So I'm trying to decide what $250 million could buy me, now that the politicians in Wisconsin have become the latest to cave in to blackmail. Better roads? Better schools? More libraries? Universities (more on that later)?
Nah. Let's give it to a basketball team instead.
Let's build a new arena for the Milwaukee Bucks because the new owners (with the not-so-subtle backing of the NBA) basically threatened to move the team to Las Vegas if Wisconsinites didn't pony up. It's an old standard, playing off municipalities against one another, and the reason it's an old standard is it always works.
And so the owners, a couple of stickup artists named Marc Lasry and Wesley Edens, will get their new arena virtually for free, if the state Assembly, as expected, approves what the state Senate just passed. Oh, they'll have to kick in $150 million, but that's couch cushion money for two guys whose aggregate worth is somewhere well north of $3 billion. No word on whether they'll also score a bundle of food stamps and other welfare the public so often resents, unless of course it's welfare for a couple of billionaires.
Then it's all about job creation, a weak jest in these cases, given that economists long since shot that one full of holes. These big stadium/arena deals, at least on the major-league level, never create enough jobs to make them worth the public investment, and the ones they do create are mainly transitory construction jobs. The rest are restaurants and bars that simply shift the existing workforce from other restaurants and bars around town.
None of this is anything new, of course, but what makes it especially obscene in this case is the backdrop against which it's happening. While the Wisconsin lege gets ready to comfort the comfortable, the state's governor, the famously anti-labor, anti-education Scott Walker, just signed a budget which will gut the University of Wisconsin system, previously one of the best in the nation.
The amount he's taking away from his state university?
You got it: $250 million.
Ain't (selective) austerity grand?
Thursday, July 16, 2015
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Hindsight alert
I don't know if Jordan Spieth will win the British Open. Like the Blob's ever been down with the crystal ball thing?
What I do know is he's 21 years old and he's won almost everything else this year, a pretty significant slaughter of expectations. There's no way he should be doing all this at his age, and everyone knows it. But because he is, if he winds up putting the Old Course between two slices of bread and having it for lunch this weekend, I won't be shocked. He's pretty much worn out our capacity for that.
And if he doesn't?
Well, here's something else I know: I won't be starting any sentences with "If only he'd ..."
The best part of 24/7 media here in science-fictiony 2015 is the flow of information is more untapped than it's ever been. And the worst part about 24/7 media in 2015 is the flow of pure unadulterated crap is just as freely untapped.
It's a veritable open field for second-guessers, and even preemptive second-guessers. That's what's going on right now around Spieth, who chose to honor a commitment to the John Deere Classic last weekend rather than spend two weeks at St. Andrews unlocking the mysteries of the Valley of Sin. That he won the John Deere has not stopped anyone from deciding it was a tactical mistake, and, if he winds up not winning this weekend, that will be the reason why.
In a word, balderdash. (A pretty good word if you get to pick one). If Spieth winds up not winning, it won't be because he overstayed in America or hasn't played sufficiently on links courses, having just won the U.S. Open on a links course.
It will be because Adam Scott remembers that he's the best links golfer in the world. Or because Rickie Fowler, who won the Scottish Open, decides he kind of likes the way courses play in Scotland. Or because some as-yet-faceless Euro who's played St. Andrews a million times lapses into an Open coma, forgetting this weekend is something other than just four more rounds at the Old Course.
And if Spieth does win?
I fully expect someone out there to say he would have won by MORE, won more easily, if he'd skipped the John Deere.
Sigh.
What I do know is he's 21 years old and he's won almost everything else this year, a pretty significant slaughter of expectations. There's no way he should be doing all this at his age, and everyone knows it. But because he is, if he winds up putting the Old Course between two slices of bread and having it for lunch this weekend, I won't be shocked. He's pretty much worn out our capacity for that.
And if he doesn't?
Well, here's something else I know: I won't be starting any sentences with "If only he'd ..."
The best part of 24/7 media here in science-fictiony 2015 is the flow of information is more untapped than it's ever been. And the worst part about 24/7 media in 2015 is the flow of pure unadulterated crap is just as freely untapped.
It's a veritable open field for second-guessers, and even preemptive second-guessers. That's what's going on right now around Spieth, who chose to honor a commitment to the John Deere Classic last weekend rather than spend two weeks at St. Andrews unlocking the mysteries of the Valley of Sin. That he won the John Deere has not stopped anyone from deciding it was a tactical mistake, and, if he winds up not winning this weekend, that will be the reason why.
