The Big Ten Tournament lands in the Big Apple starting today, and heaven knows if it will make a sound. It's hard for a rational person to believe it will. It's harder yet for a rational person to understand the irrationality of dragging your conference tournament so far from its ancestral home -- or rather, homes.
Let's bring in Rand McNally, shall we?
Ol' Rand says it's 935 miles as the crow flies from Madison, Wis., home of the Wisconsin Badgers, to New York City. He says it's four miles shy of a thousand miles (996) from Iowa City, Ia., home of the Iowa Hawkeyes, to New York. And it's 773 miles from West Lafayette, In., home of the best Purdue basketball team in a long stretch, to NYC.
That's a hell of a lot of cab fare.
It's also a hell of a naked cash grab on the part of Big Ten commissioner Jim Delany and the boys, who so lusted after those lush East Coast markets that they brought in an ACC school (Maryland) and a doormat Big East school (Rutgers) a few years back. This not only stretched the Big Ten's geographic footprint comically out of shape -- it stretches from Nebraska to New Jersey now, not so much a footprint as a topographical feature -- it betrayed its cultural footprint, which is and always has been uniquely Midwest.
Well. This week it's abandoning all that for the bright lights of the big city. Madison and Iowa City and West Lafayette? Pffft. Soooo Yokel Central, man.
Never mind that loyal fan bases that filled tournament sites that made sense -- Chicago and Indianapolis -- didn't do that when the Big Ten abandoned them for Washington, D.C. last year, and they won't in New York no matter how Delany and Co. are packaging this. Madison Square Garden or not, it will be an event swallowed up by the Event that is New York City itself, and one which the locals have zero connection to.
Well, unless you count Rutgers over there in New Brunswick, N.J.
Who'll be sure to draw huge throngs considering the Scarlet Knights are 13-18 overall and finished dead last in the conference at 3-15. Yeah, boy. The home team will just pack 'em in.
Of course, the Big Ten doesn't care about any of that, and hasn't for some time. It's those East Coast TV markets it cares about, and so this is all about exposure, which translates to "money." How cash-hungry are Delany and Co.? Why, they don't even care that they had to jack around with their schools' schedules to make the New York thing happen.
The Big Ten tournament, see, is being played a week ahead of all the other major conference tournaments. Which means Big Ten schools who make the NCAA Tournament will have almost two weeks of down time before they next play, while everyone else will still be in full tournament mode.
A thousand miles from Iowa City.
935 miles from Madison.
773 miles from West Lafayette.
Two idle weeks to lead into college basketball's big show.
Pffft. Let 'em eat branding.
Wednesday, February 28, 2018
Tuesday, February 27, 2018
A mostly modest suggestion
So Michigan State star Miles Bridges is off the hook now, which turned out not to be much of a hook. Forty bucks to his favorite charity kept him eligible after it came out that his parents had dinner with Christian Dawkins, the subject of the FBI investigation into corruption in college basketball.
I don't know for sure, none of us do, because this iceberg is only showing its tip at the moment. But I suspect a lot of what the FBI uncovered is exactly this sort of penny-ante stuff.
Thing is, nobody does penny ante the way the NCAA does penny ante, which means it still amounts to cheatin'. And there's a lot of it going on out there. This should surprise no one, because high-end college buckets is as much a professional enterprise as the NBA is, and much of what's come out is merely bidnesses doin' bidness. Only the NCAA's Tower of Babel framework of rules constructed to maintain its fiction of amateurism makes any of it seem at all shady.
They are hoist by their own petard, these people. And in more ways than one.
That the NBA's edict against drafting players directly out of high school has adversely impacted the college game is beyond debate at this point, because it created the era of the one-and-done, and that in turn created the system of bartering for one-and-dones the FBI's investigation is only beginning to uncover. No rational person, after all, believes it isn't far more widespread than the current revelations have indicated.
Market forces drive college buckets as surely as they drive any other corporate interest. Duh.
But this didn't have to happen. And it's the NCAA's fault it did.
By failing to respond to the NBA's absurd rule, it created the mess that's currently coming to light. The NBA surely knew its rule would have an impact on college basketball, and that it probably wouldn't be a good one. But it didn't care, and it doesn't care now.
The NCAA, therefore, should have exhibited a similar level of concern for the NBA.
This idea does not originate with me, but with one of my former sports editors, the esteemed Justice B. Hill. It is, however, a good one, and so I pass it along with all due credit to its author.
Here's what the NCAA should have done, per Mr. Hill: When the NBA passed its rule, the NCAA should have retaliated with one of its own. It should have decreed that any school that signs a player intent on using college basketball as a waiting room for a year (which the NBA's rule was forcing him to do) must forfeit that scholarship for the remainder of that player's eligibility. That is to say, you can sign a probable one-and-done, but you lose his scholarship for the next three years if he bails.
I'm sure a lot of schools would still sign one-and-dones regardless. But a lot would think twice about doing it if it was going to cost them a scholarship for three years. Scholarships are precious, especially in college basketball.
The upshot, you figure, would be that at least a certain number of probable one-and-dones would suddenly find the college hoops waiting room closed for business. And you know what likely would happen then?
They'd hire lawyers and sue the NBA over its rule.
Now, I could be totally wrong about that. The scenario might not play out that way at all. But there's a chance it could, and at least the NCAA would have been taking proactive measures to protect its own turf.
Because, again, the NBA didn't care what its ridiculous and unnecessary 19-year-old rule might do to college basketball. So why should the NCAA have cared about the NBA?
A question with only one obvious answer.
I don't know for sure, none of us do, because this iceberg is only showing its tip at the moment. But I suspect a lot of what the FBI uncovered is exactly this sort of penny-ante stuff.
Thing is, nobody does penny ante the way the NCAA does penny ante, which means it still amounts to cheatin'. And there's a lot of it going on out there. This should surprise no one, because high-end college buckets is as much a professional enterprise as the NBA is, and much of what's come out is merely bidnesses doin' bidness. Only the NCAA's Tower of Babel framework of rules constructed to maintain its fiction of amateurism makes any of it seem at all shady.
They are hoist by their own petard, these people. And in more ways than one.
That the NBA's edict against drafting players directly out of high school has adversely impacted the college game is beyond debate at this point, because it created the era of the one-and-done, and that in turn created the system of bartering for one-and-dones the FBI's investigation is only beginning to uncover. No rational person, after all, believes it isn't far more widespread than the current revelations have indicated.
Market forces drive college buckets as surely as they drive any other corporate interest. Duh.
But this didn't have to happen. And it's the NCAA's fault it did.
By failing to respond to the NBA's absurd rule, it created the mess that's currently coming to light. The NBA surely knew its rule would have an impact on college basketball, and that it probably wouldn't be a good one. But it didn't care, and it doesn't care now.
The NCAA, therefore, should have exhibited a similar level of concern for the NBA.
This idea does not originate with me, but with one of my former sports editors, the esteemed Justice B. Hill. It is, however, a good one, and so I pass it along with all due credit to its author.
Here's what the NCAA should have done, per Mr. Hill: When the NBA passed its rule, the NCAA should have retaliated with one of its own. It should have decreed that any school that signs a player intent on using college basketball as a waiting room for a year (which the NBA's rule was forcing him to do) must forfeit that scholarship for the remainder of that player's eligibility. That is to say, you can sign a probable one-and-done, but you lose his scholarship for the next three years if he bails.
I'm sure a lot of schools would still sign one-and-dones regardless. But a lot would think twice about doing it if it was going to cost them a scholarship for three years. Scholarships are precious, especially in college basketball.
The upshot, you figure, would be that at least a certain number of probable one-and-dones would suddenly find the college hoops waiting room closed for business. And you know what likely would happen then?
They'd hire lawyers and sue the NBA over its rule.
Now, I could be totally wrong about that. The scenario might not play out that way at all. But there's a chance it could, and at least the NCAA would have been taking proactive measures to protect its own turf.
Because, again, the NBA didn't care what its ridiculous and unnecessary 19-year-old rule might do to college basketball. So why should the NCAA have cared about the NBA?
A question with only one obvious answer.
Monday, February 26, 2018
Fascinated by the fascination
There is golf on the TV up behind the bar this day, and, my lord, does that grass look green. It's a Friday afternoon in late February, and I'm in a place frequented by a lot of avid golfers. And so of course the Honda Classic is on from down there in Florida, having been switched over from NASCAR at a patron's request.
Everyone wants to know, see. Everyone wants to know how Tiger Woods is doing.
At the moment, he's working on a 71, and, at the bar, people perk up. He's going to make the cut! And he's only a handful of strokes back! And ...
And now it's three days later, and half the stories coming out of the Honda Classic are about Tiger Woods.
Who shot even par for the tournament.
Who finished 12th.
Whom everyone was still talking about anyway, ignoring Honda winner Justin Thomas, one of the many stellar young players who have helped make the PGA Tour deeper and more talented than it's been in perhaps 40 years. But Thomas, you see, isn't Tiger. Thomas isn't The Man, or the Used To Be The Man, who still gets the biggest galleries and loudest roars -- someone was even blasting "Eye of the Tiger" out there Sunday, and everyone was singing along -- even though he's pretty much just a pack rat anymore.
After all, he finished eight strokes back of Thomas, just ahead of the likes Derek Fathauer and Dominic Bozzelli (of whom you've surely heard ... OK, so not) and just behind Dylan Frittelli (ditto). That's as face-in-the-crowd as you can get.
Except this face belongs to the greatest golfer of his generation. And so even though he's not that anymore -- even though he's just a 41-year-old guy with a bad back and one round in the 60s in the last three years -- he remains the biggest draw in the sport.
I find this fascinating, frankly. I find this continued Tiger Mania utterly compelling, considering that rationally it seems long past its expiration date.
Of course, rationality has nothing to do with it. It rarely does in sports.
And so here is a PGA Tour as stuffed with glittering young stars as perhaps it's ever been, and yet the clear focus of fans and media remains a player whose own star began to dim a good decade ago. To some extent this happened with Arnold Palmer, too, but not like this. Arnie's Army clung to the aging Palmer out of nostalgia, mostly. The continued fascination with the far-older-than-his-years Tiger clings more to the notion he could still be a consistent contender -- still be That Tiger, or something close to it.
And so finishing eight strokes behind as a face in the crowd prompted a lot of wild predictions this morning. Some people have Tiger winning multiple tournaments this year. Some people have him winning another major, even. And yet ...
And yet reality argues against it. Reality says it's a lot more likely he gets hurt again first.
Of course, if it did happen, it undisputedly would be the golf story of the year, and maybe the sports story of the year. But that's the problem, see.
It would be the story of the year precisely because it's so unlikely. Tiger Mania or no Tiger Mania.
Everyone wants to know, see. Everyone wants to know how Tiger Woods is doing.
At the moment, he's working on a 71, and, at the bar, people perk up. He's going to make the cut! And he's only a handful of strokes back! And ...
And now it's three days later, and half the stories coming out of the Honda Classic are about Tiger Woods.
Who shot even par for the tournament.
Who finished 12th.
Whom everyone was still talking about anyway, ignoring Honda winner Justin Thomas, one of the many stellar young players who have helped make the PGA Tour deeper and more talented than it's been in perhaps 40 years. But Thomas, you see, isn't Tiger. Thomas isn't The Man, or the Used To Be The Man, who still gets the biggest galleries and loudest roars -- someone was even blasting "Eye of the Tiger" out there Sunday, and everyone was singing along -- even though he's pretty much just a pack rat anymore.
After all, he finished eight strokes back of Thomas, just ahead of the likes Derek Fathauer and Dominic Bozzelli (of whom you've surely heard ... OK, so not) and just behind Dylan Frittelli (ditto). That's as face-in-the-crowd as you can get.
Except this face belongs to the greatest golfer of his generation. And so even though he's not that anymore -- even though he's just a 41-year-old guy with a bad back and one round in the 60s in the last three years -- he remains the biggest draw in the sport.
I find this fascinating, frankly. I find this continued Tiger Mania utterly compelling, considering that rationally it seems long past its expiration date.
Of course, rationality has nothing to do with it. It rarely does in sports.
And so here is a PGA Tour as stuffed with glittering young stars as perhaps it's ever been, and yet the clear focus of fans and media remains a player whose own star began to dim a good decade ago. To some extent this happened with Arnold Palmer, too, but not like this. Arnie's Army clung to the aging Palmer out of nostalgia, mostly. The continued fascination with the far-older-than-his-years Tiger clings more to the notion he could still be a consistent contender -- still be That Tiger, or something close to it.
And so finishing eight strokes behind as a face in the crowd prompted a lot of wild predictions this morning. Some people have Tiger winning multiple tournaments this year. Some people have him winning another major, even. And yet ...
And yet reality argues against it. Reality says it's a lot more likely he gets hurt again first.
Of course, if it did happen, it undisputedly would be the golf story of the year, and maybe the sports story of the year. But that's the problem, see.
It would be the story of the year precisely because it's so unlikely. Tiger Mania or no Tiger Mania.
Sunday, February 25, 2018
Olympic zenith
So now that it's all over there in PyeongChang, what can we say, we Americans, about our proficiency in the Winter Olympics -- aka, Sports Norway Is Really Good At?
Well. We can say our figure skaters (especially our women figures skaters) kind of suck, 'cause they did.
But we can also say that, in addition to fast food, arming murdering psychopaths like Army Rangers and believing dopey conspiracy theories, we are the very best in the world at ... curling!
Yes, curling, that sport that looks like a cross between shuffleboard and scrubbing your bathroom floor with a Swiffter. A sport many, many Americans know nothing about except that every four years they see it on their TVs, say, "What's this? Looks boring", and then find themselves still watching it 45 minutes later. A sport at which Scandinavians, Canadians and various other frozen tundra types are usually dominant, prompting Americans to say "Pffft. It's curling. Who cares?"
Well ... we do now.
We do now because the American men won the gold medal in curling, upsetting the hugely favored Swedes, who will now have to console themselves with the fact they're still pretty darn good at the Nordic combined. Because at curling, we're the best. We're the kings of the curling mountain, wherever that is. (Best guess: Somewhere north of the Bering Sea.) Yes, sir. Nobody can beat us at sliding a polished rock toward a red circle while scrubbing the ice in front of it really hard with those scrubber thingies.
You can have Chloe Kim and Red Gerard and Mikaela Shiffrin and those two women who won gold in that cross-country relay, the first Olympic cross-country medal ever for America. Winning the curling gold was America's One Shining Moment for this Olympiad.
Why, if you close your eyes, you can almost see curling now supplanting pro football as America's National Pastime.
OK. So maybe not.
Well. We can say our figure skaters (especially our women figures skaters) kind of suck, 'cause they did.
But we can also say that, in addition to fast food, arming murdering psychopaths like Army Rangers and believing dopey conspiracy theories, we are the very best in the world at ... curling!
