So now we're exactly a week out from Super Bowl 50, and you know what that means.
No, not that it's PRO BOWL SUNDAY. Or even NHL ALL-STAR GAME SUNDAY, which it also is.
All that means is it's actually GO SEE A MOVIE SUNDAY. Or READ A GOOD BOOK SUNDAY.
Actually, one week out from Super Bowl 50 means it's time for Peyton Manning and Cam Newton to brace themselves for the Questions, of which there will be two primary ones. Neither man wants to address the Questions. Neither, presumably, will be able to avoid them, given that when you put 90 gazillion media creatures in one place with nothing to do for a week but eat, drink and obsess endlessly about what is, at bottom, just a football game, they will need to find some Big Questions to ponder.
For Cam: Why do some people hate you so much? Is it racism, or something else?
For Peyton: So tell us again about the whole HGH thing. And again. And again.
Cam will likely handle the hate questions much easier than Peyton will handle the HGH questions, simply because he's never been shy about addressing any issue head-on. The cameras love him, and he loves the cameras. So they'll ask, he'll answer, and half of America will, of course, hate his answers.
That's just part of being Cam. And while some of it clearly is because a certain segment of America isn't comfortable with loud, brash people of color -- ask yourself why some people get all huffy about his end-zone celebrations, but no one seems to take issue with Aaron Rodgers' Discount Double-Check thing -- some of it undoubtedly is because of the position he plays. Quarterbacks are not supposed to be creatures of whimsy. They're not supposed to look like they're having fun out there. But then along comes Cam dancing and smiling and wearing lampshades on his head, and people get their shorts in a twist because, by God, Bart Starr never did that.
Or Peyton Manning, for that matter.
His public image is all but spotless, and he's earned that public image with all manner of good works on and off the field. Which is why every time he's asked him about the HGH thing, he looks as if someone just stuck knitting needles in his eyeballs. To say he's uncomfortable with the subject is an understatement; it is, after all, at such variance with that haloed image.
That image has given him a virtual pass on this HGH business so far, partly because the primary source for the Al Jazeera story recanted and partly because it was Al Jazeera, even though it's done some quality journalism. So Manning simply sneered and the media (the Blob included) sneered with him. It simply went away in a manner it likely wouldn't have had it been, say, Cam Newton the report fingered.
But the news that the NFL is launching its own investigation means it hasn't really gone away, and so I suspect it will be a very uncomfortable week for Peyton Manning. A news report is one thing; the league looking into something is quite another.
And so, the Question will resurface. And resurface, and resurface.
The Blob's position on all this is a shrug of the shoulders, because it doesn't really care if Manning used HGH to recover from his neck surgeries or not. It's a legal medical treatment, and the Blob is of the opinion that a player recovering from a surgery/injury should be allowed to employ any legal treatment he or she wishes, because it doesn't have anything to do with performance enhancement. It has to do with healing. And it is, after all, their bodies.
And, yeah, OK: HGH is a banned substance in the NFL. I get that. And, yeah, even if the story that it was wife who was using it is true, Peyton should have told the league office. But there are violations of the rules, and there are violations of the rules. The Blob just doesn't think this is much of one.
Which will not matter much on Media Day this week, or any other day this week. The Questions will come. You'd sooner stop the Earth from turning.
Next question.
Sunday, January 31, 2016
Saturday, January 30, 2016
Preventive medicine
In its continuing attempts to not get out of its own way, the NHL has a rule that any selected player who opts out of the league's punchline of an All-Star game gets a one-game sitdown from the commish, Gary Bettman. Which is great except that it makes no allowances, apparently, for guys who have injuries and/or illnesses.
Enter Jonathan Toews of the Chicago Blackhawks, who's skipping the All-Star game tomorrow because he's apparently legitimately ill.
The NHL's apparent response: Big deal. You're suspended. Next time just bring a barf bag, some Tums and a bottle of Dayquil.
That this just makes the NHL look cruel and stupid is obvious to everyone but the NHL, of course. And it gets you thinking that maybe Toews should have taken precautionary measures to inoculate himself, as it were, against such foolishness.
In other words: He should have sent Bettman a note from this guy's mom.
Enter Jonathan Toews of the Chicago Blackhawks, who's skipping the All-Star game tomorrow because he's apparently legitimately ill.
The NHL's apparent response: Big deal. You're suspended. Next time just bring a barf bag, some Tums and a bottle of Dayquil.
That this just makes the NHL look cruel and stupid is obvious to everyone but the NHL, of course. And it gets you thinking that maybe Toews should have taken precautionary measures to inoculate himself, as it were, against such foolishness.