In a word, balderdash. (A pretty good word if you get to pick one). If Spieth winds up not winning, it won't be because he overstayed in America or hasn't played sufficiently on links courses, having just won the U.S. Open on a links course.
It will be because Adam Scott remembers that he's the best links golfer in the world. Or because Rickie Fowler, who won the Scottish Open, decides he kind of likes the way courses play in Scotland. Or because some as-yet-faceless Euro who's played St. Andrews a million times lapses into an Open coma, forgetting this weekend is something other than just four more rounds at the Old Course.
And if Spieth does win?
I fully expect someone out there to say he would have won by MORE, won more easily, if he'd skipped the John Deere.
Sigh.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
Pete's night
So tonight the spotlight will find Pete Rose again, after long years of wandering a wilderness of his own making. He'll be honored as part of the Big Red Machine, because that's what you do when the All-Star Game is in Cincinnati. He'll wave to the crowd. The crowd will pour out its love in return, and that love will be fierce and unconditional.
Heck. Jim Gray might even leave him alone this time.
All of this will be more evidence that baseball and commissioner Rob Manfred do not really think he's the greatest criminal in the history of the game, nor do they believe it serves the game's purpose to Stalinize its history by treating him as such. Pete will have his moment tonight because it's entirely appropriate for him to have that moment. Baseball will survive the outrage.
What it won't do, what it can't do, is allow what is inappropriate. And that includes enshrinement in Cooperstown.
Once upon a time I said Pete's banishment from the Hall was simple justice for the way he violated the game's most inviolable rule, and the only way for him to overturn that banishment was to come clean. Finally, he did, or so we thought. And even though it was entirely self-serving (as is everything with Pete), I thought it was enough.
The man had done his time in purgatory, not to say in every card show and whistle-stop independent baseball town in America. He'd owned up. He'd been, for want of a better term, rehabilitated.
So, let him in. Certainly everything else about him screamed Hall of Fame, even if his rectitude didn't.
Now?
Well, now, of course, it turns out Pete still can't tell the truth. Now it turns out he DID bet on the game as a player, and rather than admit it, he's gone into lawyer mode by saying that, technically, he didn't lie, because he was also the Reds manager at the time.
Please. Enough.
Enough with the bobbing, the weaving, the hair-splitting. Enough with the supporters who try to justify him with moral equivalency ("What about the steroids guys? You gonna tell me Pete's gambling hurt the game more than steroids?"). The man not only touched baseball's third rail, he wrapped it in a bearhug. And he's still lying about it.
And so ... give him his night in Cincy. Let the love pour down around him. Acknowledge that, from a purely performance standpoint, the doors of Cooperstown should swing wide for him, and likely will someday.
But not for awhile yet. Not for a good long while.
Heck. Jim Gray might even leave him alone this time.
All of this will be more evidence that baseball and commissioner Rob Manfred do not really think he's the greatest criminal in the history of the game, nor do they believe it serves the game's purpose to Stalinize its history by treating him as such. Pete will have his moment tonight because it's entirely appropriate for him to have that moment. Baseball will survive the outrage.
What it won't do, what it can't do, is allow what is inappropriate. And that includes enshrinement in Cooperstown.
Once upon a time I said Pete's banishment from the Hall was simple justice for the way he violated the game's most inviolable rule, and the only way for him to overturn that banishment was to come clean. Finally, he did, or so we thought. And even though it was entirely self-serving (as is everything with Pete), I thought it was enough.
The man had done his time in purgatory, not to say in every card show and whistle-stop independent baseball town in America. He'd owned up. He'd been, for want of a better term, rehabilitated.
So, let him in. Certainly everything else about him screamed Hall of Fame, even if his rectitude didn't.
Now?
Well, now, of course, it turns out Pete still can't tell the truth. Now it turns out he DID bet on the game as a player, and rather than admit it, he's gone into lawyer mode by saying that, technically, he didn't lie, because he was also the Reds manager at the time.
Please. Enough.
Enough with the bobbing, the weaving, the hair-splitting. Enough with the supporters who try to justify him with moral equivalency ("What about the steroids guys? You gonna tell me Pete's gambling hurt the game more than steroids?"). The man not only touched baseball's third rail, he wrapped it in a bearhug. And he's still lying about it.