Yes, curling, that sport that looks like a cross between shuffleboard and scrubbing your bathroom floor with a Swiffter. A sport many, many Americans know nothing about except that every four years they see it on their TVs, say, "What's this? Looks boring", and then find themselves still watching it 45 minutes later. A sport at which Scandinavians, Canadians and various other frozen tundra types are usually dominant, prompting Americans to say "Pffft. It's curling. Who cares?"
Well ... we do now.
We do now because the American men won the gold medal in curling, upsetting the hugely favored Swedes, who will now have to console themselves with the fact they're still pretty darn good at the Nordic combined. Because at curling, we're the best. We're the kings of the curling mountain, wherever that is. (Best guess: Somewhere north of the Bering Sea.) Yes, sir. Nobody can beat us at sliding a polished rock toward a red circle while scrubbing the ice in front of it really hard with those scrubber thingies.
You can have Chloe Kim and Red Gerard and Mikaela Shiffrin and those two women who won gold in that cross-country relay, the first Olympic cross-country medal ever for America. Winning the curling gold was America's One Shining Moment for this Olympiad.
Why, if you close your eyes, you can almost see curling now supplanting pro football as America's National Pastime.
OK. So maybe not.
Saturday, February 24, 2018
The other shoe, continued
And now, this.
Yes, sir, boys and girls. The aforementioned s*** is just gonna keeps getting real-er and real-er, not to be ungrammatical or anything.
Big-dollar college basketball is a seamy wasteland and has been for a long time, and so here's what you should remember about Sean Miller negotiating for players, and all the other revelations spilling out of this FBI investigation: Its probe was into the activities of one guy. And you can bet he's hardly alone.
No, there are likely a bunch of Christian Dawkinses out there, hawking high school kids the way they hawk the apparel deals to which they're tied. If you were shocked by the names of the schools and players that came to light yesterday, don't be. What you should really be shocked by are the all the schools who haven't been named who play the same game.
Which I guarantee is pretty much all of them to one degree or another. Because the game is the game, and this is how you play it.
If that makes the NCAA clinging to its delusion of driven-snow amateurism look even more desperate and pathetic, well, it is desperate and pathetic. Big-time college basketball (and football) are no more an amateur enterprise than Microsoft or Amazon. They are driven by the same market forces, beholden to the same financial bottom line. They might as well be trading shares on Wall Street with everyone else.
Amateurism? The pursuit of academic opportunity and excellence?
It makes for some nice camouflage, but that's about it. Truth is, the hallowed groves of academe, where college buckets is concerned, are full of money trees. And damn near everyone is enthusiastically harvesting the crop -- except, of course, for the labor that actually makes those trees flower.
That means Your Favorite School and Your Favorite Coach are probably doing a lot of the same things Sean Miller got caught on tape doing, because Your Favorite School and Your Favorite Coach couldn't be competitive otherwise. The game is the game, and this is how you play it.
And you know what?
Not only shouldn't you be shocked by that, I'm not even sure why you'd care at this point.
That's because March Madness is coming up, and we love us some March Madness. Da Tournament is the end product of all this commerce, and its first two days are one of the highlights of the American sports year. Do you really think anyone wants to see it stripped of all its marquee draws? If you throw an NCAA Tournament and Duke, North Carolina, Kansas, Arizona and everyone else worth mentioning aren't allowed to play, does it make a sound?
So do we really care about Sean Miller getting caught on a wiretap negotiating terms for some blue-chipper?
Hell. Unless you're actually breaking some federal law -- and some of these guys likely did -- that's just doin' bidness. Right?
The game is the game. This is how you play it.
Yes, sir, boys and girls. The aforementioned s*** is just gonna keeps getting real-er and real-er, not to be ungrammatical or anything.
Big-dollar college basketball is a seamy wasteland and has been for a long time, and so here's what you should remember about Sean Miller negotiating for players, and all the other revelations spilling out of this FBI investigation: Its probe was into the activities of one guy. And you can bet he's hardly alone.
No, there are likely a bunch of Christian Dawkinses out there, hawking high school kids the way they hawk the apparel deals to which they're tied. If you were shocked by the names of the schools and players that came to light yesterday, don't be. What you should really be shocked by are the all the schools who haven't been named who play the same game.
Which I guarantee is pretty much all of them to one degree or another. Because the game is the game, and this is how you play it.
If that makes the NCAA clinging to its delusion of driven-snow amateurism look even more desperate and pathetic, well, it is desperate and pathetic. Big-time college basketball (and football) are no more an amateur enterprise than Microsoft or Amazon. They are driven by the same market forces, beholden to the same financial bottom line. They might as well be trading shares on Wall Street with everyone else.
Amateurism? The pursuit of academic opportunity and excellence?
It makes for some nice camouflage, but that's about it. Truth is, the hallowed groves of academe, where college buckets is concerned, are full of money trees. And damn near everyone is enthusiastically harvesting the crop -- except, of course, for the labor that actually makes those trees flower.
That means Your Favorite School and Your Favorite Coach are probably doing a lot of the same things Sean Miller got caught on tape doing, because Your Favorite School and Your Favorite Coach couldn't be competitive otherwise. The game is the game, and this is how you play it.
And you know what?
Not only shouldn't you be shocked by that, I'm not even sure why you'd care at this point.
That's because March Madness is coming up, and we love us some March Madness. Da Tournament is the end product of all this commerce, and its first two days are one of the highlights of the American sports year. Do you really think anyone wants to see it stripped of all its marquee draws? If you throw an NCAA Tournament and Duke, North Carolina, Kansas, Arizona and everyone else worth mentioning aren't allowed to play, does it make a sound?
So do we really care about Sean Miller getting caught on a wiretap negotiating terms for some blue-chipper?
Hell. Unless you're actually breaking some federal law -- and some of these guys likely did -- that's just doin' bidness. Right?
The game is the game. This is how you play it.
Friday, February 23, 2018
The other shoe
It hasn't dropped yet. But Yahoo! Sports has found out what it looks like.
That would be the shoe/concrete Croc/steel-toed boot the FBI's investigation into college basketball corruption is about to hammer the sport with, just in time for March Madness. The report hasn't been released, but Yahoo! has obtained documents revealing the who, and it's not good news for either the NCAA or the dozen Division I men's basketball program specifically named as possibly engaging in corrupt recruiting practices.
Among them are some of this entirely corporate enterprise's most corporate programs: Duke, North Carolina, Texas, Kentucky, Michigan State, USC and Kansas. Among the 25 players linked to impermissible benefits are Tom Izzo's best player (Miles Bridges), perhaps the nation's best guard (Collin Sexton of Alabama) and Duke freshman standout Wendell Carter.
As the late Dick Enberg would say "Oh, my!"
As a lot of others of us would say, "S*** just got real."
Me, I think it's going to be interesting to see, first, how the schools named respond to this, and, second, how the notoriously inconsistent NCAA responds. College buckets at the corporate level, remember, are all about the revenue stream. Will the NCAA banish some its top March Madness draws -- the Dukes and Carolinas and Michigan States and Kansases -- from Da Tournament, thereby severely cutting into the market value of a major cash cow?
Or will the NCAA let them all play and then (per Louisville and Notre Dame) make them vacate games/tournament appearances (a relatively toothless punishment) once the checks have cleared?
We shall see.
That would be the shoe/concrete Croc/steel-toed boot the FBI's investigation into college basketball corruption is about to hammer the sport with, just in time for March Madness. The report hasn't been released, but Yahoo! has obtained documents revealing the who, and it's not good news for either the NCAA or the dozen Division I men's basketball program specifically named as possibly engaging in corrupt recruiting practices.
Among them are some of this entirely corporate enterprise's most corporate programs: Duke, North Carolina, Texas, Kentucky, Michigan State, USC and Kansas. Among the 25 players linked to impermissible benefits are Tom Izzo's best player (Miles Bridges), perhaps the nation's best guard (Collin Sexton of Alabama) and Duke freshman standout Wendell Carter.
As the late Dick Enberg would say "Oh, my!"
As a lot of others of us would say, "S*** just got real."
Me, I think it's going to be interesting to see, first, how the schools named respond to this, and, second, how the notoriously inconsistent NCAA responds. College buckets at the corporate level, remember, are all about the revenue stream. Will the NCAA banish some its top March Madness draws -- the Dukes and Carolinas and Michigan States and Kansases -- from Da Tournament, thereby severely cutting into the market value of a major cash cow?
Or will the NCAA let them all play and then (per Louisville and Notre Dame) make them vacate games/tournament appearances (a relatively toothless punishment) once the checks have cleared?
We shall see.
Thursday, February 22, 2018
Meanwhile, at the Olympics ...
This was no Miracle on Ice, no bunch of kids and minor-leaguers taking down the mightiest hockey dreadnought on the planet. But at least now we know who Maddie Rooney is.
She is Jim Craig squared, is who she is.
She's the young goalie from U.S. hockey heaven, Minnesota, who not only rose to the occasion but hurdled it last night, as the U.S. women got the best of Canada in the latest Olympic gold-medal clash between the two best women's hockey teams in the world. The final was 3-2 in a shootout, and its signature moment was Rooney disdainfully sweeping the puck out of the crease after stoning one last Canadian shooter.
Four times she did that in the shootout, 29 times all told in the preceding overtime and shootout. I don't know if that was the defining moment of these Winter Games, but it will be for the Americans, who have been something of a mixed bag in PyeongChang. The women's hockey team, lugers and snowboarders have excelled; the men's hockey team, figure skaters and Alpine skiers, not so much.
But at least we had last night. At least we had Maddie, who beat the Canadians after the U.S. failed to do so in the previous five Olympics. It's been the greatest sustained rivalry in the Winter Games for two decades, and it looks as if it's not going anywhere.
And Maddie Rooney?
Because this is America, and because this is how things work in America, she and gold-medal snowboarders Chloe Kim and Red Gerard are going to be on your TV screens rooms before long, selling you stuff. You win gold in this country, you exchange it for more gold.
Welcome to the party, Maddie.
She is Jim Craig squared, is who she is.
She's the young goalie from U.S. hockey heaven, Minnesota, who not only rose to the occasion but hurdled it last night, as the U.S. women got the best of Canada in the latest Olympic gold-medal clash between the two best women's hockey teams in the world. The final was 3-2 in a shootout, and its signature moment was Rooney disdainfully sweeping the puck out of the crease after stoning one last Canadian shooter.
Four times she did that in the shootout, 29 times all told in the preceding overtime and shootout. I don't know if that was the defining moment of these Winter Games, but it will be for the Americans, who have been something of a mixed bag in PyeongChang. The women's hockey team, lugers and snowboarders have excelled; the men's hockey team, figure skaters and Alpine skiers, not so much.
But at least we had last night. At least we had Maddie, who beat the Canadians after the U.S. failed to do so in the previous five Olympics. It's been the greatest sustained rivalry in the Winter Games for two decades, and it looks as if it's not going anywhere.
And Maddie Rooney?
Because this is America, and because this is how things work in America, she and gold-medal snowboarders Chloe Kim and Red Gerard are going to be on your TV screens rooms before long, selling you stuff. You win gold in this country, you exchange it for more gold.
Welcome to the party, Maddie.
Wednesday, February 21, 2018
Vacant's lot
So yesterday the NCAA decreed that Louisville must vacate its 2013 basketball title, as punishment for turning its basketball facility into a whorehouse (an actual whorehouse, not just a figurative one, although Louisville did that, too, among many others.) This means the 2013 NCAA title will remain vacant in the record books -- or, in the NCAA's word, "vacated."
And so we go now to the campus of Vacated as it celebrated its first NCAA basketball title ...
NOWHERE IN PARTICULAR, USA -- Pandemonium reigned quietly yesterday when the word came down that Vacated was the NCAA's official 2013 college basketball champion.
"We're No. 1!" Vacated chanted at an impromptu rally in the vacant lot that serves as, well, pretty much the entire place.
"I knew we could do it!" Vacated also chanted.
Meanwhile, Vacated's coach, Carl "Not Here" Youneversawme, said it had been a long, hard struggle to get to the top, but it was all worth it.
"Forty-seven years ago, when the NCAA made us the runnerup by declaring Villanova's appearance in the title game vacated, I thought it was the pinnacle," Coach Youneversawme said. "But the 2013 team was special. We had it all: Length, explosiveness, some great shooters. And Coach Pitino over there at Louisville did a hell of job averting his eyes at all the right times. Thanks, Coach!"
Police said the rally was relatively peaceful, although several vacated cars were not turned over and set on fire by the many nonexistent revelers who had vacated the premises for whereabouts unknown.
And so we go now to the campus of Vacated as it celebrated its first NCAA basketball title ...
NOWHERE IN PARTICULAR, USA -- Pandemonium reigned quietly yesterday when the word came down that Vacated was the NCAA's official 2013 college basketball champion.
"We're No. 1!" Vacated chanted at an impromptu rally in the vacant lot that serves as, well, pretty much the entire place.
"I knew we could do it!" Vacated also chanted.
Meanwhile, Vacated's coach, Carl "Not Here" Youneversawme, said it had been a long, hard struggle to get to the top, but it was all worth it.
"Forty-seven years ago, when the NCAA made us the runnerup by declaring Villanova's appearance in the title game vacated, I thought it was the pinnacle," Coach Youneversawme said. "But the 2013 team was special. We had it all: Length, explosiveness, some great shooters. And Coach Pitino over there at Louisville did a hell of job averting his eyes at all the right times. Thanks, Coach!"
Police said the rally was relatively peaceful, although several vacated cars were not turned over and set on fire by the many nonexistent revelers who had vacated the premises for whereabouts unknown.
Tuesday, February 20, 2018
National Past Time
Let's hear it out there today for Rob Manfred, baseball commissioner and all-around gentleman and scholar. He's bound and determined to save the National Pastime from itself, and the Blob says it's well Past the Time someone did.
Manfred, it seems, is determined to return baseball to its roots, when it was a fast-paced game and not, like now, a bunch of guys calling time to adjust their sleeves, their batting gloves, the angle of their batting helmets upon their heads. Wanting to be presentable is an admirable quality, but it's also boring. And Manfred does not want baseball to be boring.
And so he's moving ahead with plans to limit the number of mound visits to six, and pondering a pitch clock. He might also be pondering cracking down on the batting glove adjusters, but that is probably wishful thinking on the Blob's part, because that's the part about baseball in the new millennium the Blob finds most annoying.
If it were up to me, I'd pass a rule that decrees any batter calling time to step out of the box for anything but an injury or legitimate equipment situation would get one warning. The second time he does it, he's out. Grab some bench, Style Boy.
This might be anathema to some baseball fans, but not to those of us of a certain age. Routine three-, three-and-a-half, four-hour nine-inning games is not the baseball we grew up with, and it's not the baseball that made the game the National Pastime in the first place. Baseball fans who say otherwise miss this essential point. Manfred isn't trying to appease 2018 sensibilities by trying to make the game move more quickly; he's returning baseball to what it always was intended to be.
And so, good on him. You go, boy.
