Russell Westbrook is as right as dipping your fries in your chocolate shake. Professional athletes standing 6-foot-3 and weighing 200 pounds need more protection from tiny starstruck fans. A guy could get hurt.
Doubtless you've watched it more times than the Zapruder film by now, but here's the video of what happened the other night in Denver. Westbrook sort of tumbled out of bounds, and a little kid sitting courtside reached out and ...
"He hit me!" Westbrook said later.
"Shoved him," some media outlets reported.
"Struck him," others reported.
Well, no. Actually the kid didn't do any of that.
Actually he reached out and ... well, touched Westbrook. With, like, a finger. You could even argue he was trying to keep Westbrook, who was briefly off-balance, from falling.
Watch the video again. Show me the part where the kid "hit" him. Show me the part where he "shoved" him.
Take your time. I'll wait.
And while I'm waiting, let me say this: Westbrook handled the whole thing like a pro. He didn't get mad. He didn't scream at the kid or his parents. He calmly walked over, bent down and said a few quiet words -- presumably, "you can't be doing this." Then he patted the kid on the leg and returned to the floor.
So, kudos to him for that.
As for the rest ...
Well, there are mountains and there are molehills, and this seems far more the latter, even if Westbrook tried to make it the former with his postgame comments. Yes, fans shouldn't be making physical contact with players, no matter how slight. But there's a vast gulf between a little kid touching you (maybe just to assure himself you're real) and some drunken lout actually shoving you.
As far as I know, this rarely happens. Except for the clear exception of the Malice in the Palace some 15 years ago, physical confrontations between fans and players are virtually non-existent in the NBA, even if there is some occasional oral jousting (See: Spike Lee, Reggie Miller, the Garden). This despite the fact that so-called "Nicholson seats" -- i.e., courtside seats cheek-by-jowl with the team benches -- have become the norm.
The Blob's position on Nicholson seats is that they're a disaster waiting to happen. But we're still waiting all these years later, so perhaps I'm wrong about that.
And perhaps my stance is colored a bit by history.
Decades ago, see, when the NBA was in its infancy and the Pistons were still in Fort Wayne, they played their home games at North Side High School. The old North Side gym was, shall we say, a cozy place. So cozy, women fans sitting courtside used to stick opposing players with hatpins as they inbounded the ball. Visiting teams came to regard it simply as part of the Pistons' homecourt advantage.
Now?
Well, let's just say Westbrook is lucky women don't wear fancy hats to the games anymore.
A guy could get hurt.
Thursday, February 28, 2019
Wednesday, February 27, 2019
Calling time
Forget all the noise about whether or not a guy who batted .249 last year and struck out 162 times is going to sign a deal worth more than the GNP of most developed nations (Hint: His initials are "Bryce Harper"). The real news out of baseball this morning involves clock management.
Or, you know, lack of same.
This is because Major League Baseball is on the verge of eighty-sixing the implementation of a pitch clock until at least 2022, and perhaps beyond. This is part of a wider initiative to speed up the pace of play, thereby returning baseball to its roots as a game that stepped along at a lively clip.
As opposed to today, when it so often tends to be what erosion would look like if it were a spectator sport.
The game a lot of us grew up with wasn't like that. Batters weren't refugees from some fashion runway, continually calling time to make sure their batting gloves and wristbands and helmet and hair were just-so. Pitchers didn't spend days contemplating the nature of man before coming set and throwing either to the plate or first base. Managers didn't bring in a reliever to pitch to one batter, and then another reliever to pitch to the next batter, and then another reliever to pitch to the batter after that.
Consequently, nine-inning baseball games did not drag on longer than the Peloponnesian War. Or, you know, longer than two Peloponnesian Wars if it happens to be the Red Sox and Yankees playing.
Old-school baseball types (are there any other, demographically, in 2019?) tend to forget this when they say one of baseball's charms is that it is unbound by time. This is true. But that was never a license to practice the sort of temporal anarchy we see today. The game's own history and traditions tell us as much.
And so, the pitch clock, a profoundly excellent idea. Ideally it would be unnecessary, because ideally both pitchers and umpires would self-govern. But they either can't, or they won't.
And now it seems they will continue not doing so, at least for the foreseeable future.
Calling time on time management. Such a baseball thing to do.
Or, you know, lack of same.
This is because Major League Baseball is on the verge of eighty-sixing the implementation of a pitch clock until at least 2022, and perhaps beyond. This is part of a wider initiative to speed up the pace of play, thereby returning baseball to its roots as a game that stepped along at a lively clip.
As opposed to today, when it so often tends to be what erosion would look like if it were a spectator sport.
The game a lot of us grew up with wasn't like that. Batters weren't refugees from some fashion runway, continually calling time to make sure their batting gloves and wristbands and helmet and hair were just-so. Pitchers didn't spend days contemplating the nature of man before coming set and throwing either to the plate or first base. Managers didn't bring in a reliever to pitch to one batter, and then another reliever to pitch to the next batter, and then another reliever to pitch to the batter after that.
Consequently, nine-inning baseball games did not drag on longer than the Peloponnesian War. Or, you know, longer than two Peloponnesian Wars if it happens to be the Red Sox and Yankees playing.
Old-school baseball types (are there any other, demographically, in 2019?) tend to forget this when they say one of baseball's charms is that it is unbound by time. This is true. But that was never a license to practice the sort of temporal anarchy we see today. The game's own history and traditions tell us as much.
And so, the pitch clock, a profoundly excellent idea. Ideally it would be unnecessary, because ideally both pitchers and umpires would self-govern. But they either can't, or they won't.
And now it seems they will continue not doing so, at least for the foreseeable future.
Calling time on time management. Such a baseball thing to do.
Tuesday, February 26, 2019
Combine time!
Or ... Men In Shorts Running And Jumping And Stuff For No Particular Reason.
Yes, the NFL combine's time has come 'round again, slouching toward irrelevance to be borne -- as T.S. Eliot almost said. T.S. had a killer 40 time, by the way. He looked good in shorts, too. But he bombed on the Wonderlic and in the one-on-one interviews, where he leaped across the desk and grabbed an NFL GM by the throat because the GM asked him if he had a thing for his mother.
No, really. This sort of stuff actually happens at the NFL combine.
It's the week when analysis veers across the line into utter lunacy, because the entire purpose is lunacy: Trying to accurately predict whether a prospective draft pick will be a boom or a bust. That this is clearly a hopeless task is obvious to anyone with a working brain cell, but bless their hearts, the NFL's poobahs try anyway. That they do it mostly via a series of non sequitirs only heightens the lunacy.
Seriously, folks. What does a prospective offensive lineman's 40 time tell you about anything?Because how many times is he ever going to have to run 40 yards in a game?
Same goes for pretty much anyone. If, say, a wide receiver, defensive back or running back is really fast, isn't that something NFL teams already know? Hey, look, Kyler Murray's really fast! Well, I'll be darned!
And this doesn't even address the obvious, which is that your 40 time in shorts, your vertical leap in shorts and your shuttle run time in shorts have absolutely zero to do with whether or not you can play football. Renaldo Nehemiah, the world class hurdler the 49ers signed as a wide receiver some years back, no doubt would have killed all of those. But he wasn't much of a football player.
Even sillier is the Wonderlic football IQ test, historically worthless for predicting NFL success. Dan Marino, for instance, scored 16 out of 50 on the Wonderlic; he's in the Hall of Fame now. Frank Gore's score of 6 is the fourth lowest Wonderlic score in NFL history. Someday he'll be in Canton, too.
And everyone else?
Well, combine week is mostly just make work a prospect has to slog through. In fact, that may be the method behind the madness; the suspicion is the combine is specifically designed to be 99 percent nonsense, because it's all about finding out how potential draft picks deal with, well, nonsense -- a useful skill for anyone who wants to work in the NFL.
Hence the irrelevant sprints and jumps and such. Hence the Wonderlic. Hence the bizarre interviews with GMs who seem inordinately interested in their prospects' relationships with their mothers.
Lot of GMs out there with mommy issues. That's the Blob's takeaway from that.
Though some of them run decent 40s, I hear.
Yes, the NFL combine's time has come 'round again, slouching toward irrelevance to be borne -- as T.S. Eliot almost said. T.S. had a killer 40 time, by the way. He looked good in shorts, too. But he bombed on the Wonderlic and in the one-on-one interviews, where he leaped across the desk and grabbed an NFL GM by the throat because the GM asked him if he had a thing for his mother.
No, really. This sort of stuff actually happens at the NFL combine.
It's the week when analysis veers across the line into utter lunacy, because the entire purpose is lunacy: Trying to accurately predict whether a prospective draft pick will be a boom or a bust. That this is clearly a hopeless task is obvious to anyone with a working brain cell, but bless their hearts, the NFL's poobahs try anyway. That they do it mostly via a series of non sequitirs only heightens the lunacy.
Seriously, folks. What does a prospective offensive lineman's 40 time tell you about anything?Because how many times is he ever going to have to run 40 yards in a game?
Same goes for pretty much anyone. If, say, a wide receiver, defensive back or running back is really fast, isn't that something NFL teams already know? Hey, look, Kyler Murray's really fast! Well, I'll be darned!
And this doesn't even address the obvious, which is that your 40 time in shorts, your vertical leap in shorts and your shuttle run time in shorts have absolutely zero to do with whether or not you can play football. Renaldo Nehemiah, the world class hurdler the 49ers signed as a wide receiver some years back, no doubt would have killed all of those. But he wasn't much of a football player.
Even sillier is the Wonderlic football IQ test, historically worthless for predicting NFL success. Dan Marino, for instance, scored 16 out of 50 on the Wonderlic; he's in the Hall of Fame now. Frank Gore's score of 6 is the fourth lowest Wonderlic score in NFL history. Someday he'll be in Canton, too.
And everyone else?
Well, combine week is mostly just make work a prospect has to slog through. In fact, that may be the method behind the madness; the suspicion is the combine is specifically designed to be 99 percent nonsense, because it's all about finding out how potential draft picks deal with, well, nonsense -- a useful skill for anyone who wants to work in the NFL.
Hence the irrelevant sprints and jumps and such. Hence the Wonderlic. Hence the bizarre interviews with GMs who seem inordinately interested in their prospects' relationships with their mothers.
Lot of GMs out there with mommy issues. That's the Blob's takeaway from that.
Though some of them run decent 40s, I hear.
Monday, February 25, 2019
Today in road trippin'
And now this from the Alliance of American Football, which is three games deep in its inaugural season and has given NFL washout Trent Richardson a new lease on his football life, seeing how he leads the AAF with six touchdowns so far.
But this isn't about the redemptive properties of the AAF. This is about the general weirdness that often attends startups, particularly in sports.
(For instance, the fledgling indoor football league Fort Wayne's gotten itself into for the umpteenth time. Apparently the Indiana Blue Bombers -- not to be confused with the other team called "Indiana" -- are recruiting players via indeed.com. Apparently this reaches a larger audience than standing out on Parnell wearing a sandwich board that says "Wanted: Football Players. Experience Preferred But Not Required.")
Anyway ... perhaps you know that one of the teams in the league is the Orlando Apollos, who are coached by former University of Florida coach Steve Spurrier. (He also briefly coached the Washington Redskins, but that probably best goes unmentioned.) The Apollos are also notable for having some interesting logistics; as initially reported by the Orlando Sentinel, they play their home games in Orlando, but live 140 miles away in Jacksonville and bus 30 miles into Georgia for practice everyday.
Some explanation is in order here.
See, it seems the state of Florida's workers' compensation laws don't cover professional athletes. This means their respective leagues have to find an insurance company willing to cover them. The AAF has not yet found an insurance company willing to cover all eight of its teams. This includes the Apollos.
Georgia law, however, does allow for pro athletes to collect workers' comp, provided those athletes spend 51 percent of their practice time in the state. Therefore the Apollos live in Jacksonville because of its proximity to Georgia, making it just logistically possible to practice there.
Eventually, you have to figure, the AAF will find an insurance company to cover the Apollos and the rest of the league's teams. Then again, it might not.
In the meantime, perhaps the Apollos should see if they can enlist the country music group Florida Georgia Line to sing the national anthem at all their home games. Talk about synergy.
But this isn't about the redemptive properties of the AAF. This is about the general weirdness that often attends startups, particularly in sports.
(For instance, the fledgling indoor football league Fort Wayne's gotten itself into for the umpteenth time. Apparently the Indiana Blue Bombers -- not to be confused with the other team called "Indiana" -- are recruiting players via indeed.com. Apparently this reaches a larger audience than standing out on Parnell wearing a sandwich board that says "Wanted: Football Players. Experience Preferred But Not Required.")
Anyway ... perhaps you know that one of the teams in the league is the Orlando Apollos, who are coached by former University of Florida coach Steve Spurrier. (He also briefly coached the Washington Redskins, but that probably best goes unmentioned.) The Apollos are also notable for having some interesting logistics; as initially reported by the Orlando Sentinel, they play their home games in Orlando, but live 140 miles away in Jacksonville and bus 30 miles into Georgia for practice everyday.
Some explanation is in order here.
See, it seems the state of Florida's workers' compensation laws don't cover professional athletes. This means their respective leagues have to find an insurance company willing to cover them. The AAF has not yet found an insurance company willing to cover all eight of its teams. This includes the Apollos.
Georgia law, however, does allow for pro athletes to collect workers' comp, provided those athletes spend 51 percent of their practice time in the state. Therefore the Apollos live in Jacksonville because of its proximity to Georgia, making it just logistically possible to practice there.
Eventually, you have to figure, the AAF will find an insurance company to cover the Apollos and the rest of the league's teams. Then again, it might not.
In the meantime, perhaps the Apollos should see if they can enlist the country music group Florida Georgia Line to sing the national anthem at all their home games. Talk about synergy.
