Once upon a time -- OK, so about 30 years ago, when I could still hoop a (very) little -- I used to play pickup ball at the Y. Every Tuesday and sometimes Thursday, 6 a.m., with a bunch of other 30-somethings.
We were all dads. None of us thought we were MJ or Kobe. It was good times.
Anyway, one morning, one of the guys -- a big-as-a-house former football player/heavyweight wrestler with whom I went to high school -- set a pick. I ran spang into it, having violated the first rule of basketball, which is always keep your head up. It was like hitting a brick wall.
No, really. I literally bounced off him and hit the floor. Had we been in an episode of the campy old "Batman" series, the word "Splat!" would have appeared on the screen.
I'll give you two guesses what happened next:
1. I got up, shook my head and laughed while the guy I ran into -- a genial giant named Rick -- rushed over to see if I was OK, genuinely feeling awful about setting a blind pick.
2. I got up, called the cops and had Rick charged with aggravated assault.
OK, OK. So that was too easy. Of course it was "1."
On the other hand ...
On the other hand, that is not what happened here.
Yes, that's right. This ... wuss ... actually did call the cops.
Best part about this whole deal is how obviously puzzled/annoyed the poor officers are. I'm sorry, what? You called us because why? You do realize this is BASKETBALL, right? A little pushing, a little shoving, a hard screen here or there?
Yeesh. Suck it up, buttercup.
At least you didn't run into Rick.
Tuesday, July 17, 2018
Karma, or ...
There are days when I hate Grassy Knoll Guy. OK., so that's not quite true.
I hate Grassy Knoll Guy every day.
He always rears his head at the worst possible times, whispering his paranoia in my ear, spoiling the magic at every turn. If it seems too good to be true, it usually is, he says. And, Come on, you don't think that was the plan all along?
Which brings me to last night, Washington, D.C., and The Plan All Along.
If you missed it they held the All-Star Game Home Run Derby in D.C. last night, an event that generally holds little wonder for the Blob. I mean, it's a bunch of long-ball artists dining out on room-service lobs expressly designed to be mashed. Of course they hit 'em a country mile. Why wouldn't they?
Anyway, last night Kyle Schwarber of the Cubs came to the final round with an 18-9 lead over Bryce Harper of the hometown Nationals, whose designated pitcher was his father. And so of course you know what happened next: Harper clubbed nine of his last 10 balls out of the park to tie it, then won it in overtime.
Grassy Knoll Guy would tell you this was the Plan, because Harper was only entered in the Derby to begin with because he's the local star and he's likely playing his final season in a Nats uniform. So this was his salute to the fans for all the good times in Washington.
I suppose that could be true.
But the Blob, being an incurable romantic, prefers to see what happened last night as simply karma at work. That it wasn't scripted at all, but merely happenstance lining up with the perfect storyline in some wonderfully mystical way.
"Ha!" Grassy Knoll Guy sneers.
Oh, shut up.
I hate Grassy Knoll Guy every day.
He always rears his head at the worst possible times, whispering his paranoia in my ear, spoiling the magic at every turn. If it seems too good to be true, it usually is, he says. And, Come on, you don't think that was the plan all along?
Which brings me to last night, Washington, D.C., and The Plan All Along.
If you missed it they held the All-Star Game Home Run Derby in D.C. last night, an event that generally holds little wonder for the Blob. I mean, it's a bunch of long-ball artists dining out on room-service lobs expressly designed to be mashed. Of course they hit 'em a country mile. Why wouldn't they?
Anyway, last night Kyle Schwarber of the Cubs came to the final round with an 18-9 lead over Bryce Harper of the hometown Nationals, whose designated pitcher was his father. And so of course you know what happened next: Harper clubbed nine of his last 10 balls out of the park to tie it, then won it in overtime.
Grassy Knoll Guy would tell you this was the Plan, because Harper was only entered in the Derby to begin with because he's the local star and he's likely playing his final season in a Nats uniform. So this was his salute to the fans for all the good times in Washington.
I suppose that could be true.
But the Blob, being an incurable romantic, prefers to see what happened last night as simply karma at work. That it wasn't scripted at all, but merely happenstance lining up with the perfect storyline in some wonderfully mystical way.
"Ha!" Grassy Knoll Guy sneers.
