OK, so the Blob was wrong about this after all. Which of course never happens.
(Unless you define "never" as "almost always.")
LeBron James did not have to drop a 50 spot in Game 7 to keep the Cavaliers alive, as it turns out.
He only had to drop a 45 spot.
A 45 spot, plus nine rebounds, plus seven assists, plus four steals (including one in which he went to the floor after a loose ball like just another blue-collar, lunch-bucket-toting schmo). And the Cavaliers finally put away the Pacers, and now it's on to the second round after a first-round series that looked for a long time as if it would belong to the kids from Indiana.
And what do we take away from that?
Two things.
One, that once again it's clear momentum is a unicorn in the NBA playoffs, because every game is its own separate entity and carves its own unique path. Two nights after the Pacers destroyed the Cavs by 34, the Cavs led nearly wire-to-wire. And if it was easily predictable how the narrative in Game 7 would go -- that LeBron would do whatever he had to do to keep the Cavs from losing a first-round elimination game at home -- the narrative also carved its own unique path, because the key sequence of the game happened when LeBron was on the bench for a time with an undisclosed owie.
That's when Tristan Thompson, George Hill, Kevin Love and the rest of his supporting cast, which virtually everyone has agreed is awful, beat back a Pacers' rally and actually extended the Cavs' lead to nine points while LeBron was out. Then he returned, and the deal was done.
And the second thing?
That, notwithstanding the aforementioned, LeBron James remains indisputably the greatest player of his generation, and perhaps the GOAT. And that perhaps it might be time to remove the "perhaps."
Michael Jordan cultists would no doubt howl at that, but, as someone who's seen not only Jordan but every great player in the last 50 years, I'm prepared now to give LeBron the nod. He hasn't won six titles the way MJ did, but he has won three and he has been to an unheard of seven consecutive NBA Finals. And if his record in the Finals pales in comparison to MJ's ... well, it should be pointed out that MJ won six titles with a lineup that, including himself, had three Hall of Famers in its starting five. And the best team he faced in the Finals was, arguably, the John Stockton/Karl Malone Jazz.
He never had to play the Tim Duncan Spurs, the best team of its era. Or the current Warriors. And he never had to face them virtually alone at times, as LeBron has.
Jordan was the greatest scorer of all time. But LeBron is a better rebounder, and the best passer for his size since Bird and Magic. And the longer he goes on carrying his team on his back, all the numbers keep piling up in his favor.
He's the King. As he again proved yesterday.
Monday, April 30, 2018
Sunday, April 29, 2018
Talking on empty
Now we know what Mark Emmert's ballyhooed commission, chaired by no less an eminence than Condeleeza Rice, thinks the NCAA must do to clean up college basketball. And it amounts to a windy day in March.
Which is to say: Lots of bluster and howl, but ultimately just fine weather for flying kites.
The commission came to the conclusion that the one-and-done is public enemy No. 1 in college buckets, and so it got all blowhard-y about it. Rice and Co. issued an ultimatum: Either the NBA must immediately lift the ban on 18-year-olds entering the draft -- the edict which led to the one-and-done phenomenon -- or the NCAA would "revisit" freshman eligibility.
Well, gee. That's great. But what does that really do other than hurt college basketball?
All it does is keep talented freshmen off the floor, which further diminishes the college product while not bringing any pressure to bear on the NBA. The NBA already has declared 18-year-olds off limits, so it's not like you're denying them anything. The so-called one-and-dones will simply turn pro and go overseas for the year they would have spent in college. The top European pro leagues already employ teenagers; most notably, the prospective No. 1 pick in the 2018 NBA draft, Luka Duncic of Slovenia, has been playing in the top Euro league since he was 16.
And lest we forget, crazy dad/evil genius LaVar Ball already blazed this path for American kids by taking his two youngest boys to Lithuania to play last winter. College coaches already lie awake at night dreading what happens of one or both of the Balls wind up in the NBA taking this route. Now you're going to give kids more incentive to follow them?
This is classic cutting-off-your-nose-to-spite-your-face stuff, and it proceeds from the wrongheaded notion that one-and-dones indeed are the root and branch of all the corruption that drew the attention of the FBI last fall. Get rid of the one-and-dones, the commission seems to think, and you get rid of the street agents and shoe company pimps who latch onto kids in the AAU cesspool and use them to close apparel deals with college programs.
Here's the problem with that: Most of the kids being pimped in this way are not one-and-dones. In point of fact, there are only a handful of one-and-dones in college basketball every year. So if you force them out by declaring freshmen ineligible, the street agents and pimps will simply latch onto other players. To paraphrase Jeff Goldblum in "Jurassic Park", commerce (like life) will always find a way.
So what's the solution to all this?
Well, the NBA could certainly help by lifting the ban and using the G-League the way it was intended, as a true developmental league. Tell a kid, sure, you can declare for the draft right out of high school, but if you're drafted you have to spend your first season in the G-League learning how to be a pro. This seems like such an obvious solution it's probably too obvious, but there you go.
Unfortunately, the NBA has never really cared how its 19-year-old age limit has affected college basketball. So how is a lot of tough talk and toothless edicts from the NCAA going to change that now?
It won't. What might change some things is an issue that, not surprisingly, the commission didn't touch: Compensation.
This does not necessarily mean paying the players, mind you. The Blob still believes that might be taking things too far, not to say hurting those student-athletes at schools that don't generate the GNP of your smaller nations. The big schools could afford to pay their student-athletes; the mid-majors on down would be hard-pressed to do so, and likely would be forced to eliminate sports to keep their heads above water. That's already happening now in a lot of places.
On the other hand, it's hardly unreasonable to expect student-athletes to be compensated for serving as human billboards for their schools' chunky apparel deals.
In other words, if you want to slap a Nike or Under Armour or Adidas logo on me, and force me to wear their stuff because Nike or Under Armour or Adidas is paying you major coinage to do so, I should get my cut. Furthermore, I should be able to endorse products, just as any other professional athlete is allowed to. And make no mistake about it, a kid who plays basketball at Duke or football at Alabama is a professional in everything but name.
He generates revenue for his company (i.e., school). He's expected to figuratively punch a clock and perform at a high level like any employee anywhere. Even the NCAA itself tacitly admits he's a professional every time it points out that student-athletes are getting their education paid for.
In return, they're expected to deliver points, rebounds, touchdowns, Ws. They're expected to keep the money train chugging along. No one's paying them to sit in a classroom.
It's time the NCAA finally acknowledged that. Because if you're going to treat kids like professionals without allowing them to be compensated like professionals, they'll find someone (i.e., the street agents and shoe pimps) who will compensate them.
And the corruption the FBI uncovered last fall will continue.
Which is to say: Lots of bluster and howl, but ultimately just fine weather for flying kites.
The commission came to the conclusion that the one-and-done is public enemy No. 1 in college buckets, and so it got all blowhard-y about it. Rice and Co. issued an ultimatum: Either the NBA must immediately lift the ban on 18-year-olds entering the draft -- the edict which led to the one-and-done phenomenon -- or the NCAA would "revisit" freshman eligibility.
Well, gee. That's great. But what does that really do other than hurt college basketball?
All it does is keep talented freshmen off the floor, which further diminishes the college product while not bringing any pressure to bear on the NBA. The NBA already has declared 18-year-olds off limits, so it's not like you're denying them anything. The so-called one-and-dones will simply turn pro and go overseas for the year they would have spent in college. The top European pro leagues already employ teenagers; most notably, the prospective No. 1 pick in the 2018 NBA draft, Luka Duncic of Slovenia, has been playing in the top Euro league since he was 16.
And lest we forget, crazy dad/evil genius LaVar Ball already blazed this path for American kids by taking his two youngest boys to Lithuania to play last winter. College coaches already lie awake at night dreading what happens of one or both of the Balls wind up in the NBA taking this route. Now you're going to give kids more incentive to follow them?
This is classic cutting-off-your-nose-to-spite-your-face stuff, and it proceeds from the wrongheaded notion that one-and-dones indeed are the root and branch of all the corruption that drew the attention of the FBI last fall. Get rid of the one-and-dones, the commission seems to think, and you get rid of the street agents and shoe company pimps who latch onto kids in the AAU cesspool and use them to close apparel deals with college programs.
Here's the problem with that: Most of the kids being pimped in this way are not one-and-dones. In point of fact, there are only a handful of one-and-dones in college basketball every year. So if you force them out by declaring freshmen ineligible, the street agents and pimps will simply latch onto other players. To paraphrase Jeff Goldblum in "Jurassic Park", commerce (like life) will always find a way.
So what's the solution to all this?
Well, the NBA could certainly help by lifting the ban and using the G-League the way it was intended, as a true developmental league. Tell a kid, sure, you can declare for the draft right out of high school, but if you're drafted you have to spend your first season in the G-League learning how to be a pro. This seems like such an obvious solution it's probably too obvious, but there you go.
Unfortunately, the NBA has never really cared how its 19-year-old age limit has affected college basketball. So how is a lot of tough talk and toothless edicts from the NCAA going to change that now?
It won't. What might change some things is an issue that, not surprisingly, the commission didn't touch: Compensation.
This does not necessarily mean paying the players, mind you. The Blob still believes that might be taking things too far, not to say hurting those student-athletes at schools that don't generate the GNP of your smaller nations. The big schools could afford to pay their student-athletes; the mid-majors on down would be hard-pressed to do so, and likely would be forced to eliminate sports to keep their heads above water. That's already happening now in a lot of places.
On the other hand, it's hardly unreasonable to expect student-athletes to be compensated for serving as human billboards for their schools' chunky apparel deals.
In other words, if you want to slap a Nike or Under Armour or Adidas logo on me, and force me to wear their stuff because Nike or Under Armour or Adidas is paying you major coinage to do so, I should get my cut. Furthermore, I should be able to endorse products, just as any other professional athlete is allowed to. And make no mistake about it, a kid who plays basketball at Duke or football at Alabama is a professional in everything but name.
He generates revenue for his company (i.e., school). He's expected to figuratively punch a clock and perform at a high level like any employee anywhere. Even the NCAA itself tacitly admits he's a professional every time it points out that student-athletes are getting their education paid for.
In return, they're expected to deliver points, rebounds, touchdowns, Ws. They're expected to keep the money train chugging along. No one's paying them to sit in a classroom.
It's time the NCAA finally acknowledged that. Because if you're going to treat kids like professionals without allowing them to be compensated like professionals, they'll find someone (i.e., the street agents and shoe pimps) who will compensate them.
And the corruption the FBI uncovered last fall will continue.
Saturday, April 28, 2018
The grass on the knoll grows again
Well. I don't know how this fits into the narrative.
The narrative being that the NBA isn't going to let LeBron James go out in the first round, which is why the league conspired to give 'Bron and the Cavaliers a 3-2 lead in the series in Game 5. The way they did this, apparently, is by ordering the refs not to call goaltending on LeBron's obvious goaltend of Victor Oladipo in the dying seconds. This allowed LeBron to replicate Michael Jordan's shot over Craig Ehlo with a buzzer-beating three to win it.
Apparently this was all part of some script. Or so the Grassy Knoll People believe, and the Grassy Knoll People always seem to make their appearance whenever there's a crucial bad call in an NBA playoff game.
Of course, this has very little to do with the reality of it, which is that bad calls occasionally happen because game officials are human.
It also has little to do with the fact that, even if Oladipo's bucket had stood, LeBron's epic triple would have sent the Cavaliers home winners, anyway.
And it for sure has little to do with what happened last night, when the Pacers came home and destroyed the Cavs by 34 points to even the series at three games apiece.
Again, how does that fit into the narrative of The NBA Is Fixing This So LeBron Doesn't Lose In The First Round?
It doesn't, of course, which is why conspiracy theories, particularly as regards to sports, are such silly business. Fixing games has happened in sports -- particularly in boxing and college basketball, historically -- but league offices dictating certain outcomes would be nearly impossible to do. Unless, as in boxing and college basketball, there's some sort of take-a-dive money being paid.
Absent that, stuff is always going to happen, and it's frequently not predictable stuff, like LeBron reprising the MJ Shot. Which is why we love sports.
Not that there isn't a certain irony to this Cavs-Pacers series.
That would be the fact that, although there isn't conspiracy at work here, the series does seem to be following a fairly predictable script. Way back after the Pacers road-killed the Cavs in Game 1, the Blob said the series seemed to destined to end one of two ways: Pacers in six, or Cavs in seven. And so it was entirely predictable that, after LeBron did his LeBron thing the other night, the Pacers would come back and win Game 6.
Not by 34, of course. But they'd win.
And now?
The script still holds.
Cavs in seven. Because there's no way LeBron is going to let them lose a Game 7 at home, in the first round, in what could well be his last game in Cleveland.
That won't be the league's doing, mind you. That will be LeBron's doing.
