... it must be true.
Or not. Probably not.
This upon the latest bit of analysis from ESPN draft guru Mel Kiper Jr., whose hibernation cycle is about to begin now that the NFL Draft is over. But before Mel retires to his man cave (and, no doubt, climbs beneath sheets decorated with mock draft boards), he offered one last gem.
The Indianapolis Colts, he said, had the best draft last weekend. And because they did, they're going to the Super Bowl this year.
There are two possible explanations for this pronouncement, as the Blob sees it. They are:
1. Mel is right.
2. Mel has been huffing his own hair product.
The Blob leans heavily toward "2" -- but then again, Colts GM Chris Ballard did have another stellar draft. Trading out of the first round, the Colts loaded up in the second round and beyond, finding both value and a wealth of speed and athleticism. One of their picks, Ohio State wide receiver Parris Campbell, has been compared favorably to Percy Harvin by his college coach, Urban Meyer.
Bottom line: The Colts got deeper, faster and more athletic, particularly on the defensive side of the ball, where they potentially made huge strides in their pass rush off the edge.
So ... I don't know, maybe Mel's right. Even without the draft upgrades, the Colts reached the second round of the playoffs last year. The Chiefs, who beat them handily, seem poised to take a step back. The problem for the Colts is, as always, the Patriots -- who own them, and still figure to stand in everyone's way the way they always do.
So, maybe. Or not.
Probably not.
Tuesday, April 30, 2019
Waaaaah
The Blob has always been partial to the word "whinging." It's like "whining," only more British-sounding. It also springs readily to mind at the moment, one day after the Rockets and Warriors brought us, live from the Oracle, some top-shelf WNBA playoff action.
WNBA, as in "Whinging National Basketball Association."
What was supposed to be Game 1 of the series everyone's been waiting for, see, devolved into an outright whinge-fest, two great basketball teams opting not to concentrate on playing basketball but on working the game officials like Jack McCoy working a courtroom in "Law & Order." Appeals were filed at almost every bump, nudge or flail. Motions to suppress were similarly pressed.
Much of this is because the Rockets and Warriors are notoriously adept at A) drawing fouls via positioning and Oscar-worthy acting, and B) theatrically claiming innocence/guilt whenever the occasion demands. And so it will come as no real surprise that there were four technical fouls and an ejection charged in Game 1, which became a referendum on the officiating instead of the stellar basketball that played out between all the whinging.
Look. No one's saying officiating in the NBA is without stain or above reproach. But neither is it the exercise in criminality all the carrying on by the Rockets and Warriors seemed to suggest. No NBA player ever thinks he commits a foul, but yesterday was ridiculous. And so it is in the interests of basketball, and the reputation of the Rockets and Warriors for playing it at a very high level, that the Blob offers one piece of hearfelt advice:
Shut up and play.
Please, gentlemen. For the good of the game, and to ensure our continued viewing of it.
WNBA, as in "Whinging National Basketball Association."
What was supposed to be Game 1 of the series everyone's been waiting for, see, devolved into an outright whinge-fest, two great basketball teams opting not to concentrate on playing basketball but on working the game officials like Jack McCoy working a courtroom in "Law & Order." Appeals were filed at almost every bump, nudge or flail. Motions to suppress were similarly pressed.
Much of this is because the Rockets and Warriors are notoriously adept at A) drawing fouls via positioning and Oscar-worthy acting, and B) theatrically claiming innocence/guilt whenever the occasion demands. And so it will come as no real surprise that there were four technical fouls and an ejection charged in Game 1, which became a referendum on the officiating instead of the stellar basketball that played out between all the whinging.
Look. No one's saying officiating in the NBA is without stain or above reproach. But neither is it the exercise in criminality all the carrying on by the Rockets and Warriors seemed to suggest. No NBA player ever thinks he commits a foul, but yesterday was ridiculous. And so it is in the interests of basketball, and the reputation of the Rockets and Warriors for playing it at a very high level, that the Blob offers one piece of hearfelt advice:
Shut up and play.
Please, gentlemen. For the good of the game, and to ensure our continued viewing of it.
Sunday, April 28, 2019
Your NFL Draft highlight for today
No, not the moment when the Giants took Duke quarterback Daniel Jones with their first pick, and all those Giants fans wearing their Eli Manning and Odell Beckham Jr. and throwback Charlie Conerly jerseys lost their collective minds.
And, no, not the moment when 500,000 people descended on Nashville for the Draft weekend -- 499,999 of whom were wearing NFL team jerseys, 20,000 of whom were wearing NFL team jerseys AND helmets, and one of whom was wearing a Tottenham Hotspur jersey.
"I thought this was a footie event," he said, before being carried off by four drunken Jets fans in throwback Richard Todd jerseys.
No, sir. The highlight of the 2019 NFL Draft was the moment the San Francisco 49ers, with the eighth pick in the fourth round, took a punter -- specifically, Mitch Wishnowsky of Utah.
The first punter taken (or any punter taken) is always a highlight of the draft, but especially this time, because someone took a punter so relatively early. Mind you, Wishnowsky is not just any punter; he was the best punter in college football last year. He's also, at 6-2 and 218 pounds, bigger than a breadbox. And his 40 time is a respectable (for a punter) 4.63.
And if you're asking now, "Mr. Blob, why would anyone care what a punter's 40 time is?", well, you've obviously not considered how often teams dial up a fake punt. Trust me, it happens a lot. OK, so not a lot, but sometimes. OK, so mostly when Chuck Pagano is doing the dialing up.
In any case, if the 49ers ever do dial it up, they've now got a punter who can semi-hoof it. Also, he'll be harder to tackle than your standard IndyCar driver. Also, he used to play Australian Rules football -- which no one understands but Aussies and Kiwis, but which is a pretty physical sport in its own right, and has the most sartorially splendid game officials in sports.
So he's got that going for him.
And, no, not the moment when 500,000 people descended on Nashville for the Draft weekend -- 499,999 of whom were wearing NFL team jerseys, 20,000 of whom were wearing NFL team jerseys AND helmets, and one of whom was wearing a Tottenham Hotspur jersey.
"I thought this was a footie event," he said, before being carried off by four drunken Jets fans in throwback Richard Todd jerseys.
No, sir. The highlight of the 2019 NFL Draft was the moment the San Francisco 49ers, with the eighth pick in the fourth round, took a punter -- specifically, Mitch Wishnowsky of Utah.
The first punter taken (or any punter taken) is always a highlight of the draft, but especially this time, because someone took a punter so relatively early. Mind you, Wishnowsky is not just any punter; he was the best punter in college football last year. He's also, at 6-2 and 218 pounds, bigger than a breadbox. And his 40 time is a respectable (for a punter) 4.63.
And if you're asking now, "Mr. Blob, why would anyone care what a punter's 40 time is?", well, you've obviously not considered how often teams dial up a fake punt. Trust me, it happens a lot. OK, so not a lot, but sometimes. OK, so mostly when Chuck Pagano is doing the dialing up.
In any case, if the 49ers ever do dial it up, they've now got a punter who can semi-hoof it. Also, he'll be harder to tackle than your standard IndyCar driver. Also, he used to play Australian Rules football -- which no one understands but Aussies and Kiwis, but which is a pretty physical sport in its own right, and has the most sartorially splendid game officials in sports.
So he's got that going for him.
Saturday, April 27, 2019
Cycle of infamy
The power and glory of the National Football League is on full display this weekend in Nashville, where the Shield took over the town for the NFL Draft, turning the mundane non-event of dividing up talent from its collegiate farm system into an Event.
One by one, young men have paraded across that big stage for the requisite bro hug from commissioner Roger Goodell. Teary parents are interviewed. Mel and McShay talk about what great kids/prospects/athletic talents the young men are.
It's the NFL's annual closeup, and it always shows its best side. And it obscures, or has this weekend, a side that's not nearly so photogenic.
Buried in all the draft hype, see, another NFL story was going on, and it wasn't one ol' Rog would be so inclined to embrace. Away from the glare in Nashville, something else was going on: A criminal investigation in Kansas City, re-opened after an audio tape of Chiefs' wide receiver Tyreek Hill surfaced.