Broadcast boos
They dressed in red-and-green, because it was that kind of occasion. Anderson High School was going to semistate, back when they threw everyone into a big one-size-fits-all pile in the Indiana high school basketball tournament. So this was a big deal, and they rocked those Christmas-y AHS school colors proudly.
No, not the fans. The radio guys.
The radio guys showed up in red-and-green over there at Mackey Arena, and if the print guys -- me included -- thought this was a quantum display of dorkishness, the Anderson fan contingent loved it. If those of us on the print side were scrupulously careful to wear neutral colors (especially when Anderson was playing its city brethren at Madison Heights or Highland), it was simply accepted that the radio guys would be blatantly partisan. They were, after all, the Anderson broadcasters.
All of which serves to illuminate what happened at Norwell High School the other night.
What happened was, the Norwell radio guy (OK, the radio guy for the Wells County Voice, an online broadcasting service) took that accepted partisanship to a whole new level. At one point during the Knights' loss to Homestead, one of the Homestead kids dunked and hung on the rim, mostly to regain his balance.
He was duly T-ed up. And the radio guy all but stood up, waved pompons and cheered.
"There's going to be a technical foul, showboat," he said.
And then: "He gets teched up for being a jackass."
And then: "Stay classy Homestead, may you lose in the first round like you always do."
Which is a weird thing to say about a school that won a 4A state title not all that long ago. But that's neither here nor there.
The more relevant point is Radio Guy showed his true colors, and they were not Norwell blue-and-gold. It is, after all, one thing for local radio to be partisan. It is entirely another to be the sort of master-class moron who calls a high school kid a "jackass."
To its credit, the Norwell athletic department issued a prompt Twitter apology to Homestead and everyone involved, saying such behavior did not represent either its opinion or its values. This was probably unnecessary, since Radio Guy has no affiliation with the school. Plus it goes without saying no one in the Norwell athletic department -- or any high school athletic department -- would tolerate even from its fans what Radio Guy did the other night.
I covered high school sports for almost 40 years, and I've lost count of the times I've seen ADs escort certain fans off the premises because they were behaving like idiots. And so the next step for Norwell is almost too obvious to mention.
Which is, the school should yank Radio Guy's credential and never let him back in the building again. Ever.
No, not the fans. The radio guys.
The radio guys showed up in red-and-green over there at Mackey Arena, and if the print guys -- me included -- thought this was a quantum display of dorkishness, the Anderson fan contingent loved it. If those of us on the print side were scrupulously careful to wear neutral colors (especially when Anderson was playing its city brethren at Madison Heights or Highland), it was simply accepted that the radio guys would be blatantly partisan. They were, after all, the Anderson broadcasters.
All of which serves to illuminate what happened at Norwell High School the other night.
What happened was, the Norwell radio guy (OK, the radio guy for the Wells County Voice, an online broadcasting service) took that accepted partisanship to a whole new level. At one point during the Knights' loss to Homestead, one of the Homestead kids dunked and hung on the rim, mostly to regain his balance.
He was duly T-ed up. And the radio guy all but stood up, waved pompons and cheered.
"There's going to be a technical foul, showboat," he said.
And then: "He gets teched up for being a jackass."
And then: "Stay classy Homestead, may you lose in the first round like you always do."
Which is a weird thing to say about a school that won a 4A state title not all that long ago. But that's neither here nor there.
The more relevant point is Radio Guy showed his true colors, and they were not Norwell blue-and-gold. It is, after all, one thing for local radio to be partisan. It is entirely another to be the sort of master-class moron who calls a high school kid a "jackass."
To its credit, the Norwell athletic department issued a prompt Twitter apology to Homestead and everyone involved, saying such behavior did not represent either its opinion or its values. This was probably unnecessary, since Radio Guy has no affiliation with the school. Plus it goes without saying no one in the Norwell athletic department -- or any high school athletic department -- would tolerate even from its fans what Radio Guy did the other night.
I covered high school sports for almost 40 years, and I've lost count of the times I've seen ADs escort certain fans off the premises because they were behaving like idiots. And so the next step for Norwell is almost too obvious to mention.
Which is, the school should yank Radio Guy's credential and never let him back in the building again. Ever.
Sunday, February 24, 2019
Criminal privilege
The jokes wrote themselves, when all this hit the fan. Deflategate jokes. Jokes about Robert Kraft getting a seventh "ring" to go with his six Super Bowl rings. The sort of jokes that bloom like English flower gardens whenever the rich and powerful do something that strips away their cultured veneer.
But after awhile, you stop laughing.
After awhile you wonder what sort of mindlessness compels one of the most powerful men in American sports to frequent a seedy strip-mall massage parlor whose workforce, according to Jupiter, Fla., police, are little more than slaves.
Robert Kraft is reportedly worth $6.6 billion. How does he wind up in a place where young women, most from China, are lured into a human trafficking ring that condemns them to virtual servitude, never being given days off or allowed to leave the premises?
It is the ultimate intersection of the powerful and the powerless, and if it does not expose in stark relief the vast chasm between, nothing ever will. Men such as Kraft frequent these sorts of places because they can; it is not mindlessness after all, but the bulletproof arrogance vast wealth confers. And the women they pay a pittance to service them?
If men such as Kraft cannot conceive of a world where there is any consequence, the women cannot conceive of a world that isn't entirely consequence -- the consequence of powerlessness.
One would hope that Kraft getting caught up in this sting -- and despite the protestations of his attorneys, they've got him on surveillance video -- would perhaps balance those scales a bit. But it's hard to not to be skeptical of that.
Men with Robert Kraft's virtually limitless means and status, after all, rarely meet a problem they can't make disappear by throwing money at it. And if the NFL finds it necessary to come down on one its most powerful figures, it strains credulity to think it will come down in any way that actually punishes him.
I mean, he only further exploited already exploited women. It's not like he knelt during the National Anthem or anything.
Then he'd really be in trouble.
But after awhile, you stop laughing.
After awhile you wonder what sort of mindlessness compels one of the most powerful men in American sports to frequent a seedy strip-mall massage parlor whose workforce, according to Jupiter, Fla., police, are little more than slaves.
Robert Kraft is reportedly worth $6.6 billion. How does he wind up in a place where young women, most from China, are lured into a human trafficking ring that condemns them to virtual servitude, never being given days off or allowed to leave the premises?
It is the ultimate intersection of the powerful and the powerless, and if it does not expose in stark relief the vast chasm between, nothing ever will. Men such as Kraft frequent these sorts of places because they can; it is not mindlessness after all, but the bulletproof arrogance vast wealth confers. And the women they pay a pittance to service them?
If men such as Kraft cannot conceive of a world where there is any consequence, the women cannot conceive of a world that isn't entirely consequence -- the consequence of powerlessness.
One would hope that Kraft getting caught up in this sting -- and despite the protestations of his attorneys, they've got him on surveillance video -- would perhaps balance those scales a bit. But it's hard to not to be skeptical of that.
Men with Robert Kraft's virtually limitless means and status, after all, rarely meet a problem they can't make disappear by throwing money at it. And if the NFL finds it necessary to come down on one its most powerful figures, it strains credulity to think it will come down in any way that actually punishes him.
I mean, he only further exploited already exploited women. It's not like he knelt during the National Anthem or anything.
Then he'd really be in trouble.
Thursday, February 21, 2019
Object lesson
This shard of a shoe over here. There's your teachable moment for today.
In its immediately previous life it swaddled the left foot of a man-child, Zion Williamson, and then suddenly it didn't. It went off like a roadside bomb, disintegrating as the man-child backpedaled down the floor barely half a minute into the latest Duke-North Carolina melodrama Wednesday night. Completely came apart, sending Williamson into an awkward sprawl, his right knee turning in a way knees aren't supposed to turn.
Not a great moment for Nike, whose chunky shoe deal with Mike Krzyzewski and the Duke program saddles the Blue Devils with exploding footwear. But an appropriate object for this object lesson.
Which is, why was Zion Williamson even on the floor last night?
Only the NBA's absurd 19-year-old rule put him out there, after all. Without it, he's in the first year of a lucrative pro contract as a 2018 lottery pick. Instead he's forced to play at being a college student as an unpaid mercenary, brought in to help Duke cash a fat NCAA Tournament check.
Now he's out with a knee injury, and if he's lucky it really is just the mild sprain Krzyzewski maintained after Carolina took his top-ranked Blue Devils apart. But luck shouldn't have factored into this at all.
Scottie Pippen took some heat from some old-school types not long ago by saying Williamson should have bailed on the season after fulfilling his eligibility requirements (i.e., attending fall semester classes). But now he looks like a seer. Now he looks like a man merely speaking an obvious truth, which is that players such as Zion Williamson are not really college students, but valuable commodities compelled to spend a season in what amounts to a fancy waiting room.
As such, the top priority should not be dozing through a lecture on Nathaniel Hawthorne or Sir Francis Bacon. It should be protecting the assets.
And if that makes a farce of the entire notion of Zion Williamson playing college basketball, so be it. Because it is a farce. The NBA's rule makes it so.
Class dismissed. So to speak.
In its immediately previous life it swaddled the left foot of a man-child, Zion Williamson, and then suddenly it didn't. It went off like a roadside bomb, disintegrating as the man-child backpedaled down the floor barely half a minute into the latest Duke-North Carolina melodrama Wednesday night. Completely came apart, sending Williamson into an awkward sprawl, his right knee turning in a way knees aren't supposed to turn.
Not a great moment for Nike, whose chunky shoe deal with Mike Krzyzewski and the Duke program saddles the Blue Devils with exploding footwear. But an appropriate object for this object lesson.
Which is, why was Zion Williamson even on the floor last night?
Only the NBA's absurd 19-year-old rule put him out there, after all. Without it, he's in the first year of a lucrative pro contract as a 2018 lottery pick. Instead he's forced to play at being a college student as an unpaid mercenary, brought in to help Duke cash a fat NCAA Tournament check.
Now he's out with a knee injury, and if he's lucky it really is just the mild sprain Krzyzewski maintained after Carolina took his top-ranked Blue Devils apart. But luck shouldn't have factored into this at all.
Scottie Pippen took some heat from some old-school types not long ago by saying Williamson should have bailed on the season after fulfilling his eligibility requirements (i.e., attending fall semester classes). But now he looks like a seer. Now he looks like a man merely speaking an obvious truth, which is that players such as Zion Williamson are not really college students, but valuable commodities compelled to spend a season in what amounts to a fancy waiting room.
As such, the top priority should not be dozing through a lecture on Nathaniel Hawthorne or Sir Francis Bacon. It should be protecting the assets.
And if that makes a farce of the entire notion of Zion Williamson playing college basketball, so be it. Because it is a farce. The NBA's rule makes it so.
Class dismissed. So to speak.
Wednesday, February 20, 2019
Retro ball
So, how ugly was it?
It was so ugly that, if it were a face, it would look like someone set it on fire and put it out with a radial tire.
It was so ugly you'd have to hang a porkchop around its neck to get the dog to play with it.
It was so ugly it could stop a clock. So ugly it could give Freddy Krueger nightmares. So ugly people would look at it and say, "OK, you can take off the mask now."
In other words ... it was ugly, Indiana and Purdue getting it on again in Assembly Hall last night. Ugly cubed.
Even the winning shot -- Matt Haarms awkwardly slapping Carsen Edwards' miss off the backboard and in with fewer than four seconds left -- was inelegant. Haarms swat-in gave Purdue a 48-46 victory. It was the lowest scoring IU-Purdue game since 1950, when there was no shot clock, no 3-point line, and the two-handed set shot was still a thing. They should have played it with peach baskets -- a notion of which James Naismith surely would have approved while rewriting his famous quote about basketball in Indiana.
"Basketball really had its origin in Indiana, which remains the center of the sport," Naismith once said.
The amended version: "Basketball really had its origin in Indiana, which remai-- good God, would somebody please make a shot?"
Not on this night. On the one hand, Purdue shot 31.7 percent (19-of-60), including a hideous 6-of-30 from the 3-point line. On the other hand, Indiana shot 27.3 percent (15-of-55), including an equally disfigured 5-of-25 from the arc.
Together, the two teams combined for 27 turnovers and just 14 assists.
So, yeah, ugly. Even the Assembly Hall student section was ugly, subjecting Haarms, the Amsterdam Hairdo, to a profane chant that had everyone clutching their pearls who've forgotten what that same student section used to chant at Brian Cardinal. And how the Purdue student section used to serenade Bob Knight in Mackey Arena.
Hey, it's Purdue. It's IU. Stuff happens.
And what's the takeaway from this latest round?
Well, Indiana can take away the fact that it played awful again but at least tried this time, a comforting thought that only illuminated just how low the expectations have fallen for this group of Hoosiers. They're now 13-13 and have lost 11 of their last 12 games, which means the talking heads might finally relinquish their ludicrous narrative about IU clinging to fading NCAA Tournament hopes.
Um, no. Those hopes faded to black two games ago, when they lost in Assembly Hall to Ohio State. Da Tournament has been out of their reach for a week. The only fading hopes they're clinging to now involve the NIT.
And Purdue?
Still chugging along. The Boilermakers surely didn't inspire anyone's confidence with that defacement last night, but the fact remains they survived and advanced. That makes 10 wins in their last 11 games, five straight wins over Indiana and a halfway decent seed in the Dance in their immediate future.
An ugly win is still a win, after all. The takeaway of takeaways from last night.
It was so ugly that, if it were a face, it would look like someone set it on fire and put it out with a radial tire.
It was so ugly you'd have to hang a porkchop around its neck to get the dog to play with it.
It was so ugly it could stop a clock. So ugly it could give Freddy Krueger nightmares. So ugly people would look at it and say, "OK, you can take off the mask now."
