Goin' all in

 A few thoughts this morning about the seismic news from IndyCar, which I realize isn't seismic at all to any Blobophile who's not a gearhead, which is most of them.

("Oh, lord, car racing AGAIN? Ugh," Most Of Them are saying).

Anyway, the seismic news is that Scott Dixon, the greatest IndyCar driver of his generation, is leaving Chip Ganassi after 24 years, 59 wins and six championships to join Arrow McLaren next season. Ditto Indianapolis 500 winner Felix Rosenqvist, who's leaving Meyer-Shank Racing to don McLaren's papaya livery.

Along with front man Pato O'Ward, that fills McLaren's three-car lineup next year, with Ryan Hunter-Reay coming on board as a one-off for Indy. 

"Wait, what about Christian Lundgaard?" you're saying.

(OK, so you're not. I'm saying that.)

But what about Christian Lundgaard?

That's a legit question, because Lundgaard's 24 years old and just coming into his own as a major talent. He won the Indy Grand Prix back in May; he's actually two spots ahead of O'Ward in the points (third vs. fifth); and Sunday he finished right on O'Ward's tailpipes as McLaren went 1-2 at Mid-Ohio.

Curious timing for this sort of shakeup. So what gives?

Was Lundgaard  becoming just a bit too good, challenging O'Ward's primacy on the team? Was O'Ward starting to feel threatened by that, or Lundgaard by O'Ward's tight relationship with team principal Tony Kanaan? Did team CEO Zak Brown see a budding conflict there that might split Arrow McLaren into rival camps, and wreck the cohesion that is every successful team's signature?

Maybe. Possibly. Could well be.

In any case, Lundgaard is out (along with Nolan Siegel) and Dixon and Rosenqvist are in. Two seasoned veterans to back O'Ward, two proven winners on the IndyCar circuit, and -- no small thing -- two men with a wealth of engine and program development experience. How valuable in particular will Dixon be, both as an iconic presence and someone with more than two decades of R&D experience at one of the premier IndyCar outfits?

So in that sense, the shakeup makes sense. Lundgaard notwithstanding, it's clearly an upgrade on the track -- even if Dixon, at 45, is in the late twilight of his run. You can read all this in a number of ways, but certainly a few are obvious.

One, the Papaya is going all in to win Indy, because Zak Brown wants to win Indy. Like, really, really wants to win Indy.

Two, in Dixon's case, this is a legacy deal.  He is, after all,  a New Zealander coming home to the team founded by the godfather of New Zealand motorsport, the late Bruce McLaren. It's unlikely Dixie would have left Ganassi for anyone else.

And three?

Three, Zak Brown really, really wants to win Indy. Or did I say that already?

Meanwhile, at Wimbledon ...

 You've probably never heard of Arthur Fery, but that's OK. Hardly anyone else has, either.

But yesterday, on the hallowed Wimbledon grass (and by this stage of the tournament, the threadbare Wimbledon grass) he did something no player representing Great Britain had ever done: Knocked off Grigor Dimitrov in five sets to become the first British wild-card in the modern era to advance to the Wimbledon singles quarterfinals. 

Scores were 7-5, 3-6, 4-6, 6-4, 7-6, the second five-set win in a row for a guy who'd never before won a five-set match. And once again he had to stage a miracle comeback to do it.

Against Zizou Bergs last weekend, he trailed 4-1 in both the fourth and fifth sets before pulling it out. Then, on Monday, Dimitrov, leading the match two-sets-to-one, had Fery down a break twice in the fourth set before the irrepressible Brit clawed his way back.

Not bad for a 23-year-old who's ranked 114th in the world and had, until this fortnight, had won only two grand slam matches in his career.

He made his Wimbledon singles debut as a wild card in 2023, and he's been ranked 114th for barely a week. It's the highest he's ever been ranked.

Something else: He's actually not British. He's French.

He was born in Sevries outside Paris to Olivia and Loic Fery; his mother was a professional tennis player herself. But as a child he attended King's College School in London, and later played collegiately at Stanford. And he plays for Britain internationally.

So, good on you, French/British guy. You're the best 2026 Wimbledon story not named Naomi Osaka, who just upset top-seeded Aryna Sabalenka on the women's side.

You go, mon ami. Or mate. Or whatever.

Karma. Curses. Reality.

So, okey-dokey, then. That's that.

Belgium 4, USA 1, and welcome to big-boy soccer, you striving Americans. 

Belgium 4, USA 1, a certified butt-kicking -- Adjusted NFL Score: 49-7 -- and a reality check for the Americans, who captivated the host country with some smart, sharp and at times even elegant play for four magical games on its own soi.

In the end, though, it was the same old World Cup saga for the USMNT, which came up as flat, tentative and occasionally brainless as so many American sides before it. And in arguably its biggest match in history.

So, yes, reality. And with maybe some karma and a curse of two thrown in.

Karma, because the U.S. team got one of the keys to its offense back thanks to one of FIFA's notoriously shady backroom deals, this one involving a behind-closed-doors call from the Meddler-In-Chief, President Donald John "Everything's My Business" Trump. We'll likely never know what threats were made or sleazy deals agreed upon by Fearless Leader and FIFA boss Gianni Infantino, but suddenly Folarin Balogun was magically unsuspended.

