The first superstar

 Saw on the news the other day that Bob Pettit passed, and it's OK if you don't know the name. He may have been the NBA's first superstar, but no superstar has ever been more cursed by his time and his circumstance than the 6-9 backbone of the old St. Louis Hawks.

Pettit died in his native Louisiana at the full-to-the-top age of 93, but back when the world was young no one in the still-infant NBA could stop him. He was Jordan and LeBron and Kareem and Bird all in one, and he did MJ and LeBron and Kareem and Bird things.

A star at LSU, he played 11 seasons in the NBA , was an All-Star in every one, and was the All-Star game MVP a record four times. In 1956, he was the league's first Most Valuable Player. And in 1958, in Game Six of the NBA Finals, he scored 50 points to beat Red Auerbach and the Boston Celtics and clinch the Hawks' only title.

No one scored 50 points in a game those days, long before the advent of the three-ball and the NBA's current addiction to it. That was an MJ sort of deal. It was a Kobe or Steph or even a Shai Gilgeous-Alexander sort of deal.

All of whose names you know, of course. But maybe not Bob Pettit's.

That's because he played his entire career in a small Midwestern market before ESPN, before FS1, before Apple TV and Prime and Peacock and all those choke-a-horse TV deals.  Before the NBA went global. Back when even the NFL was an afterthought.

So he toiled mostly in obscurity, and that's a damn shame. Because by the time Bob Pettit retired after the 1964-65 season, he was the NBA's all-time leader in points with 20,880. He was second in rebounds with 12,849. For his career, he averaged 26.2 points and 16.2 boards and was the first big man to play a good share of the time facing the basket.

In other words, for his time, he was a singular talent. The problem was his time was not this time, or even the time when he retired. Because by the time he took his bows in '65, the nation was starting to notice the pro game -- largely, of course, because of Red Auerbach's Celtics.

Bob Pettit never got in on that, playing when he did and where he did. More's the pity.

Chicago ... Chicago ...

 ... that toddlin' town ...

And now you're saying this: "'Toddlin'?' 'Toddlin'?' What the heck does that even mean, Mr. Blob?" 

Hell if I know. Hey, I didn't write the song. But that's the song, so stop whinging and nitpicking and just sing it loud and proud, OK?

Sing it loud and proud, because yesterday, the Chicago Cubs clinched a playoff spot with a W over the woeful Miami Marlins. Also yesterday -- on the EXACT SAME DAY -- the Chicago White Sox clinched a playoff spot, too, with a W over the woeful Kansas City Royals.

You know how many times both Chicago baseball teams have made the playoffs, in all of the long and mythology-spangled history of our once-upon-a-time national game?

Three times. And they never clinched on the same day.

First time it happened was in 1906, when the southsiders upset the northsiders in an all-Chi World Series. It was an entire century plus two years before it happened again, in 2008. And then it happened again in the Covid-shortened 2020 season.

And speaking of the White Sox in particular ...

Know how many times a team coming off back-to-back-to-back 100-loss seasons has made the playoffs?

Not once. Not ever. No even when the Brooklyn Eckfords were tooling up on the New York Mutuals or something back in the 1860s.

The Pale Hose lost 106 games in 2023, but they were just getting started. In 2024, they lost more games than any team in the history of the modern game, going 41-121 and finishing an astounding 51 1/2 games out of first in the AL Central. They followed that with 102 losses last season.

So three years, 329 losses. But this season?

Well, the Sox are 82-77, one game behind the first-place Cleveland Guardians in the AL Central heading into the last weekend of the season. So it's conceivable -- not probable, but conceivable -- they could win or tie for the division title, one year after finishing dead last, 28 games out of first.

In 2025, the southsiders won 61 games. At 82 heading into the weekend, they're already 21 games better than they were a year ago -- and an astounding 41 better than just two years ago.

A 41-game improvement in two seasons? Last place by 51 1/2 games to the playoffs? Who does that?

Your Chicago White Sox, that's who. In like Flynn with their northside rivals.

Toddlin' town, indeed.

Cruds alert!*

 (*Not really)

We're in the last week of the regular season in Major League Baseball season, and exciting news, fans of a team none of you care about: The Pittsburgh Not-Really-Cruds-Anymore Cruds at NOT going to finish last in the NL Central this season.

No way, Vandelay. With five games left in the season, they're four games up on the fourth-place Cardinals and seven games up on the cellar-occupyin' Reds. It'll take a collapse of Cruddian proportions for them not to finish third in the division.

Third in the division! And you thought they were doomed when Paul Skenes unaccountably lost his mojo this summer.

(And, no, I don't know why Skenes suddenly became ordinary. I don't know why Pittsburgh immortal Steve Blass suddenly couldn't throw a strike, either, six months after pitching the Buccos to the 1971 World Series championship. Pitchers are just weird.)

Anyway, the Cruds are no longer Cruds, but good honest Pirates again. And you know something else?

