Your question for today

You know how Cubs fans like to raise their "W" flags when their Lovable Winners win -- especially now, seeing how they've won the World Series and all?

This just in from Arizona: The Lovables and the White Sox played to a 4-4 tie yesterday. This, you know, being spring training and all, and not, you know, regular baseball.

So what does the discerning Cubs fan do with that, vis-a-vis the "W" flag?

Fly it at half-staff?

  

Still not getting it

Well. At least she apologized.

But Baylor women's basketball coach Kim Mulkey gets minimal credit for that, precisely because she is the women's basketball coach at Baylor. Which is to say, she gets no benefit of the doubt here, because her school gets no benefit of the doubt. That's what it's earned for its coddling of a football program that by all accounts was coddling runaway sexual assault.

A university, or any entity, develops a culture deliberately, by either its actions or its inactions. Baylor's inaction in dealing with the criminal element in its football program -- and its action in allegedly discouraging and/or intimidating the alleged victims of that element -- has created a culture in Waco at startling odds with its Baptist tradition. And it's earned the school the lawsuit from one of the alleged victims claiming that, in the last four years, 31 players have committed 52 acts of sexual assault.

The university has purged itself of all the main characters in this awful business, but, as Mulkey demonstrated, the culture of denial continues. Her upon-further-review bit of damage control notwithstanding, Mulkey's knee-jerk first reaction speaks far more loudly. It was, after all, pure Baylor, or what a lot of the country has come to see as pure Baylor.

And so, sorry, Coach, but, yes, I do have a daughter, and I wouldn't let her within 50 nautical miles of Baylor. And I don't care if you or some other Baylor apologist punches me in the face for saying so, as you suggested before coming to your senses. And I really don't care if you're tired of hearing about all of this, as you also said.

 Want to know why?

Because in saying it, you were displaying the exact reason why I wouldn't let my daughter within 50 nautical miles of Baylor. By saying you're tired of hearing about sexual assault, see, you unwittingly echoed the mindset of your school, in my opinion. And you just as unwittingly revealed that your school still doesn't take the concerns of its coed population and their parents seriously. Like you, it just wants all of it to go away.

Which is exactly why it won't, and shouldn't.

And now ... "Survivor: Daytona"

Or, "Can't these guys drive anymore?"

(The answer: "No. They can't. Shorten the rear wing, make 'em actually have to drive these cars, and they commence running into one another.")

So what else is there to say about "Survivor: Daytona," which ended yesterday with one of the few remaining old hands outfoxing a bunch of kids?

Well, here are a couple of points about the 59th running of the Daytona 500, or the Daytona 150/150/200, or The Great American Duct Tape Orgy:

1. They sure did go through a lot of duct tape.

That was the relevant stat we didn't see: Exactly how much duct tape did everyone use to hold all those battered hulks together? It would have dovetailed perfectly with the relevant stat we did see, which went up on America's TV screens late in the race. It said that, out of 40 starters, 35 had been involved at least peripherally in one of the day's many crashes.

Only 15 cars, in the end, finished the race. And everyone with any experience was pretty much gone except for Kurt Busch. Who of course sat back and watched Chase Elliott drop out of the front of the freight train in the waning laps as his gas tank went dry, thus taking himself out of it. Kyle Larson then moved to the front, where, when his fuel began to run out, he was a sitting duck for the crafty old pro Busch to gobble him up on the last lap.

Show of hands: When Busch popped up in third with 20 or so laps to run, is there anyone who didn't think he was going to wind up your winner?

2. Welcome to stage fright, America. Enjoy.

Or, you know, not. The Blob votes the latter.

As mightily as Mike Joy, Darrell Waltrip and Jeff Gordon up there in the booth tried to get everyone revved up about stage racing, NASCAR's latest harebrained idea, it was pure unadulterated manure for the discerning race fan. The long-view narrative of a 500-mile race was utterly lost; its sole substantive effect, in the end, was to give fans three last-lap sprints to a checkered flag instead of one.

The downside, of course, was that two of those sprints were entirely contrived. Did it change fuel strategy? Sure, but was that an upside? And how long will it be before teams figure out that the way you win the Big Checkered Flag is to plot strategy for 500 miles instead of  trying to outthink yourself by 150-mile increments?

Look. I get it. NASCAR's trying to gin up its product, and it thinks its audience doesn't have the attention span it used to. So it's breaking up its races into three short, easily digested bites. So why not just shorten the races, then? Or, to go the opposite direction, simply calculate the points at the end of each stage without disturbing the flow of the race?

I mean, NASCAR has been providing the media forever with race updates every 10 to 20 laps. So it's not like they need to bring everything to a screeching, manufactured halt twice in a race to figure out who comprises the top ten at (yesterday, at least) the 60-lap and 120-lap marks. Why not just let 'em keep racing and send out the 60-lap and 120-lap updates, with attendant "stage" points, to the media and the broadcast booth?

Of course, that might make too much sense.