On it, Hill's fiancée and a man alleged to be Hill discuss how their 3-year-old son broke his arm. Hill denies doing it. His fiancée allegedly asks why, then, did his son say "Daddy punches me,"
On the tape, Hill allegedly tells his fiancée she needs “to be terrified of me, too, (expletive).” His fiancée is allegedly heard telling him their son says, “Daddy punches me,” and that Hill has him “open up his arms and you punch him in the chest. And then if he gets in trouble, you get the belt out.”
I don't know how much of this is genuine. But the authorities thought enough of it to re-open an investigation of Hill for child abuse.
What I do know is how the NFL will deal with this, if precedence matters at all. Hill will be suspended for a few games. The Chiefs will likely cut him loose, as they did running back Kareem Hunt after Hunt was caught on a hotel surveillance video kicking a young woman while she lay on the floor. Some time will pass, the furor will die down, and someone else will sign Hill, just as the Browns signed Kareem Hunt.
Eight games into this coming season, Kareem Hunt will be playing again.
However many games the NFL patty-cakes Hill with, he'll be playing again, too.
I know this because Adrian Peterson, who beat his son with a switch so severely the child's testicles were bruised, is still playing in the NFL. So if Hill did, in fact, punch a 3-year-old in the chest as punishment, he'll still have a home in the league.
The Blob says this proves the NFL apparently has a soft spot for candy-asses, because only a candy-ass punches a child or beats him with a switch. Real men don't.
It also proves the NFL has a soft spot for obscene talent, too.
Tyreek Hill, see, is the fastest man in the NFL, and an absurdly gifted wide receiver. Weapons that valuable don't come along every day. And so someone will sign him, just as someone signed Adrian Peterson and the Browns signed Kareem Hunt.
Professional football is, after all, a business. Moral considerations will always run a very poor second to profitability and market value.
A home truth that's playing out in all its glory in Nashville this weekend.
One by one, young men have paraded across that big stage for the requisite bro hug from commissioner Roger Goodell. Teary parents are interviewed. Mel and McShay talk about what great kids/prospects/athletic talents the young men are.
It's the NFL's annual closeup, and it always shows its best side. And it obscures, or has this weekend, a side that's not nearly so photogenic.
Buried in all the draft hype, see, another NFL story was going on, and it wasn't one ol' Rog would be so inclined to embrace. Away from the glare in Nashville, something else was going on: A criminal investigation in Kansas City, re-opened after an audio tape of Chiefs' wide receiver Tyreek Hill surfaced.
On it, Hill's fiancée and a man alleged to be Hill discuss how their 3-year-old son broke his arm. Hill denies doing it. His fiancée allegedly asks why, then, did his son say "Daddy punches me,"
On the tape, Hill allegedly tells his fiancée she needs “to be terrified of me, too, (expletive).” His fiancée is allegedly heard telling him their son says, “Daddy punches me,” and that Hill has him “open up his arms and you punch him in the chest. And then if he gets in trouble, you get the belt out.”
I don't know how much of this is genuine. But the authorities thought enough of it to re-open an investigation of Hill for child abuse.
What I do know is how the NFL will deal with this, if precedence matters at all. Hill will be suspended for a few games. The Chiefs will likely cut him loose, as they did running back Kareem Hunt after Hunt was caught on a hotel surveillance video kicking a young woman while she lay on the floor. Some time will pass, the furor will die down, and someone else will sign Hill, just as the Browns signed Kareem Hunt.
Eight games into this coming season, Kareem Hunt will be playing again.
However many games the NFL patty-cakes Hill with, he'll be playing again, too.
I know this because Adrian Peterson, who beat his son with a switch so severely the child's testicles were bruised, is still playing in the NFL. So if Hill did, in fact, punch a 3-year-old in the chest as punishment, he'll still have a home in the league.
The Blob says this proves the NFL apparently has a soft spot for candy-asses, because only a candy-ass punches a child or beats him with a switch. Real men don't.
It also proves the NFL has a soft spot for obscene talent, too.
Tyreek Hill, see, is the fastest man in the NFL, and an absurdly gifted wide receiver. Weapons that valuable don't come along every day. And so someone will sign him, just as someone signed Adrian Peterson and the Browns signed Kareem Hunt.
Professional football is, after all, a business. Moral considerations will always run a very poor second to profitability and market value.
A home truth that's playing out in all its glory in Nashville this weekend.
Thursday, April 25, 2019
Close the door, there's a Draft
Tonight begins the Blob's favorite prime-time not-really-an-event, the NFL Draft, eagerly awaited by draft nerds and NFL obsessives because there's nothing more thrilling than the moment the Vikings, with the 146th pick in the 2019 NFL Draft, select Billy Bob, an offensive lineman from West Canaan, Texas.*
(* -- Random "Varsity Blues" reference. You're welcome.)
In any event, it's gonna be a whole pile of riveting hours waiting for Mel Kiper Jr.'s hair to move, and listening to arcane draft chatter. Who's got upside? Who's got downside? Who's a waist bender, who's got burst, who can Make All The Throws and Put The Ball In Tight Windows?
I can hardly wait.
OK, so I can.
OK, so the Blob is not where you come for draft-y insight. I don't know who the Colts are going to take with the 26th pick. It's an upset that I even know they have the 26th pick. All I can do is pass along what people who are paid to keep track of this stuff say, which is that the Horsies might take another offensive lineman, or maybe a defensive lineman, or maybe trade for defensive end Frank Clark of the Seahawks, who wants out because Seattle franchise-tagged him.
Elsewhere, I don't pretend to know anything, which puts me one up on Mel and McShay and all the other draft nerds who claim they do. This is because the only draft day tradition older than Roger Goodell looking really short shaking hands with every first-round pick is that everybody is lying about everything.
So, maybe the Arizona Cardinals take Heisman Trophy winner Kyler Murray with the first pick, or maybe they're just pullin' everybody's leg.
Maybe, if they do pick Murray, they then shop Josh Rosen, whom they took last year with their first pick. And maybe the Redskins or Giants are interested, unless the Redskins or Giants decide to draft Ohio State quarterback Dwayne Haskins, although the Giants swear they're fine with 58-year-old Eli Manning.
Or maybe Jon Gruden trades the rest of his team out there in Oakland -- including that one crazy-ass fan with roofing nails sprouting from his shoulder and elbow pads -- to get a crack at Murray. It seems Coach Chucky really likes Kyler, too. Plus he thinks his current quarterback, Derek Carr, is the '82 Ford Escort of quarterbacks.
In any case, as usual, quarterbacks will be high-end commodities. Mel even predicts four will go in the first round, including Murray, Haskins, Drew Lock of Missouri and Daniel Jones of Duke.
The Blob doesn't have any clue if that's a daring call or not. In fact, it only has one question about this draft, quarterback-wise.
Who takes a flier on Jon Moxon?*
(* -- "Varsity Blues" again. You're welcome.)
(* -- Random "Varsity Blues" reference. You're welcome.)
In any event, it's gonna be a whole pile of riveting hours waiting for Mel Kiper Jr.'s hair to move, and listening to arcane draft chatter. Who's got upside? Who's got downside? Who's a waist bender, who's got burst, who can Make All The Throws and Put The Ball In Tight Windows?
I can hardly wait.
OK, so I can.
OK, so the Blob is not where you come for draft-y insight. I don't know who the Colts are going to take with the 26th pick. It's an upset that I even know they have the 26th pick. All I can do is pass along what people who are paid to keep track of this stuff say, which is that the Horsies might take another offensive lineman, or maybe a defensive lineman, or maybe trade for defensive end Frank Clark of the Seahawks, who wants out because Seattle franchise-tagged him.
Elsewhere, I don't pretend to know anything, which puts me one up on Mel and McShay and all the other draft nerds who claim they do. This is because the only draft day tradition older than Roger Goodell looking really short shaking hands with every first-round pick is that everybody is lying about everything.
So, maybe the Arizona Cardinals take Heisman Trophy winner Kyler Murray with the first pick, or maybe they're just pullin' everybody's leg.
Maybe, if they do pick Murray, they then shop Josh Rosen, whom they took last year with their first pick. And maybe the Redskins or Giants are interested, unless the Redskins or Giants decide to draft Ohio State quarterback Dwayne Haskins, although the Giants swear they're fine with 58-year-old Eli Manning.
Or maybe Jon Gruden trades the rest of his team out there in Oakland -- including that one crazy-ass fan with roofing nails sprouting from his shoulder and elbow pads -- to get a crack at Murray. It seems Coach Chucky really likes Kyler, too. Plus he thinks his current quarterback, Derek Carr, is the '82 Ford Escort of quarterbacks.