And so ... give him his night in Cincy. Let the love pour down around him. Acknowledge that, from a purely performance standpoint, the doors of Cooperstown should swing wide for him, and likely will someday.
But not for awhile yet. Not for a good long while.
Monday, July 13, 2015
The Cubs factor
So tonight is the All-Star Home Run Derby, and this time I might have to watch. It would break my streak of never having watched the Home Run Derby, but you know what they say about records. They're made to be broken.
Tonight would seem the night to do it, because there are two Cubs in the thing -- Anthony Rizzo and Kris Bryant -- which means a Cub has a 1-in-4 chance of winning. I want to be watching if that happens, because the skies may part and Harry Caray will reappear astride a golden stallion, flanked by Frank and Bertie from Winnetka bearing chalices of Old Style.
Or something.
Or something, because these are the best odds the Cubs have seen in awhile, and you don't want to miss it. Mainly you don't want to miss it because it's Bryant and Rizzo, the two stalwart pillars of a Cubs future that for once is so dazzling it challenges your ability to forecast doom. You look at where they are now and what they have waiting in the pipeline, and suddenly finding a scenario in which they screw it up becomes unexpectedly difficult.
They're still the Cubs, sure. But Rizzo is already a coming star, and Bryant looks more like Mike Trout 2.0 every day. And all evidence suggests there's more where they came from.
No one would be so rash as to predict a World Series sometime in the not-terribly-distant future. But imagine if it happens. You could put Theo Epstein in a FedEx envelope and ship him straight to Cooperstown, because no front-office type in the history of baseball could match his feat of shepherding two of the three most snakebitten franchises in baseball to the promised land.
Next stop for Theo: Cleveland.
But we're getting ahead of ourselves. For now, it's Bryant, it's Rizzo, it's Cubness unchained in the Home Run Derby. The only dark cloud: Albert Pujols, former icon of the hated Cardinals, is also in the thing.
Uh-oh. Tell me I didn't just pick the winner.
Tonight would seem the night to do it, because there are two Cubs in the thing -- Anthony Rizzo and Kris Bryant -- which means a Cub has a 1-in-4 chance of winning. I want to be watching if that happens, because the skies may part and Harry Caray will reappear astride a golden stallion, flanked by Frank and Bertie from Winnetka bearing chalices of Old Style.
Or something.
Or something, because these are the best odds the Cubs have seen in awhile, and you don't want to miss it. Mainly you don't want to miss it because it's Bryant and Rizzo, the two stalwart pillars of a Cubs future that for once is so dazzling it challenges your ability to forecast doom. You look at where they are now and what they have waiting in the pipeline, and suddenly finding a scenario in which they screw it up becomes unexpectedly difficult.
They're still the Cubs, sure. But Rizzo is already a coming star, and Bryant looks more like Mike Trout 2.0 every day. And all evidence suggests there's more where they came from.
No one would be so rash as to predict a World Series sometime in the not-terribly-distant future. But imagine if it happens. You could put Theo Epstein in a FedEx envelope and ship him straight to Cooperstown, because no front-office type in the history of baseball could match his feat of shepherding two of the three most snakebitten franchises in baseball to the promised land.
Next stop for Theo: Cleveland.
But we're getting ahead of ourselves. For now, it's Bryant, it's Rizzo, it's Cubness unchained in the Home Run Derby. The only dark cloud: Albert Pujols, former icon of the hated Cardinals, is also in the thing.
Uh-oh. Tell me I didn't just pick the winner.
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Mitigating circumstances
The thank-you fruit basket is no doubt in mail, addressed to one Harold Henderson. The card attached will be brief and to the point: "Regards, Tom Brady."
Or so one assumes now that Henderson, an arbitrator called in by the NFL, has reduced Cowboys defensive end Greg Hardy's suspension from 10 games to four games, exactly the number of games Roger Goodell deemed Brady worthy of in Deflategate. And if you're wondering here what the connection is, you'd do well to revisit the power of public perception, and how even the mighty Shield readily bows to it.
