The Narcissism Bowl

 We're now in week whatever of America's new favorite game show, "The Pittsburgh Steelers Held Hostage," and what have the Steelers won, Johnny Olsen?

"A NEW CAR for driving around looking for Aaron Rodgers!" Johnny cries.

Uh, no.

"A TWIN-ENGINE BEECHCRAFT AIRPLANE for flying around looking for Aaron Rodgers!" Johnny warbles.

Try again.

"A DELUXE STEEL-TOED BOOT to kick Aaron Rodgers' ass when he finally shows up!" Johnny serenades.

Now you're gettin' warmer.

Now you're gettin' what the Steelers must be feeling but not saying these days, with minicamps underway and the NFL beginning its long post-Draft run-up to more minicamps, and then training camp, and then, at last, the Hall of Fame Game between a bunch of future NFL cuts against a bunch of other future NFL cuts.

So where's A-Aron, that rascally old drama king?

Well, still unsigned. Still MIA. Still a 42-year-old whisper in the wind after not showing up in Pittsburgh last weekend despite all the chatter that he was going to. More smoke without fire, while the Steelers insist everything is fine, no worries, Aaron's going to be here and WHAT THE (REALLY BAD WORD) IS ITWITH THIS (DIFFERENT REALLY BAD WORD) GUY?

Well ... the Packers could have told you. Ditto the Jets.

This is Aaron making it about him, as usual. He's the MVP of the Narcissism Bowl, and the Narcissism Bowl is a semi-yearly event.

He'll play. He won't play. He'll sign. He won't sign. He'll show up ... eventually.

Word on the street this time (according to Mike Florio Pro Football Talk) is that Rodgers wants an out clause that would free him to go to a quarterback-needy team of his choosing should the Steelers decide he's had it. In other words, he wants a guarantee that the team would simply release him if it ever decides to bench him.

This would apparently safeguard him from being picked up by any old team on the waiver wire, if the benching happened before the trade deadline. 

In any event, the Steelers' quarterback room is now Will Howard, Mason Rudolph and rookie Drew Allar of Penn State, whom the Steelers drafted all of three weeks ago. Mike McCarthy's new coaching staff is working hard with all three, just in case A-Aron decides to hell with it and retires. He is, to reiterate, 42 years old.

In the meantime, Aaron continues to be, well, Aaron. Only difference from all the other times he was Being Aaron is he's not really Aaron anymore, but just an old guy trying to play the same games without the status he used to have.

Oh, he had a decent season last year, throwing for 3,322 yards and 24 touchdowns against just seven interceptions. But he threw 16 of those sixes in the first seven weeks; in the last 10, he threw just eight. His season QBR of 44.4 ranked 23rd in the league.

So, yeah. Not the Aaron of old; just the old Aaron.

Playing the same young man's games with management he used to be able to play with some justification. Now, it's just annoying.

Or, you know, just Aaron. Same diff.

Two deaths

 A couple of men passed from this earth too soon this week, and they had two things in common. 

One was basketball. The other were their demons.

This bears some explaining.

Brandon Clarke, one of the men, was just 29 years old when police found him dead from an apparent drug overdose in California. Clarke was a reserve forward for the Memphis Grizzlies of the NBA, an apparently joyous young man whose bright life, and career, had been darkened by one injury after another.

At some point, again apparently, the drugs got their hooks in him. The story is an old and bloody one: A young man succumbing to a demon whose appetite is never sated, and whose legacy of death and ruin stretches to infinity.

And the other man?

His name was Jason Collins, and he, too, was once an NBA player, and still young in the way we measure such things. He was just 47 when the brain cancer he'd been battling for a year killed him, well short of his full complement of years.

And his demon?

Its name is bigotry, and it belongs not to Collins but to those who pass along its sting. Yet it is as old and bloody as Brandon Clarke's, and every bit as potent, given that it hangs out these days in the corridors of power where laws are passed and our meanest impulses no longer skulk in the shadows.

Jason Collins, see, was the first openly gay player in the NBA. Came out 13 years ago in Sports Illustrated, before Pride Months and rainbow flags and the pushback that has made anti-gay prejudice almost chic in America's more reactionary precincts.

