Priorities

 NBC blew off "Major League Baseball" last night to air the finish of the weather-delayed Travelers golf tournament, farming out the latest Yankees-Red Sox tilt to MSNBC and Peacock. It even stuck with golf during the rain delay, switching over to the Women's PGA Championship.

This immediately got the pearl-clutchers saying this proved America's Pastime truly is Past its Time, because back in the day it would never have taken a backseat to golf in the Sportsball World pecking order. The priorities have changed, in other words, and heaven knows if they'll ever un-change.

I don't think it was quite so seismic. I suspect it just meant NBC chose struggling Nelly Korda missing another putt over the 937th rendition this season of Yankees-Red Sox.

Which, OK, was a big deal for suffering Rolled Sox fans, because Sonny Gray almost hung a no-no on the snooty pinstriped one-percenters from New York, and the Sox went to a finish a weekend sweep of the Yankees' caviar-munching tushes with a 5-4 win in ten innings.

This either signified the long-awaited stirring of the Bostons, or a brief sunlit moment in what has been a relentlessly gray season. After all, even after racking four straight Ws, and seven in their last 10 games, they're still last in the AL East by a game-and-a-half.

That's not why NBC chose golf over baseball, though. I suspect it goes back to the 937th rendition thing.

Which is to say, yes, Yankees-Red Sox is baseball's marquee rivalry, but it's not as if we've never seen it before. Like, every other week, it seems. Or every week. Seriously, do these two ever play anyone else?

Doesn't feel like it, at least to the casual observer. No, yesterday was not the 937th rendition this season, but if it's exaggeration for effect, the point pertains: Every time they play one another, it's on the tube. No wonder a good part of America thinks Yankees-Red Sox is the "Law & Order" of baseball: On all the time somewhere.

"Hey, look, Martha, it's the Red Sox and Yankees!"

"AGAIN??"

That sort of thing. 

Anyway, it's Golf 1, Baseball 0 this time around. So hooray for Haeran Ryu (who won the Women's PGA while Korda tied for eighth), and Scottie Scheffler and Viktor Hovland, who resume their playoff today.

I'm going with Scheffler. Better changeup, I hear.

O Canada

 Happy Monday, Blobophiles, and here's your name to remember for today: Stephen Eustaquio.

He became, I don't know, the Wayne Gretzky of Canadian soccer or something yesterday, when he knocked an attempted clear smartly into the goal in extra time to give Canada a 1-0 victory over South Africa in the knockout round of the World Cup.

It was Canada's first knockout round victory, like, ever. Thousands of young Canadians will now forsake hockey and start kicking soccer balls around, on account of they're bigger than hockey pucks and you don't have to learn to skate.

OK. So I jest.

But imagine -- just imagine -- what would happen if Canada were to jack around and win a second knockout game, in which case Les Rouges (the Reds) would advance to the quarterfinals of the whole shootin' match. Now imagine if you're a kid growing up in Toronto with a throwback Dave Keon Maple Leafs jersey. Or a kid in Montreal, Edmonton, Calgary or Vancouver who's never seen a Canadian team in the Stanley Cup Final in his or her lifetime.

Canadian Dad: Come on, son, strap on the blades, grab the lumber and let's head out to the rink!

Canadian Kid: Aw, geez, Pop. I was gonna go kick a soccer ball around with the guys.

Dad: WHAT?! You mean you don't want to be the next Gretzky or Lemieux or, goodness gracious, Gordie Howe?

Kid: Nah, hockey's for losers. I want to be the next Stephen Eustaquio.

(Dad clutches his heart and immediately expires. They bury him in his throwback Yvan Cournoyer jersey.)

(Les Rouges send flowers and offer his son a spot on their developmental team. Word is he's such a dazzling striker he's started going by one name, like Pele. Everyone just calls him Jacques.)

(No Longer) Cruds Alert!

 Didja see? Didja see what happened last night in Major League Baseball?

"The Cubs lost to the Brewers again?" you're saying.

Well, yes.

"Your Pittsburgh Cruds (about whom we've heard quite enough, by the way) lost to the sorry Cincinnati Deads?" you're saying.

Uh-huh.

"Well, what else, then?"

Chicago White Sox 22, Kansas City Royals 1. That's what else.

Yes, the baseball team formerly known as the What Sox absolutely beat the brakes off those pathetic Royals, and not only that, but the Cleveland Guardians lost, too. Which means guess who's sitting atop the AL Central this morning with the third-best record in the entire league?

"The baseball team formerly known as the What Sox?" you're saying.

Correct!

They're 42-38 here on June 27th, a game clear of the Guardians. This is quite impressive, all things considering. In fact it's a damn miracle, or something close.

