former Fox talking head and religious fanatic who likes to style himself the Secretary of War? Didja hear our Educashon Secretary came from the educashonal world of pro wrestling? Didja hear the head of Health and Human Services is a heroin burnout and conspiracy kook?

Or how about the 23-year-old former stock boy who's in charge of the anti-terrorism wing of the Department of Homeland Security? Or the new head of DHS himself, a former MMA fighter and all-around loon?

April fool!

Or, you know, NOT April fool.

Now, it must be pointed out here that there is a preponderance of leg-pulling fakery going on out there on this day, but more and more actual human behavior eclipses it. There's an entire genre in some news outlets devoted to the real-life adventures of the doofuses collectively known as Florida Man, for instance. And of course the real-life adventures of Fearless Leader himself pretty much could all be passed off as April Fool's jokes, they're so completely off the rails.

My favorite, and a lot of Americans' favorite, is about F.L. gifting his cabinet members with Florsheim shoes he declared the best ever made in the entire history of shoemaking, or some such thing. None of them were sized right, apparently; Secretary of State Marco Rubio's pair were so large they looked like literal clown shoes. Yet Rubio and the others all wore them because they were apparently afraid not to.

"Oh, come on, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "We're no April fools. You can't get us with that one. I suppose next you're gonna tell us the President's going to start naming stuff after himself, or getting others to do it for him, like he's Gov. William J. Le Petomane or someone.*

(* -- Gratuitous "Blazing Saddles" reference)

Well, actually ...

Robot wars

 We're not a week into the wrapper-fresh season yet, and the Blob already thinks baseball -- the most over-stat-ted game in the world of games -- needs a new stat.

I think MLB should add ABSW to WAR and PEACE and all the other analytics that so fascinate baseball nerds.

"What the heck is ABSW, Mr. Blob?" you're asking now.

Well, it stands for "Automated Ball-Strike Wins", and it would measure every MLB team's success in utilizing the newfangled ABS system to challenge a plate ump's call. It's just like batting averages, except in this case it would be second-guessing averages.

"'Automatic Ball-Strike Wins'," you're saying now. "Would that be before or after replacement?"

Stop it.

No, what got me thinking about this was what happened in the Yankees-Mariners game last night, which the M's won 2-1. It was the Pinstripes' first loss of the infant season, but get this: They went 5-for-5 in ABS challenges.

Five times a Yankee said, "Yeah, you missed that one, ump." Five times the ABS system backed him up.

The plate ump in this case was Mike Estabrook, and he must have hated that. In fact, I'm guessing every umpire in MLB despises ABS. They must hate it worse than Sarah Conner hated all those Terminators.

"(Bleeping) robots," I imagine them grumbling. "Job's tough enough as it is without (bleeping) Data looking over our shoulders. (Bleep). Why can't Captain Picard just shove him out an airlock or something? Make it so, (bleep), yeah."

Sorry, boys (and now, girls).  But Jean-Luc ain't comin' to your rescue.

You're stuck with your robot umps, and God help us if it ever goes beyond that. All it'll take is your clean-hitter hitting an 0-for-31 slump, and XLP Model 34 will be replacing him in the lineup.

Until then ...

Until then, XLP Model 34 will be limited to embarrassing MLB umps. Or enraging players and managers by saying, "Nah, Blue got it right this time."

At which point Earl Weaver will come out of the dugout and kick dirt on XLP Model 34. 

Man. How great would THAT be?

When the joy is gone

 Max Verstappen isn't the first driver to decide he doesn't like his new car. But he is the first one who's won four Formula One driving titles and more F1 races (76) than anyone besides Lewis Hamilton and Michael Schumacher.

He remains, if not the best wheelman in motorsports, at least one of the top two or three. On a good day, with a good car under him, everyone else might as well stay home. You're not gonna beat him.

Who can forget last year, when, even in a Red Bull ride that was not nearly as dominant as it had been, he won six of the last nine races -- including the last three -- to nearly overhaul Lando Norris for his fifth F1 title?  Finished just two points behind after trailing Norris by 104 at one point.

So, yeah. Max was still Max.

Now?

