Almost August now, and on certain days there is a hint of fall in the air, early in the mornings. Also a hint of weirdness.
Down in Indianapolis, for instance, the Colts have barely begun training camp, and already Kevin Durant has taken them hostage.
This elicits an appropriate "Um, what??" from the four or five of you who still read the Blob ("Four or five! Get him!" you're saying), and also provides more evidence that the Blob's faculties have made another prison break. But stay with me here.
See, Kevin Durant strained his calf in the NBA playoffs. You remember that, right?
Then, after sitting out a bunch of games, and with the Warriors about to be exit-ramped by the Raptors, he returned to the lineup.
Then he tore his Achilles, an injury that could well cost him an entire season.
Now, the Blob isn't saying for sure that what happened to KD is coloring the Colts' thinking process right now. But Andrew Luck has a strained calf. He strained it way back in April, apparently. And yet he's still not practicing, and everyone is saying exactly the same things they said about Luck's shoulder at exactly this time in 2017, and, um, well ...
Well. We know what happened in 2017, right?
And who's to say they all don't have the live stream of KD rupturing his Achilles on a continual loop inside their heads, and also 2017 looping up there somewhere, too?
So even though Luck is telling everyone not to freak out, freaking out is definitely an option here. Because he's also saying the calf is still bugging him. And head coach Frank Reich is admitting there's definitely some pain there, a rather startling admission considering the Colts tend to be very Kremlin-like about these matters.
So. Here we go again, right?
Or, not. Hopefully not.
Wednesday, July 31, 2019
Tuesday, July 30, 2019
Cooked books
Say this much for the mucketies who run the United States Soccer Federation: They never met a losing hand upon which they couldn't double down.
It's not just their ongoing lack of appreciation for the national side that butters their bread, i.e., the United States Women's National Team. The women comprise the best women's soccer team in the world, and as such are indisputably the face of soccer in the U.S. All they request is they be paid like it.
The USSF, however, remains remarkably consistent about this. Which is to say, it remains remarkably ungrateful for its prize entity -- one that, among other things, diverts attention from a U.S. men's side whose dial-tone mediocrity is remarkably consistent itself.
And so the latest response from the USSF, ahead of the USWNT lawsuit accusing it of gender discrimination: A letter and "fact" sheet from USSF president Carlos Cordeiro that claims to show the women are already paid more than the men. What's most significant about it is not the misdirection and false equivalency it puts forward, but its utter tone deafness.
Or perhaps the USSF thinks that, on the heels of the USWNT covering itself with glory at the World Cup, this is the absolute best time to tell to the ladies shut up and quit whining.
(Also, "Get back there behind the men where you belong," presumably.)
Cluelessness this profound does not come down the pike every day, even in an America whose leaders daily establish fresh benchmarks for cluelessness. But it's compounded by the squirrely numbers the USSF uses to makes its squirrely case, which takes disingenuousness to new heights.
For example: The lawsuit being pushed by the USWNT says its game checks are smaller than the game checks for members of the USMNT, on a dollar-to-dollar basis. But the USSF's "fact" sheet throws up all sorts of smoke and mirrors to obscure that. It factors the women's club salaries in the National Women's Soccer League into the equation, on the premise that the USSF contributes to the NWSL. By that reckoning, the women make more in guaranteed money.
Of course, the USSF doesn't factor in what USMNT players make playing for various clubs Europe, an option that's not really available to the women. This, shall we say, skews the numbers.
Not that the USSF cares. It may be long past time for Cordeiro and the boys to stop digging, but clearly they haven't gotten the message yet.
No, sir. You'll get that shovel, presumably, when you pry their cold, dead hands from it.
It's not just their ongoing lack of appreciation for the national side that butters their bread, i.e., the United States Women's National Team. The women comprise the best women's soccer team in the world, and as such are indisputably the face of soccer in the U.S. All they request is they be paid like it.
The USSF, however, remains remarkably consistent about this. Which is to say, it remains remarkably ungrateful for its prize entity -- one that, among other things, diverts attention from a U.S. men's side whose dial-tone mediocrity is remarkably consistent itself.
