Hearing footsteps

 The person you most do not want to be today is named Kim Caldwell, who coaches women's basketball at the University of Tennessee. At least, you know, presently.

I say "presently", and also say Caldwell is the person you most do not want to be, because she is the new president of the Waiting For The Other Shoe To Drop Society. Or the Waiting For The Phone To Ring Society. Or the Hearing Footsteps Society.

See, it's not just that she coached one of the most illustrious programs in women's college buckets to levels of mediocrity not seen since the late, great Pat Summitt was driving the team bus and personally washing its uniforms half a century ago. It's because the program has all but deserted her.

Know what the Volunteers' roster looks like, on this eighth day of April?

It looks like incoming freshman Gabby Minus.

That's it. That's the entire roster right now.

Everyone else has either graduated, hit the transfer portal or -- in the case of  Oliviyah Edwards, the No. 2 recruit in the SC Next 100 class of 2026 -- requested a release from her national letter of intent. Every ... single ... one.

I don't know about you, but this would make me a trifle nervous about my future in Knoxville, if I were Kim Caldwell. After all, young women used to crawl over broken glass to play at Tennessee. Now they're fleeing Knoxville like it's in fire.

Now, losing your entire roster, it must be said, doesn't always mean Coach is about to get an anvil dropped on his or her head. Roster upheaval is just part of the landscape now in the age of the unrestricted transfer portal. No one, for instance, is thinking Darian DeVries occupies a hot seat at Indiana simply because another roster turnover seems imminent in Bloomington.

Of course, DeVries is still getting his feet under him, having just completed his first year at IU. Not even the delusional Hoosier fan base is calling for his scalp quite yet.

So you could argue it's a tad melodramatic to portray Caldwell, who just completed her second season in Knoxville, as dangling from a fraying rope. But it's harder to make that play after the season the Vols had in Caldwell's second crack at it.

A preseason top-ten pick, Tennessee went 16-14 and lost its last eight games. The Vols lost by 30 to former nemesis UConn in February, the second-worst loss in program history. They lost seven games by 15 or more points. One of those was a 76-61 first-round loss to North Carolina State in the NCAA Tournament.

It was only the third time in 44 years they'd lost in the first round of the Madness.

So, yeah. Maybe Kim Caldwell dangling from a fraying rope is not so melodramatic.

Nor is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or waiting for the phone to ring. Or hearing footsteps.

A champion for these times

 The Michigan Wolverines are your NCAA men's basketball champions, and, listen, no carping from Statler and Waldorf up there in the peanut gallery. This is how it's done now, in the Transient Twenties. You can either get with the program, or continue to mourn the death of the set shot and basketballs with laces.

I say this because the Wolverines were sneered at in some quarters as store-bought, which wasn't entirely untrue. Almost all their key parts, after all, came from somewhere else: Aday Mara from UCLA; Elliot Cadeau from North Carolina; Morez Johnson Jr. from Illinois; and the piece that fused all the others from UAB.

That would be Yaxel Lendeborg, gimping around out there on a shaky knee he injured in Michigan's 18-point leveling of Arizona in the national semifinals. He scored 13 points in the title game but wasn't anywhere close to 100 percent -- which is probably why Michigan only beat UConn by six, 69-63.

But back to this store-bought business.

The rebuttal to that is, who isn't these days?

Yes, Michigan was a collection of vagabonds, but with few exceptions (cough, Purdue, cough) almost everyone is. Did Lendeborg, Mara, Johnson and Cadeau get NIL dough from Michigan's deep, deep pockets? Of course they did. Did they also transfer to Michigan because they were promised, and got, something they weren't getting elsewhere?

What do you think?

Look, even that paragon of the old school, Robert Montgomery Knight, didn't win his third and last natty until he broke his longstanding embargo on junior college transfers. And, yes, that's not quite the same, but in a way it's exactly the same. Because just as he wove JC transfers Keith Smart and Dean Garrett into the IU system in 1987, Dusty May -- a student manager in Knight's program way back when -- wove Mara, Johnson, Cadeau and Lendeborg into a cohesive whole 39 years later.