Oh, shut up.
Monday, July 16, 2018
Stuff we like, American division
Heard it again this a.m., that America is really, really, really about to fall in love with soccer, or already has, or will by 2026, which is when the United States, Canada and Mexico will co-host the World Cup.
I don't know. Maybe that's true this time. Considering all the devices upon which you can follow stuff these days, maybe millions upon millions of people in the U.S. really were following the World Cup this time, at least on their laptops or phones or what have you.
All I know is what my wife, Julie, said the other night when we repaired to the bar for a nightcap after eating dinner.
"Why are they playing basketball?" she said.
Which was her way of pointing out that it's mid-July and the TVs over the bar, both of them, were tuned to the NBA Summer League, which is essentially pickup games for rooks and the Nos. 9-12 players on NBA rosters. More and more we're seeing these games now, as the major sports entities increasingly become vehicles for 1) the NFL, 2) the NFL draft, 3) NFL training camps, and 4) LeBron James/Steph Curry/Russell Westbrook/James Harden. Practically nothing else seems to exist anymore.
This includes the World Cup, which the French won yesterday with a 4-2 victory over gutty Croatia, making every human with a soul wish he or she was in Paris last night. I watched the second half in a sports bar while eating lunch. Most of the TVs were tuned to it. Only three of us were sitting there actually watching it.
And, yes, I know, that's an exceedingly poor metric upon which to judge. I guarantee you that, around the country, there were thousands of gathering places packed to the rafters yesterday with people watching the final. So maybe the guy on the radio this morning was right. Maybe we really did cross some sort of Rubicon as a nation in this World Cup, and have become mad for soccer.
On the other hand, apparently we are also mad for the NBA Summer League. Which, where I was yesterday, was on almost all the TVs that weren't tuned to the World Cup final.
I don't know what that says about our sports sensibilities as a nation. But I do think it means we might have a ways to go yet before we truly become soccer mad -- if in fact we ever do.
Guess we'll see.
I don't know. Maybe that's true this time. Considering all the devices upon which you can follow stuff these days, maybe millions upon millions of people in the U.S. really were following the World Cup this time, at least on their laptops or phones or what have you.
All I know is what my wife, Julie, said the other night when we repaired to the bar for a nightcap after eating dinner.
"Why are they playing basketball?" she said.
Which was her way of pointing out that it's mid-July and the TVs over the bar, both of them, were tuned to the NBA Summer League, which is essentially pickup games for rooks and the Nos. 9-12 players on NBA rosters. More and more we're seeing these games now, as the major sports entities increasingly become vehicles for 1) the NFL, 2) the NFL draft, 3) NFL training camps, and 4) LeBron James/Steph Curry/Russell Westbrook/James Harden. Practically nothing else seems to exist anymore.
This includes the World Cup, which the French won yesterday with a 4-2 victory over gutty Croatia, making every human with a soul wish he or she was in Paris last night. I watched the second half in a sports bar while eating lunch. Most of the TVs were tuned to it. Only three of us were sitting there actually watching it.
And, yes, I know, that's an exceedingly poor metric upon which to judge. I guarantee you that, around the country, there were thousands of gathering places packed to the rafters yesterday with people watching the final. So maybe the guy on the radio this morning was right. Maybe we really did cross some sort of Rubicon as a nation in this World Cup, and have become mad for soccer.
On the other hand, apparently we are also mad for the NBA Summer League. Which, where I was yesterday, was on almost all the TVs that weren't tuned to the World Cup final.
I don't know what that says about our sports sensibilities as a nation. But I do think it means we might have a ways to go yet before we truly become soccer mad -- if in fact we ever do.
Guess we'll see.
The Petty Bowl
And, no, not Richard Petty, or his son Kyle Petty, or any and all other NASCAR Pettys.
We're talkin' petty, small "p", which is the subject of a contest the Annoying Terrell Owens (a Blob trademark) and the Pro Football Hall of Fame are currently waging. It's not the Super Bowl, this Petty Bowl. It's not even the Pro Bowl. But it's some battle of wits-less we've got going on here.
On one side is Annoying Terrell, who, apparently miffed he wasn't the first-ballot HOFer he frankly should have been, became the first the first inductee in history to turn down the HOF's invitation to attend the induction ceremonies. Instead he will give his induction speech at his college alma mater, Tennessee-Chattanooga, where presumably no one will be listening but Annoying Terrell and his family and friends, and perhaps a passersby or two.
