We will leave off the usual stuff about the NBA Finals today (LeBron! Steph! Other guys who've never been in the Finals before, unless you count the last four years!), and there are several good reasons why we will do that:
1. It's LeBron and Steph and other guys who've never been in the Finals before, unless you count the last four years.
2. In other words, it's the same old stuff for the fourth straight year.
3. And besides, the real story -- the story of the year, if it goes a certain way -- is happening in the only Final that really matters.
4. Which is the Stanley Cup Final.
Where, unlike the NBA's Johnny One-Note storyline, we've got two fresh storylines. There are the Alexander Ovechkin Capitals finally making the Cup Final after years of playoff heartbreak. And there are the Las Vegas Golden Knights -- currently up 1-0 in the series -- who, if they win the Cup, will be do something that's never been done in the history of not just the NHL, but the other three major sports as well.
They'll become the first expansion team ever to win a championship in an established league in its inaugural season.
(And, yes, Cleveland Browns fans, the Blob realizes they won the NFL title in their inaugural season. But given that they had already been around for four seasons, and had won four championships in another pro league before it folded, it's hardly the same thing.)
As for the Golden Knights, it was enormous enough that the Golden Knights even got to the Stanley Cup Final, after so many knowledgeable hockey people looked at their roster last fall and concluded they were going to be very bad, and perhaps historically bad. But if they win the Cup?
Sports story of the year. Nothing that can possibly happen from now until December that would come close to matching it.
Meanwhile, everyone is still talking about the NBA Finals, even though it's the same storyline it always is, or at least has been the last four years. Seriously, what new is there to say about Cavs vs.Warriors?
And what new isn't there to say about Capitals-vs.-Golden Knights? Especially if the latter wins?
Time to start paying more attention to the latter, and much less to the former.
Wednesday, May 30, 2018
Tuesday, May 29, 2018
Back to the future
Well, if this isn't deja, deja, deja vu all over again.
Hey, look, kids! It's the Cavaliers vs. the Warriors in the NBA Finals!
This is a total upset and has never happened before, unless you count every one of the last four years. The Cavaliers were not supposed to be here, everyone said so who forgot LeBron James plays for them. But then the greatest basketball player in the universe shifted into Superhero Mode (one click past the "Hero" setting) and would not let them lose, even though they were playing plainly better teams in every single round.
And the Warriors?
Well, you heard about the Plan, right? How the Houston Rockets singlemindedly decided to concentrate solely and obsessively on beating the reigning NBA dynasty?
It was working until Chris Paul got hurt and the Warriors decided to be the Warriors again. And then ... well, you know.
Steph Curry and Kevin Durant and Draymon Green and Klay Thompson and blah, blah, blah.
So now it's on to the Finals, where the Warriors will win in five or six. Unless it goes seven instead. In which case, are you really gonna bet against LeBron in a Game 7 at this point?
I didn't think so.
Hey, look, kids! It's the Cavaliers vs. the Warriors in the NBA Finals!
This is a total upset and has never happened before, unless you count every one of the last four years. The Cavaliers were not supposed to be here, everyone said so who forgot LeBron James plays for them. But then the greatest basketball player in the universe shifted into Superhero Mode (one click past the "Hero" setting) and would not let them lose, even though they were playing plainly better teams in every single round.
And the Warriors?
Well, you heard about the Plan, right? How the Houston Rockets singlemindedly decided to concentrate solely and obsessively on beating the reigning NBA dynasty?
It was working until Chris Paul got hurt and the Warriors decided to be the Warriors again. And then ... well, you know.
Steph Curry and Kevin Durant and Draymon Green and Klay Thompson and blah, blah, blah.
So now it's on to the Finals, where the Warriors will win in five or six. Unless it goes seven instead. In which case, are you really gonna bet against LeBron in a Game 7 at this point?
I didn't think so.
Did not. Tell. You.
The Blob is just a slow-learner zone, is what this comes down to. The lessons do not take. No amount of drilling them into its wooden head, over and over and over, ever seems to penetrate.
And so we come to Game 7, NBA Eastern Conference finals, Celtics vs. Cavaliers.