"No, and we don't want to," you're saying now.

Well, TOO BAD. Imma tell you anyway.

With five games to go, the Bucs are three games north of .500. This means (once again absent a major fold job) they're going to finish with a winning record for the first time in eight years.

Last time it happened was in 2018, when they went 82-79 and wound up fourth in the Central. It's been a full decade since they finished higher than that; they were third in 2016.

And now?

Third again. Probably.

Makes me want to pull my Roberto Clemente jersey out of the closet and slip that puppy on. Yessir.

A few brief thoughts on NFL Week 2

 And now this week's edition of The NFL In So Many Words, the excruciatingly formulaic Blob feature of which critics have said "God, this is so excruciating!", and also "Formulaic? I got your formulaic right here, pal":

1. "God, this is so excruciating!" (Commanders quarterback Jayden Daniels, after going down with a dislocated elbow)

2. "Ditto!" (Bears quarterback Caleb Williams, after going down with a hamstring injury)

3. "Ditto!" (Giants quarterback Jaxson Dart, after going down with a sprained meniscus)

4. "Hey, what about me?" (Colts wide receiver Alec Pierce, who injured his left heel and is expected to miss several weeks)

5. Meanwhile, A-Aron Rodgers!

6. Did not get hurt. He and the Steelers merely got paved by the Patriots and Drake Maye -- who did not get hurt, either, and better yet did not throw three picks again.

7. In other news, the Ravens lost to the Saints, the Eagles barely survived the Titans and the Browns beat the Buccaneers in Tampa.

8. "What th--?" (Ravens fans)

 9. "Expletive, expletive, what th--!" (Eagles fans)

10. "Oh, come ON! The BROWNS??" (Buc fans)

A tale of two ... weeks

 So remember this time last week, when folks in Chicago were saying "Daaang, these boys are gooood," and folks in Indianapolis were saying "Daaang, these boys are baaaad"?

We thought we were SO SMART. We thought, one game into a season that lasts until judgment trump, that Da Bearz were gonna go through the NFC North like poop through a goose. And we thought the AFC South was gonna go through the Colts like ... well, the same.

See what happened yesterday?

The Bears lost at home to the Minnesota Vikings, 9-3, and Caleb Williams popped a hammy. Seven days after turning the end zone into a campground -- Fifty-nine points! Are you KIDDING me? -- they couldn't find the end zone with search planes and a GPS. Six City became the Forbidden City. It was the starship Enterprise with its shields up.

 And that was before Williams went down like a shot on a scramble. Which didn't happen until there were, what, six minutes or so to play?

So they went roughly 54 of the 60 minutes with their star quarterback pulling the trigger, and instead of 59 points, they generated one lousy field goal. How does that happen?

"Because the Vikings are really, really good?" you're saying now.

Come on. They beat the Bears with Carson Wentz, for pity's sake. Try again.

"Well, it was raining and all," you're saying.

In other words, it was Bear Weather. Try again.

"Weeell ..."

Well, nothing. This was a football team that looked like the king of the world a week ago looking like Dennis the Peasant from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." From the Lady of the Lake holding aloft Excalibur to a watery tart throwing swords in seven short days.

(If you don't get the latter, look up the Dennis the Peasant scene online. It's my favorite.)

Anyway, the whole business should remind us that in the NFL, it's always Not For Long, as Jerry Glanville used to say. Fifty-nine points one week become one lonely field goal the next. One week you're the windshield; one week you're the bug.

And speaking of bugs ...

Here's another example of the NFL's capriciousness: Your Indianapolis Colts.

Who last week got so smooshed by the windshield -- i.e., the visiting Baltimore Ravens -- the home fans were booing them before the first quarter was over. The offense was "meh," putting up 23 points and 251 yards. The defense looked like Larry, Curley, Moe ) and eight other guys who couldn't tackle Lamar Jackson.

Final score: Ravens 41, Colts 23. The ugly details: Lamar 'n' them racked 506 total yards and almost eight yards per play. The equally ugly conclusion: Eight-and-nine, here we come again.

Exactly one week later, I turned on my TV and saw DeForrest Buckner sacking Patrick Mahomes.

"What th-?" I said, along with most of America.

"What th-?",, indeed. The same team that was so odiferous in Lucas Oil Stadium last week was in Arrowhead, giving Chiefs Kingdom all it wanted. The Horsies didn't win, of course -- come on, that would have been too much even for the NFL -- but it took overtime for Mahomes and the Chiefs to finally put them away, 33-30.

"Does this mean the Colts are NOT looking at another 8-9 season?" you're saying now.

No, it doesn't mean that at all. After all, the same names -- Chris Ballard and Shane Steichen -- are still at the top, even though Colts owner Carlie Irsay-Gordon has put them on double secret probation. There are still 15 games for them to start breaking stuff again.

"But is it possible they could make the playoffs for the first time since 2020?" you're saying.