In any case, as usual, quarterbacks will be high-end commodities. Mel even predicts four will go in the first round, including Murray, Haskins, Drew Lock of Missouri and Daniel Jones of Duke.
The Blob doesn't have any clue if that's a daring call or not. In fact, it only has one question about this draft, quarterback-wise.
Who takes a flier on Jon Moxon?*
(* -- "Varsity Blues" again. You're welcome.)
Lord Stanley ... well, you know
In which the Carolina Hurricanes, down 3-1 on the road last night to the defending Stanley Cup champions in Game 7, rallied to tie and send it into overtime.
And then fought the Washington Capitals tooth-and-nail through one scoreless overtime.
And then scored in the second overtime to win the series and send the champs home in the first round.
Which means after one round of the Stanley Cup playoffs, the top seed in each conference is gone. And so are all the division winners, the Caps having won the Metropolitan Division with 104 points.
So who hoists the Cup now?
It's anybody's guess.
And how great is that?
And then fought the Washington Capitals tooth-and-nail through one scoreless overtime.
And then scored in the second overtime to win the series and send the champs home in the first round.
Which means after one round of the Stanley Cup playoffs, the top seed in each conference is gone. And so are all the division winners, the Caps having won the Metropolitan Division with 104 points.
So who hoists the Cup now?
It's anybody's guess.
And how great is that?
Wednesday, April 24, 2019
What happens in San Jose ...
... depends on your point of view.
If you're the Las Vegas Golden Knights, 5-4 losers in Game 7 in overtime to the San Jose Sharks last night, you got epically screwed by a five-minute penalty that happened because a routine shove on a faceoff ended horribly.
If you're the Sharks, you Won One For Pavs, aka Joe Pavelski, the guy who got shoved by Cody Eakin, stumbled into Paul Stastny and hit the ice headfirst -- a scary moment, and the factor that convinced the officials to hand down a fiver instead of two minutes for cross-checking, which opened the door to four straight goals by the all-but-dead Sharks.
"It's a f---ing joke. To call five minutes for that? It changed the whole outcome of the game," the Golden Knights' Jonathan Marchessault fumed after the Sharks ended his season. "Like, seriously, what is that?"
He does have a point. The Golden Knights were up 3-0 and cruising when Pavelski went down, a hit the officials didn't even initially see. Then, suddenly, it was 4-3, San Jose. Then it was 4-4 and going to overtime. Then San Jose won it.
On the other hand ...
On the other hand, how do you give up four goals in four minutes, even shorthanded?
How are you even in a Game 7, considering you had a 3-1 lead in the series at one point?
So, yes, the fiver never happens if Pavelski doesn't fall wrong, which doesn't seem right. But, also yes, this was the choke job of all choke jobs by the Golden Knights.
Sometimes two things both can be true. Lesson for today.
If you're the Las Vegas Golden Knights, 5-4 losers in Game 7 in overtime to the San Jose Sharks last night, you got epically screwed by a five-minute penalty that happened because a routine shove on a faceoff ended horribly.
If you're the Sharks, you Won One For Pavs, aka Joe Pavelski, the guy who got shoved by Cody Eakin, stumbled into Paul Stastny and hit the ice headfirst -- a scary moment, and the factor that convinced the officials to hand down a fiver instead of two minutes for cross-checking, which opened the door to four straight goals by the all-but-dead Sharks.
"It's a f---ing joke. To call five minutes for that? It changed the whole outcome of the game," the Golden Knights' Jonathan Marchessault fumed after the Sharks ended his season. "Like, seriously, what is that?"
He does have a point. The Golden Knights were up 3-0 and cruising when Pavelski went down, a hit the officials didn't even initially see. Then, suddenly, it was 4-3, San Jose. Then it was 4-4 and going to overtime. Then San Jose won it.
On the other hand ...
On the other hand, how do you give up four goals in four minutes, even shorthanded?
How are you even in a Game 7, considering you had a 3-1 lead in the series at one point?
So, yes, the fiver never happens if Pavelski doesn't fall wrong, which doesn't seem right. But, also yes, this was the choke job of all choke jobs by the Golden Knights.
Sometimes two things both can be true. Lesson for today.
Tuesday, April 23, 2019
Stick to ...
I used to get it all the time, back in my sports windbagging days. Occasionally I would stray outside the arena/stadium/playing field in my columnizing, on account of I have always had interests beyond Sportsball World, and because these days the intersection between Sportsball World and the wider world is more congested than ever.
Invariably I would get this pushback: Stick to sports.
Well ... two can play that game.
And so we come to Our Only Available President's latest comic foray into finding All The Best People.
It lands today on Stephen Moore, an economic commentator and former Trump campaign adviser whom OOAP has tabbed to serve on the Federal Reserve Board. It seems Moore has not always stuck to economics in the past, with unfortunate consequences.
Specifically, he wrote a series of columns back in 2000 that suggested he lived in a tree house with a No Gurlz Allowed sign nailed to it.
These darn women, Moore wrote, shouldn't be allowed to mess with a man's sports, on account of sports are for men. So no women refs or announcers or beer vendors at men's college basketball games. Oh, and women athletes shouldn't be paid as much as men because, you know, they're women and not as good.
Is there no place, poor Stevie lamented, "where men can take a vacation from women"?
Well, no, Stevie, there isn't. It's the 21st century, dude. Maybe you heard about it while you were living back in there in the '50s with OOAP and the rest of the he-men.
Moore, of course, since has fallen back on the standard Saying Stupid Stuff Defense, which is that he was only joking when he wrote all that. In that he may inadvertently be correct, because so much of what he wrote does evoke laughter. But somehow I don't think that's how he meant it.
In any case, here's another situation where folks in the political sphere have wandered into Sportsball World, with hilarious results. The idea that women shouldn't be paid as much as men because they're not as good, for instance, is so old it has moss growing on it. And it fails to take into consideration such modern concepts as broadcast rights and drawing power.
The biggest commercial draw in tennis right now is Serena Williams, for instance. The U.S. women's soccer team is not only a bigger draw than the men, it's also a superior product; while the women are a world power, the men didn't even make the World Cup last time around. And when they have, it's deemed a triumph when they so much as get out of their group.
And do I really need to bring up the likes of the late Pat Summitt, Muffet McGraw and Kim Mulkey, who have consistently outperformed their male counterparts at their respective schools?
I didn't think so.
Still, ol' Stevie does seem to fit the Trumpian zeitgeist. Like a lot of the Trumpoids, he pines for the day when women knew their place and stayed out of a man's business. Just look at all the venom that pours forth from them whenever one of those damn women in Congress says something they don't like. Why, how dare they!
In any case ... Stevie, stick to economics, about which you might or might not know more. Leave sports to people who actually know what they're talking about.
Otherwise, we'll have to send Muffet over there to educate you.
Invariably I would get this pushback: Stick to sports.
Well ... two can play that game.
And so we come to Our Only Available President's latest comic foray into finding All The Best People.
It lands today on Stephen Moore, an economic commentator and former Trump campaign adviser whom OOAP has tabbed to serve on the Federal Reserve Board. It seems Moore has not always stuck to economics in the past, with unfortunate consequences.
Specifically, he wrote a series of columns back in 2000 that suggested he lived in a tree house with a No Gurlz Allowed sign nailed to it.
These darn women, Moore wrote, shouldn't be allowed to mess with a man's sports, on account of sports are for men. So no women refs or announcers or beer vendors at men's college basketball games. Oh, and women athletes shouldn't be paid as much as men because, you know, they're women and not as good.
Is there no place, poor Stevie lamented, "where men can take a vacation from women"?
Well, no, Stevie, there isn't. It's the 21st century, dude. Maybe you heard about it while you were living back in there in the '50s with OOAP and the rest of the he-men.
Moore, of course, since has fallen back on the standard Saying Stupid Stuff Defense, which is that he was only joking when he wrote all that. In that he may inadvertently be correct, because so much of what he wrote does evoke laughter. But somehow I don't think that's how he meant it.
In any case, here's another situation where folks in the political sphere have wandered into Sportsball World, with hilarious results. The idea that women shouldn't be paid as much as men because they're not as good, for instance, is so old it has moss growing on it. And it fails to take into consideration such modern concepts as broadcast rights and drawing power.