You see it most nakedly in the hard-right states, where "Don't Say Gay" laws prohibit educators from so much as breathing the word "LGBTQ+" in a classroom -- even high school classrooms where students struggling with their sexuality already feel isolated and shunned. You see it anywhere a rainbow crosswalk gets painted over, or a rainbow flag is declared verboten, or anti-gay pronouncements are heralded as Christian virtue.

This is not, I believe, the prevailing zeitgeist in this country, founded as it was on the principle of individual freedom. But it's no outlier, either. That's because the bigots hold the levers of power at the highest levels, and thus own the loudest megaphone.

It's OK now, they all but say, to talk about gays and transgenders the way the German Reich talked about Jews in the 1930s -- i.e., as threats to a wholesome and vibrant nation. It's regarded as noble, or at least admirable, to push for laws aimed at effectively shoving the LGBTQ+ community back into the closet where (the narrative goes) it belongs.

In 2013, Jason Collins said "Aw, HELL, no" to that sort of poison. One wonders if, at the end of his life, he felt any dismay that the gay/trans community still had to keep saying it in 2026.

And if perhaps, just perhaps, it is even harder to do so now.

Qual folderol

 No one escapes the Indianapolis Motor Speedway in May without tradition holding a pillow over your face. It grows like crabgrass and creeper vines around the old joint, ancient artifacts from a dig site that's 117 years old, and from the most venerable motor race in the world, which turns 110 this month.

You know all the traditions, if you've ever visited. The yard of brick? Sure. The bottle of milk? You bet. "Back Home Again In Indiana" ... "Gentlemen, start your engines" ... Thirty-three cars coming to the green in 11 rows of three?

Check, check and check.

Well. Apparently we can now add another to the pile: Qual Folderol, or Jacking Around With Indy 500 Qualifications For Fun And Profit. 

The other day, see, an item popped up on one of the TV news channels about 500 qualifying. It said the qualification procedures were being changed for this weekend.

"Again?" I yelped.

Yes, again. Apparently, because there aren't enough entries for bumping to occur, there won't be any bumping. So all of us who were just getting used to the previously revised schedule now have to wrap our heads around another revised schedule.

Previously, Saturday would determine the fastest 12 qualifiers, and on Sunday those 12 would qualify again to determine the Fast Six. Then the Fast Six would each get one crack at the pole late in the day. Also, the slowest four qualifiers would run again for spots in the last row, with the slowest winding up "bumped."

Now?

Well, take a deep breath. This could get a little exhausting.

On Saturday, qualifying will commence at the traditional 11 a.m., and run until 5:50 p.m. At that time positions 16 through 33 will be set.

The remaining 15 qualifiers will advance to Sunday, with the fastest nine locked into the Top 12 qualifying session. The remaining six will have one shot at the last three Top 12 spots in something called the Final 15 qualifying session.

Then it's on to the Top 12 session, from which will emerge  the Fast Six, who'll make the official run for the pole at around 6:30.

Confused yet?

"Gee," you're saying now. "Sounds kinda like NASCAR's playoff system." 

And just look how popular that is with the NASCAR hardcores.

Anyway, all this tinkering and reworking and re-reworking is a desperate attempt to make 500 qualifying a hit again, and it's a relatively new phenomenon. For years and years, after all, qualifications for the Indianapolis 500 were as immutable as sunrise: The first day was Pole Day, the last day was Bump Day, and in between were two days to fill the field. Four days across two weekends.

But times change. Circumstances change. The old ways became the Jacking Around ways.

Two weekends of qualifications became one when not enough entries showed up to make two weekends viable anymore. Bump Day become bump-less for the same reason. And all those six-figure crowds for qualifications went away after the race cars were powered down and the track record -- 30 years old this May -- was no longer in play.

Thus the Month of May became the Fortnight of May, especially after IndyCar and the Speedway decided to squeeze another race into the month. And the Jacking Around commenced.

Excuse me. Continues to commence.

God bless tradition.

Superstition 1, Slump 0

 We all have our superstitions. It's how the rational mind takes a breather every so often.