Sure, it's possible. It was also possible Dr. Jack Miller the Racing Dentist could have won the Indianapolis 500 back in the day. But probable?

Well. After last week and this week in Chicago and Indy, I'd say all bets are off on that one. And on pretty much every other one, too. 

In the meantime ...

Let's see what happens this week. 

And the week after that.

And all the weeks after that.

Fight night!

 Hardly anyone was watching, one presumes, but the best fight of the night Saturday did not happen in the octagon or a boxing ring or even on various football fields in various college towns across America.

No, it happened in Bristol, Tenn. Where NASCAR ran the annual Bristol night race while America was watching Ole Miss beat LSU and Notre Dame tool up on Michigan State.

 What happened was Carson Hocevar and Ryan Blaney were going around and around, and then Hocevar either got under Blaney or Blaney came down on Hocevar (opinions vary). At which point Hocevar turned Ryan into the wall with the classic Bristol Tap on his left rear quarter panel.

Not long thereafter Blaney came after Hocevar in the pits, and they threw down. Well, Hocevar did, anyway. 

Seriously, check this out. That's some straight-up Mike Tyson/Joe Frazier stuff right there.

And, sure, lots of people think Hocevar is is a punk-ass b**** and Blaney's a solid citizen who was raised right, which means the good guy didn't win this time. However ...

However, Blaney's been around the barn a few times, and that includes Bristol. So he should know as well as anyone that what happened Saturday night wasn't a particularly glaring bit of villainy. It was just Bristol.

The Bristol Tap? Shoot, Dale Earnhardt pulled that stunt a million times. Ditto countless others. You squeeze 43 cars into that small a space, people are gonna run into each other, sometimes deliberately and sometimes not.

Hocevar swears it was the latter. The proper response to that is "Sure, Jan."

(Gratuitous "Brady Bunch" reference)

And Blaney?

He just caught the wrong end of it this time. In more ways than one.

Hotty Toddy ...

 ... and all that jazz.

Final score from Oxford, Miss., where The Grove broiled under a merciless September sun until it gave way to hectic, sweaty night: Ole Miss 32, Lane Kiffin 24.

Wait, did I say "Lane Kiffin"?

I meant LSU, of course. Although you might have been forgiven for thinking otherwise.

You might have been forgiven because The Return of the Prodigal Son (known in some quarters around Oxford as "The Return of the Prodigal S***head") was the storyline to Ole Miss-LSU, whose rich history of football enmity became merely garnish for the main course this time around. This time it was all about LSU coach Lane Kiffin, last seen winging away from Oxford on an LSU charter, trailing less-than-good wishes behind him.

It wasn't that Kiffin grabbed for the cash. Lots of coaches do that (hello, Brian Kelly, who fled Notre Dame for LSU under similar circumstances). It's that he strung Ole Miss along, then high-tailed it for Baton Rouge while acting like the injured party because Ole Miss wouldn't let him stay and coach the Rebels in their bowl game. 

This was cheeky even for Kiffin, a notoriously cheeky sort. And this was on top of the fact he poached several of Ole Miss players on his way out the door, and took most of his Ole Miss staff with him.

So this really was brother-vs.-brother Saturday night, a familiar theme in the heart of the old Confederacy. And what happened?

An endless rain of boos. A few catcalls, vulgar and otherwise. A guy waving a facsimile corn dog with Kiffin's face on it.

And one hell of a football game.

Ole Miss jetted out to leads of 17-0 and 24-7, and then here came LSU. Tied it at 24, finally, in the fourth quarter -- after which the splendid Trinidad Chambliss ran and passed the Rebels right back down the field, scoring the winning touchdown on a 14-yard dash to the pylon with 6:14 to play.

So was it over? Heck, no it wasn't over.

LSU's equally splendid Sam Leavitt immediately ran and passed his guys 69 yards the other way, and there the Tigers were, camped on the Ole Miss 6-yard line. But Leavitt couldn't close the deal, missing tight end Zach Grace at the goal line on third down and bouncing a fourth-down pass off the helmet of Ole Miss defensive end Kam Franklin.

The football settled obediently in the hand of defensive back Jaylon Braxton in the end zone, and the thing was done.

Ole Miss 32. LSU 24.

Trinidad Chambliss, surely the biggest man on the Ole Miss campus now since William Faulkner, was 33-of-48 passing for 363 yards and two scores. Sam Leavitt threw for 158 yards and once score and ran for 63 yards and another. And Lane Kiffin, gracious in defeat, professed to be glad the whole ordeal was over.

"I'm sure I'll be criticized for saying that (Editor's note: He wasn't), but, yeah, I am," Kiffin said in the postgame. "I was thinking that all week, especially today, and I would have said that in a win or a loss ... It was just really a lot of emotions of gratefulness for this place and the six years. It went well beyond football."

It did. And then sweltering night fell, and the lights came up, and, blessedly, football was all that was left.