The narrative being that the NBA isn't going to let LeBron James go out in the first round, which is why the league conspired to give 'Bron and the Cavaliers a 3-2 lead in the series in Game 5. The way they did this, apparently, is by ordering the refs not to call goaltending on LeBron's obvious goaltend of Victor Oladipo in the dying seconds. This allowed LeBron to replicate Michael Jordan's shot over Craig Ehlo with a buzzer-beating three to win it.
Apparently this was all part of some script. Or so the Grassy Knoll People believe, and the Grassy Knoll People always seem to make their appearance whenever there's a crucial bad call in an NBA playoff game.
Of course, this has very little to do with the reality of it, which is that bad calls occasionally happen because game officials are human.
It also has little to do with the fact that, even if Oladipo's bucket had stood, LeBron's epic triple would have sent the Cavaliers home winners, anyway.
And it for sure has little to do with what happened last night, when the Pacers came home and destroyed the Cavs by 34 points to even the series at three games apiece.
Again, how does that fit into the narrative of The NBA Is Fixing This So LeBron Doesn't Lose In The First Round?
It doesn't, of course, which is why conspiracy theories, particularly as regards to sports, are such silly business. Fixing games has happened in sports -- particularly in boxing and college basketball, historically -- but league offices dictating certain outcomes would be nearly impossible to do. Unless, as in boxing and college basketball, there's some sort of take-a-dive money being paid.
Absent that, stuff is always going to happen, and it's frequently not predictable stuff, like LeBron reprising the MJ Shot. Which is why we love sports.
Not that there isn't a certain irony to this Cavs-Pacers series.
That would be the fact that, although there isn't conspiracy at work here, the series does seem to be following a fairly predictable script. Way back after the Pacers road-killed the Cavs in Game 1, the Blob said the series seemed to destined to end one of two ways: Pacers in six, or Cavs in seven. And so it was entirely predictable that, after LeBron did his LeBron thing the other night, the Pacers would come back and win Game 6.
Not by 34, of course. But they'd win.
And now?
The script still holds.
Cavs in seven. Because there's no way LeBron is going to let them lose a Game 7 at home, in the first round, in what could well be his last game in Cleveland.
That won't be the league's doing, mind you. That will be LeBron's doing.
Friday, April 27, 2018
Roger Goodell is an evil genius
And by "evil" I mean "scared poopless that he was going to be buried in an avalanche of verbal abuse by venturing into the kingdom of his nemesis, Jerry Jones."
Goodell was present and accounted for in the Jerry Dome last night for the NFL Draft, in which the Browns did dumb stuff again by taking a quarterback first and a defensive back fourth, when they could have taken Saquon Barkley first and a quarterback -- did it really matter that much which one? -- fourth. And what Roger Goodell did was, he outflanked all those Cowboy yahoos itching to boo him off the stage.
He did it by inviting a few friends to open the draft with him.
One of them was Roger Staubach.
Another of them was Jason Witten.
Yes, that's right. Roger the Hammer surrounded himself with Cowboy icons, figuring there's no way he'd get booed off the stage in Dallas if Staubach and Witten were there with him. And of course he didn't.
Crafty. The man is soooo crafty.
Goodell was present and accounted for in the Jerry Dome last night for the NFL Draft, in which the Browns did dumb stuff again by taking a quarterback first and a defensive back fourth, when they could have taken Saquon Barkley first and a quarterback -- did it really matter that much which one? -- fourth. And what Roger Goodell did was, he outflanked all those Cowboy yahoos itching to boo him off the stage.
He did it by inviting a few friends to open the draft with him.
One of them was Roger Staubach.
Another of them was Jason Witten.
Yes, that's right. Roger the Hammer surrounded himself with Cowboy icons, figuring there's no way he'd get booed off the stage in Dallas if Staubach and Witten were there with him. And of course he didn't.
Crafty. The man is soooo crafty.
Thursday, April 26, 2018
A little perspective would be nice
And now, because everything apparently has to be a thing these days, here is the latest thing the interwhatzis and ESPN is all over as a Major News Story.
Heavens! You mean Josh Allen, a prospective big-time NFL quarterback, tweeted some racial slurs and other offensive nonsense five or six years ago, when he was in high school? And not even a senior in high school?
Well, this is big news (excuse me, BIG NEWS). Or at least it is for those of us not inclined to step back and consider a few cogent points:
1. To reiterate, Allen was a high school kid. And not even a senior high school kid. High school kids are frequently nitwits who do dumb stuff.
2. It's highly unlikely Josh Allen is still a nitwit who does dumb stuff, having been through four years of college. Four years of college frequently cures people of nitwit-ery.
3. After the NFL's exhaustive, and at times absurd, vetting process, there isn't a whit of corroborative evidence that Allen is some sort of stealth bigot. There is abundant evidence he is, in fact, what he is: A mature young man and not still a high school nitwit.
So why is everybody talking about this?
Simple, boys and girls: Because they've got 24 hours of programming to fill, and they have to talk about something.
And because they, too, are frequently nitwits.
Heavens! You mean Josh Allen, a prospective big-time NFL quarterback, tweeted some racial slurs and other offensive nonsense five or six years ago, when he was in high school? And not even a senior in high school?
Well, this is big news (excuse me, BIG NEWS). Or at least it is for those of us not inclined to step back and consider a few cogent points:
1. To reiterate, Allen was a high school kid. And not even a senior high school kid. High school kids are frequently nitwits who do dumb stuff.
2. It's highly unlikely Josh Allen is still a nitwit who does dumb stuff, having been through four years of college. Four years of college frequently cures people of nitwit-ery.
3. After the NFL's exhaustive, and at times absurd, vetting process, there isn't a whit of corroborative evidence that Allen is some sort of stealth bigot. There is abundant evidence he is, in fact, what he is: A mature young man and not still a high school nitwit.
So why is everybody talking about this?
Simple, boys and girls: Because they've got 24 hours of programming to fill, and they have to talk about something.
And because they, too, are frequently nitwits.
Wednesday, April 25, 2018
Gettin' drafty in here
We're now just a day from my alltime favorite Not Really An Event But ESPN Says It Is, So It Must Be An Event -- also known as the NFL Draft.
Also known as, Watch Mel Kiper And Todd McShay Hop Around Like A Couple Of Kids On Christmas Morning.
Also known as, Watch Mel And Todd Yammer On And On And On About Some O-Lineman Normal People Have Never Heard Of.
Also known as ...
Well. You get it.
Me?
Why, I'm so giddy I can barely contain myself.
OK. so I'm not.
Actually, the TV show that is the NFL Draft is an immense waste of airtime as far as I'm concerned, because everything you can learn from watching it you can learn from a million other places That's the wonder of the internet: Keeping up with who your team just picked ("Oh, look! We just got that O-lineman Mel and Todd keep yammering about!") without having to actually watch all the filler talk that surrounds it.
I got my fill of all that yesterday, heading east through Ohio on my periodic Civil War nerd excursion to Gettysburg. Everyone in Cleveland is all excited about which No. 1 pick the Browns are going to ruin this time. And it's a measure of what a contrarian I am about all this that none of them think the Browns should do what I think they should do.
I think they should take the best player in the draft with the No. 1 pick. Which would be Penn State running back Saquon Barkley.
Yes, I know, you're not supposed to take a running back early, because RBs are as plentiful as ants at a picnic. You can pick one up pretty much the way you pick up a gallon of milk on the way home from work.
That's the conventional wisdom. Or, rather, it was.
Here's an exercise for you: Go find Dak Prescott and ask him if Ezekiel Elliott is no more valuable than a gallon of milk. Ask him how Elliott, by giving the Cowboys a reliable run game, made Prescott's job yea easier. Then ask him how much harder the game got when Elliott had to sit out those games last year.
After that, you can go ask the New Orleans Saints what Alvin Kamara did for them last year.
And so here we have the Browns, who need a lot of things, clearly. One of those is a reliable run game. And here we have a handful of quarterbacks predicted to go in the top 10 -- including Sam Darnold of USC, the money bet to go to the Browns with the first pick.
Thing is, no one has yet compared Sam Darnold to, say, Andrew Luck. Or Peyton Manning. Or John Elway, or Dan Marino, or any other franchise quarterback you can think of.
Same goes for Josh Allen. And Josh Rosen. And Baker Mayfield.
Those are the other three QBs projected to go early, and none of them stands head and shoulders above the others. They've all got upside. They've all got downside. You can pretty much throw them all in a hat and draw one out.
This should matter if you're the Browns, because they have not just the first pick but the fourth. Which means they could pick Barkley at 1 and lock down their run game, then go get one of the QBs with the fourth pick. Again, it doesn't matter all that much which of the four it is. And no matter who they pick, his transition would be made exponentially easier because waiting there for him would be Saquon Barkley.
Again, ask Dak Prescott how valuable a stud RB can be.
So, there you go. My draft strategy.
And you didn't even have to turn on your TV to get it.
Also known as, Watch Mel Kiper And Todd McShay Hop Around Like A Couple Of Kids On Christmas Morning.
Also known as, Watch Mel And Todd Yammer On And On And On About Some O-Lineman Normal People Have Never Heard Of.
Also known as ...
Well. You get it.
Me?
Why, I'm so giddy I can barely contain myself.
OK. so I'm not.
Actually, the TV show that is the NFL Draft is an immense waste of airtime as far as I'm concerned, because everything you can learn from watching it you can learn from a million other places That's the wonder of the internet: Keeping up with who your team just picked ("Oh, look! We just got that O-lineman Mel and Todd keep yammering about!") without having to actually watch all the filler talk that surrounds it.
I got my fill of all that yesterday, heading east through Ohio on my periodic Civil War nerd excursion to Gettysburg. Everyone in Cleveland is all excited about which No. 1 pick the Browns are going to ruin this time. And it's a measure of what a contrarian I am about all this that none of them think the Browns should do what I think they should do.
I think they should take the best player in the draft with the No. 1 pick. Which would be Penn State running back Saquon Barkley.
Yes, I know, you're not supposed to take a running back early, because RBs are as plentiful as ants at a picnic. You can pick one up pretty much the way you pick up a gallon of milk on the way home from work.
That's the conventional wisdom. Or, rather, it was.
Here's an exercise for you: Go find Dak Prescott and ask him if Ezekiel Elliott is no more valuable than a gallon of milk. Ask him how Elliott, by giving the Cowboys a reliable run game, made Prescott's job yea easier. Then ask him how much harder the game got when Elliott had to sit out those games last year.
After that, you can go ask the New Orleans Saints what Alvin Kamara did for them last year.
And so here we have the Browns, who need a lot of things, clearly. One of those is a reliable run game. And here we have a handful of quarterbacks predicted to go in the top 10 -- including Sam Darnold of USC, the money bet to go to the Browns with the first pick.
Thing is, no one has yet compared Sam Darnold to, say, Andrew Luck. Or Peyton Manning. Or John Elway, or Dan Marino, or any other franchise quarterback you can think of.
Same goes for Josh Allen. And Josh Rosen. And Baker Mayfield.
Those are the other three QBs projected to go early, and none of them stands head and shoulders above the others. They've all got upside. They've all got downside. You can pretty much throw them all in a hat and draw one out.
This should matter if you're the Browns, because they have not just the first pick but the fourth. Which means they could pick Barkley at 1 and lock down their run game, then go get one of the QBs with the fourth pick. Again, it doesn't matter all that much which of the four it is. And no matter who they pick, his transition would be made exponentially easier because waiting there for him would be Saquon Barkley.
Again, ask Dak Prescott how valuable a stud RB can be.
So, there you go. My draft strategy.
And you didn't even have to turn on your TV to get it.
Monday, April 23, 2018
Lance Stephenson is pure hilarity
I know who Lance Stephenson is. We all do, don't we?
Lance Stephenson is the fly that gets in your car and buzzes around your head and around your head and around your head until you get so pre-occupied with swatting it into oblivion, you drive off the road into a ditch. You then have to call a wrecker to come tow you out. And then, after it comes and tows you out, you get back in the car and discover the bleeping fly is STILL there, buzzing around your head and around your head and around your head.
That's who Lance Stephenson is.
Or, at least, that's who he is to LeBron James, the greatest basketball player on planet Earth but not capable, apparently, of being un-bothered by Lance's antics. Last night 'Bron and the Cavaliers held off the Pacers to win Game 4 and tie their first-round playoff series at two games apiece, as expected. But it was Lance Stephenson for whom you brought your popcorn.
(About the series, BTW: The rest of America seems to be shocked at how it's gone so far. Those who've been watching the Pacers all season, however, aren't shocked at all. In fact, it's been entirely predictable to date. And it will continue to be entirely predictable. Pacers in six, Cavs in seven.)
Anyway ... back to Lance Stephenson, who's obviously become LeBron's LePest.
Last night in the fourth quarter, with the game in the balance, he got in LeBron's personal space as he walked back to the Cavs' bench, getting really, really close to him and just, you know, being there. It was a total grade-school move (as LeBron later acknowledged) that was all the more amusing for being so.
