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.

Petard, hoisted

Sleep with hornets

And they wonder why they wake up stung

-- Matt Nathanson

A friendly judge in Texas has ruled Brendan Sorsby can play football this fall at Texas Tech, and, man, you've never seen such hand-wringing. Nebraska says it will never play the Red Raiders now. Ditto TCU. Ditto the Big Ten as an entire conference.

These things will happen when a young man  not only carpetbags from school to school -- Tech will be Sorsby's third stop, after pre-Curt Cignetti Indiana and Cincinnati -- but brings a truckload of baggage with him. And by "baggage," we mean, "Would bet on how long it takes Mikey to eat a bowl of Life cereal if the odds were right."

Sorsby, you see, is a young man with a problem. He apparently has a raging gambling jones that puts old heads in mind of Art Schlichter at Ohio State; according to investigators, Sorsby's placed thousands of bets while playing college football, including at least 40 on his own team while at Indiana. The kid seems hooked but good.

Nonetheless, the friendly judge waived the injunction slapped on him by the NCAA, whose record in court these days ranks up there with Germany's record in world wars (to steal an old Dan Jenkins line). So now a known and fairly notorious gambler will be playing quarterback for Tech this season.

Cue the hand-wringing.

"We officially lost our soul," moaned one Big 12 athletic director.

"How is anyone going to trust the outcome of a game again?" fretted TCU coach Sonny Dykes.

"I'm stunned that there would be a question at the court level that this is acceptable," Florida AD Scott Stricklin chimed in.

ACC commissioner Jim Phillips was in full agreement, telling ESPN the ruling suggests a "horrendous pattern" that is "eroding the integrity of our process."

This is where the Blob is compelled to snark this: "The integrity of your WHAT?"

Because, listen, as right as all these folks are, they're also blind as bats. They can't see that Brendan Sorsby, with the help of Friendly Judge, his slipped in a door they themselves left wide open.

Jim Phillips, for instance?

He presides over a conference that just extended its deal with ESPN through 2036. ESPN, in turn, has a sponsorship deal with DraftKings, an online gambling platform. So every Saturday afternoon when Wake Forest is playing Clemson or North Carolina is tussling with Georgia Tech, play will occasionally be interrupted by a DraftKings ad.

So how can Phillips -- or anyone in any Power 4 conference, really -- honestly say Brendan Sorsby throwing deep outs for Texas Tech is an Armageddon blow to college football's integrity? Seems to me they themselves crossed that bridge when they climbed in bed with people who were in bed with the gamblers -- or at least the gamblers' facilitators.

Sleep with hornets, wake up stung. Yessir, Matt Nathanson stuck the landing with that lyric.

Or to put it another way: Behold college athletics' own petard, hoisted.

Hail to the Jinx

 They booed the President of the United States rather lustily last night in Madison Square Garden, which only proves New York basketball fans are an astute lot. They know a bad penny when they see one.

And so, in front of Fearless Leader and a bunch of other famous fans or fans-for-now -- Hey, look! There's Derek Jeter! Eli Manning! Timothee Chamelet! -- the hometown Knicks did something they hadn't done since April.

They lost a playoff game.

Fell behind by double digits early, rallied to lead by seven at halftime, couldn't make it stick in the second half against young Victor Wembanyama, young Stephon Castle and the rest of the San Antonio Spurs.

Final score: Spurs 115, Knickerbockers 111.

Snapped a mind-boggling 13-game playoff winning streak for the home team.

Trimmed the Knicks' lead in the NBA Finals to two-games-to-one.

And whooo was there to see it as a homegrown New Yorker and apparent longtime Knicks fan?

Donald John "Stop Asking Me Questions I Don't Like Or I'll Take My Ball And Go Home" Trump. 

Fearless Leader. Defender Of The Faith (But Only One Of Them). President of these United States.

Jinx-In-Chief.

And, yeah, a lot of the Garden crowd that booed him when he showed up on the videoboard probably weren't booing because of that. They were probably booing him because, in deciding to horn in on their party, he made the evening even more inconvenient than it already was going to be, as presidents will do when they decide to attend an event.