He took Lendeborg and made a first-round NBA pick out of him. He took Mara and Johnson, the two big men, and turned them loose. And he took Cadeau and standout freshman Trey McKenney and molded them into a devastating backcourt.

It was almost exactly the way Cori Close built UCLA into the juggernaut that won the women's title 24 hours earlier. Like May, Close had a pile of NIL money to spread around. And like May, she susequently built her team around two homegrowns -- Kiki Rice and Gabriela Jaquez --  and a core of transfers: Lauren Betts from Stanford, Gianna Kneepkens from Utah, Charlisse Leger-Walker from Washington State and Angela Dugalic from Oregon. 

 In other words, both Close and May took a lot of disparate pieces and figured out the best way to fit them together. And isn't that what every good coach at every good program has done since ... well, since there were laces on the basketballs?

And so raise a glass to the Wolverines, the best team in college basketball for a good part of the season and now its champion. They're the first Michigan team to win a natty since Glen Rice. Rumeal Robinson and Steve Fisher 37 years ago, and the first Big Ten team to win it all since Mateen Cleaves, Tom Izzo and Michigan State in 2000. 

Champions for those times, Fisher's Wolverines and Izzo's Spartans. And now, a champion for these times.

Bragging rights of a fashion

 UCLA's women utterly demolished a good South Carolina team yesterday to win the national championship, and good on the Bruins.

Good on Lauren Betts, the indomitable 6-7 center. Good on Gabriela Jaquez, who had the game of her life (21 points, 10 rebounds, five assists, one steal). Good on Kiki Rice and Gianna Kneepkens and Charlisse Leger-Walker, and head coach Cori Close, who at last grabbed the ring after 15 years in Westwood.

Their championship banner will fly now with all the others in Pauley Pavilion, and if there's any harmonic convergence in all that, it's that 10 of those banners hang there because of John Wooden. Who didn't win his first national title at UCLA until he'd been there for 15 years -- or, in Wooden's case, 16.

Of course, the Big Ten can't claim bragging right rights for any of Wooden's titles. It can, sort of, for Cori Close's.

In fact, if the Michigan men roll over UConn the way they did over Arizona the other day, the Big Ten will be able to claim utter dominance over college hoops, sort of. They'll have BOTH the men's and women's championships in their barn.

Sort of.

"Why do you keep saying 'sort of', Mr. Blob?" you're saying now.

Because ...

Well, because the Blob is old. And cranky. And stubborn. And doesn't hold with newfangled .... stuff.

See, nothing against UCLA, but in Blob World it's not a Big Ten school, even though it's a Big Ten school. Yes, technically, I suppose, the Big Ten can claim the women's title as its own. But to cranky stubborn geezers like me, no way, because UCLA will never be a real Big Ten school.

Neither will Oregon, Washington and USC, fellow refugees from the Pac-12. Or Rutgers. Or Maryland. Or even Nebraska, although the Cornhuskers at least fit the geographic and cultural footprint.

I know, I know. And nothing will ever be as good as Atari, Betamax and eight-track tapes, either.

But I can't help what I can't help, and I can't help thinking it's kind of cheating for the Big Ten to claim the women's title, and -- if what happens tonight is what I think will happen -- to lord it over everyone as King of Buckets. I mean, how can big an achievement is that, really, if  half the major schools in the country are Big Ten schools? The odds will always be in your favor, to quote "The Hunger Games."

"Wow, you're quoting 'The Hunger Games' now?" you're saying. "How modern of you."

Yeah, well. I'm not that much of an antique yet. At least occasionally.

This, however, is one of those occasions. On this, I'm as antique as your grandma's lace doilies. On this, I am hopelessly, irrevocably lost in the past.

Bragging rights for the Big Ten?

Of a fashion, it says here. But only of a fashion.

A vote for Mee-chigan

 Ah, those clever Wolverines of Michigan. They've got me painted into a corner, the rascals.

Last night in the national semifinals they disposed of the team I told everyone was the best still standing -- Arizona -- like the Wildcats were a used tissue. Led wire-to-wire, the Wolverines did. Led 10-1 2:26 in. Led by double digits at the 5:31 mark. Won by 18, 91-73.