Eventually, LeBron turned and shoved him, which is exactly what Stephenson wanted him to do. Whistle. Technical foul on LeBron.
Heh-heh-heh.
Now, you'd think the greatest basketball player on planet Earth would be smart enough (or tough enough) not to be baited into a technical by the likes of Lance Stephenson, especially when he's using such a completely transparent tactic. But for some reason, the greatest basketball player on planet Earth is neither smart nor tough enough. Lance Stephenson gets under LeBron's skin. He does. And the delicious part of that?
Stephenson knows he gets under LeBron's skin. Which is why he keeps doing the stuff he does.
You see this in hockey all the time, where some chippy little jackwagon -- and it's almost always a little jackwagon -- buzzes around the other team's star players until they take a whack at him and wind up in the penalty box. It happens so often, in fact, it's kind of surprising there isn't actually a hockey position called Chippy Little Jackwagon.
That's who Lance Stephenson is. He's juvenile. He's annoyingly obvious. And, unless you're a Cleveland fan, he's also hilarious, at least in the Blob's opinion.
I guess that means the Blob is kinda juvenile itself. Duh.
Lance Stephenson is the fly that gets in your car and buzzes around your head and around your head and around your head until you get so pre-occupied with swatting it into oblivion, you drive off the road into a ditch. You then have to call a wrecker to come tow you out. And then, after it comes and tows you out, you get back in the car and discover the bleeping fly is STILL there, buzzing around your head and around your head and around your head.
That's who Lance Stephenson is.
Or, at least, that's who he is to LeBron James, the greatest basketball player on planet Earth but not capable, apparently, of being un-bothered by Lance's antics. Last night 'Bron and the Cavaliers held off the Pacers to win Game 4 and tie their first-round playoff series at two games apiece, as expected. But it was Lance Stephenson for whom you brought your popcorn.
(About the series, BTW: The rest of America seems to be shocked at how it's gone so far. Those who've been watching the Pacers all season, however, aren't shocked at all. In fact, it's been entirely predictable to date. And it will continue to be entirely predictable. Pacers in six, Cavs in seven.)
Anyway ... back to Lance Stephenson, who's obviously become LeBron's LePest.
Last night in the fourth quarter, with the game in the balance, he got in LeBron's personal space as he walked back to the Cavs' bench, getting really, really close to him and just, you know, being there. It was a total grade-school move (as LeBron later acknowledged) that was all the more amusing for being so.
Eventually, LeBron turned and shoved him, which is exactly what Stephenson wanted him to do. Whistle. Technical foul on LeBron.
Heh-heh-heh.
Now, you'd think the greatest basketball player on planet Earth would be smart enough (or tough enough) not to be baited into a technical by the likes of Lance Stephenson, especially when he's using such a completely transparent tactic. But for some reason, the greatest basketball player on planet Earth is neither smart nor tough enough. Lance Stephenson gets under LeBron's skin. He does. And the delicious part of that?
Stephenson knows he gets under LeBron's skin. Which is why he keeps doing the stuff he does.
You see this in hockey all the time, where some chippy little jackwagon -- and it's almost always a little jackwagon -- buzzes around the other team's star players until they take a whack at him and wind up in the penalty box. It happens so often, in fact, it's kind of surprising there isn't actually a hockey position called Chippy Little Jackwagon.
That's who Lance Stephenson is. He's juvenile. He's annoyingly obvious. And, unless you're a Cleveland fan, he's also hilarious, at least in the Blob's opinion.
I guess that means the Blob is kinda juvenile itself. Duh.
Let's go Reds! (Really)
The problem with great ideas is sometimes the people involved just don't want to cooperate.
Sneaked a peek at the NL Central standings this a.m., and it was some depressing. My awful Pirates are still three games above .500 and hanging in there, although they're now in third place, half-a-game back of the Cardinals and Brewers. They've lost three in a row, so at least they're trying to return to their ancestral home in the depths of the division, just like the Blob had it all worked out before the season began.
The problem is, the Reds are beyond awful. They are, in fact, shaping up to be historically awful. Which means the Blob's splendid idea for this summer -- a riveting Battle for the Cellar between the Reds and my Bucs -- might not happen. It might wind up being no Battle at all.
And so the Blob says this, un-ironically and with complete sincerity: Let's go, Reds!
Surely they can do better than 3-17, which is what they are right now. That's a whole 8 1/2 games behind the Pirates. They've lost four in a row, which means the Pirates can't even make up any reverse ground by losing three in a row.
This will not stand. The Reds need to win a few games. Not a bunch, because they're not good enough to do that. But a couple, here and there. Just enough to narrow the gap and ensure the Battle for the Cellar will at last be joined.
At least that would make the summer interesting for this Pirates fan. If not -- if the Reds truly do turn out to be historically awful -- then it's just gonna be another summer of crappy baseball with no drama involved whatsoever.
Come on, Reds. Do it for baseball.
Sneaked a peek at the NL Central standings this a.m., and it was some depressing. My awful Pirates are still three games above .500 and hanging in there, although they're now in third place, half-a-game back of the Cardinals and Brewers. They've lost three in a row, so at least they're trying to return to their ancestral home in the depths of the division, just like the Blob had it all worked out before the season began.
The problem is, the Reds are beyond awful. They are, in fact, shaping up to be historically awful. Which means the Blob's splendid idea for this summer -- a riveting Battle for the Cellar between the Reds and my Bucs -- might not happen. It might wind up being no Battle at all.
And so the Blob says this, un-ironically and with complete sincerity: Let's go, Reds!
Surely they can do better than 3-17, which is what they are right now. That's a whole 8 1/2 games behind the Pirates. They've lost four in a row, which means the Pirates can't even make up any reverse ground by losing three in a row.
This will not stand. The Reds need to win a few games. Not a bunch, because they're not good enough to do that. But a couple, here and there. Just enough to narrow the gap and ensure the Battle for the Cellar will at last be joined.
At least that would make the summer interesting for this Pirates fan. If not -- if the Reds truly do turn out to be historically awful -- then it's just gonna be another summer of crappy baseball with no drama involved whatsoever.
Come on, Reds. Do it for baseball.
Saturday, April 21, 2018
Yes. This could happen.
The Blob is nothing if not a forthright Blob. And so it will say now what it should have said a few days ago, when everyone got all exercised about the Pacers trash-bagging the Cavaliers in Cleveland in Game 1 of their first-round playoff series.
The Blob said then it was time to slow the roll, because momentum in the NBA is a phantom and LeBron James has a history of digging up the Cavaliers and bringing them back from the dead when you least expect it.
The Blob says the same thing now, with Bojan Bogdanovic -- Bojan Bogdanovic! -- outscoring LeBron 30-28 in a 92-90 Pacers win in Game 3 last night.
But what the Blob will also say is this doesn't mean I don't think the Pacers could win this series.
They can. Clearly. Obviously.
They are -- clearly and obviously -- the better basketball team, and not just because they can get some guy named Bojan Bogdanovic to go for 30 on a given night. They are better because they're better defensively. They are better because, while Victor Oladipo doesn't have to go for 30 every night because occasionally a Bogdanovic will, the Cavaliers pretty much have to have LeBron go for 30 every night or they lose.
That's the lesson of Games 1 and 3.
And the lesson of Game 2?
That when the Cavs are up against it, LeBron is going to do whatever he has to do to keep them from coding. He's like a breathing tube with hands and feet.
And so don't be surprised if he lays another big number on the Pacers in Game 4, and evens the series again. And that's why the Blob thinks it knows how this is going to end up.
The Pacers are going to win in six games.
Or, the Cavaliers are going to win in seven, because if it comes to that, LeBron will do whatever he has to do to keep them from losing Game 7 at home. If he has to go for 50, he'll go for 50.
If, that is, he can get them that far.
The Blob said then it was time to slow the roll, because momentum in the NBA is a phantom and LeBron James has a history of digging up the Cavaliers and bringing them back from the dead when you least expect it.
The Blob says the same thing now, with Bojan Bogdanovic -- Bojan Bogdanovic! -- outscoring LeBron 30-28 in a 92-90 Pacers win in Game 3 last night.
But what the Blob will also say is this doesn't mean I don't think the Pacers could win this series.
They can. Clearly. Obviously.
They are -- clearly and obviously -- the better basketball team, and not just because they can get some guy named Bojan Bogdanovic to go for 30 on a given night. They are better because they're better defensively. They are better because, while Victor Oladipo doesn't have to go for 30 every night because occasionally a Bogdanovic will, the Cavaliers pretty much have to have LeBron go for 30 every night or they lose.
That's the lesson of Games 1 and 3.
And the lesson of Game 2?
That when the Cavs are up against it, LeBron is going to do whatever he has to do to keep them from coding. He's like a breathing tube with hands and feet.
And so don't be surprised if he lays another big number on the Pacers in Game 4, and evens the series again. And that's why the Blob thinks it knows how this is going to end up.
The Pacers are going to win in six games.
Or, the Cavaliers are going to win in seven, because if it comes to that, LeBron will do whatever he has to do to keep them from losing Game 7 at home. If he has to go for 50, he'll go for 50.
If, that is, he can get them that far.
Thursday, April 19, 2018
Do not poke the Man
Soooo. Remember the other day when the Blob said let's not get overheated about the way the Pacers made the Cavaliers look old and washed-up in Game 1? How we really needed to wait and see what happened in Game 2?
Well ... here's what happened in Game 2: Cavaliers 100, Pacers 97.
Here's what also happened: LeBron James strapped 46 and 12 on the Pacers.
Here's what we can glean from that: That all the talk -- from media, not the Pacers -- about how the Pacers actually figured out a way to slow down LeBron in Game 1 had the easily predictable outcome. Which is that LeBron took it as a challenge. And when LeBron takes something as a challenge, you pretty much just want to get out of his way, because he's going to do what he wants regardless of whether or not you do get in his way.
That's what happened in Game 2. And what clearly is going to have to happen for the Cavs the rest of this series to knock out the Pacers, who clearly have the superior team.
Which is why the Blob said if it comes down to a Game 7, LeBron will somehow find a way to keep the Cavs from losing, just as he did last night.
On to Game 3.
Well ... here's what happened in Game 2: Cavaliers 100, Pacers 97.
Here's what also happened: LeBron James strapped 46 and 12 on the Pacers.
Here's what we can glean from that: That all the talk -- from media, not the Pacers -- about how the Pacers actually figured out a way to slow down LeBron in Game 1 had the easily predictable outcome. Which is that LeBron took it as a challenge. And when LeBron takes something as a challenge, you pretty much just want to get out of his way, because he's going to do what he wants regardless of whether or not you do get in his way.
That's what happened in Game 2. And what clearly is going to have to happen for the Cavs the rest of this series to knock out the Pacers, who clearly have the superior team.
Which is why the Blob said if it comes down to a Game 7, LeBron will somehow find a way to keep the Cavs from losing, just as he did last night.
On to Game 3.
Wednesday, April 18, 2018
The right to bear opinions
Let's put this out there right off, just so there's no confusion:
Gregg Popovich doesn't care what you think.
The San Antonio Spurs head coach is a Region guy from Indiana, and Region guys from Indiana cut through BS the way a machete cuts through ground fog. So when he hears Our Only Available President spew nonsense, Pop skewers him for the lying poltroon he is. And that doesn't sit well with some folks who, unaccountably, still think OOAP hung the moon and stars.
So some of them have decided to quit supporting the Spurs until Pop quits pointing out that their Emperor has no clothes.
You know what?
That's fine. That's their right, poor misguided souls. Go with God, and here's hoping someday the scales fall from your eyes.
But if you think that's going to cow Pop into silence ... well, think again.
It won't. He'll keep telling you Your Boy is naked when it's appropriate to do so. Maybe someday the people who count the gate receipts will tell Pop to shut up about Trump already, but I doubt it. That's because I don't imagine the number of boycotters is all that high.
Of course, the fact Popovich is the most successful NBA coach of the current millennium probably insulates him a bit, too. He's earned the right to say what he wants about whatever he wants.
Which he no doubt will. Deal with it, America.
Gregg Popovich doesn't care what you think.
The San Antonio Spurs head coach is a Region guy from Indiana, and Region guys from Indiana cut through BS the way a machete cuts through ground fog. So when he hears Our Only Available President spew nonsense, Pop skewers him for the lying poltroon he is. And that doesn't sit well with some folks who, unaccountably, still think OOAP hung the moon and stars.
So some of them have decided to quit supporting the Spurs until Pop quits pointing out that their Emperor has no clothes.
You know what?
That's fine. That's their right, poor misguided souls. Go with God, and here's hoping someday the scales fall from your eyes.
But if you think that's going to cow Pop into silence ... well, think again.
It won't. He'll keep telling you Your Boy is naked when it's appropriate to do so. Maybe someday the people who count the gate receipts will tell Pop to shut up about Trump already, but I doubt it. That's because I don't imagine the number of boycotters is all that high.