However.

However, you know -- you just know -- a goodly portion of the crowd were thinking this:

Oh, great. THIS MFer. We're screwed for sure.

Right?

Child's play

 Meanwhile, in Formula One ...

They ran again Sunday at history-thick Monaco, and guess who won F1's most famously glittering event?

No, not Max Verstappen. The four-time world champion's engine took a dump as soon as the staging lights winked out, leaving him sitting on the grid while everyone else roared away without him. Finally got it going enough to limp around for one lap before retiring the car, extending what has been an ugly season for him.

"OK, so Lando Norris, then? Oscar Piastri?" you're saying now.

Nope. The McLaren jockeys finished fourth (Piastri) and DNF (Norris), not at all what you'd expect from a team that dominated F1 a year ago.

"Lewis Hamilton? Charles Leclerc? One of those Esteban Ocons or Pierre Gaslys?"

No, no, and ... no.

It was Kimi Antonelli in his Mercedes.

Won from the pole. Won his fifth straight Grand Prix, out of six contested so far. Leads Hamilton and his Ferrari by 66 points in the title chase, and teammate George Russell by 67.

Oh, and did we mention he's just 19 years old?

"Oh, come on," you're saying now. "A 19-year-old going all Verstappen/Hamilton/Michael Schumacher on everyone? Really?"

Yes, really. He's 19. Looks even younger. Plucked from the litter at 18 by team principle Toto Wolff and placed in seven-time world champion Hamilton's old seat. Now he's making child's play out of the most technologically demanding racing series in the world instead of, I don't know, getting ready for the prom or something.

There he was again on the podium Sunday, giving everyone a champagne bath as the youngest Monaco winner in history. Even his predecessor -- the previous youngest winner -- saw fit to salute the young Italian.

"That's a lot of wins, buddy, you're catching me up, man!" joked Hamilton, who finished a distant second this time around.

Well ... not yet, Lewis. But give the kid time.

Which he has a lot of, obviously.

 

The right Tempo

 Maybe you missed it in all the other weekend sporting life, but they ran the Belmont Stakes at Saratoga two days ago, and Golden Tempo won again for trainer Cherie DeVaux. That made it two legs out of three in the Triple Crown for Golden Tempo, and two out of three for DeVaux, the first woman trainer ever to do that.

Know what was the best part of it all, though?

Golden Tempo came from nowhere to win it. Again.

In the Kentucky Derby, if you recall, he was dead last at the head of the stretch before getting on his, well, horse and galloping past the entire to field to nip Renegade at the wire. Saturday was an instant replay: Golden Tempo was at the back of the field before hauling ass down the stretch again to beat Commandment by a nose.

Two races; two immortal stretch runs. And now the Blob is wondering, in its usual cattywampus way, what the horsie set could have done to offer Golden Tempo a real challenge. 

OK, so we got the usual buttload of horses here for the Derby. We'll bring in an extra gate to load 'em into. 

Except for you, Golden Tempo. You start across the river in, I don't know, Seymour or someplace.

Or ...

OK, so we got nine horses for the Belmont here at Saratoga, including Golden Tempo and the odds-on favorite Renegade.

Renegade gets to start with all the others. Golden Tempo, we're sending you across the state line to Vermont. You start from Montpelier.

Now that would be a stretch run.

Good craziness

 I don't know where Lord Stanley is in the Great Forever After, but I'm guessing he'd welcome a stiff shot of some well-aged scotch about now. It's a pretty safe bet the tussle for his Cup hasn't gone easy on the old aristocratic nervous system so far, because it hasn't on anyone else's, either.

This after the Vegas Golden Knights took a two-games-to-one lead in the Stanley Cup Final last night, but not before giving everyone on the Strip the vapors. The Knights led 4-0 in the second period after Mitch Marner collected the fastest hat trick in Final history -- three goals in six minutes and 10 seconds, beating Rocket Richard's 69-year-old record by 11 seconds -- only to see Carolina storm back with four straight goals to force overtime.