The biggest commercial draw in tennis right now is Serena Williams, for instance. The U.S. women's soccer team is not only a bigger draw than the men, it's also a superior product; while the women are a world power, the men didn't even make the World Cup last time around. And when they have, it's deemed a triumph when they so much as get out of their group.
And do I really need to bring up the likes of the late Pat Summitt, Muffet McGraw and Kim Mulkey, who have consistently outperformed their male counterparts at their respective schools?
I didn't think so.
Still, ol' Stevie does seem to fit the Trumpian zeitgeist. Like a lot of the Trumpoids, he pines for the day when women knew their place and stayed out of a man's business. Just look at all the venom that pours forth from them whenever one of those damn women in Congress says something they don't like. Why, how dare they!
In any case ... Stevie, stick to economics, about which you might or might not know more. Leave sports to people who actually know what they're talking about.
Otherwise, we'll have to send Muffet over there to educate you.
Monday, April 22, 2019
Wait ... what?
And now to look in on the Blob's favorite meme, the Battle for the Cellar, in which the Blob's baseball team, the cruddy Pittsburgh Pirates, are locked in a struggle to the death with the equally cruddy Cincinnati Reds.
("Stop it! Just stop it! Enough with this stupid contrived meme!" you're saying.)
Anyway, it seems after an early surge the Reds have returned to their customary place at the bottom of the NL Central. The Pirates, meanwhile, have managed to stay just ah--
Hey. Wait a minute. Wait ... a minute.
What the heck is THIS??
The Pirates are where? They're what?
As of this morning (and the Blob still believes this might be Fake News), the Bucs are in first place in the Central. They've won seven of their last 10 games. And, at 12-7, they have the best record in the entire National League.
I'm sorry, but what?
Well. This just ruins everything.
("Stop it! Just stop it! Enough with this stupid contrived meme!" you're saying.)
Anyway, it seems after an early surge the Reds have returned to their customary place at the bottom of the NL Central. The Pirates, meanwhile, have managed to stay just ah--
Hey. Wait a minute. Wait ... a minute.
What the heck is THIS??
The Pirates are where? They're what?
As of this morning (and the Blob still believes this might be Fake News), the Bucs are in first place in the Central. They've won seven of their last 10 games. And, at 12-7, they have the best record in the entire National League.
I'm sorry, but what?
Well. This just ruins everything.
Sunday, April 21, 2019
Of twinges, owies and boo-boos
Every once in awhile, though not often, the Blob wonders what Old Hoss Radbourn would have thought of Baseball Today. This is not because it just likes to say "Old Hoss Radbourn." It's because the Blob imagines the colorful language Old Hoss would employ in describing today's game, and that makes it smile.
I say this because Old Hoss, whose given name was Charles, was a pitcher of prodigious resolve, back when baseball was young. In 1884, pitching for the Providence Grays, he had a season no one will ever match: He started 75 games and won 59 of them, very often going on no days rest. You can find his likeness on a plaque in Cooperstown now.
He came to mind again today after I read this on Deadspin, about New York Mets' ace Jacob de Grom.
Yes, you read that right. There was concern he might have to have Tommy John surgery again after de Grom complained of his elbow "barking" at him.
Not sure where on the injury spectrum barking falls; it may be less concerning than an owie, but perhaps more serious than a boo-boo. But it's indicative of the culture surrounding pitchers these days in Organized Baseball.
To put it bluntly, they are babied like Ming vases, because they are commodities of similar value. And this has had the consequence of turning many of them into exactly the sort of fragile creatures their investors fear.
If you're treated as fragile, you become fragile. Or at least that's the Blob's working theory.
I could be as wrong as mustard on a hot-fudge sundae about this, but it seems the more today's arms are bubble-wrapped, the more susceptible they are to damage. It starts in the minors, where pitching counts are rigidly enforced and it's the rare high-end prospect who goes more than five innings, no matter the circumstance. This is true even in the majors, where long relief and middle relief and short relief and closers all stand ready to make sure a starter doesn't get into triple digits on the pitch count.
Strangely, though, all of this protecting the goods seems not to be working. Pitchers are forever sitting out starts now because of shoulder stiffness or twinges or, yes, barking. Which leads the Blob to think the problem with pitchers today is not that they throw too much, but that they throw too little.
You can't develop arm strength if you don't throw. Am I wrong about that?
Which brings me back to Old Hoss Radbourn.
Who, the morning of September 26, 1884, rose in his hotel room in Chicago with yet another start ahead of him.
According to Edward Achorn's excellent account of that season, "Fifty-Nine In '84," Radbourn had spent a fitful night, paying hotel porters to massage his pitching arm and shoulder and apply hot towels and liniment. Even so, he couldn't lift his pitching arm high enough to dress himself without help. And when he got to the ballpark, he began his extensive warmup by gently tossing balls underhand, grimacing with every throw.
So what happened that day?
Well, the Grays beat Chicago 8-3. And Old Hoss recorded his 55th victory of the season.
No mention is made of his pitch count.
I say this because Old Hoss, whose given name was Charles, was a pitcher of prodigious resolve, back when baseball was young. In 1884, pitching for the Providence Grays, he had a season no one will ever match: He started 75 games and won 59 of them, very often going on no days rest. You can find his likeness on a plaque in Cooperstown now.
He came to mind again today after I read this on Deadspin, about New York Mets' ace Jacob de Grom.
Yes, you read that right. There was concern he might have to have Tommy John surgery again after de Grom complained of his elbow "barking" at him.
Not sure where on the injury spectrum barking falls; it may be less concerning than an owie, but perhaps more serious than a boo-boo. But it's indicative of the culture surrounding pitchers these days in Organized Baseball.
To put it bluntly, they are babied like Ming vases, because they are commodities of similar value. And this has had the consequence of turning many of them into exactly the sort of fragile creatures their investors fear.
If you're treated as fragile, you become fragile. Or at least that's the Blob's working theory.
I could be as wrong as mustard on a hot-fudge sundae about this, but it seems the more today's arms are bubble-wrapped, the more susceptible they are to damage. It starts in the minors, where pitching counts are rigidly enforced and it's the rare high-end prospect who goes more than five innings, no matter the circumstance. This is true even in the majors, where long relief and middle relief and short relief and closers all stand ready to make sure a starter doesn't get into triple digits on the pitch count.
Strangely, though, all of this protecting the goods seems not to be working. Pitchers are forever sitting out starts now because of shoulder stiffness or twinges or, yes, barking. Which leads the Blob to think the problem with pitchers today is not that they throw too much, but that they throw too little.
You can't develop arm strength if you don't throw. Am I wrong about that?
Which brings me back to Old Hoss Radbourn.
Who, the morning of September 26, 1884, rose in his hotel room in Chicago with yet another start ahead of him.
According to Edward Achorn's excellent account of that season, "Fifty-Nine In '84," Radbourn had spent a fitful night, paying hotel porters to massage his pitching arm and shoulder and apply hot towels and liniment. Even so, he couldn't lift his pitching arm high enough to dress himself without help. And when he got to the ballpark, he began his extensive warmup by gently tossing balls underhand, grimacing with every throw.
So what happened that day?
Well, the Grays beat Chicago 8-3. And Old Hoss recorded his 55th victory of the season.
No mention is made of his pitch count.
Saturday, April 20, 2019
Lord Stanley rules, Part Deux
In which the Blob reiterates everything it said yesterday by adding this:
Colorado 5, Calgary 1.
That was the outcome last night, and it meant the Avalanche eliminated the Flames in five games in their first-round best-of-seven series. It also means, for the second time this week, a No. 1 seed in the Stanley Cup playoffs had been ousted, after Columbus offloaded the top seed in the East, Tampa Bay, in a four-game sweep.
It marks the first time in NHL history that the top seeds in each conference have been eliminated in the first round. And between them they managed just one playoff win on their way out the door.
And you know what that means?
It means Lord Stanley's playoffs are the wackiest, shenanigan-est, most fun playoffs there are. And they're about to get even more fun.
Colorado 5, Calgary 1.
That was the outcome last night, and it meant the Avalanche eliminated the Flames in five games in their first-round best-of-seven series. It also means, for the second time this week, a No. 1 seed in the Stanley Cup playoffs had been ousted, after Columbus offloaded the top seed in the East, Tampa Bay, in a four-game sweep.