The Blob knew how this was going to go. It knew the shape of this series like the back of its hand. It knew ... well, everything but what it forgot.
Which is that you never, ever, ever bet against LeBron James in a Game 7.
Even if it's in a place where the home team was undefeated in the playoffs. Even if the Cavs' alleged second fiddle, Kevin Love, was out with a possible concussion. Even with Jeff Green, who averaged 10 points per game this season, starting in his place.
Even if the entire rhythm of this series virtually assured a Celtics victory.
But there was that other rhythm, and the Blob forgot it.
Never, ever, ever. Bet against LeBron. In a Game 7.
And so of course the Cavaliers won by eight, and Jeff Green, the 10-point-per-game scorer, went for 19 points and eight boards, and LeBron was on the high Hero Setting again, going for 35 points, 15 rebounds and nine assists while playing all 48 minutes. Along with the 46 points he scored in 46 minutes in Game 6, that means he scored 81 points while playing 94 minutes in the last two games of the series, both of which were elimination games for Cleveland.
Both of which the Cavs won to go to the NBA Finals for the fourth straight year. Both of which they won to send LeBron James to his eighth straight NBA Finals.
I don't know what the word for all that is. I don't know if there are any words to adequately describe it anymore, to describe a 33-year-old man who's been playing in the NBA for 15 years logging 94 minutes and scoring 81 points in the space of 48 hours.
I do know there's an acronym to describe it, however.
GOAT.
Greatest of all time. Don't even try to argue it.
And so we come to Game 7, NBA Eastern Conference finals, Celtics vs. Cavaliers.
The Blob knew how this was going to go. It knew the shape of this series like the back of its hand. It knew ... well, everything but what it forgot.
Which is that you never, ever, ever bet against LeBron James in a Game 7.
Even if it's in a place where the home team was undefeated in the playoffs. Even if the Cavs' alleged second fiddle, Kevin Love, was out with a possible concussion. Even with Jeff Green, who averaged 10 points per game this season, starting in his place.
Even if the entire rhythm of this series virtually assured a Celtics victory.
But there was that other rhythm, and the Blob forgot it.
Never, ever, ever. Bet against LeBron. In a Game 7.
And so of course the Cavaliers won by eight, and Jeff Green, the 10-point-per-game scorer, went for 19 points and eight boards, and LeBron was on the high Hero Setting again, going for 35 points, 15 rebounds and nine assists while playing all 48 minutes. Along with the 46 points he scored in 46 minutes in Game 6, that means he scored 81 points while playing 94 minutes in the last two games of the series, both of which were elimination games for Cleveland.
Both of which the Cavs won to go to the NBA Finals for the fourth straight year. Both of which they won to send LeBron James to his eighth straight NBA Finals.
I don't know what the word for all that is. I don't know if there are any words to adequately describe it anymore, to describe a 33-year-old man who's been playing in the NBA for 15 years logging 94 minutes and scoring 81 points in the space of 48 hours.
I do know there's an acronym to describe it, however.
GOAT.
Greatest of all time. Don't even try to argue it.
Power trip
I don't know who this man is, there on the TV screen. I don't know this ... this ... maniac, sitting in his car, helmet hair sticking up in crazy Einstein tangles, shaking his gloved fists and screaming, screaming, screaming at the baking sun-seared sky.
Good lord. Now look at him.
Now he's standing up in the car, shaking his fists again, screaming again, looking straight into the camera with a lunatic's eyes. Now here comes his wife, and he's screaming at her (We did it!!), and he's screaming at the 500 Festival queen, for God's sake, and milk is dripping off his chin. And now he's hugging his wife, and here come some more people, and he's grinning and hugging them and, dear heaven, has there ever been a display like this in Victory Lane at Indianapolis? Has there ever been this much pure, unrestrained joy, even when it's the Indianapolis 500 and you've just won it?
And would you ever have thought you'd see it from this guy?
"This guy" being Will Power, his time come 'round at last, and, listen, I don't know this man. I've talked to him half a dozen times over the years, and his public face was always that of a nice, polite, reserved guy from Toowoomba, Australia, a bit wary talking to a reporter he doesn't really know. A bit wary, too, at the inevitable line of questioning.