A year ago on this date, after all, the still-the-What-Sox-then were 26-56 and dead last in the division. And two years ago on this date, when the What Sox put on the field the all-time worst team in the modern era, they were 22-61.

That's 20 more wins and 23 fewer losses, if you're keeping score at home. And untold less suffering for fans of the Pale Hose.

And so forget the Blob's periodic Cruds Alert, at least for today. Today, it's the No Longer Cruds Alert.

Grab another Old Style, you south siders. You've earned it.

Cinderella Men

 The best story of the World Cup so far got even better yesterday, when those plucky islanders from Cape Verde played Saudi Arabia to a nil-nil tie. It was the Verdeans' third draw in three games, which means they're still undefeated, and which also means they're on to the knockout round.

You remember how they played Cup favorite Spain to a scoreless draw in their first-ever World Cup match, a stunning upset approached so far only by Ecuador, which shocked mighty Germany 2-1 the other day. ("Wait, we lost to ECUADOR??" -- Otto von Bismarck. "Great, now I gotta write another tragic opera." -- Richard Wagner). 

Well, now the Cinderella Men are on to the round of 32, just like Spain and France and all the other big boys. Led by 40-year-old keeper Vozinha, who's given up just two goals in three games, they're the smallest nation in the tournament. With a population of just 525,000, in fact, they're smaller than every one of our 50 states.

So, go, you Cape Verdeans. May we all wrap ourselves in the national flag (blue with red and white stripes and gold stars), and sing the praises of the Tubaroes Azuis ("Blue Sharks") on July 3 as they march fearlessly into their first knockout match against defending World Cup champion Argentina.

Yeah, Lionel Messi 'n' them will probably crush 'em. But July 3 is the day before America's 250th birthday, and nobody thought we'd kick British booty, either. So maybe Cape Verde will catch some of that vibe.

"We are small," Vozinha said, echoing Washington or Thomas Paine or someone. "But we have big hearts and we are fighters."

Added Cape Verde coach Bubista, echoing, I don't know, maybe Herb Brooks: "Everyone is entitled to dream, and nothing is impossible."

"Darn skippy!" shouted Ben Franklin, banging his fist on the table.

OK, so he didn't. But you get the gist.

Justice delayed

 Look, by now we all know what the WNBA is. And, no, not a bunch of black lesbian white-girl haters, which is what some people say who swear they have nothing against black or gay folk, but sure talk like they do.

Nah, nah. What the WNBA is, it's Dick Van Dyke tripping over that ottoman.

(And for you younger Blobophiles who don't get the reference, the Blob suggests you jump on YouTube and punch in "The Dick Van Dyke Show" opening. Consider it a learning experience.)

Anyway, the Can't Get Out Of Their Own Way Bunch did it again this week, after Alyssa Thomas of the Phoenix Mercury kneed Indiana Fever star Caitlin Clark in the groin and pushed herself up with a fist to Clark's throat in a loose ball scrum.

Now, I have watched the video half a dozen times, and I still can't tell how much of that was intentional. When the ball comes loose and players scramble after it, stuff happens. Players catch elbows and knees and, yes, fists, in unfortunate places. So I certainly don't think Thomas should have been charged with assault, as some of the more unhinged Caitlin worshippers were hollering.

What I do think is it shouldn't have taken a whole day to slap Thomas with a Flagrant 2, and it should have resulted in far more than a puny one-game suspension. The WNBA, tripping over the ottoman again.

The league's officiating has faced a well-deserved tsunami of criticism since Clark's star power turned a spotlight on the WNBA, and it bought another wave with this latest hoo-ha. Thomas, you see, not only was NOT charged with a Flagrant 2 on the spot, she wasn't even assessed a regular old garden-variety foul. Apparently the officials didn't see nuthin'.

How that could be when four players -- Thomas, Clark and two other Mercury players -- were wrestling on the floor for the ball is a mystery undreamt of in your philosophy, as the Bard would say. What were the on-court officials looking at? Freddy Fever, the Indiana mascot? Some superfan up in section Triple Ought Z?

Beats me. The upshot, though, was the WNBA's delayed justice ("Oh, crap! We're getting crap! We need to do something!", you can almost hear league officials saying) further stoked the narrative that the league isn't doing enough to protect its golden goose. And there's more than a little truth to that.

It is not, however, as neat a storyline as it seems. Or so it says here.

Yes, there's no question Clark gets knocked around a lot. But while some say it's jealousy (and stupidity, considering how much money Clark has made for everyone in the league), it's also that opponents have figured out that aggressive defense throws Clark off her considerable game. 