In other words: He should have sent Bettman a note from this guy's mom.
Friday, January 29, 2016
The toll, Part Whatever
So here again is the dark side, intruding on our national obsession at the most inopportune time possible. We are in the run-up to Super Bowl 50, the biggest event in half-a-century in the biggest entertainment vehicle in America, and yet its awful price stubbornly lurks.
Say hello to Tyler Sash.
Say hello, but don't expect an answer, because he's dead. Been dead since September, when he mixed a couple of powerful pain meds, triggering an accidental overdose that killed him. That was the given cause of death.
The unspoken cause is he was yet another young man who loved football too much.
You probably never heard of Sash, because there's no reason you should. He was a safety who played parts of only two NFL seasons, although he won a Super Bowl ring with the Giants in one of them. He played three years at Iowa prior to that, winning All-Big Ten honors his last year. Prior to that, presumably, he was a hard-hitting, head-knocking tough guy on a lot of high school Friday nights.
Now he's dead. And, once again, the doctors who look for such things have found evidence in his brain of CTE, which has been linked to repeated brain trauma leading to, among other things, early onset dementia. Doctors found levels of it in Sash's brain comparable to those they found in the brain of Hall of Fame linebacker Junior Seau, who committed suicide in 2012.
The thing is, Seau was 43. Sash was only 27.
Only 27, and yet, the pattern was a familiar one: Memory lapses, difficulty focusing, unable to hold down a job because of that after the Giants cut him loose in 2013. On various medications for almost constant pain. His family growing increasingly aware that he wasn't the same person anymore. Down the rabbit hole we go again.
Look. I don't know what the NFL can do about this. I don't know what anyone can do. Players are bigger and faster and stronger than they've ever been, generating terrifying amounts of force. They are going to keep getting bigger and faster and stronger. And professional football is such an immense cultural and commercial thing in this country that no amount of bumbling by its circus-act commissioner, nor any amount of witless denial that 27-year-olds dying with the brains of old men is a problem, seems to affect its popularity.
And so the party will go on next week. Super Bowl 50 will be the grandest celebration of professional football we have ever seen. No one will mention Tyler Sash. No one will talk about the terrible toll being exacted to keep us entertained. Everything will be glitter and light, so much light the darkness will be sent fleeing.
But it will still be there.
Say hello to Tyler Sash.
Say hello, but don't expect an answer, because he's dead. Been dead since September, when he mixed a couple of powerful pain meds, triggering an accidental overdose that killed him. That was the given cause of death.
The unspoken cause is he was yet another young man who loved football too much.
You probably never heard of Sash, because there's no reason you should. He was a safety who played parts of only two NFL seasons, although he won a Super Bowl ring with the Giants in one of them. He played three years at Iowa prior to that, winning All-Big Ten honors his last year. Prior to that, presumably, he was a hard-hitting, head-knocking tough guy on a lot of high school Friday nights.
Now he's dead. And, once again, the doctors who look for such things have found evidence in his brain of CTE, which has been linked to repeated brain trauma leading to, among other things, early onset dementia. Doctors found levels of it in Sash's brain comparable to those they found in the brain of Hall of Fame linebacker Junior Seau, who committed suicide in 2012.
The thing is, Seau was 43. Sash was only 27.
Only 27, and yet, the pattern was a familiar one: Memory lapses, difficulty focusing, unable to hold down a job because of that after the Giants cut him loose in 2013. On various medications for almost constant pain. His family growing increasingly aware that he wasn't the same person anymore. Down the rabbit hole we go again.
Look. I don't know what the NFL can do about this. I don't know what anyone can do. Players are bigger and faster and stronger than they've ever been, generating terrifying amounts of force. They are going to keep getting bigger and faster and stronger. And professional football is such an immense cultural and commercial thing in this country that no amount of bumbling by its circus-act commissioner, nor any amount of witless denial that 27-year-olds dying with the brains of old men is a problem, seems to affect its popularity.
And so the party will go on next week. Super Bowl 50 will be the grandest celebration of professional football we have ever seen. No one will mention Tyler Sash. No one will talk about the terrible toll being exacted to keep us entertained. Everything will be glitter and light, so much light the darkness will be sent fleeing.
But it will still be there.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
Non-event of the year
Tonight is the Pro Bowl Draft, and what that tells us is America is way too easily amused these days, and also that we're only four days away from the actual Pro Bowl. That means you have only 96 or so hours to make other plans, which might or might not include binge-watching your favorite classic TV shows on Netflix.
