Portal, schmortal

 We're now officially a week into transfer portal season, and poor Scotty is busier than a one-legged Klingon in an arse-kicking contest. Guys are transporting down to New Planet U.'s surface so fast he's telling Captain Kirk the dilithium crystals are in danger of fusing, and wailing, in a mournful Scottish brogue, "I canna keep up, Captain!"*

(*Egregious, and horribly tortured, "Star Trek" analogy for today)

In more conventional terms, college hoopsters are zipping here, there and everywhere like there's no tomorrow. One prized portal-er is transferring to his fourth school in as many years. Alma mater, you say?

Alma Hardly Matters is more like it.

But you know where it still does matter?

Come on. Guess. This isn't that hard.

"Purdue?" you're saying now.

Ding-ding-ding!

Yes, Purdue University, where Matt Painter's Boilermakers just won 30 games and reached the Elite Eight with a team led by three seniors -- Braden Smith, Fletcher Loyer and Trey Kaufman-Renn -- who actually know the way to the student union. Stayed all four years, they did. Played in a national championship game. First Purdue players to do that since Rick Mount was filling it up from deep 57 years ago.

Know what else?

Those three seniors weren't outliers.

Comes now the news, see, that every one of Purdue's key returning players are actually, well, returning. Every ... single ... one.

 C.J. Cox, Gicarri Harris, Omer Mayer. Daniel Jacobsen, Raleigh Burgess, Jack Benter.  Maybe even Oscar Cluff if the NCAA grants him another year of eligibility, which doesn't seem likely at the moment.

Around them, Painter will add 2026 Indiana Mr. Basketball Luke Ertel. And the Ivy League Player of the Year, 6-foot-7 wing Caden Pierce from Princeton. And yet another 7-footer, Sinan Huan. And maybe a few other guys.

In other words, Painter will again have a roster cored by a pile of guys who won't have to wear nametags on the first day of practice. No, I don't know how he does it, other than building a culture to which young men want to buy in. Yes, it is as old-timey, here in the go-go-elsewhere 2020s, as peach baskets and canvas high tops.

"Yeah, but you can't win that way anymore," skeptics will say. "Or at least you won't be able to for long."

To which all the Blob will say is Painter's won 29, 29, 34, 24 and 30 games in the last five seasons doing it his way. So, you know, portal schmortal.

And ain't those peach baskets grand?

A Master(s) class

Okey-dokey, Smokey. Here's your assignment for today.

Imagine, if you can, that Rory McIlroy is not Rory McIlroy.

Imagine, instead, that he's Herb the claims adjuster, Mel the actuary or some other weekend warrior at Whispering Divots Golf Club And Breakfast Buffet.

Now imagine what Rory/Herb/Mel might have been thinking Saturday night, when he went to bed tied for the lead in the Masters at Augusta.

Oh, God. I just blew the largest 36-hole lead in Masters history, is one thing he might have been thinking.

I suck. Why do I suck? I don't know, but I suck, is another. 

I'm gonna get out there tomorrow, and I'm gonna choke. I'm gonna choke so bad that from now until eternity my picture will be next to the word "choke" in the dictionary, is yet another.

Except ...

Except Rory McIlroy is not Herb or Mel from Whispering Divots. So after blowing that six-stroke lead in the third round, he just went out and won another green jacket.

In so doing he became only the fourth man in history to win back-to-back Masters, joining some guy named Jack Nicklaus, and some other guy named Tiger Woods, and some other guy named Nick Faldo. Not a bad foursome to fill out.

Of course, Rory being Rory, ("I don't make it easy," he acknowledged), he didn't make it easy. He lost his piece of the lead two holes in, then regained it, then popped a double-bogey and a bogey to lose it again. Then he birdied a couple of holes, and suddenly he was leading at the turn.

After which he played Amen Corner in 2-under and the back nine in 1-under. Came to 18 with a two-shot lead, and -- after, of course, spraying his tee shot on 18 so far right it practically landed in Florida -- got it up and down for a tap-in bogey to seal it.

 This on a day when no one was quite good enough to catch him. Scottie Scheffler made a run but slid too many birdie putts past the jar and came up a stroke short. Collin Morikawa birdied five straight holes but was too far back and finished three strokes adrift. Ditto Tyrrell Hatton, who put up a glittering 66 but needed a 64 to tie.

Justin Rose, Russell Henley, Cam Young?

All had their moments. But not enough of them.

And so it was Rory again with a Master(s) class in composure, and with a final round eerily similar to last year's, when he kept taking the lead and giving it back and taking the lead again. Augusta used to torture him like that through all his long, dry years there. Now it tortures him just for old times' sake before saying, "OK, I guess you can put the green jacket on now."

Which suggests the place is getting soft in its old age. Not that Rory or anyone else would say so.