Curse, because once again Fearless Leader poking his nose in proved very bad juju. First F.L.'s in the house for the New York Knicks' only loss in the NBA Finals; then he intercedes on behalf of the USMNT and it turns in its worst performance in memory against a superior and -- let's face it -- supremely pissed Belgian side.

It may not be true, as Fearless Leader's harshest critics say, that everything he touches turns to kaka. But it certainly tries real hard to.

In any case, the jacked Red Devils all but erased Balogun, who was a non-factor, and exposed the helpless American backline again and again. The signature of the night happened in the 57th minute, when American keeper Matt Freese inexplicably came completely out of the box to play a long clearing ball, hesitated, and had his pocket picked by Charles De Ketelaere, and Hans Vanaken was there to collect the ball and fire it into the all-but-open net.

That jumped a 2-1 Belgian lead to 3-1, and essentially ended the Americans' tournament. Romelu Lukaku's easy stoppage time goal was simply piling on.

Karma. Curses. Reality.

FIFA gonna FIFA

 The rules are clear, and the penalties severe.

-- Former IHSAA commissioner Gene Cato

You're darn tootin', Commissioner Cato, God rest your soul.

In eight humble words you laid out succinctly what law and order means in Sportsball World, and whether you came up with the words yourself or swiped them from someone else doesn't matter, at least to me.  You're the guy I'll always associate with them.

The rules are clear, and the penalties severe. Yessir.

Except ...

Except now here comes FIFA, the international ruling body for soccer, to say, "Weeelll ..."

Remember last week, when USMNT star Folarin Balogun was red-carded for cleating a Bosnian player in the round of 32?

FIFA declared him automatically suspended for the Americans' round of 16 match against Belgium, because that's the penalty for a red card. There would be no appeal, FIFA said. Balogun was out.

Altogether now: Weeelll ...

Suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, FIFA announced Balogun was NOT suspended. Well, he was, but the suspension was being suspended for a year. So tonight he'll take the pitch for the stars-and-stripes after all.

Befuddlement, bumfuzzlement and bewildered outrage (from the Belgians, justifiably) followed. And on the heels of that, resigned acknowledgment of international soccer's basic reality.

Which is, FIFA gonna FIFA.

It's the master of chronic inconsistency, among other things. Several of which are, how shall we put it, not altogether kosher.

 You'll be unsurprised, for instance, to learn the Balogun reversal apparently followed a phone call from President Donald John "Let Me Insert Myself Into Stuff That's None Of My Business" Trump. Donald John asked FIFA president Gianni Infantino if FIFA could perhaps review the Balogun matter. Infantino, of course, has been shamelessly smooching the presidential hindparts for months. And so ...

Well. Far be it from me to raise an eyebrow of suspicion. Far be it from me, also, to suggest there might have been threats (You got a real nice World Cup here. Be a shame if something happened to it) and/or some sort of sleazy quid-pro-quo involved. Probably not -- but considering who we're talking about, you're certainly allowed to wonder.

And this Balogun business?

You're allowed, also, to be conflicted about that, because the red card he was issued was a horrible call. So if you're looking at the world through red-white-and-blue glasses, FIFA's reversal was simply justice being served. It even had precedence: Last fall Portguese icon Cristiano Ronaldo got a three-match sitdown for elbowing an opponent in the head, but FIFA decided to suspend two of them so Ronaldo wouldn't miss Portugal's World Cup opener. 

And yet ...

And yet: The rules are clear, and the penalties severe.

Until they're not.

Until one of the World Cup host countries is involved, and it's pouring Niagaras of cash into FIFA's pockets, and backroom dealing is that organization's preferred business model.

To retierate: FIFA gonna FIFA. And did, once again.

Hotdoggery

 I managed to scarf down two hotdogs (with relish and mustard) yesterday on our nation's 250th birthday, which means I did my patriotic duty, I suppose. It also means I came up 64 'dogs short of Joey Chestnut, Indiana native and the Michael Jordan/Babe Ruth/Tom Brady of competitive eaters.

Chestnut won his 18th Famous Nathan's Hotdog Eating Contest by shoving 66 'dogs and buns down his gullet, and they really ought to just retire the belt. He beat the field by 16, and it doesn't seem as if anyone's going to remotely challenge him in the near future.

I do wonder something, though, besides the fact only in America do we have something so bizarre and clueless as eating contests. The significant chunk of the world that's starving must regard it as such, anyway.

No, I just wonder what Joey's digestive tract must have felt like after the 66-'dog invasion. Especially because it was dryer-vent weather yesterday in New York, with a high of 93 under an equatorial sun, and a heat index of 105 or so.

So perhaps it's just my imagination, but I didn't think Joey looked all that triumphant standing there in the sun. He managed a smile when they presented him with the Nathan's belt, and even raised his fist to the crowd. But mostly he looked like a guy who was about to ralph.

On the other hand, appearances can sometimes deceive. Maybe he was just digesting.