And so the latest response from the USSF, ahead of the USWNT lawsuit accusing it of gender discrimination: A letter and "fact" sheet from USSF president Carlos Cordeiro that claims to show the women are already paid more than the men. What's most significant about it is not the misdirection and false equivalency it puts forward, but its utter tone deafness.
Or perhaps the USSF thinks that, on the heels of the USWNT covering itself with glory at the World Cup, this is the absolute best time to tell to the ladies shut up and quit whining.
(Also, "Get back there behind the men where you belong," presumably.)
Cluelessness this profound does not come down the pike every day, even in an America whose leaders daily establish fresh benchmarks for cluelessness. But it's compounded by the squirrely numbers the USSF uses to makes its squirrely case, which takes disingenuousness to new heights.
For example: The lawsuit being pushed by the USWNT says its game checks are smaller than the game checks for members of the USMNT, on a dollar-to-dollar basis. But the USSF's "fact" sheet throws up all sorts of smoke and mirrors to obscure that. It factors the women's club salaries in the National Women's Soccer League into the equation, on the premise that the USSF contributes to the NWSL. By that reckoning, the women make more in guaranteed money.
Of course, the USSF doesn't factor in what USMNT players make playing for various clubs Europe, an option that's not really available to the women. This, shall we say, skews the numbers.
Not that the USSF cares. It may be long past time for Cordeiro and the boys to stop digging, but clearly they haven't gotten the message yet.
No, sir. You'll get that shovel, presumably, when you pry their cold, dead hands from it.
History's witness. (So-called).
And now a couple of lines from Mary Chapin Carpenter's tribute to 9/11 workers, "Grand Central Station" -- which, like another song by Carly Simon, Our Only Available President probably thinks is about him:
Tomorrow, I'll be back there, workin' on the pile
Going in, comin' out, single file ...
To which OOAP no doubt would respond: "Yeah, I remember those days. Tough. Very, very tough."
This on account of what he said the other day, while signing the first responders' bill Jon Stewart basically shamed Congress into passing. Seems Our Boy Donny was down there with 'em all, too -- although, charitably, he said he didn't consider himself a first responder. But he was right there with 'em, by God. Like, a lot. Not his fault no one remembers him being there, or that there's not an iota of evidence he ever was.
Those, after all, are facts. And who needs facts in OOAP's America?
No, in OOAP's America, he's Forrest Gump, present and accounted for at a bunch of America's signature moments. This includes a lot of America's signature moments in sports, too, although OOAP has thus far been too modest to bring them up. But by golly, the Blob remembers that time when ...
* ... Our Boy got sick, very, very sick, had to go to the hospital, even. And then Babe Ruth stopped by, and he promised to hit a home run for him. And he did it!
* ... Our Boy was playing defensive back for the Oakland Raiders, and Terry Bradshaw threw that one pass, and it bounced off Our Boy's helmet and went right to Franco Harris! The Immaculate Reception! Our Boy couldn't believe it! And then when they said it actually bounced off Jack Tatum's helmet ... wrong. Very, very wrong.
* ... Our Boy was playing for the Brooklyn Dodgers the year Jackie Robinson broke the color line, and there was this one game where everyone was booing him and calling him names, very bad names, and Our Boy went up to Jackie and put his arm around him! See, he's no racist! And never mind that everyone says it was Pee Wee Reese who did that ...
Wrong. Very, very wrong.
* ... Our Boy made the block that Bart Starr followed into the end zone for the winning touchdown in the Ice Bowl. Boy, it was cold that day! You can't believe how cold it was! And then Jerry Kramer took credit for the block, even though everyone knows it was Our Boy. So terrible of Kramer to do that! Such a liar!
* ... Our Boy scored the winning goal in the Miracle on Ice game, and also played goalie, making all those great saves in the last 10 minutes. U-S-A! U-S-A! What a night! And so what if everyone remembers it was Mike Eruzione who scored the winning goal, and Jim Craig making all those great saves? Fake news!
I mean, who ya gonna believe? Our Boy, or your lying eyes?
Tomorrow, I'll be back there, workin' on the pile
Going in, comin' out, single file ...
To which OOAP no doubt would respond: "Yeah, I remember those days. Tough. Very, very tough."