Manfred, it seems, is determined to return baseball to its roots, when it was a fast-paced game and not, like now, a bunch of guys calling time to adjust their sleeves, their batting gloves, the angle of their batting helmets upon their heads. Wanting to be presentable is an admirable quality, but it's also boring. And Manfred does not want baseball to be boring.
And so he's moving ahead with plans to limit the number of mound visits to six, and pondering a pitch clock. He might also be pondering cracking down on the batting glove adjusters, but that is probably wishful thinking on the Blob's part, because that's the part about baseball in the new millennium the Blob finds most annoying.
If it were up to me, I'd pass a rule that decrees any batter calling time to step out of the box for anything but an injury or legitimate equipment situation would get one warning. The second time he does it, he's out. Grab some bench, Style Boy.
This might be anathema to some baseball fans, but not to those of us of a certain age. Routine three-, three-and-a-half, four-hour nine-inning games is not the baseball we grew up with, and it's not the baseball that made the game the National Pastime in the first place. Baseball fans who say otherwise miss this essential point. Manfred isn't trying to appease 2018 sensibilities by trying to make the game move more quickly; he's returning baseball to what it always was intended to be.
And so, good on him. You go, boy.
Cheatin' by any other name
I'm sure I speak for everyone this a.m. when I say "Wait ... what?"
By which I mean, "Wait ... what? Juicing in curling?"
Well, yes, boys and girls, there is juicing in curling, especially if (surprise, surprise) you happen to be Russian. Show of hands here. When Russian curler Alexander Krushelnitsky failed a drug test the other day, was anyone really surprised? And if athletes will juice in curling, what's next?
Waiting now for that upcoming doping scandal in the world Scrabble championships. Waiting also for the expose that will reveal Boris Spassky was using the Cream and the Clear when he played Bobby Fischer for the chess championship of the universe back in 1972.
Because, you know, the Russian thing.
This brings us to the obvious point, which is why the Russian athletes are even at these Winter Games. A whole pile of them got tossed out, originally, only to be reinstated. Now they're competing not as Russia but as the Olympic Athletes from Russia (OAR), which means if any of them wins a gold medal the Russian flag will not be raised, nor will the Russian anthem be played.
Altogether now: Woooo! That'll show 'em!
Or, you know, not.
After all, they'll still get to go home with an Olympic gold medal, when (according to many, many other athletes at the Games) they shouldn't be there at all. And they're still representing Russia, even if the Russian Olympic committee wasn't allowed to be in PyeongChang, and even if the Russian flag doesn't fly and the Russian anthem goes unheard. So where's the punishment here for the rampant doping by Russian athletes?
Beats me. All I know is, in letting them compete as the OAR, the IOC has one oar out of the water.
Or, you know, something like that.
By which I mean, "Wait ... what? Juicing in curling?"
Well, yes, boys and girls, there is juicing in curling, especially if (surprise, surprise) you happen to be Russian. Show of hands here. When Russian curler Alexander Krushelnitsky failed a drug test the other day, was anyone really surprised? And if athletes will juice in curling, what's next?
Waiting now for that upcoming doping scandal in the world Scrabble championships. Waiting also for the expose that will reveal Boris Spassky was using the Cream and the Clear when he played Bobby Fischer for the chess championship of the universe back in 1972.
Because, you know, the Russian thing.
This brings us to the obvious point, which is why the Russian athletes are even at these Winter Games. A whole pile of them got tossed out, originally, only to be reinstated. Now they're competing not as Russia but as the Olympic Athletes from Russia (OAR), which means if any of them wins a gold medal the Russian flag will not be raised, nor will the Russian anthem be played.
Altogether now: Woooo! That'll show 'em!
Or, you know, not.
After all, they'll still get to go home with an Olympic gold medal, when (according to many, many other athletes at the Games) they shouldn't be there at all. And they're still representing Russia, even if the Russian Olympic committee wasn't allowed to be in PyeongChang, and even if the Russian flag doesn't fly and the Russian anthem goes unheard. So where's the punishment here for the rampant doping by Russian athletes?
Beats me. All I know is, in letting them compete as the OAR, the IOC has one oar out of the water.
Or, you know, something like that.
Monday, February 19, 2018
Generation next
Sometimes the page turns right in front of you, and there is nothing figurative about it. You turn on your television, and there is the future staring back at you. You turn on your television, and there is all this unfamiliarity where the familiar used to be.
The Daytona 500 happened yesterday, first herald of spring for a lot of us. It was also something else, and all you had to do was look at the leaderboard to see it.
All these kids, right there at the top. All these kids, deciding what once got decided by Jeff Gordon and Tony Stewart and Dale Earnhardt (Sr. and Jr.) -- and even Jimmie Johnson, who's suddenly the old guard of the sport.
There, on Sunday afternoon, was Ryan Blaney, 24, leading 118 laps. Chasing him around at the front of the restrictor-plate freight train were a pile of other 20-somethings: Erik Jones and Joey Logano and Chase Elliott and Trevor Bayne and Austin Dillon and Daniel Suarez -- and also Darrell "Bubba" Wallace Jr., who would make history on a day stuffed with it.
Around all of it, there was this shine of newness -- a new-car smell, if you will -- that reminded you of golf a few years back, when an injury-ravaged Tiger Woods faded into irrelevance and the Rory McIlroys and Rickie Fowlers and Jordan Spieths began taking over the game.
In the end, after the usual Daytona chaos, it was Dillon who won, 27 years old and reaching back to the past to present the future. He won, after all, in that iconic forward-slanting 3, the number made famous by Earnhardt Sr. He won 20 years after Earnhardt put the 3 in Victory Lane in the 500, and 17 years to the day he died there on the last lap. He won with a kid's lucky penny glued to his dash just as Earnhardt had in 1998, and he won with the kind of move that was pure Earnhardt: Punting Almirola out of the way in the green-white-checker when Almirola moved over to block him.
Man had the Daytona 500 to win, same as Almirola did. Each did what he had to do to win it. It was old-school NASCAR, executed by its new face.
Nowhere was that new face more literally obvious than in the car that behind Dillon. Wallace, 24, was driving it. He gave Dillon the shove that got him to Almirola, then outdragged veteran Denny Hamlin to the line to finish second.
Then he broke down and cried in the postrace presser, overwhelmed by the weight of history. This will happen when you're the first African-American to run regularly in the Cup series since Wendell Scott in the 1960s. This will also happen when you finish second at Daytona, the highest finish in the 500 for an African-American driver ever, and the highest finish for an African-American in any NASCAR Cup race since Scott won in Jacksonville, Fla., 55 years ago.
And he, too, reached back to the past to present the future. Hank Aaron called him before the race. Formula One champion Lewis Hamilton, who is also black, tweeted his congratulations. And lest anyone forget, this happened during Black History Month, when everyone reaches back to the past to illustrate how far people of color have come in America, and how much farther there still is to go.
Sometimes the page turns right in front of you. And there is nothing figurative about it.
Sunday afternoon, on a February day brimful with echoes, the page turned. And what it revealed, what it always reveals, was the best part.
Because beyond that page, you could see all the others yet to be turned.
The Daytona 500 happened yesterday, first herald of spring for a lot of us. It was also something else, and all you had to do was look at the leaderboard to see it.
All these kids, right there at the top. All these kids, deciding what once got decided by Jeff Gordon and Tony Stewart and Dale Earnhardt (Sr. and Jr.) -- and even Jimmie Johnson, who's suddenly the old guard of the sport.
There, on Sunday afternoon, was Ryan Blaney, 24, leading 118 laps. Chasing him around at the front of the restrictor-plate freight train were a pile of other 20-somethings: Erik Jones and Joey Logano and Chase Elliott and Trevor Bayne and Austin Dillon and Daniel Suarez -- and also Darrell "Bubba" Wallace Jr., who would make history on a day stuffed with it.
Around all of it, there was this shine of newness -- a new-car smell, if you will -- that reminded you of golf a few years back, when an injury-ravaged Tiger Woods faded into irrelevance and the Rory McIlroys and Rickie Fowlers and Jordan Spieths began taking over the game.
In the end, after the usual Daytona chaos, it was Dillon who won, 27 years old and reaching back to the past to present the future. He won, after all, in that iconic forward-slanting 3, the number made famous by Earnhardt Sr. He won 20 years after Earnhardt put the 3 in Victory Lane in the 500, and 17 years to the day he died there on the last lap. He won with a kid's lucky penny glued to his dash just as Earnhardt had in 1998, and he won with the kind of move that was pure Earnhardt: Punting Almirola out of the way in the green-white-checker when Almirola moved over to block him.
Man had the Daytona 500 to win, same as Almirola did. Each did what he had to do to win it. It was old-school NASCAR, executed by its new face.
Nowhere was that new face more literally obvious than in the car that behind Dillon. Wallace, 24, was driving it. He gave Dillon the shove that got him to Almirola, then outdragged veteran Denny Hamlin to the line to finish second.
Then he broke down and cried in the postrace presser, overwhelmed by the weight of history. This will happen when you're the first African-American to run regularly in the Cup series since Wendell Scott in the 1960s. This will also happen when you finish second at Daytona, the highest finish in the 500 for an African-American driver ever, and the highest finish for an African-American in any NASCAR Cup race since Scott won in Jacksonville, Fla., 55 years ago.
And he, too, reached back to the past to present the future. Hank Aaron called him before the race. Formula One champion Lewis Hamilton, who is also black, tweeted his congratulations. And lest anyone forget, this happened during Black History Month, when everyone reaches back to the past to illustrate how far people of color have come in America, and how much farther there still is to go.
Sometimes the page turns right in front of you. And there is nothing figurative about it.
Sunday afternoon, on a February day brimful with echoes, the page turned. And what it revealed, what it always reveals, was the best part.
Because beyond that page, you could see all the others yet to be turned.
Sunday, February 18, 2018
Hoops apocalypse
North Carolina coach Roy Williams can say what he wants. You can't tell the Blob that hearts aren't going pitty-patter on the nation's college basketball sidelines these days.
This is because the FBI's stealth investigation into college buckets is continuing to collect evidence, and, according to ESPN sources, a lot of very big names could be involved. Roy Williams certainly qualifies as one of those, and North Carolina would certainly be at my epicenter if I were investigating six-figure handshakes from skeevy apparel company operatives to high-end prospects, and the college coaches/athletic deparments that get paid handsomely to pimp their gear.
Williams, after all, works at a university where academic fraud was done on his and other athletic programs' behalf for two decades. UNC all but copped to it during the NCAA's investigation. Yet somehow it squirmed off the hook on a technicality.
So, yeah. If there's corruption in college buckets, you could do worse betting Carolina will get swept up in the FBI's probe of same.
That's not to single out Carolina, of course. The sport in general has been a laughable parody of the desired college athletics model for a long time, if one assumes that model exists anymore or ever really did. If there's money to be made from something -- and there are billions to be made by a whole lot of interested parties in Big Five football and basketball -- then money will be made. That's America, boys and girls.
And so, yeah, I think Williams and any number of other name coaches are sweating bullets as they wait for the other shoe to drop, because there's a good chance when it does it will be a seven-league boot that will crush the entire rotten edifice. However this comes out, their world is about to change, incrementally or epically. And so when they walk out there on weekend afternoons and weekday nights and the bands are playing and the student section is making the place shiver and Dickie V is over there doing his schtick, the Blob's guess is it's more of a haven than usual for them.
Because when the fans go home and Dickie V goes home and Big Monday or Titanic Tuesday or whatever is over, and they're finished wondering what their blue-chip freshman was thinking, jacking up a three in that situation ...
Well. They might just have a second or a minute or five minutes to wonder something else.
Who have they talked to?
What are they saying?
How much DID I make off that last shoe deal, and is that why (Blue Chip Freshman) came here?
But, no, these deals are perfectly legal, it's all a part of doing business as a (choose one) Big Ten/ACC/SEC/Big 12 basketball program, surely everyone knows THAT ...
Sleep well, gentlemen. Sleep well.
This is because the FBI's stealth investigation into college buckets is continuing to collect evidence, and, according to ESPN sources, a lot of very big names could be involved. Roy Williams certainly qualifies as one of those, and North Carolina would certainly be at my epicenter if I were investigating six-figure handshakes from skeevy apparel company operatives to high-end prospects, and the college coaches/athletic deparments that get paid handsomely to pimp their gear.
Williams, after all, works at a university where academic fraud was done on his and other athletic programs' behalf for two decades. UNC all but copped to it during the NCAA's investigation. Yet somehow it squirmed off the hook on a technicality.
So, yeah. If there's corruption in college buckets, you could do worse betting Carolina will get swept up in the FBI's probe of same.
That's not to single out Carolina, of course. The sport in general has been a laughable parody of the desired college athletics model for a long time, if one assumes that model exists anymore or ever really did. If there's money to be made from something -- and there are billions to be made by a whole lot of interested parties in Big Five football and basketball -- then money will be made. That's America, boys and girls.
And so, yeah, I think Williams and any number of other name coaches are sweating bullets as they wait for the other shoe to drop, because there's a good chance when it does it will be a seven-league boot that will crush the entire rotten edifice. However this comes out, their world is about to change, incrementally or epically. And so when they walk out there on weekend afternoons and weekday nights and the bands are playing and the student section is making the place shiver and Dickie V is over there doing his schtick, the Blob's guess is it's more of a haven than usual for them.
Because when the fans go home and Dickie V goes home and Big Monday or Titanic Tuesday or whatever is over, and they're finished wondering what their blue-chip freshman was thinking, jacking up a three in that situation ...
Well. They might just have a second or a minute or five minutes to wonder something else.
Who have they talked to?
What are they saying?
How much DID I make off that last shoe deal, and is that why (Blue Chip Freshman) came here?
But, no, these deals are perfectly legal, it's all a part of doing business as a (choose one) Big Ten/ACC/SEC/Big 12 basketball program, surely everyone knows THAT ...
Sleep well, gentlemen. Sleep well.
Saturday, February 17, 2018
Follow the bouncing ignorance
And now, here comes Laura Ingraham, shrieking harpy of the right, telling LeBron James to just "shut up and dribble." It seems he had a thought or two the other day on the leadership of Our Only Available President vis-a-vis race relations, and ol' Laura didn't think much of them. In fact, she thinks he should keep them to himself, because, after all, he has no standing to say anything on the subject.
After all, he's just a basketball player.
Know what I wish?
I wish ol' Laura would keep her thoughts about athletes to herself. Because she's just a radio jock.
And if I had a nickel for every radio jock/general nitwit who's played the tired old "dumb athlete" card when an athlete ventured an opinion on something besides athletics, I'd have enough money to buy out ol' Laura's contract and replace her with someone who doesn't traffic in lazy clichés. Someone who, I don't know, knows her ass from third base on the subject of athletes.
I was a sportswriter in Indiana for almost 40 years, and what I learned in all that time is the "dumb jock" stereotype was very often a laughably bad fit. And that's especially true in 2018, when athletes like LeBron James (and dozens of others) are entrepreneurs as much as they are athletes.
