Just desserts

 Major League Baseball threw the book at a sick twist named Trevor Bauer yesterday, and it was one heavy book. Under its domestic violence and sexual assault protocols, it suspended Bauer, who's been on "administrative leave" for the past 99 games, to an additional 324 games.

That's two full seasons to you and me, kids. And that's a record.

It means Bauer, a pitcher of some merit, won't see a big-league mound until 2024 if his appeal of the suspension fails.

He'll be 33 by then and will not have pitched in almost three years.

And that's entirely appropriate.

What would be more appropriate would be putting Bauer in the Graybar Hotel for a stretch, which won't happen because the L.A. District Attorney's Office declined to bring charges back in February. This does not mean charges weren't warranted, mind you. It just means the case was he said/she said, and therefore not enough of a slamdunk for the D.A.'s taste.

Which does not mean the Blob is wrong to call Bauer a "sick twist." We do strive for accuracy here, after all. 

See, Bauer's idea of a romantic sexual encounter involves choking women unconscious and beating them so badly they wind up in the emergency room. That's what happened to a woman in California who had the misfortune to hook up with Bauer a year ago.

She's not the only one. A woman back in Ohio, where Bauer previously played, alleges the same thing. And yet a third woman came out yesterday, claiming in the Washington Post Bauer choked her dozens of times without her consent during sex when they were "dating."

Bauer's defense, essentially, is that the women asked for it. He said they wanted rough sex, and he accommodated them. Now he's suing one of the women, and several media outlets, for defamation.

The Blob's take on that is, once a bully, always a bully.

Look. Let's assume for a moment Bauer is telling the truth when he says he choked and beat up his accusers because they asked him to. Wouldn't a normal male with healthy urges respond by saying "Ewww, no"? Would a normal male with healthy urges instead take that as license to hurt a woman so badly she had to go to the emergency room, as the woman in California did?

"Gee, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "Would the answer to that be 'No'?"

Indeed it would.

Bauer, on the other hand, did not say no, indicating he pretty obviously gets off on abusing women during sex. I don't know if this means he  has some deep-seated animosity toward women, and where it comes from if so. But I do know a good psychiatrist could make a ton of coin figuring it out.

A woman psychiatrist, preferably. 

Your signature Draft-y moment

 So the NFL Draft First-Round Extravaganza is over, and other than the usual -- guys getting picked, teams trading up to pick other guys, and the gurus obsessing about the size of a quarterback's hands -- there was the requisite signature moment that made everyone nod and say "Of course." 

The moment happened when the Jets picked Cincinnati defensive back Ahmad "Sauce" Gardner with the fourth pick, spawning a lot of bad jokes that in one fell swoop Sauce had become Weak Sauce. That wasn't the signature moment, however.

The signature moment was when Sauce got lost on the way to the stage for his bro hug with NFL commissioner Roger Goodell.

Sample headline: "Jets Top Draft Pick Gets Lost. Because, The Jets."

Now all Sauce has to do is get lost on the way to training camp. Because, again, the Jets.

Wait, this is Pittsburgh? How'd I get here ... 

Something like that.

Gettin' Drafty in here

 Tonight is the greatest primetime event you don't really have to watch to watch, the NFL Draft, which consists of draft gurus like Mel Kiper Jr. (and Mel Kiper Jr.'s hair, a Hasbro product) talking about why the Jets drafted a guy with great upside because he has tight skin, and why the Lions blew it again because the offensive lineman they drafted is a waist-bender.

("Tight skin" and "waist bender" being actual Draft-y terms. What, you think I could make those up?)

Anyway ... the draft has become the Draft, a traveling road show that's become a weird sort of American Mardi Gras. Last year, in Nashville, the event drew thousands of fans decked out in their respective team gear. Jacksonville fans huzzah-ed loudly when the Jaguars took Trevor Lawrence as expected, not knowing that in a few months the Jags would hire Urban Meyer and everything would go to hell.

This year?

Well, tonight a lot of gurus think the Jags will take one of two defensive ends, Aidan Hutchinson of Michigan or Travon Walker of Georgia, with the first pick. The Lions will take Hutchinson if the Jags don't; otherwise, they'll take a defensive back, maybe Kyle Hamilton from Notre Dame or Ahmad "Sauce" Gardner from Cincinnati.

(Me, I hope they take Sauce, if it comes to that. On account of a guy named Sauce just sounds like a Lions guy. Especially if he turns out to be a huge bust.)

The gurus also think the first quarterback taken will be Malik Willis from Liberty, and he'll go to the Panthers with the sixth pick. Also, they think the Jets will pick offensive lineman Ikem "Ickey" Ekwonu from North Carolina State with the fourth pick, which would be perfect. Few things could be more Jets than drafting a kid named Ickey -- even if he's  really, really good, which he's supposed to be.

Elsewhere ... well, it looks like the usual pile of DEs and OLs and wide receivers. There'll be the usual tearful celebrations when a player hears his name called. Jets fans and Giants fans and Eagles fans will boo their pick, because Jets fans and Giants fans and Eagles fans. They'd boo their own grandmothers if their team picked her.

