Home cooked

 Well, this is an interesting development. And I'm not talking "interesting" in a "It's interesting how the Boston Celtics shot 3-pointers last night the way Columbus discovered America" kind of way.

Well, OK. So maybe I am.

Maybe I am, because like Columbus got credit for discovering America even though he just blindly ran into an island a thousand miles away, the Celtics missed their target by about a thousand miles, too. Got up 60 attempts from the arc last night in Boston -- a ton even for a team as s shamelessly promiscuous from that locale as the C's -- and missed, um, 45 of them.

Fifteen-for-60, boys and girls. You could blindfold an 8-year-old, spin him around five times and point him in the wrong direction, and he'd still make at least 16.

Anyway, the Celtics foray to Brick City opened the door for the New York Knicks to steal Game 1 of the Eastern Conference semifinals on the Celtics' home floor, which is the interesting part of all this. You see, three conference semifinal series began in Boston, Cleveland and Oklahoma City in the last two days -- and the visitors won every Game 1.

Home cookin', meet home cooked.

First up, on Sunday, the Indiana Pacers racehorsed the East 1-seed Cavaliers into the floorboards, 121-112. Then, last night, the Knicks dispatched the Celts in overtime after being down 20 at one point, and the Denver Nuggets shocked the West 1-seed Thunder thanks to Nikola Jokic's monster 42-point, 22-rebound night and Aaron Gordon's game-winning three.

The Thunder were a league-best 68-14 in the regular season, including 35-6 at home. The Cavs were 64-18 and 34-7 in C-town. And the Celtics won 61 games including 28 on the home parquet.

So what does this mean, exactly?

Maybe something. Probably nothing.

Momentum, after all, is a chimera in sports, and in the NBA in particular. So look for the Cavaliers to wash the Pacers in Game 2, and the Celtics to bottom eleventy gazillion 3s and blow the Knicks into the Charles River, and the Thunder to hold Jokic to something reasonably sane -- say, 35 points and 17 boards, perhaps -- and even that series. And we'll be right back where we started before Game 1.

On the other hand ...

On the other hand, the Pacers, Knicks and Nuggets could rise up again. And then all of this would get really interesting.

Onward.

An open-book test

 This isn't Scottie Scheffler's fault. Let's get that out there right off the hop.

It is not Scottie Scheffler's fault, nor Erik van Rooyen's, nor any of the other golfers who turned the TPC Craig Ranch course in McKinney, Tex., into TPC Chalk Outline over the weekend. And it's not TPC Craig Ranch's fault, either, although the groundskeepers might think about installing a few windmill holes to gin things up for the next visit by the PGA boys.

You say Scheffler was a ridiculous minus-31 over 72 holes to run away with the CJ Cup Byron Nelson over the weekend?

Yeah, well, let's see him put up that kind of baroque number when he has to drop a gap wedge into the clown's mouth on No. 17. Or something like that.

Instead, the Byron Nelson was just normal golf on a normal course. And it says here that's a problem, or at least perhaps is becoming one.

The players, see, have become so good, and their weaponry so advanced, that your average Greater Velveeta Open track increasingly has become an open-book test for them. St. Andrews or Turnberry when the gales blow still can put up a decent fight, as can the usual  tricked-up U.S. Open course. But when the weather's right and it's Whispering Drought Golf Club that awaits ...

Well. Then it's no fight at all. Then it's the CJ Cup Byron Nelson.

In which Scheffler, as noted, finished 31-under and won by eight strokes. Van Rooyen was second at 23-under. Sam Stephens was another three shots back at 20-under. On Sunday, 11 golfers shot 65 or better; across four days, Scheffler put up rounds of 61, 63, 66 and 63.

And while his 253 total tied a PGA record, it wasn't particularly an anomaly. Earlier this season, Hideki Matsuyama shot 35-under on the par-73 Plantation Course in Hawaii.

This does not, of course, imply that golf is becoming far too easy. It's not. It's still, as a friend once called it, an evil game that will grab Bud Light Joe's Titleist when  heleast expects it and deposit somewhere in Outer Mongolia. Also, Bud Light Joe is no Matsuyama or Scheffler; both are terrific players, Scheffler is the best player in the world right now.

 He's also a native Texan who, when he was 6-years-old, got his picture taken with Byron Nelson himself. So this was special for him.

Not so much for TPC Craig Ranch, however. 

Which perhaps really does need a few windmills and clown mouths to slow these guys down.  Or maybe, considering the tournament's namesake, institute a new rule for next year.