The weight of appearances

 By now I have seen the photos, which hardly makes me special. I mean, by now, every living soul in America has seen the photos -- including the President of the United States, probably, who's no doubt whipping up some harebrained executive order about it at this very second. 

The photos are of New England Patriots coach Mike Vrabel and New York Times NFL reporter Dianna Russini, allegedly gettin' cozy at a resort in Sedona, Ariz. In one of them they appear to be holding hands. In another they're hugging. In yet another, they're lounging next to one another poolside.

The photos hit the Great Intertoob Oz five days ago. A millisecond later everyone was Bob Beamon-ing to conclusions.

Which is to say they were assuming, from the photos, that Vrabel and Russini -- both of whom are married with children to other people -- were having a smoking-hot affair. OMG, look, Martha. They're sitting side-by-side at the pool! They must be boinking the living daylights out of each other!

Well ...

Well, here's what I'll say about that: Sometimes appearances deceive.

Both Russini and Vrabel said the idea they're engaging in Forbidden Love is ridiculous, and for once the Blob (which normally consumes salacious gossip with a big ol' spoon) is inclined to believe them. That's because, in all three photos, you can't see what's just outside the frame. You can't tell if or how the photos might have been cropped for maximum innuendo-y effect. 

"Oh, come on, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "Who would do THAT?"

Oh, I don't know. Paparazzi. Your Aunt Myrtle. The guy down the street who insists on cutting his grass at 7 o'clock in the morning; the other guy down the street who comes out of his house to threaten him with an epic beatdown.

In other words: Damn near everybody.

So, sure, the photos suggest a certain intimacy, and it's true Vrabel and Russini are close, a relationship that goes back to when Russini was an ESPN beat writer for the Tennessee Titans when Vrabel was the Titans' head coach. Both Vrabel and Russini, however, say they were at the resort with a whole group of people who hung out together. So there could have six or seven other people sitting with them poolside. Who knows?

Beats me. 

What I do know is this: The weight of appearances is heavy, especially here in the Age of Gotcha. Which is why, for a journalist, there's always been a razor-thin line between cultivating sources and getting too chummy with them.

That's never been more true than today, when the relationship between sporting events and the media entities that cover them is pretty close to incestuous. The SEC Network, for instance, is owned by ESPN. Fox owns 61 percent of the Big Ten Network. And so on, and so forth.

Just in case you were wondering why, say, Alabama-Ole Miss got top billing on SportsCenter.

And so here are Russini and Vrabel caught, deceptively or not, on camera. And here is the New York Times benching Russini in one of its typically random spasms of journalistic integrity.  And here endeth the lesson:

Never get too close to your sources. Never cross that thin, thin line.

A "birdie" for the ages

 They're moving into the weekend down at Augusta National, and so far the defending Masters champ has everyone covered. Rory McIlroy is at 12-under after stacking a 65 atop an opening-round 67, and he's six shots clear of the field. That's the largest 36-hole in Masters history.

Which means he's either headed for an epic rout of the field, or an epic collapse. It's the Masters, so it could go either way.

And speaking of going either way ...

Let's talk about Robert MacIntyre, the most unruly Scotsman since William Wallace.

Rory's the story but Robert gave us the signature moment of the tournament so far as he was defacing the game in the first round Thursday. The No. 8 golfer in the world sprayed golf balls all over the Hallowed Grounds, shooting an 80 that ensured he would miss the cut.

But it was what he did on the par-five 15th hole that made him immortal.

What he did was, he took a gruesome quadruple bogey after finding water twice and then flying his next ball over the green. And then ...

And then, as he was fleeing the scene, he flipped off the 15th green.

Yes, that's right, sports fans. Showed that bleeping-bleep 15th his middle finger. Birdied the hole after quad-bogeying the hole, so to speak. 

This, it was reported, will likely earn MacIntyre some disciplinary action, because apparently you just can't go around flipping off landscaping, at least Augusta. The best part of that is the PGA said it would defer any punishment to the Masters folks, a notoriously humorless lot when it comes to the sanctity of their tournament and golf course. Which of course gets the Blob's notoriously irreverent mind imagining what that conversation will be like ...

Masters Official Howard Buckingham Prescott III: Flipping off Augusta National! Why, how DARE he! I say we pour honey on him and let the fire ants have at him.

Masters Official Wilbur McKenzie Portmandeau IV: But not on the course. After all, it gets defiled enough every year by the common people. And besides, FIRE ANTS? My God, they'll be EVERYWHERE. Perish the thought.

Masters Official Montague Marcus Aurelius V: Oh, there's no call for something so melodramatic, Howie. I say we simply banish the Scottish whelp from the grounds forever. And we instruct our security team to shoot him on sight if he so much as comes within two miles of Magnolia Lane."