In LeBron's specific case, he and his agent, Maverick Carter, are involved in a whole clutch of businesses and charities, not the least of which is SpringHill Entertainment, a media production and content company. It's a business model followed successfully by, among others, Magic Johnson, who began by building movie theaters in underprivileged neighborhoods and now presides over a business empire that includes an ownership stake in the Dodgers and an ownership advisor role with the Lakers.
But I suppose he wouldn't have anything relevant to say about race relations and the leadership qualities (or appalling lack of same) of Our Only Available President, either.
That men of his and LeBron's stature, as powerful African-American public figures, very much have relevant things to say on the subject of race and leadership is obvious to anyone with more than a grade-school level of understanding. The whole "dumb jock" thing reflects even a lower level of understanding than that, and, frankly, in this case, carries a whiff of racial animus. You didn't hear ol' Laura take to task Steve Kerr or Gregg Popovich -- both white NBA coaches -- for criticizing Our Only Available President, after all.
Nope. She reserved her bile for LeBron and Kevin Durant, black men with even more standing to speak out on this particular subject than Kerr and Popovich have. In so doing, she ignored the entire well-documented history of African-Americans who used their platform as elite athletes to exert influence far beyond the lines on a court or athletic field.
Pro tip here, ol' Laura. Google "Arthur Ashe" and "apartheid." Better yet, Google the name of the company you work for (Fox), and "celebrity guests", and see how many show business folks your network's put on the air to talk about politics.
But of course, they're generally invited on because they express the opinions consistent with Fox's right-wing bias. So we'll never hear anyone there tell them to shut up and go make movies.
But LeBron?
Why, how dare one of the most recognized men in the world criticize Our Only Available President? How dare he, a mere (black) athlete, think he had the standing to evaluate the leadership of a former game-show host?
The nerve of the man. The nerve.
After all, he's just a basketball player.
Know what I wish?
I wish ol' Laura would keep her thoughts about athletes to herself. Because she's just a radio jock.
And if I had a nickel for every radio jock/general nitwit who's played the tired old "dumb athlete" card when an athlete ventured an opinion on something besides athletics, I'd have enough money to buy out ol' Laura's contract and replace her with someone who doesn't traffic in lazy clichés. Someone who, I don't know, knows her ass from third base on the subject of athletes.
I was a sportswriter in Indiana for almost 40 years, and what I learned in all that time is the "dumb jock" stereotype was very often a laughably bad fit. And that's especially true in 2018, when athletes like LeBron James (and dozens of others) are entrepreneurs as much as they are athletes.
In LeBron's specific case, he and his agent, Maverick Carter, are involved in a whole clutch of businesses and charities, not the least of which is SpringHill Entertainment, a media production and content company. It's a business model followed successfully by, among others, Magic Johnson, who began by building movie theaters in underprivileged neighborhoods and now presides over a business empire that includes an ownership stake in the Dodgers and an ownership advisor role with the Lakers.
But I suppose he wouldn't have anything relevant to say about race relations and the leadership qualities (or appalling lack of same) of Our Only Available President, either.
That men of his and LeBron's stature, as powerful African-American public figures, very much have relevant things to say on the subject of race and leadership is obvious to anyone with more than a grade-school level of understanding. The whole "dumb jock" thing reflects even a lower level of understanding than that, and, frankly, in this case, carries a whiff of racial animus. You didn't hear ol' Laura take to task Steve Kerr or Gregg Popovich -- both white NBA coaches -- for criticizing Our Only Available President, after all.
Nope. She reserved her bile for LeBron and Kevin Durant, black men with even more standing to speak out on this particular subject than Kerr and Popovich have. In so doing, she ignored the entire well-documented history of African-Americans who used their platform as elite athletes to exert influence far beyond the lines on a court or athletic field.
Pro tip here, ol' Laura. Google "Arthur Ashe" and "apartheid." Better yet, Google the name of the company you work for (Fox), and "celebrity guests", and see how many show business folks your network's put on the air to talk about politics.
But of course, they're generally invited on because they express the opinions consistent with Fox's right-wing bias. So we'll never hear anyone there tell them to shut up and go make movies.
But LeBron?
Why, how dare one of the most recognized men in the world criticize Our Only Available President? How dare he, a mere (black) athlete, think he had the standing to evaluate the leadership of a former game-show host?
The nerve of the man. The nerve.
Friday, February 16, 2018
More truth bombs
And now this from Sportsball World, to which the Blob will soon be returning when he gets the disgust out of his system., and also when it feels appropriate again.
Here's Anthony Rizzo of the Chicago Cubs, saying "something has to change" at the vigil for the 17 students and adults slaughtered Wednesday at his high school alma mater in Florida.
And here's Golden State basketball coach Steve Kerr, whose father was murdered by gun-toting members of the PLO, telling us to vote the bums out and put people in Washington who have the stones to tell the gun lobby where and how far up it can stick its satchels of cash.
That about sum it up?
Yeah. I think that about sums it up.
Here's Anthony Rizzo of the Chicago Cubs, saying "something has to change" at the vigil for the 17 students and adults slaughtered Wednesday at his high school alma mater in Florida.
And here's Golden State basketball coach Steve Kerr, whose father was murdered by gun-toting members of the PLO, telling us to vote the bums out and put people in Washington who have the stones to tell the gun lobby where and how far up it can stick its satchels of cash.
That about sum it up?
Yeah. I think that about sums it up.
Thursday, February 15, 2018
Who we are now
The shocking thing, of course, is that none of us is shocked anymore. Seventeen kids and adults dead in a Florida high school, 17 kids and adults who are no longer around to laugh and love and live their lives, and what is that but just another day in America? What will it be next week or the week after or next month, when two or three or five or six more kids and adults leave for school and never come home?
Two or three or five or six?
Hell. That might not even make the lead on the news anymore.
This is, after all, who we are now. This is the America we apparently want, because we keep sending this America to Washington.
I am sorry. I know I should be writing about Mikaela Shiffrin today, or those crazy skeleton people bombing down a ribbon of ice headfirst, or LeBron and The New Christy Minstrels over there in Cleveland. But Sportsball World seems so far away today. It seems so incredibly tiny and insignificant and silly.
And I am tired of it. I am tired of it, and of much else.
I am tired of living in a country where mass shootings have become banal happenstance, the barbaric new normal in a bloody and barbaric nation. I am tired of living in a country obsessed with calibration, a country that has warped a certain constitutional amendment so out of round that lawmakers now push legislation to ensure even the mentally ill can arm themselves like the 82nd Airborne.
I am tired of those same lawmakers telling me this is not the time to talk about that, not the time to talk about maybe making it even a smidgen harder for angry people to take out their anger with military-grade weaponry and a satchel full of clips. I am tired of them saying this because so many of them believe there's never a time to talk about it.
Seventeen kids and adults dead, 30 incidents in which three or more people were shot in a year barely six weeks old, and what are you going to do? Write your senator or congressman? What the hell for? So he or she can spit back the NRA bullet points he or she has learned so well?
And he or she has. The gun lobby has stuffed their war chests with cash to ensure it.
But, hey. At least they'll send along their condolences. They're great at condolences.
I am tired of their condolences. I am tired of their specious arguments, that more laws won't stop what happened in blah-blah-blah. Probably they're right, because technically no law ever stops anyone from doing anything if his intent is strong enough. Yet we still pass laws, because that's what civilized nations do.
Look. I grew up in a house full of guns. My father was a member of the NRA until he figured out it was serving the gun industry and not hunters and sport shooters. And so I have no intrinsic problem with firearms, or the ownership thereof. I have no beef with the friends and family members I have who are avid outdoorsmen and hunters, because they are rational, responsible people and conscientious stewards of the land. What they kill, they put on the dinner table.
This is the way it should be in America. It's the way it used to be, before the country lost its mind on the subject of guns. I want that America back. I want an America back where there aren't people getting shot in multiple numbers every couple of weeks, and where the gun lobby and its Washington lackeys don't say "if so-and-so had only had a gun" -- as if packing heat should just be the normal thing if we want to be safe in America.
Car keys, wallet, Glock 9. Yep, we're ready to go to Wal-Mart.
I'm sorry, but that's insane. It's not how I want to live. And it's not how people in other countries -- civilized countries -- live.
Remember a few weeks ago, when Our Only Available President complained about America having to be a beacon of hope for a bunch of brown and black people in "shithole" countries?
Well. I have a question for you, Mr. President, if you're done sending out your condolences.
Shithole countries?
What the hell do you think 30 multiple-victim shootings in 45 days makes us?
Two or three or five or six?
Hell. That might not even make the lead on the news anymore.
This is, after all, who we are now. This is the America we apparently want, because we keep sending this America to Washington.
I am sorry. I know I should be writing about Mikaela Shiffrin today, or those crazy skeleton people bombing down a ribbon of ice headfirst, or LeBron and The New Christy Minstrels over there in Cleveland. But Sportsball World seems so far away today. It seems so incredibly tiny and insignificant and silly.
And I am tired of it. I am tired of it, and of much else.
I am tired of living in a country where mass shootings have become banal happenstance, the barbaric new normal in a bloody and barbaric nation. I am tired of living in a country obsessed with calibration, a country that has warped a certain constitutional amendment so out of round that lawmakers now push legislation to ensure even the mentally ill can arm themselves like the 82nd Airborne.
I am tired of those same lawmakers telling me this is not the time to talk about that, not the time to talk about maybe making it even a smidgen harder for angry people to take out their anger with military-grade weaponry and a satchel full of clips. I am tired of them saying this because so many of them believe there's never a time to talk about it.
Seventeen kids and adults dead, 30 incidents in which three or more people were shot in a year barely six weeks old, and what are you going to do? Write your senator or congressman? What the hell for? So he or she can spit back the NRA bullet points he or she has learned so well?
And he or she has. The gun lobby has stuffed their war chests with cash to ensure it.
But, hey. At least they'll send along their condolences. They're great at condolences.
I am tired of their condolences. I am tired of their specious arguments, that more laws won't stop what happened in blah-blah-blah. Probably they're right, because technically no law ever stops anyone from doing anything if his intent is strong enough. Yet we still pass laws, because that's what civilized nations do.
Look. I grew up in a house full of guns. My father was a member of the NRA until he figured out it was serving the gun industry and not hunters and sport shooters. And so I have no intrinsic problem with firearms, or the ownership thereof. I have no beef with the friends and family members I have who are avid outdoorsmen and hunters, because they are rational, responsible people and conscientious stewards of the land. What they kill, they put on the dinner table.
This is the way it should be in America. It's the way it used to be, before the country lost its mind on the subject of guns. I want that America back. I want an America back where there aren't people getting shot in multiple numbers every couple of weeks, and where the gun lobby and its Washington lackeys don't say "if so-and-so had only had a gun" -- as if packing heat should just be the normal thing if we want to be safe in America.
Car keys, wallet, Glock 9. Yep, we're ready to go to Wal-Mart.
I'm sorry, but that's insane. It's not how I want to live. And it's not how people in other countries -- civilized countries -- live.
Remember a few weeks ago, when Our Only Available President complained about America having to be a beacon of hope for a bunch of brown and black people in "shithole" countries?
Well. I have a question for you, Mr. President, if you're done sending out your condolences.
Shithole countries?
What the hell do you think 30 multiple-victim shootings in 45 days makes us?
Wednesday, February 14, 2018
Hearts and ... stuff
Happy Make Hallmark Rich Day to all the Blobophiles out there (I see you both!), and here's hoping you love and are loved. It's a grand day, made for candy and flowers and gooshy poimes that rhyme and everything. And so, because the Blob excels at the latter especially, here are a few poimes for people who deserve them ...
* First up is Our Only Available President, who, having never met a terrible idea from 100 years ago he wouldn't re-purpose for 2018, has come up with the bright idea of replacing food stamps with the food boxes of yesteryear. What a touching Valentine's gift for America's most vulnerable! Because, you know, it's cheaper, and OOAP needs the money for billionaires and the military and a wall to keep all those scary brown people out!
Like the poime says:
Because all my rich pals
Cannot live without more
Here's a box of crap food
'Cause it's your fault you're poor
* Then there's the NCAA, which denied Notre Dame's appeal of a ruling to set aside 21 football victories, including all 12 in its undefeated 2012 regular season. Academic fraud was the reason. This was an interesting decision, considering the NCAA let North Carolina off scot-free for 20 years of academic fraud. And so here's a big box of chocolate-covered dog turds for you, ND, and a thoughtful little rhyme besides:
Knute Rockne's a Knitwit
And the Gipper is, too
You're no Carolina
So we stuck it to you
* And, because the Blob is the home office for cynicism, here are a few lines about North and South Korea marching into the Olympic stadium under a unified flag, as if A) they are actually unified, and B) North Korea isn't continually threatening to turn the South into radioactive charcoal briquettes:
Here come the Koreas
Marching in here as one
For two weeks, anyway
Then consensus is done
* 'Twas a heartwarming scene in Indianapolis this week, as the city welcomed the Colts new head coach, Frank Reich, with open arms. It took them two tries, but, hey, they got it right. Therefore:
It takes so darn little
To make Indy erupt
All Frank Reich had to do
Is decide to show up
* Last but not least, pitchers and catchers report today, which means baseball is back. This makes everyone as giddy as Valentine's Day does -- unless, like the Blob's, your baseball team is garbage. Not that I'm bitter or anything:
It's spring training in baseball
When future losses seem few
Unless you're in Pittsburgh
Where the cellar will do.
* First up is Our Only Available President, who, having never met a terrible idea from 100 years ago he wouldn't re-purpose for 2018, has come up with the bright idea of replacing food stamps with the food boxes of yesteryear. What a touching Valentine's gift for America's most vulnerable! Because, you know, it's cheaper, and OOAP needs the money for billionaires and the military and a wall to keep all those scary brown people out!
Like the poime says:
Because all my rich pals
Cannot live without more
Here's a box of crap food
'Cause it's your fault you're poor
* Then there's the NCAA, which denied Notre Dame's appeal of a ruling to set aside 21 football victories, including all 12 in its undefeated 2012 regular season. Academic fraud was the reason. This was an interesting decision, considering the NCAA let North Carolina off scot-free for 20 years of academic fraud. And so here's a big box of chocolate-covered dog turds for you, ND, and a thoughtful little rhyme besides:
Knute Rockne's a Knitwit
And the Gipper is, too
You're no Carolina
So we stuck it to you
* And, because the Blob is the home office for cynicism, here are a few lines about North and South Korea marching into the Olympic stadium under a unified flag, as if A) they are actually unified, and B) North Korea isn't continually threatening to turn the South into radioactive charcoal briquettes:
Here come the Koreas
Marching in here as one
For two weeks, anyway
Then consensus is done
* 'Twas a heartwarming scene in Indianapolis this week, as the city welcomed the Colts new head coach, Frank Reich, with open arms. It took them two tries, but, hey, they got it right. Therefore:
It takes so darn little
To make Indy erupt
All Frank Reich had to do
Is decide to show up
* Last but not least, pitchers and catchers report today, which means baseball is back. This makes everyone as giddy as Valentine's Day does -- unless, like the Blob's, your baseball team is garbage. Not that I'm bitter or anything:
It's spring training in baseball
When future losses seem few
Unless you're in Pittsburgh
Where the cellar will do.