In other words ... it was ugly, Indiana and Purdue getting it on again in Assembly Hall last night. Ugly cubed.
Even the winning shot -- Matt Haarms awkwardly slapping Carsen Edwards' miss off the backboard and in with fewer than four seconds left -- was inelegant. Haarms swat-in gave Purdue a 48-46 victory. It was the lowest scoring IU-Purdue game since 1950, when there was no shot clock, no 3-point line, and the two-handed set shot was still a thing. They should have played it with peach baskets -- a notion of which James Naismith surely would have approved while rewriting his famous quote about basketball in Indiana.
"Basketball really had its origin in Indiana, which remains the center of the sport," Naismith once said.
The amended version: "Basketball really had its origin in Indiana, which remai-- good God, would somebody please make a shot?"
Not on this night. On the one hand, Purdue shot 31.7 percent (19-of-60), including a hideous 6-of-30 from the 3-point line. On the other hand, Indiana shot 27.3 percent (15-of-55), including an equally disfigured 5-of-25 from the arc.
Together, the two teams combined for 27 turnovers and just 14 assists.
So, yeah, ugly. Even the Assembly Hall student section was ugly, subjecting Haarms, the Amsterdam Hairdo, to a profane chant that had everyone clutching their pearls who've forgotten what that same student section used to chant at Brian Cardinal. And how the Purdue student section used to serenade Bob Knight in Mackey Arena.
Hey, it's Purdue. It's IU. Stuff happens.
And what's the takeaway from this latest round?
Well, Indiana can take away the fact that it played awful again but at least tried this time, a comforting thought that only illuminated just how low the expectations have fallen for this group of Hoosiers. They're now 13-13 and have lost 11 of their last 12 games, which means the talking heads might finally relinquish their ludicrous narrative about IU clinging to fading NCAA Tournament hopes.
Um, no. Those hopes faded to black two games ago, when they lost in Assembly Hall to Ohio State. Da Tournament has been out of their reach for a week. The only fading hopes they're clinging to now involve the NIT.
And Purdue?
Still chugging along. The Boilermakers surely didn't inspire anyone's confidence with that defacement last night, but the fact remains they survived and advanced. That makes 10 wins in their last 11 games, five straight wins over Indiana and a halfway decent seed in the Dance in their immediate future.
An ugly win is still a win, after all. The takeaway of takeaways from last night.
Tuesday, February 19, 2019
A bold and possibly stupid notion
Look, we all know how this is going to go. We do, right?
Purdue comes to Indiana tonight having won 10 of its last 12 games.
Indiana has lost 10 of its 12.
The Boilers, who have emerged as one of the top three teams in the Big Ten, are going places. The Hoosiers are going nowhere.
And so it's entirely reasonable to expect this will go the way it went last month, when the Purdues laminated the Indianas by 15 in Mackey Arena, in a game that wasn't that close and was never for a second in doubt. Yeah, this time it's Assembly Hall, but Assembly Hall these days is just a joint with a bunch of antique laundry hanging at one end. Indiana's lost its last four games there, including two to teams (Nebraska and Ohio State) it should have easily dispatched if the Hall were still the Hall.
All of which goes nowhere in explaining why the Blob has this gut feeling Indiana is going to win tonight.
I know, it's crazy. The Hoosiers just got floor-waxed by 21 by a middling Minnesota team in a game the Gophers led by 27 with fewer than three minutes remaining. The Hoosiers pretty much could do nothing right, and didn't even act as if it bothered them.
In the wake of the disaster, Archie Miller, whose voice his team has apparently tuned out, promised drastic changes. It sounded exactly as desperate as it reads, sounded like a man at the end of a very frayed rope who had no idea what to do next.
Except.
Except I keep thinking back to that night in East Lansing, when Indiana suddenly jumped up, played basketball and beat the Big Ten leaders, Michigan State, in overtime. It didn't last, but for one night, the Hoosiers played like the team that started the season 12-2. Shots fell, for one thing. And when they did, as usually happens, Indiana suddenly got a lot better.
The Hoosiers do, after all, have some athletes besides Romeo Langford. None of them are the projected NBA lottery pick he is, but at some point someone besides Indiana wanted them. And for one night they played like those someones.
I don't know why I keep thinking about that, and why I have this feeling in my gut we'll get a replay tonight. There is, after all, absolutely no reason for me to have that feeling.
But I do. Maybe it's the drastic changes thing. Maybe it's the idea that it's Purdue and there is nothing Indiana hates so much as getting embarrassed by Purdue the way it did a month ago. Maybe it's because it's been that kind of year in the Big Ten this year, with teams that had no business winning managing to do so on a given night.
In any case, I think this might be one of those given nights.
After which, Indiana goes to Iowa.
Where the Blob has an equal gut feeling the Hoosiers will get floor-waxed again.
Like I said: That kind of year. And that kind of Indiana.
Purdue comes to Indiana tonight having won 10 of its last 12 games.
Indiana has lost 10 of its 12.
The Boilers, who have emerged as one of the top three teams in the Big Ten, are going places. The Hoosiers are going nowhere.
And so it's entirely reasonable to expect this will go the way it went last month, when the Purdues laminated the Indianas by 15 in Mackey Arena, in a game that wasn't that close and was never for a second in doubt. Yeah, this time it's Assembly Hall, but Assembly Hall these days is just a joint with a bunch of antique laundry hanging at one end. Indiana's lost its last four games there, including two to teams (Nebraska and Ohio State) it should have easily dispatched if the Hall were still the Hall.
All of which goes nowhere in explaining why the Blob has this gut feeling Indiana is going to win tonight.
I know, it's crazy. The Hoosiers just got floor-waxed by 21 by a middling Minnesota team in a game the Gophers led by 27 with fewer than three minutes remaining. The Hoosiers pretty much could do nothing right, and didn't even act as if it bothered them.
In the wake of the disaster, Archie Miller, whose voice his team has apparently tuned out, promised drastic changes. It sounded exactly as desperate as it reads, sounded like a man at the end of a very frayed rope who had no idea what to do next.
Except.
Except I keep thinking back to that night in East Lansing, when Indiana suddenly jumped up, played basketball and beat the Big Ten leaders, Michigan State, in overtime. It didn't last, but for one night, the Hoosiers played like the team that started the season 12-2. Shots fell, for one thing. And when they did, as usually happens, Indiana suddenly got a lot better.
The Hoosiers do, after all, have some athletes besides Romeo Langford. None of them are the projected NBA lottery pick he is, but at some point someone besides Indiana wanted them. And for one night they played like those someones.
I don't know why I keep thinking about that, and why I have this feeling in my gut we'll get a replay tonight. There is, after all, absolutely no reason for me to have that feeling.
But I do. Maybe it's the drastic changes thing. Maybe it's the idea that it's Purdue and there is nothing Indiana hates so much as getting embarrassed by Purdue the way it did a month ago. Maybe it's because it's been that kind of year in the Big Ten this year, with teams that had no business winning managing to do so on a given night.
In any case, I think this might be one of those given nights.
After which, Indiana goes to Iowa.
Where the Blob has an equal gut feeling the Hoosiers will get floor-waxed again.
Like I said: That kind of year. And that kind of Indiana.
Dirty pool
Some days -- most days, nowadays -- you yearn for a little adulting from the adults. You think a smidge of autocracy might be not be a bad thing, if applied in the right circumstance by individuals who aren't children sitting at the big people's table.
(And, yes, that is exactly a reference to whom you think it's a reference).
And so come with us now to the offices of Fishers High School and the Indiana High School Athletic Association, where both adulting and backbone seem to be in short supply these days. Messages have been sent forth from both of those places, and they are not good messages. They are, in fact, the sort of messages young people might be inclined to take to heart, to the dismay of the adults who'll invariably wonder where kids get these crazy ideas.
Messages like "Expedience trumps propriety."
And also, "Boys will be boys, especially at sectional time."
And also, "Sorry, girls. See above."
At the heart of this is a series of texts sent by an unnamed member of the Fisher boys swimming team to some members of the girls swimming team. The texts, some of which have been made public, are vile, sexually harassing, in some cases laced with threats of violence. They are, as my mother would have said, the products of a kid who apparently wasn't raised right. And ultimately the kid got away with sending them.
Oh, sure. He got suspended for the balance of the swim season. But then the alleged adults got involved.
Just in time for sectionals, two of those adults, Fishers principal Jason Urban and athletic director Rob Seymour, personally called the IHSAA to request the student in question be granted a waiver to compete in the sectional, even though by IHSAA bylaws he was forbidden from doing so because he'd missed the balance of the season. IHSAA commissioner Bobby Cox, the third alleged adult, wasn't happy about it, but granted the waiver anyway, saying he had no choice.
"I’ve got a principal and an athletic director petitioning me to waive the rule, so I waived the rule," Cox said. "I’m following the bylaws."
So to review: He waived IHSAA bylaws because another bylaw said he had to.
This is about as weak in the knees as you can get from someone in Cox's position. I can think of several of his predecessors who are right now spinning like lathes in the grave at the very idea of an IHSAA commissioner behaving this way. Their response would likely have been, "I don't give a damn what the bylaw says. The kid ain't swimmin'. See you in court."
The problem with that, of course, is the IHSAA doesn't have a great track record in court. It's gotten sued before when a commish went all autocratic, and it's frequently lost. So maybe Cox was thinking about that, and maybe he was thinking about the Fishers' folks going so far as to get an injunction to halt the swimming state tournament until this unnamed young man could be reinstated.
Now, it's unlikely the Fishers' people would do something so all-world arrogant. But you never know with alleged adults. I mean, just petitioning the IHSAA to get the kid reinstated was remarkably arrogant itself, given the circumstances.
In any case, Cox should have channeled his spiritual ancestors and denied the waiver. It might not have been the smart play, but it would have been the correct one.
Because as it stands now, both his organization and Fishers High School have sent a clear message to the girls who were sexually harassed by this kid: You don't matter. We've got a sectional to win, so get over it.
Here's the thing, though.
Somewhere, somehow, this kid's going to get some frontier justice. He may be unnamed, but everyone in the swimming community likely knows who he is. So you just know that, given the way we are now, someone, somewhere is going to boo the hell out of him at some point. When he's standing on the podium at state, perhaps.
The people who subject him to this will get called out for it. But they won't be the ones at fault.
The alleged adults at Fishers and the IHSAA will be, for putting him there to begin with.
(And, yes, that is exactly a reference to whom you think it's a reference).
And so come with us now to the offices of Fishers High School and the Indiana High School Athletic Association, where both adulting and backbone seem to be in short supply these days. Messages have been sent forth from both of those places, and they are not good messages. They are, in fact, the sort of messages young people might be inclined to take to heart, to the dismay of the adults who'll invariably wonder where kids get these crazy ideas.
Messages like "Expedience trumps propriety."
And also, "Boys will be boys, especially at sectional time."
And also, "Sorry, girls. See above."
At the heart of this is a series of texts sent by an unnamed member of the Fisher boys swimming team to some members of the girls swimming team. The texts, some of which have been made public, are vile, sexually harassing, in some cases laced with threats of violence. They are, as my mother would have said, the products of a kid who apparently wasn't raised right. And ultimately the kid got away with sending them.
Oh, sure. He got suspended for the balance of the swim season. But then the alleged adults got involved.
Just in time for sectionals, two of those adults, Fishers principal Jason Urban and athletic director Rob Seymour, personally called the IHSAA to request the student in question be granted a waiver to compete in the sectional, even though by IHSAA bylaws he was forbidden from doing so because he'd missed the balance of the season. IHSAA commissioner Bobby Cox, the third alleged adult, wasn't happy about it, but granted the waiver anyway, saying he had no choice.
"I’ve got a principal and an athletic director petitioning me to waive the rule, so I waived the rule," Cox said. "I’m following the bylaws."
So to review: He waived IHSAA bylaws because another bylaw said he had to.
This is about as weak in the knees as you can get from someone in Cox's position. I can think of several of his predecessors who are right now spinning like lathes in the grave at the very idea of an IHSAA commissioner behaving this way. Their response would likely have been, "I don't give a damn what the bylaw says. The kid ain't swimmin'. See you in court."
The problem with that, of course, is the IHSAA doesn't have a great track record in court. It's gotten sued before when a commish went all autocratic, and it's frequently lost. So maybe Cox was thinking about that, and maybe he was thinking about the Fishers' folks going so far as to get an injunction to halt the swimming state tournament until this unnamed young man could be reinstated.
Now, it's unlikely the Fishers' people would do something so all-world arrogant. But you never know with alleged adults. I mean, just petitioning the IHSAA to get the kid reinstated was remarkably arrogant itself, given the circumstances.
In any case, Cox should have channeled his spiritual ancestors and denied the waiver. It might not have been the smart play, but it would have been the correct one.
Because as it stands now, both his organization and Fishers High School have sent a clear message to the girls who were sexually harassed by this kid: You don't matter. We've got a sectional to win, so get over it.
Here's the thing, though.
Somewhere, somehow, this kid's going to get some frontier justice. He may be unnamed, but everyone in the swimming community likely knows who he is. So you just know that, given the way we are now, someone, somewhere is going to boo the hell out of him at some point. When he's standing on the podium at state, perhaps.
The people who subject him to this will get called out for it. But they won't be the ones at fault.
The alleged adults at Fishers and the IHSAA will be, for putting him there to begin with.
Monday, February 18, 2019
Daytona musings, Part Deux
The Grassy Knoll crowd, they'll have a field day with this one. Half of NASCAR's fan base already thinks NASCAR president Mike Helton was in Dealey Plaza that day in November. What are they going to make of this?
"This" being Denny Hamlin winning the Daytona 500, but only after the usual three mega-crashes in the last 10 laps meant it took the usual hour or so to run the last 10 laps.