Prescott: Just two miles, Monty? When did you get so soft? I say if he steps foot IN THE STATE OF GEORGIA again, it's hollow-point time for the haggis-sucker. Send him back to the old country in sandwich bags. I'm sure we could get the governor to sign off on that.

Portmandeau: Oh, my.

Aurelius: Oh, dear.

Prescott: Well, we have do SOMETHING radical, do we not? Otherwise before you know it people will be peeing in Rae's Creek and saying vile things about the Sarazen Bridge,  and calling the azaleas -- dear God -- "just a bunch of bleeping flowers."

Portmandeau and Aurelius (in horrified unison): No! Not THAT!

Braggin ri- oops

 Those Michigan Wolverines, they've sure been walkin' tall this week. A fan base that's never been accused of thinking too little of itself  has taken its swagger to even more obnoxious heights than usual.

Why, lookie here, America, they're saying. We just won March Madness! And lookie HERE! Our hockey team's ranked No. 1 and favored to win the Frozen Four this weekend! That's two ... two ... two nattys in one!

Or, you know, something like that.

Anyway, the UM backers have bragging rights, and by golly they've been exercisin' 'em. The champion of buckets, and presumed champion of hockey. All their Gretzkys had to do was brush aside troublesome Denver in the semis and then probably No. 2 North Dakota in the national championship game, and--

Oops.

Did I say "brush aside troublesome Denver"?

Well, forget that.

Forget that, because troublesome Denver, those plucky Pioneers, upset the mighty Wolverines in double overtime last night, 4-3. Kent Anderson netted the winner 7:29 into the second OT. Michigan pelted Denver goalie Johnny Hicks with 52 shots, and Hicks said "nuh-uh" to 49 of them. 

Now it's the Pioneers who are on to the title tilt, and -- what's this? -- it won't be North Dakota they'll be playing. The Fighting Hawks got kicked to the curb by underdog Wisconsin, so it'll be a 'dog fight for the championship.

And Michigan?

A refresher course in what happens when you get too full of yourself: Someone will always be there to stick a pin in you and let all that excess helium go whooshing out.

But, hey. You still got Dusty May, Yaxel Lendeborg 'n' them, Wolverines. So party on.

Tinkly pines of azaleas

 The Masters golf tournament began this morning down in Augusta, Ga., and, no, Scottie Scheffler hasn't won it yet. Neither has Bryson DeChambeau, Jon Rahm, Rory McIlroy or any of the other favorites among the twee golf set, who live for these four days like no other.

Me?

I think it'll be tinkly piano music over a Cathedral of Pines and a bed of azaleas in a playoff.

No golf tournament, with the possible exception of the Open when it's at St. Andrews, trades on its flora, fauna and geography like the Masters. It's a lovely place, Augusta, enhanced by all those beauty camera shots CBS puts up to shove the loveliness right down America's gullet. It is, to coin a phrase, Nature Unlike Any Other. 

Also History Unlike Any Other (although not really, considering the Open predates it by about 75 years). Also Self-Reverence Unlike Any Other, and Ritual Unlike Any Other, and -- the Blob's personal favorite -- Mayhem Unlike Any Other.

Weird stuff happens at the Masters, especially on the back nine on Sunday. Greg Norman blows a six-stroke lead. Rory McIlroy hits a ball onto the Butler Cabin's front porch, or nearly so. Drives sail into the pines; irons splash into Rae's Creek; green jackets go sailing off with the angels because, on Augusta's marble-top greens, Ricky Joe Farnsworth IV breathed too hard on a putt and sent it skittering a mile past the cup.

Either that, or Rory finally wins the thing and spends the next 15 minutes alternately weeping and laughing. 

That happened last year -- and, listen, if it didn't suck you in, you must have had a soul-ectomy somewhere along the line. It is, after all, the kind of drama that keeps you watching even though it's golf, and that separates the Masters from your weekly Citibank Mutual of Omaha Rubbermaid Open.

And, hey: There's always a chance Scottie Scheffler won't win.

Or Rory. Or Bryson DeChambeau. Or Jon Rahm. Or -- let's see -- Xander Schauffle, Justin Rose, Ludvig Aberg, Colin Morikawa, Viktor Hovland or Cameron Smith. Or even some random A. Bhatia or S. Im.

And speaking of random ...

I'm putting my dimes on Maverick McNealy.

He's a 30-year-old pro out of Stanford who's 41st on the PGA money list right now, and I'm not picking him just because his name is Maverick McNealy. OK, so, that's mostly why I'm picking him.

 I mean, come on: Has there ever been a better golfer name than Maverick McNealy?

You think Maverick McNealy, you think the suave, sashayin' jerk the hero must vanquish in a Dan Jenkins' golf novel. You think Shooter McGavin from "Happy Gilmore". Heck, you think Happy Gilmore.

Maverick McNealy!

Start sizin' him for that green jacket now. You heard it here first.

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.