For instance: Way back in the Before Time, when people frequently died trying to drive faster than the other guy in machines often ill-suited to the purpose, green race cars were considered a herald of doom. Ditto peanuts. Ditto women in the pits. And you never, ever,  wanted to drop your racing helmet.

Well, time and circumstance knocked a lot of that into a cocked hat. Jim Clark came to Indianapolis in a hunter-green Lotus and left everyone choking on his exhaust. Stock cars swaddled in Reese's logos showed up at Daytona, and the gates of Hell do not open beneath them. Janet Guthrie came along and Sarah Fisher and Danica Patrick, and the racing gods did not hurl any lightning bolts to strike down the blasphemers.

So, yes. Superstitions are silly. Even baseball, where it's not just in the movies that stealing Jobu's rum is very, very bad.*

(*Obligatory "Major League" reference)

Case in point: Cal Raleigh of the Seattle Mariners.

Who hit, like, a million home runs last season, but who came to Tuesday mired in an 0-for-36 slump. Couldn't hit a lick. Swung and missed, mostly. If baseballs had vocal chords, they'd have been chanting "Nyah, nyah, nyah-nyah, nyah" as they scooted past his suddenly impotent bat.

Well, Raleigh had had quite enough of that. So you know what he did?

On Monday night, he took a postgame shower fully clothed.

 Marched into the spray wearing all his catcher's gear. Said the idea came from Seattle pitcher Logan Gilbert, and Raleigh decided it wasn't all that crazy considering ... well, considering oh-for-36.

"Logan gave me some good advice to wash off the bad mojo or juju from the baseball gods," Raleigh said.

I know, I know. Silly.

But you know what?

On Tuesday, Raleigh had two base knocks to end the slump. Pair of singles. First hits since April.

Something to think about the next time you're tempted to steal Jobu's rum. 

Not that you would, of course.

Cruds alert*

 (*Pittsburgh Pirates sold separately).

Checked out the latest MLB standings yesterday, and I'll be bumfuzzled. We're 12 days into May, and the Chicago What Sox are in the thick of a pennant race.

OK, so it's only a divisional race, and it's only the AL Central, the used car lot of divisions. And the What Sox are still two games under .500 at 19-21.

But that puts them second in the division, just 1.5 games behind Cleveland. And 19-21 is way better than their record on this date a year ago, which was 12-29.

So, yeah. This Cruds Alert is not about cruds, but who aren't right now.

That would include the Homeless A's, who are playing in Sacramento these days but aren't allowed to tell anyone. That's why they're only identified as "Athletics" in the standings.

But big deal, because "Athletics" are leading the AL West by two whole games.

Yeah, they're only 21-19, and everyone else in the division is underwater. Which makes the AL West the slightly newer used car lot just down from the other used car lot.

But, still. It's May 12, and they're No. 1! Huzzah!

"So who are the actual Cruds these days, Mr. Blob?" you're saying now.

(OK, so you're not. Just employing what we writers like to call a "literary device". Also known as "cheating.")

Anyway, the actual Cruds might still be the Colorado Rockheads, who astonished all of baseball with their epic Cruddiness a year ago. They're dead last in the NL West, 8.5 games behind front-running San Diego. At 16-25, they're the worst team in baseball not named the New York Mutts, er, Mets.

And yet ...

And yet, the Mutts-er-Mets ARE a game worse. And the Rockheads are waaay better than they were a year ago on this date, when they were 7-34 after losing to the Texas Rangers. And right now they're just a game out of next-to-last in the division, nipping at the heels of the San Francisco Giants.

So, you see? Even in Crudsville, hope springs eternal.

Well ... maybe not eternal. But you get the gist.

By their own petard ...

 ... hoist.

That sums up the Indiana Pacers' weekend, pretty much.

When last seen they were losing Tyrese Haliburton to an exploding Achilles heel in Game 7 of the NBA Finals, and then losing Haliburton and everything else for the 2025-26 season. With Halliburton gone, the mojo was gone, and their elevator was Down Only, carrying them to a 19-63 record.