It marks the first time in NHL history that the top seeds in each conference have been eliminated in the first round. And between them they managed just one playoff win on their way out the door.
And you know what that means?
It means Lord Stanley's playoffs are the wackiest, shenanigan-est, most fun playoffs there are. And they're about to get even more fun.
Friday, April 19, 2019
Lord Stanley rules
Checked in on the NBA playoffs this a.m., and it was same-old, same-old. The Sixers won, the Spurs won, and the Warriors, ho-hum, smoked somebody or other in Game Whatever of some first-round series. That is what the Warriors do, after all.
Six months or a decade or an eon from now, when the playoffs finally wrap up, they'll be bench-pressing the Big Trophy again. You can make out the deposit slip for that right now.
Know what's way better, including the NBA's trophy?
Lord Stanley's Cup. And Lord Stanley's playoffs.
This is because filling out a Stanley Cup Playoff bracket is even dumber than filling out an NCAA Tournament bracket, and that's because the Stanley Cup playoffs are so mercilessly impossible to predict. I mean, did you see what happened the other night?
What happened was the Columbus Blue Jackets whupped the Tampa Bay Lightning 7-3 in a first-round playoff game.
Oh, but there's more.
The 7-3 victory was not only a thumper in itself, see, it finished a four-game sweep of the Lightning for the Blue Jackets. And that's a thumper because the Lightning won an NHL-record 62 games in the regular season, while the Jackets -- who came home eighth in the East -- finished 30 points and 15 wins behind the Lightning.
In other words, they did to the Lightning what the Lightning was supposed to do to them, as befits a 1-seed playing an 8-seed.
Nowhere else in sports do you get this sort of lunacy, because nowhere else but hockey is there such a disparity between what wins for you in the regular season and what wins for you in the playoffs. A goaltender suddenly seeing pucks like they were beach balls can turn a seven-game series all by himself; a team of grinders who skate their wings and seal off angles in their own zone can upend a team of flyers in that same seven-game series.
Or to perhaps generalize it too much: Gaudy snipers own the regular season, but it's the blue-collar grunts who in some form or fashion dictate the playoffs.
And just as often make the Stanley Cup playoffs so wonderfully unpredictable, and the best of all playoffs.
Six months or a decade or an eon from now, when the playoffs finally wrap up, they'll be bench-pressing the Big Trophy again. You can make out the deposit slip for that right now.
Know what's way better, including the NBA's trophy?
Lord Stanley's Cup. And Lord Stanley's playoffs.
This is because filling out a Stanley Cup Playoff bracket is even dumber than filling out an NCAA Tournament bracket, and that's because the Stanley Cup playoffs are so mercilessly impossible to predict. I mean, did you see what happened the other night?
What happened was the Columbus Blue Jackets whupped the Tampa Bay Lightning 7-3 in a first-round playoff game.
Oh, but there's more.
The 7-3 victory was not only a thumper in itself, see, it finished a four-game sweep of the Lightning for the Blue Jackets. And that's a thumper because the Lightning won an NHL-record 62 games in the regular season, while the Jackets -- who came home eighth in the East -- finished 30 points and 15 wins behind the Lightning.
In other words, they did to the Lightning what the Lightning was supposed to do to them, as befits a 1-seed playing an 8-seed.
Nowhere else in sports do you get this sort of lunacy, because nowhere else but hockey is there such a disparity between what wins for you in the regular season and what wins for you in the playoffs. A goaltender suddenly seeing pucks like they were beach balls can turn a seven-game series all by himself; a team of grinders who skate their wings and seal off angles in their own zone can upend a team of flyers in that same seven-game series.
Or to perhaps generalize it too much: Gaudy snipers own the regular season, but it's the blue-collar grunts who in some form or fashion dictate the playoffs.
And just as often make the Stanley Cup playoffs so wonderfully unpredictable, and the best of all playoffs.
Unwritten balderdash
It seems White Sox shortstop Tim Anderson hit a home run the other day, and then did what's apparently not allowed in baseball anymore.
He showed joy.
Winged his bat toward the dugout. Shouted happily at his teammates. Slapped hands with his first-base coach as he tripped merrily around the bases.
In other words, he did what every major-league baseball player with any awareness should do: Celebrate not only a home run, but the wondrous fact that it was a nice day in April and he was getting paid absurdly well to play a child's game.
Apparently this ran afoul of baseball's notorious unwritten rules, which dictate that such behavior is a grave affront to the pitcher you've just taken yard. And so the next time Anderson came up, his victim, Royals pitcher Brad Keller, plunked him in the tush with a two-seam fastball.
This of course touched off a bench-clearing brawl, which apparently also is an unwritten rule. And allow the Blob to say a couple of things about that which it's said before.
One, if these unwritten rules were actually rules and not complete nonsense, they'd be written down somewhere.
Two, (to channel the late Dale Earnhardt), Brad Keller is a candy-ass.
As is any pitcher who'd throw at a guy because he celebrated a home run too much. It's not the job of the hitter to make an opposing pitcher feel less bad about serving up a gopher ball. He is, after all, the opposing pitcher. And if that pitcher doesn't want someone celebrating on his watch, throw a better pitch next time. Don't take it out on the hitter because you didn't.
"I'm going to keep being me and keep having fun, man," Anderson said when it was all over the other day. "Our fans work hard and pay to come to the ballpark to come see a show. Why not give them one?"
Damn skippy.
He showed joy.
Winged his bat toward the dugout. Shouted happily at his teammates. Slapped hands with his first-base coach as he tripped merrily around the bases.
In other words, he did what every major-league baseball player with any awareness should do: Celebrate not only a home run, but the wondrous fact that it was a nice day in April and he was getting paid absurdly well to play a child's game.
Apparently this ran afoul of baseball's notorious unwritten rules, which dictate that such behavior is a grave affront to the pitcher you've just taken yard. And so the next time Anderson came up, his victim, Royals pitcher Brad Keller, plunked him in the tush with a two-seam fastball.
This of course touched off a bench-clearing brawl, which apparently also is an unwritten rule. And allow the Blob to say a couple of things about that which it's said before.
One, if these unwritten rules were actually rules and not complete nonsense, they'd be written down somewhere.
Two, (to channel the late Dale Earnhardt), Brad Keller is a candy-ass.
As is any pitcher who'd throw at a guy because he celebrated a home run too much. It's not the job of the hitter to make an opposing pitcher feel less bad about serving up a gopher ball. He is, after all, the opposing pitcher. And if that pitcher doesn't want someone celebrating on his watch, throw a better pitch next time. Don't take it out on the hitter because you didn't.
"I'm going to keep being me and keep having fun, man," Anderson said when it was all over the other day. "Our fans work hard and pay to come to the ballpark to come see a show. Why not give them one?"
Damn skippy.
Wednesday, April 17, 2019
Gentlemen, start your welfare
I suppose he still has nightmares about it, almost a quarter-century on. It was 1995, and a new page was turning that May in Indianapolis -- emerging new teams, emerging new talents, the march of time doing its usual work.
And as if to emphasize the point, here was the king of May himself, lost in the weeds like all the shoestring operations he regularly feasted upon.
Roger Penske's mighty host had dominated IndyCar for years, but never more so than in 1994. Powered by a Mercedes engine light years beyond what everyone else was running, Team Penske turned that season into an utter joke, winning 12 of the 16 races. Coinciding with the rise of NASCAR's powerful brand, you could argue it was one of the factors that helped send IndyCar into an eclipse from which it has never fully recovered.
Then came May of '95. And, astoundingly, Team Penske failed to make the race -- in the last desperate hours, even borrowing engines from someone else in an attempt to find the speed that so mysteriously had gone missing.
So I guess I can understand where Penske -- and Chip Ganassi, and several other of the dominant teams in IndyCar -- are coming from.
They want protection from 1995, essentially. Or, to look at it another way: They want more of an advantage than they already have.
What they want, as Ganassi said here, is guaranteed starting spots for the 500 for all the full-season teams. They're carrying the sport, the argument goes, and therefore the sport owes them. Particularly in May at Indy, because the sport depends almost entirely on it these days.
Why should they have to go through all that stress, worry and R&D to make sure they make the one show that matters?
I understand the argument. I also think it's 10 pounds of natural fertilizer in a five-pound bag.
