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."

A most soapy summer

 And now the latest episode of All My LeBrons, or The Guiding LeBron, or General LeBronpital, in which our hero breaks up with Laura, sending her into Luke's arms and making hope blossom in the breasts of Bam and Steph and Luke Kornet and who knows who all ...

Oh, it is a most soapy summer in the NBA, where 41-year-old LeBron James is a free man looking for one last place to steal his heart. 

Having broken up with the Los Angeles Lakers, in other words, where will LeBron land?

Steph Curry wants him with Golden State. Luke Kornet's pitched the Spurs. How about the Heat, where the Superfriends (LeBron, DwyaneWade and Chris Bosh) won a couple of titles?

Will the siren song of home again pull LeBron back to Cleveland for an auld lang syne closing of the circle?  What about the 76ers, where LeBron, Joel Embid, Tyrese Maxey and just-acquired Celtics star Jaylen Brown could be Superfriends II? Or the Timberwolves, where he'd team up with Ant (Anthony Edwards)?

Tune in, I don't know, sometime for the dramatic conclusion!

Or better yet, check out tomorrow's script, which the Blob has acquired through not at all nefarious means:

(Fade in on LeBron's palatial mansion. He and Steph Curry are having an intense confrontation)

Steph: But ... but ... you said we'd be together! You and me, the dynamic duo! That's what you said!

LeBron: Now, wait a minute, I never said that.

Steph: Yes, you did! 

LeBron: No I DIDN'T. I said we made a good couple. I never said we'd be THE couple.

Steph: So there's someone else! I knew it! Who is it? It's Embid, isn't it? Or ... or ... that trashy slut Ant! And don't think I haven't noticed you making goo-goo eyes at Cleveland! Really, LeBron? You want to go back to that well AGAIN?

LeBron: Look ... Steph ... this is a big decision. But no matter how it turns out, we'll always be tight, won't we? You know I have nothing but respect for you, brothe--

(Rustling noises and whispers from behind the closet door)

Steph: What's that? Who's in there, LeBron?

(Strides over and flings open the door. Staring back at him, slightly embarrassed, are Embid, Ant, Bam Adebayo from the Heat and Donovan Mitchell from the Cavaliers)

Steph: HA! I KNEW it! Why, you degenerate piece of crap! Sorry to interrupt your little bro-fest, 'Bron! Look, Mitchell's even wearing your old Cavs jersey, the little hussy!

(Stomps out, sobbing)

LeBron: STEPH!!

(He turns to the four men behind the door. Opens his mouth to say something. Fade to black)

What will he say? What will he do? Tune in tomorrow for the next thrilling installment of "Days Of Our Young And Restless LeBrons"!

Row, row, row your boat ...

 OK, so it's official now. I'm rooting for Norway from here on out in the World Cup.

And, no, not because I like movies about Vikings. And, no, not even because of the series "Vikings," although Ragnar Lothbrok probably would have been a hell of a striker.

I'm rooting for the Norwegians because they've never gone this deep in a World Cup, and I have a weakness for underdogs.

I'm rooting for them because, OK, I love the Viking boat-rowing thing the team and its fans do after every win. And because Leif Erikson, not that poser Christopher Columbus, is the European who really discovered America. And because Erling Haaland is a real-life Ragnar Lothbrok who can do things with his feet and head that probably aren't legal in most developed nations.

And because tomorrow, in the quarterfinals, the play England, Harry Kane and Jude Bellingham and them. Nothing against those fine lads, but I can't root for England. Not on the 250th anniversary of us kicking their limey asses out of our country. 'Merica!

Besides, England hasn't won a World Cup in 60 years. Why mess with tradition?

Anyway, I hope Erling Haaland gets five touches tomorrow and scores on three of them, which seems to happen fairly often. I hope Norway gets another chance to bring out the drum, have a designated player bang on it, and have the team and its fans pull on those imaginary oars in response. It's been the best celebratory deal in the World Cup outside of the Belgium players pantomiming that weird dance President Donald John "I'll Poke My Nose In Where It Doesn't Belong If I Feel Like It" Trump does at campaign rallies.

Their way, I guess, of saying "Nyah-nyah, nyah-nyah-nyah" after Donald John leaned on FIFA chief Gianni Infantino to get American star Folarin Balogun reinstated for the Belgium match -- and the Belgians took the USMNT apart like a cheap toy anyway, 4-1.