Of course, the fact Popovich is the most successful NBA coach of the current millennium probably insulates him a bit, too. He's earned the right to say what he wants about whatever he wants.
Which he no doubt will. Deal with it, America.
Tuesday, April 17, 2018
A matter of will
Caught a few highlights from the Boston Marathon yesterday, and, like most of you, a couple of thoughts immediately popped into my head.
The first thought was "What's wrong with these people?"
The second thought was "Why don't they quit? 'Cause I'd quit."
Which is another way of saying marathon runners are different from the rest of us, in the sense that they are superior human beings. First of all, they don't even blink at the idea of running 26 miles, 385 yards, up hills and down dales, without stopping. Second of all, they will do it even in less than optimum conditions, which is what happened in Boston yesterday.
What happened was temperatures in the mid-30s, a muscular headwind and icy rain blowing sideways in their faces. This sounded like so much fun it made me immediately want to run right out and start training.
OK. So it didn't.
What it did, or should have, is make us marvel again at the limitless reserves of will human beings can summon when they're properly motivated. This includes the women's winner, Desiree Linden, who not only conquered the appalling conditions but actually went to the lead on the most infamous part of the course, the appropriately named Heartbreak Hill. And it includes the women's runnerup, Sarah Sellers, a nurse-anesthetist from Tucson of whom hardly anyone had heard.
This is because Boston was only her second marathon. Like, ever.
And remember: She's from Tucson. So she probably didn't train a whole lot in 36-degree rain with windchills that must have hovered somewhere between Damn! and I Can't Feel My Face.
Of course, there is a possibility that might have been as much a motivator as a deterrent. Like, maybe Sellers just wanted to get the damn thing over with.
I say this because, back when I was a kid who could chew gum and walk at the same time only sporadically, I, too, was a runner. OK, so I was a "runner" only in the loosest definition of the term. But I did run cross country as a high school freshman, albeit very slowly. And I distinctly remember the last meet I ever ran, because the conditions were not great.
Mind you, they weren't as miserable as Boston yesterday. But it was 39 degrees and spitting snow, so it wasn't springtime in Aruba, either.
In any event, I've always felt that was why I ran the fastest time of my life that day -- "fastest," of course, being a relative term. Because all I remember now about that meet was being chilled to the bone, and wanting desperately to get it over with so I could crawl back in my sweats and get out of the wind.
So, yeah. Maybe that element was at work for Sarah Sellers yesterday.
On the other hand ... Second place in the Boston? In only her second marathon? In what amounted to the April version of a nor'easter?
Superior human beings. Superior, I tell you.
The first thought was "What's wrong with these people?"
The second thought was "Why don't they quit? 'Cause I'd quit."
Which is another way of saying marathon runners are different from the rest of us, in the sense that they are superior human beings. First of all, they don't even blink at the idea of running 26 miles, 385 yards, up hills and down dales, without stopping. Second of all, they will do it even in less than optimum conditions, which is what happened in Boston yesterday.
What happened was temperatures in the mid-30s, a muscular headwind and icy rain blowing sideways in their faces. This sounded like so much fun it made me immediately want to run right out and start training.
OK. So it didn't.
What it did, or should have, is make us marvel again at the limitless reserves of will human beings can summon when they're properly motivated. This includes the women's winner, Desiree Linden, who not only conquered the appalling conditions but actually went to the lead on the most infamous part of the course, the appropriately named Heartbreak Hill. And it includes the women's runnerup, Sarah Sellers, a nurse-anesthetist from Tucson of whom hardly anyone had heard.
This is because Boston was only her second marathon. Like, ever.
And remember: She's from Tucson. So she probably didn't train a whole lot in 36-degree rain with windchills that must have hovered somewhere between Damn! and I Can't Feel My Face.
Of course, there is a possibility that might have been as much a motivator as a deterrent. Like, maybe Sellers just wanted to get the damn thing over with.
I say this because, back when I was a kid who could chew gum and walk at the same time only sporadically, I, too, was a runner. OK, so I was a "runner" only in the loosest definition of the term. But I did run cross country as a high school freshman, albeit very slowly. And I distinctly remember the last meet I ever ran, because the conditions were not great.
Mind you, they weren't as miserable as Boston yesterday. But it was 39 degrees and spitting snow, so it wasn't springtime in Aruba, either.
In any event, I've always felt that was why I ran the fastest time of my life that day -- "fastest," of course, being a relative term. Because all I remember now about that meet was being chilled to the bone, and wanting desperately to get it over with so I could crawl back in my sweats and get out of the wind.
So, yeah. Maybe that element was at work for Sarah Sellers yesterday.
On the other hand ... Second place in the Boston? In only her second marathon? In what amounted to the April version of a nor'easter?
Superior human beings. Superior, I tell you.
Monday, April 16, 2018
Sweep? You're talkin' about a sweep?
One game, folks. One. Game.
There is your Blob rebuttal to Game 1 of the Pacers-Cavaliers series, in which the Pacers made the Cavs look like yesterday's news in a 98-80 blowout in Cleveland. The Pacers were quicker, fresher, smarter and played harder. The Cavs looked like Clint Eastwood in "Gran Torino": tired and cranky and just wanting to be left alone to snooze on the couch.
Alarming note for the Cavaliers: They focused their D on Victor Oladipo and he still lit them up. V.O. went for 32 points and outplayed LeBron down the stretch, when the Cavs finally made a run and then essentially said "Ah, to hell with it."
Further alarming note for the Cavs: This was the first loss in a first-round series for LeBron since 2012. That's six years to you and me, kids.
Soothing note for the Blob, who predicted LeBron was not going to go out in a first-round loss to the Pacers: It is, again, just one game.
If we know nothing else about the NBA playoffs, it's that prior performance does not guarantee future results. Teams that get crushed in one game routinely return to crush the team that crushed them in the next. This in fact has happened to the Cavaliers more times than you can count.
And so: Before we bury Cleveland, I suggest we wait and see what happens in Game 2.
There's still a very good chance the Blob's prediction could be catastrophically, absurdly wrong. It certainly wouldn't be the first time.
On the other hand ... there's still just as good a chance I could turn out to be right about this.
For once.
There is your Blob rebuttal to Game 1 of the Pacers-Cavaliers series, in which the Pacers made the Cavs look like yesterday's news in a 98-80 blowout in Cleveland. The Pacers were quicker, fresher, smarter and played harder. The Cavs looked like Clint Eastwood in "Gran Torino": tired and cranky and just wanting to be left alone to snooze on the couch.
Alarming note for the Cavaliers: They focused their D on Victor Oladipo and he still lit them up. V.O. went for 32 points and outplayed LeBron down the stretch, when the Cavs finally made a run and then essentially said "Ah, to hell with it."
Further alarming note for the Cavs: This was the first loss in a first-round series for LeBron since 2012. That's six years to you and me, kids.
Soothing note for the Blob, who predicted LeBron was not going to go out in a first-round loss to the Pacers: It is, again, just one game.
If we know nothing else about the NBA playoffs, it's that prior performance does not guarantee future results. Teams that get crushed in one game routinely return to crush the team that crushed them in the next. This in fact has happened to the Cavaliers more times than you can count.
And so: Before we bury Cleveland, I suggest we wait and see what happens in Game 2.
There's still a very good chance the Blob's prediction could be catastrophically, absurdly wrong. It certainly wouldn't be the first time.
On the other hand ... there's still just as good a chance I could turn out to be right about this.
For once.
Sunday, April 15, 2018
Aaaand they STILL don't get it
I don't know what you do about Michigan State University now that doesn't involve a demolition crew. Maybe blowing the place up and rebuilding it from the smoking crater on up sounds extreme, but, really, are there any other ideas out there that haven't spectacularly failed?
This upon the news this week that John Engler, the former Michigan governor who was brought in as president to clean up the Larry Nassar/institutional sexual assault mess in East Lansing, instead has proved to be just another clumsy oaf.
The latest gem: One of Nassar's victims, 18-year-old Kaylee Lorincz, told the MSU board that Engler took a meeting with her and asked if he were to write her a check for $250,000, if she would drop her involvement in the civil litigation being brought against the university. When the shocked young woman demurred, he said, "Well, give me a number," claiming another of Nassar's victims, Rachael Denhollander, had done so in a previous meeting.
Denhollander says that's "a bald-faced lie," and that she never even met with Engler.
So now we've got the president who replaced the president who looked the other way on Nassar for two decades basically offering to bribe one of his victims. Which of course victimizes her all over again by implying she (and her fellow victims) are just a bunch of gold-diggers who can be bought for the right price.
Nice goin' there, folks. Good to know you're still getting your recommended daily allowance of stupid.
Here's hoping the NCAA lands on Michigan State with both feet, and that the feet are shod in steel-toed Doc Martins. And that Engler, and the board that put him in charge of this mess, are gone before the next week is out. Because these people make the folks at Penn State look respectable,
And that's saying something.
This upon the news this week that John Engler, the former Michigan governor who was brought in as president to clean up the Larry Nassar/institutional sexual assault mess in East Lansing, instead has proved to be just another clumsy oaf.
The latest gem: One of Nassar's victims, 18-year-old Kaylee Lorincz, told the MSU board that Engler took a meeting with her and asked if he were to write her a check for $250,000, if she would drop her involvement in the civil litigation being brought against the university. When the shocked young woman demurred, he said, "Well, give me a number," claiming another of Nassar's victims, Rachael Denhollander, had done so in a previous meeting.
Denhollander says that's "a bald-faced lie," and that she never even met with Engler.
So now we've got the president who replaced the president who looked the other way on Nassar for two decades basically offering to bribe one of his victims. Which of course victimizes her all over again by implying she (and her fellow victims) are just a bunch of gold-diggers who can be bought for the right price.
Nice goin' there, folks. Good to know you're still getting your recommended daily allowance of stupid.
Here's hoping the NCAA lands on Michigan State with both feet, and that the feet are shod in steel-toed Doc Martins. And that Engler, and the board that put him in charge of this mess, are gone before the next week is out. Because these people make the folks at Penn State look respectable,
And that's saying something.
Things we fail to comprehend
Look, maybe it's an education thing. Maybe there are things going on in sports right now that I don't understand, and maybe that's just because I don't follow them enough to have the appropriate working knowledge.
Although even if I did have the appropriate working knowledge, I still couldn't explain the Las Vegas Golden Knights, who didn't exist a year ago and are one of the top teams in the NHL in their inaugural season.
On the other hand, maybe someone can school me about some of the things that are going on right now in the National FOOT-ball League, as Howard Cosell used to enunciate it. Because I'm just not seeing what the plugged-in people are seeing, apparently.
For instance: Why would the Cowboys cut -- not trade, cut -- their all-time franchise leader in touchdown receptions when he's only 29 and still has a lot of football left in him? Did they sign Antonio Brown when I wasn't looking? Did they recreate Jerry Rice in a test tube in Jerry Jones' super-secret experimental lab (because I wouldn't put it past ol' Jer to have one)?
No, they did not. Instead, they cut Dez Bryant and signed, um, Allen Hurns and Deonte Thompson, who, last I looked, are not Dez Bryant. They're also looking hard at all the top receivers in the upcoming draft. But for the time being, they've gotten exponentially worse at wide receiver, with nothing certain on the horizon that suggests they'll soon get better.
True, they did make their cap space roomier. But to what end?
Someone way smarter than I am needs to explain this.
Also, someone needs to explain to me why some of the gurus have as many as three quarterbacks going in the five in the upcoming draft. Did I fall asleep and wake up in 1983? Is there really a John Elway and a Dan Marino and a Jim Kelly in this draft?
Maybe so, but I'm not seeing it. I think Sam Darnold's pretty good. I think Josh Rosen's pretty good, and I like the way his mind works. And I think Josh Allen is pretty good for a guy who played at Wyoming, and who didn't exactly make me grab my head in amazement the couple of times I saw him play.
Yet I don't see a franchise QB in any of them, which would justify all three going in the top five. Don't see one in Baker Mayfield, either, although some people smarter than I am think he's the best of the lot from a physical standpoint.
Me?
I look at Baker Mayfield and see Ryan Leaf all over again: Million-dollar talent, ten-cent head. That whole grabbing-the-crotch-and-dropping-F-bombs-on-the-sideline thing? That was straight out of the Ryan Leaf playbook, boys and girls. And against Kansas, no less.
So ... yeah. I'm clueless.
I am, in fact, so clueless that the one quarterback prospect no one seems to be enamored of, I'm enamored of. That would be Lamar Jackson from Louisville, whom everyone seems to think should choose another position. But I look at him and see someone who, in the right hands, could be exactly the kind of mobile, multi-skilled quarterback the NFL more and more leans toward these days.
So what am I missing?
An inquiring but apparently uninformed mind wants to know.
Although even if I did have the appropriate working knowledge, I still couldn't explain the Las Vegas Golden Knights, who didn't exist a year ago and are one of the top teams in the NHL in their inaugural season.