Which put them in the draft lottery.

Which they decided to put up for grabs for a fistful of magic beans.

OK, so it was Los Angeles Clippers center Ivica Zubac. Who's kinda good -- better than magic beans, anyway -- but they also gave up Bennedict Mathurin for him, which seemed an awful lot to pay when you add the possibly-sacrificing-a-lottery-pick factor.

"Hey, what could happen?" the Pacers' brain trust must have said.

Of course, that was when they figured they had a better-than-even shot at that lottery pick.

The deal was this: All the Pacers had to do was get their ping-pong ball/envelope pulled in the top four, and they'd hang onto the pick. If their number was called before that -- fifth or lower -- the Clippers would get the pick.

Well, you know what happened. The lottery got down to No. 5, and, hey, look: It's your Indiana Pacers!

Which of course meant the Clips got the pick, and the Pacers got ... clipped.

Lots of folks in Pacers Nation were saying it wasn't right, it wasn't fair, not after a 19-63 season that had to be worth ... well, something. But, nah. They played their way into the lottery, and then they got zippo. 

No lottery pick, which means no first-round pick. They were out, finished at Faber.

"Why do we have such lousy luck?" Pacers Nation presumably wailed.

To be immediately followed by:

"Why is our front office so dumb?"

Because, listen, bemoan cruel fate all you want, but the Pacers are squarely at fault for what happened last weekend. Who gambles with a lottery pick? No one. Or, at least, no one with the sense God gave floor wax. 

And surely not when the prize is Ivica Zubac and not, say, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

That's no knock on Zubac, understand. But his game wasn't worth a lottery pick.

Almost compels you to ask what Pacers president Kevin Pritchard 'n' them were thinking. If the answer weren't so obvious, that is.

Those darn vibes

The Knickerbockers of New York swept the 76ers of Philadelphia out of the NBA playoffs yesterday by 30 points, 144-114. It concluded a four-game beatdown of a team that came into the series having won three straight itself to  knock the Boston Celtics out of the playoffs.

And now, God help me, I'm starting to get these vibes.

Willis Reed vibes. Dave DeBusschere vibes. Walt "Clyde" Frazier vibes.

Please, Lord. Stop me before history kills me again.

Because, look, I know, this is utter folly. Comparing these Knicks to those Knicks? The legendary Knicks? The NBA champion Knicks? What am I, nuts?

Don't answer that.

Anyway, what got me hearing echoes of Willis and Dave and Clyde 'n' them is what the Knicks have doing so far in the playoffs, which is go through them like Patton through Europe. Swept the Sixers. Beat Atlanta in six games in the first round, booting the Hawks by 51 points in Atlanta in Game 6. 

In the last three games in that series, they won by 16, 29 and 51.  That's a a 96-point combined victory margin if you're keeping score at home.

Oh, and that win yesterday?

 The Knickerbockers led by 24 at halftime, having made 18 threes by that time. That tied an NBA record for most triples in a half.

Also, the 30-point win means they closed out their first two series by a combined 81 points. Both on the road.

That's "holy shite" and "omigod" if you're keeping score at home.

"Does this mean you think the Knicks are going to win it all?" you're saying now.

Oh, heavens, no. They're the Knicks. They'll find a way to crush New York's soul, same as always. And, besides, do you REALLY want to hear celebrity Knicks fan Stephen A. Smith if his guys win it all?

Good lord. He'll be hollering for weeks.

However ...

However, the vibes keep coming. 

Suddenly I'm looking at the way these Knicks distribute the basketball, and it's starting to look like the way Red Holtzman's Knicks distributed the basketball. Is that Jalen Brunson out there, or Clyde? Is Karl-Anthony Towns starting to resemble Willis? And who's DeBusschere in this scenario, Mikal Bridges or OG Anunoby?

By the way, did you know the Knicks' average margin of victory in the playoffs so far is 19-plus points? Which is the largest margin of victory since the playoffs expanded to 16 teams 43 years ago?

 Nineteen points! Why, that's almost 20 POINTS PER GAME.

Please. I'm begging you.

Somebody hit me over the head and bring me to my senses. Now.