("Who is that man and why is he standing at a podium talking?" the passersby might think).
This is, yes, incredibly petty of Annoying Terrell, if perfectly in character. He was kind of a jerk when he played, and now he's being kind of a jerk about this.
OK, not "kind of a jerk." A jerk, period.
The Hall of Fame could have responded to this by going high, the way you'd expect a Hall of Fame to. Instead, it chose to join Annoying Terrell in a race to the bottom.
Last week, see, the HOF honchos announced it would not honor Terrell at the ceremony. He'll get his bust, and he'll get his canary-yellow jacket in the mail, but there'll no mention of him at the ceremony, no career highlights on the videoboard, nothing. It'll be as if he doesn't exist.
Some people think the HOF has to do that to ensure future Annoyings won't pull the same stunt Annoying Terrell did. The Blob thinks it's incredibly petty, and beneath the HOF. Sort of like "You're gonna take your ball and go home? Fine! See if we care! Who needs ya, ya big baby!"
Which, of course, only reveals that the HOF is being a bunch of big babies, too.
Somebody find a playpen for these people. The Petty Bowl needs a venue, after all.
We're talkin' petty, small "p", which is the subject of a contest the Annoying Terrell Owens (a Blob trademark) and the Pro Football Hall of Fame are currently waging. It's not the Super Bowl, this Petty Bowl. It's not even the Pro Bowl. But it's some battle of wits-less we've got going on here.
On one side is Annoying Terrell, who, apparently miffed he wasn't the first-ballot HOFer he frankly should have been, became the first the first inductee in history to turn down the HOF's invitation to attend the induction ceremonies. Instead he will give his induction speech at his college alma mater, Tennessee-Chattanooga, where presumably no one will be listening but Annoying Terrell and his family and friends, and perhaps a passersby or two.
("Who is that man and why is he standing at a podium talking?" the passersby might think).
This is, yes, incredibly petty of Annoying Terrell, if perfectly in character. He was kind of a jerk when he played, and now he's being kind of a jerk about this.
OK, not "kind of a jerk." A jerk, period.
The Hall of Fame could have responded to this by going high, the way you'd expect a Hall of Fame to. Instead, it chose to join Annoying Terrell in a race to the bottom.
Last week, see, the HOF honchos announced it would not honor Terrell at the ceremony. He'll get his bust, and he'll get his canary-yellow jacket in the mail, but there'll no mention of him at the ceremony, no career highlights on the videoboard, nothing. It'll be as if he doesn't exist.
Some people think the HOF has to do that to ensure future Annoyings won't pull the same stunt Annoying Terrell did. The Blob thinks it's incredibly petty, and beneath the HOF. Sort of like "You're gonna take your ball and go home? Fine! See if we care! Who needs ya, ya big baby!"
Which, of course, only reveals that the HOF is being a bunch of big babies, too.
Somebody find a playpen for these people. The Petty Bowl needs a venue, after all.
Sunday, July 15, 2018
Market forces
By now, one supposes, the backlash should be in full cry, and from all the usual suspects. This is how it seems to work in this strange perverse age. You drop the N-word in the middle of a conference call, and your professional life blows up because of it, and you stand a good chance of becoming a martyr for those who pine for the glorious good old days.
When, you know, you could fling the N-word around and no one would call you on it. Damn political correctness anyway -- except, of course, when someone on the political left calls a spade a spade where Our Only Available President is concerned.
I don't know good ol' Papa John Schnatter except by reputation, as a grandstanding blowhard who sells bad pizza, hates political protest by black football players and talked the usual alarmist CEO talk about Obamacare before admitting it was not actually going to be the end of his business after all. What I do know is he's no martyr.
He's simply a shining example of what many in America consider a bedrock principle: Market forces.
It isn't political correctness run amok, after all, that has triggered the fallout of the last week. Since it got out that Schnatter dropped the nuke of all racial slurs, team after team has dropped partnerships with Papa John's, the University of Louisville has disassociated itself from him and taken the company's name off its football stadium, and he's stepped down as CEO. The company has also taken his face off the company logo.
This is not because they're a bunch of over-reactive meanies. It's because he was costing them money.