It only took two OTs for Vegas to finally win 5-4, and of course that wasn't ordinary, either. Shea Theodore got credit for the goal after Carolina's Jordan Martinook inadvertently banked it in off goaltender Brandon Bussi's skate.

Craziness. But not the sort iconoclastic journalist Hunter Thompson used to call "bad craziness"; this was good craziness, as in "Man, that was crazy. Let's see some more."

More than likely, we will, if the first three Final games are any signpost. The last two games have gone to overtime; in each of the first three games, someone has blown a multi-goal lead.

In Game 1, it was Carolina, who led 2-0 early before losing 4-3. In Game 2, it was Vegas, who led 2-0 with 10:20 to play before Carolina scored three goals in less than five minutes, Vegas tied it, and Carolina won 4-3 in overtime.

Last night it was Vegas blowing the lead again, only to save the W on the flukiest of bounces.

Great stuff. Legendary stuff, even. And exactly the stuff everyone was predicting for this Final, which features two teams who, if not mirror images of one another, are as evenly matched as you're likely to see.

And so: More craziness, please. And another shot for Lord Stanley.

Crossing the (state) line

 Well, now they've gone and done it. Crossed the Rubicon, if you will -- or at least almost, kinda-sorta, pretty much something like it.

Yesterday, see, the  board of directors of the Chicago Bears voted for the first time on a new stadium site, and came out in favor of a proposed site on the other side of the state line. And so, welcome to the Chicago Bears of Hammond, everyone. 

Maybe. Kinda-sorta.

I say this because nothing's a done deal until someone touches a pen to the bottom line, and no one has yet done that in this Bears-to-Hammond deal. Until that happens, a vote by the board of directors and a bunch of happy talk from Bears president George McCaskey and CEO Kevin Warren is just play-acting to squeeze the Illinois lege and governor JB Pritzker.

In the meantime, though ...

Well. It does sound like the Bears are serious about this. I'll give 'em that.

"We believe a world-class stadium project in Hammond will transform the region, connecting Northwest Indiana and the South Side of Chicago though the Loop and across the neighborhoods and suburbs stretching north of the city," McCaskey and Warren said in a statement.

All that sounds great, except there's no stadium yet, and no surrounding village of bars and restaurants and high-end hotels, and no special parking next to the stadium for the muckety-mucks. Also no shuttle service for the unwashed masses in their Urlacher and Bobby Douglass jerseys who'll be parking in, I don't know, Munster or Griffith perhaps.

(For the low, low price of 30 bucks a head, no doubt.)

Anyway, with the Illinois lege gone until fall, and having again futzed away the spring session without moving on this, Indiana looks like it's won this. That it's done so because our own Guv, Mike Braun, promised the Bears everything but streets paved in taxpayer gold is just the way this sort of bidness gets done, disgusting as that is.

The Blob's position on this is if the Bears want a new stadium, the Bears should pay for it. They're an anchor franchise in the most lucrative sporting conglomerate in America, so it's not like they haven't got the money. Freeloading off the taxpayers for a development study after study has shown has limited long-term economic impact should be strictly verboten.

Yes, and pigs should be able to fly, do barrel-rolls and land at O'Hare on Sunday afternoons. Believe me, I get that.

So here comes Mike Braun with an armload of tax breaks and other incentives, and here are the Bears following established tradition -- i.e., he who fleeces Joe Taxpayer hardest gets the cheese. Lucrative sports franchises have been playing off one municipality against another since the Dodgers and Giants lit out for California 70 years ago. They call it leveraging; the rest of us just call it what it is, which is blackmail.

So there's plenty of precedent. And for those who think it's beyond weird that the Bears would abandon Chicago for some godforsaken patch of land in, ugh, Indiana ... well, New York lost the Jets and football Giants to a godforsaken patch land in New Jersey decades ago. 

The Commanders play in Maryland, not Washington. The 49ers play in Santa Clara, not San Francisco. And so on.

The Chicago Bears playing in Hammond, Indiana?

Oh, hell. Why not?