Hey, look, it's spring

All last week a lying imposter teased us, whispering that winter was done and spring had come. The air was a  caress. Crocus shoots pushed through the earth. Grass greened, birds awoke, the sun shone too benevolently by half, a warm hand on your shoulder that winked and said, "Hi. I'm really April, you know."

As if.

As if, because all of us knew that, come Saturday, snow would be flying again. The furnace would kick back on. And for the Blob, especially, there would be this sense that spring had jumped the gun -- because for the Blob, spring never begins until today.

Sunday. At sometime past 1 p.m. When 40 damn fools get their muscle cars out again, and wind 'em up, and the blat and snarl of unleavened horsepower goes up to the Florida sky above Daytona International Speedway.

Happy Daytona Day, as NASCAR is billing it. Happy unofficial first day of spring, is how the Blob bills it.

Dale Jr.'s out there again, thankfully, and, look, there's Jimmie Johnson and Joey Logano and Matt Kenseth and Denny Hamlin, and both the Busch boys, those goobers. There's Brad Keselowski, another goober. There's Kevin Harvick. And sitting on the pole, right where it belongs, there's old No. 24 -- except it's not Jeff Gordon in the seat now, it's Bill Elliott's boy, Chase.

Pretty soon they'll be freight-training around the place, and it'll be spring on my television screen -- or, better yet, summer. The Daytona 500 is where winter exits stage left for me, and if NASCAR doesn't thrill me the way it used to, it's still useful in that capacity.

Who's gonna win?

Hell, I don't know. Plate races are always a crapshoot, and maybe never more so than this year, with NASCAR itself jimmying with the natural order of these things with its three-stage nonsense. The dopes still think they can regain the un-regainable -- the absurdly unsustainable success of the late 1990s and early 2000s -- and their latest crack at it is to make the points system even more confusing than it already was. So a third of the way in today, they'll stop everything and count up points. Then they'll do it again at the two-thirds mark.

How did this come to be? I don't know how it came to be. I'm guessing a couple drinks too many at some midnight hour might have had something to do with it, though.

In any case, predicting Daytona just got a little harder. I'm guessing Chase Elliott doesn't win, because the polesitter hardly ever wins Daytona. You can bet Junior will be up there at the end, because he always is. And unless they get caught up in one of Daytona's usual messes, so will Hamlin and Logano and Truex and J.J.,and probably one or two guys you didn't count on, because that's how it goes at Daytona.

Wind 'em up, boys. Spring's awaitin'.

Reg Dunlop has your Oscar right here

Tonight is Oscar night, and you know what means, America. It means a bunch of actors and entertainers get to say mean stuff about the Child President.

(Which, frankly, is OK with the Blob. The Child President is only getting back what he's so abundantly dished out, after all. But I'd rather not hear actors do it, because, well, they're actors. I'd rather hear some Congress critters get up on their hind legs and do it -- although I recognize that, being Congress critters, most of them lack the anatomical requirements.)

At any rate,  it's Oscar night, and we'll get to see if the Other Affleck, Casey, wins for bumming out moviegoers in "Manchester By The Sea." We'll get to see if the Academy has truly rediscovered the musical ("Hey, look! A musical!") and hand "La-La Land" all the other Oscars. And we'll get to see if history most of America didn't know about, but should, gets properly honored thanks to the excellent "Hidden Figures."

I know one thing: Reg Dunlop will not be there.

Neither will the Hanson brothers. Neither will Ned Braden, Denis Lemieux, Joe McGrath, Dicky Dunn and -- oh, my God -- Ogie Ogilthorpe.

If you don't recognize any of these names, well, then go back to watching Emma Stone sing. And accept the pity of the rest of us, who consider you culturally deprived.

That's because all of the above are characters from "Slapshot," released 40 years ago this weekend. It's the greatest hockey movie ever made, an admittedly dubious honor. Needless to say, it will be nowhere to be found on Oscar night. That's probably because the Academy fears the Hanson brothers would drop the gloves and start something with the Afflecks, and that Ogie Ogilthorpe would perform an obscene act with one of the statuettes.

I mean, he's Ogie Ogilthorpe. It would be just like him.

Reg Dunlop -- played by Paul Newman in the film -- would probably just trash-talk everyone, because he was good at that. Joe McGrath, the team owner played by Strother Martin, would shout "Oh, (bleep) Eddie Shore," thoroughly confusing everyone. And Denis Lemieux, the French-Canadian goalie, would warn any Oscar loser tempted to make a scene about the soul-crushing (if temporary) properties of the penalty box.

"Two minutes, by yourself, you know," is how Lemieux put it in the film. "And you feel shame, you know. And then you get free."

Of course, the Blob realizes none of the above makes any sense to anyone not familiar with the film. The Blob does not apologize for this. If you are one of the aforementioned culturally deprived, that's on you. You could have been watching "Slapshot" instead of "Manchester By The Sea."

But suffice it so say "Slapshot" was sort of "Animal House" on skates, a completely ridiculous and obscene farce. And more fun than human beings should be allowed to have with their clothes on.