And Kyle Busch finishing second.
And Erik Jones finishing third.
All three drivers, see, run for Joe Gibbs Racing. It was the first time one team finished 1-2-3 in the 500 since Hendrick Motorsports did it in 1997 with Jeff Gordon, Terry Labonte and Ricky Craven, and it came just a month after Gibbs' son and JGR co-chairman J.D. Gibbs died from a neurological disorder.
As he climbed out of the winning car, Hamlin, whom J.D. Gibbs discovered, pointed to a sticker bearing J.D.'s name on the window post of his car. It was the perfect closing flourish to a fairy tale day that -- OK, yes -- really did seem too good to be true.
Or, you know, too good not to be orchestrated.
As with almost all kooky conspiracy theories, this one doesn't stand up to any rational scrutiny. To start with, Daytona of all places is impossible to script. The chaos of the last 10 laps -- a Daytona staple -- made that point clearly. So even if Mike Helton or anyone else were foolish enough to try to script the finish, thereby destroying any shard of credibility the sport still has, it couldn't have happened without an inconceivable amount of luck.
No, this was pure serendipity at work. It was as random as Daytona always is.
Not to say a story no scribe who was there to chronicle the day could possibly screw up.
"This" being Denny Hamlin winning the Daytona 500, but only after the usual three mega-crashes in the last 10 laps meant it took the usual hour or so to run the last 10 laps.
And Kyle Busch finishing second.
And Erik Jones finishing third.
All three drivers, see, run for Joe Gibbs Racing. It was the first time one team finished 1-2-3 in the 500 since Hendrick Motorsports did it in 1997 with Jeff Gordon, Terry Labonte and Ricky Craven, and it came just a month after Gibbs' son and JGR co-chairman J.D. Gibbs died from a neurological disorder.
As he climbed out of the winning car, Hamlin, whom J.D. Gibbs discovered, pointed to a sticker bearing J.D.'s name on the window post of his car. It was the perfect closing flourish to a fairy tale day that -- OK, yes -- really did seem too good to be true.
Or, you know, too good not to be orchestrated.
As with almost all kooky conspiracy theories, this one doesn't stand up to any rational scrutiny. To start with, Daytona of all places is impossible to script. The chaos of the last 10 laps -- a Daytona staple -- made that point clearly. So even if Mike Helton or anyone else were foolish enough to try to script the finish, thereby destroying any shard of credibility the sport still has, it couldn't have happened without an inconceivable amount of luck.
No, this was pure serendipity at work. It was as random as Daytona always is.
Not to say a story no scribe who was there to chronicle the day could possibly screw up.
Sunday, February 17, 2019
Daytona musings
What NASCAR likes to call the Great American Race goes off again today down in Daytona, and what that means to some of us is a First Robin Of Spring moment, and what that means to others of us is "Oh, look, car racing's back."
Which is to say, NASCAR does not have the hold on the national pulse it once did.
The sport that once imagined itself as the fourth pillar of the American sporting landscape has devolved into what it always was, a niche sport whose core audience is gearheads and women who think Kasey Kahne is sexy as hell. That said, the core audience is far more expansive than it's ever been, if not nearly as expansive as NASCAR once imagined it could be. Thus all the stories this last decade or so about the decline of the sport and what has gone wrong, when actually not much of anything has gone all that wrong.
The market adjusted, is what happened. The demographics reset. It only tasted like decline because the expectations -- skewed all out of round by the unrealistic and unsustainable boom of the late '90s and early Oughts -- had changed.
And so to today, when the Blob will assume its position on the couch to watch the one stock-car race it truthfully has any interest in any more.
But having covered motorsports, including NASCAR, for four decades as a sportswriter, I feel duty bound to answer a few questions about what's going to happen when 43 really loud sponsor billboards come to the green today:
1. When will Jimmie Johnson run into someone and trigger a huge crash?
I mean, the old guy's done it twice already this week, in the Clash and in one of the two qualifying races. So it stands to reason he'll do it again today at some point.
Yes, J.J. Getting old does suck.
2. How many times will other people run into each other in the last five laps?
Twice. No, three times, including two in the last three laps. It's just what they do in plate races -- especially Daytona, which is the Super Bowl of the sport so no one's going to give an inch anywhere.
3. Speaking of plate races, is it true this is the last Daytona 500 for restrictor plates?
It is. NASCAR is doing away with restrictor plates. Of course, it's replacing them with something else that will essentially have the same effect on the cars at Daytona and Talladega, so the Big One is still going to keep happening.
Especially with Jimmie Johnson in the field.
4. Will William Byron, the youthful polesitter and future of Hendrick Motorsports along with fellow front-row starter Alex Bowman, win the race?
No. The polesitter hasn't won Daytona since Dale Jarrett 19 years ago. The last four haven't even finished in the top ten. See: plate racing.
5. So, who will win?
Beats me. Daytona is the single hardest sporting event to predict pretty much anywhere. This is because it's a plate race. Plate races are won largely through pit strategy and negotiation (i.e., choosing the right partner to push you to the front in the late stages). This means almost anyone in the entire field could win today.
Last year, for instance, the winner was Austin Dillon, who got pushed to the front by Darrell "Bubba" Wallace Jr., who made history by finishing second, the highest finish in the Daytona 500 for an African-American driver. Dillon started 14th. He had just two top-five finishes and eight top tens the rest of the season.
Today, Ryan Blaney starts 14th. Ryan Blaney finished 10th in the points last year, with one win, eight top fives and 16 top tens. So, what the hell. Pick Ryan Blaney.
Good a choice as any.
Which is to say, NASCAR does not have the hold on the national pulse it once did.
The sport that once imagined itself as the fourth pillar of the American sporting landscape has devolved into what it always was, a niche sport whose core audience is gearheads and women who think Kasey Kahne is sexy as hell. That said, the core audience is far more expansive than it's ever been, if not nearly as expansive as NASCAR once imagined it could be. Thus all the stories this last decade or so about the decline of the sport and what has gone wrong, when actually not much of anything has gone all that wrong.
The market adjusted, is what happened. The demographics reset. It only tasted like decline because the expectations -- skewed all out of round by the unrealistic and unsustainable boom of the late '90s and early Oughts -- had changed.
And so to today, when the Blob will assume its position on the couch to watch the one stock-car race it truthfully has any interest in any more.
But having covered motorsports, including NASCAR, for four decades as a sportswriter, I feel duty bound to answer a few questions about what's going to happen when 43 really loud sponsor billboards come to the green today:
1. When will Jimmie Johnson run into someone and trigger a huge crash?
I mean, the old guy's done it twice already this week, in the Clash and in one of the two qualifying races. So it stands to reason he'll do it again today at some point.
Yes, J.J. Getting old does suck.
2. How many times will other people run into each other in the last five laps?
Twice. No, three times, including two in the last three laps. It's just what they do in plate races -- especially Daytona, which is the Super Bowl of the sport so no one's going to give an inch anywhere.
3. Speaking of plate races, is it true this is the last Daytona 500 for restrictor plates?
It is. NASCAR is doing away with restrictor plates. Of course, it's replacing them with something else that will essentially have the same effect on the cars at Daytona and Talladega, so the Big One is still going to keep happening.
Especially with Jimmie Johnson in the field.
4. Will William Byron, the youthful polesitter and future of Hendrick Motorsports along with fellow front-row starter Alex Bowman, win the race?
No. The polesitter hasn't won Daytona since Dale Jarrett 19 years ago. The last four haven't even finished in the top ten. See: plate racing.
5. So, who will win?
Beats me. Daytona is the single hardest sporting event to predict pretty much anywhere. This is because it's a plate race. Plate races are won largely through pit strategy and negotiation (i.e., choosing the right partner to push you to the front in the late stages). This means almost anyone in the entire field could win today.
Last year, for instance, the winner was Austin Dillon, who got pushed to the front by Darrell "Bubba" Wallace Jr., who made history by finishing second, the highest finish in the Daytona 500 for an African-American driver. Dillon started 14th. He had just two top-five finishes and eight top tens the rest of the season.
Today, Ryan Blaney starts 14th. Ryan Blaney finished 10th in the points last year, with one win, eight top fives and 16 top tens. So, what the hell. Pick Ryan Blaney.
Good a choice as any.
Robo "journalism"
So remember a couple years back, when the Blob had some fun with the fact some news wire services were going to start using automated software to write some basic roundup items?
("No," you're saying).
Anyway ... the Blob poked some fun at the idea, imagining a few famous sports ledes as written by Robby the Robot. As with much satire these days, it turned out to be not as tongue-in-cheek as the Blob assumed.
Maybe you saw the highlight. But the college basketball play of the day yesterday happened out in Fargo, N.D., where David Jenkins Jr. banked in a shot from halfcourt at the buzzer to give South Dakota State a stunning 78-77 Summit League win over North Dakota State.
Alas, Robby missed all that.
As alertly noted by fellow sportswriter and longtime USA Today sports columnist Mike Lopresti, here's how Automated Insights, the sportswriting software employed by the Associated Press to (what else) save money, described the action:
FARGO, N.D. -- Mike Daum had 31 points and 12 rebounds as South Dakota State narrowly defeated North Dakota State 78-77 on Saturday.
David Jenkins Jr. had 24 points and six assists for South Dakota State (21-7, 11-2 Summit League). Tevin King added seven rebounds.
Yes, that's right. Robby mentioned Jenkins' 24 points, but not the most important three. And let's not forget Tevin King's all-important seven rebounds!
A footnote: In a later version, an actual human rewrote the original post. His lede, surprise, surprise, highlighted Jenkins' astounding game-winning shot.
Which only goes to show you: Skynet might yet someday enslave humanity. But it can't write for s***.
("No," you're saying).
Anyway ... the Blob poked some fun at the idea, imagining a few famous sports ledes as written by Robby the Robot. As with much satire these days, it turned out to be not as tongue-in-cheek as the Blob assumed.
Maybe you saw the highlight. But the college basketball play of the day yesterday happened out in Fargo, N.D., where David Jenkins Jr. banked in a shot from halfcourt at the buzzer to give South Dakota State a stunning 78-77 Summit League win over North Dakota State.
Alas, Robby missed all that.
As alertly noted by fellow sportswriter and longtime USA Today sports columnist Mike Lopresti, here's how Automated Insights, the sportswriting software employed by the Associated Press to (what else) save money, described the action:
FARGO, N.D. -- Mike Daum had 31 points and 12 rebounds as South Dakota State narrowly defeated North Dakota State 78-77 on Saturday.
David Jenkins Jr. had 24 points and six assists for South Dakota State (21-7, 11-2 Summit League). Tevin King added seven rebounds.
Yes, that's right. Robby mentioned Jenkins' 24 points, but not the most important three. And let's not forget Tevin King's all-important seven rebounds!
A footnote: In a later version, an actual human rewrote the original post. His lede, surprise, surprise, highlighted Jenkins' astounding game-winning shot.
Which only goes to show you: Skynet might yet someday enslave humanity. But it can't write for s***.
Saturday, February 16, 2019
Deal of the century
Hey, I've got $5,000, just layin' around. OK, I don't. But I bet you do.
And if you do ... well, here's the best deal EVER: Former major league slugger Jose Canseco, fresh from being unfairly passed over in his bid to be Our Only Available President's 257th chief of staff, is now offering a BIGFOOT and ALIEN EXCURSION for just $5,000!
Come on. Of course it's on the level!
In when the Huffington Post called the Morgan Management number interested parties were asked to call, here was the phone message: “Only 5 lucky individuals will get a golden ticket. Oompa loompas ain’t got nothing on Bigfoot. Travel in his custom RV ... You never know what’s gonna happen with Mr. Canseco.”
Well, I'd be on board if I had $5,000 to blow. I mean, who wouldn't?
Not only do you get to hang with Jose, there's a better-than-even chance you'll find Bigfoot. And that alien thing? Hey, Jose's got contacts. Not long ago, he claims, aliens gave him the secret to time travel.
So to sum up: Jose, Bigfoot, contact with some Vulcans or Klingons (Are they really as obnoxious as we've been led to believe?), time travel. I mean, think what you could do with the latter alone?
Me, I'd go back in time and put a bundle on Buster Douglas. Or the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team. Or North Carolina State in '83.
Then I'd track down Jose and tell him where to find Bigfoot.
"Trust me on this," I'll say. "Someday it'll make you rich."
And if you do ... well, here's the best deal EVER: Former major league slugger Jose Canseco, fresh from being unfairly passed over in his bid to be Our Only Available President's 257th chief of staff, is now offering a BIGFOOT and ALIEN EXCURSION for just $5,000!
Come on. Of course it's on the level!
In when the Huffington Post called the Morgan Management number interested parties were asked to call, here was the phone message: “Only 5 lucky individuals will get a golden ticket. Oompa loompas ain’t got nothing on Bigfoot. Travel in his custom RV ... You never know what’s gonna happen with Mr. Canseco.”
Well, I'd be on board if I had $5,000 to blow. I mean, who wouldn't?
Not only do you get to hang with Jose, there's a better-than-even chance you'll find Bigfoot. And that alien thing? Hey, Jose's got contacts. Not long ago, he claims, aliens gave him the secret to time travel.
So to sum up: Jose, Bigfoot, contact with some Vulcans or Klingons (Are they really as obnoxious as we've been led to believe?), time travel. I mean, think what you could do with the latter alone?
Me, I'd go back in time and put a bundle on Buster Douglas. Or the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team. Or North Carolina State in '83.
Then I'd track down Jose and tell him where to find Bigfoot.
"Trust me on this," I'll say. "Someday it'll make you rich."
Thursday, February 14, 2019
Writin' somethin' that rhymes
Happy Valentine's Day, Blobophiles, a day in which we celebrate the greeting card and chocolate industries, and upon which young men's fancies turn to one of two thoughts:
1. "Good thing I bought some greeting cards and chocolates."