On the other hand, maybe someone can school me about some of the things that are going on right now in the National FOOT-ball League, as Howard Cosell used to enunciate it. Because I'm just not seeing what the plugged-in people are seeing, apparently.
For instance: Why would the Cowboys cut -- not trade, cut -- their all-time franchise leader in touchdown receptions when he's only 29 and still has a lot of football left in him? Did they sign Antonio Brown when I wasn't looking? Did they recreate Jerry Rice in a test tube in Jerry Jones' super-secret experimental lab (because I wouldn't put it past ol' Jer to have one)?
No, they did not. Instead, they cut Dez Bryant and signed, um, Allen Hurns and Deonte Thompson, who, last I looked, are not Dez Bryant. They're also looking hard at all the top receivers in the upcoming draft. But for the time being, they've gotten exponentially worse at wide receiver, with nothing certain on the horizon that suggests they'll soon get better.
True, they did make their cap space roomier. But to what end?
Someone way smarter than I am needs to explain this.
Also, someone needs to explain to me why some of the gurus have as many as three quarterbacks going in the five in the upcoming draft. Did I fall asleep and wake up in 1983? Is there really a John Elway and a Dan Marino and a Jim Kelly in this draft?
Maybe so, but I'm not seeing it. I think Sam Darnold's pretty good. I think Josh Rosen's pretty good, and I like the way his mind works. And I think Josh Allen is pretty good for a guy who played at Wyoming, and who didn't exactly make me grab my head in amazement the couple of times I saw him play.
Yet I don't see a franchise QB in any of them, which would justify all three going in the top five. Don't see one in Baker Mayfield, either, although some people smarter than I am think he's the best of the lot from a physical standpoint.
Me?
I look at Baker Mayfield and see Ryan Leaf all over again: Million-dollar talent, ten-cent head. That whole grabbing-the-crotch-and-dropping-F-bombs-on-the-sideline thing? That was straight out of the Ryan Leaf playbook, boys and girls. And against Kansas, no less.
So ... yeah. I'm clueless.
I am, in fact, so clueless that the one quarterback prospect no one seems to be enamored of, I'm enamored of. That would be Lamar Jackson from Louisville, whom everyone seems to think should choose another position. But I look at him and see someone who, in the right hands, could be exactly the kind of mobile, multi-skilled quarterback the NFL more and more leans toward these days.
So what am I missing?
An inquiring but apparently uninformed mind wants to know.
Saturday, April 14, 2018
A discouraging word
So I hear all this talk now about how it's going to be different this time between the Indiana Pacers and the Cleveland Cavaliers, how the Cavs are ripe for the taking and the young, new-look Pacers are just the team to do the taking, how LeBron is 33 now and, even though he was even more fabulous than ever this season, perhaps this is a bridge too far for him.
It's David vs. Goliath all over again, these same people say. And look how swell that turned out for the pluck little Israelite.
Know what the Blob thinks when it hears this?
It thinks a new appreciation for Goliath might be in order.
It thinks perhaps we are forgetting LeBron James is still LeBron James, and Victor Oladipo 'n' them, joyous and skilled though they may be, are not. The best player of his generation (and maybe of all time) is not going to lose to the Pacers in the first round of the playoffs. The Blob has tried that narrative on for size, and it just doesn't fit no matter how much you try to make it.
Being of a provincial nature, I would love to see the Pacers knock them off, and if you go strictly by the cold numbers it not only seems possible, it wouldn't even be a David vs. Goliath sort of deal. The Pacers did, after all, take three of four from the Cavs during the regular season. They finished just two games behind them in the standings, winning 48 games to Cleveland's 50. And it is abundantly obvious by now that this is as flawed and weak a team as LeBron's had around him since he came back to Cleveland four years ago.
And that the Pacers are much, much better than the team that got swept by the Cavs in the first round last year.
I don't think that's going to happen again.
I do think Cleveland wins anyway, because if LeBron's going to go down after the kind of season he's had, it's not going to the Pacers in the first round. Again, that narrative just doesn't seem to fit.
Let's try a for-instance, for instance. Let's say the Cavs struggle in this series and the Pacers don't, and the series goes the distance. Suddenly it's Game 7, in Cleveland. Do you really think, in your heart of hearts, that LeBron's going to let the Cavs lose a Game 7 at home in the first round? Especially when you consider it would likely be his last game in Cleveland if he did?
LeBron James is not going to lose Game 7 to the Pacers in his final game in his adopted hometown. Not going to happen. Especially given what happened the last time in Cleveland, when he was accused of tanking the series against Boston because his heart was already in Miami.
(This is, by the way, ridiculous. That last game in Boston? LeBron went for 27 points, 19 rebounds and 11 assists trying to stave off elimination. Yeah, he barely showed up.)
In any case, there's just way too much motivation for LeBron to go out in that scenario. And we all know what the man's capable of when he has sufficient motivation -- and even when he doesn't.
Sorry, David. Says here you can't beat Goliath every time.
It's David vs. Goliath all over again, these same people say. And look how swell that turned out for the pluck little Israelite.
Know what the Blob thinks when it hears this?
It thinks a new appreciation for Goliath might be in order.
It thinks perhaps we are forgetting LeBron James is still LeBron James, and Victor Oladipo 'n' them, joyous and skilled though they may be, are not. The best player of his generation (and maybe of all time) is not going to lose to the Pacers in the first round of the playoffs. The Blob has tried that narrative on for size, and it just doesn't fit no matter how much you try to make it.
Being of a provincial nature, I would love to see the Pacers knock them off, and if you go strictly by the cold numbers it not only seems possible, it wouldn't even be a David vs. Goliath sort of deal. The Pacers did, after all, take three of four from the Cavs during the regular season. They finished just two games behind them in the standings, winning 48 games to Cleveland's 50. And it is abundantly obvious by now that this is as flawed and weak a team as LeBron's had around him since he came back to Cleveland four years ago.
And that the Pacers are much, much better than the team that got swept by the Cavs in the first round last year.
I don't think that's going to happen again.
I do think Cleveland wins anyway, because if LeBron's going to go down after the kind of season he's had, it's not going to the Pacers in the first round. Again, that narrative just doesn't seem to fit.
Let's try a for-instance, for instance. Let's say the Cavs struggle in this series and the Pacers don't, and the series goes the distance. Suddenly it's Game 7, in Cleveland. Do you really think, in your heart of hearts, that LeBron's going to let the Cavs lose a Game 7 at home in the first round? Especially when you consider it would likely be his last game in Cleveland if he did?
LeBron James is not going to lose Game 7 to the Pacers in his final game in his adopted hometown. Not going to happen. Especially given what happened the last time in Cleveland, when he was accused of tanking the series against Boston because his heart was already in Miami.
(This is, by the way, ridiculous. That last game in Boston? LeBron went for 27 points, 19 rebounds and 11 assists trying to stave off elimination. Yeah, he barely showed up.)
In any case, there's just way too much motivation for LeBron to go out in that scenario. And we all know what the man's capable of when he has sufficient motivation -- and even when he doesn't.
Sorry, David. Says here you can't beat Goliath every time.
Thursday, April 12, 2018
April (no) fool
The Chicago Cubs got all Cubbish with my Pittsburgh Pirates yesterday, beating them briskly about the head, neck and pitching staff by a robust 13-5 count. This means the Bucs remain six games clear of the Cincinnati Reds in the battle for the NL Central cellar.
I'm sorry. What was that?
Yes, I know the Pirates are 8-3 and lead the division by two games.
Yes, I know this means technically they're actually battling the Cubs for first place in the NL Central
Yes, I know, in that regard, what T.S. Eliot said about April.
Here's the thing though: It's only the cruelest month if your mind isn't right. And mine is.
So never mind any and all current illusions. The hand-to-hand combat with the Reds for NL Central horridness continues.
All other alleged combats notwithstanding.
I'm sorry. What was that?
Yes, I know the Pirates are 8-3 and lead the division by two games.
Yes, I know this means technically they're actually battling the Cubs for first place in the NL Central
Yes, I know, in that regard, what T.S. Eliot said about April.
Here's the thing though: It's only the cruelest month if your mind isn't right. And mine is.
So never mind any and all current illusions. The hand-to-hand combat with the Reds for NL Central horridness continues.
All other alleged combats notwithstanding.
Wednesday, April 11, 2018
The stuff of dreams
It wants you to hate it, sometimes. That's how it seems, anyway.
That's how it seems when icons turn out to be frauds and sociopaths (Hello, Lance Armstrong!), and when cheaters prosper (Hey, look, it's the Russians!), and when vile human beings are rewarded with undeserved success (Lookin' at you, Floyd Mayweather!). And then there are the Yankees, the Patriots, Jerry Jones, Roger Goodell, the naked greed and hypocrisy of the NCAA, and whatever gods decided baseball games and the NBA season had to last longer than the reign of the Tudors.
Sport wants you to hate it sometimes. Except, of course, when it doesn't.
What redeems it, what always redeems it, are those moments no scriptwriter in Hollywood could duplicate without getting laughed out of the room. You Can't Make This Stuff Up is not just something people say, when that happens. It's a literal and functioning reality.
And so to a man named Andre Ingram, of whom you likely never heard until that aforementioned Stuff starting happening to him.
Ingram is a 32-year-old guard with a well-behaved jump shot who's been chasing the dream for 10 years, and he's never come close to catching it. For a full decade, he's been riding buses and bunking in We'll Leave The Light On For You joints from hither to yon ""hither" and "yon" being mere aliases for places like Grand Rapids and Canton, O., and Portland, Me., and, yes, Fort Wayne. After a decade doing all that and tutoring kids in math so he could keep doing it, he was an NBA G-League lifer if ever there was one.
And then, wondrously, he wasn't.
Then there was the day last week when he walked into his G-League coach's office for an end-of-the-season debriefing, and Coach dropped the big one: He, Andre Ingram, was being called up by the Lakers.
After 10 long years, he was going to the League.
If the story ended right there it would still be enough to get the script thrown back in your face by every producer who ever commanded a corner table at Spago. But you know what happened next?
What happened next, Tuesday night, was the Lakers put Andre Ingram in the game against the best team in the NBA Western Conference this season, the Houston Rockets.
He hit his first shot.
Then he hit his second shot.
Then he hit his third shot, and then his fourth, and went on to score 19 points on 6-of-8 shooting, including four 3-pointers in five tries. Oh, yeah: He also blocked three shots on the defensive end in a 105-99 loss.
"It was once in a lifetime," Ingram said later.
And how are you gonna hate that?
That's how it seems when icons turn out to be frauds and sociopaths (Hello, Lance Armstrong!), and when cheaters prosper (Hey, look, it's the Russians!), and when vile human beings are rewarded with undeserved success (Lookin' at you, Floyd Mayweather!). And then there are the Yankees, the Patriots, Jerry Jones, Roger Goodell, the naked greed and hypocrisy of the NCAA, and whatever gods decided baseball games and the NBA season had to last longer than the reign of the Tudors.
Sport wants you to hate it sometimes. Except, of course, when it doesn't.
What redeems it, what always redeems it, are those moments no scriptwriter in Hollywood could duplicate without getting laughed out of the room. You Can't Make This Stuff Up is not just something people say, when that happens. It's a literal and functioning reality.
And so to a man named Andre Ingram, of whom you likely never heard until that aforementioned Stuff starting happening to him.
Ingram is a 32-year-old guard with a well-behaved jump shot who's been chasing the dream for 10 years, and he's never come close to catching it. For a full decade, he's been riding buses and bunking in We'll Leave The Light On For You joints from hither to yon ""hither" and "yon" being mere aliases for places like Grand Rapids and Canton, O., and Portland, Me., and, yes, Fort Wayne. After a decade doing all that and tutoring kids in math so he could keep doing it, he was an NBA G-League lifer if ever there was one.
And then, wondrously, he wasn't.
Then there was the day last week when he walked into his G-League coach's office for an end-of-the-season debriefing, and Coach dropped the big one: He, Andre Ingram, was being called up by the Lakers.
After 10 long years, he was going to the League.
If the story ended right there it would still be enough to get the script thrown back in your face by every producer who ever commanded a corner table at Spago. But you know what happened next?
What happened next, Tuesday night, was the Lakers put Andre Ingram in the game against the best team in the NBA Western Conference this season, the Houston Rockets.
He hit his first shot.
Then he hit his second shot.
Then he hit his third shot, and then his fourth, and went on to score 19 points on 6-of-8 shooting, including four 3-pointers in five tries. Oh, yeah: He also blocked three shots on the defensive end in a 105-99 loss.
"It was once in a lifetime," Ingram said later.
And how are you gonna hate that?
Tuesday, April 10, 2018
Your appendage joke for today
Andrew Luck dropped by to visit with the Indy media yesterday, and he was filled with his usual upbeat non-specifics. It's kind of his schtick now, the way raving paranoia and goofy conspiracy theories are Our Only Available President's schtick.