Tuesday, February 13, 2018
Hey, look! Spring!
The farm fields are still frosting-ed in white, on my drive west these winter mornings. The world is still a cold, silent, monochrome place here in the northern climes, the air still icebox frigid at sunup, the roads still white with salt and beginning to take on the carpet-bombed look of Pothole Season.
But there are signs now, as February hits its mid-point. Winter's grip, almost imperceptibly, is beginning to loosen.
The light comes earlier, and it lingers longer. The sun feels ever so slightly warmer when it hits your face. And then, of course, there is this:
Stock cars on my TV screen again.
The magic words "pitchers and catchers report", accompanied by the familiar geometry of a baseball diamond, its greens and beiges so vivid you almost have to shield your eyes.
This week the latter is happening all over Arizona and Florida, and with it comes the first hint of that season we most experience with our senses. You can see all that green and beige. The scent of grilled meat, that trace memory of spring and summer, returns. Soft breezes, warm sun, the pop of a baseball in a glove, the crack of it meeting a tooled piece of hickory: It's all flooding back.
And then you turn on your TV, and, yes, there are the stock cars.
It's Daytona week down there in Florida, and if there is a first sign of spring for me, that is it. The return of all those crazy folks flying in formation around the Daytona banking means spring, and then summer, can't be far off now. Darrell Waltrip's tired boogety-boogety-let's-go-racin' schtick might be a candidate for the back of the closet, but on this one Sunday afternoon, it's also a herald.
Ain't just a rumor, boys, it whispers. Spring's comin'. I got it on good authority.
I am not, as a matter of record, particularly a NASCAR fan. This is mostly a function of my age; I'm old enough to remember when stock car racing was a purely southern thing, rambunctious and redneck-y and full of actual characters with names like Tiny and Fireball and Curtis and Junior. The corporate hawkers who've inherited their legacy, and the antiseptic, manufactured rambunctiousness of what is more product than sport now, pales in comparison.
They may still call Kyle Busch "Rowdy." But back in the day, they would have called him that because he actually was.
Of course, I've always been more of an IndyCar guy, so there is that at work, too. But for this one week?
I am a NASCAR guy. Spring has sprung.
But there are signs now, as February hits its mid-point. Winter's grip, almost imperceptibly, is beginning to loosen.
The light comes earlier, and it lingers longer. The sun feels ever so slightly warmer when it hits your face. And then, of course, there is this:
Stock cars on my TV screen again.
The magic words "pitchers and catchers report", accompanied by the familiar geometry of a baseball diamond, its greens and beiges so vivid you almost have to shield your eyes.
This week the latter is happening all over Arizona and Florida, and with it comes the first hint of that season we most experience with our senses. You can see all that green and beige. The scent of grilled meat, that trace memory of spring and summer, returns. Soft breezes, warm sun, the pop of a baseball in a glove, the crack of it meeting a tooled piece of hickory: It's all flooding back.
And then you turn on your TV, and, yes, there are the stock cars.
It's Daytona week down there in Florida, and if there is a first sign of spring for me, that is it. The return of all those crazy folks flying in formation around the Daytona banking means spring, and then summer, can't be far off now. Darrell Waltrip's tired boogety-boogety-let's-go-racin' schtick might be a candidate for the back of the closet, but on this one Sunday afternoon, it's also a herald.
Ain't just a rumor, boys, it whispers. Spring's comin'. I got it on good authority.
I am not, as a matter of record, particularly a NASCAR fan. This is mostly a function of my age; I'm old enough to remember when stock car racing was a purely southern thing, rambunctious and redneck-y and full of actual characters with names like Tiny and Fireball and Curtis and Junior. The corporate hawkers who've inherited their legacy, and the antiseptic, manufactured rambunctiousness of what is more product than sport now, pales in comparison.
They may still call Kyle Busch "Rowdy." But back in the day, they would have called him that because he actually was.
Of course, I've always been more of an IndyCar guy, so there is that at work, too. But for this one week?
I am a NASCAR guy. Spring has sprung.
Monday, February 12, 2018
All the Reich moves
It's OK this time, Colts people. I checked. Bill Belichick did not leave any beguiling monotone messages on Frank Reich's phone.
And so all's well that ends well, as the Colts announced the signing of Reich as their next head coach. The key word, of course, is "signing." They waited until their man actually put pen to paper before announcing Reich was coming, because the Josh McDaniels episode taught them that just because a guy says he's coming doesn't mean he actually is.
Sometimes people change their minds. Who knew.
Reich, though, did not, and if the New England Patriots thought they were engaging in a little payback by snatching back McDaniels at the eleventh hour ... well, the joke's on them. They might have been snickering behind their hands a week ago, but now it's the Colts snickering behind their hands, because they got the guy they should have hired to begin with.
And the best part is they have the Patriots to thank for it. Snicker, snicker. Here's your decorative thank-you bouquet, Robert Kraft, all done up in tasteful blue and white.
McDaniels, after all, was the Big Get who looked less Big and less like a Get the more you looked at him. His crash-and-burn in his last head coaching job in Denver, of course, is well documented. Ditto the fact that his allegedly brilliant offensive mind was clearly augmented by having the greatest quarterback in NFL history to execute his schemes. As the Blob noted a week ago, even Charlie Weis looked like a genius with Tom Brady at the controls.
Without him ... well, Weis went on to go 35-27 at Notre Dame and 6-22 at Kansas as a college head coach. Not a precedent that speaks well for McDaniels, who already has his own sketchy precedent.
And Frank Reich?
Frank Reich helped turn a rookie quarterback from North Dakota State (Carson Wentz) into a likely league MVP until Wentz went down with a knee injury. Then he helped turn journeyman Nick Foles into Super Bowl MVP Nick Foles. The Eagles' offense, meanwhile, went from 22nd in the league to seventh this year.
An added attraction: Reich knows his way around Indy, serving as the Colts; quarterbacks coach in 2009-10 and receivers coach in 2011.
He went on to coach receivers at Arizona and the quarterbacks at San Diego. Which means he's coached both Peyton Manning and Philip Rivers. Which means he's got plenty of experience coaching marquee QBs, and that will no doubt help now that Andrew Luck is his presumptive quarterback.
Remember last Monday, when the Colts thought they had their guy?
Turns out they were right. They were just off by a week.
And so all's well that ends well, as the Colts announced the signing of Reich as their next head coach. The key word, of course, is "signing." They waited until their man actually put pen to paper before announcing Reich was coming, because the Josh McDaniels episode taught them that just because a guy says he's coming doesn't mean he actually is.
Sometimes people change their minds. Who knew.
Reich, though, did not, and if the New England Patriots thought they were engaging in a little payback by snatching back McDaniels at the eleventh hour ... well, the joke's on them. They might have been snickering behind their hands a week ago, but now it's the Colts snickering behind their hands, because they got the guy they should have hired to begin with.
And the best part is they have the Patriots to thank for it. Snicker, snicker. Here's your decorative thank-you bouquet, Robert Kraft, all done up in tasteful blue and white.
McDaniels, after all, was the Big Get who looked less Big and less like a Get the more you looked at him. His crash-and-burn in his last head coaching job in Denver, of course, is well documented. Ditto the fact that his allegedly brilliant offensive mind was clearly augmented by having the greatest quarterback in NFL history to execute his schemes. As the Blob noted a week ago, even Charlie Weis looked like a genius with Tom Brady at the controls.
Without him ... well, Weis went on to go 35-27 at Notre Dame and 6-22 at Kansas as a college head coach. Not a precedent that speaks well for McDaniels, who already has his own sketchy precedent.
And Frank Reich?
Frank Reich helped turn a rookie quarterback from North Dakota State (Carson Wentz) into a likely league MVP until Wentz went down with a knee injury. Then he helped turn journeyman Nick Foles into Super Bowl MVP Nick Foles. The Eagles' offense, meanwhile, went from 22nd in the league to seventh this year.
An added attraction: Reich knows his way around Indy, serving as the Colts; quarterbacks coach in 2009-10 and receivers coach in 2011.
He went on to coach receivers at Arizona and the quarterbacks at San Diego. Which means he's coached both Peyton Manning and Philip Rivers. Which means he's got plenty of experience coaching marquee QBs, and that will no doubt help now that Andrew Luck is his presumptive quarterback.
Remember last Monday, when the Colts thought they had their guy?
Turns out they were right. They were just off by a week.
Sunday, February 11, 2018
Boiler down
So, remember a week or so ago, when the Blob counseled patience in the midst of all the This Is The Best Purdue Basketball Team Ever talk, and also the This Is A Final Four Team talk?
Well ... the Blob stands by what he wrote then. And, boy, are those some strange words to type.
I still believe this Purdue team is a damn good basketball team, the best Matt Painter's ever had if maybe not the best the ever. The jury, from where the Blob sits, is still deliberating over that one.
I also believe this is Purdue's best shot at the Final Four in at least 30 years, if everything falls right. Which in basketball it sometimes doesn't.
Like, for instance, the other night, when the Boilermakers led Ohio State nearly all night until a missed shot fell wrong and the Buckeyes got the last-second putback to win it.
Like, say, yesterday, when the Boilermakers and Michigan State were neck-and-neck until a last-second triple fell wrong (from Purdue's perspective), and also right (from Michigan State's.)
So, two big showdown games with the other two elite teams in the Big Ten, and two losses. And what that tells us is that, while Purdue is still a damn good basketball team, it is no less capable of falling down and going boom than any other team in the country this year.
That's because, with the possible exception of Villanova, everybody can be had, and has been. All the alleged elites have lost games they shouldn't have lost. And what does that tell us?
That tells us to buckle up, because it's gonna be one beautiful, wild ride come March.
That tells us, in Purdue's case, that no matter how good a team this, it's still capable of being Purdue in March -- which is to say, capable of doing what it usually does, which is lose in the Madness before it rightfully should.
Maybe this will be the time it doesn't. But just to be on the safe side ... don't be buyin' those Final Four tickets just yet.
Well ... the Blob stands by what he wrote then. And, boy, are those some strange words to type.
I still believe this Purdue team is a damn good basketball team, the best Matt Painter's ever had if maybe not the best the ever. The jury, from where the Blob sits, is still deliberating over that one.
I also believe this is Purdue's best shot at the Final Four in at least 30 years, if everything falls right. Which in basketball it sometimes doesn't.
Like, for instance, the other night, when the Boilermakers led Ohio State nearly all night until a missed shot fell wrong and the Buckeyes got the last-second putback to win it.
Like, say, yesterday, when the Boilermakers and Michigan State were neck-and-neck until a last-second triple fell wrong (from Purdue's perspective), and also right (from Michigan State's.)
So, two big showdown games with the other two elite teams in the Big Ten, and two losses. And what that tells us is that, while Purdue is still a damn good basketball team, it is no less capable of falling down and going boom than any other team in the country this year.
That's because, with the possible exception of Villanova, everybody can be had, and has been. All the alleged elites have lost games they shouldn't have lost. And what does that tell us?
That tells us to buckle up, because it's gonna be one beautiful, wild ride come March.
That tells us, in Purdue's case, that no matter how good a team this, it's still capable of being Purdue in March -- which is to say, capable of doing what it usually does, which is lose in the Madness before it rightfully should.
Maybe this will be the time it doesn't. But just to be on the safe side ... don't be buyin' those Final Four tickets just yet.
Friday, February 9, 2018
Saving the marriage?
And now, it's LeBron's move.
This after the Cleveland Cavaliers took all their junky furniture, moved it to the curb and hung a big crayoned sign on it that said "Best Offer." The man of the house (LeBron James) wanted new stuff, so everything that must go, went. If Bron was grousing and dispirited because the Cavs weren't making any moves ... well, he can't use that excuse to grouse and be dispirited now.
Not after the Cavs turned over most of their roster at the trade deadline yesterday, dealing Isaiah Thomas, Derrick Rose, Dwyane Wade, Jae Crowder and Channing Frye for some fresh young talent that (presumably) will be the re-set they need to again challenge the Warriors. In an eyeblink, a dysfunctional team with a lot of pieces that didn't fit has become (again, presumably) a team with pieces that will fit -- and with whom LeBron can actually work.
That is, of course, the key to all this, because LeBron has been the key to everything in Cleveland since he announced he was coming "home." It may be late in the day, but he's got a point guard who can shoot now (George Hill), and a young, athletic frontcourt player willing to do all the little things that win games (Larry Nance Jr.) and another decent young wing player (Rodney Hood).
None of them are Chris Paul or Paul George or even Blake Griffin, who just landed in Detroit from the Clippers. But the Cavs clearly think this is a greater-than-the-sum-of-its-parts sort of deal, with the (again presumed) added benefit that LeBron will shed his blue mood and start playing like LeBron again.
Will it be enough to win the East again, and push the Warriors -- or the Rockets -- to the wall in the Finals?
Maybe. There are, after all, a lot of "presumed" and "presumablies" in this -- a frankly uncomfortable number of them. But that's not the question that matters here.
The question that matters, as always, is will it be enough to entice LeBron to stick around Cleveland when the LeBron Sweepstakes opens for business this summer?
The Blob, which has already been wrong about the Cavaliers once this year, says no, alas. The rift between James and management -- in particular prickly owner Dan Gilbert -- seems too deep to be healed by a frenzy of housecleaning at the trade deadline. All that will do is enable Gilbert to at least make points in the PR war when LeBron takes a powder and heads for the Lakers ... or the Celtics ... or (God forbid, but don't think it couldn't happen) the Warriors.
Stay tuned.
This after the Cleveland Cavaliers took all their junky furniture, moved it to the curb and hung a big crayoned sign on it that said "Best Offer." The man of the house (LeBron James) wanted new stuff, so everything that must go, went. If Bron was grousing and dispirited because the Cavs weren't making any moves ... well, he can't use that excuse to grouse and be dispirited now.
Not after the Cavs turned over most of their roster at the trade deadline yesterday, dealing Isaiah Thomas, Derrick Rose, Dwyane Wade, Jae Crowder and Channing Frye for some fresh young talent that (presumably) will be the re-set they need to again challenge the Warriors. In an eyeblink, a dysfunctional team with a lot of pieces that didn't fit has become (again, presumably) a team with pieces that will fit -- and with whom LeBron can actually work.
That is, of course, the key to all this, because LeBron has been the key to everything in Cleveland since he announced he was coming "home." It may be late in the day, but he's got a point guard who can shoot now (George Hill), and a young, athletic frontcourt player willing to do all the little things that win games (Larry Nance Jr.) and another decent young wing player (Rodney Hood).
None of them are Chris Paul or Paul George or even Blake Griffin, who just landed in Detroit from the Clippers. But the Cavs clearly think this is a greater-than-the-sum-of-its-parts sort of deal, with the (again presumed) added benefit that LeBron will shed his blue mood and start playing like LeBron again.
