Non-preventive measures

 You play ... to win ... the game.

-- Herm Edwards

You tell 'em, Herman. And by "'em", we mean "those poor victory-averse Three Lions from England."

Who pulled defeat from the arse of victory again yesterday, just when it seemed they were about to bury 60 years of frustration in a well-marked grave. Anthony Gordon came off the bench to score an artful goal -- you try controlling an awkward cross with the side of your foot while steering it into the net in the same motion -- in the 55th minute yesterday, and suddenly England led Argentina 1-nil in the second World Cup semifinal.

If the Brits hung on, they were headed to their first final since 1966. Which is also the last time they won the whole deal. 

For 30 minutes, they did hang on. For 30 minutes, we were looking at a Spain-England final.

And then ...

And then Lionel Messi happened.

With five minutes to play plus stoppage time, the world's best player found Enzo Fernandez at the top of the box, and Fernandez ripped a gorgeous fade into the far top shelf just beyond the leaping reach of England keeper Jordan Pickford, who'd been bravely staving off Argentine attacks for half an hour.

Six or so minutes later, two minutes into stoppage time, Messi collected Alexis Mac Allister's ricochet off the near post, eluded two defenders and placed a flawless cross to the far post and Lautaro Martinez, who headed it home.

And just like that, Argentina, not England, was going to the final, its second straight. Just like that, the defending champs went from deceased to Not Dead Yet with yet another miraculous resuscitation.

And England had no one to blame but itself.

Remember what ol' Herm said?

You play ... to win ... the game.

England did not.

England, after Gordon put it ahead, unaccountably went into turtle mode, surrendering the attack to Messi and Argentina and retreating to what American football fans recognized as a prevent defense. And, just like 99 percent of the time in the NFL, the preventive measure didn't prevent anything at all -- except the "W," of course.

Instead of doing what had given it the lead to begin with, England chose to do the opposite. It began pulling attackers off the field for defenders with an astounding 18 minutes to play, giving Argentina all the opening it needed to storm the English gates.

 Which it proceeded to do for the next 30 minutes. 

Crosses and corners went into the box. Shots pelted Pickford, slid just wide, spanged off crossbars and goalposts. It seemed inevitable that one of them was eventually going to find a home.

And eventually one did, in the 85th minute.

And eventually another did. 

And not quite 10 minutes later, England was going home again, the latest victim of playing not to lose disease.

As for Argentina ...

Well, it was another high-wire act in a tournament full of them for the defending champs.

They needed overtime to knock out tiny Cape Verde in the round of 32. Trailed Egypt 2-0 with 11 minutes plus stoppage time to play in the round of 16 before scoring three goals in 14 minutes for a miracle 3-2 win. Needed overtime again to beat Switzerland in the quarterfinals, even though the Swiss were playing a man short for the last 48 minutes thanks to a dubious red card for diving against Breel Embolo.

Now, somehow, they're in the final again. Spain, European champs and an absolute machine that thoroughly smothered Kilian Mbappe and France in the other semi, will certainly be the favorite.

However ...

Ah, yes. However.

A hometown vote

 The Open Championship begins tomorrow at one of those courses not named St. Andrew's, and the Blob will not be doing the red-white-and-blue thing, 250th anniversary of America's founding or no 250th anniversary of America's founding.

I suppose this would earn me a flogging in some of the more deranged precincts of our great nation. But, sorry, it's just too easy to pick Scottie Scheffler.

I'm not picking Rory McIlroy, either, even though everyone always picks him to win The Open, on account of he's Rory McIlroy. And even though he had the quote of the year last week at the Scottish Open, after he hit a very un-Rory-like shot.

"Oh, my God, I'm so bad at golf!" cried one of the best golfers of his generation.

You gotta love that. However ...

However, I love Tommy Fleetwood better.

He's British, he's got way cool hockey-flow hair, and he's one of the more genial players on tour. Also, he's come thisclose too many times this season for the golf gods not to let him off the mat for once.

Oh, yeah.  Also, he's the hometown boy in this Open.