And so, here was Andrew ...
The shoulder? Coming along fine, he said. Again.
Thanks for asking, he said. Again.
No, he hasn't started throwing a football yet, he said, again, just like he hadn't started throwing a football way back last summer, when people first started asking him about it.
But he will, he said. Soon. Really.
This is good news, maybe. Or not. As always with Luck and his shoulder, "soon" is an elastic concept.
"Soon" could mean next week. It could mean next month. It could mean 2027.
In any case, this whole business has taken on echoes of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, as most things eventually do here at the Blob. Luck, of course, has become the injury-denying Black Knight. The media, and to some degree the public, has become an increasingly incredulous King Arthur.
MEDIA/PUBLIC (pointing at Luck): Your arm's off!
LUCK (arterial blood gushing from his right shoulder): No it isn't!
MEDIA/PUBLIC (pointing at Luck's detached arm): What's that, then?
LUCK: 'Tis but a scratch!
Further non-updates on said scratch to follow.
And so, here was Andrew ...
The shoulder? Coming along fine, he said. Again.
Thanks for asking, he said. Again.
No, he hasn't started throwing a football yet, he said, again, just like he hadn't started throwing a football way back last summer, when people first started asking him about it.
But he will, he said. Soon. Really.
This is good news, maybe. Or not. As always with Luck and his shoulder, "soon" is an elastic concept.
"Soon" could mean next week. It could mean next month. It could mean 2027.
In any case, this whole business has taken on echoes of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, as most things eventually do here at the Blob. Luck, of course, has become the injury-denying Black Knight. The media, and to some degree the public, has become an increasingly incredulous King Arthur.
MEDIA/PUBLIC (pointing at Luck): Your arm's off!
LUCK (arterial blood gushing from his right shoulder): No it isn't!
MEDIA/PUBLIC (pointing at Luck's detached arm): What's that, then?
LUCK: 'Tis but a scratch!
Further non-updates on said scratch to follow.
Monday, April 9, 2018
An unbending Reed
Patrick Reed did the keepers of narrative no favors Sunday.
He didn't gag, choke, hiccup or yip on the last nine holes, which is what everyone in the known universe (including Rory McIlroy, who was three strokes in his wake after 54 holes) was sure he was going to do.
He took Rory's best punch and shook it off, and shook off Jordan Spieth even though Spieth threw a 64 at him that was one of the finest final rounds in Masters history, and shook off Rickie Fowler even though Fowler, another hugely popular man with the galleries, was gunning for a first major everyone knows is going to happen someday.
To hell with 'em all. To hell with all those lovely storylines he ruined. Life ain't no fairy tale, baby, and so the Masters got Reed shrugging into the green jacket -- a man whose life is a little too real to have, as background music, the traditional Masters tinkly piano.
Metallica, maybe. Black Sabbath, perhaps. But not tinkly piano.
Here's the thing about Reed: He's a rumpled, dumpy 2018 version of Arnold Palmer, minus the man-of-the-people charm. He got kicked off one of his college golf teams. He alienated most of his teammates and was suspended from another. He's a cocky, hotheaded, not terribly agreeable person, and he doesn't really give a damn what any of you think about that.
"Any of you" includes his parents, who live not far from Augusta National but watched their son win on TV Sunday because they're not welcome at his tournaments. How's that for a fairy tale?
Well, to hell with all that. And kudos to Reed, who gave us a Masters champion with warts and foibles, and maybe made the whole gauzy business a little more true to actual human life than it usually is. If he's more flawed than your usual Masters champion, he also was every bit as steely as any in the face of all that back-nine pressure.
Which is saying something for a guy who'd never led a major after 54 holes before.
So, yeah, salute him. He didn't give us the usual fairy tale. But in his own more-real-than-real way, he is a Cinderella of sorts.
If, you know, Cinderella had decided to shave her head, take up mixed martial arts and commence punching people in the head. Something like that.
He didn't gag, choke, hiccup or yip on the last nine holes, which is what everyone in the known universe (including Rory McIlroy, who was three strokes in his wake after 54 holes) was sure he was going to do.
He took Rory's best punch and shook it off, and shook off Jordan Spieth even though Spieth threw a 64 at him that was one of the finest final rounds in Masters history, and shook off Rickie Fowler even though Fowler, another hugely popular man with the galleries, was gunning for a first major everyone knows is going to happen someday.
To hell with 'em all. To hell with all those lovely storylines he ruined. Life ain't no fairy tale, baby, and so the Masters got Reed shrugging into the green jacket -- a man whose life is a little too real to have, as background music, the traditional Masters tinkly piano.
Metallica, maybe. Black Sabbath, perhaps. But not tinkly piano.
Here's the thing about Reed: He's a rumpled, dumpy 2018 version of Arnold Palmer, minus the man-of-the-people charm. He got kicked off one of his college golf teams. He alienated most of his teammates and was suspended from another. He's a cocky, hotheaded, not terribly agreeable person, and he doesn't really give a damn what any of you think about that.
"Any of you" includes his parents, who live not far from Augusta National but watched their son win on TV Sunday because they're not welcome at his tournaments. How's that for a fairy tale?
Well, to hell with all that. And kudos to Reed, who gave us a Masters champion with warts and foibles, and maybe made the whole gauzy business a little more true to actual human life than it usually is. If he's more flawed than your usual Masters champion, he also was every bit as steely as any in the face of all that back-nine pressure.
Which is saying something for a guy who'd never led a major after 54 holes before.
So, yeah, salute him. He didn't give us the usual fairy tale. But in his own more-real-than-real way, he is a Cinderella of sorts.
If, you know, Cinderella had decided to shave her head, take up mixed martial arts and commence punching people in the head. Something like that.
Sunday, April 8, 2018
Upset City
It's now Baltimore, in case you were wondering.
Baltimore is the official Upset City, because that's where UMBC (the University of Maryland Baltimore County) is, and UMBC keeps driving into sport's swankier districts and soaping the windows of the high and mighty.
First, the Retrievers' basketball team made history by becoming the first 16 seed ever to knock off a 1 seed in the NCAA Tournament, shocking not just a 1 seed but the overall 1 seed, Virginia, by 20 points in the first round of the tournament.
And now?
Now this.
Which, as the story notes, might be an even bigger upset. The Retrievers' basketball team, after all, was a conference champion, which is how it got into the NCAA Tournament. The Retrievers' lacrosse team, on the other hand, was a sucky 2-7 going into the game against No. 1 Albany. And yet somehow won anyway.
I don't know what's in the water at UMBC. But you know all those Marvel comic-book superheroes?
They just called. Want to know if they can buy some.
Baltimore is the official Upset City, because that's where UMBC (the University of Maryland Baltimore County) is, and UMBC keeps driving into sport's swankier districts and soaping the windows of the high and mighty.
First, the Retrievers' basketball team made history by becoming the first 16 seed ever to knock off a 1 seed in the NCAA Tournament, shocking not just a 1 seed but the overall 1 seed, Virginia, by 20 points in the first round of the tournament.
And now?
Now this.
Which, as the story notes, might be an even bigger upset. The Retrievers' basketball team, after all, was a conference champion, which is how it got into the NCAA Tournament. The Retrievers' lacrosse team, on the other hand, was a sucky 2-7 going into the game against No. 1 Albany. And yet somehow won anyway.
I don't know what's in the water at UMBC. But you know all those Marvel comic-book superheroes?
They just called. Want to know if they can buy some.
Saturday, April 7, 2018
A sport by any other lame
Far be it from the Blob to disrespect a legitimate sporting enterprise of any stripe, even ones the Blob does not fully understand, like Australian rules football and cricket.
(Because, seriously, does anyone outside the former British Empire really understand cricket? It's kinda like baseball, but not really. A game, or match, or epochal event, lasts longer than the Punic Wars. And it has an actual position actually called the "silly mid-off," which is why the Blob likes it even though it doesn't understand it.)
At any rate, the original point stands. The Blob would never think of not being properly respectful of any legitimate sport.
Which makes it perfectly OK to say mean things about mixed martial arts.
Mixed martial arts, which involves throwing some punches, tackling a guy and then rolling around the floor punching him in the head until he quits, has as its major ruling body the UFC. "UFC", for the uninitiated, is spelled "WWE." Or so it seems after this latest episode involving Conor McGregor, the sport's most saleable star and a man whose name, also for the uninitiated, apparently is spelled either "Rowdy Roddy Piper" or "The Iron Sheik."
Maybe you missed it while watching real sports, but the other day McGregor Rowdy Sheik pulled a stunt straight out of the pro wrestling villain's handbook. He attacked a bus.
Yes, somehow he gained access to the bowels of the Barclay Center in Brooklyn, where the latest UFC Whositmania (or whatever it's called) is happening. He picked up a hand dolly and chucked it through the window of a bus carrying Whositmania participants, injuring several. Apparently this had something to do with a disputed title, although maybe it just had something to do with McGregor Rowdy Sheik missing all the attention he got for fighting Floyd Mayweather.
Here's how you differentiate this from your standard WWE mayhem:
1. McGregor Rowdy Sheik used a hand dolly and not the WWE's preferred chuck-able items, folding chairs and card tables.
2. He was arrested and charged with three counts of misdemeanor assault and one charge of criminal mischief, and released on $50,000 bond.
3. There is no "3."
UFC chief Dana White professed to be appalled by the entire affair, labeling it the worst thing ever. In so doing, he sounded a lot like Vince McMahon.
Which suggests to the Blob that White will not wind up suspending McGregor Rowdy Sheik, or banning him, or anything of the kind.
No, sir. What he's more likely to do is sign him to another marquee fight as quickly as possible, the better to cash in on all the yummy bad-boy publicity.
After all, that's what Vince would do. Right?
(Because, seriously, does anyone outside the former British Empire really understand cricket? It's kinda like baseball, but not really. A game, or match, or epochal event, lasts longer than the Punic Wars. And it has an actual position actually called the "silly mid-off," which is why the Blob likes it even though it doesn't understand it.)
At any rate, the original point stands. The Blob would never think of not being properly respectful of any legitimate sport.
Which makes it perfectly OK to say mean things about mixed martial arts.
Mixed martial arts, which involves throwing some punches, tackling a guy and then rolling around the floor punching him in the head until he quits, has as its major ruling body the UFC. "UFC", for the uninitiated, is spelled "WWE." Or so it seems after this latest episode involving Conor McGregor, the sport's most saleable star and a man whose name, also for the uninitiated, apparently is spelled either "Rowdy Roddy Piper" or "The Iron Sheik."
Maybe you missed it while watching real sports, but the other day McGregor Rowdy Sheik pulled a stunt straight out of the pro wrestling villain's handbook. He attacked a bus.
Yes, somehow he gained access to the bowels of the Barclay Center in Brooklyn, where the latest UFC Whositmania (or whatever it's called) is happening. He picked up a hand dolly and chucked it through the window of a bus carrying Whositmania participants, injuring several. Apparently this had something to do with a disputed title, although maybe it just had something to do with McGregor Rowdy Sheik missing all the attention he got for fighting Floyd Mayweather.
Here's how you differentiate this from your standard WWE mayhem:
1. McGregor Rowdy Sheik used a hand dolly and not the WWE's preferred chuck-able items, folding chairs and card tables.
2. He was arrested and charged with three counts of misdemeanor assault and one charge of criminal mischief, and released on $50,000 bond.
3. There is no "3."
UFC chief Dana White professed to be appalled by the entire affair, labeling it the worst thing ever. In so doing, he sounded a lot like Vince McMahon.
Which suggests to the Blob that White will not wind up suspending McGregor Rowdy Sheik, or banning him, or anything of the kind.
No, sir. What he's more likely to do is sign him to another marquee fight as quickly as possible, the better to cash in on all the yummy bad-boy publicity.
After all, that's what Vince would do. Right?
Friday, April 6, 2018
This week in irony
Sometimes you have to look hard to connect the dots. But the dots are there, and the connection, while not readily in evidence, is discernible if you turn your head just so.
Consider: April 4, a Wednesday, was the 50th anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s assassination.
On that day, politicians of various stripes, including Our Only Available President, praised Dr. King's work as a leader of the civil rights movement of the 1960s -- even though the President and many of his fellow politicians likely would have had a very different opinion of King and his work back in 1968.
Why do I say that?
Because, on that same day, the Baltimore Ravens pulled Robert Griffin III off the junkheap and signed him as a backup quarterback. That meant once again an NFL team passed on Colin Kaepernick, a Super Bowl quarterback who played 12 games, threw 16 touchdowns and four interceptions and had a quarterback rating of 90.7 in his last season (2016).
Robert Griffin III, on the other had, played five games, threw two TDs and three picks and had a QBR of 72.5 in his last season, also 2016.
This lends yet more credence to the idea Kaepernick is being blackballed for his work as an activist who protested police brutality and racial inequality by kneeling during the national anthem before games -- which prompted Our Only Available President and other politicians to attack Kaepernick for disrespecting America and "the troops," even though that was clearly not the intent at all.