Will it be enough to win the East again, and push the Warriors -- or the Rockets -- to the wall in the Finals?
Maybe. There are, after all, a lot of "presumed" and "presumablies" in this -- a frankly uncomfortable number of them. But that's not the question that matters here.
The question that matters, as always, is will it be enough to entice LeBron to stick around Cleveland when the LeBron Sweepstakes opens for business this summer?
The Blob, which has already been wrong about the Cavaliers once this year, says no, alas. The rift between James and management -- in particular prickly owner Dan Gilbert -- seems too deep to be healed by a frenzy of housecleaning at the trade deadline. All that will do is enable Gilbert to at least make points in the PR war when LeBron takes a powder and heads for the Lakers ... or the Celtics ... or (God forbid, but don't think it couldn't happen) the Warriors.
Stay tuned.
Thursday, February 8, 2018
Rivalry weak
You had to feel for Colts GM Chris Ballard, meeting the press yesterday with the look of a man who'd rather have been in a tumbrel bound for the guillotine. He'd just presided over the spectacular botching of a coaching hire, albeit a botching mostly not of his doing. When a guy gives you his word he's coming -- when he's even begun assembling a staff -- why would you believe he was suddenly going to call and say, in essence, "Fake out!"?
That's what Josh McDaniels did, and whether or not he was honestly conflicted and decided for his family's sake he couldn't uproot them (his story), it remains on him that he didn't express his misgivings to the Colts before he did. He owed them that. After all, he had three weeks to talk this over with his family, by all accounts. That it suddenly didn't occur to him until he walked into that Tuesday meeting with Bill Belichick strains credulity beyond the breaking point.
Now he's just a guy who went back on his word, and his reasons don't matter. That's his rep now, and he'll have to live with it. The NFL job market being the needful creature it is, he'll get another shot down the line, despite his duplicity. Or maybe he's got a job nailed down in New England as Belichick's heir apparent, which might or might not have been what was promised to him in that Tuesday meeting with the Patriots.
In any case, Ballard, and the Colts, were royally screwed, and it was hard not to see the hand of either Belichick or Robert Kraft in this. As the Blob noted yesterday, it's an appealing conspiracy theory, believing they offered McDaniels the moon and stars at least partly because it would be payback for Deflategate to mess with the Colts. And so even Ballard briefly succumbed to it as he rattled along in his tumbrel.
"The rivalry is back on," he said.
Only one problem with that, of course.
He had to shout to be heard over the laughter coming out of New England.
I know, I know. Here in Indiana it's always been an article of faith that the Colts and the Patriots had this hot-mad rivalry going for awhile, in part because the teams' quarterbacks (Peyton Manning and Tom Brady) were the greatest of their generation, and in part because they always seemed to run into each other deep in the playoffs. And of course, it was a cultural thing.
Colts fans hated everything the Patiots stood for. Problem is, most of what they hated about them was that the Patriots kept beating them.
The Pats, after all, are 51-29 lifetime against the Colts, and 14-6 since Belichick showed up. They've won the last seven meetings by an average margin of 19 points. And they're 2-1 in AFC championship games against the Colts.
The only meeting of significance the Colts have won, in fact, was the 2007 AFC championship game, when they won 38-24 enroute to winning the Super Bowl. Other than that, they've beaten the Patriots five times in the regular season in the last 18 years, and zero times in the playoffs.
And so when Chris Ballard yesterday said, grimly, "The rivalry is back on"?
It made for a great sound bite. But you know what was an even better one?
A whole lot of Brians and Sullys in Boston saying, "There was a rivalry?"
It only hurts because it's true.
That's what Josh McDaniels did, and whether or not he was honestly conflicted and decided for his family's sake he couldn't uproot them (his story), it remains on him that he didn't express his misgivings to the Colts before he did. He owed them that. After all, he had three weeks to talk this over with his family, by all accounts. That it suddenly didn't occur to him until he walked into that Tuesday meeting with Bill Belichick strains credulity beyond the breaking point.
Now he's just a guy who went back on his word, and his reasons don't matter. That's his rep now, and he'll have to live with it. The NFL job market being the needful creature it is, he'll get another shot down the line, despite his duplicity. Or maybe he's got a job nailed down in New England as Belichick's heir apparent, which might or might not have been what was promised to him in that Tuesday meeting with the Patriots.
In any case, Ballard, and the Colts, were royally screwed, and it was hard not to see the hand of either Belichick or Robert Kraft in this. As the Blob noted yesterday, it's an appealing conspiracy theory, believing they offered McDaniels the moon and stars at least partly because it would be payback for Deflategate to mess with the Colts. And so even Ballard briefly succumbed to it as he rattled along in his tumbrel.
"The rivalry is back on," he said.
Only one problem with that, of course.
He had to shout to be heard over the laughter coming out of New England.
I know, I know. Here in Indiana it's always been an article of faith that the Colts and the Patriots had this hot-mad rivalry going for awhile, in part because the teams' quarterbacks (Peyton Manning and Tom Brady) were the greatest of their generation, and in part because they always seemed to run into each other deep in the playoffs. And of course, it was a cultural thing.
Colts fans hated everything the Patiots stood for. Problem is, most of what they hated about them was that the Patriots kept beating them.
The Pats, after all, are 51-29 lifetime against the Colts, and 14-6 since Belichick showed up. They've won the last seven meetings by an average margin of 19 points. And they're 2-1 in AFC championship games against the Colts.
The only meeting of significance the Colts have won, in fact, was the 2007 AFC championship game, when they won 38-24 enroute to winning the Super Bowl. Other than that, they've beaten the Patriots five times in the regular season in the last 18 years, and zero times in the playoffs.
And so when Chris Ballard yesterday said, grimly, "The rivalry is back on"?
It made for a great sound bite. But you know what was an even better one?
A whole lot of Brians and Sullys in Boston saying, "There was a rivalry?"
It only hurts because it's true.
Wednesday, February 7, 2018
A fine mess
And now it's time for the Donning of the Tinfoil Hat ceremony, in which the Blob salutes Our Only Available President, fearless leader of the Conspiracy Kook Society (Devin Nunes, Sergeant-At-Arms), and indulges his own paranoia-fueled conspiracy kook-ism.
Which is to say: Finally the New England Patriots have gotten their revenge for Deflategate.
Well played, Josh McDaniels. Well played. Clearly you have absorbed the lessons of the master, grasshopper.
The master, of course, being Bill Belichick, to whom the Blob assigns blame for most of the evil in the world. That would include McDaniels, exposed as an immature punk in Denver and perhaps little changed, pulling out of a deal to be the new head coach of the Indianapolis Colts after stringing them along for three weeks.
(And, yeah, maybe that wasn't his intent. Maybe he made his decision and then, honestly confused, changed his mind. It happens. But if he had misgivings, don't you think he owed the Colts a heads-up he was having misgivings?)
Anyway ... screwing over the Colts is such a Patriots kind of move it's hard not to see Belichick's fingerprints all over it, at least when you're in tinfoil-hat mode. It's such an appealing conspiracy theory, after all, believing that rat you-know-whatting the Colts is revenge for Deflategate. Unfortunately ...
Unfortunately, when you take off the tinfoil hat, you realize that's not what's going on here.
No, what's going on here is McDaniels proving he's pretty much the same guy he was in Denver, where his brief tenure was an unqualified disaster. A lot has been written and said since about how much he's grown since that experience, and some people bought into it. As a cynical former sportswriter who's heard these phony redemption stories a million times before, the Blob cynically never believed a word of it.
There's a part of me that hates that cynical old sportswriter. But damned if his instincts don't turn out to be on point a lot.
Here's the thing about this, see: Not only has McDaniels left the Colts in a serious lurch, he's screwed the assistant coaches he'd already convinced to leave their jobs and move to Indy. What do they do now? What do they tell their families? And which of them becomes the first to hop a plane to Boston to pound lumps on McDaniels' ass?
Screwing those guys over sure looks from here like the act of someone who clearly hasn't a learned a thing since the Denver debacle, all that fluff about how much he's grown notwithstanding. And if that's the case, thank God he did pull out of the deal. The Colts certainly can do better, even if the pickings look pretty scarce at this late date.
Whether McDaniels was the right man for the job was always a little sketchy, anyway, given both his track record and the fact he was the offensive coordinator for a franchise that didn't need one. How brilliant do you have to be, after all, when you have the greatest quarterback of all time? How much scheming do you have to do other than to say "OK, Tom, go win the game now"?
Good God, even Charlie Weis looked like a genius when he was coaching Tom Brady. And we all know how that worked out for Mr. Schematic Advantage.
So ... yeah. Maybe the Colts ducked a haymaker here. Maybe they should send a decorative fruit basket to Robert Kraft for whatever Kraft did to convince McDaniels to stick around (More money? The big chair when Belichick hangs it up?). Maybe this is all for the best.
Still doesn't mean the little goof didn't screw them over royally. Still doesn't mean he didn't leave them in one hell of a pickle.
And why do I keep thinking Belichick is having a good laugh about that?
Darn tinfoil hat, anyway.
Which is to say: Finally the New England Patriots have gotten their revenge for Deflategate.
Well played, Josh McDaniels. Well played. Clearly you have absorbed the lessons of the master, grasshopper.
The master, of course, being Bill Belichick, to whom the Blob assigns blame for most of the evil in the world. That would include McDaniels, exposed as an immature punk in Denver and perhaps little changed, pulling out of a deal to be the new head coach of the Indianapolis Colts after stringing them along for three weeks.
(And, yeah, maybe that wasn't his intent. Maybe he made his decision and then, honestly confused, changed his mind. It happens. But if he had misgivings, don't you think he owed the Colts a heads-up he was having misgivings?)
Anyway ... screwing over the Colts is such a Patriots kind of move it's hard not to see Belichick's fingerprints all over it, at least when you're in tinfoil-hat mode. It's such an appealing conspiracy theory, after all, believing that rat you-know-whatting the Colts is revenge for Deflategate. Unfortunately ...
Unfortunately, when you take off the tinfoil hat, you realize that's not what's going on here.
No, what's going on here is McDaniels proving he's pretty much the same guy he was in Denver, where his brief tenure was an unqualified disaster. A lot has been written and said since about how much he's grown since that experience, and some people bought into it. As a cynical former sportswriter who's heard these phony redemption stories a million times before, the Blob cynically never believed a word of it.
There's a part of me that hates that cynical old sportswriter. But damned if his instincts don't turn out to be on point a lot.
Here's the thing about this, see: Not only has McDaniels left the Colts in a serious lurch, he's screwed the assistant coaches he'd already convinced to leave their jobs and move to Indy. What do they do now? What do they tell their families? And which of them becomes the first to hop a plane to Boston to pound lumps on McDaniels' ass?
Screwing those guys over sure looks from here like the act of someone who clearly hasn't a learned a thing since the Denver debacle, all that fluff about how much he's grown notwithstanding. And if that's the case, thank God he did pull out of the deal. The Colts certainly can do better, even if the pickings look pretty scarce at this late date.
Whether McDaniels was the right man for the job was always a little sketchy, anyway, given both his track record and the fact he was the offensive coordinator for a franchise that didn't need one. How brilliant do you have to be, after all, when you have the greatest quarterback of all time? How much scheming do you have to do other than to say "OK, Tom, go win the game now"?
Good God, even Charlie Weis looked like a genius when he was coaching Tom Brady. And we all know how that worked out for Mr. Schematic Advantage.
So ... yeah. Maybe the Colts ducked a haymaker here. Maybe they should send a decorative fruit basket to Robert Kraft for whatever Kraft did to convince McDaniels to stick around (More money? The big chair when Belichick hangs it up?). Maybe this is all for the best.
Still doesn't mean the little goof didn't screw them over royally. Still doesn't mean he didn't leave them in one hell of a pickle.
And why do I keep thinking Belichick is having a good laugh about that?
Darn tinfoil hat, anyway.
The Olympics are coming! The Olympics are coming!
Turned on the TV last night, and there on the screen, a mere 24 hours after the Super Bowl, were Tara Lipinski and Johnny Weir, the last two people you would have imagined seeing in the wake of Gronk and Nick Foles and Grumpy McGumplestein, aka Bill Belichick. At some undetermined point in time we went from setting the Liberty Bell on fire in Philadelphia to Tara and Johnny talking about Mikaela Shiffrin, and it was some strange stuff.
Of course, it was also some marvelous stuff, because Tara and Johnny on my screen could mean only one thing: The Winter Olympics are coming!
Four days after the Super Bowl, they open in Pyeongchang, South Korea, Thursday night, and the Blob is all manner of geeked. The Blob loves him some Winter Games, you see. He loves them way more than the Summer Games, because the Winter Games have the Summer Games beat all hollow on the Trauma Unit Scale -- which is another way of saying they can booger you up real good.
(And no, the Blob is not talking about that moment when Katarina, Dorothy or Sonja misses the triple axel and goes splat on her sequins. That's just figure skating. The only boogering up that happens there is when Tonya Harding gets her hands on a tire iron, or someone forgets to lock the East German judge in her room.)
No, sir. The true boogering up happens later, when they ice down the banking at Daytona (or something similar) and crazy people go flying down it on sleds, either feet-first or head-first. The feet-first people are the lugers, and they are only mildly insane. The head-firsters are the skeleton folks, and they are Our Only Available President And His Kooky Enablers Level insane.
Only marginally less insane are the Alpine skiers, a bunch of Svens and Gustavs falling down the side of a mountain in entertaining ways. They call this "skiing" because they're wearing boards strapped to their feet and they're (mostly) going downhill upright. But they're not fooling anybody. It's still what Buzz Lightyear once called it: Falling with style.
All sorts of ways you can seriously maim yourself, in these Games. Even better than the downhill is the slalom and giant slalom, where they put up gates for you to trip over as you fall down the hill. Short-track speedskating, meanwhile, is like NASCAR at Martinsville, only with razor-sharp skates instead of tires. Last slashed carotid wins!
Then there's ski-jumping, where more people with boards strapped to their feet go flying into space off a ramp. Nobody knows why they do this. But not for nothing did ABC's Wide World of Sports use some poor ski-jumper falling off the ramp to illustrate the Agony of Defeat.
Heard enough, yet? Hey, we haven't even gotten to ice hockey (people on razor-sharp blades wielding sticks). Or how about speed skating (more razor-sharp blades)? Or even the biathlon, which combines skiing through the woods with a rifle on your back, occasionally stopping to shoot at stuff?
Yes, the peril factor is high in the Winter Games, which is what makes them so much fun. Plus, there is curling. Who doesn't like a sport whose equipment includes brooms? It's kind of like combining shuffleboard with housework.
Plus, there's that Danish women's team.
God love these Games.
Of course, it was also some marvelous stuff, because Tara and Johnny on my screen could mean only one thing: The Winter Olympics are coming!
Four days after the Super Bowl, they open in Pyeongchang, South Korea, Thursday night, and the Blob is all manner of geeked. The Blob loves him some Winter Games, you see. He loves them way more than the Summer Games, because the Winter Games have the Summer Games beat all hollow on the Trauma Unit Scale -- which is another way of saying they can booger you up real good.