2. "Crap! I forgot to buy some greeting cards and chocolates."
In which case, young men's fancies turn desperately to poetry -- or, to use the more accurate if colloquial term, "poimes."
In keeping with this, the Blob has decided to revive last year's Valentine post, in which it, too, rolled out a few poimes suitable for particular circumstances. In so doing, it consciously violated the edict of crusty old newspaper publisher Ben Throckmorton, the character in Dan Jenkins' novel "Fast Copy" who famously instructed his reporters, "Don't write me nothin' that rhymes."
Anyway ... on with the poimes:
* That was some bargain John Elway landed the other day, signing Joe Flacco out of Baltimore at the very apex of the middle of the backside of his career. Apparently Case Keenum wasn't "meh" enough at quarterback; now ol' John's got himself the acknowledged King of Meh. Watch the Broncos take the AFC West by storm now!
Or, in other words ...
From out of the East
Strides the ultimate Joe.
Oh, wait, that was Namath
This guy s only Flacco.
* Spring has sprung down in Florida and Arizona, with pitchers and catchers reporting and all the sounds of baseball -- the crack of ash on horsehide; the pop of ball meeting leather -- driving hardened laptop jockeys to fits of gooey sentimentality. Meanwhile, two of the game's brightest stars, Bryce Harper and Manny Machado, remain unsigned, victims of either collusion (Bryce and Manny's agents) or a needed market adjustment (the owners). A sad tale, best told in verse ...
Surely you jest
When you laugh at our offer.
It's Bryce! It's Manny!
No, we won't kiss your fanny!
* Meanwhile, in Los Angeles, The Lake Show continues to be a you-know-what show. In the latest episode, the Lakers lost to the bedraggled Atlanta Hawks, and afterward the team's young core seemed pointedly unaffected by such a dreary development. Completely missing the playoffs now seems eminently possible, with the young players apparently supremely miffed at management/LeBron James for making it clear they were all just trade pieces for any Anthony Davis that comes down the track. LeBron especially has some fences to repair; maybe a poime will help ...
Guys, I wouldn't trade you
I'm not that kind of fellow.
I didn't really want Davi--
Ooh, look! It's Carmelo!
* America's favorite not-really-a-sports-event happened the other night, which did not mean it evaded sports-event-type controversy. We refer, of course, to the Westminster Dog Show, in which a fox terrier named King won Best in Show. The controversy? Best in Show judge Peter Green used to show fox terriers himself, which immediately invited charges of favoritism from, well, maybe a couple of people. And so perhaps Green could clear things up with a few choice lines ...
My judgment's not shady
there's no ifs, ands or buts
King was clearly far better
Than those other sad mutts.
* Last but not least, everyone is still talking about Duke's epic comeback, on the road, against Louisville the other night. Down 23 with less than 10 minutes to play, the Blue Devils rallied to win. It was the biggest comeback in Mike Krzyzewski's storied career, and we heard all about how it happened and what he said to his team right before the rally began. But how about a poime for the poor Cardinals?
Hey, we're up 23,
Look's like Duke's out of luck
Oh, wait ... Wait, no ...
Well, if THIS doesn't suck.
1. "Good thing I bought some greeting cards and chocolates."
2. "Crap! I forgot to buy some greeting cards and chocolates."
In which case, young men's fancies turn desperately to poetry -- or, to use the more accurate if colloquial term, "poimes."
In keeping with this, the Blob has decided to revive last year's Valentine post, in which it, too, rolled out a few poimes suitable for particular circumstances. In so doing, it consciously violated the edict of crusty old newspaper publisher Ben Throckmorton, the character in Dan Jenkins' novel "Fast Copy" who famously instructed his reporters, "Don't write me nothin' that rhymes."
Anyway ... on with the poimes:
* That was some bargain John Elway landed the other day, signing Joe Flacco out of Baltimore at the very apex of the middle of the backside of his career. Apparently Case Keenum wasn't "meh" enough at quarterback; now ol' John's got himself the acknowledged King of Meh. Watch the Broncos take the AFC West by storm now!
Or, in other words ...
From out of the East
Strides the ultimate Joe.
Oh, wait, that was Namath
This guy s only Flacco.
* Spring has sprung down in Florida and Arizona, with pitchers and catchers reporting and all the sounds of baseball -- the crack of ash on horsehide; the pop of ball meeting leather -- driving hardened laptop jockeys to fits of gooey sentimentality. Meanwhile, two of the game's brightest stars, Bryce Harper and Manny Machado, remain unsigned, victims of either collusion (Bryce and Manny's agents) or a needed market adjustment (the owners). A sad tale, best told in verse ...
Surely you jest
When you laugh at our offer.
It's Bryce! It's Manny!
No, we won't kiss your fanny!
* Meanwhile, in Los Angeles, The Lake Show continues to be a you-know-what show. In the latest episode, the Lakers lost to the bedraggled Atlanta Hawks, and afterward the team's young core seemed pointedly unaffected by such a dreary development. Completely missing the playoffs now seems eminently possible, with the young players apparently supremely miffed at management/LeBron James for making it clear they were all just trade pieces for any Anthony Davis that comes down the track. LeBron especially has some fences to repair; maybe a poime will help ...
Guys, I wouldn't trade you
I'm not that kind of fellow.
I didn't really want Davi--
Ooh, look! It's Carmelo!
* America's favorite not-really-a-sports-event happened the other night, which did not mean it evaded sports-event-type controversy. We refer, of course, to the Westminster Dog Show, in which a fox terrier named King won Best in Show. The controversy? Best in Show judge Peter Green used to show fox terriers himself, which immediately invited charges of favoritism from, well, maybe a couple of people. And so perhaps Green could clear things up with a few choice lines ...
My judgment's not shady
there's no ifs, ands or buts
King was clearly far better
Than those other sad mutts.
* Last but not least, everyone is still talking about Duke's epic comeback, on the road, against Louisville the other night. Down 23 with less than 10 minutes to play, the Blue Devils rallied to win. It was the biggest comeback in Mike Krzyzewski's storied career, and we heard all about how it happened and what he said to his team right before the rally began. But how about a poime for the poor Cardinals?
Hey, we're up 23,
Look's like Duke's out of luck
Oh, wait ... Wait, no ...
Well, if THIS doesn't suck.
Wednesday, February 13, 2019
Your stupid baseball injury of the week
One of the great mysteries of the cosmos, other than why you always get stuck behind the goober driving 40 miles per hour on a two-lane highway, is what it is about baseball that attracts master-class klutzes.
("That's not one of the great mysteries of the cosmos!" you're saying).
("Do you people have to dispute everything?" is the Blob response).
Anyway ... for some reason, highly skilled athletes of the baseball variety forever seem to be getting hurt in ways ordinary human beings never do. They always seem to be getting eaten alive by infield tarps or slicing open fingers washing dishes or rupturing their spleens while shoveling snow off their driveways.
(All of which have actually happened. See: Vince Coleman, Ian Kennedy, Carl Pavano).
In the grand tradition of all that, therefore, and in honor of spring training starting up this week, we offer this week's Stupid Baseball Injury.
Come on down, Daisuke Matsuzaka!
The former major league pitcher is 38 now and pitches for the Chunichi Dragons in his native Japan, but he can hurt himself with the best of them. And that's what he did the other day when he was diagnosed with inflammation in his throwing arm because a fan grabbed his pitching arm during a spring training meet-and-greet in Okinawa.
Welcome to the club, Daisuke!
("That's not one of the great mysteries of the cosmos!" you're saying).
("Do you people have to dispute everything?" is the Blob response).
Anyway ... for some reason, highly skilled athletes of the baseball variety forever seem to be getting hurt in ways ordinary human beings never do. They always seem to be getting eaten alive by infield tarps or slicing open fingers washing dishes or rupturing their spleens while shoveling snow off their driveways.
(All of which have actually happened. See: Vince Coleman, Ian Kennedy, Carl Pavano).
In the grand tradition of all that, therefore, and in honor of spring training starting up this week, we offer this week's Stupid Baseball Injury.
Come on down, Daisuke Matsuzaka!
The former major league pitcher is 38 now and pitches for the Chunichi Dragons in his native Japan, but he can hurt himself with the best of them. And that's what he did the other day when he was diagnosed with inflammation in his throwing arm because a fan grabbed his pitching arm during a spring training meet-and-greet in Okinawa.
Welcome to the club, Daisuke!
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
No small thing
Everyone's talking about Kyler Murray now, but I keep seeing someone bigger. I keep seeing someone else with outrageous skills in two major sports, someone who might serve as a cautionary tale if this were a different time and the two major sports were different than they are.
I keep seeing Bo Jackson.
Who, once upon a time, was the greatest athlete of my generation.
Who, once upon a time, might have wound up in Cooperstown if he hadn't merely dabbled in baseball.
Who, once upon a time, wound up instead with his career cut short because he played pro football as well as baseball, and suffered a hip injury that ended both his careers.
I wouldn't want to see that happen to Kyler Murray. But it could, even if the NFL's current rulebook tends to treat quarterbacks like fine crystal, locked away in display cases with signs that read DO NOT TOUCH in Giant-E-On-The-Eyechart font.
Kyler Murray, see, could have chosen to play baseball, just like Bo Jackson. The Oakland As made him the ninth pick in the entire draft last year. He could have signed for significant dollars, did his time in the minors, wound up playing longer with less wear-and-tear on the body.
Instead, Murray chose the NFL. At a tick under 5-foot-10 (officially) or a good inch-and-a-half shorter than that (unofficially), he'll be the smallest quarterback to play in the league since Doug Flutie.
But you know what's even crazier than that?
The fact it might not be as crazy it sounds.
First of all, the size thing: Yeah, it's an issue. But if he's really a tick under 5-10, that makes him all of an inch shorter than Russell Wilson. And Russell Wilson has had himself a pretty decent career so far.
Also ... this is not your father's NFL. It's an NFL of jet sweeps and stretch plays and seam routes, and throwing underneath the coverage until the deep route comes open. It's an NFL where the guy who's going to own every passing record the league has (Drew Brees) probably isn't 6-1. And more and more, it's an NFL that values escapability at the quarterback position.
In other words, it's an NFL that rewards the skill set of a Kyler Murray. Last season, for instance, Lamar Jackson, although half-a-foot taller than Murray, excelled with much the same abilities Murray has. The difference is, Murray has a significantly better arm.
So, not so crazy, the idea that this tiny person can excel in the NFL. Not so crazy he chose football over baseball, given the timing of his arrival.
Murray might make more money in the long term in baseball, but it's still baseball. It's still slow, plodding and too much wedded to the past. Even so transcendent an athlete as Murray, for instance, would start out riding the buses in the bushes, because that's the way it's always been done in baseball. And he'd do it at a time when baseball owners are standing on the brakes economically; even established free agent stars such as Bryce Harper and Manny Machado are finding it difficult to land new deals because ownership has become reluctant to sign players to the sort of long-term deals that used to be routine.
Plus ... football is still America's Game. And so Kyler Murray has thrown in his lot with it, risks or no risks.
Stay tuned.
I keep seeing Bo Jackson.
Who, once upon a time, was the greatest athlete of my generation.
Who, once upon a time, might have wound up in Cooperstown if he hadn't merely dabbled in baseball.
Who, once upon a time, wound up instead with his career cut short because he played pro football as well as baseball, and suffered a hip injury that ended both his careers.
I wouldn't want to see that happen to Kyler Murray. But it could, even if the NFL's current rulebook tends to treat quarterbacks like fine crystal, locked away in display cases with signs that read DO NOT TOUCH in Giant-E-On-The-Eyechart font.
Kyler Murray, see, could have chosen to play baseball, just like Bo Jackson. The Oakland As made him the ninth pick in the entire draft last year. He could have signed for significant dollars, did his time in the minors, wound up playing longer with less wear-and-tear on the body.
Instead, Murray chose the NFL. At a tick under 5-foot-10 (officially) or a good inch-and-a-half shorter than that (unofficially), he'll be the smallest quarterback to play in the league since Doug Flutie.
But you know what's even crazier than that?
The fact it might not be as crazy it sounds.
First of all, the size thing: Yeah, it's an issue. But if he's really a tick under 5-10, that makes him all of an inch shorter than Russell Wilson. And Russell Wilson has had himself a pretty decent career so far.
Also ... this is not your father's NFL. It's an NFL of jet sweeps and stretch plays and seam routes, and throwing underneath the coverage until the deep route comes open. It's an NFL where the guy who's going to own every passing record the league has (Drew Brees) probably isn't 6-1. And more and more, it's an NFL that values escapability at the quarterback position.
In other words, it's an NFL that rewards the skill set of a Kyler Murray. Last season, for instance, Lamar Jackson, although half-a-foot taller than Murray, excelled with much the same abilities Murray has. The difference is, Murray has a significantly better arm.
So, not so crazy, the idea that this tiny person can excel in the NFL. Not so crazy he chose football over baseball, given the timing of his arrival.
Murray might make more money in the long term in baseball, but it's still baseball. It's still slow, plodding and too much wedded to the past. Even so transcendent an athlete as Murray, for instance, would start out riding the buses in the bushes, because that's the way it's always been done in baseball. And he'd do it at a time when baseball owners are standing on the brakes economically; even established free agent stars such as Bryce Harper and Manny Machado are finding it difficult to land new deals because ownership has become reluctant to sign players to the sort of long-term deals that used to be routine.
Plus ... football is still America's Game. And so Kyler Murray has thrown in his lot with it, risks or no risks.
Stay tuned.
Second chance dance
Of course someone signed him. What, you were under the impression pro football was just a game?