Any-hoo, I imagine Norway doing something similar should it continue its underdog run by knocking out the Brits. Maybe they'll form a circle and sing that one song about rowing ...

Row, row, row your boat

Gently down the stream.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,

Life is but a dream OF BEATING THE BRAKES OFF THE BLOODY ENGLISH ...

Or, you know, something like that.

Grandstand plays

 Oh, goody gumdrops. Our elected nitwits are comin' to rescue Caitlin Clark from the vile clutches of ... well, you know. Those people.

(And, no, we don't have to clarify who "those people" are. The dog whistles, especially from one side of aisle, aren't so dog whistle-y anymore. Fearless Leader has made it OK to say it right out loud.)

This upon the news that congressional Republicans have sent the WNBA a letter, signed by 11 reps including three from right'chere in Indiana, basically threatening to sic the Justice Department on it if it doesn't do something about protecting Caitlin Clark from, well, those people. Meaning the "violent targeting" they see when poor Caitlin gets fouled hard or winds up catching an elbow, a knee or even a fist while scrambling for a loose ball.

Which, you  know, never happens by accident.

It's all by design, and all by Those People -- i.e., those mean black lesbians who are picking on Caitlin because she's white and hetero, and whom our esteemed nitwits have no problem calling "thugs," no matter the racial shading of that term. 

"Republicans have consistently led the charge on protecting women's sports ..." the letter begins.

After which I had to stop reading for awhile because I was laughing too hard.

Look. As the Blob has pointed out many times before, it's almost always the Olympus of folly for politicians to comment on/meddle in the affairs of Sportsball World, because what most of them know about it you could fit in Jiminy Cricket's hat. This of course does not stop them from commenting/meddling, because there's no one so bulletproof-sure of his or her knowledge of all things as a politician.

Besides, whenever they do comment/meddle, it always reeks of political opportunism -- or as it's also known, "massaging the base." Which for the Republicans these days regrettably includes a not inconsiderable number of bigots, white supremacists and assorted other knuckleheads.

The congressional letter/gangster threat ("You got a real nice league here. Don't make us send Legal Brief Luca Brasi after you") courts all of the above, with its characterization of Clark as some of sort of great white hope under attack from the woke  mob. It's yet another meringue-and-fairy-dust narrative whipped up to keep the bigots, white supremacists and assorted other knuckleheads voting the right way.

Problem is, Caitlin Clark, who actually does know something about Sportsball World, won't play along.

The other day she released a statement about the whole Alyssa Thomas affair -- in which a still photo of Thomas' fist against Clark's neck got the congress critters all riled up -- that essentially told Congress to mind its own damn business. She wasn't some damsel in distress who needed rescuing, and she for sure didn't want to be the critters' latest political hobby horse.

She even defended Thomas, who, after the Flagrant 2 foul on Clark,was subjected to a blizzard of threats and racist garbage.

"As I've stood up here and said before, the harassment, the hate, none of that is OK," Clark said. "That goes for the opposing teams we play, that goes for my teammates, that goes for my coaches."

She also said the officiating in the WNBA needs to improve, which she correctly identifies as the problem here. Not mean black lesbians ... not "violent targeting" ... not the "woke mob." 

Of course, if you're a politician looking to make a grandstand play, that doesn't leave you much to go on. Can't justify taking time out from doing what you were elected to do -- legislatin', serving the people, boring stuff like that -- if it's just basketball we're talking about.

And, sorry, boys and girls, but it is.

All that "violent targeting" the grandstanders referred to in their letter?

Boil it down to the kernels, and it's jus defenders following the book on Clark -- i.e., getting physical with a player who doesn't like being defended physically.

It's lousy officiating that lets the physicality get out of hand way too often.

And it's, yes, Clark's habit of turning virtually every bump or contact into a Shakespearean deathbed scene.

Know how I know all that? And know why I suspect this political grandstand play is just another craven pitch to the worst elements of the Republican base?

Because not long ago, Isabelle Harrison of the Toronto Tempo was issued a Flagrant 2 and ejected from a game for violently throwing another player to the floor. It was as egregious as anything to which Caitlin Clark has been subjected, except this time the victim wasn't Caitlin Clark.

It was Angel Reese of the Atlanta Dream -- a black player often vilified by the usual suspects because she tends to say what she thinks.

You'll therefore be unsurprised to know her mauling didn't spark a letter from our elected nitwits. Make of that what you will.