(And no, the Blob is not talking about that moment when Katarina, Dorothy or Sonja misses the triple axel and goes splat on her sequins. That's just figure skating. The only boogering up that happens there is when Tonya Harding gets her hands on a tire iron, or someone forgets to lock the East German judge in her room.)
No, sir. The true boogering up happens later, when they ice down the banking at Daytona (or something similar) and crazy people go flying down it on sleds, either feet-first or head-first. The feet-first people are the lugers, and they are only mildly insane. The head-firsters are the skeleton folks, and they are Our Only Available President And His Kooky Enablers Level insane.
Only marginally less insane are the Alpine skiers, a bunch of Svens and Gustavs falling down the side of a mountain in entertaining ways. They call this "skiing" because they're wearing boards strapped to their feet and they're (mostly) going downhill upright. But they're not fooling anybody. It's still what Buzz Lightyear once called it: Falling with style.
All sorts of ways you can seriously maim yourself, in these Games. Even better than the downhill is the slalom and giant slalom, where they put up gates for you to trip over as you fall down the hill. Short-track speedskating, meanwhile, is like NASCAR at Martinsville, only with razor-sharp skates instead of tires. Last slashed carotid wins!
Then there's ski-jumping, where more people with boards strapped to their feet go flying into space off a ramp. Nobody knows why they do this. But not for nothing did ABC's Wide World of Sports use some poor ski-jumper falling off the ramp to illustrate the Agony of Defeat.
Heard enough, yet? Hey, we haven't even gotten to ice hockey (people on razor-sharp blades wielding sticks). Or how about speed skating (more razor-sharp blades)? Or even the biathlon, which combines skiing through the woods with a rifle on your back, occasionally stopping to shoot at stuff?
Yes, the peril factor is high in the Winter Games, which is what makes them so much fun. Plus, there is curling. Who doesn't like a sport whose equipment includes brooms? It's kind of like combining shuffleboard with housework.
Plus, there's that Danish women's team.
God love these Games.
Monday, February 5, 2018
A few remarks on That Game
Somewhere today Concrete Charlie is kinda-sorta smiling -- and if you have to ask who Concrete Charlie is, you are too young for this Blob. They are dragging the Liberty Bell through the streets and, I don't know, setting it on fire or something. There's even a chance they're not beating up fans of other teams, on account of there are no other teams left to beat up.
The Philadelphia Eagles are Super Bowl champions, in other words. And you know what means.
I was WRONG!
Like, for the first time EVER!
(It also means I probably do need to explain who Concrete Charlie is. Was, actually. He was Chuck Bednarik, the toughest sumbitch who ever breathed air. He also was the last man in the NFL to play both ways. He also was the star of the last Eagles team to win an NFL title, way back in 1960. You can find a bust of him in Canton.)
Anyway, I was wrong. The Eagles were not overwhelmed by the moment, or by the prospect of taking on the Roman Empire, aka, the New England Patriots. Nick Foles did not turn back into Nick Foles. Doug Pederson did not look over at Bill Belichick, throw his clipboard in the air and run screaming into the icebox Minnesota night.
Instead, he did this: Put together the ballsiest game plan in Super Bowl history.
He correctly surmised that the teams that lose to the Patriots lose to them because they play not to lose. And so Pederson's Eagles attacked from the opening bell, and they kept attacking until they were told to stop. They tried a two-point conversion absurdly early in the game, and even though it failed, it set a tone. They hit Tom Brady as often as they could, eventually getting the Brandon Graham strip-sack that sealed it. And on what everyone will now remember simply as The Play, they went for it on fourth-and-goal in the waning seconds of the first half rather than following conventional wisdom and kicking the field goal.
And they didn't just go for it. Oh, no. They pulled from the hat one of the prettiest gimmick plays you'll ever see -- a direct-snap reverse followed by a wide receiver option pass to the quarterback. Unlike the Patriots' attempt at the same thing, it worked. The Patriots were caught flat-footed, Foles was wide open in the end zone for the six, and the Eagles went to the locker room with a 22-12 halftime lead that proved to be crucial.
And when Brady did what he does and led the Patriots back, taking the lead 33-32 as the game clock got down below nine minutes?
The Eagles out-Patrioted the Patriots, outscoring them 9-0 the rest of the way and making the defensive play of the night at the most critical time, forcing and recovering Brady's fumble on the only sack of the night for either team. They made the plays down the stretch, and the Patriots didn't.
A few more observations:
1. Tom Brady is still a cyborg.
Yeah, he's now 5-3 lifetime in Super Bowls. But last night, in his eighth Super Bowl, at the age of 40, he threw for 505 yards and three touchdowns against that fearsome Eagles defense. Five hundred yards. At 40. In a Super Bowl.
You can hate on him all you want. But he's the undisputed heavyweight champeen GOAT.
2. Nick Foles might also be a cyborg.
At any rate, he certainly was not Nick Foles. He was "Nick Foles," an obvious alias, some strange being who threw for three touchdowns himself, who kept slinging the football into the tiniest crevices for crucial first downs, who played as if he were in his backyard and not on the biggest stage there is, against the most intimidating team in football.
A lot of this was due to Doug Pederson's brilliant game plan, which allowed Foles to do what he was good at it. But a lot of it was Pederson believing that what Foles was good at was a lot more than most people thought he was good at. And Foles proved him right.
Remember when the Blob said it was unlikely he could duplicate what he did in the NFC title game?
Yeah, well. At least I said "unlikely" and not "impossible." That would have really made me look stupid.
3. And then there's this: Foles is a better receiver than Brady.
He caught his option pass. Brady dropped his. So Foles has got that goin' for him.
4. The NFL catch rule is a crime against nature and has to go.
If you didn't think so before, you surely must now.
This,after the catch rule, a masterpiece of overthinking, was nearly allowed to ruin one of the more entertaining Super Bowls ever played. Had the officials overturned either Corey Clement's touchdown catch or Zach Ertz's winning TD catch, they might really have set the Liberty Bell on fire in Philly. This is because both receptions were obvious catches in every known universe except the National Football League. That they were even considered reviewable was itself an indictment of this absurd rule.
Thankfully, for both Roger Goodell and last night's game, both were ruled touchdowns. Because, you know, that's what they were.
And last but not least ...
5. That was a heck of a halftime show by Prince.
OK, so it was only a vaguely creepy projection of Prince on what looked like a giant bedsheet, while Justin Timberlake sang a "duet" with the dead artistic genius and Minnesota icon. It was both the weirdest and best moment of a bizarre halftime show in which Timberlake flitted about from set-to-set, sometimes singing audibly and sometimes not, and wearing a getup that looked like it came out of head-on collision between Gander Mountain and L.L. Bean.
But, hey. At least the guy is a darn good dancer.
The Philadelphia Eagles are Super Bowl champions, in other words. And you know what means.
I was WRONG!
Like, for the first time EVER!
(It also means I probably do need to explain who Concrete Charlie is. Was, actually. He was Chuck Bednarik, the toughest sumbitch who ever breathed air. He also was the last man in the NFL to play both ways. He also was the star of the last Eagles team to win an NFL title, way back in 1960. You can find a bust of him in Canton.)
Anyway, I was wrong. The Eagles were not overwhelmed by the moment, or by the prospect of taking on the Roman Empire, aka, the New England Patriots. Nick Foles did not turn back into Nick Foles. Doug Pederson did not look over at Bill Belichick, throw his clipboard in the air and run screaming into the icebox Minnesota night.
Instead, he did this: Put together the ballsiest game plan in Super Bowl history.
He correctly surmised that the teams that lose to the Patriots lose to them because they play not to lose. And so Pederson's Eagles attacked from the opening bell, and they kept attacking until they were told to stop. They tried a two-point conversion absurdly early in the game, and even though it failed, it set a tone. They hit Tom Brady as often as they could, eventually getting the Brandon Graham strip-sack that sealed it. And on what everyone will now remember simply as The Play, they went for it on fourth-and-goal in the waning seconds of the first half rather than following conventional wisdom and kicking the field goal.
And they didn't just go for it. Oh, no. They pulled from the hat one of the prettiest gimmick plays you'll ever see -- a direct-snap reverse followed by a wide receiver option pass to the quarterback. Unlike the Patriots' attempt at the same thing, it worked. The Patriots were caught flat-footed, Foles was wide open in the end zone for the six, and the Eagles went to the locker room with a 22-12 halftime lead that proved to be crucial.
And when Brady did what he does and led the Patriots back, taking the lead 33-32 as the game clock got down below nine minutes?
The Eagles out-Patrioted the Patriots, outscoring them 9-0 the rest of the way and making the defensive play of the night at the most critical time, forcing and recovering Brady's fumble on the only sack of the night for either team. They made the plays down the stretch, and the Patriots didn't.
A few more observations:
1. Tom Brady is still a cyborg.
Yeah, he's now 5-3 lifetime in Super Bowls. But last night, in his eighth Super Bowl, at the age of 40, he threw for 505 yards and three touchdowns against that fearsome Eagles defense. Five hundred yards. At 40. In a Super Bowl.
You can hate on him all you want. But he's the undisputed heavyweight champeen GOAT.
2. Nick Foles might also be a cyborg.
At any rate, he certainly was not Nick Foles. He was "Nick Foles," an obvious alias, some strange being who threw for three touchdowns himself, who kept slinging the football into the tiniest crevices for crucial first downs, who played as if he were in his backyard and not on the biggest stage there is, against the most intimidating team in football.
A lot of this was due to Doug Pederson's brilliant game plan, which allowed Foles to do what he was good at it. But a lot of it was Pederson believing that what Foles was good at was a lot more than most people thought he was good at. And Foles proved him right.
Remember when the Blob said it was unlikely he could duplicate what he did in the NFC title game?
Yeah, well. At least I said "unlikely" and not "impossible." That would have really made me look stupid.
3. And then there's this: Foles is a better receiver than Brady.
He caught his option pass. Brady dropped his. So Foles has got that goin' for him.
4. The NFL catch rule is a crime against nature and has to go.
If you didn't think so before, you surely must now.
This,after the catch rule, a masterpiece of overthinking, was nearly allowed to ruin one of the more entertaining Super Bowls ever played. Had the officials overturned either Corey Clement's touchdown catch or Zach Ertz's winning TD catch, they might really have set the Liberty Bell on fire in Philly. This is because both receptions were obvious catches in every known universe except the National Football League. That they were even considered reviewable was itself an indictment of this absurd rule.
Thankfully, for both Roger Goodell and last night's game, both were ruled touchdowns. Because, you know, that's what they were.
And last but not least ...
5. That was a heck of a halftime show by Prince.
OK, so it was only a vaguely creepy projection of Prince on what looked like a giant bedsheet, while Justin Timberlake sang a "duet" with the dead artistic genius and Minnesota icon. It was both the weirdest and best moment of a bizarre halftime show in which Timberlake flitted about from set-to-set, sometimes singing audibly and sometimes not, and wearing a getup that looked like it came out of head-on collision between Gander Mountain and L.L. Bean.
But, hey. At least the guy is a darn good dancer.
Sunday, February 4, 2018
Da Prediction
I know what's going on out there this morning, America. You're trying to talk yourself into some foolishness or other.
(And, no, not, "Hey, maybe this Devin Nunes guy is onto something about the FBI." Well, he's not. He's a certifiable conspiracy kook from way back, with the track record to prove it. And so consider the source, children. Always consider the source.)
No, since it's Super Bowl Sunday, you're trying to convince yourself that the Eagles are going to win tonight. You've got your reasons: That Eagles defensive front is fearsome enough to put pressure on Tom Brady, and when you put pressure on Mr. Wonderful even he makes mistakes, and if he makes mistakes the Eagles win the turnover battle. Which is the whole key to beating the Patriots.
Oh, and That Nick Foles Guy?
Well, he wouldn't be the first quarterback to win a Super Bowl while starting three or fewer regular season games. Doug Williams and Jeff Hostetler did it, too. I mean, it was almost 30 years ago, but still.
And so: The Eagles are going to win this thing!
I know. I have had similar thoughts in the last few days. They're solid thoughts, frankly. It's been pretty hard resisting them.
But resist I do, because everything about tonight comes back to this: These are the Patriots they're playing.
In other words, it's Belichick and Brady vs. a bunch of guys who've never played in one of these things before. And this thing is different. And this football team is different.
It's a football team whose sheer volume of accomplishment gets inside opponents' heads, even opponents who are, on paper, better than the Patriots are. Jacksonville was, and Jacksonville lost, even though the Jaguars led almost the entire game. The Falcons were better in last year's Super Bowl, right up until the moment they blew a 25-point lead. And the Eagles?
They're better, too. That defensive front is indeed fearsome. Foles might actually duplicate what he did in the NFC title game, though it's not likely. And even if he doesn't, the chances the Eagles strike first tonight are pretty good, because look what happened last week, when, once they got the lead, they went on to blow out the Vikings 38-7.
Here's the problem with all that: They're not playing the Vikings anymore.
Which means if they get a lead, they're going to start looking back over their shoulders. Jacksonville did it. Atlanta did it last year. And guaranteed the Eagles start playing the run-the-clock game, too, because it's the Patriots, and this is what the Patriots do to you.
Trouble is, it never works. In fact it plays right into Belichick's and Brady's hands. The only way you beat them is by continuing to attack them. But because it's the Patriots, and because they come into this with eight Lombardi Trophies already, it's really, really hard for teams not to fall into the trap of "Hey, we've got 'em down! The Patriots! Run, clock! Run!"
And so, yes, I'm picking the Patriots. Again. God knows I don't want to. God knows I'd like to believe the Eagles can do this, especially considering how good they looked in the NFC title game.
Here's the problem with that: The people who are charged with running numbers on stuff have run the numbers on that. And it turns out the teams that blow out their opponents in the conference championship game actually go on to lose the Super Bowl more often than they win it.
So history's against the Eagles there, too. And so: Patriots 24, Eagles 20.
Well, crap.
(And, no, not, "Hey, maybe this Devin Nunes guy is onto something about the FBI." Well, he's not. He's a certifiable conspiracy kook from way back, with the track record to prove it. And so consider the source, children. Always consider the source.)
No, since it's Super Bowl Sunday, you're trying to convince yourself that the Eagles are going to win tonight. You've got your reasons: That Eagles defensive front is fearsome enough to put pressure on Tom Brady, and when you put pressure on Mr. Wonderful even he makes mistakes, and if he makes mistakes the Eagles win the turnover battle. Which is the whole key to beating the Patriots.
Oh, and That Nick Foles Guy?
Well, he wouldn't be the first quarterback to win a Super Bowl while starting three or fewer regular season games. Doug Williams and Jeff Hostetler did it, too. I mean, it was almost 30 years ago, but still.
And so: The Eagles are going to win this thing!
I know. I have had similar thoughts in the last few days. They're solid thoughts, frankly. It's been pretty hard resisting them.