This on account of what he said the other day, while signing the first responders' bill Jon Stewart basically shamed Congress into passing. Seems Our Boy Donny was down there with 'em all, too -- although, charitably, he said he didn't consider himself a first responder. But he was right there with 'em, by God. Like, a lot. Not his fault no one remembers him being there, or that there's not an iota of evidence he ever was.
Those, after all, are facts. And who needs facts in OOAP's America?
No, in OOAP's America, he's Forrest Gump, present and accounted for at a bunch of America's signature moments. This includes a lot of America's signature moments in sports, too, although OOAP has thus far been too modest to bring them up. But by golly, the Blob remembers that time when ...
* ... Our Boy got sick, very, very sick, had to go to the hospital, even. And then Babe Ruth stopped by, and he promised to hit a home run for him. And he did it!
* ... Our Boy was playing defensive back for the Oakland Raiders, and Terry Bradshaw threw that one pass, and it bounced off Our Boy's helmet and went right to Franco Harris! The Immaculate Reception! Our Boy couldn't believe it! And then when they said it actually bounced off Jack Tatum's helmet ... wrong. Very, very wrong.
* ... Our Boy was playing for the Brooklyn Dodgers the year Jackie Robinson broke the color line, and there was this one game where everyone was booing him and calling him names, very bad names, and Our Boy went up to Jackie and put his arm around him! See, he's no racist! And never mind that everyone says it was Pee Wee Reese who did that ...
Wrong. Very, very wrong.
* ... Our Boy made the block that Bart Starr followed into the end zone for the winning touchdown in the Ice Bowl. Boy, it was cold that day! You can't believe how cold it was! And then Jerry Kramer took credit for the block, even though everyone knows it was Our Boy. So terrible of Kramer to do that! Such a liar!
* ... Our Boy scored the winning goal in the Miracle on Ice game, and also played goalie, making all those great saves in the last 10 minutes. U-S-A! U-S-A! What a night! And so what if everyone remembers it was Mike Eruzione who scored the winning goal, and Jim Craig making all those great saves? Fake news!
I mean, who ya gonna believe? Our Boy, or your lying eyes?
Monday, July 29, 2019
Hey, look, it's that one guy
That Bicycle Race ended along the Champs Elysees yesterday, and the Blob will give you four guesses who won. These first three, however, do not count:
1. Pee Wee Herman.
2. You, on your 26-inch Huffy with the cool headlamp.
3. Lance Armstrong, posing as "Chance Le Chance," a humble farmer from Varennes who never heard of these PEDs of which you speak, nope, huh-uh, don't even knoooow what you're talkin' about.
Give up?
Well, if your fourth guess was Egan Bernal, a 22-year-old Colombian, you win. Bernal didn't win a single stage of That Bicycle Race (real name: The Tour de France), but so what? He won anyway!
And he's not only the first Colombian to win the Tour, he's the youngest winner in 110 years. That's a whole century plus a decade to you and me, kids!
So here's to him. And here's to you, because now you can win your next bar bet by saying "I bet I know who won the Tour de France and you don't."
Egan Bernal. Remember the name. Your next free drink hangs on it.
1. Pee Wee Herman.
2. You, on your 26-inch Huffy with the cool headlamp.
3. Lance Armstrong, posing as "Chance Le Chance," a humble farmer from Varennes who never heard of these PEDs of which you speak, nope, huh-uh, don't even knoooow what you're talkin' about.
Give up?
Well, if your fourth guess was Egan Bernal, a 22-year-old Colombian, you win. Bernal didn't win a single stage of That Bicycle Race (real name: The Tour de France), but so what? He won anyway!
And he's not only the first Colombian to win the Tour, he's the youngest winner in 110 years. That's a whole century plus a decade to you and me, kids!
So here's to him. And here's to you, because now you can win your next bar bet by saying "I bet I know who won the Tour de France and you don't."
Egan Bernal. Remember the name. Your next free drink hangs on it.
Criminal un-tent
And now we check in with the En Eff Ell, where training camps have barely opened and already the usual amount of foofery has broken out.