That's because it's essentially the haves of the sport wanting to use their exalted position to game the system, in a culture where gaming the system is and always has been poison. Outside the sports bubble, gaming the system may be practically a sacrament for the entitled rich; welfare for them isn't a "handout" like they say it is for poor folk, it's just bidness. But inside the sports bubble?
Gaming the system is viewed, rather quaintly, as cheating. Especially when you're using a loaded word like "guarantee."
"Guarantee," after all, betrays the very culture of sport, in auto racing and every other realm. The foundation of all of it is that no one is guaranteed anything. You are owed nothing, no matter what Roger Penske, Chip Ganassi and a host of others think.
Remember what your mom always told you, whenever you got too big for your britches?.
You act like the world owes you a living ...
Wonder if the Captain and the rest of 'em ever heard that from their moms.
And as if to emphasize the point, here was the king of May himself, lost in the weeds like all the shoestring operations he regularly feasted upon.
Roger Penske's mighty host had dominated IndyCar for years, but never more so than in 1994. Powered by a Mercedes engine light years beyond what everyone else was running, Team Penske turned that season into an utter joke, winning 12 of the 16 races. Coinciding with the rise of NASCAR's powerful brand, you could argue it was one of the factors that helped send IndyCar into an eclipse from which it has never fully recovered.
Then came May of '95. And, astoundingly, Team Penske failed to make the race -- in the last desperate hours, even borrowing engines from someone else in an attempt to find the speed that so mysteriously had gone missing.
So I guess I can understand where Penske -- and Chip Ganassi, and several other of the dominant teams in IndyCar -- are coming from.
They want protection from 1995, essentially. Or, to look at it another way: They want more of an advantage than they already have.
What they want, as Ganassi said here, is guaranteed starting spots for the 500 for all the full-season teams. They're carrying the sport, the argument goes, and therefore the sport owes them. Particularly in May at Indy, because the sport depends almost entirely on it these days.
Why should they have to go through all that stress, worry and R&D to make sure they make the one show that matters?
I understand the argument. I also think it's 10 pounds of natural fertilizer in a five-pound bag.
That's because it's essentially the haves of the sport wanting to use their exalted position to game the system, in a culture where gaming the system is and always has been poison. Outside the sports bubble, gaming the system may be practically a sacrament for the entitled rich; welfare for them isn't a "handout" like they say it is for poor folk, it's just bidness. But inside the sports bubble?
Gaming the system is viewed, rather quaintly, as cheating. Especially when you're using a loaded word like "guarantee."
"Guarantee," after all, betrays the very culture of sport, in auto racing and every other realm. The foundation of all of it is that no one is guaranteed anything. You are owed nothing, no matter what Roger Penske, Chip Ganassi and a host of others think.
Remember what your mom always told you, whenever you got too big for your britches?.
You act like the world owes you a living ...
Wonder if the Captain and the rest of 'em ever heard that from their moms.
Mortality's flame
I kept hearing the voice of the young woman, as history burned in Paris. Clear and sweet, her song spiraled up and up into the vaulted dimness that day -- some paean to God in liquid French, one soaring note after another echoing among all those ancient arches of stone.
It followed us as we shuffled from one iconic window/statue/alcove to another that warm day in 2005, the day we toured the Cathedral of Notre Dame in the middle of afternoon Mass.
I don't know who the young woman was. But she sang again in my head yesterday as I watched the flames consume the steeple and then the roof and then engulf the interior of Notre Dame, doing what neither Hitler nor any other despot could do in some 800 years.
The flames did not get it all, thankfully. When the fire crews finally tamed them the façade was intact and much of the interior infrastructure, though it was extensively damaged. And so Notre Dame will rise again. It will be rebuilt, piece by piece. It is the natural instinct of every civilized human through all the eons of history: When we fall, we get up. And we keep going.
But that doesn't mean we don't mourn the fall, and what it has cost us.
And so Notre Dame will still be Notre Dame, and yet it will not be. Eight hundred years of history was altered irrevocably yesterday; it will be rebuilt, but it will not be the same. The Notre Dame my wife and I visited 14 years ago, the ancient, iconic Notre Dame, was swallowed by the flames on April 15, 2019, reminding us that everything in this world is mortal. When we go back, if we go back, what we will find will not be nearly so ancient, nor so iconic.
This is a loss to all of us. It is a loss to civilization itself.
I can only hope that when we go back, if we go back, some things will still be the same.
The clear sweetness of a young woman's hymn, spiraling upward to the newness above.
The bagpipers performing outside.
The other young woman standing outside the cathedral, holding birdseed aloft with widespread arms.
And giggling now, as a cloud of small birds (Sparrows? Finches? Not sure) descend on her fingertips, as if they were magnets and the birds were metal shavings.
It was magic. It was wonder. It was, perhaps, as eternal as any worldly thing is allowed to be.
It followed us as we shuffled from one iconic window/statue/alcove to another that warm day in 2005, the day we toured the Cathedral of Notre Dame in the middle of afternoon Mass.
I don't know who the young woman was. But she sang again in my head yesterday as I watched the flames consume the steeple and then the roof and then engulf the interior of Notre Dame, doing what neither Hitler nor any other despot could do in some 800 years.
The flames did not get it all, thankfully. When the fire crews finally tamed them the façade was intact and much of the interior infrastructure, though it was extensively damaged. And so Notre Dame will rise again. It will be rebuilt, piece by piece. It is the natural instinct of every civilized human through all the eons of history: When we fall, we get up. And we keep going.
But that doesn't mean we don't mourn the fall, and what it has cost us.
And so Notre Dame will still be Notre Dame, and yet it will not be. Eight hundred years of history was altered irrevocably yesterday; it will be rebuilt, but it will not be the same. The Notre Dame my wife and I visited 14 years ago, the ancient, iconic Notre Dame, was swallowed by the flames on April 15, 2019, reminding us that everything in this world is mortal. When we go back, if we go back, what we will find will not be nearly so ancient, nor so iconic.
This is a loss to all of us. It is a loss to civilization itself.
I can only hope that when we go back, if we go back, some things will still be the same.
The clear sweetness of a young woman's hymn, spiraling upward to the newness above.
The bagpipers performing outside.
The other young woman standing outside the cathedral, holding birdseed aloft with widespread arms.
And giggling now, as a cloud of small birds (Sparrows? Finches? Not sure) descend on her fingertips, as if they were magnets and the birds were metal shavings.
It was magic. It was wonder. It was, perhaps, as eternal as any worldly thing is allowed to be.
Tuesday, April 16, 2019
Carried away
We crave the extreme these days, here in this demagogue's age. Every bad thing is the worst thing ever. Every good thing is the best thing ever. Achievements cannot be judged on their own merit; they are either the greatest discovery/victory/upset of all time, or they are nothing.
This is our reality in Trump's America, where shameless distortion and obvious falsehood are eagerly embraced, and perspective and nuance molder in shallow graves. And so of course what Tiger Woods did Sunday was the greatest athletic feat of all time, and of course Our Only Available President decided to go as over-the-top with it as so many others did.
What he did was, he announced he was awarding Tiger Woods a Presidential Medal of Freedom.
The catty reaction to this was that this was because Tiger and OOAP have so much in common, like golf and screwing porn stars. The other reactions generally hewed to two tracks.
"Yay, Tiger!" said those swept away by the moment.
"He's getting a Medal of Freedom for winning a golf tournament?" said those with a better handle on reality.
It is, in truth, as hard to fathom as so much else OOAP says and does. But it's also a window into who we are now. We are not only prisoners of the extreme, we are prisoners of the moment.
Look. That Tiger Woods coming from behind to win the Masters was riveting television was undeniable; if you didn't appreciate it, you don't appreciate sports and what is best about them. That it also culminated a remarkable comeback from 11 years of knee and neck and back injuries was equally undeniable.
Yet it did not come out of nowhere, and -- as the Blob noted yesterday -- it was not only not the greatest comeback in the history of sports, it might not have been the greatest comeback in the history of golf. Tiger was, after all, one of the betting favorites after finishing sixth and second in his last two majors and winning the Tour Championship last fall. It wasn't like he threw off his hospital gown, donned his red shirt and emerged straight out of post-op to shock the world.
To be sure, that he could go from barely walking two years ago to regaining his place at the top of the game is not something that happens often. But it does happen, to one degree or another, and has many times in many different sports. And it hasn't always come with the component of self-inflicted adversity that accompanies Woods' comeback tale.