Make 'em play with ol' Byron's clubs. That'll fix 'em.

Done like ...

 ... wait, what?

What do you mean "NOT like dinner"?

What do you mean "Over? Over? Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?"?

What do you mean "Omigod, Winnipeg just did the most un-Winnipeg thing ever!"?

It is an article of Blob faith that the tussle for Lord Stanley's Cup is the best of all playoffs, and over the weekend the Winnipeg Jets and a guy named Mikko Rantanen offered the latest testimony for the defense.

On Saturday, Rantanen scored four points in the last 12 minutes -- a hat trick and an assist -- to rescue the Dallas Stars in Game 7 against Colorado, his former team. The Stars trailed 2-0 until Mikko started putting biscuits in baskets.

But hold on, folks! There's more!

Because then came Sunday, and here were the Jets, the best team in the league during the regular season, doing what they're best at. Which is gagging  like a cat with a hairball in the playoffs.

And, brother, they were gaggin' like champeens this time around.

 After winning the first two games of the series against St. Louis, which got into the playoffs with practically its last breath, they were down 2-0 at home to the Blues in Game 7 at home. And it was still 3-2 St. Loo as the final seconds drained away.

"Dammit!" the home fans were no doubt baying.

(Also, "Typical!")

(Also, as night follows day, "Bleeping bleeper-bleep Jets!")

And then ...

And then, as the clock got down to five seconds, Kyle Connor cranked off a desperation one-timer. Think a Hail Mary pass into a crowded end zone in football or a no-hope court-length fling in basketball, and you've got the equivalent.

Except ...

Except down in front of the St. Louis goal Cole Perfetti was hanging around, and somehow he got his stick on the puck. Re-directed Connor's shot. With three seconds left it got behind Jordan Binnington, and the score was tied. By the very thinnest of margins, the Jets were somehow still alive.

A pile of tense minutes later -- not quite 34, to be exact -- Adam Lowry scored in the second overtime, and the Jets had avoided their latest embarrassing playoff flameout in a many-volume set. The final was 4-3, Winnipeg and not St. Louis was off to the second round, and the Winnipeg fans were still baying "Bleeping bleeper-bleep Jets!"

Because that's what you say when your bleeping team damn near gives you a bleeping heart attack.

After which, of course, you might also say "The Stanley Cup playoffs are perfect." Because you know what happens now?

In the second round, the Jets play the Stars. 

May the best team not almost lose before winning.

Derby 1. Journalism 0.

 Ah, what the hell. I never liked lousy weather, either.

I was never a big fan of standing on a squishy sideline while a bunch of earnest high school kids churned 100 yards of turf into mud lasagna. And then wading through the mud lasagna trying not to ruin my pricey sportswriter sneaks, which were actually off-brand knockoffs I got for 29 bucks at If You Shoes You Lose.

In other words, I feel Journalism's pain.

The 3-1 fave in the Kentucky Derby got a late start and splashed home second in the 151st running, on a day when the winner, Sovereignty, more properly should have been named "Duck!" or "Don't Forget To Duck" or something similarly aquatic-fowl-related.

It rained, in other words. And the track was officially designated as "sloppy." Which was another way of saying it was mud lasagna, or perhaps "a front-line trench at Ypres in 1917."

So not only did Journalism come up short, it got a goop bath on top of it.

This of course is what every scribe with a press card in his or her hatband should have expected, as familiar as we all are with such indignities. We all have our figurative goop bath stories, it seems -- and, no, I'm not talking about Fearless Leader getting all butt-hurt because someone dared to commit  journalism on him, and threatening to shut the offender down like every other tinpot schmuck who ever entertained delusions of godhood.

No, sir. The goop stories I refer to are far more everyday.

There was that time, for instance, when we had to climb a fence to get out of a high school football stadium because everyone forgot we were there. Or all the times we waited out some coach or athlete who was operating on Sundial Time.  Or every championship Monday night at the NCAA Tournament,  when our deadlines would press us to death like a New England witch because Big TV refused to tip the game until almost 9:30 p.m.

Not that we're bitter or anything. 

In any event, Journalism came up short, and only paid $7.50 to place on top of it.  So Journalism was a chintzy bet, too. Something else we all could have predicted.

Which brings me to my Derby joke for this May, humor often being journalism's (or, Journalism's) fallback defense.

See, in addition to Journalism, there was a horse named Publisher in the perpetually overcrowded Derby field. Publisher turned out to be a four-legged meatloaf, finishing 32 1/4 lengths behind the winner in 14th place. But considering how gumption-free some publishers are these days in backing their journalists' play, I figure Publisher at least made a timely punchline:

Q: Why did Journalism fail to win the Derby?