It was Arizona's third loss of the season. Its other two were by four and three points, respectively. 

And so, on to the national championship game tomorrow night. And here's where Mee-chigan has me hog-tied.

Waiting for the Wolverines, you see, will be UConn, which held off Illinois 71-62 in the other semifinal. It will be the Huskies' third trip to the title game in four years. They scooped nattys in the other two.

I devoutly hope they don't scoop a third in 36 hours or so.

This is because the Huskies are coached by Dan Hurley, a terrific coach but also a singular asshat. Most of America agrees with me on that, I think. And so most of America, I think,  will be rooting for Michigan -- including me.

Which is the problem here. Because I've never been overly fond of Michigan, either.

I think they're snobby. I think they think they're better than everyone else, always going on about the Big House and what-not. I think maize is not a color, dammit. It's a vegetable.

And so when Michigan fans call it "maize-and-blue" when they're actually dressing in yellow-and-blue?

I think they just sound pretentious.

On the other hand ...

On the other hand, I really like their basketball team.

I like the way they play. I like the way their coach, Dusty May, coaches. I also like the fact he's NOT an asshat, but a classy guy with a great basketball mind and an ironclad work ethic.

Know where Dusty was during the first half of the UConn-Illinois semi, for instance?

He was sitting courtside like an ordinary Joe, scouting both teams. 

I like that.

I think focus like that deserves to be rewarded. I think not being an asshat deserves to be rewarded. I think, for one night, I can call yellow "maize."

OK. So, no.

I mean, there are limits. There just are.

The Zen of the sideline

  Saw Geno Auriemma and Dawn Staley holler at each other last night after Staley's South Carolina crew knocked Geno's UConn squad out of the women's Final Four, and, listen, boys and girls. I'm tellin' you right now you've got it all wrong.

You think Geno was acting like an ass because he was all mad his undefeated, defending national champion UConns got derailed on their presumed march to a second straight title.

You think Staley was acting like an ass because, by god, she wasn't gonna get yelled at without yelling back.

Nah, nah, nah. They were just practicing the Zen of the sideline.

They were just letting out all that emotion before it gave them an ulcer the size of Neptune. They were, as the saying goes, Releasing Stress. Nurturing Their Mental Health. Finding Inner Peace.

"'Finding inner peace'?" you're saying now. "What does a basketball coach behaving like a  platinum-grade jerk have to do with inner peace?"

Well, it's because you don't understand the Zen of the sideline. Which is different from your normal Zen. 

In your normal Zen, see, you find your center, your balance, through meditation and quiet reflection. In the Zen of the sideline, you find it by letting your inner asshat run free so it doesn't upset that center/balance. It's a pretty simple concept, really.

"So when Bob Knight threw the chair, he was in fact merely practicing this Zen of the sideline?" you're saying now.

Yes.

"And when Gene Keady used to get so upset he'd rip off his jacket and throw it on the floor, same deal?"

Yeppers.

"And when UConn men's coach Dan Hurley -- who's a total buttwad, by the way -- yells and screams like his diaper's wet, he's merely centering his balance or balancing his center or whatever?"

Indeed.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, Mr. Blob."

Yeah, well. Whatever floats your boat, pilgrim.

Oops. I mean GO JUMP OFF A CLIFF YOU IGNORANT BLEEPING-BLEEP BLEEPING-BLEEPER!

Ah. Much better.

Cruds alert!*

(* -- i.e., not a normal Cruds alert.)

No, this Cruds alert is to alert you to the fact that Konnor Griffin, baseball's Next Great Superstar If My Pittsburgh Cruds Don't Screw Him Up, makes his MLB debut today in Pittsburgh's home opener. And I for one am extremely excited/extremely nervous.

I'm extremely excited because by all accounts Griffin, a shortstop who's still just 19 years old, could be the greatest Pirate since Roberto Clemente.

I'm extremely nervous because ... well, because he is a Pirate, aka a Crud.

Which of course means bad stuff could befall poor Konnor, catastrophic stuff, like forgetting how to play baseball. I don't think this will happen, but as someone who's followed my Cruds for the last 34 years of supreme Cruddiness, I never count my Ws until they're buried in an avalanche of Ls.