Which was always about his dominance on the road courses of IndyCar, and how his performance on the ovals never quite matched up. And then, later, when he got to the point where he could pretty much win anywhere -- when Will Power was just so damned good at times it was as if he was driving a different race car on an entirely different level from everyone around him -- it was about why he could win everywhere else in IndyCar except at Indianapolis on the last Sunday in May.
Oh, he'd come close. Finished second behind Juan Pablo Montoya in 2015, when he, Montoya and Scott Dixon waged a stirring Masters of the IndyCar Universe duel across the final laps. And for a fleeting few seconds Sunday, it looked as if he were going to merely come close again after looking for so long like this was going to be his day at last.
He'd been around the front all day, after all, and then he was in front, and the longer it went in the thick heat the more you got a sense that you were looking at your race winner. He was in the right pit window. His stops were flawless. He'd duck in first and come out first after the field reshuffled.
But in the last 20 laps, Oriol Servia, Stefan Wilson and Jack Harvey stayed out, gambling that a couple of late yellows gave them just enough laps to get to the checkers before their tanks ran dry. Servia got swallowed up on the last restart with seven to go, and suddenly Wilson looked like your winner and Power, running behind Wilson and Harvey but the fastest guy out there, looked like he was going to run out of laps before he could catch them both.
And then fate smiled on him. Go figure.
With three laps to run both Wilson and Harvey ran out of gas, ducking into the pits just in front of Power. After that it was just a matter of keeping it between the walls.
And after that ...
The screaming. The fist-shaking. All that joy, unleashed at last.
In those moments, it became obvious that what Power said for public consumption about winning the 500, and what was going on inside him, were vastly different. He would always answer the questions, but as the years ran along it became increasingly clear he'd grown weary of them. And so when he talked about how much he wanted to win Indy, it began to sound almost rote.
Likely that was mere perception on the listener's part. In truth, everyone who knew him, or got him to open up, would tell you he really, really wanted to win the 500. It was the only mountain he hadn't conquered. And of course, by winning it, it would finally put an end to all the questions.
And so maybe that was relief we were seeing from Will Power, there in Victory Lane. Maybe that was it as much as anything.
Nah.
That was just joy. Unbound, set-free-at-last joy.
Good lord. Now look at him.
Now he's standing up in the car, shaking his fists again, screaming again, looking straight into the camera with a lunatic's eyes. Now here comes his wife, and he's screaming at her (We did it!!), and he's screaming at the 500 Festival queen, for God's sake, and milk is dripping off his chin. And now he's hugging his wife, and here come some more people, and he's grinning and hugging them and, dear heaven, has there ever been a display like this in Victory Lane at Indianapolis? Has there ever been this much pure, unrestrained joy, even when it's the Indianapolis 500 and you've just won it?
And would you ever have thought you'd see it from this guy?
"This guy" being Will Power, his time come 'round at last, and, listen, I don't know this man. I've talked to him half a dozen times over the years, and his public face was always that of a nice, polite, reserved guy from Toowoomba, Australia, a bit wary talking to a reporter he doesn't really know. A bit wary, too, at the inevitable line of questioning.
Which was always about his dominance on the road courses of IndyCar, and how his performance on the ovals never quite matched up. And then, later, when he got to the point where he could pretty much win anywhere -- when Will Power was just so damned good at times it was as if he was driving a different race car on an entirely different level from everyone around him -- it was about why he could win everywhere else in IndyCar except at Indianapolis on the last Sunday in May.
Oh, he'd come close. Finished second behind Juan Pablo Montoya in 2015, when he, Montoya and Scott Dixon waged a stirring Masters of the IndyCar Universe duel across the final laps. And for a fleeting few seconds Sunday, it looked as if he were going to merely come close again after looking for so long like this was going to be his day at last.
He'd been around the front all day, after all, and then he was in front, and the longer it went in the thick heat the more you got a sense that you were looking at your race winner. He was in the right pit window. His stops were flawless. He'd duck in first and come out first after the field reshuffled.
