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, 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 even really dog whistles anymore. Fearless Leader has made it OK to be as loudly and proudly offensive as you like these days.)

This upon the news that Republicans have sent the WNBA a letter, signed by 11 congress critters 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 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 on/meddle in, it always reeks of partisanship and cozying up to the base. Which for the Republicans these days regrettably is contaminated by a not insignificant 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 blatant characterization of Clark as some of sort of great white hope under attack from the woke (black lesbian) 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 usual suspects and 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 damn sure didn't 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 the problem here. Not too many 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" is just defenders getting physical with a point guard -- the engine of the Fever offense -- who doesn't like being defended physically.

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

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, but 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.

Of course, that incident didn't spark a letter from our elected nitwits. Make of that what you will.

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.