Or, you know, something like that.

In any event, Konnor Griffin is apparently the best prospect oldtimers have seen in years. He stands 6-foot-3 and weighs 222 pounds, and he can hit, hit with power, run, field and rescue puppies from fires. He went though A-ball and Double A last summer like a Kansas tornado (or rather, Mississippi, which is where he's from), batting .333 with 21 home runs and 65 stole bases in 122 games. And in five games this season Triple-A Indianapolis, all he's done is bat .438 with three doubles and three stolen bases in 21 plate appearances.

So, yes, we can hardly wait, we uncrushable Crud-ables. If Griffin's half what he's supposed to be, Primanti Bros. will name a sandwich after him. Yuengling will introduce a super-hoppy IPA in his honor. Konnor's Korner will become a thing, and even diehard Steeler fans will have to admit baseball might not be the wuss sport they thought it was.

Heck. With Konnor out there hittin', hittin' with power and stealin' bags, the Cruds might actually emerge from decades of Cruddiness and become the Pirates again, a real for-sure major league baseball team. 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "This Griffin dude may indeed prove to be Clemente with a dash of Pops Stargell and a pinch of Al Oliver, Manny Sanguillen and Rennie Stennett, but the same doofuses still run the show there. If they can trade him away for a sackful of magic beans, they will.

"I mean, we fear and loathe any mention of your stupid Cruds, as any sane person would. But let's not get carried away."

Sorry. Too late.

Blast(-off) from the past

Watched Artemis II rise into the heavens on a pillar of smoke and flame last night, and I was six-almost-seven again. Which is a nifty trick considering how far up in years I am these days.

It was the first rocket launch I've seen in eons, and it was on both TVs above the bar in my usual hang. And as I watched -- as everyone there watched -- that inner 6-year-old came roaring up from the depths, looking on with all the old wonder.

It wasn't 2026 anymore, suddenly. It was 1962, and the tech boys in mission control were saying "Godspeed, John Glenn," and the guy every 6-year-old in America wanted to be was riding a tin can into immortality.

Made three orbits, John Glenn did, while every system in the tin can slowly failed. When the heat shield warning started blaring, the tech boys decided to bring him down, hoping against hope the damn thing stayed on and Glenn didn't return to earth a cinder.

He didn't, of course. And a certain 6-year-old sitting in his living room on the southeast side of Fort Wayne became a gold-card space program fanboy.

I followed every launch after that, as the 6-year-old turned 7 and then 8 and finally 14. When Gordon Cooper made the last Mercury flight, I went out in the backyard to see if I could spot him flying over (I couldn't). I watched Ed White walk in space and Gemini 6 and 7 fly mere feet apart and Gemini 8 dock with the Agena (and then nearly kill Neil Armstrong and Dave Scott). 

White, Chaffee and Gus Grissom? Yeah, I was as shocked as anyone when they were killed in that Apollo 1 flash fire. Borman, Lovell and Anders? Damn straight I sat up late on Christmas Eve in '68 to watch the featureless gray of the moon's surface slide beneath Apollo 8, while the three of them read from the Book of Genesis.

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep ...

And then Frank Borman, giving the benediction: 

And from the crew of Apollo 8, we close with good night, good luck, a Merry Christmas -- and God bless all of you, all of you on the good Earth.

Seven months later, I stayed up late again to watch Neil Armstrong take that one small step for a man. Got deathly ill overnight. Underwent surgery the next day so the docs could yank out my hot appendix.

Needless to say I'll never forget Apollo 11. As if I would have anyway.

No, I'd remember Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins, and Alan Shepard, and Wally Schirra and  Malcom Scott Carpenter and Deke Slayton. And also the three Apollo 13 guys, Lovell, Swigert and Haise. And the crews of the Challenger and Columbia shuttles, God rest their souls, and now the crew of Artemis II.

Who are mission commander Reid Wiseman, Victor Glover, Christina Koch and Jeremy Hansen.

Godspeed, gentlemen and lady. Godspeed.