A: Because Publisher wouldn't let him.

Well. I think it's funny.

Uh-oh time in Winnipeg

 You can say a lot of things about Lord Stanley, whose name adorns an iconic Cup, but mostly you can say this: When winter's snows retreat and the world greens up, he does get up to some shenanigans.

Remember a couple of weekends ago, when the Blob noted that the Winnipeg Jets were entering Lord Stanley's playoffs with the NHL's best regular-season record (56-22-4, the best goal differential (plus-86) and the league's best goaltender (Connor Hellebuyck)?

Remember how I noted all of this boded ill for the Jets, because the best regular-season team hasn't won Stanley in 17 years? And how it especially boded ill for the Jets -- who are 0-for-53 lifetime in Stanley Cups, and who've never so much as reached a Final in all that time? 

"Sorry," you're saying now. "I don't remember any of that."

Well ... too bad. 'Cause I said it.

Of course, then the Jets went out and won the first two games of their first-round series against the St. Louis Blues, and, OK, so maybe I was wrong this time. The Blues, after all, had made the playoffs at, like, the last second. So maybe this would be the rout it looked to be on paper.

But hold your horses there, bucko!

The series shifted to St. Louis, and suddenly the best goaltender in the league turned into Sieve-y McSieveface. The Blues chased him in a 7-2 romp in Game 3, then chased him again in a 5-1 fanny-warming in Game 4. The Jets briefly righted the ship by winning 5-3 at home in Game 5, but then ...

Then came Game 6 ast night, back in St. Louis.

In which Hellebuyck gave up four goals in five minutes and was pulled again, for the third time in the series.

In which the Blues went to win 5-2, and now it's back to Winnipeg for ... OMIGOD WE HAD THESE CHUMPS DOWN 2-0 AND NOW IT'S A GAME 7!

Sorry. The Winnipeg fan base sorta took control of that sentence there.

One would assume that's what Jets fans are thinking right now, having seen this movie too many times before. I mean, they've said "What the hell just happened?" so often it should be on Winnipeg's city seal. And now they're saying it again, along with "Uh-oh", Where did Helly go and who's that wearing his goalie gear?", and also "Omigod we had these chumps down 2-0 and now it's Game 7!"

Because you can't repeat the latter too often at this point.

The good news for the Jets is they're back home, where they haven't lost to the Blues yet and where Hellebuyck's goals-against in three games is a more Hellebuyck-like 2.3. His teammates, meanwhile, have backed their beleaguered stopper with 12 goals in three games. 

So there's still hope for the form chart, I guess.

Except somewhere, I suspect, Lord Stanley just smirked.

"Hullo, lads!' he exclaims. "Watch this!"

Derby time!

 ... in which the Blob forgoes its usual extolling of the Twin Spires ("Two of 'em!"), Kentucky colonels and women in Frank Lloyd Wright hats.

(Also mint juleps, which ain't nothin' but jumped-up Robitusson.)

(Also that one song by Dan Fogelberg, "Run for the Roses".)

No, this year I'm concerned with only one thing: The winner of tomorrow's 151st Derby.

Who, it says here, will be a handsome lad named Journalism, on account of his name's "Journalism" and he's the 7-2 favorite by the morning line.

Come on. You think a former sportswriter was gonna pick anyone else?

Of course he's not. I mean, I'm not.

Now, I suppose I could also put my precious two bucks down on Publisher, a 28-1 shot coming out of the 13 hole. Publisher's sire is Triple Crown winner American Pharoah, so he's got that going for him.

But, nah. I'm stickin' with Journalism, having never been a Publisher.

(You might be asking here why there are two horses in this field named for an industry we're constantly being taught to despise. First of all, Journalism, when done right, remains a noble profession that serves a vital purpose in any free society, which is why those out to dismantle free societies are so intent on us despising it. And Publishers are a vital cog, too, except when they're lily-livered suck-ups in thrall to the free-society-dismantlers.)

Now, where was I?

Oh, yeah. Journalism. The Derby. Your odds-on favorite.

He's one smokin' hot horse coming to Churchill Downs, and I'm not saying that because his withers are perfect, to paraphrase Warren Zevon. I'm saying that because he comes to the Derby on a four-race winning streak, including both his starts this year. Also he drew the No. 8 post position, which has produced nine Derby winners, second only to the No. 10 position. Mage won from the No. 8 hole just two years ago.