But in the last 20 laps, Oriol Servia, Stefan Wilson and Jack Harvey stayed out, gambling that a couple of late yellows gave them just enough laps to get to the checkers before their tanks ran dry. Servia got swallowed up on the last restart with seven to go, and suddenly Wilson looked like your winner and Power, running behind Wilson and Harvey but the fastest guy out there, looked like he was going to run out of laps before he could catch them both.
And then fate smiled on him. Go figure.
With three laps to run both Wilson and Harvey ran out of gas, ducking into the pits just in front of Power. After that it was just a matter of keeping it between the walls.
And after that ...
The screaming. The fist-shaking. All that joy, unleashed at last.
In those moments, it became obvious that what Power said for public consumption about winning the 500, and what was going on inside him, were vastly different. He would always answer the questions, but as the years ran along it became increasingly clear he'd grown weary of them. And so when he talked about how much he wanted to win Indy, it began to sound almost rote.
Likely that was mere perception on the listener's part. In truth, everyone who knew him, or got him to open up, would tell you he really, really wanted to win the 500. It was the only mountain he hadn't conquered. And of course, by winning it, it would finally put an end to all the questions.
And so maybe that was relief we were seeing from Will Power, there in Victory Lane. Maybe that was it as much as anything.
Nah.
That was just joy. Unbound, set-free-at-last joy.
Monday, May 28, 2018
What was given
Always I remember the crosses, on this day. Pristine white, laid out row upon perfectly symmetrical row, they sprout like a field of wildflowers in this quiet green place, every cross representing a father or son or brother who didn't come back from what was naively termed the Great Adventure.
Every cross representing something given, without expectation of payment.
War is the great waster, thief of life and potential and what-might-have-been. It is never something to be glorified, to be held up as some shining beacon of human virtue. Even in a good cause -- and the good causes almost without exception look less so in retrospect -- it reveals the worst of what we are.
And also the best, in an oddly paradoxical way.
The latter is why, on this Memorial Day, we go to the cemeteries and place American flags on graves. It's why on this day I remember those white crosses in the St. Mihiel American Military Cemetery near Thiaucourt, France, where so many of our countrymen rest who died trying to reduce the St. Mihiel salient in September of 1918.
It was the first major American engagement of the First World War, and if it was a victory it was a costly one, part of less than six months of combat that would steal some 53,000 American lives. The cemetery at Thiaucourt lies at the center of the old salient, a peaceful place set down in the middle of lush French farmland. If you didn't know any better, you'd swear you were in Indiana somewhere -- at least until, in the middle of a field of wheat, you spied the crumbling remains of an old German pillbox.
Or looked out over all those crosses, row on perfectly symmetrical row. Or stepped into the cool marbled shade of the memorial, where name upon name is etched in gold on a black plaque that stretches almost from floor to ceiling. The names go on forever, representing eight different American divisions. They are the names of the American soldiers who fought in the St. Mihiel region, and who now "rest in unknown graves."
Outside, in a leafy alcove, stands a white marble monument with an American doughboy carved on it in bas relief. Bareheaded, eyes closed, he holds his helmet at his waist in his left hand. Beneath him is this inscription: "Blessed are they that have the home longing, for they shall go home."
Around it, beneath those crosses, other American doughboys sleep on. They are home at last, in a sense. And because they and so many of their brothers are, generations of other Americans got to sleep peacefully in their own homes.
And because we do, we remember them this day. And on all days.
Every cross representing something given, without expectation of payment.
War is the great waster, thief of life and potential and what-might-have-been. It is never something to be glorified, to be held up as some shining beacon of human virtue. Even in a good cause -- and the good causes almost without exception look less so in retrospect -- it reveals the worst of what we are.
And also the best, in an oddly paradoxical way.
The latter is why, on this Memorial Day, we go to the cemeteries and place American flags on graves. It's why on this day I remember those white crosses in the St. Mihiel American Military Cemetery near Thiaucourt, France, where so many of our countrymen rest who died trying to reduce the St. Mihiel salient in September of 1918.
It was the first major American engagement of the First World War, and if it was a victory it was a costly one, part of less than six months of combat that would steal some 53,000 American lives. The cemetery at Thiaucourt lies at the center of the old salient, a peaceful place set down in the middle of lush French farmland. If you didn't know any better, you'd swear you were in Indiana somewhere -- at least until, in the middle of a field of wheat, you spied the crumbling remains of an old German pillbox.