The bottom line in all of this, see, is the bottom line. When Schnatter stepped down as CEO, Papa John's stock went up. When the company announced it was removing his face from the company logo, stocks rose another 3.1 percent.
In other words, Schnatter had become, not a martyr, but a financial liability. Stockholders don't like financial liabilities. Schnatter hangs around, the stock tanks. The company puts him on the sideline, the stock rises. And so ... sorry, John. Drop us a postcard sometime, won't you?
The encouraging thing about that: Despite all efforts by the current administration and congressional leadership to transport us back to the 1950s in the Wayback Machine, it's still 2018 out here. To be sure, racism and racist language remain far too pervasive in American society, and even emboldened by the Trumpian mindset. But at the very least, we can now say it's bad for business.
You can call that political correctness if you like. Looks more like progress to me.
When, you know, you could fling the N-word around and no one would call you on it. Damn political correctness anyway -- except, of course, when someone on the political left calls a spade a spade where Our Only Available President is concerned.
I don't know good ol' Papa John Schnatter except by reputation, as a grandstanding blowhard who sells bad pizza, hates political protest by black football players and talked the usual alarmist CEO talk about Obamacare before admitting it was not actually going to be the end of his business after all. What I do know is he's no martyr.
He's simply a shining example of what many in America consider a bedrock principle: Market forces.
It isn't political correctness run amok, after all, that has triggered the fallout of the last week. Since it got out that Schnatter dropped the nuke of all racial slurs, team after team has dropped partnerships with Papa John's, the University of Louisville has disassociated itself from him and taken the company's name off its football stadium, and he's stepped down as CEO. The company has also taken his face off the company logo.
This is not because they're a bunch of over-reactive meanies. It's because he was costing them money.
The bottom line in all of this, see, is the bottom line. When Schnatter stepped down as CEO, Papa John's stock went up. When the company announced it was removing his face from the company logo, stocks rose another 3.1 percent.
In other words, Schnatter had become, not a martyr, but a financial liability. Stockholders don't like financial liabilities. Schnatter hangs around, the stock tanks. The company puts him on the sideline, the stock rises. And so ... sorry, John. Drop us a postcard sometime, won't you?
The encouraging thing about that: Despite all efforts by the current administration and congressional leadership to transport us back to the 1950s in the Wayback Machine, it's still 2018 out here. To be sure, racism and racist language remain far too pervasive in American society, and even emboldened by the Trumpian mindset. But at the very least, we can now say it's bad for business.
You can call that political correctness if you like. Looks more like progress to me.
Saturday, July 14, 2018
A mayfly's life
DeMarco Murray announced Friday he was hanging it up as an NFL running back, which is notable only in the fact that, as the NFL actuarial tables go, it's not notable at all.
He is, after all, a running back. He's 30 years old. And he's been subjected to the NFL's accelerating blunt-force trauma for seven seasons.
In other words, DeMarco Murray is used up.
No position in football better illustrates how destructive professional football is to the human body, and more significantly to the human brain. Murray, a three-time Pro Bowler who led the NFL in rushing for the Dallas Cowboys just four seasons ago, did not specifically mention the last in his statement yesterday. But by now every player in the NFL surely thinks about it every time he steps onto the field.
None of them wants to wind up like Mike Webster, Junior Seau, Dave Duerson -- all the sad cases whose minds went dark well before their time. Not all that long after he retired, Brett Favre confessed he sometimes couldn't remember the details of his kids' sporting events he attended. Tony Dorsett and Jim McMahon struggled to remember how to get home sometimes when they went out. On and on and on.
And Murray?
He's getting out, one suspects, at least partly because his opportunities to be a feature back have dried up. The Titans, for whom he started 31 consecutive games, released him in the offseason. This after an injury-plagued season in which he rushed for a career-low 659 yards and had lost "explosiveness."
Which is just another way of saying, yes, he was used up. After seven years, 7,174 yards, 49 touchdowns and 1,604 carries. At the age of 30.
Which is about when the actuarial tables say running backs begin to fall off the table in terms of production. And which soon could become the new 40 -- i.e., an age virtually no one plays beyond as players more and more realize the terrible price the game exacts.
Yes, these guys get paid a lot of money to endure that price. But these days especially, you wonder if any amount of money is enough.