It seems the Shield -- ever diligent about making sure its athletes are shining examples of rectitude, as long as it doesn't involve domestic violence -- has suspended New York Giants receiver Golden Tate for four games. This is because he and his wife are trying to get pregnant.
Yes, you read that right.
Apparently Tate began taking a fertility drug a few months back, not realizing it contained an ingredient banned by the league. When he discovered it, he says he dutifully reported it to the league, his coaches and Giants GM Dave Gettleman, warning them he might potentially fail a drug test because of it.
To most normal people, this seems like the sort of stand-up behavior that would be rewarded, and perhaps even celebrated. But, nah. The NFL suspended him anyway.
Tate is appealing, and hopefully he'll win. In the meantime, we can all be thankful our favorite professional sport is so committed to giving the public a clean and ethical product.
Or whatever.
It seems the Shield -- ever diligent about making sure its athletes are shining examples of rectitude, as long as it doesn't involve domestic violence -- has suspended New York Giants receiver Golden Tate for four games. This is because he and his wife are trying to get pregnant.
Yes, you read that right.
Apparently Tate began taking a fertility drug a few months back, not realizing it contained an ingredient banned by the league. When he discovered it, he says he dutifully reported it to the league, his coaches and Giants GM Dave Gettleman, warning them he might potentially fail a drug test because of it.
To most normal people, this seems like the sort of stand-up behavior that would be rewarded, and perhaps even celebrated. But, nah. The NFL suspended him anyway.
Tate is appealing, and hopefully he'll win. In the meantime, we can all be thankful our favorite professional sport is so committed to giving the public a clean and ethical product.
Or whatever.
Sunday, July 28, 2019
Your Moment of Cynicism for today
It's been 10 days now since Dan Le Batard did a little truth-telling on the radio, flaming his bosses at ESPN for muzzling the talent from speaking out about presidential racism and such, unless of course they can hide it behind some sort of Sportsball camouflage.
Everyone (including the Blob) figured the bosses would slap down Le Batard with all due haste for deliberately raspberry-ing company policy. And yet ...
And yet, it's been 10 days. And Le Batard is still on the air. And there's been nothing but crickets from management.
Compare that to how swiftly ESPN cast Jemele Hill into outer darkness for speaking some truth of her own, i.e., that Our Only Available President is a white supremacist. Surely its glaring silence vis-a-vis Le Batard couldn't have anything to do with the fact his show is the most wildly popular entity on ESPN's radio platform. Could it?
Nah. That can't be it. Surely that's just one of those, what you call it, amazing coincidences.
Heh.
Everyone (including the Blob) figured the bosses would slap down Le Batard with all due haste for deliberately raspberry-ing company policy. And yet ...
And yet, it's been 10 days. And Le Batard is still on the air. And there's been nothing but crickets from management.
Compare that to how swiftly ESPN cast Jemele Hill into outer darkness for speaking some truth of her own, i.e., that Our Only Available President is a white supremacist. Surely its glaring silence vis-a-vis Le Batard couldn't have anything to do with the fact his show is the most wildly popular entity on ESPN's radio platform. Could it?
Nah. That can't be it. Surely that's just one of those, what you call it, amazing coincidences.
Heh.
Saturday, July 27, 2019
Me time
NFL training camps opened around the country this week, and you know what that means.
No, not the beginning of your annual agony over whether you should draft C.J. Spillers for your fantasy team, because you just know he's got one last great year in him, and this could be it.
On the contrary, C.J. can wait. This week it's all about what Woody Allen allegedly once said, and how it seems to be more true than ever.
Remember? Eighty percent of life is just showing up?
Come with us, then, to northern California, where the Raiders shiny new acquisition, wide receiver Antonio Brown, arrived for his first training camp with the silver-and-black. Of course, he didn't just arrive. He Arrived.
As in, he took a tour at dawn of California wine country in a hot air balloon, before literally materializing out of thin air (or at least, thinner air) at camp.
It was the ultimate Me moment by a guy who plays the NFL's ultimate Me position, and it's nothing new these days. Arriving at training camp has become performance art for some of the Shield's more, shall we say, expansive egos -- a troubling trend for back-in-the-day grumplesteins who remember when players used to just drive into camp, haul their bags inside and flip a coin to see who got the bottom bunk.