The injuries were one thing; the cratering of his personal life because he was an incurable hound dog was solely on him. Not sure this is the sort of thing you reward with a Presidential Medal of Freedom.
So why is OOAP doing this?
I don't know. Who knows why he does anything?
The Blob's best guess: As America's Golf Cheat in Chief and notorious celebrity whore, he just wants to hang with Tiger for a day.
Good an explanation as you're likely to find.
This is our reality in Trump's America, where shameless distortion and obvious falsehood are eagerly embraced, and perspective and nuance molder in shallow graves. And so of course what Tiger Woods did Sunday was the greatest athletic feat of all time, and of course Our Only Available President decided to go as over-the-top with it as so many others did.
What he did was, he announced he was awarding Tiger Woods a Presidential Medal of Freedom.
The catty reaction to this was that this was because Tiger and OOAP have so much in common, like golf and screwing porn stars. The other reactions generally hewed to two tracks.
"Yay, Tiger!" said those swept away by the moment.
"He's getting a Medal of Freedom for winning a golf tournament?" said those with a better handle on reality.
It is, in truth, as hard to fathom as so much else OOAP says and does. But it's also a window into who we are now. We are not only prisoners of the extreme, we are prisoners of the moment.
Look. That Tiger Woods coming from behind to win the Masters was riveting television was undeniable; if you didn't appreciate it, you don't appreciate sports and what is best about them. That it also culminated a remarkable comeback from 11 years of knee and neck and back injuries was equally undeniable.
Yet it did not come out of nowhere, and -- as the Blob noted yesterday -- it was not only not the greatest comeback in the history of sports, it might not have been the greatest comeback in the history of golf. Tiger was, after all, one of the betting favorites after finishing sixth and second in his last two majors and winning the Tour Championship last fall. It wasn't like he threw off his hospital gown, donned his red shirt and emerged straight out of post-op to shock the world.
To be sure, that he could go from barely walking two years ago to regaining his place at the top of the game is not something that happens often. But it does happen, to one degree or another, and has many times in many different sports. And it hasn't always come with the component of self-inflicted adversity that accompanies Woods' comeback tale.
The injuries were one thing; the cratering of his personal life because he was an incurable hound dog was solely on him. Not sure this is the sort of thing you reward with a Presidential Medal of Freedom.
So why is OOAP doing this?
I don't know. Who knows why he does anything?
The Blob's best guess: As America's Golf Cheat in Chief and notorious celebrity whore, he just wants to hang with Tiger for a day.
Good an explanation as you're likely to find.
Monday, April 15, 2019
Time warp
That gait. That purposeful, metronomic, Mister Roboto gait.
Years flaked away Sunday like paint or rust or brittle parchment as Tiger Woods strolled among the flowers and greenery of the garden that is Augusta National. Suddenly it was 2005 again, and everyone was in Tiger cringe mode. Dubya was in the White House. Donald J. "Donny" Trump was just another meathead who was born on third and thought he hit a triple. No one had yet heard of Steph or K.D. or Danica -- or, for that matter, Rory or Rickie or D.J.
And yet here was Tiger Woods, then as now, strolling the grounds wearing his Red Shirt of Doom. Same measured, tempo-conscious stride. Same death-machine stare. Same iron, unblinking tunnel vision, as everyone around him blinked and blinked again.
It was all vintage Tiger. And, of course, it was not.
Fourteen years have passed since he last did what he did yesterday, and if it was time in a bottle there were some marked differences. He's not 29 but 43 now, and it's a damaged 43. Since he last won a major championship 11 years ago, there have been neck injuries and knee and Achilles injuries and four back surgeries and serious doubts he would ever walk again, let alone play golf.
He himself among the doubters. Only two years ago, he needed nerve blockers just to sit in a chair for any length of time, and was privately conceding he was done. And yet, one year later, he was in the mix on Sunday in not one but two majors. Won a tournament in Atlanta. And finished 2018 by winning the Tour Championship.
It was, by any measure, an astonishing comeback, even for the greatest golfer of his generation. And it needed only one last piece to make it complete.
Sunday, it finally came, at a place where only one older player had ever won. It came in a way it had never come for Woods in winning14 other majors -- coming from behind on a Sunday -- and against younger, outrageously talented men who'd only heard stories about the Tiger Woods who so pitilessly crushed anyone who dared challenge him.
Well. They are stories no more.
Francesco Molinari -- the stoic Italian who led after 54 holes, and perhaps the best player in the world over the last year -- unaccountably went swimming at 12 and 15 and was out of it. Brooks Koepka, the bland automaton who had won three of the last six majors and never seemed to let anything faze him, missed badly on a short birdie putt at 18 that, it turns out, would have forced a playoff. Others were too far back, or inevitably gave way.
Tiger, meanwhile, kept being Tiger, reaching back once again to another time. Once he had the thing in his sights, it was over, as it had been 14 times before in a vastly different reality. He slammed the door as emphatically as he ever had.
And in so doing, made yesterday the most memorable Sunday at the Masters since 46-year-old Jack Nicklaus climbed out of his rocker in '86 to steal his sixth green jacket with a closing 65. But because we live in that kind of time, it was almost immediately subject to hyperbole.
On one end of the pendulum, people were saying it was the culmination of the greatest comeback in the history of sports. Yet it might not have been the greatest comeback even in golf. That crown probably still belongs to Ben Hogan, who won the 1950 U.S. Open despite being barely able to walk after a near-fatal head-on collision with a Greyhound bus little more than a year prior.
And on the other end of the pendulum?
On the other end were those who immediately downplayed it because, after all, this was a guy who'd already won 14 majors and was clearly ready to win another. Everything that happened between 2008 and Woods' re-emergence in 2018 was irrelevant, because it was only a few injuries.
Which is a little like saying the Miracle on Ice wasn't really a miracle because the Russians just didn't play well that day.
The truth is somewhere in the middle, and that truth includes the notion that golf was the real winner of the weekend. No one moves the needle like Tiger, or ever has since the days of Arnie's Army. Even at 43, he's the man. As Koepke said yesterday, there's no roar like a Tiger roar when the man is closing in on another major.
For the first time in 14 years, that roar went up to the sky at Augusta yesterday. And no matter what you think of that, lucky us.
Years flaked away Sunday like paint or rust or brittle parchment as Tiger Woods strolled among the flowers and greenery of the garden that is Augusta National. Suddenly it was 2005 again, and everyone was in Tiger cringe mode. Dubya was in the White House. Donald J. "Donny" Trump was just another meathead who was born on third and thought he hit a triple. No one had yet heard of Steph or K.D. or Danica -- or, for that matter, Rory or Rickie or D.J.
And yet here was Tiger Woods, then as now, strolling the grounds wearing his Red Shirt of Doom. Same measured, tempo-conscious stride. Same death-machine stare. Same iron, unblinking tunnel vision, as everyone around him blinked and blinked again.
It was all vintage Tiger. And, of course, it was not.
Fourteen years have passed since he last did what he did yesterday, and if it was time in a bottle there were some marked differences. He's not 29 but 43 now, and it's a damaged 43. Since he last won a major championship 11 years ago, there have been neck injuries and knee and Achilles injuries and four back surgeries and serious doubts he would ever walk again, let alone play golf.
He himself among the doubters. Only two years ago, he needed nerve blockers just to sit in a chair for any length of time, and was privately conceding he was done. And yet, one year later, he was in the mix on Sunday in not one but two majors. Won a tournament in Atlanta. And finished 2018 by winning the Tour Championship.
It was, by any measure, an astonishing comeback, even for the greatest golfer of his generation. And it needed only one last piece to make it complete.
Sunday, it finally came, at a place where only one older player had ever won. It came in a way it had never come for Woods in winning14 other majors -- coming from behind on a Sunday -- and against younger, outrageously talented men who'd only heard stories about the Tiger Woods who so pitilessly crushed anyone who dared challenge him.
Well. They are stories no more.
Francesco Molinari -- the stoic Italian who led after 54 holes, and perhaps the best player in the world over the last year -- unaccountably went swimming at 12 and 15 and was out of it. Brooks Koepka, the bland automaton who had won three of the last six majors and never seemed to let anything faze him, missed badly on a short birdie putt at 18 that, it turns out, would have forced a playoff. Others were too far back, or inevitably gave way.