He hails from Southport, site of Royal  Birkdale, which is where The Open is being contested this week. Southport is a seaside town in Merseyside. What I know about Merseyside is Gary and the Pacemakers wrote a hit song called "Ferry Cross The Mersey" in the 1960s.

All the more reason to pick Tommy, I figure.

He's playing mostly terrific golf. He'll have the gallery behind him. He's even got his own song, sort of.

So, yeah. Fleetwood's my guy. If he wins -- or if, say, it's fellow Brit Matt Fitzpatrick, who's been one of the hottest golfers on tour in 2026 -- he'd be the first Englishman to win The Open since Nick Faldo in 1992. And he'd be the first to win it in England proper since Tony Jacklin at Royal Lytham & St. Annes.

That happened 57 years ago, in 1969. Which means somebody must be due.

Why not the hometown boy?

Today in un-jinxes

 The American League shut out the pathetic Nationals 4-0 in a dud of an All-Star Game last night, which you can take one of two ways by the Blob's lights.

One, it was a a complete failure of occasion by the Pastime in America's 250th year.

Two, it was exactly what host city Philadelphia deserved after its subhuman, pelting-Santa-Claus-with-snowballs fans booed everyone but the Phillies' Kyle Schwarber in the Home Run Derby.

But moving right along ...

Moving right along, it's on to the second half, and to an episode of ... well, I don't know what you'd call it. Harmonic convergence? Karmic transference? Sportsball cross-pollination?

Here's the deal: On July 1, the Boston Celtics traded Jaylen Brown -- Robin to  Jayson Tatum's Batman, or vice-versa -- to the Philadelphia 76ers for a washed Paul George and some magic beans. At the time, the Boston Red Sox were 11 games under .500 and dead last in the AL East.

Since the day of the trade, however, they've won nine straight games, and were the hottest team in the majors at the All-Star break. They've gone from last to third in the division, and are now just two games below water at 46-48.

So, Boston's basketball team trades a key player, and Boston's sorry-ass baseball team hasn't lost a game since. Honestly, what would you call that?

"Witchcraft?" you're saying now.

Clever. Way to work in the whole Salem thing.

"An interdenominational un-jinx?" 

Ooh. Good one.

"A mere coincidence?"

The un-sexy truth, perhaps.

See, the Jaylen Brown trade just happened to fall right before the schedule sent the Red Sox on a road trip, and not the sort of road trip where you get squashed on the center line like an armadillo. This was the other kind of road trip.

The kind where six of the nine games were against two of the worst four teams in MLB, the stinkin' Los Angeles Angels and the odiferous New York Mets. And so of course the Red Sox swept them both.

On the other hand, the other three-game set was in Chicago against the White Sox, who are no longer the What Sox but a slightly-better-than-.500 club that, owing to the "meh"-ness of the AL Central, are locked in a seesaw fight with Cleveland for the division lead. Still, the Red Sox swept them, too.

So three road series, three broom jobs. And 9-0 since the Jaylen Brown trade.

They ought to send the guy flowers. The Angels, Mets and White Sox could probably use some, too.

Tour de Obscure

 It's been a crowded hour lately in Sportsball World, what with the World Cup quarterfinals going head-to-head with the Wimbledon finals over the weekend, and this afternoon's mammoth France-Spain semi and tonight's MLB All-Star Game waiting in the wings. Also, did we mention the British Open starts in two days?

Well, it does. So, soccer, tennis, baseball (the Home Run Derby last night), more soccer, more baseball, and golf, all in the space of 96 hours or so. That's a heapin' helpin' of Big Sporting Moments and such.

I'm sorry, what?

What about the what?

Oh, right. There's also this bicycle thingy going on, over there in Europe.

It's the Tour de France, which once riveted the world's attention back when Lance Armstrong was cheating his glutes off, but now is the Tour de Obscure. Especially this year, with so much else going on, including NASCAR and the WNBA and professional cornhole.

The Tour these days ranks somewhere below the latter and just above professional pillow fighting (yes, there is such a thing) in the sports hierarchy, which is quite a comedown from the Lance mafioso era. Like, who are the top riders now? Does anyone remember what a peloton is ("An exercise machine?" you're saying now)? And who's wearing the leader's yellow jersey right now?