The meek (almost) inherit

 Let's hear it today for plucky little Cape Verde, and fierce little Paraguay, and, heck, all the underdogs out there on a weekend that, in a sense, is a celebration of underdogs.

After all, who were those plucky 13 colonies if not the underdogs of underdogs?

Whipped the greatest army on the planet thanks to the French and the bullheadedness of George Washington, who'd never admit he was beaten even when he was beaten. Finally Lord Cornwallis, the big dope, got himself penned up at Yorktown, and the British said, "Ah, to hell with it" and went home.

The Cape Verdeans and Paraguays didn't quite manage that. But they sure made the royalty sweat, just like Washington 'n' them.

The Verdeans, tiniest nation in the tournament and this World Cup's most heartwarming story, were supposed to get crushed by Lionel Messi and Argentina after reaching the knockout phase in their very first World Cup. Instead the Blue Sharks were tied 2-2 with the Argentinians at the end of regulation and stoppage time, and didn't fall until the 111th minute, when Cristiano Romero's header glanced off Verdean defender Diney Borges for the 3-2 winner.

It was a wrenching way to lose, but had it not happened, the match could have easily progressed to PKs. And who knows what happens then, because PKs are an absolute lottery.

In any case, Cape Verde did their teensy island nation proud, coming thisclose to pulling off what would have been one of history's greatest upsets. Think the Miracle on Ice and you're on the right track.

 And Paraguay?

It had no chance against France's offensive juggernaut, but it roughnecked its way to a 0-0 tie until Kylian Mbappe (who else?) untied it in the 70th minute. The French survived on that lone score, 1-0, and everyone from Le Havre to Marseille likely expelled a shaky breath of relief.

So good on both of them, the Blue Sharks and the La Albirroja of Paraguay may not have inherited the earth, but it was a good two days for the meek, anyway. Raise a glass.

American Reset

 The other day someone I'm close to called the American flag a "MAGA flag."

Pretty much sums up where we are as a nation on our 250th birthday, doesn't it?

We are America the fissured, America the appropriated, America the For Me But Not For Thee. Patriotism is defined by the harshest and most clueless voices; as William Butler Yeats observed, "The best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity."

And, yes, some people look at the American flag and think of it as a MAGA flag, because that species of American has wrapped itself in it and covered their front lawns with it and turned it into hideous sports jackets and sparkly Spandex and who knows what all.

The great irony, of course, is that those who most loudly (and garishly) proclaim their lover for 'Merica are frequently those who understand it the least. They have claimed if for their own, yet are vandals of its history. What they know of it is only what our current Vandal-In-Chief tells them -- and never mind his own famously tenuous grasp of the American story.

Enough. On this Independence Day, I'm declaring my independence from all of that. I'm going to take my small American flag and put it on the lamppost, and I don't give a tinker's damn what anyone thinks that says about me. 

Because it's not about their smug assumptions. Nor is it about the arrogance of the vandal/patriots and their haughty claims that only they know who is a Real American and who is not.

To hell with all of them, and to hell with their ignorance. It's not for them I'm putting out that humble little American flag today.

I'm doing it for John Adams and Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin and James Madison, with whom I share a birthday.

I'm doing it for the men who launched this great experiment, which has somehow survived 250 years despite its contradictions and moral conundrums and its occasionally cotton-headed leaders.

I'm doing it for Harlon Block and Ira Hayes and Michael Strank; for Franklin Sousley and Harold Schultz and Harold Keller. They're the six men who raised the flag on Iwo Jima. Three of them never made it off the island.

I'm doing it for all of those who never made it off their own islands in defense of America, and for those who did but who remain there in heart and mind. I'm doing it for the 1st Minnesota at Gettysburg, for the 101st Airborne at Bastogne, for the Marines who took Belleau Wood. For Bloody Nose Ridge on Peleliu ... and Bloody Lane at Antietam ... and LZ X-Ray in the Ia Drang valley.

Who else am I doing it for?

I'm doing it for John Glenn and Gus Grissom and Gordo Cooper. For Alan Shepard and Wally Schirra and Malcolm Scott Carpenter. For Borman, Lovell and Anders ... and Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins ... for all the star voyagers, past and present, who've gone into space wearing an American flag patch, and who sometimes died wearing it.

I'm doing it for the strivers, the entrepreneurs and the smartest people in the room, all of whom came from somewhere else. For Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse and Tecumseh and Little Turtle, who did not. For the Irish and Italians and Germans and Eastern Europeans -- and, yes, for the Somalis, the Haitians, the Hondurans, the Venezuelans, on and on. 

To say one group or other doesn't belong here misses the entire point of that flag and the  country it represents -- even if at one time or another some of the most ardent flag-wavers have said it about all of them.

Today I put out that flag not for them, and not for the distortion of America they represent. I'm putting it out there to honor the America that has survived them and untold other idiots for two-and-a-half centuries. I'm putting it out there not only for the Great Experiment, but for the Great American Reset it has always made possible.

Happy Fourth, everyone. Enjoy the beer, the hotdogs and the potato salad, and try not to blow off any appendages.