Derek Carr or multiple sightings of Burgess Meredith in "The Twilight Zone": Decisions, decisions.
Or, no decision, because, let's face it, no one cares about the Pro Bowl, not even the sad sacks who actually wind up watching it. Heck, the guys who are picked to play in it don't even care about it, which is how we wind up with the whole Derek Carr-vs.-Burgess Meredith dilemma.
Derek Carr will play because most of the quarterbacks selected to play in the Pro Bowl have fled it the way Tom Brady tried to flee the Denver pass rush, only more successfully. Russell Wilson, it turns out, is the only quarterback actually selected who's going to play. Brady, Aaron Rodgers, Ben Roethlisberger, Carson Palmer, Philip Rivers, Drew Brees: All of them said, "Nah, I'm good."
Which leaves the Pro Bowl in the hands of Carr, Eli Manning, Tyrod Taylor, Teddy Bridgewater and Jameis Winston, quarterback-wise. Bonus points if you can actually name the teams for whom all of those guys play.
This means that, if you are one of the sad sacks who actually tune in, you not only get The Greatest Spectacle In Groin-Pull Avoidance -- Look how adroitly those running backs and wide receivers tiptoe across the greensward, trying not to jeopardize their next contract extension! -- you get The Greatest Spectacle In Understudy-itis. For those old-school enough, it's kind of like tuning into the 1967 Pro Bowl and seeing Jack Concannon instead of Johnny Unitas. Or Bill Munson subbing for Roman Gabriel.
Me, I'll take Burgess Meredith. And Rod Serling peering at me from beneath those eyebrows, cigarette burning quietly between his fingers.
Submitted for your approval ...
Or, you know, not.
Derek Carr or multiple sightings of Burgess Meredith in "The Twilight Zone": Decisions, decisions.
Or, no decision, because, let's face it, no one cares about the Pro Bowl, not even the sad sacks who actually wind up watching it. Heck, the guys who are picked to play in it don't even care about it, which is how we wind up with the whole Derek Carr-vs.-Burgess Meredith dilemma.
Derek Carr will play because most of the quarterbacks selected to play in the Pro Bowl have fled it the way Tom Brady tried to flee the Denver pass rush, only more successfully. Russell Wilson, it turns out, is the only quarterback actually selected who's going to play. Brady, Aaron Rodgers, Ben Roethlisberger, Carson Palmer, Philip Rivers, Drew Brees: All of them said, "Nah, I'm good."
Which leaves the Pro Bowl in the hands of Carr, Eli Manning, Tyrod Taylor, Teddy Bridgewater and Jameis Winston, quarterback-wise. Bonus points if you can actually name the teams for whom all of those guys play.
This means that, if you are one of the sad sacks who actually tune in, you not only get The Greatest Spectacle In Groin-Pull Avoidance -- Look how adroitly those running backs and wide receivers tiptoe across the greensward, trying not to jeopardize their next contract extension! -- you get The Greatest Spectacle In Understudy-itis. For those old-school enough, it's kind of like tuning into the 1967 Pro Bowl and seeing Jack Concannon instead of Johnny Unitas. Or Bill Munson subbing for Roman Gabriel.
Me, I'll take Burgess Meredith. And Rod Serling peering at me from beneath those eyebrows, cigarette burning quietly between his fingers.
Submitted for your approval ...
Or, you know, not.
Media Relations Fail 101
There are a lot of things you wonder about the IOC and its umbrella entities, like why more of their members aren't behind bars, and when they're going to add Zumba as an Olympic sport because some Zumba lobbyist dropped a bag of cash on the right honcho's doorstep.
Mostly, though, you wonder at how utterly clueless all of them are about how media works.
They'd pretty much weathered the storm over the impending fiasco that is the Rio Olympics, particularly the part about how the sailing events are going to be held in what amounts to an open sewer. Everyone was properly appalled by that, and then they weren't, because, well, it's sailing. No one in America has cared about it since Dennis Conner left the premises.
And so no surprise that if you polled 100 people, 99.9 of them wouldn't know who Peter Sowrey is. Turns out he was the CEO of World Sailing, and it also turns out that he was as appalled as everyone else that the IOC was apparently adding dumpster diving to its list of Olympic sports. So he pushed to get the sailing venue moved to a resort a hundred or so kilometers away, rightly figuring that the spectacle of Olympic sailors steering around piles of floating garbage would not be a good look for international sailing.
Had his bosses simply let him go on about that, none of us would have ever heard of Peter Sowrey, or of any of the above. Instead, they did the one thing that was guaranteed to bring down exactly the media scrutiny they feared.