Because now Goodell and Co. are looking at the absurd prospect that Tom Brady's punishment for abusing footballs is precisely equal to Greg Hardy's punishment for abusing women, not a place the NFL likely cares to go right now. The league is already playing catchup from the notion, backed by plenty of corroborative evidence, that it's soft on domestic violence. Now it becomes a league in which knocking around women is regarded as no more heinous than the covert deflation of footballs. How's that gonna play in Peoria?
To be sure, the original penalty meted out by the NFL was 10 games, but appearances are appearances. And the NFL can ill afford this appearance. That's the price it pays for so long turning a blind eye to the its Greg Hardys -- who was originally convicted of throwing his ex-girlfriend around, then was freed after a settlement in civil court.
Whereupon the ex-girlfriend made herself scarce when it came time to show up in court, almost literally taking the money and running.
So how is this good for Tom Brady?
Because appearances are appearances. And so don't be surprised if the sudden (and embarrassing) equality of Hardy's punishment and Brady's doesn't influence Goodell's decision in Brady's own arbitration. He'll never admit it, but if Goodell reduces Brady's suspension to, say, two games, it'll be almost impossible not to make that connection -- and just as impossible to credibly refute it.
Perception wins again.
.
Or so one assumes now that Henderson, an arbitrator called in by the NFL, has reduced Cowboys defensive end Greg Hardy's suspension from 10 games to four games, exactly the number of games Roger Goodell deemed Brady worthy of in Deflategate. And if you're wondering here what the connection is, you'd do well to revisit the power of public perception, and how even the mighty Shield readily bows to it.
Because now Goodell and Co. are looking at the absurd prospect that Tom Brady's punishment for abusing footballs is precisely equal to Greg Hardy's punishment for abusing women, not a place the NFL likely cares to go right now. The league is already playing catchup from the notion, backed by plenty of corroborative evidence, that it's soft on domestic violence. Now it becomes a league in which knocking around women is regarded as no more heinous than the covert deflation of footballs. How's that gonna play in Peoria?
To be sure, the original penalty meted out by the NFL was 10 games, but appearances are appearances. And the NFL can ill afford this appearance. That's the price it pays for so long turning a blind eye to the its Greg Hardys -- who was originally convicted of throwing his ex-girlfriend around, then was freed after a settlement in civil court.
Whereupon the ex-girlfriend made herself scarce when it came time to show up in court, almost literally taking the money and running.
So how is this good for Tom Brady?
Because appearances are appearances. And so don't be surprised if the sudden (and embarrassing) equality of Hardy's punishment and Brady's doesn't influence Goodell's decision in Brady's own arbitration. He'll never admit it, but if Goodell reduces Brady's suspension to, say, two games, it'll be almost impossible not to make that connection -- and just as impossible to credibly refute it.
Perception wins again.
.
Friday, July 10, 2015
Snakebitten
So, children, you want to know who Kenny Stabler was?
Kenny Stabler was the cool kid in school who pranked the principal and never got caught.
Kenny Stabler was the kid who threw erasers at the board when the teacher's back was turned, then snickered when you got blamed for it.
Kenny Stabler was Tim Riggins, for fans of "Friday Night Lights." He was the bad boy who wasn't really that bad. He was who men wanted to be and women wanted to be with, the perfect QB 1 for the kick-ass-on-Saturday-night, kick-ass-even-harder-on-Sunday-afternoon Oakland Raiders of the 1970s, the most outrageously renegade (and fun) team in professional football.
Between 1973 and 1979, Stabler won a Super Bowl, 74 regular season games and seven postseason games for those Raiders, and when he died yesterday at 69 it gave occasion to ponder just how much less fun the NFL is today than it was then. It's always been a business, pro football, but it's not always been so relentlessly, soullessly corporate. And so you wonder what would have happened had Stabler come along now instead of when he did.
I'll tell you what would have happened: He'd have been traded five times because five organizations (they're not teams anymore; they're "organizations") would have decided he wasn't worth the off-the-field "distraction." He'd have been traded because the percentages say you can't keep drawing up plays in the dirt and flinging the ball into the teeth of the Cover-2 and succeed in Today's NFL. He'd have been traded because of that Instagram photo of him partying the night before a game, and that other Instagram photo of him partying the night before a game, and that other Instagram photo of him partying the night before a game.
Shoot. In Today's NFL, Johnny Manziel's considered a hell-raiser and a bust because he goes to Vegas every so often. The Snake and the rest of the boys in Oakland would have asked if Johnny Football wanted a nice glass of milk to go with that choirboy getup.