But resist I do, because everything about tonight comes back to this: These are the Patriots they're playing.
In other words, it's Belichick and Brady vs. a bunch of guys who've never played in one of these things before. And this thing is different. And this football team is different.
It's a football team whose sheer volume of accomplishment gets inside opponents' heads, even opponents who are, on paper, better than the Patriots are. Jacksonville was, and Jacksonville lost, even though the Jaguars led almost the entire game. The Falcons were better in last year's Super Bowl, right up until the moment they blew a 25-point lead. And the Eagles?
They're better, too. That defensive front is indeed fearsome. Foles might actually duplicate what he did in the NFC title game, though it's not likely. And even if he doesn't, the chances the Eagles strike first tonight are pretty good, because look what happened last week, when, once they got the lead, they went on to blow out the Vikings 38-7.
Here's the problem with all that: They're not playing the Vikings anymore.
Which means if they get a lead, they're going to start looking back over their shoulders. Jacksonville did it. Atlanta did it last year. And guaranteed the Eagles start playing the run-the-clock game, too, because it's the Patriots, and this is what the Patriots do to you.
Trouble is, it never works. In fact it plays right into Belichick's and Brady's hands. The only way you beat them is by continuing to attack them. But because it's the Patriots, and because they come into this with eight Lombardi Trophies already, it's really, really hard for teams not to fall into the trap of "Hey, we've got 'em down! The Patriots! Run, clock! Run!"
And so, yes, I'm picking the Patriots. Again. God knows I don't want to. God knows I'd like to believe the Eagles can do this, especially considering how good they looked in the NFC title game.
Here's the problem with that: The people who are charged with running numbers on stuff have run the numbers on that. And it turns out the teams that blow out their opponents in the conference championship game actually go on to lose the Super Bowl more often than they win it.
So history's against the Eagles there, too. And so: Patriots 24, Eagles 20.
Well, crap.
A (very) brief Bob Knight post
The Blob doesn't find many occasions to post stuff about Robert Montgomery Knight these days, on account if he's just a cranky old coot shouting at clouds here in 2018. But I did see something interesting about him the other day.
It seems ESPN is planning one of its 30-for-30 docs on the General, which got me to thinking a couple things.
First, considering it's Bob, the phrase "30-for-30" immediately suggested "30-cusswords-in-30-seconds."
Which immediately brought this thought: "Hell. That's just a normal Knight postgame."
It seems ESPN is planning one of its 30-for-30 docs on the General, which got me to thinking a couple things.
First, considering it's Bob, the phrase "30-for-30" immediately suggested "30-cusswords-in-30-seconds."
Which immediately brought this thought: "Hell. That's just a normal Knight postgame."
Friday, February 2, 2018
Meanwhile, in East Lansing ...
We interrupt the regularly scheduled Super Bowl frippery (Today's meme: Why Does The Evil Media Keep Asking Tom Brady Mean Retirement Questions, Even Though He's The Oldest Starting Quarterback In Super Bowl History?) to check in with the ongoing scandal(s) at Michigan State University, where getting out of one's own way is apparently a bridge too far.
The latest from MSU's eternally clueless board of trustees: They've picked former Michigan governor John Engler to be Michigan State's interim president.
This would be the same John Engler who, when he was governor, dismissed out of hand multiple allegations of sexual assault brought by female prison inmates, even refusing to cooperate with outside authorities in their investigation into the matter. The women eventually won a huge class-action settlement against the state.
Now Engler is the board's pick to see Michigan State through a crisis triggered by, yes, multiple allegations of sexual assault brought by young women in the university's care.
Can I get a facepalm?
And can you fire a board of trustees en masse?
The latest from MSU's eternally clueless board of trustees: They've picked former Michigan governor John Engler to be Michigan State's interim president.
This would be the same John Engler who, when he was governor, dismissed out of hand multiple allegations of sexual assault brought by female prison inmates, even refusing to cooperate with outside authorities in their investigation into the matter. The women eventually won a huge class-action settlement against the state.
Now Engler is the board's pick to see Michigan State through a crisis triggered by, yes, multiple allegations of sexual assault brought by young women in the university's care.
Can I get a facepalm?
And can you fire a board of trustees en masse?
Thursday, February 1, 2018
They love them some Super Bowl
Folks get a little certifiable when it comes to our unofficial official American holiday, Super Bowl Sunday. Especially if, like Philadelphians this time around, they haven't had a vested interest in it for a time. And especially because it happens in February, the '72 Ford Pinto of months.
It is, after all, a holiday constructed for and consecrated to the celebration of excess, which is why it is so uniquely American. The Event overwhelms the event, which after all is nothing more nor less than 60 minutes of plain old football, the same game you played in your backyard when you were a kid. Sometimes it's worth watching; sometimes the commercials are worth watching.
You learn this quickly when you've been on the ground for a Super Bowl, as a participant, fan or chronicler. I was the latter for three Supes, and the only thing notable about them was the spectacle. There are the Three Rings Of Fun that is Media Day; there are the subsequent days when players and coaches are trotted out to say the same things over and over; and there is that mind-boggling moment (at least for me) when you wander into the Super Bowl media center in the midst of all this and see table after table stacked waist high with press conference transcripts.
I was always struck, seeing that, by how many trees had to die so Bill Belichick could tell us what a challenge (insert opponent here) posed, or Tom Brady could tell us what a test (insert opponent here) posed.
But we've gotten off the beaten path here.
("No lie," you're saying.)
The point is, everyone gets swallowed up by the Super Bowl when they're involved in a Super Bowl, no matter how often they've been involved in it -- or, in Philly's case, how seldom.
And so you will be utterly unsurprised to learn that, in Philadelphia, the Medical Examiner's Office is auctioning off dead people's Eagles pendants. Everything around town is coming up green. Clergymen in Boston and Philly have made a gentleman's wager on the outcome of the game; the mayors of Bangor, Pa., and Bangor, Maine, have made a similar wager; and someone, of course, did that old journalistic reliable: Traveled to Philadelphia, Ohio, to find out who they're rooting for.
Shoot. Even April the Giraffe has gotten in on the act.
April, alas, chose the heathen Patriots.
No one, presumably, has thought to ask the famous statue of Rocky who he's picking. But then it's early. We're still a good 77 or so hours from kickoff as I write this.
The Blob's prediction: Rocky, not understanding the question, will pick Adrian. Of course.
It is, after all, a holiday constructed for and consecrated to the celebration of excess, which is why it is so uniquely American. The Event overwhelms the event, which after all is nothing more nor less than 60 minutes of plain old football, the same game you played in your backyard when you were a kid. Sometimes it's worth watching; sometimes the commercials are worth watching.
You learn this quickly when you've been on the ground for a Super Bowl, as a participant, fan or chronicler. I was the latter for three Supes, and the only thing notable about them was the spectacle. There are the Three Rings Of Fun that is Media Day; there are the subsequent days when players and coaches are trotted out to say the same things over and over; and there is that mind-boggling moment (at least for me) when you wander into the Super Bowl media center in the midst of all this and see table after table stacked waist high with press conference transcripts.
I was always struck, seeing that, by how many trees had to die so Bill Belichick could tell us what a challenge (insert opponent here) posed, or Tom Brady could tell us what a test (insert opponent here) posed.
But we've gotten off the beaten path here.
("No lie," you're saying.)
The point is, everyone gets swallowed up by the Super Bowl when they're involved in a Super Bowl, no matter how often they've been involved in it -- or, in Philly's case, how seldom.
And so you will be utterly unsurprised to learn that, in Philadelphia, the Medical Examiner's Office is auctioning off dead people's Eagles pendants. Everything around town is coming up green. Clergymen in Boston and Philly have made a gentleman's wager on the outcome of the game; the mayors of Bangor, Pa., and Bangor, Maine, have made a similar wager; and someone, of course, did that old journalistic reliable: Traveled to Philadelphia, Ohio, to find out who they're rooting for.
Shoot. Even April the Giraffe has gotten in on the act.
April, alas, chose the heathen Patriots.
No one, presumably, has thought to ask the famous statue of Rocky who he's picking. But then it's early. We're still a good 77 or so hours from kickoff as I write this.
The Blob's prediction: Rocky, not understanding the question, will pick Adrian. Of course.
All propped up and ready to go
And now, on to the prop bets, a Super Bowl Week tradition in itself, in which Vegas rolls out a bunch of dumb stuff hopeless addicts can bet on after they've dropped their pile on either the Eagles or Patriots.
(The hopeless addicts, by the way, have apparently talked themselves into thinking the Eagles have a chance. The line is down to four-and-a-half points or so this morning thanks to heavy action on the Eagles the last few days. No, I don't get it, either.)
Anyway ... you can bet on anything surrounding the Super Bowl, which is why the prop bets exist. How long will it take Pink to sing the national anthem? Will any players kneel? What will Tom Brady wear on his "injured" "hand", and will either he or Bill Belichick announce his retirement if the Patriots win?
Will Gronk play? Will there be a concussion protocol incident during the game? Will halftime act Justin Timberlake manufacture another Wardrobe Malfunction -- the single most overblown "scandal" in Super Bowl history, given the number of people who saw Janet Jackson's naked breast in photos later on and then convinced themselves they saw it live?
Yes, you can bet on anything. And so it's time once again for the Blob to roll out its own prop bets, because the Blob knows you've been waiting on pins and needles for them all week.
("No, we haven't!" you're saying. "Who said that? That is fake news, mister. We don't actually care about your silly prop bets.")
Well ... too bad. Here they are anyway:
1. How long will it take Ben's wife, Julie, to ask "Who is this Nick Foles person?"
A. 2.5 minutes.
B. 12.5 minutes.
C. Not applicable, because she'll already be in the other room by kickoff.
2. How will Ben answer?
A. "He's the lead singer of that rock group, Nick Foles Five."
B. "He's that guy they chain to the wall in the dungeon in those Bud Light Dilly-Dilly ads."
C. "He's the guy playing quarterback for the Eagles because that other guy playing quarterback for the Eagles got hurt and ... oh, forget it. He's the Nick Foles Five guy."
3. Speaking of the Dilly-Dilly ads, how long before Ben says "Where are the Dilly-Dilly ads?"
A. 2.5 minutes.
B. 12.5 minutes.
C. 12.5 minutes, and then every minute or so thereafter.
4. How long before Ben says "I believe I'm going to have another brownie/beer/pile of chips and bucket of salsa"?
A. 12.5 seconds.
B. 7.6 seconds.
C. The number of nanoseconds Janet Jackson's naked breast was actually visible on the screen during the Wardrobe Malfunction (Correct answer: 1).
5. When will Julie come back in the room and ask "Who's winning?"
A. Midway through the second quarter.
B. Midway through the third quarter.
C. The worst possible time, i.e., the moment Tom Brady has thrown his fourth touchdown pass with his "injured" "hand" and it's obvious the Patriots are going to win AGAIN.
6. When will Ben say "These ads really suck this year, except for the Dilly-Dilly ad."
A. Midway through the second quarter.
B. Midway through the third quarter.
C. Right after the FarmersOnly.com ad, which Ben hates with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns.
7. How long will the beer hold out?
A. 2.5 quarters.
B. 3 quarters.
C. Not nearly long enough if the Patriots win AGAIN.
And last but not least ...
8. When will Ben get disgusted and switch over to the Puppy Bowl?
1. Midway through the second quarter.
2. Midway through the third quarter.
3. Never, because he'll fall asleep on the couch, missing the halftime Wardrobe Malfunction, Tom Brady's third and fourth touchdowns, Bill Belichick killing Gronk with his bare hands after Gronk dumps the sports drink on him, and the Dilly-Dilly ad.
But not, of course, the FarmersOnly.com ad.
Dammit.
(The hopeless addicts, by the way, have apparently talked themselves into thinking the Eagles have a chance. The line is down to four-and-a-half points or so this morning thanks to heavy action on the Eagles the last few days. No, I don't get it, either.)
Anyway ... you can bet on anything surrounding the Super Bowl, which is why the prop bets exist. How long will it take Pink to sing the national anthem? Will any players kneel? What will Tom Brady wear on his "injured" "hand", and will either he or Bill Belichick announce his retirement if the Patriots win?
Will Gronk play? Will there be a concussion protocol incident during the game? Will halftime act Justin Timberlake manufacture another Wardrobe Malfunction -- the single most overblown "scandal" in Super Bowl history, given the number of people who saw Janet Jackson's naked breast in photos later on and then convinced themselves they saw it live?
Yes, you can bet on anything. And so it's time once again for the Blob to roll out its own prop bets, because the Blob knows you've been waiting on pins and needles for them all week.
("No, we haven't!" you're saying. "Who said that? That is fake news, mister. We don't actually care about your silly prop bets.")
Well ... too bad. Here they are anyway:
1. How long will it take Ben's wife, Julie, to ask "Who is this Nick Foles person?"
A. 2.5 minutes.
B. 12.5 minutes.
C. Not applicable, because she'll already be in the other room by kickoff.
2. How will Ben answer?
A. "He's the lead singer of that rock group, Nick Foles Five."
B. "He's that guy they chain to the wall in the dungeon in those Bud Light Dilly-Dilly ads."
C. "He's the guy playing quarterback for the Eagles because that other guy playing quarterback for the Eagles got hurt and ... oh, forget it. He's the Nick Foles Five guy."
3. Speaking of the Dilly-Dilly ads, how long before Ben says "Where are the Dilly-Dilly ads?"
A. 2.5 minutes.
B. 12.5 minutes.
C. 12.5 minutes, and then every minute or so thereafter.
4. How long before Ben says "I believe I'm going to have another brownie/beer/pile of chips and bucket of salsa"?
A. 12.5 seconds.
B. 7.6 seconds.
C. The number of nanoseconds Janet Jackson's naked breast was actually visible on the screen during the Wardrobe Malfunction (Correct answer: 1).
5. When will Julie come back in the room and ask "Who's winning?"
A. Midway through the second quarter.
B. Midway through the third quarter.
C. The worst possible time, i.e., the moment Tom Brady has thrown his fourth touchdown pass with his "injured" "hand" and it's obvious the Patriots are going to win AGAIN.
6. When will Ben say "These ads really suck this year, except for the Dilly-Dilly ad."
A. Midway through the second quarter.
B. Midway through the third quarter.
C. Right after the FarmersOnly.com ad, which Ben hates with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns.
7. How long will the beer hold out?
A. 2.5 quarters.
B. 3 quarters.
C. Not nearly long enough if the Patriots win AGAIN.
And last but not least ...
8. When will Ben get disgusted and switch over to the Puppy Bowl?
1. Midway through the second quarter.
2. Midway through the third quarter.
3. Never, because he'll fall asleep on the couch, missing the halftime Wardrobe Malfunction, Tom Brady's third and fourth touchdowns, Bill Belichick killing Gronk with his bare hands after Gronk dumps the sports drink on him, and the Dilly-Dilly ad.
But not, of course, the FarmersOnly.com ad.
Dammit.
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