They fired the guy. After first, according to Sowrey, telling him to "gag" himself.
Now this story is all over "Mike & Mike" -- Greenberg went on for 10 minutes about it this morning -- and #riowater is trending all over Twitter, and there are some real journalists out there prepared to ask some real questions. Which is exactly what Sowrey's bosses thought they were going to avoid by getting rid of him.
They never learn. They ... just ... never ... learn.
Mostly, though, you wonder at how utterly clueless all of them are about how media works.
They'd pretty much weathered the storm over the impending fiasco that is the Rio Olympics, particularly the part about how the sailing events are going to be held in what amounts to an open sewer. Everyone was properly appalled by that, and then they weren't, because, well, it's sailing. No one in America has cared about it since Dennis Conner left the premises.
And so no surprise that if you polled 100 people, 99.9 of them wouldn't know who Peter Sowrey is. Turns out he was the CEO of World Sailing, and it also turns out that he was as appalled as everyone else that the IOC was apparently adding dumpster diving to its list of Olympic sports. So he pushed to get the sailing venue moved to a resort a hundred or so kilometers away, rightly figuring that the spectacle of Olympic sailors steering around piles of floating garbage would not be a good look for international sailing.
Had his bosses simply let him go on about that, none of us would have ever heard of Peter Sowrey, or of any of the above. Instead, they did the one thing that was guaranteed to bring down exactly the media scrutiny they feared.
They fired the guy. After first, according to Sowrey, telling him to "gag" himself.
Now this story is all over "Mike & Mike" -- Greenberg went on for 10 minutes about it this morning -- and #riowater is trending all over Twitter, and there are some real journalists out there prepared to ask some real questions. Which is exactly what Sowrey's bosses thought they were going to avoid by getting rid of him.
They never learn. They ... just ... never ... learn.
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
"F" is for "fanatic"
Cam Newton will drive you crazy, and not just because he has a laser for an arm and runs like a bull in Pamplona. He'll also drive you crazy with his unrestrained joy.
So what happens when unrestrained joy collides with unrestrained delusions of grandeur?
Well, then you get this, and a pause here while we all say, "What an idiot." Seahawks fans tend to run the gamut from everyday unbalanced to straight-up nuclear bonkers, but this guy comes with an extra helping. Or two.
Seriously, launching a petition to ban Cam from the Seahawks' stadium the next time the Panthers come to town? What th-?
How exactly this could actually happen is a question best left to those who are convinced Elvis murdered JFK, but the real laff riot here is Ban Cam Seahawks Fan's contention that Cam is the most unsportsmanlike player in the history of professional football, or some such thing. And all because he likes to have fun out there, even when it involves taking one of those ubiquitous "12" flags Seahawks fans like to wave and throwing it joyously to the ground.
If you've seen the video clip, there doesn't seem to be any malice aforethought involved. It's just Cam being Cam. And what did the dope who waved the flag directly in his face think was going to happen?
There's also the small irony of a Seahawks fan calling out a player on another team for being unsportsmanlike. Really? A Seahawks fan? Home of Marshawn "Crotch Grab" Lynch, Richard Sherman and a fan base that thinks it invented the whole 12th-man concept?
(Short pause while the good folks from Texas A&M say, "Ahem.")
Heavens, people. Get a grip already. Get a grip.
So what happens when unrestrained joy collides with unrestrained delusions of grandeur?
Well, then you get this, and a pause here while we all say, "What an idiot." Seahawks fans tend to run the gamut from everyday unbalanced to straight-up nuclear bonkers, but this guy comes with an extra helping. Or two.
Seriously, launching a petition to ban Cam from the Seahawks' stadium the next time the Panthers come to town? What th-?
How exactly this could actually happen is a question best left to those who are convinced Elvis murdered JFK, but the real laff riot here is Ban Cam Seahawks Fan's contention that Cam is the most unsportsmanlike player in the history of professional football, or some such thing. And all because he likes to have fun out there, even when it involves taking one of those ubiquitous "12" flags Seahawks fans like to wave and throwing it joyously to the ground.
If you've seen the video clip, there doesn't seem to be any malice aforethought involved. It's just Cam being Cam. And what did the dope who waved the flag directly in his face think was going to happen?
There's also the small irony of a Seahawks fan calling out a player on another team for being unsportsmanlike. Really? A Seahawks fan? Home of Marshawn "Crotch Grab" Lynch, Richard Sherman and a fan base that thinks it invented the whole 12th-man concept?