And so the inevitable has happened: Kareem Hunt has a new home. Last seen on a security video kicking a woman as she lay on the floor in a Cleveland hotel, the erstwhile running back for the Kansas City Chiefs has been welcomed back into the fold by, ironically, the Cleveland Browns. They took a deep breath and signed him, saying all the things a team says when it signs someone radioactive.
"My relationship and interaction with Kareem since 2016 in college was an important part of this decision making process," Browns GM John Dorsey said, right on cue. "But we then did extensive due diligence with many individuals, including clinical professionals, to have a better understanding of the person he is today and whether it was prudent to sign him. Here were two important factors: one is that Kareem took full responsibility for his egregious actions and showed true remorse and secondly, just as importantly, he is undergoing and is committed to necessary professional treatment and a plan that has been clearly laid out."
Hit all the requisite marks cleanly there, Dorsey did. "Relationship and interaction," check. "Extensive due diligence," check. "Full responsibility," "true remorse," "professional treatment" ... check, check, check.
The classic Second Chance Dance, with all the proper steps. And who knows? Maybe Kareem Hunt really won't wind up kicking another woman when she's down, although the track record for guys who've beat on women suggests otherwise.
This is not to say Kareem Hunt doesn't deserve a second chance. Everyone does. It's why the most untrue thing ever said is that there are no second acts in American life. There are a million, and they're everywhere.
But the Browns taking that deep breath and signing Hunt illustrates the essential truth of professional sports -- namely, that they are professional. Kareem Hunt, see, is a hell of a running back. Running backs as good (and, more importantly, still as young and fresh) are at a premium in the NFL. So signing Hunt, despite all Dorsey's pro forma pretty words, was not about redemption. It was about return on an investment.
In other words, Hunt was likely a sweet little deal, given the diminishment of his bargaining power. So undeniably he will be valuable well beyond the price Cleveland will pay for him. And that's a powerful inducement when you're thisclose to being a playoff team, as the Browns seem to be right now.
So, Hunt's a Brown, although the NFL could still punish him. And, yes, that says something about the NFL's values as an organization.
After all, Colin Kaepernick remains blackballed for the crime of calling attention to racial inequality. But Kareem Hunt is safely back in the fold with his second chance.
Guess Kaepernick should have just smacked a woman around instead of committing the unpardonable sin of kneeling at a time some people considered inappropriate. He'd probably still have a job, considering the dearth of quality quarterbacking in the league these days.
What a world. What. A. World.
And so the inevitable has happened: Kareem Hunt has a new home. Last seen on a security video kicking a woman as she lay on the floor in a Cleveland hotel, the erstwhile running back for the Kansas City Chiefs has been welcomed back into the fold by, ironically, the Cleveland Browns. They took a deep breath and signed him, saying all the things a team says when it signs someone radioactive.
"My relationship and interaction with Kareem since 2016 in college was an important part of this decision making process," Browns GM John Dorsey said, right on cue. "But we then did extensive due diligence with many individuals, including clinical professionals, to have a better understanding of the person he is today and whether it was prudent to sign him. Here were two important factors: one is that Kareem took full responsibility for his egregious actions and showed true remorse and secondly, just as importantly, he is undergoing and is committed to necessary professional treatment and a plan that has been clearly laid out."
Hit all the requisite marks cleanly there, Dorsey did. "Relationship and interaction," check. "Extensive due diligence," check. "Full responsibility," "true remorse," "professional treatment" ... check, check, check.
The classic Second Chance Dance, with all the proper steps. And who knows? Maybe Kareem Hunt really won't wind up kicking another woman when she's down, although the track record for guys who've beat on women suggests otherwise.
This is not to say Kareem Hunt doesn't deserve a second chance. Everyone does. It's why the most untrue thing ever said is that there are no second acts in American life. There are a million, and they're everywhere.
But the Browns taking that deep breath and signing Hunt illustrates the essential truth of professional sports -- namely, that they are professional. Kareem Hunt, see, is a hell of a running back. Running backs as good (and, more importantly, still as young and fresh) are at a premium in the NFL. So signing Hunt, despite all Dorsey's pro forma pretty words, was not about redemption. It was about return on an investment.
In other words, Hunt was likely a sweet little deal, given the diminishment of his bargaining power. So undeniably he will be valuable well beyond the price Cleveland will pay for him. And that's a powerful inducement when you're thisclose to being a playoff team, as the Browns seem to be right now.
So, Hunt's a Brown, although the NFL could still punish him. And, yes, that says something about the NFL's values as an organization.
After all, Colin Kaepernick remains blackballed for the crime of calling attention to racial inequality. But Kareem Hunt is safely back in the fold with his second chance.
Guess Kaepernick should have just smacked a woman around instead of committing the unpardonable sin of kneeling at a time some people considered inappropriate. He'd probably still have a job, considering the dearth of quality quarterbacking in the league these days.
What a world. What. A. World.
Monday, February 11, 2019
Disassembly Hell
So remember what the Blob said yesterday? Something about watching Indiana knock off a middling Ohio State team in Assembly Hall?
Yeah, well ...
Wrong again.
("Big surprise there!" you're saying).
No, the Hoosiers continued to follow their own mystifying path, losing to the not-great Buckeyes in what formerly was one of the more intimidating barns in college basketball. Now it's just, you know, a place with some statues and antique national championship banners. Ohio State was the fourth straight opponent to walk into the Hall and walk out with a W, and the second opponent that should have been easy pickings if the Hall were still the Hall.
Michigan and Iowa winning there is one thing. But sorry-ass Nebraska and lukewarm Ohio State?
Yeaaahhh, not so much.
The loss yesterday was Indiana's ninth in 10 games, and might well have been the death knell for its NCAA Tournament hopes. And that might not have even been the worst part for the faithful.
The worst part might have been that it coincided with news out of Athens, Ga., where former IU coach Tom Crean -- tossed aside for the crime of not getting Indiana further down the road to its imagined place at the pinnacle of college buckets -- scored a huge recruiting coup.
A top-five recruit (and possible 2020 top NBA draft pick) choosing a football school? Choosing Crean, or so the kid says, because of his success with Dwyane Wade at Marquette and, yes, Victor Oladipo at Indiana?
Ouch.
Dark days in Blooming Gulch. Dark days indeed.
Yeah, well ...
Wrong again.
("Big surprise there!" you're saying).
No, the Hoosiers continued to follow their own mystifying path, losing to the not-great Buckeyes in what formerly was one of the more intimidating barns in college basketball. Now it's just, you know, a place with some statues and antique national championship banners. Ohio State was the fourth straight opponent to walk into the Hall and walk out with a W, and the second opponent that should have been easy pickings if the Hall were still the Hall.
Michigan and Iowa winning there is one thing. But sorry-ass Nebraska and lukewarm Ohio State?
Yeaaahhh, not so much.
The loss yesterday was Indiana's ninth in 10 games, and might well have been the death knell for its NCAA Tournament hopes. And that might not have even been the worst part for the faithful.
The worst part might have been that it coincided with news out of Athens, Ga., where former IU coach Tom Crean -- tossed aside for the crime of not getting Indiana further down the road to its imagined place at the pinnacle of college buckets -- scored a huge recruiting coup.
A top-five recruit (and possible 2020 top NBA draft pick) choosing a football school? Choosing Crean, or so the kid says, because of his success with Dwyane Wade at Marquette and, yes, Victor Oladipo at Indiana?
Ouch.
Dark days in Blooming Gulch. Dark days indeed.
Wind 'em up
Spring arrived Sunday as a snow-blurred poser announcing its presence with the grinding squall of metal on metal. Which is to say, I turned on my TV, and there were a bunch of stock car drivers running into each other.
This happens frequently in NASCAR, but it's been awhile since I'd seen it. And so, yeah, I could smell spring in the midst of all that flying snow, because the boys of summer were at it again down there in Daytona, with a certified graybeard leading the way and getting folks all riled up the way NASCAR fans tend to get riled up.
The graybeard was Jimmie Johnson, who won the Clash yesterday by wrecking practically everyone else in the field just before a iran shower ended things 20 laps shy of the scheduled 75. Seems he tried to side-draft Paul Menard, Menard got loose, and what happens in plate races happened.
In other words, everyone wound up in a big pile of dents, dings and wadded-up sheet metal.
Johnson, meanwhile, sailed unimpeded to victory, ending a weekend in which Hendrick Motorsports had everyone covered. Their patriarch won the Clash, and the kids -- William Byron and Alex Bowman -- locked down the front row in qualifying for next Sunday's Daytona 500, So, much has changed, and nothing has changed.
All that is mere detail, however.
What mattered is it ushered in Speedweeks at Daytona, which in turn has always been the First Robin for the Blob. I see stock cars at Daytona, I know spring is in the wind. It may not look or feel like it, but for the first time, I can smell it in the wind.
So, wind 'em up, boys -- and J.J., try not to wreck everyone next Sunday.
Me, I may fire up the grill, weather be hanged. Spring has sprung.
This happens frequently in NASCAR, but it's been awhile since I'd seen it. And so, yeah, I could smell spring in the midst of all that flying snow, because the boys of summer were at it again down there in Daytona, with a certified graybeard leading the way and getting folks all riled up the way NASCAR fans tend to get riled up.
The graybeard was Jimmie Johnson, who won the Clash yesterday by wrecking practically everyone else in the field just before a iran shower ended things 20 laps shy of the scheduled 75. Seems he tried to side-draft Paul Menard, Menard got loose, and what happens in plate races happened.
In other words, everyone wound up in a big pile of dents, dings and wadded-up sheet metal.
Johnson, meanwhile, sailed unimpeded to victory, ending a weekend in which Hendrick Motorsports had everyone covered. Their patriarch won the Clash, and the kids -- William Byron and Alex Bowman -- locked down the front row in qualifying for next Sunday's Daytona 500, So, much has changed, and nothing has changed.
All that is mere detail, however.
What mattered is it ushered in Speedweeks at Daytona, which in turn has always been the First Robin for the Blob. I see stock cars at Daytona, I know spring is in the wind. It may not look or feel like it, but for the first time, I can smell it in the wind.
So, wind 'em up, boys -- and J.J., try not to wreck everyone next Sunday.
Me, I may fire up the grill, weather be hanged. Spring has sprung.
Bubbleicious
And now comes the endgame for your Indiana Hoosiers, who get Ohio State at home today and appear poised to pay back their faithful for all the booing lately by subjecting them to three weeks of torture.
Which is to say, the bracketologists have the Hoosiers squarely astride the infamous bubble right now. And that's where they seemed destined to remain.
The Indiana team that found its mojo in that inexplicable victory at Michigan State did exactly what so many folks expected next, which is come home and lose to Iowa. Yeah, the Hoosiers fought. Yeah, they played smarter and tougher and made some more shots. And, yeah, it still wasn't good enough.
This is because what was only suspected during their seven-game downhill toboggan run has become perfectly obvious: These Hoosiers just aren't very good. They've got the alleged lottery pick in Romeo Langford, and the senior leader in Juwan Morgan, and not a whole lot else. They're good enough to put it together for Ws some nights -- watch them knock off Ohio State today -- but not good enough to do it for three, four, five games in a row.
And so, they're going to ride the bubble right to the bitter end. Or the not bitter end, as the case may be.
Certainly the latter still breathes air. Across its last five games, IU has so-so Ohio State and Meh-nnesota, which just got torched by struggling Michigan State. But two of their last three home games are against the hottest team in the Big Ten right now (Purdue) and a stout Wisconsin team. And they've got Iowa again, this time in Iowa City.
Win at least one of those, and take care of business today and against the Golden Gophers, and they're a 16-win team from a tough conference with, presumably, just enough resume to squeak into Da Tournament. But beating Ohio State and Minny alone isn't going to be enough. The Hoosiers need Purdue's pelt or Wisconsin's or Iowa's.
Are they capable of pulling that off?
Sure.
Are they just as capable of not pulling it off?
Sure again.
They are what they are, these Hoosiers. OK when they've got it going. Awful when they don't. Nothing special either way.
Which is to say, the bracketologists have the Hoosiers squarely astride the infamous bubble right now. And that's where they seemed destined to remain.
The Indiana team that found its mojo in that inexplicable victory at Michigan State did exactly what so many folks expected next, which is come home and lose to Iowa. Yeah, the Hoosiers fought. Yeah, they played smarter and tougher and made some more shots. And, yeah, it still wasn't good enough.
This is because what was only suspected during their seven-game downhill toboggan run has become perfectly obvious: These Hoosiers just aren't very good. They've got the alleged lottery pick in Romeo Langford, and the senior leader in Juwan Morgan, and not a whole lot else. They're good enough to put it together for Ws some nights -- watch them knock off Ohio State today -- but not good enough to do it for three, four, five games in a row.
And so, they're going to ride the bubble right to the bitter end. Or the not bitter end, as the case may be.
Certainly the latter still breathes air. Across its last five games, IU has so-so Ohio State and Meh-nnesota, which just got torched by struggling Michigan State. But two of their last three home games are against the hottest team in the Big Ten right now (Purdue) and a stout Wisconsin team. And they've got Iowa again, this time in Iowa City.
Win at least one of those, and take care of business today and against the Golden Gophers, and they're a 16-win team from a tough conference with, presumably, just enough resume to squeak into Da Tournament. But beating Ohio State and Minny alone isn't going to be enough. The Hoosiers need Purdue's pelt or Wisconsin's or Iowa's.
Are they capable of pulling that off?
Sure.
Are they just as capable of not pulling it off?
Sure again.
They are what they are, these Hoosiers. OK when they've got it going. Awful when they don't. Nothing special either way.
Sunday, February 10, 2019
One more joust at the windmill
Raise a glass this morning to the Alliance of American Football, which debuted last night on the assumption that no one should have to slog through the hellscape of February without blockin' and tacklin' and touching-the-passer penalties.