Or looked out over all those crosses, row on perfectly symmetrical row. Or stepped into the cool marbled shade of the memorial, where name upon name is etched in gold on a black plaque that stretches almost from floor to ceiling. The names go on forever, representing eight different American divisions. They are the names of the American soldiers who fought in the St. Mihiel region, and who now "rest in unknown graves."
Outside, in a leafy alcove, stands a white marble monument with an American doughboy carved on it in bas relief. Bareheaded, eyes closed, he holds his helmet at his waist in his left hand. Beneath him is this inscription: "Blessed are they that have the home longing, for they shall go home."
Around it, beneath those crosses, other American doughboys sleep on. They are home at last, in a sense. And because they and so many of their brothers are, generations of other Americans got to sleep peacefully in their own homes.
And because we do, we remember them this day. And on all days.
Saturday, May 26, 2018
Predictions? We don't need no stinking ...
I want to pick Danica Patrick today. I do.
Like her I'm a fool for the happily-ever-after, the glass slipper and handsome prince and Disneyland ending. And it wouldn't really be all that Disney-ish, when you get down to cases. Her many detractors aside, she's always been good on this biggest day in motorsports. She's run up front more times than she hasn't -- six top tens in seven Indianapolis 500s do not just happen, people -- and after seven years away, she stepped right back into the seat last weekend and was quick again.
Made the Fast Nine on Saturday, she did. Qualified on the inside of Row 3, one spot better than three-time winner Helio Castroneves and two better than 2008 winner Scott Dixon, her rowmates.
That, too, doesn't just happen. So it wouldn't be completely insane, picking her. It wouldn't be like that year I picked Marco Andretti, knowing full well that ... well, that he's an Andretti, and this is the Greatest Spectacle In Jacking Up The Andrettis.
Besides, like Danica, I know a cushy narrative when I see one.
"That would be the perfect way to never come back. Don't you think?" she said earlier this month, daydreaming about a yard of brick, a checkered flag and an ice-cold bottle of milk. "Just mic-drop the thing."
I wish, for her sake and that of all the media grunts begging just once for a storyline that writes itself, that she really can mic-drop the thing. But I've been hanging around Indy in May long enough to know it tends to be hell on wishes.
So, no, I will not pick Danica to win. In fact I'm not going to pick anyone, because for once I have no feel whatsoever for what's going to happen when they come to the green shortly after noon today.
Could this be Castroneves' year to finally win No. 4, after coming so close so many times in the nine years since No. 3?
Maybe.
Could Will Power, who wins everywhere else and who just won the Indy Grand Prix here two weeks ago, finally win the Big One that's so long eluded him?
Could happen.
I could see Josef Newgarden, the charismatic American and reigning IndyCar champ, screaming down through the shadows to the checkers, accompanied by what would surely be an immense waterfall of sound from the requisite Indy Mass O' Humanity. I could see the hometown Butler boy Ed Carpenter, who always goes fast on Pole Day, becoming what would surely be the most popular 500 winner since ... well, maybe since forever.
Simon Pagenaud?
He's dominated here before in spots, so why not?
Dixon? Ryan Hunter-Reay? Super-rookie Robert Wickens? Tony Kanaan? Sebastien Bourdais, who (speaking of cushy narratives) could go from victim to victor after the horrific crash last May that turned his pelvis into a jigsaw puzzle?
Sure. Fine. Whatever.
Now, if you pushed me, I'd tell you it's gonna be Newgarden, for the completely inadequate reason that this seems to be his time. Or I'd tell you it's gonna be Carlos Munoz. He's starting back in Row 7, but he's finished second, fourth, second and 10th in five previous starts, and he always, always seems to find his way to the front when the laps get skinny.
Guy like that, his number's gotta come up sooner or later. Right?
On the other hand ...
On the other hand, maybe I should flip a coin. I'm pretty much at that point right now.
Only, I'm not ready to flip just one.
What the hell. Go ahead and give me 33 of 'em.