"Grandma? What the HELL?? She has no motor! And that godawful tuna casserole of hers!" Jets Fan or Giants Fan or Eagles Fan will say.

Grandma, meanwhile, will turn out to be the Micah Parsons of the 2022 draft. Then she'll sign with the Rams for the GNP of Bulgaria when her rookie deal runs out.

"Tuna casserole THAT, sonny!" she'll say.

But enough of this silliness. On with the show.

Yankees sneered at here*

 (*Especially their asswagon fans.)

(*But also the Yankees.)

I know, I know, I KNOW. I'm just jealous. I despise the Yankees only because my Pittsburgh Cruds are so, well, cruddy, and I would give anything to be able to root for a team with 27 world championships and all that rich history and the monuments out there beyond center field, and EFFING PINSTRIPES, BABY.

Yeah, maybe. 

But they're still a bunch of cheaters.

And their fans are still asswagons.

Only asswagons would throw crap at opposing players right after the Yankees had beaten them on a walkoff hit. That's what the brain cell deficient Yankees fans in center field did Saturday to Cleveland players. Then they subjected Cleveland center fielder Myles Straw to more abuse the next day after Straw said, rightly, that Yankees fans were garbage.

"Worst fan base on the planet," he said -- and if that perhaps gives short shrift to Philly fans ("Hey! We suck, too!" you can hear them protesting), it was close enough for government work.

As for the cheating part, well ... a couple of days after the asswagons did their thing, it came out that Yankees players had been using instant replay to determine pitch sequence, then passing that information to baserunners, who in turn passed it on to the batter at the plate.

In all fairness, the Yankees weren't the only ones doing this at the time. And they apparently stopped after MLB commissioner Manfred Mann, er, Rob Manfred issued a stern warning about it.

Still, the Yankees were doing it. And the Blob's reaction to that is, well, of course. They're the Yankees.

And their fans are their fans.

Which is to say, not quite up to snuff on the evolutionary scale.

Signing day

 You see it every year, re-enacted in a thousand places in a thousand towns, everywhere from the big city to the suburban sprawl to one-stoplight dots on the map in the middle of Farmland USA.

The tableau is always the same: Some kid in a fresh U. of Somewhere cap sitting at a table with a piece of paper in front of him and a pen in his hand, flanked by his beaming parents and maybe a coach or two.

A coach, because the kid is always a football player or a basketball player or a volleyball player or a softball player. Or a baseball player. Or a golfer.

Signing Day is one of those lines of demarcation in life, marking the transition of High School Harry Or Hannah to College Joe Or Julie. And it's uniquely a sports thing. Hardly anyone outside the school doors makes a big production out of the art student landing a scholly to, say, Carnegie Mellon, or the math brainiac who's bound for MIT in the fall. What this says about our national obsession for games and their outsized place in high school culture is self-evident.

And so even a Sports Guy like me notices when a high school decides to take stock of its priorities.

 Snider High School over on the near northeast side of my town takes a backseat to no one in the gild on its athletic programs. The school's won state titles in football and girls basketball and a pile of other stuff, and it's come damn close in boys basketball, our Hoosier bellwether. 

But the other day something unusual happened there.

A young woman named Sydney Spilker signed a letter of intent to attend Wartburg College in Iowa, surrounded by the usual public tableau of family and local media. But not to play basketball or volleyball or softball or golf.

To play cello.

Spilker, see, is a darn fine musician, and Wartburg likes darn fine musicians. So it recruited her to come play the cello, same way it recruits kids to play football or basketball. And Snider High School decided to conduct a college signing for her, same as for the football and basketball kids.

This reminded me of a guy named Russ Isaacs, who was Snider's football coach when it won a state title back in the '90s, and who looked every bit the part. In fact, if you were actually casting a part for a football coach, Russ would be at the front of the line: He had the Fu Manchu going, and the scary glower, and a damned impressive coach-ly holler. 

But appearances fool.

They fool because as much as Russ looked like your standard eat-sleep-breathe Foo-ball Coach, he surprised you with his grasp on perspective. He understood football's role in a high school, and it wasn't to get a kid out of math class. And he actively encouraged his players to participate in other sports, on the excellent theory they would be better football players because of it.

My take on Russ, accurate or not, was that he cared more about Snider High School than Snider High School football. Even if he cared a whole lot for the latter.

So, yeah. I thought about him when I saw Snider was putting on the dog for a cello player.,

Good on you, Snider. Applause, applause, as the music crowd says.

The Reluctant

Well, at least we know one thing: No one will ever confuse the guy with Willis Reed.

"The guy," of course, being Ben Simmons, a professional basketball player who doesn't seem all that interested in playing basketball. He was finally supposed to play for the Nets in Game 4 against the Celtics tonight -- an elimination game, mind you, with the Nets the potential eliminee -- but, nah. Darn back acted up again.

So he'll sit, once more, just when the Nets need him most. Somewhere Reed is shaking his great head, having limped out on one good leg 50 years ago to help his Knicks hold the Lakers at arm's length in the NBA Finals.