So, to review: On the same day Our Only Available President and his ilk remembered Dr. King with reverence for protesting racial inequality, Colin Kaepernick, whom OOAP and Co. reviled for doing the same thing (albeit on a far less historic and influential scale), continued to be punished for it by the NFL.
Were he still alive, I have to think Dr. King would have been pointing that out to the NFL (and, yes, to Our Only Available President) in no uncertain terms.
And would no doubt have been treated with something less than reverence for doing so by the President and all those others who praised his memory the other day.
Oh, irony.
Consider: April 4, a Wednesday, was the 50th anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s assassination.
On that day, politicians of various stripes, including Our Only Available President, praised Dr. King's work as a leader of the civil rights movement of the 1960s -- even though the President and many of his fellow politicians likely would have had a very different opinion of King and his work back in 1968.
Why do I say that?
Because, on that same day, the Baltimore Ravens pulled Robert Griffin III off the junkheap and signed him as a backup quarterback. That meant once again an NFL team passed on Colin Kaepernick, a Super Bowl quarterback who played 12 games, threw 16 touchdowns and four interceptions and had a quarterback rating of 90.7 in his last season (2016).
Robert Griffin III, on the other had, played five games, threw two TDs and three picks and had a QBR of 72.5 in his last season, also 2016.
This lends yet more credence to the idea Kaepernick is being blackballed for his work as an activist who protested police brutality and racial inequality by kneeling during the national anthem before games -- which prompted Our Only Available President and other politicians to attack Kaepernick for disrespecting America and "the troops," even though that was clearly not the intent at all.
So, to review: On the same day Our Only Available President and his ilk remembered Dr. King with reverence for protesting racial inequality, Colin Kaepernick, whom OOAP and Co. reviled for doing the same thing (albeit on a far less historic and influential scale), continued to be punished for it by the NFL.
Were he still alive, I have to think Dr. King would have been pointing that out to the NFL (and, yes, to Our Only Available President) in no uncertain terms.
And would no doubt have been treated with something less than reverence for doing so by the President and all those others who praised his memory the other day.
Oh, irony.
Wednesday, April 4, 2018
Un-say-able lies
I love the Masters.
I love Rae's Creek and Amen Corner and the Cathedral of Pines, and A Tradition Unlike Any Other.
I love "patrons" instead of "spectators," and Rory trying to bust out a window in the Butler Cabin with an epically errant shot, and all those other epic gag jobs on the back nine on Sunday.
I love the fact "patrons" are not allowed to run on the golf course, as if everyone were back in elementary school and the principal was standing in the hallway at the end of the day, wearing his official Principal Glower. I love tinkle-y, saccharine piano music. I love Magnolia Lane. I love every precious, snooty tic about the place and the event.
In a twisted sort of way, it's all a bit endearing, this self-reverence Augusta National wears like a suit of armor during Masters week. Which brings us to today's Masters Tradition Unlike Any Other: The handing out to security of a list of words and phrases that will not be allowed to be uttered on the premises this week.
Anyone heard shouting one of the banned words/phrases will be escorted off the grounds, it's been reported. This may or may not be true. But since it's Augusta National, and the Masters, I'd lean heavily toward the former.
At any rate, one of the phrases on the list, also reportedly, is "Dilly Dilly!", the Bud Light ad line which apparently has become a thing. Again, this may or may not be true. The Blob (and Budweiser, clearly) sincerely hopes it's the former.
As for some other candidates for banishment, the Blob also has a few suggestions:
1. "You da man!"
2. "Get in the hole!"
3. "Noonan!"
4. "Cinderella Boy!"
5. "You'll get nothing and LIKE IT!"
6. (Any number of other phrases from "Caddyshack," including "I don't think the heavy stuff's gonna come down for awhile yet," "Want to make ten dollars the hard way?", "So I got that going for me," and "Pick up that blood!")
7. "Hey, Rory, what's your wife's name again?"
(See this.)
8. "HEY, MILDRED! IT'S TIGER! HE'S OVER HERE! LOOK, I CAN ALMOST TOUCH HIM!" (Shouted right in the middle of Tiger's backswing.)
9. "OUCH! THAT HURT!" (Shouted just after getting brained by Tiger's 5-iron.)
10. "HEY, MILDRED! I JUST GOT HIT BY TIGER WOODS! HOW AWESOME IS THAT?"
I love Rae's Creek and Amen Corner and the Cathedral of Pines, and A Tradition Unlike Any Other.
I love "patrons" instead of "spectators," and Rory trying to bust out a window in the Butler Cabin with an epically errant shot, and all those other epic gag jobs on the back nine on Sunday.
I love the fact "patrons" are not allowed to run on the golf course, as if everyone were back in elementary school and the principal was standing in the hallway at the end of the day, wearing his official Principal Glower. I love tinkle-y, saccharine piano music. I love Magnolia Lane. I love every precious, snooty tic about the place and the event.
In a twisted sort of way, it's all a bit endearing, this self-reverence Augusta National wears like a suit of armor during Masters week. Which brings us to today's Masters Tradition Unlike Any Other: The handing out to security of a list of words and phrases that will not be allowed to be uttered on the premises this week.
Anyone heard shouting one of the banned words/phrases will be escorted off the grounds, it's been reported. This may or may not be true. But since it's Augusta National, and the Masters, I'd lean heavily toward the former.
At any rate, one of the phrases on the list, also reportedly, is "Dilly Dilly!", the Bud Light ad line which apparently has become a thing. Again, this may or may not be true. The Blob (and Budweiser, clearly) sincerely hopes it's the former.
As for some other candidates for banishment, the Blob also has a few suggestions:
1. "You da man!"
2. "Get in the hole!"
3. "Noonan!"
4. "Cinderella Boy!"
5. "You'll get nothing and LIKE IT!"
6. (Any number of other phrases from "Caddyshack," including "I don't think the heavy stuff's gonna come down for awhile yet," "Want to make ten dollars the hard way?", "So I got that going for me," and "Pick up that blood!")
7. "Hey, Rory, what's your wife's name again?"
(See this.)
8. "HEY, MILDRED! IT'S TIGER! HE'S OVER HERE! LOOK, I CAN ALMOST TOUCH HIM!" (Shouted right in the middle of Tiger's backswing.)
9. "OUCH! THAT HURT!" (Shouted just after getting brained by Tiger's 5-iron.)
10. "HEY, MILDRED! I JUST GOT HIT BY TIGER WOODS! HOW AWESOME IS THAT?"
And speaking of the Masters ...
Here is how the media will see it this week (an Official Blob Prediction):
It will be a golf tournament in a really gorgeous place.
This golf tournament will involve Tiger Woods and some other guys.
There will be lots of artsy camera angles emphasizing just how gorgeous the gorgeous place is.
There will also be lots of artsy camera angles emphasizing that TIGER WOODS IS PLAYING.
Also some other guys.
The end.
It will be a golf tournament in a really gorgeous place.
This golf tournament will involve Tiger Woods and some other guys.
There will be lots of artsy camera angles emphasizing just how gorgeous the gorgeous place is.
There will also be lots of artsy camera angles emphasizing that TIGER WOODS IS PLAYING.
Also some other guys.
The end.
Tuesday, April 3, 2018
Stupor 'Nova
So I guess it's time to ask the UConn Question, only this time about the Villanova men's team:
Are the Wildcats bad for college basketball?
Because, listen, when you turn the Final Four into your own personal throw rug, you kinda ruin it for those of us who didn't grow up eating cheesesteaks from Pat's and worshipping at the shrine of Saint Rollie of Massimino. Some of us wanted some drama, like the drama the women provided in their Final Four (Two overtime games in the semis, two buzzer-beating game winners, including one in the title game). Instead ...
Instead, Villanova was just too good, too smart, too impeccable. And so we got a blowout win in the semis (over Kansas) and a drama-less 79-62 working over of Michigan in the title game. Good luck finding One Shining Moment in all of that, except for the obligatory shot of the Wildcats cutting down the nets.
Mind you, most of this is tongue-in-cheek. Truth is, with two national titles in three years, 'Nova is one of the nation's premier programs now, and Jay Wright has ascended to the same high shelf where Bill Self and Tom Izzo and Roy Williams and Coach K live, not to mention John Calipari and Jim Boeheim and Sean Miller. For some unaccountable reason Wright has always been mentioned down the line from all of those names; now his name should be the first that springs to anyone's lips.
So, hooray for that correction. And hooray for Villanova, which plays the game the right way and is a thorough joy to watch.
Although next time, fellas, you might want to miss a shot here or there and make it a jot more interesting. There's nothing wrong with suspense, you know.
Are the Wildcats bad for college basketball?
Because, listen, when you turn the Final Four into your own personal throw rug, you kinda ruin it for those of us who didn't grow up eating cheesesteaks from Pat's and worshipping at the shrine of Saint Rollie of Massimino. Some of us wanted some drama, like the drama the women provided in their Final Four (Two overtime games in the semis, two buzzer-beating game winners, including one in the title game). Instead ...
Instead, Villanova was just too good, too smart, too impeccable. And so we got a blowout win in the semis (over Kansas) and a drama-less 79-62 working over of Michigan in the title game. Good luck finding One Shining Moment in all of that, except for the obligatory shot of the Wildcats cutting down the nets.
Mind you, most of this is tongue-in-cheek. Truth is, with two national titles in three years, 'Nova is one of the nation's premier programs now, and Jay Wright has ascended to the same high shelf where Bill Self and Tom Izzo and Roy Williams and Coach K live, not to mention John Calipari and Jim Boeheim and Sean Miller. For some unaccountable reason Wright has always been mentioned down the line from all of those names; now his name should be the first that springs to anyone's lips.
So, hooray for that correction. And hooray for Villanova, which plays the game the right way and is a thorough joy to watch.
Although next time, fellas, you might want to miss a shot here or there and make it a jot more interesting. There's nothing wrong with suspense, you know.
Baseball is a silly game
OK, so not always. Calm down, seamheads.
Baseball is only a silly game when rationality bumps up against its benighted unwritten rules, in which case rational people can only shake their heads in wonder at the stream of nonsense that comes out of players' mouths.
("Unwritten rules," by the way, is a nonsense term in and of itself. If it's unwritten, it's not a rule. It's a contradiction in terms.)
Anyway ... so the other day, the Minnesota Twins were leading the Baltimore Orioles 7-0 with one out in the ninth inning when they decided to execute an infield shift. Why they did this when they had a 7-0 lead with one out in the ninth is an excellent question, which probably is why you shouldn't ask it. What you should ask is why the Twins got all wrathy when Orioles' catcher Chance Sisco, seeing an entire side of the field open, decided to bunt to that side of the field to get on base.
Apparently you don't do that, according to the unwritten rules. And, again, if you're asking "But what person of reasonable intelligence wouldn't bunt to the open side of the field in that situation, considering there were still two outs left in the game?", you're asking the wrong excellent question.
At any rate, the Twins were quite miffed that Sisco exploited a situation they created.
"I don't care if he's bunting. I just know it's not good for baseball in that situation. That's it," said Twins pitcher Jose Berrios.
Or, in normal, non-baseball English: "Dammit, we were up 7-0 in the ninth. They're supposed to give up in that situation. They're not supposed to be still trying to win. No fair."
Of course, they're saying this against the backdrop of last fall's World Series, when three or even four-run leads regularly disappeared in a single gulp. And they're saying it against the backdrop of subsequent events in that ninth inning the other day, when the O's actually loaded the bases after Sisco's bunt before eventually expiring.
Which means if they'd hit one out in that situation, they'd have been within three runs. And, again, going back to last fall's World Series, a three-run lead is nothing.
Still, it wasn't fair.
"I'm sure they'll address it and move forward," Twins second baseman Brian Dozier said.
"Address what?" you may be asking now.
Another wrong excellent question.
Baseball is only a silly game when rationality bumps up against its benighted unwritten rules, in which case rational people can only shake their heads in wonder at the stream of nonsense that comes out of players' mouths.
("Unwritten rules," by the way, is a nonsense term in and of itself. If it's unwritten, it's not a rule. It's a contradiction in terms.)
Anyway ... so the other day, the Minnesota Twins were leading the Baltimore Orioles 7-0 with one out in the ninth inning when they decided to execute an infield shift. Why they did this when they had a 7-0 lead with one out in the ninth is an excellent question, which probably is why you shouldn't ask it. What you should ask is why the Twins got all wrathy when Orioles' catcher Chance Sisco, seeing an entire side of the field open, decided to bunt to that side of the field to get on base.
Apparently you don't do that, according to the unwritten rules. And, again, if you're asking "But what person of reasonable intelligence wouldn't bunt to the open side of the field in that situation, considering there were still two outs left in the game?", you're asking the wrong excellent question.
At any rate, the Twins were quite miffed that Sisco exploited a situation they created.