Now Manziel gets packed off to rehab to deal with his "maturity" issues, and what a world, what a world. The NFL got rich and traded its soul in return. It's more popular than ever, but not nearly as much fun. The money keeps rolling in, and now quarterbacks aren't quarterbacks anymore but investments, and if they don't genuflect before the computer models and live the lives of Trappist monks, they're considered bad investments and it's on to the next guy.
No room in this NFL for that pass the Snake threw against the Dolphins, with the clock winding down and the end of the season staring him in the face. So the Snake scrambled and got hit and then he let the thing go into the end zone as he was going down, let it go into triple coverage, let it go into the arms of Clarence Davis and into legend.
Today the NFL courtiers who pass as "commentators" would have been all over talk radio the next day, saying Stabler just got lucky. Saying it was a dumb pass that should never have been thrown. Saying, despite the fact he got away with it and the Raiders won, this was exactly why long-term Kenny Stabler was a bad investment.
One weeps. And then, raises a glass.
To hell with the Shield. I'll take the Snake -- and the Snake's NFL -- any day.
Kenny Stabler was the cool kid in school who pranked the principal and never got caught.
Kenny Stabler was the kid who threw erasers at the board when the teacher's back was turned, then snickered when you got blamed for it.
Kenny Stabler was Tim Riggins, for fans of "Friday Night Lights." He was the bad boy who wasn't really that bad. He was who men wanted to be and women wanted to be with, the perfect QB 1 for the kick-ass-on-Saturday-night, kick-ass-even-harder-on-Sunday-afternoon Oakland Raiders of the 1970s, the most outrageously renegade (and fun) team in professional football.
Between 1973 and 1979, Stabler won a Super Bowl, 74 regular season games and seven postseason games for those Raiders, and when he died yesterday at 69 it gave occasion to ponder just how much less fun the NFL is today than it was then. It's always been a business, pro football, but it's not always been so relentlessly, soullessly corporate. And so you wonder what would have happened had Stabler come along now instead of when he did.
I'll tell you what would have happened: He'd have been traded five times because five organizations (they're not teams anymore; they're "organizations") would have decided he wasn't worth the off-the-field "distraction." He'd have been traded because the percentages say you can't keep drawing up plays in the dirt and flinging the ball into the teeth of the Cover-2 and succeed in Today's NFL. He'd have been traded because of that Instagram photo of him partying the night before a game, and that other Instagram photo of him partying the night before a game, and that other Instagram photo of him partying the night before a game.
Shoot. In Today's NFL, Johnny Manziel's considered a hell-raiser and a bust because he goes to Vegas every so often. The Snake and the rest of the boys in Oakland would have asked if Johnny Football wanted a nice glass of milk to go with that choirboy getup.
Now Manziel gets packed off to rehab to deal with his "maturity" issues, and what a world, what a world. The NFL got rich and traded its soul in return. It's more popular than ever, but not nearly as much fun. The money keeps rolling in, and now quarterbacks aren't quarterbacks anymore but investments, and if they don't genuflect before the computer models and live the lives of Trappist monks, they're considered bad investments and it's on to the next guy.
No room in this NFL for that pass the Snake threw against the Dolphins, with the clock winding down and the end of the season staring him in the face. So the Snake scrambled and got hit and then he let the thing go into the end zone as he was going down, let it go into triple coverage, let it go into the arms of Clarence Davis and into legend.
Today the NFL courtiers who pass as "commentators" would have been all over talk radio the next day, saying Stabler just got lucky. Saying it was a dumb pass that should never have been thrown. Saying, despite the fact he got away with it and the Raiders won, this was exactly why long-term Kenny Stabler was a bad investment.
One weeps. And then, raises a glass.
To hell with the Shield. I'll take the Snake -- and the Snake's NFL -- any day.
Thursday, July 9, 2015
An explosive situation
So maybe the solution is this: More minicamps.
More minicamps would equal more supervised activity would equal less time for that perennial non-favorite of NFL teams, Players Behaving Dumbly. You just can't leave these guys on their own, apparently. Stuff happens.