Well, that would be defending champion Tadej Pogacar, who's from Slovenia but somewhat less known than Luka Doncic, who's also Slovenian. Doncic is not another Tour de France-r. He plays basketball for the Los Angeles Lakers. You might have heard of him.

Anyway, Pogacar leads the Tour through nine stages, with a whole pile of stages to go. The winner of the ninth stage, by the way, was Mathieu van der Poel -- who is Dutch but is not  to be confused with other Dutchmen, like, say, Max Verstappen. Verstappen isn't a Tour de France-r, either. He drives a state-of-the-art F1 race car for Red Bull.

Perhaps you've heard of him, too.

Van der Poel beat out Tobias Johannessen from Norway and Tom Pidcock from Great Britain for the stage win, and, no, Tobias is not Erling Haaland, the towering Norwegian who became the breakout star of this World Cup. Nor does Pidcock's name spring as readily to English lips as Harry Kane or Jude Bellingham, who are gearing up to lead the Brits against Argentina in the other World Cup semi.

That happens tomorrow. Also tomorrow is the 11th stage of the Tour, a sprint through the Loire Valley.

If Pidcock wins it, all of England will rejoice.

Oh, wait. That's what will happen if Kane, Bellingham and England beat Lionel Messi and Argentina to reach the World Cup final. Sorry for the confusion.

Swing and a miss

 Saw an item on Awful Announcing the other day about a TV reporter in Knoxville, Tenn., missing a home run because he was reviewing a ballpark hotdog, and I thought, there but for the punishment of God went I.

Because, see, I was just a bit envious.

The reporter, Phil Stalzer, was at a Knoxville Smokies game, the Smokies being the Double-A affiliate of the Chicago Cubs. And he was reporting live on a foot-long hotdog called the Grinch Glizzy (it was "Christmas In July" night at the ballpark) when a player for the visiting Biloxi Shuckers smoked a monster home run.

The broadcast team elected to stay with ol' Phil, who kept right on talking about the Grinch Glizzy. Because, what the hell, it's the minor leagues, so why not?

Phil's laser focus on the job at hand is not why I was envious, however. I was envious because how come I never got to review ballpark hotdogs?

I scribbled about sports for almost 40 years as a professional, well, scribbler, and NOT ONCE did I get to write a review of a ballpark hotdog. I could have pulled it off, too, as someone who was somewhat conversant with ballpark 'dogs. But did my editors ever say, "Hey, why don't you review a ballpark hotdog"?

NO THEY DID NOT. 

And so this morning I'm harboring retrograde resentment toward said editors, although I say that with tongue firmly embedded in cheek. I mostly liked my editors, see. They let me scribble what I wanted for the most part, except when they were compelled to save me from myself.

But, man. Talk about a swing and a miss with the hotdog-review thing.

Had they turned me loose, I could have brought home the coveted Pulitzer For Hotdog Reviewing, a little-known category which I just made up. I could have written how my ballpark 'dog was a superbly grilled symphony of flavors, the onions and relish and mustard in perfect harmony with one another. I could have written about the 'dog's savory nose, and its subtle-yet-succulent finish.

Heck. I could even have branched out into other venues, and reviewed the Boiler Dogs at Purdue (excellent) and the 'dogs at Michigan Stadium (vile). And what's a comprehensive hotdog review without including the fabled Track Dogs at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway?

(And as a sidelight, the donuts from the Pennzoil room.)

Ah, but those days are done, and life's too short for regrets. I mean, I never got to review the strawberries-and-cream at Wimbledon, the mint juleps at the Kentucky Derby or those famous pimento-cheese sandwiches at the Masters, either.

Although I hear the latter are divine. Just divine.

Czech, and check

 Martina Navratilova, the grande dame of them all, was on hand, of course, sitting next to the Princess of Wales in the Royal Box. So was Petra Kvitova, in the same box. And crowding close, in spirit or in person, was a whole spangled lineage echoing down the years.

Because, listen, when was the last time two Czechs faced off in a Wimbledon women's final?