That's not jealousy or stupidity. That's just strategy.

And, listen, Clark plays into it, to an extent. There is, let's face it, more than a little thespian in her: The exaggerated flying backward at the slightest bump; the blatant selling of the foul; the theatrical pleading her case to the officials.

She is, in other words, a Bill Laimbeer Class flopper on occasion. Defenders also shove, trip, elbow and beat on her like a guy pounding out dents in his '85 Corolla. Both things can be true.

This also is true: After the Mercury shoved, tripped, elbowed and beat on her the other night, she left the floor with a sore back. 

And not from carrying an entire ham-fisted league, either.

Little big man

 So Braden Smith is an Indiana Pacer now, and go ahead, tell him he's got no chance. He's 5-10 and 166 pounds and his quicks are decent, but he's not exactly a streak of fire. Why, the NBA will chew him up and spit him out to the G-League, where he'll play for whatever they're calling the late, great Mad Ants these days.

Or so some people undoubtedly will say.

They'll say he's an undersized guard who's not, say, Allen Iverson or Jalen Brunson, or even Nate Archibald. Whom everyone called "Tiny" even though he was a full three inches taller than Braden Smith.

So what will they call Smith?

How about "survivor"?

Because, listen, he's been too small and not quick enough to make up for it his entire life, and all he's done is stick out that stubborn Hoosier chin and say "Oh, yeah, smart guy?" He was Indiana's Mr. Basketball as a senior at Westfield High School, and the only major college coach who offered him was Matt Painter. Know who else offered him?

Appalachian State. Belmont. North Texas. Montana. Toledo. Not exactly Duke or UConn.

So he headed up the road to Purdue, grew a funky Amish beard and became ... well, you know what he became: The best point guard in America. He started all four years for Painter, and when he was done he, Fletcher Loyer and Trey Kaufman-Renn had won more games than any trio in Purdue's decorated basketball history. Oh, and Braden Smith also wound up as college basketball's all-time career assists leader.

Knocked Bobby Hurley off that mountaintop, God bless him.

Yesterday the Chicago Bulls took Smith with the 38th overall pick in the NBA Draft, the eighth in the second round. Then they traded him to the Pacers, who really, really wanted the hometown kid. And now we'll sit back and see what happens.

He'll back up T.J. McConnell at the point, or so the gurus say. And, yes, opposing will begin drooling uncontrollably when they bring the ball up against him. And, yes, he could -- could -- wind up spending time in Noblesville with the Pacers' G-League team.

Me?

I think Braden Smith is going to read that and say, "Oh, yeah, smart guy?"

And then prove us all wrong again.

Because, yeah, he may be a little man, as these things go. But he's the biggest little man you'll ever see.

One pooch, screwed

 At some point you hurt for the kid, if you're at all human. A little, anyway. A ... smidge.

You do this because Brendan Sorsby is 22 years old and has a gambling jones that wrecked his college career, which doesn't even take into account he's 22 years old and prone to doing the dumb stuff 22-year-olds do. Like, for instance, listening to the wrong people. 

Surely he did that. Sued the NCAA when it told him he couldn't play college football anymore, because he gambled on college football like ... well, like a hooked-through-the-gills addict. Won an injunction to play for Texas Tech from some local Go Red Raiders judge. Decided, nah, never mind, when the NCAA's lawyers came after him again.

He'd enter the NFL's supplemental draft instead. Yeah, sure. Perfect. Why, that's just what he'd d--

Oops.

Turns out he won't be entering the NFL's supplemental draft, because the other day the NFL said, "No, you won't be entering our supplemental draft." That's on account of the NFL announced it wouldn't be conducting a supplemental draft this year.

Sooo ...

So, Brendan Sorsby is a football player without a football, so to speak.

He can't go back to college. No NFL team will be rolling the dice (pun, well intended) on him for the 2026 season. He can't even head north to hook up with a Canadian Football League team, because it's June and the CFL already is well into its season.

So he sits until next April's draft, where there's no guarantee any team will risk a pick on a chronic gambler. In fact it would be an upset of any team did, given how hinky NFL front offices are about players with baggage, and especially quarterbacks with baggage.

That means Brendan Sorsby would come to training camp as a free agent, if he comes to an NFL training camp at all. Likely he will, because he's a quarterback with skills, and if you're a quarterback with skills someone will give you a look. Heck, someone would have given Pablo Escobar a look if he could throw the deep out, on the off chance he was the next Kurt Warner.

This does not mean Brendan Sorsby isn't the latest 22-year-old who's screwed the proverbial pooch. He is. At least for now.

Youth is wasted on the young. Home truth.