The good news for the AAF is it's run by smart football men -- Bill Polian is one of the founders -- who have much the same modest, workable model that initially characterized its spring football ancestor, the USFL. The better news is the ninny who blew up the USFL with his appalling lack of business sense is in the White House now.
No Donald Trump? Hey, that's a W right out off the hop for the AAF.
Otherwise, well, the AAF serves the same useful purpose the USFL initially did, which is give a whole lot of NFL roster cuts another chance to A) satisfy their football jones, and B) stay at least within shouting distance of the NFL radar.
Also, it gives football fans more gear options.
I mean, a Bears or a Colts or a Packers jersey is one thing. But who's not going to leap at the chance to rock a San Antonio Commanders jersey? Or an Orlando Apollos jersey? Or a San Diego Fleet jersey?
All of those teams, plus the Atlanta Legends, were in action on opening night last night. The Legends proved less than legendary, losing 40-6 to the Apollos. The Commanders, meanwhile, beat the Fleet 15-6 in what we can only presume was some sort of tribute to last week's 13-3 Patriots win in the Super Bowl.
The dominant theme of the night, it seems, was some really bad quarterback play. This shouldn't have surprised anyone, given how awful a lot of NFL backups are. These guys -- Michael Bercovici, Philip Nelson, Logan Woodside, various other people you've never heard of -- weren't even good enough to be backups. And apparently it showed.
On the other hand ...
On the other hand, the coaches are hardly nobodies. Steve Spurrier coaches the Apollos. Rick Neuheisel (the Arizona Hotshots), Mike Martz (San Diego), Mike Singletary (the Memphis Express), Dennis Erickson (the Salt Lake Stallions) and Mike Riley (San Antonio) are some of the other head coaches.
So the AAF has that going for it.
Other than that?
Hey. It's February. Any diversion in a storm.
The good news for the AAF is it's run by smart football men -- Bill Polian is one of the founders -- who have much the same modest, workable model that initially characterized its spring football ancestor, the USFL. The better news is the ninny who blew up the USFL with his appalling lack of business sense is in the White House now.
No Donald Trump? Hey, that's a W right out off the hop for the AAF.
Otherwise, well, the AAF serves the same useful purpose the USFL initially did, which is give a whole lot of NFL roster cuts another chance to A) satisfy their football jones, and B) stay at least within shouting distance of the NFL radar.
Also, it gives football fans more gear options.
I mean, a Bears or a Colts or a Packers jersey is one thing. But who's not going to leap at the chance to rock a San Antonio Commanders jersey? Or an Orlando Apollos jersey? Or a San Diego Fleet jersey?
All of those teams, plus the Atlanta Legends, were in action on opening night last night. The Legends proved less than legendary, losing 40-6 to the Apollos. The Commanders, meanwhile, beat the Fleet 15-6 in what we can only presume was some sort of tribute to last week's 13-3 Patriots win in the Super Bowl.
The dominant theme of the night, it seems, was some really bad quarterback play. This shouldn't have surprised anyone, given how awful a lot of NFL backups are. These guys -- Michael Bercovici, Philip Nelson, Logan Woodside, various other people you've never heard of -- weren't even good enough to be backups. And apparently it showed.
On the other hand ...
On the other hand, the coaches are hardly nobodies. Steve Spurrier coaches the Apollos. Rick Neuheisel (the Arizona Hotshots), Mike Martz (San Diego), Mike Singletary (the Memphis Express), Dennis Erickson (the Salt Lake Stallions) and Mike Riley (San Antonio) are some of the other head coaches.
So the AAF has that going for it.
Other than that?
Hey. It's February. Any diversion in a storm.
Saturday, February 9, 2019
The Lake Show
Anthony Davis got booed last night in New Orleans, and then got cheered, on account of A) he's still in New Orleans even though he doesn't want to be, and B) he dropped 32 on the Timberwolves and New Orleans won.
I don't know what the moral to that story is, except that fans are fickle and really don't care about the past or the future, only the present. Deliver the W, and they'll still love ya, wandering eye and all.
This is the essential truth of a Sportsball World in which the balance of power has shifted and the players now have some clout after decades of never having any. What's interesting about that is the same greed that once kept them powerless now works in their favor, in the sense that the owners' primal instinct -- more is always better -- enables the players to dictate terms. The owners want what they want; they can't help themselves. And they'll pay to get what they want.
That's the upside to free agency for the players.
The downside?
Well, the downside is what's happening in L.A., where the Lakers are huffing and puffing along a game above .500 and don't look anything like a playoff team at the moment. Part of that is they just aren't as good as people automatically assumed they would be as soon as LeBron James arrived. And part of it is a chemistry issue that was on stark display the other night in Indianapolis, where the Pacers pan-seared the Lake Show 136-94 and LeBron spent timeouts sitting off by himself, away from coach Luke Walton's huddle.
Which gets us back to Anthony Davis.
The Lakers (and LeBron) openly explored luring A.D. during the signing period, to the point where it appeared they would be willing to part with half their roster to get him. In the end, though, the deal didn't get done. And so now the Lakers have a roster of young guys who know their organization considers them all expendable parts whose value is solely as trading pieces to get LeBron what he wants.
Or so one would assume.
The Grassy Knoll Society immediately looked at this and wondered if the Pelicans deliberately dangled A.D. just to mess with the Lakers and other teams who expressed interest. Not sure why they'd do that, but there's never been a surplus of common sense among the conspiracy theory crowd.
In any event, it will be interesting to see how things play out going forward, and just how entertaining the Show becomes out in Lake Land. If nothing else, LeBron 'n' them can expect to hear variations of what they heard in Indy the other night -- where Pacers' fans serenaded trade piece Brandon Ingram with the chant "LeBron's gonna trade you!"
Fun times.
I don't know what the moral to that story is, except that fans are fickle and really don't care about the past or the future, only the present. Deliver the W, and they'll still love ya, wandering eye and all.
This is the essential truth of a Sportsball World in which the balance of power has shifted and the players now have some clout after decades of never having any. What's interesting about that is the same greed that once kept them powerless now works in their favor, in the sense that the owners' primal instinct -- more is always better -- enables the players to dictate terms. The owners want what they want; they can't help themselves. And they'll pay to get what they want.
That's the upside to free agency for the players.
The downside?
Well, the downside is what's happening in L.A., where the Lakers are huffing and puffing along a game above .500 and don't look anything like a playoff team at the moment. Part of that is they just aren't as good as people automatically assumed they would be as soon as LeBron James arrived. And part of it is a chemistry issue that was on stark display the other night in Indianapolis, where the Pacers pan-seared the Lake Show 136-94 and LeBron spent timeouts sitting off by himself, away from coach Luke Walton's huddle.
Which gets us back to Anthony Davis.
The Lakers (and LeBron) openly explored luring A.D. during the signing period, to the point where it appeared they would be willing to part with half their roster to get him. In the end, though, the deal didn't get done. And so now the Lakers have a roster of young guys who know their organization considers them all expendable parts whose value is solely as trading pieces to get LeBron what he wants.
Or so one would assume.
The Grassy Knoll Society immediately looked at this and wondered if the Pelicans deliberately dangled A.D. just to mess with the Lakers and other teams who expressed interest. Not sure why they'd do that, but there's never been a surplus of common sense among the conspiracy theory crowd.
In any event, it will be interesting to see how things play out going forward, and just how entertaining the Show becomes out in Lake Land. If nothing else, LeBron 'n' them can expect to hear variations of what they heard in Indy the other night -- where Pacers' fans serenaded trade piece Brandon Ingram with the chant "LeBron's gonna trade you!"
Fun times.
Thursday, February 7, 2019
Class, in session
Every once in awhile you forget, because the money obscures so much. Because they get paid so much to play children's games, or so we tend to overly simplify.
We forget. We forget that, no matter how much professional athletes make in this country, they're still just commodities. They're still just bloodless pieces on a chessboard, routinely moved about by owners who give no more thought to how they do so than they would to moving rook to rook's level four.
And so Johnny Unitas, the Mt. Rushmore face of the Baltimore Colts, found out from a sportswriter he'd been traded to San Diego almost 50 years ago, his employer not having the decency to give him a heads up first. And last night, while he was playing in a game for the Dallas Mavericks, Harrison Barnes found out the Mavs had traded him to Sacramento.
Think of that: Because of the eyeblink way news travels in the age of social media, people sitting in the stands knew Harrison Barnes had been traded before Harrison Barnes did.
Whereupon Barnes injected the only human element in the entire scenario.
Rather than immediately bolt after being taken out of the game, he stayed on the bench. He hung with his teammates, even though they weren't really his teammates anymore.
That's called class, for those who may no longer recognize the species in an age of supreme classlessness.
"He's a better man than me, for sure," Mavericks icon Dirk Nowitzki said later. "Everybody else would have bounced. He's just a generally good dude. He's obviously got bonds with some of these players here for life, and that's the kind of guy that he is."
Indeed.
We forget. We forget that, no matter how much professional athletes make in this country, they're still just commodities. They're still just bloodless pieces on a chessboard, routinely moved about by owners who give no more thought to how they do so than they would to moving rook to rook's level four.
And so Johnny Unitas, the Mt. Rushmore face of the Baltimore Colts, found out from a sportswriter he'd been traded to San Diego almost 50 years ago, his employer not having the decency to give him a heads up first. And last night, while he was playing in a game for the Dallas Mavericks, Harrison Barnes found out the Mavs had traded him to Sacramento.
Think of that: Because of the eyeblink way news travels in the age of social media, people sitting in the stands knew Harrison Barnes had been traded before Harrison Barnes did.
Whereupon Barnes injected the only human element in the entire scenario.
Rather than immediately bolt after being taken out of the game, he stayed on the bench. He hung with his teammates, even though they weren't really his teammates anymore.
That's called class, for those who may no longer recognize the species in an age of supreme classlessness.
"He's a better man than me, for sure," Mavericks icon Dirk Nowitzki said later. "Everybody else would have bounced. He's just a generally good dude. He's obviously got bonds with some of these players here for life, and that's the kind of guy that he is."
Indeed.
Wednesday, February 6, 2019
Super Bowl LIII explained, Part Deux
In which the Blob parses the difference between "bad" and "boring."
This comes up because of the multitudes (including the Blob!) who complained about the Patriots' sleep-inducing 13-3 victory over the Los Angeles Rams, in which the teams combined for 14 punts and one visit to the red zone. This made it, according to some, the worst Super Bowl in history.
The Blob begs to differ.
What it was, was perhaps the most boring Super Bowl in history. But it was not the worst.
This is because both teams functioned at a very high level on the defensive side of the football -- in particular the Patriots, of course. There were only two turnovers; Tom Brady and Jared Goff each threw an interception. It was, therefore, an exceptionally well-played game.
Unfortunately, it was exceptionally well-played on the side of the football guaranteed to make the sort of audience drawn to a Super Bowl -- i.e., people who rarely watch football -- think it was awful. It wasn't. It was just boring, except to that tiny sliver of defensive football aficionados who think forcing a three-and-out is the most exciting play in the game.
Look, Martha! Here comes the punter again! Is this the greatest thing you've ever seen, or what?
That sort of deal.
Anyway ... there is boring, and there is bad. This wasn't bad, because the defenses were impeccable and the outcome was in doubt until deep in the fourth quarter. So it was hardly the worst Super Bowl in history.
For the Blob's money, you need to explore the Chargers-49ers Super Bowl, the Broncos-49ers Super Bowl or the first Cowboys-Bills Super Bowl -- dreary blowouts that were over practically before they started -- if you want to find truly awful examples of the genre.
That is all.
This comes up because of the multitudes (including the Blob!) who complained about the Patriots' sleep-inducing 13-3 victory over the Los Angeles Rams, in which the teams combined for 14 punts and one visit to the red zone. This made it, according to some, the worst Super Bowl in history.
The Blob begs to differ.
What it was, was perhaps the most boring Super Bowl in history. But it was not the worst.
This is because both teams functioned at a very high level on the defensive side of the football -- in particular the Patriots, of course. There were only two turnovers; Tom Brady and Jared Goff each threw an interception. It was, therefore, an exceptionally well-played game.
Unfortunately, it was exceptionally well-played on the side of the football guaranteed to make the sort of audience drawn to a Super Bowl -- i.e., people who rarely watch football -- think it was awful. It wasn't. It was just boring, except to that tiny sliver of defensive football aficionados who think forcing a three-and-out is the most exciting play in the game.
Look, Martha! Here comes the punter again! Is this the greatest thing you've ever seen, or what?
That sort of deal.
Anyway ... there is boring, and there is bad. This wasn't bad, because the defenses were impeccable and the outcome was in doubt until deep in the fourth quarter. So it was hardly the worst Super Bowl in history.
For the Blob's money, you need to explore the Chargers-49ers Super Bowl, the Broncos-49ers Super Bowl or the first Cowboys-Bills Super Bowl -- dreary blowouts that were over practically before they started -- if you want to find truly awful examples of the genre.
That is all.
Tuesday, February 5, 2019
First rumblings
Sometime this morning, I'm going to go outside and swab down the poop deck.
This does not mean the Blob has gone nautical on ya'll, nor does it mean it harbors a secret desire to dress up like Horatio Nelson and march around issuing orders like "Come about, Mr. Christian," and "Avast, matey." This means the Blob has a deck, and there is literally dog poop on it.
Hard to blame the dog, though. She's a 13-year-old sweetie who has arthritis in her hips, and so she struggles to get up and down the decks steps anymore. Also, last week when it was minus-WTF, she wasn't eager to venture very far from the back door.
So I've got a cleanup job to do.
All of this is a typically meandering Blob train of thought to illustrate that we are now in February, and why we hate February. We hate February because it is gray and mostly cold and follows two prior months that were gray and mostly cold. Also everyone's car, no matter the color, magically turns Road Salt White. Also potholes.