How about never?

So, yes, the Czechs were there yesterday, to watch their latest progeny ascend the heights. It was 21-year-old Linda Noskova against 28-year-old Karolina Muchova -- her former doubles partner -- for the women's singles title, and when it was over Noskova won 6-2, 5-7, 6-3. And there she was on Centre Court, lifting the Venus Rosewater Dish same as Martina and Kvitova and Marketa Vondrousova and Barbora Krejcikova and the late Jana Novotna before her.

The Czechs and women's tennis? Check.

Serena Williams remains the greatest women's player who ever sliced a forehand down the line, but no one nation has consistently produced more women's champions in the modern era than Czechia/the Czech Republic/Czechoslovakia. It begins with Martina, of course, but it's also all those who followed her and built on a proud legacy: Four-time major winner (and two-time Wimbledon finalist) Hana Mandlikova, and 1998 Wimbledon champ Novotna, and two-time Wimby titlist Kvitova -- whom Noskova idolized growing up, and referred to Saturday as "the Petra Kvitova."

And Noskova and Muchova?

They are good friends and former doubles partners who reached the semifinals in the Olympics just two years ago. Noskova gave a nod to that in the trophy ceremony, when she told Muchova she was happy it was Karolina on the other side of the net for Noskova's first grand slam final.

"I think we made history today," she said.

More like added to it.

A touch of irony

So the defending champs are through to the World Cup semis, and here's to irony and harmonic resonance, boys and girls. Argentina gets the Three Lions of England next, and everyone will again be talking about the bleep-bleep officiating.

In 1986, after all, it was an Argentina-England quarterfinal match that spawned the most famous illegal goal in World Cup history -- i.e., the Hand of God goal that Diego Maradona scored to send England to the sidelines yet again.

Maradona steered that one into the net with his left hand, but somehow the game officials  missed it. So the goal stood, and on Argentina went to win its fourth World Cup.

And last night?

Another World Cup quarterfinal. Another officiating gift for Argentina. And, irony of ironies, not because of something the officials missed, but because of something they thought they saw.

Which was Swiss striker Breel Embolo taking a dive.

Because Embolo had been nicked for a yellow card earlier in the match, it was an automatic red card and therefore expulsion. It left Switzerland to play a man short for the duration, and it happened in the 72nd minute -- five minutes after Dan Ndoye leveled the match at 1-1.

The Swiss kept it even into the second extra-time period, before Julian Alvarez cashed the winner in the 112th minute in an eventual 3-1 Argentina victory.

The irony wrapped in irony in this case was Embolo was sent off for -- as soccer calls it, rather splendidly -- "simulation." In Americanese, that means he took a dive. Which is almost never called in the beautiful game, and hilarious on top of it, given the scenery-chewing that's considered a matter of course whenever a player is jostled, tripped or otherwise falls down with the greatest of ease.

Down goes the player, in seeming agony. Rolls around for awhile, clutching his leg and screaming. Sometimes he really is hurt, and has to be helped off the pitch; sometimes, if the officials basically say "Get up, I'm not buying this," he hops to his feet, gripes a bit at the injustice of the world, and heads back into play, miraculously cured. 

Everyone does this, including Argentina. Everyone is a thespian and a salesman. So for someone to actually get called on it -- and for it to benefit Argentina, of all sides -- surely is the soccer gods saying, "Pull my finger."

Oh, they must have been having a good chortle, up there in Corner Kick Heaven. Except, of course, in the Switzerland section -- where, as befits the Swiss, they were not amused.

Anyway, it's on the semis against England, which slid through with its own pinch of good fortune. The gritty Norwegians and their endearing fans had a go-ahead goal disallowed, and spanked point-blank shots off crossbars and into the arms of the English keeper, and generally gave the Three Lions (and Jude Bellingham) all the breathing room they needed for a 2-1 win in extra time.

Could it be? Could the soccer gods be smiling on England at last, 60 years after it last laid hands on the World Cup?

Maybe. Or, maybe they're all huddled in a corner somewhere, giggling.

"OK, guys," they're saying. "Go get the Hand of God out of storage."