Well, now the cars are all different, thanks to an overhaul of F1 regs. And Verstappen hates the change. Says it's now "anti-driving."

Says it's just not fun anymore, and he's thinking seriously of walking away from the sport at the end of this season.

He said all this after finishing eighth in the Chinese Grand Prix -- the new wunderkind of F1, 19-year-old Kimi Antonelli, collected his second straight win of 2026 -- and, sure, the immediate reaction is, well, he's just mad because it's harder to win these days. More than whiff of gonna-take-my-ball-and-go-home in that.

Except.

Except, Max has always said he'd stick with F1 until it wasn't fun anymore. He said this when he was winning those four straight titles and damn near every race on the skeddy. And he said it even when he was no longer the champion, or before he ever was.

"I can easily accept to be in P7 or P8 where I am," he said last weekend. "Because I also know that you can't be dominating or be first or second or whatever, fighting for a podium every time. I'm very realistic in that and I've been there before. I've not only been winning in F1."

 But?

"But at the same time when you are in P7 or P8 and you are not enjoying the whole formula behind it, it doesn't feel natural to a racing driver ... Then at one point, yeah, it's just not what I want to do."

And here, of course, is where we need to point out Verstappen is still not yet 30. So of course he puts a premium on having fun doing what he's doing. Having once, eons ago, been a 20-something myself, I know this is true. You don't so much care about the money, even (and perhaps especially) when you're either not making any or, like Max, filling entire bank vaults with it. The joy is the thing.

And the joy is gone, for Max Verstappen. Just as it goes for athletes at the other end of the chronological spectrum, when age and infirmity drains what used to be an inexhaustible reservoir of passion.

No one questions the 38-year-old linebacker with a quantum of knee surgeries in his past when he steps away, saying that passion can't beat out the pain anymore. But when a Max Verstappen talks about quitting at the peak of his powers because it's no fun anymore?

Well, then he's just a sore loser. Or seems so.

Me?

I think it's just 29-year-old Max Verstappen being 29-year-old Max Verstappen. And being who he's always been.

Finally, Four

 Well, alrighty then: Arizona, Michigan, Duke-Er-UConn, Illinois.

There's your Final Four, America.

"Wait, who is Duke-Er-UConn?" you're saying now.

Well, it's UConn, but until the very-very-very end it was Duke.  The Blue Devils led by 20 for awhile, and then they led by 15, and still, even when the game clock go down to six minutes or so, they were still leading by double digits.

And then ...

And then, some stuff happened, and then some other stuff happened, and finally with a sliver of a fraction of a second left, this kid from Indiana, I don't know, downtown Hooterville or someplace, and when it came down Duke, er, UConn had won 73-72 and was going to the Final Four. 

In Indianapolis, no less.

A mere 25 miles west of where the Indiana kid, name of Braylon Mullins, played his high school ball.

"The Indiana kid sent us to Indianapolis," Mullins' teammate Alex Karaban crowed.

Indeed. The Huskies are going to Indianapolis, where they'll play an Illinois team that's been good to occasionally great this season, and if this is nivarna in Storrs, Conn., it's something else again in the rest of America. That's because Braylon Mullins' 35-foot, radar-guided, last-second three means we'll be subjected to another week of UConn coach Dan Hurley, aka The Most Annoying Man On The Planet.

I fully expect him to beat Illinois Saturday night and advance to the national championship game, because the Final Four sometimes has a mean streak.

I also expect the other national semifinal, 1-seed Arizona vs. 1-seed Michigan, will be your de facto national championship game.

The Wildcats and the Wolverines, after all, have been the dominant teams in Da Tournament, and not by a little. Arizona has won its four tournament games by  34, 12, 21 and 15 points. Michigan has won its four games by 21, 23, 13 and 33. Their collision in the national semis will likely be the first time either has broken a sweat.

I'm picking Arizona by, who knows, maybe another 35-foot splash with a sliver of a fraction of a second left.

Then I'm picking the Wildcats to beat the Huskies for the national title.

Unless ...

Unless the Final Four leans into its mean streak again, and we have to watch Dan Hurley cut down the nets while "One Shining Moment" plays in the background.

Please, God, anything. Anything but that.