Like her I'm a fool for the happily-ever-after, the glass slipper and handsome prince and Disneyland ending. And it wouldn't really be all that Disney-ish, when you get down to cases. Her many detractors aside, she's always been good on this biggest day in motorsports. She's run up front more times than she hasn't -- six top tens in seven Indianapolis 500s do not just happen, people -- and after seven years away, she stepped right back into the seat last weekend and was quick again.
Made the Fast Nine on Saturday, she did. Qualified on the inside of Row 3, one spot better than three-time winner Helio Castroneves and two better than 2008 winner Scott Dixon, her rowmates.
That, too, doesn't just happen. So it wouldn't be completely insane, picking her. It wouldn't be like that year I picked Marco Andretti, knowing full well that ... well, that he's an Andretti, and this is the Greatest Spectacle In Jacking Up The Andrettis.
Besides, like Danica, I know a cushy narrative when I see one.
"That would be the perfect way to never come back. Don't you think?" she said earlier this month, daydreaming about a yard of brick, a checkered flag and an ice-cold bottle of milk. "Just mic-drop the thing."
I wish, for her sake and that of all the media grunts begging just once for a storyline that writes itself, that she really can mic-drop the thing. But I've been hanging around Indy in May long enough to know it tends to be hell on wishes.
So, no, I will not pick Danica to win. In fact I'm not going to pick anyone, because for once I have no feel whatsoever for what's going to happen when they come to the green shortly after noon today.
Could this be Castroneves' year to finally win No. 4, after coming so close so many times in the nine years since No. 3?
Maybe.
Could Will Power, who wins everywhere else and who just won the Indy Grand Prix here two weeks ago, finally win the Big One that's so long eluded him?
Could happen.
I could see Josef Newgarden, the charismatic American and reigning IndyCar champ, screaming down through the shadows to the checkers, accompanied by what would surely be an immense waterfall of sound from the requisite Indy Mass O' Humanity. I could see the hometown Butler boy Ed Carpenter, who always goes fast on Pole Day, becoming what would surely be the most popular 500 winner since ... well, maybe since forever.
Simon Pagenaud?
He's dominated here before in spots, so why not?
Dixon? Ryan Hunter-Reay? Super-rookie Robert Wickens? Tony Kanaan? Sebastien Bourdais, who (speaking of cushy narratives) could go from victim to victor after the horrific crash last May that turned his pelvis into a jigsaw puzzle?
Sure. Fine. Whatever.
Now, if you pushed me, I'd tell you it's gonna be Newgarden, for the completely inadequate reason that this seems to be his time. Or I'd tell you it's gonna be Carlos Munoz. He's starting back in Row 7, but he's finished second, fourth, second and 10th in five previous starts, and he always, always seems to find his way to the front when the laps get skinny.
Guy like that, his number's gotta come up sooner or later. Right?
On the other hand ...
On the other hand, maybe I should flip a coin. I'm pretty much at that point right now.
Only, I'm not ready to flip just one.
What the hell. Go ahead and give me 33 of 'em.
Yep
OK. So let's review, Blobophiles:
NBA Eastern Conference finals.
Elimination game for the Cavaliers.
In Cleveland.
And LeBron James ...
A. Says, "Geez, it's almost June. I'm tired, carrying these sorry humps around by myself. Can't I just start my summer early for once?"
B. Says, "Ah, hell, another elimination game? Can't K-Love take over this deal just ONE time?"
C. Drops 46 points in 46 minutes. Lifts Cavs to a 10-point win even though the Celtics got a combined 55 points from Terry Rozier and Jalen Brown. Forces Game 7 back in Boston.
Come on. You know the answer.
NBA Eastern Conference finals.
Elimination game for the Cavaliers.
In Cleveland.
And LeBron James ...
A. Says, "Geez, it's almost June. I'm tired, carrying these sorry humps around by myself. Can't I just start my summer early for once?"
B. Says, "Ah, hell, another elimination game? Can't K-Love take over this deal just ONE time?"
C. Drops 46 points in 46 minutes. Lifts Cavs to a 10-point win even though the Celtics got a combined 55 points from Terry Rozier and Jalen Brown. Forces Game 7 back in Boston.
Come on. You know the answer.
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