It wasn't a production, back then. It wasn't a whole Look At Me thing. You just showed up and got to work running gassers until you threw up and jumping when Coach said jump, and generally being a good teammate because, after all, there's no "I" in "team."
There is, however, in "arrival."
And so here came Antonio Brown, descending from the clouds to save the Raiders. And on the other coast, here came Jaguars defensive back Jalen Ramsey, arriving at camp in an armored car full of cash. And so it goes.
One wonders what wondrous arrival will happen next ...
FOXBOROUGH, Mass., 2032 -- Tom Brady parachuted into training camp today with a basketful of TB12 energy supplements, which he distributed to the assembled media. "They're fortified with air!" Brady said, explaining that his new dietary regimen consisted of not eating anything because "you can obtain all the nutrients you need for a healthy lifestyle simply by breathing good air!"
Or:
NEW YORK, 2032 -- Eli Manning arrived at training camp today in a tricked-out lift van, emerging with a titanium walker he said was a spoof of all the media types who've said he's too old to be effective anymore. Then he theatrically flung the walker aside and marched inside under his own power, using only a cane.
Or:
TAMPA BAY -- Jameis Winston sailed an authentic 18th-century pirate ship into the Buccaneers training camp today, waving a cutlass and a bottle of rum and wearing Jack Sparrow eye shadow. He said he got the idea from LeVeon Bell, who flew an F-16 into the Jets training camp and landed it at midfield, leaping from it dressed in a flight suit and Tom Cruise's Maverick helmet from "Top Gun."
Yeesh.
No, not the beginning of your annual agony over whether you should draft C.J. Spillers for your fantasy team, because you just know he's got one last great year in him, and this could be it.
On the contrary, C.J. can wait. This week it's all about what Woody Allen allegedly once said, and how it seems to be more true than ever.
Remember? Eighty percent of life is just showing up?
Come with us, then, to northern California, where the Raiders shiny new acquisition, wide receiver Antonio Brown, arrived for his first training camp with the silver-and-black. Of course, he didn't just arrive. He Arrived.
As in, he took a tour at dawn of California wine country in a hot air balloon, before literally materializing out of thin air (or at least, thinner air) at camp.
It was the ultimate Me moment by a guy who plays the NFL's ultimate Me position, and it's nothing new these days. Arriving at training camp has become performance art for some of the Shield's more, shall we say, expansive egos -- a troubling trend for back-in-the-day grumplesteins who remember when players used to just drive into camp, haul their bags inside and flip a coin to see who got the bottom bunk.
It wasn't a production, back then. It wasn't a whole Look At Me thing. You just showed up and got to work running gassers until you threw up and jumping when Coach said jump, and generally being a good teammate because, after all, there's no "I" in "team."
There is, however, in "arrival."
And so here came Antonio Brown, descending from the clouds to save the Raiders. And on the other coast, here came Jaguars defensive back Jalen Ramsey, arriving at camp in an armored car full of cash. And so it goes.
One wonders what wondrous arrival will happen next ...
FOXBOROUGH, Mass., 2032 -- Tom Brady parachuted into training camp today with a basketful of TB12 energy supplements, which he distributed to the assembled media. "They're fortified with air!" Brady said, explaining that his new dietary regimen consisted of not eating anything because "you can obtain all the nutrients you need for a healthy lifestyle simply by breathing good air!"
Or:
NEW YORK, 2032 -- Eli Manning arrived at training camp today in a tricked-out lift van, emerging with a titanium walker he said was a spoof of all the media types who've said he's too old to be effective anymore. Then he theatrically flung the walker aside and marched inside under his own power, using only a cane.
Or:
TAMPA BAY -- Jameis Winston sailed an authentic 18th-century pirate ship into the Buccaneers training camp today, waving a cutlass and a bottle of rum and wearing Jack Sparrow eye shadow. He said he got the idea from LeVeon Bell, who flew an F-16 into the Jets training camp and landed it at midfield, leaping from it dressed in a flight suit and Tom Cruise's Maverick helmet from "Top Gun."
Yeesh.
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