(Although not having clothes on sort of figures into "Slapshot," too. At least where Ned Braden is concerned.)

There were those immortal Hanson brothers, brought in to goon it up for captain Reg Dunlop's Charlestown Chiefs. There was Ogilthorpe, the quintessential goon. And of course there was Dicky Dunn, the sportswriter with the unimpeachable reputation.

It was glorious. And still as hilarious now as it was 40 years ago.

Of course, it's also one of those you-just-had-to-be-there deals. And so, while the rest of you settle in to watch the Oscars tonight, I know what I'll be doing.

I'll be puttin' on the foil, like the Hanson brothers. And waiting eagerly for Dicky Dunn's scrupulously accurate account of the proceedings.

Because, as everyone knows, if Dicky Dunn says it, it must be true.

Common sense takes a holiday

Someone much smarter than all of us once said you don't ever pick a fight with them that buys their ink by the barrel. You take on the press (or today's many ink-less versions) in a free society, you lose. Or you take steps to make it a less-free society.

Which is what our Glorious Leader, President Donald J. "Donny" Trump took the first baby steps toward yesterday by barring several news outlets -- including the New York Times -- from the White House press briefing. It of course did not have the desired effect, because the outlets that weren't barred immediately shared everything they got out of the press briefing with the barred outlets.

This is what happens, see, unless you're willing to go all the way and just take a jackhammer to the First Amendment. Which GL and his minions might yet do. It's hard to put anything past the Child President at this point. He is, after all, the Child President.

In the meantime, all their chuckleheaded stunt did yesterday was make their "news briefing" even more irrelevant than usual. These deals always to some extent have been setpieces for disseminating propaganda. Barring news organizations that dare to raise uncomfortable but pertinent questions only enhances that perception.

So your "news briefing" just becomes something to be ignored, and more fodder for SNL. And meanwhile serious news reported by serious journalists continues to be reported without interruption.

As the Blob has been known to say before: Damn these people are dumb.

And apparently it's catching.

Out on the opposite coast, see, Glorious Leader has a kindred soul, apparently. As reported by the website Deadspin, University of Oregon football coach Willie Taggart has decided he will no longer speak to the Oregonian because he's mad at one of their reporters for doing his job.

That reporter is Ducks football beat writer Andrew Greif, who last month broke the story that an offseason workout regimen landed three players in the hospital. This set off a kerfuffle in which the newly-hired strength coach was fired and Taggart formally apologized.

Apparently Taggart hasn't gotten over it. So he's banned Greif's news outlet for characterizing  workouts that landed three players in the hospital as excessive.

That seems like a reasonable conclusion to me. But what do I know?

I'm still interested in knowing what sort of shenanigans the president and his cabal of outliers and conspiracy kooks are up to with the Russians. Silly me.

A walk too far

So now comes the news that baseball is getting rid of the intentional walk, and I all I can say is, I hope a few of the old 1970s Oakland As are still around to see this. They must be having a good laugh, if so. Or, considering that group's Wild West rep, another drink.

I say this because I have a memory, admittedly hazy now, of As catcher Gene Tenace fake-signaling for an intentional walk, then squatting quickly back behind the plate during  the 1972 World Series against the Big Red Machine. The goofy, unconventional As upset the BRM in that Series, and one of the signature moments was Tenace signaling to put Johnny Bench on base, then squatting down as Rollie Fingers fired a third strike that caught Bench flat-footed.

That play never happens if the new rule baseball is instituting were in place -- i.e., a rule that now decrees an intentional walk no longer will be played out on the field with four pitches outside the strike zone, but will simply be signaled from the dugout.

It's all part of baseball's initiative to speed up the pace of play, which the Blob has applauded because, let's face it, the pace of play in baseball these days makes a crawl look like Helio Castroneves on a qualifying run at Indy. It's become in some cases like watching paint dry, only without the drama.

Here's the thing, though: Getting rid of the intentional walk robs the game of those delicious moments, albeit rare, when the pitcher screws up and the batter reaches across the plate and lines one of those lollipop intentional balls to the opposite field. It's the sort of flawed, human moment that makes our games worth the watching.

Plus, there are a million better ways to rev up the pace of play -- most of which involve enforcing rules already place.

For instance; You know those batters who constantly call time to adjust their batting gloves or their jocks or simply to collect their thoughts? That's a violation of the rules, and umpires shouldn't be granting them time in those instances. Instead, they should be saying "Your batting glove is fine. Get in there and hit or I'm counting you out."

I've always wondered, also, why a relief pitcher who's been warming up in the bullpen for 10 minutes needs another five or six or eight warmup pitches once he comes to the mound. No. Sorry. In my world, once you're on the mound, your next pitch is live. Get in there and pitch -- and no taking a long weekend between pitches, either.

There's a rule about that, too, see. And in my world, if you break it, it's a balk and the batter takes his base.

Of course, my world is not baseball's world.

More's the pity.



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