In just the last week, last week being Fourth of July and all, two NFL players tried to blow themselves up, with varying degrees of success. Jason Pierre-Paul of the Giants shattered his thumb and had to have his right index finger amputated after a fireworks accident. C.J. Wilson of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers had to have two fingers amputated, same reason. Maybe the next big thing in NFL offensive schemes is not the Chip Kelly spread, but the Bursting Bubble Screen featuring M-80s and Silver Salutes.
(A brief aside here: When did it become permissible to report a player's medical condition, complete with photos of his medical records, without contacting the player first? I thought this was a massive no-no under HIPPA, but ESPN did it anyway in its reporting of the Pierre-Paul case. I smell lawyers in Adam Schefter's future).
At any rate, you really do have to wonder if NFL teams will start coming up with more OTAs and the like, superfluous though they might be. A s'mores minicamp, perhaps. A wiffleball minicamp. A Zumba minicamp followed by an embroidery minicamp followed by a poetry-reading minicamp.
Anything to protect these guys from themselves. Idle hands may or may not be the devil's workshop, but the idleness clearly isn't good for those hands. They tend to lose pieces of themselves.
You might wonder why two reasonably well-off NFL players (and I can't think of any who aren't) would be messing with fireworks less than a month before training camp -- especially if there are clauses in their contracts that would cost them a pile of they engaged in such activities. I mean, really, if you're Jason Pierre-Paul, and you stand to make at least $14 million this year, why don't you just hire a professional to shoot off your fireworks for you? Why take the risk?
But then, that's failing to take into account the power of the athletic illusion -- i.e., there's nothing I can't do, because I'm bulletproof. It's not just a football thing. Rory McIlroy -- a professional golfer, for heaven's sake -- just took himself out of the British Open by rupturing a tendon in his ankle while playing soccer. You might ask yourself why he was playing soccer two weeks before the British Open. The correct answer: Because he's Rory McIlroy. What could happen?
Well, we saw. Saw with Wilson and Pierre-Paul, the latter of whom might be gone from New York before this all plays out because he's actually between contracts. These guys never learn.
Or perhaps they learn too well things that should best be unlearned,
More minicamps would equal more supervised activity would equal less time for that perennial non-favorite of NFL teams, Players Behaving Dumbly. You just can't leave these guys on their own, apparently. Stuff happens.
In just the last week, last week being Fourth of July and all, two NFL players tried to blow themselves up, with varying degrees of success. Jason Pierre-Paul of the Giants shattered his thumb and had to have his right index finger amputated after a fireworks accident. C.J. Wilson of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers had to have two fingers amputated, same reason. Maybe the next big thing in NFL offensive schemes is not the Chip Kelly spread, but the Bursting Bubble Screen featuring M-80s and Silver Salutes.
(A brief aside here: When did it become permissible to report a player's medical condition, complete with photos of his medical records, without contacting the player first? I thought this was a massive no-no under HIPPA, but ESPN did it anyway in its reporting of the Pierre-Paul case. I smell lawyers in Adam Schefter's future).
At any rate, you really do have to wonder if NFL teams will start coming up with more OTAs and the like, superfluous though they might be. A s'mores minicamp, perhaps. A wiffleball minicamp. A Zumba minicamp followed by an embroidery minicamp followed by a poetry-reading minicamp.
Anything to protect these guys from themselves. Idle hands may or may not be the devil's workshop, but the idleness clearly isn't good for those hands. They tend to lose pieces of themselves.
You might wonder why two reasonably well-off NFL players (and I can't think of any who aren't) would be messing with fireworks less than a month before training camp -- especially if there are clauses in their contracts that would cost them a pile of they engaged in such activities. I mean, really, if you're Jason Pierre-Paul, and you stand to make at least $14 million this year, why don't you just hire a professional to shoot off your fireworks for you? Why take the risk?
But then, that's failing to take into account the power of the athletic illusion -- i.e., there's nothing I can't do, because I'm bulletproof. It's not just a football thing. Rory McIlroy -- a professional golfer, for heaven's sake -- just took himself out of the British Open by rupturing a tendon in his ankle while playing soccer. You might ask yourself why he was playing soccer two weeks before the British Open. The correct answer: Because he's Rory McIlroy. What could happen?
Well, we saw. Saw with Wilson and Pierre-Paul, the latter of whom might be gone from New York before this all plays out because he's actually between contracts. These guys never learn.
Or perhaps they learn too well things that should best be unlearned,
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