(Short pause while the good folks from Texas A&M say, "Ahem.")
Heavens, people. Get a grip already. Get a grip.
Monday, January 25, 2016
Your wish list for today
If unicorns existed, Peyton Manning would ride one into a last glorious sunset, Lombardi Trophy under one arm and the thanks of a grateful nation under the other.
(For, you know, not subjecting us to another two weeks of Grumpy McHoodie and his grim, gray, industrially-efficient Patriots. Thanks, Peyton!)
If there were fairy godmothers, she'd make Peyton's arm 25 again, so he could ride off on that unicorn having thrown four touchdown passes and completed, oh, say, 38-of-42 for 457 yards or so.
If this were Never-Never Land, where every wish came true, Peyton would do all of the above, and the Denver Broncos' defense would be even stouter than it was yesterday, and the Broncos would beat Carolina in Super Bowl 50, confounding all the Telestrator jockeys and various other amateur experts who set the betting line in Vegas.
Alas, there are no unicorns or fairy godmothers or a Never-Never Land, which means the Panthers are probably going to win this thing. They are Vegas' early pick for a reason, the reason being they are simply the best team in professional football. This does not mean they're going to win Supe 50, but it doesn't hurt their chances any.
A good chunk of America will be rooting for those chances to shrivel, of course, because America loves its feel-good stories, and there's no better one than Peyton Manning going out a winner. He's not 25 anymore and neither is his arm; if it had been, he'd have thrown more than the two touchdowns he threw yesterday, and the game would not have come down to a desperate two-point conversion try by Tom Brady. That Manning left at least two more touchdowns on the table was visible to anyone who watched him overthrow open receivers in the end zone on at least a couple of occasions.
Three years ago, maybe even two years ago, those would have been sixes. In 2016, not so much. Manning may have reached back more than some thought possible yesterday, but he can't reach back that much.
So, in two weeks, it will be up to him to do what he did yesterday, which is wring enough points out of his ancient arm to allow the Denver defense to win it. That was hard enough against a Tom Brady who wasn't his younger self, either; it will be darn near impossible against the freak of nature who is Cam Newton. Arizona had a stout defense, too, and the Cardinals couldn't stop him. And the Panthers' D is better than the Patriots was.
So the handwriting's on the wall, apparently. You wish it weren't, but it is.
Of course, the thing about handwriting is, no one ever writes it in indelible ink. Or not very often, anyway.
Go round up the unicorn.
(For, you know, not subjecting us to another two weeks of Grumpy McHoodie and his grim, gray, industrially-efficient Patriots. Thanks, Peyton!)
If there were fairy godmothers, she'd make Peyton's arm 25 again, so he could ride off on that unicorn having thrown four touchdown passes and completed, oh, say, 38-of-42 for 457 yards or so.
If this were Never-Never Land, where every wish came true, Peyton would do all of the above, and the Denver Broncos' defense would be even stouter than it was yesterday, and the Broncos would beat Carolina in Super Bowl 50, confounding all the Telestrator jockeys and various other amateur experts who set the betting line in Vegas.
Alas, there are no unicorns or fairy godmothers or a Never-Never Land, which means the Panthers are probably going to win this thing. They are Vegas' early pick for a reason, the reason being they are simply the best team in professional football. This does not mean they're going to win Supe 50, but it doesn't hurt their chances any.
A good chunk of America will be rooting for those chances to shrivel, of course, because America loves its feel-good stories, and there's no better one than Peyton Manning going out a winner. He's not 25 anymore and neither is his arm; if it had been, he'd have thrown more than the two touchdowns he threw yesterday, and the game would not have come down to a desperate two-point conversion try by Tom Brady. That Manning left at least two more touchdowns on the table was visible to anyone who watched him overthrow open receivers in the end zone on at least a couple of occasions.
Three years ago, maybe even two years ago, those would have been sixes. In 2016, not so much. Manning may have reached back more than some thought possible yesterday, but he can't reach back that much.
So, in two weeks, it will be up to him to do what he did yesterday, which is wring enough points out of his ancient arm to allow the Denver defense to win it. That was hard enough against a Tom Brady who wasn't his younger self, either; it will be darn near impossible against the freak of nature who is Cam Newton. Arizona had a stout defense, too, and the Cardinals couldn't stop him. And the Panthers' D is better than the Patriots was.
So the handwriting's on the wall, apparently. You wish it weren't, but it is.
Of course, the thing about handwriting is, no one ever writes it in indelible ink. Or not very often, anyway.
Go round up the unicorn.
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