Also, well, dog poop on the deck, revealed when a warm spell hits and the snow melts off.
In other words, February is the month when winter becomes bleeping-bleep winter. It's when we begin dreaming in vivid chunks of green and blue because we haven't seen green and blue in weeks. It's when we feel compelled to throw open our windows on that one crazy February day when the mercury breaches 60. It's when spring seems both impossibly distant and touchable at once.
This is February's saving grace, other than the fact it's the shortest month. It tells us winter is long, but spring is coming.
Because, in balance with all its negatives, comes one positive. Which the Blob offers this morning as a public service:
Pitchers and catchers report in a week, people.
You're welcome.
This does not mean the Blob has gone nautical on ya'll, nor does it mean it harbors a secret desire to dress up like Horatio Nelson and march around issuing orders like "Come about, Mr. Christian," and "Avast, matey." This means the Blob has a deck, and there is literally dog poop on it.
Hard to blame the dog, though. She's a 13-year-old sweetie who has arthritis in her hips, and so she struggles to get up and down the decks steps anymore. Also, last week when it was minus-WTF, she wasn't eager to venture very far from the back door.
So I've got a cleanup job to do.
All of this is a typically meandering Blob train of thought to illustrate that we are now in February, and why we hate February. We hate February because it is gray and mostly cold and follows two prior months that were gray and mostly cold. Also everyone's car, no matter the color, magically turns Road Salt White. Also potholes.
Also, well, dog poop on the deck, revealed when a warm spell hits and the snow melts off.
In other words, February is the month when winter becomes bleeping-bleep winter. It's when we begin dreaming in vivid chunks of green and blue because we haven't seen green and blue in weeks. It's when we feel compelled to throw open our windows on that one crazy February day when the mercury breaches 60. It's when spring seems both impossibly distant and touchable at once.
This is February's saving grace, other than the fact it's the shortest month. It tells us winter is long, but spring is coming.
Because, in balance with all its negatives, comes one positive. Which the Blob offers this morning as a public service:
Pitchers and catchers report in a week, people.
You're welcome.
Monday, February 4, 2019
Saturday night in East Lansing, explained
Sooo, Archie Miller is not presiding over A) a train wreck, B) a dumpster fire, C) a Hazmat site. Right?
I mean, I presume that's the general gist now, two days after the Indiana Hoosiers jumped up and did whatever that was in East Lansing Saturday night. I presume everyone's doing a fast 180 on IU, now that it won a roadie no one on Earth or several other planets thought it had a prayer of winning.
To be sure, there was a lot of head-scratching over Indiana 79, Michigan State 75 in overtime, because Michigan State was Michigan State and the Hoosiers were losers of seven straight games and looking more lost and dysfunctional by the minute. And then they lose Juwan Morgan, the only glue guy they had ...
And, well. It seemed literally inexplicable, what happened. Until, that is, you stopped to consider it was so simply explainable everyone overlooked it.
In other words: The Hoosiers finally hit a few shots.
A team that couldn't throw it in large bodies of water for the entire month of January suddenly threw a handful in a much smaller target, and, voila, it became a much better team instantly. Meanwhile, Michigan State missed a bunch -- the Spartans were 9-of-21 from the 3-point line and an abysmal 8-of-22 at the free throw line -- and became a much worse team instantly.
Funny how that happens. Or, you know, not.
In any case, the Hoosiers entered Saturday's game shooting right around 45 percent and just shy of 30 percent from 3-point. Which meant opponents could pack the middle to take away Romeo Langford's penetration and not have to worry about getting burned on the kick-out.
So what happened Saturday?
Simple: The Hoosiers were 10-of-20 from the arc. Now, that could have just been an out-of-body experience, and maybe they'll go right back to Brick City against Iowa this week. But for one night, hitting a few shots meant they were a lot harder to defend, and therefore less constrained on the offensive end.
Funny how that happens.
Or, you know, not.
I mean, I presume that's the general gist now, two days after the Indiana Hoosiers jumped up and did whatever that was in East Lansing Saturday night. I presume everyone's doing a fast 180 on IU, now that it won a roadie no one on Earth or several other planets thought it had a prayer of winning.
To be sure, there was a lot of head-scratching over Indiana 79, Michigan State 75 in overtime, because Michigan State was Michigan State and the Hoosiers were losers of seven straight games and looking more lost and dysfunctional by the minute. And then they lose Juwan Morgan, the only glue guy they had ...
And, well. It seemed literally inexplicable, what happened. Until, that is, you stopped to consider it was so simply explainable everyone overlooked it.
In other words: The Hoosiers finally hit a few shots.
A team that couldn't throw it in large bodies of water for the entire month of January suddenly threw a handful in a much smaller target, and, voila, it became a much better team instantly. Meanwhile, Michigan State missed a bunch -- the Spartans were 9-of-21 from the 3-point line and an abysmal 8-of-22 at the free throw line -- and became a much worse team instantly.
Funny how that happens. Or, you know, not.
In any case, the Hoosiers entered Saturday's game shooting right around 45 percent and just shy of 30 percent from 3-point. Which meant opponents could pack the middle to take away Romeo Langford's penetration and not have to worry about getting burned on the kick-out.
So what happened Saturday?
Simple: The Hoosiers were 10-of-20 from the arc. Now, that could have just been an out-of-body experience, and maybe they'll go right back to Brick City against Iowa this week. But for one night, hitting a few shots meant they were a lot harder to defend, and therefore less constrained on the offensive end.
Funny how that happens.
Or, you know, not.
Super Bowl LIII, explained
Back from gentler climes and the general laying of waste to impeccably manicured golfing-type places, and now the Blob is prepared to answer all your Super Bowl LIII questions.
First question: "What was the greatest Super Bowl ad?"
Your answer: There weren't any greatest Super Bowl ads.
There was a Bud Light ad defaming corn syrup, which really needs an ad campaign of its own. (Perhaps Lord Fructose shows up to kick the Bud Light knight's ass). There was another Bud Light ad with dragons and stuff that was utterly lost on everyone not conversant with "Game of Thrones." And of course there was some guy who looked like Andy Warhol dipping a Burger King Whopper in ketchup, which was utterly lost on everyone except one art critic living in a loft in Soho.
Then there was the halftime show starring Maroon 5, which all the people who hate Maroon 5 thought sucked because it was Maroon 5 and so it didn't matter if Maroon 5 had hit it clean out of the park, the Maroon 5 haters were going to say it sucked.
Also Big Boi, whoever the hell that is. I'm considerably older than 35, so the only Big Boi I know is a decent double decker burger.
"Enough about Big Boi. What about the game, Mr. Blob?" you're saying now.
("No, we're not!" you're actually saying).
Ah, yes, the game.
Well. The Blob has a few thoughts on that, too:
1. That was one boring-ass first half. Also one boring-ass third quarter.
Or in other words: Another common narrative about Football Today debunked.
Which is, it's just a video game now, a place where Patrick Mahomes and Jared Goff and all the other kiddos can put up the high score without fear of getting their hair mussed. This is because (the narrative goes) no one is allowed to play defense anymore. You can't breathe on the quarterback, you can't touch receivers, you can't tackle anyone unless your shoulders are at a 45-degree angle to the squared hypotenuse or some such thing.
Well, my goodness. Did Supe LIII blow that one to shards, or what?
Yeah, it was boring (mostly). Yeah, for 45 minutes or so it was the Punt, Pass and Kick contest without the "pass" part. But it gave the lie to the notion that the rules won't let you shut down offenses anymore.
You can still do it, and the way you do it is the same way defenses have always done it: With positioning, with scheme and technique, by taking away what opponents do well and forcing them to do what they don't do well, if at all.
That's what both defenses did last night, for the most part. It's what the Patriots did a little better than the Rams. The latter especially threw a bewildering maze of shifts and rush angles at Rams quarterback Jared Goff, who was sacked four times and was frequently befuddled otherwise.
And speaking of which ...
2. Once again Bill Belichick messed with a young quarterback's head.
No one is better than Darth Hoodie at this. No one. Probably ever.
3. Did the Rams watch the Patriots-Chiefs or Patriots-Chargers video? At all?
Because, once again, the Patriots ran the football effectively. They ran on the Chargers, they ran on the Chiefs, they ran on the Rams. And even if the Rams were mostly successful at stifling them, once again the Patriots found a way to move the football when they absolutely had to move the football.
It's why they remain the pre-eminent franchise in professional football. By miles and miles.
4. Did the Rams mistake Julian Edelman for another Julian? Like, one who doesn't get open all night and catch everything Tom Brady throws to him?
Speaking of finding a way ...
The Patriots almost always find a way. Or so it seems.
One game they throw to James White a gazillion times. One game they throw to Chris Hogan or Gronk. One game they just line up and let Sony Michel lug it all night.
Last night?
They ran Michel until the Rams were forced to respect the run. Then they threw to Edelman underneath one, two, three, 10 times for 141 yards. Then Gronk ran a rare vertical route and Brady found him for the catch that set up the game's only touchdown and broke the Rams' back.
Brady-to-Gronk covered 29 yards on that play. Gronkowski had averaged just 11 yards a catch prior to that. He finished with six catches for 87 yards; of his 13 catches in the playoffs, 12 came in the AFC title game and Super Bowl.
5. The downside to Super LIII? Same-old, same-old. The upside? At least reprehensible Rams owner Stan Kroenke didn't get to put his grubby paws on the Lombardi Trophy.
Although Patriots owner Robert Kraft, still a water carrier for Our Only Available President, did.
Maybe OOAP will serve Kraft and the Patriots a passel of Big Macs at the White House in grateful appreciation.
Although, personally, I prefer Big Bois. Or Boys. Whatever.
First question: "What was the greatest Super Bowl ad?"
Your answer: There weren't any greatest Super Bowl ads.
There was a Bud Light ad defaming corn syrup, which really needs an ad campaign of its own. (Perhaps Lord Fructose shows up to kick the Bud Light knight's ass). There was another Bud Light ad with dragons and stuff that was utterly lost on everyone not conversant with "Game of Thrones." And of course there was some guy who looked like Andy Warhol dipping a Burger King Whopper in ketchup, which was utterly lost on everyone except one art critic living in a loft in Soho.
Then there was the halftime show starring Maroon 5, which all the people who hate Maroon 5 thought sucked because it was Maroon 5 and so it didn't matter if Maroon 5 had hit it clean out of the park, the Maroon 5 haters were going to say it sucked.
Also Big Boi, whoever the hell that is. I'm considerably older than 35, so the only Big Boi I know is a decent double decker burger.
"Enough about Big Boi. What about the game, Mr. Blob?" you're saying now.
("No, we're not!" you're actually saying).
Ah, yes, the game.
Well. The Blob has a few thoughts on that, too:
1. That was one boring-ass first half. Also one boring-ass third quarter.
Or in other words: Another common narrative about Football Today debunked.
Which is, it's just a video game now, a place where Patrick Mahomes and Jared Goff and all the other kiddos can put up the high score without fear of getting their hair mussed. This is because (the narrative goes) no one is allowed to play defense anymore. You can't breathe on the quarterback, you can't touch receivers, you can't tackle anyone unless your shoulders are at a 45-degree angle to the squared hypotenuse or some such thing.
Well, my goodness. Did Supe LIII blow that one to shards, or what?
Yeah, it was boring (mostly). Yeah, for 45 minutes or so it was the Punt, Pass and Kick contest without the "pass" part. But it gave the lie to the notion that the rules won't let you shut down offenses anymore.
You can still do it, and the way you do it is the same way defenses have always done it: With positioning, with scheme and technique, by taking away what opponents do well and forcing them to do what they don't do well, if at all.
That's what both defenses did last night, for the most part. It's what the Patriots did a little better than the Rams. The latter especially threw a bewildering maze of shifts and rush angles at Rams quarterback Jared Goff, who was sacked four times and was frequently befuddled otherwise.
And speaking of which ...
2. Once again Bill Belichick messed with a young quarterback's head.
No one is better than Darth Hoodie at this. No one. Probably ever.
3. Did the Rams watch the Patriots-Chiefs or Patriots-Chargers video? At all?
Because, once again, the Patriots ran the football effectively. They ran on the Chargers, they ran on the Chiefs, they ran on the Rams. And even if the Rams were mostly successful at stifling them, once again the Patriots found a way to move the football when they absolutely had to move the football.
It's why they remain the pre-eminent franchise in professional football. By miles and miles.
4. Did the Rams mistake Julian Edelman for another Julian? Like, one who doesn't get open all night and catch everything Tom Brady throws to him?
Speaking of finding a way ...
The Patriots almost always find a way. Or so it seems.
One game they throw to James White a gazillion times. One game they throw to Chris Hogan or Gronk. One game they just line up and let Sony Michel lug it all night.
Last night?
They ran Michel until the Rams were forced to respect the run. Then they threw to Edelman underneath one, two, three, 10 times for 141 yards. Then Gronk ran a rare vertical route and Brady found him for the catch that set up the game's only touchdown and broke the Rams' back.
Brady-to-Gronk covered 29 yards on that play. Gronkowski had averaged just 11 yards a catch prior to that. He finished with six catches for 87 yards; of his 13 catches in the playoffs, 12 came in the AFC title game and Super Bowl.
5. The downside to Super LIII? Same-old, same-old. The upside? At least reprehensible Rams owner Stan Kroenke didn't get to put his grubby paws on the Lombardi Trophy.
Although Patriots owner Robert Kraft, still a water carrier for Our Only Available President, did.
Maybe OOAP will serve Kraft and the Patriots a passel of Big Macs at the White House in grateful appreciation.
Although, personally, I prefer Big Bois. Or Boys. Whatever.
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