He is, after all, a running back. He's 30 years old. And he's been subjected to the NFL's accelerating blunt-force trauma for seven seasons.
In other words, DeMarco Murray is used up.
No position in football better illustrates how destructive professional football is to the human body, and more significantly to the human brain. Murray, a three-time Pro Bowler who led the NFL in rushing for the Dallas Cowboys just four seasons ago, did not specifically mention the last in his statement yesterday. But by now every player in the NFL surely thinks about it every time he steps onto the field.
None of them wants to wind up like Mike Webster, Junior Seau, Dave Duerson -- all the sad cases whose minds went dark well before their time. Not all that long after he retired, Brett Favre confessed he sometimes couldn't remember the details of his kids' sporting events he attended. Tony Dorsett and Jim McMahon struggled to remember how to get home sometimes when they went out. On and on and on.
And Murray?
He's getting out, one suspects, at least partly because his opportunities to be a feature back have dried up. The Titans, for whom he started 31 consecutive games, released him in the offseason. This after an injury-plagued season in which he rushed for a career-low 659 yards and had lost "explosiveness."
Which is just another way of saying, yes, he was used up. After seven years, 7,174 yards, 49 touchdowns and 1,604 carries. At the age of 30.
Which is about when the actuarial tables say running backs begin to fall off the table in terms of production. And which soon could become the new 40 -- i.e., an age virtually no one plays beyond as players more and more realize the terrible price the game exacts.
Yes, these guys get paid a lot of money to endure that price. But these days especially, you wonder if any amount of money is enough.
Friday, July 13, 2018
Wearin' of the checks
Look, the Blob has no beef with the French. I love me some croissants. I love me some coq au vin. Paris is an amazing city, especially the Musee d'Orsay and Le Maquis, this little neighborhood restaurant just down the hill from Sacre Coeur that my wife and I once stumbled on.
And, yes, the French play some beautiful soccer.
Nonetheless, I'll be rooting for Croatia to win the World Cup Sunday.
I'll be rooting for Croatia not because I have a drop of Croat blood in my veins -- I don't, as far as I know -- but because the Blob has an incurable streak of sentimentality that compels it to root for the little guy 99 percent of the time. And let's face it, Croatia is the little guy here.
The entire country is about the size of West Virginia, for one thing. You could fit its entire population (4.2 million) in New York City twice, and fully a third of its population lives in or around the capital city of Zagreb. And it hasn't had its own identity in the last 500 years, having first been a part of the Habsburg Empire and then a part of Yugoslavia before declaring its independence in 1991.
That makes Croatia just 27 years old. And yet it's already finished third in one World Cup, and has made the World Cup final for the first time in the young nation's history. Considering England, whom it beat in the semifinals, hasn't reached a final in 52 years, that's a pretty remarkable track record.
Plus, Croatia has the most awesome color scheme: red-and-white checks. Their fans even paint their faces in red-and-white checks. You gotta love that.
So, go Croatia. I might even paint my face in red-and-white checks in your honor.
OK, so I won't. But it's the thought that counts, right?
And, yes, the French play some beautiful soccer.
Nonetheless, I'll be rooting for Croatia to win the World Cup Sunday.
I'll be rooting for Croatia not because I have a drop of Croat blood in my veins -- I don't, as far as I know -- but because the Blob has an incurable streak of sentimentality that compels it to root for the little guy 99 percent of the time. And let's face it, Croatia is the little guy here.
The entire country is about the size of West Virginia, for one thing. You could fit its entire population (4.2 million) in New York City twice, and fully a third of its population lives in or around the capital city of Zagreb. And it hasn't had its own identity in the last 500 years, having first been a part of the Habsburg Empire and then a part of Yugoslavia before declaring its independence in 1991.
That makes Croatia just 27 years old. And yet it's already finished third in one World Cup, and has made the World Cup final for the first time in the young nation's history. Considering England, whom it beat in the semifinals, hasn't reached a final in 52 years, that's a pretty remarkable track record.
Plus, Croatia has the most awesome color scheme: red-and-white checks. Their fans even paint their faces in red-and-white checks. You gotta love that.
So, go Croatia. I might even paint my face in red-and-white checks in your honor.
OK, so I won't. But it's the thought that counts, right?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)