"I don't care if he's bunting. I just know it's not good for baseball in that situation. That's it," said Twins pitcher Jose Berrios.
Or, in normal, non-baseball English: "Dammit, we were up 7-0 in the ninth. They're supposed to give up in that situation. They're not supposed to be still trying to win. No fair."
Of course, they're saying this against the backdrop of last fall's World Series, when three or even four-run leads regularly disappeared in a single gulp. And they're saying it against the backdrop of subsequent events in that ninth inning the other day, when the O's actually loaded the bases after Sisco's bunt before eventually expiring.
Which means if they'd hit one out in that situation, they'd have been within three runs. And, again, going back to last fall's World Series, a three-run lead is nothing.
Still, it wasn't fair.
"I'm sure they'll address it and move forward," Twins second baseman Brian Dozier said.
"Address what?" you may be asking now.
Another wrong excellent question.
Monday, April 2, 2018
You got me
You know the Blob's previous post, about Al Unser Jr. returning to the 500 as a driver for Harding Racing?
Apparently it was an April's Fool's joke.
You got me. Nicely played, gentlemen. Nicely played.
Apparently it was an April's Fool's joke.
You got me. Nicely played, gentlemen. Nicely played.
Out of the twilight
OK, OK. You can commence with the jokes now, you snark-meisters.
Like, will Al Unser Jr. become the first person in history to go through the entire 200 laps of the Indianapolis 500 with his left turn signal blinking?
Will his pit box have one of these hanging over it?
Will he get the AARP discount on laps completed?
If there are a couple of rain delays and the race is still going on at 4 p.m., will Al abruptly decamp to Denny's for the Early Bird Special?
These things we wonder, perhaps only partially in jest. I mean, how else are we supposed to react to the news that Harding Racing has announced it will enter Unser, who works for Harding as a consultant, as the driver of its No. 8 entry for the 102nd running of the 500 in May.
In case you're wondering, No-Longer-Little-Al is 55 years old now. He retired as an IndyCar driver 11 years ago. A two-time winner of the 500, he last won it in 1994.
His teammate, Gabby Chaves, was 10 months old then. Last year's 500 winner, Takuma Sato, was 17 years old. He's eight years older than his dad was when Al Sr. became the oldest 500 winner ever in 1987.
So, you know, this is not exactly normal stuff.
"I’m sure a lot of people will think we are fools to be doing this," Harding Racing team president Brian Barnhart said on the Autosport Radio website, giving voice to the obvious.
But?
"But I can’t think of any better guy to pilot the car," Barnhart goes on.
Alrighty, then.
And yet ...
And yet, the Blob has to wonder about the advisability of putting a 55-year-old guy out there running laps in the mid-220s when he hasn't done it in 11 years. Muscle memory is one thing, and it will help that No-Longer-Little Al knows his way around Indy's square-jawed oval like few others, having raced there 19 times. And 55 is not completely beyond the pale for a driver at Indy; A.J. Foyt last turned a wheel at the Speedway when he was 58, and Al Sr. and Mario Andretti were both 54 the last time they raced in the 500.
But of course, none of them had been sitting out Indy for over a decade when they did that. So, yes, this is way crazier, not to say potentially tragic in a place that has seen its share of tragedies.
Not that you'd expect Unser or any of the other principals to give that a second though.
"I'm over the moon with excitement," Al Jr. told Autosport Radio.
Here's hoping he doesn't wind up over the moon, or perhaps a wall, literally.
Like, will Al Unser Jr. become the first person in history to go through the entire 200 laps of the Indianapolis 500 with his left turn signal blinking?
Will his pit box have one of these hanging over it?
Will he get the AARP discount on laps completed?
If there are a couple of rain delays and the race is still going on at 4 p.m., will Al abruptly decamp to Denny's for the Early Bird Special?
These things we wonder, perhaps only partially in jest. I mean, how else are we supposed to react to the news that Harding Racing has announced it will enter Unser, who works for Harding as a consultant, as the driver of its No. 8 entry for the 102nd running of the 500 in May.
In case you're wondering, No-Longer-Little-Al is 55 years old now. He retired as an IndyCar driver 11 years ago. A two-time winner of the 500, he last won it in 1994.
His teammate, Gabby Chaves, was 10 months old then. Last year's 500 winner, Takuma Sato, was 17 years old. He's eight years older than his dad was when Al Sr. became the oldest 500 winner ever in 1987.
So, you know, this is not exactly normal stuff.
"I’m sure a lot of people will think we are fools to be doing this," Harding Racing team president Brian Barnhart said on the Autosport Radio website, giving voice to the obvious.
But?
"But I can’t think of any better guy to pilot the car," Barnhart goes on.
Alrighty, then.
And yet ...
And yet, the Blob has to wonder about the advisability of putting a 55-year-old guy out there running laps in the mid-220s when he hasn't done it in 11 years. Muscle memory is one thing, and it will help that No-Longer-Little Al knows his way around Indy's square-jawed oval like few others, having raced there 19 times. And 55 is not completely beyond the pale for a driver at Indy; A.J. Foyt last turned a wheel at the Speedway when he was 58, and Al Sr. and Mario Andretti were both 54 the last time they raced in the 500.
But of course, none of them had been sitting out Indy for over a decade when they did that. So, yes, this is way crazier, not to say potentially tragic in a place that has seen its share of tragedies.
Not that you'd expect Unser or any of the other principals to give that a second though.
"I'm over the moon with excitement," Al Jr. told Autosport Radio.
Here's hoping he doesn't wind up over the moon, or perhaps a wall, literally.
Goin' to the replay
Her name is Arike Ogunbowale, and if you're going to Vegas anytime soon, you're taking her with you.
With her in tow, you'll be rollin' in sevens.
With her as your luck whisperer, you'll beat the blackjack dealer every time.
With her, oh, I don't know, just hanging around, you'll bust every slot in the place, even the ones tighter than a corporate mogul's fist.
This is because fortune not only smiled on Arike Ogunbowale this weekend, it threw its arm around her shoulders, tilted its head toward her and said "I'm with her." She was, after all, the one who rose up to knock down mighty, undefeated UConn with a last-second shot in overtime the other night, sending Notre Dame's women to the NCAA women's basketball championship.
Where, last night, she did it again.
Clock down to crumbs. Ball in her hands. Turning, rising (off one foot this time, no less), letting the ball roll off her fingertips.
Boom. Splash. Notre Dame 61, Mississippi State 58. National title for the Irish, who battled injuries all year but will bring home the big trophy because the best coach on campus did what she does best.
That is, of course, Muffet McGraw, whom the Blob once tongue-in-cheek suggested Notre Dame should go ahead and put in charge of the football team, too, because the school wasn't going find anyone better. Last night she, and her team, stayed frosty when they went down 15 to the Bulldogs in the third quarter. So, too, did Ogunbowale, who missed 9 of 10 shots in the first half and was 5 of 20 from the floor for the game when she rose up again there at the end.
Boom. Splash. 61-58.
No one dreams of doing what Ogunbowale did this weekend, not even in her driveway. Sure, you see yourself hitting the last-second shot in the national title game. But whose imagination is wild enough to see yourself also hitting the last-second shot to get you to the national title game? Whose imagination is quite that greedy?
And so clear a space in that hefty Pantheon O' Lore, Domers. You've got another addition on the way, and it belongs right up there with the rest of the top-of-the-shelf stuff.
You know: The Gipper, The Four Horsemen, Clements-to-Weber, Dwight Clay from the baseline. All that.
Say hi to Arike, fellas.
With her in tow, you'll be rollin' in sevens.
With her as your luck whisperer, you'll beat the blackjack dealer every time.
With her, oh, I don't know, just hanging around, you'll bust every slot in the place, even the ones tighter than a corporate mogul's fist.
This is because fortune not only smiled on Arike Ogunbowale this weekend, it threw its arm around her shoulders, tilted its head toward her and said "I'm with her." She was, after all, the one who rose up to knock down mighty, undefeated UConn with a last-second shot in overtime the other night, sending Notre Dame's women to the NCAA women's basketball championship.
Where, last night, she did it again.
Clock down to crumbs. Ball in her hands. Turning, rising (off one foot this time, no less), letting the ball roll off her fingertips.
Boom. Splash. Notre Dame 61, Mississippi State 58. National title for the Irish, who battled injuries all year but will bring home the big trophy because the best coach on campus did what she does best.
That is, of course, Muffet McGraw, whom the Blob once tongue-in-cheek suggested Notre Dame should go ahead and put in charge of the football team, too, because the school wasn't going find anyone better. Last night she, and her team, stayed frosty when they went down 15 to the Bulldogs in the third quarter. So, too, did Ogunbowale, who missed 9 of 10 shots in the first half and was 5 of 20 from the floor for the game when she rose up again there at the end.
Boom. Splash. 61-58.
No one dreams of doing what Ogunbowale did this weekend, not even in her driveway. Sure, you see yourself hitting the last-second shot in the national title game. But whose imagination is wild enough to see yourself also hitting the last-second shot to get you to the national title game? Whose imagination is quite that greedy?
And so clear a space in that hefty Pantheon O' Lore, Domers. You've got another addition on the way, and it belongs right up there with the rest of the top-of-the-shelf stuff.
You know: The Gipper, The Four Horsemen, Clements-to-Weber, Dwight Clay from the baseline. All that.
Say hi to Arike, fellas.
Sunday, April 1, 2018
One and ... done
So now we have our national championship matchup, and how 'bout them Loyola Ramblers? Playin' for a national title tomorrow night! Woo-hoo!
(OK ... so they're not. Michigan stepped on Cinderella's foot, spilled punch on her dress and booted her from the tournament. But hey. It is April 1, remember?)
(And so goodbye, Sister Jean. The maddest thing about the Madness was it made a 98-year-old nun a national celebrity. They actually held a press conference for her in the runup to last night's games, and half the media creatures in America showed up for it. She said the Michigans were chumps and Loyola was going to beat them like a dozen eggs. Also she was starting a rock band, Takin' It To The Tin On Y'all.)
(OK, so that's not true, either. April fool's again.)
(Although she did leave early last night, which suggests -- gasp! -- Sister Jean is a fair weather fan. I hope that's an April fool's joke.)
Anyway ... where were we?
Oh, yeah. Our national championship matchup.
It's Villanova vs. Michigan, and what's significant about that was pointed out by a longtime sportswriting acquaintance of mine, Rick Bozich from Louisville. Bozich tweeted that between the two national title contenders, there is a single McDonald's All-American: 'Nova's Jalen Brunson.
And there is your irony for this morning. All this hand-wringing over the one-and-dones (and the Blob cops to doing some of it), and they're all sitting at home for the big night. One McDonald's All-American means one kid everyone in the country was salivating over coming out of high school. Which suggests One-And-Done U. (Kentucky) and One-And-Done U. 2.0 (Duke) may not be following the golden path after all.
Not that they won't try. While two rosters virtually devoid of the Gotta Have 'Ems battle it out tomorrow night, someone has already tweeted out a photo of Duke's 2018-19 crop of one-and-dones, a quartet of hyper-blue chippers led by dunker extraordinaire Zion Williamson.
Duke's next candidates to be sitting home on the last weekend of March. Write it down now.
(OK ... so they're not. Michigan stepped on Cinderella's foot, spilled punch on her dress and booted her from the tournament. But hey. It is April 1, remember?)
(And so goodbye, Sister Jean. The maddest thing about the Madness was it made a 98-year-old nun a national celebrity. They actually held a press conference for her in the runup to last night's games, and half the media creatures in America showed up for it. She said the Michigans were chumps and Loyola was going to beat them like a dozen eggs. Also she was starting a rock band, Takin' It To The Tin On Y'all.)
(OK, so that's not true, either. April fool's again.)
(Although she did leave early last night, which suggests -- gasp! -- Sister Jean is a fair weather fan. I hope that's an April fool's joke.)
Anyway ... where were we?
Oh, yeah. Our national championship matchup.
It's Villanova vs. Michigan, and what's significant about that was pointed out by a longtime sportswriting acquaintance of mine, Rick Bozich from Louisville. Bozich tweeted that between the two national title contenders, there is a single McDonald's All-American: 'Nova's Jalen Brunson.
And there is your irony for this morning. All this hand-wringing over the one-and-dones (and the Blob cops to doing some of it), and they're all sitting at home for the big night. One McDonald's All-American means one kid everyone in the country was salivating over coming out of high school. Which suggests One-And-Done U. (Kentucky) and One-And-Done U. 2.0 (Duke) may not be following the golden path after all.
Not that they won't try. While two rosters virtually devoid of the Gotta Have 'Ems battle it out tomorrow night, someone has already tweeted out a photo of Duke's 2018-19 crop of one-and-dones, a quartet of hyper-blue chippers led by dunker extraordinaire Zion Williamson.
Duke's next candidates to be sitting home on the last weekend of March. Write it down now.
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