I don't know what you do with a guy like Simmons. He sulked his way out of Philly after pouting for months about perceived slights; he still hasn't played a game for the Nets, although he's been shooting for weeks now and was cleared for contact last week.

Which is why he was supposed to finally play tonight.

It being Simmons, no one with a working brain cell actually thought he would.

So no surprise his back acted up again, and, listen, I'm not the guy to tell you it's not legit. Backs are tricky things, and when you injure them it limits you in ways you never could imagine. Especially if your game is basketball.

And yet ...

And yet, who can remember Larry Bird playing through his back issues in his sunset years?

Or Michael Jordan playing what's become known as the Flu Game?

Or all the others down through the years who've taken the floor bruised, battered, hurt or injured because, well, it's what expected of you as someone who's getting paid great sums to play?

What do you do with someone who's not willing to do that?

You've heard of  The Revenant, in which Leo DiCaprio gets mauled by a bear and suffers untold agonies to make it back to civilization (and an Oscar!)? 

Call this The Reluctant.

It was a miracle Philly was able to unload Simmons on the Nets after he spent all those months acting like a 3-year-old who's been denied a cookie. Now that he hasn't played a minute for his new team in (checks notes) two months, who would want him even if the Nets, like Philly, got sick enough of him to trade him?

And, yes, I know, someone certainly would. He's got a certain undeniable skill set, although it doesn't involve shooting straight. In the right system, where he can function solely as a facilitator, he could probably thrive.

If you could get him to play, that is.

And if no one says anything negative about him, and he goes into pout mode again.

Which you wouldn't want bet against, either.

Stuffed shirts and such

 The late, great Dan Jenkins -- sportswriting legend, and the man who inspired a whole generation of keyboard poets -- once poked fun at the pomposity of Wimbledon officials by referring to them as "wing commanders." 

So I imagine he's having a good chuckle somewhere at the wing commanders thinking Wimby actually matters in a geopolitical sense.

His daughter, Sally, alas, thinks the wing commanders are jolly good and spot on.

What they've done, see, is ban Russian and Belarussian tennis players from participating in their little tea party in a couple of months, even the ones who've bravely come out against Vladimir Putin's mad slaughterfest in Ukraine. The wing commanders think Wimbledon needs to take a stand, because, well, it's Wimbledon

Sally Jenkins came out in print to support this position, noting that Putin's crimes are Russia's crimes, and therefore every Russian must answer for them. Unfair as that might be.

The Blob wonders, if that is so, why every single German and every single Japanese wasn't imprisoned for their nations' crimes at the end of the Second World War.

Jenkins' argument is the benign codicil of the doctrine of total war, introduced by Sherman in his March to the Sea in the American Civil War and brought to full flower in the barbarism of the 20th century. Sherman made war on the civilian infrastructure of the South; Great Britain in World War I starved German civilians to death with a blockade that continued long after the armistice was signed. And of course Allied bombers incinerated entire populations in Dresden and Hamburg and Tokyo in World War II. 

Most of the victims of all that were innocents. As are the Russian and  Belarussian tennis players, whose allegiances in many cases are almost entirely commercial. Most of them are citizens of Nike or Adidas or Head or Yonex, not Russia or Belarus. Some haven't lived in their native countries in years.

This is not to equate murdering women and children in time of war with what Wimbledon is doing. That's plainly ridiculous. But the principle -- holding every citizen accountable for actions they're powerless to stop -- is the same. And it's the stuffed shirts of Wimby being their usual pompous selves, pretending mighty Wimbledon taking a stand isn't just empty showboating.

But it is.

I mean, Vladimir Putin probably couldn't find Wimbledon on a map. But, hey. I'm sure banning tennis players who sometimes have only tenuous ties to Russia is going to make him say, "Ah, hell, Wimbledon's against us. I guess it's time to call off the genocide."

And, yes, I suppose that's not the point. More so is what Putin's doing to the multitudes in his own country who have come out against what Russia is doing.

Which is to say, imposing a de facto loyalty test by arresting protestors by the hundreds and locking them up.

Some have suggested a similar loyalty test for the Russian and Belarussian players. Come out against the war and we'll let you play; remain silent and be barred from the grounds.

I don't know. It all sounds the same to me.

And it's a damn slippery slope. If we start making participation in an athletic event contingent on taking a favored political stance, where does it end?

Better to let them play, and then, protocol be damned, sit back and let the fans shower boos on those who still support the war. Let the players stage their own protests when they play one of the Russians -- like, say, taking the court bearing a Ukrainian flag, or wearing a Jim McMahon-esque headband saying "Stop The Russian Genocide," or writing "No war please" on a camera lens with a marker.

A player actually did the latter at a tournament back in February. 

His name is Andrey Rublev.

He's the No. 8 player in the world.

And he's a Russian.

The wing commanders think it's perfectly OK to ban him from their soiree. They have a statement to make, after all. 

Even if it may not be the one they think they're making.