Mage ... who was, um, a 15-1 underdog.

And here's where it gets a trifle sticky for my Derby pick.

The betting favorite, see, hasn't won the Derby since 2018. In the six Derbys since, the winner has been a 65-1 shot (Country House, 2019); an 8-1 pick (Authentic, 2020); a 26-1 pick (Mandoulin, 2021); an 80-1 shot (Rich Strike, 2022); Mage; and, last year, Mystik Dan, who went off at 18-1.

The favorite, Fierceness, finished 15th.

Needless to say, this is not a trend a man who wants to see when he's putting his hard-earned two simoleons on the favorite's nose.

Therefore, as a backup, I'm casting about for some gluepot poised to turn into Secretariat. Remember the name, Blobophiles: Flying Mohawk.

He comes out of gate 11 tomorrow, and he's carrying 33-1 odds right now. That's not what caught my eye, however. What caught my eye is his trainer.

Who is D. Whitworth Beckman, a properly aristocratic trainer name if ever there was one. D. Whitworth Beckman! You just knows he smokes a briar pipe, enjoys an after-dinner sherry and has a wardrobe over-served with tweed. And I'd bet long green right now the "D" stands for Declan or Dorian or Demetrius or some such thing.

(Annoying Accuracy Interlude: It doesn't. It stands for "David." Also, Beckman was born in Louisville, not Stratford-On-Avon, and everyone calls him "Whit". So much for that fantasy.)

Anyway ...

Anyway, if you're looking for a longshot pick, Flying Mohawk's your boy. Me, I'm stickin' with Journalism, despite any and all qualms.

In my scenario, Journalism nips Publisher by a nose at the wire. Call it a victory for the working stiffs over the oligarchs.

Speaking of fantasies.

The Lake (No)Show

 So I'm looking at the NBA scores this morning, and I'm thinking "This is why the Lakers traded for Luka Doncic," because the L Boys, Luka and LeBron, just completely destroyed  poor Minnesota in the first round of the NBA playoffs. Beat 'em in five, like everyone predicted. Woodshedded 'em. Disposed of 'em, and now it's on to the second rou--

Wait, what?

Whatta you mean they didn't do any of that?

Whatta you mean it was poor Minnesota who woodshedded them? Who disposed of them? Didn't you hear about The Trade? Didn't you hear about the Lakers-in-five prediction from the smart guys, the gurus, the People Who Know Basketball Way Better Than You Do, So Just Shut Up And Listen Already?

Were you not paying attention to Vegas, which had the Luka/LeBron Lake Show the third betting favorite to win it all?

And now it's May 1 and the third betting favorite is already cleaning out its lockers? Is there no order in the world anymore?

(Obvious answer: No)

Well, that's just great. All that hype, and it's Minnesota who wins in five. Who got 27 points and 24 rebounds from Rudy Gobert last night as the Timberwolves closed it out. Rudy Gobert, for God's sake. Like he was Wilt or Shaq or Kareem and not, you know, Rudy Gobert.

Here's the worst part for Luka 'n' LeBron 'n' them: The Wolves not only beat them, they beat them while not even doing what they do best. In fact they were really, really bad at what they do best.

That would be shooting the 3-ball, at which Minnesota Timberwolves were one of the best teams in the NBA this season. Not last night, though. Last night, they were the Brick City Timberwolves.

Some numbers: In Game 5, Minny fired up 47 attempts from beyond the arc. They missed 40 of them. That was a pathetic 14.9 percent clip, the worst 3-point percentage in a playoff game in NBA history. At one point they missed 18 straight attempt; Anthony Edwards, the Timberwolves superstar guard, was 0-for-11 from the arc.

And still they won by seven, 103-96, on the Lakers' home floor.

Luka and LeBron did their part, combining for 50 points, 14 rebounds and 15 assists. And it's not like they didn't step up their respective games in the playoffs; Luka averaged 30.2 points against the Timberwolves, two above his season average, and LeBron averaged 25.4, one above his season average. Luka also averaged 7.0 rebounds and 5.8 assists, while LeBron average 9.0 boards and 5.6 assists.

And still they lost.

Got smoked by 22 in Game 1 at home, won Game 2, then lost the last three. Which means now all we have to watch are Oklahoma City and Cleveland and the Knicks and the Celtics and the Pacers, and maybe Steph and the Warriors. Gee whiz.

It also means something else.

I'm no longer saying "This is why the Lakers traded for Luka Doncic."

Now I'm saying this: "Well, THAT didn't work."