Tiger, meanwhile, kept being Tiger, reaching back once again to another time. Once he had the thing in his sights, it was over, as it had been 14 times before in a vastly different reality. He slammed the door as emphatically as he ever had.
And in so doing, made yesterday the most memorable Sunday at the Masters since 46-year-old Jack Nicklaus climbed out of his rocker in '86 to steal his sixth green jacket with a closing 65. But because we live in that kind of time, it was almost immediately subject to hyperbole.
On one end of the pendulum, people were saying it was the culmination of the greatest comeback in the history of sports. Yet it might not have been the greatest comeback even in golf. That crown probably still belongs to Ben Hogan, who won the 1950 U.S. Open despite being barely able to walk after a near-fatal head-on collision with a Greyhound bus little more than a year prior.
And on the other end of the pendulum?
On the other end were those who immediately downplayed it because, after all, this was a guy who'd already won 14 majors and was clearly ready to win another. Everything that happened between 2008 and Woods' re-emergence in 2018 was irrelevant, because it was only a few injuries.
Which is a little like saying the Miracle on Ice wasn't really a miracle because the Russians just didn't play well that day.
The truth is somewhere in the middle, and that truth includes the notion that golf was the real winner of the weekend. No one moves the needle like Tiger, or ever has since the days of Arnie's Army. Even at 43, he's the man. As Koepke said yesterday, there's no roar like a Tiger roar when the man is closing in on another major.
For the first time in 14 years, that roar went up to the sky at Augusta yesterday. And no matter what you think of that, lucky us.
Sunday, April 14, 2019
Good guy finishes first
And now an update from the saga of poor Chris Davis, the veteran Baltimore Oriole mired in a record hitless streak:
He is poor Chris Davis no more. Because he is hitless no more.
Against the Red Sox yesterday, Davis jumped on a Rick Porcello fastball in his first at-bat, roped it into right field and drove in two runs to break his epic 0-for-54 streak. Then he got two more hits and drove in two more runs to propel the Os to a 9-5 victory over the defending World Series champs, who continue to drive their fan base crazy by continuing to inexplicably suck.
(And if you're saying "What do you mean by that catty remark, Mr. Blob?", the Blob would respond that it means the Red Sox are now 5-10 and tied for last in the AL East, six games adrift of first-place Tampa Bay. And a game behind the Orioles.)
But back to Davis.
His day, so long in coming, was a victory for perseverance and plain justice, given that the 33-year-old Davis' demeanor throughout his ordeal was exactly what you'd hope everyone's would be when facing adversity. Which is to say, he kept at it and didn't wallow in self-pity, even fretting how the spotlight turned on his struggles would affect his young teammates.
The young teammates noticed.
"He continued to show us how to be a professional," Orioles outfielder Cedric Mullins said yesterday. "Going through the struggles that he has, he kept his chin up no matter what. To witness that in person, it'll help me maintain my composure when I go through the same thing."
In other words, Davis did what a veteran is supposed to do: Lead by example even when he wasn't leading on the field.
Raise a glass to him.
He is poor Chris Davis no more. Because he is hitless no more.
Against the Red Sox yesterday, Davis jumped on a Rick Porcello fastball in his first at-bat, roped it into right field and drove in two runs to break his epic 0-for-54 streak. Then he got two more hits and drove in two more runs to propel the Os to a 9-5 victory over the defending World Series champs, who continue to drive their fan base crazy by continuing to inexplicably suck.
(And if you're saying "What do you mean by that catty remark, Mr. Blob?", the Blob would respond that it means the Red Sox are now 5-10 and tied for last in the AL East, six games adrift of first-place Tampa Bay. And a game behind the Orioles.)
But back to Davis.
His day, so long in coming, was a victory for perseverance and plain justice, given that the 33-year-old Davis' demeanor throughout his ordeal was exactly what you'd hope everyone's would be when facing adversity. Which is to say, he kept at it and didn't wallow in self-pity, even fretting how the spotlight turned on his struggles would affect his young teammates.
The young teammates noticed.
"He continued to show us how to be a professional," Orioles outfielder Cedric Mullins said yesterday. "Going through the struggles that he has, he kept his chin up no matter what. To witness that in person, it'll help me maintain my composure when I go through the same thing."
In other words, Davis did what a veteran is supposed to do: Lead by example even when he wasn't leading on the field.
Raise a glass to him.
Saturday, April 13, 2019
Burning bright
And to add the rest of the quote: Tiger, Tiger ...
Because I'm watching the Masters late yesterday afternoon, and there is Tiger Woods Rand McNallying a 30-footer for birdie.
And there he is again, Rand McNallying another road trip for birdie.
And, yeah, he missed a couple shorties that could have dropped his second-round 68 to a 66 (or maybe even a 65), and, yeah, it's always the putter that wins this deal in that green flower-bedecked garden, and maybe that means Tiger won't have the putter going for four rounds of golf the way he used to.
I don't care. I also don't care that the leaderboard is top-heavy with people who have won multiple majors and have been or are world No. 1s, and that the Blob has been saying for years that Tiger Woods would never win another major.
He still might not win this one. The odds are far greater against than for.
But the Blob now finds itself in the astonishing position of thinking that maybe ... just maybe ... this might be the weekend he turns back the clock for good and all in this remarkable resurgence or resurrection or whatever you want to call it.
I think if he keeps the putter going, he wins this thing. I know, crazy, right?
Here's why I think he's in this to the end: Because it's Saturday morning and he's just a stroke adrift of the lead.
Cue the Music of Foreshadowing.
Here's the thing, see: In the 11 years since Tiger last won a major, it's almost always been the first two days that killed him. He's almost always -- almost always -- turned it up a notch on the weekends. But the first two days have almost always left him too far back for it to matter.
But now?
Now he's through the first two rounds at 6-under. And if the pattern follows, he's going to play his best golf today and Sunday.
And if he does ...
If he does, he's going to be right there with all those big shooters. And if he is, I'm pickin' him.
"But, Mr. Blob, that goes against everything you've been saying for six years now," you're saying.
I know. Crazy, right?
Because I'm watching the Masters late yesterday afternoon, and there is Tiger Woods Rand McNallying a 30-footer for birdie.
And there he is again, Rand McNallying another road trip for birdie.
And, yeah, he missed a couple shorties that could have dropped his second-round 68 to a 66 (or maybe even a 65), and, yeah, it's always the putter that wins this deal in that green flower-bedecked garden, and maybe that means Tiger won't have the putter going for four rounds of golf the way he used to.
I don't care. I also don't care that the leaderboard is top-heavy with people who have won multiple majors and have been or are world No. 1s, and that the Blob has been saying for years that Tiger Woods would never win another major.
He still might not win this one. The odds are far greater against than for.
But the Blob now finds itself in the astonishing position of thinking that maybe ... just maybe ... this might be the weekend he turns back the clock for good and all in this remarkable resurgence or resurrection or whatever you want to call it.
I think if he keeps the putter going, he wins this thing. I know, crazy, right?
Here's why I think he's in this to the end: Because it's Saturday morning and he's just a stroke adrift of the lead.
Cue the Music of Foreshadowing.
Here's the thing, see: In the 11 years since Tiger last won a major, it's almost always been the first two days that killed him. He's almost always -- almost always -- turned it up a notch on the weekends. But the first two days have almost always left him too far back for it to matter.
But now?
Now he's through the first two rounds at 6-under. And if the pattern follows, he's going to play his best golf today and Sunday.
And if he does ...
If he does, he's going to be right there with all those big shooters. And if he is, I'm pickin' him.
"But, Mr. Blob, that goes against everything you've been saying for six years now," you're saying.
I know. Crazy, right?
Thursday, April 11, 2019
The Oh-fer Man
So, you think you've got troubles, bucko? Think life's a cabaret and you're the only sad sack the bouncer won't let darken its door? Think the dog didn't just eat your homework, but your winning Powerball ticket, too?
Well, you need to meet Chris Davis, then.
Who's really got troubles.
Maybe you missed it, maybe you didn't, but Chris Davis -- a baseball player for the Baltimore Orioles -- is barreling hellbent for election down the futility highway, and he's fresh out of brakes. The poor guy flied out in his only at-bat yesterday, making him hitless in his last 50 trips to the plate. That's a record, in case you were wondering. It means Davis hasn't had a base hit -- a line drive, a gapper, a flare, even a seeing-eye blooper -- since last September. Children who were born the last time he got a hit are walking now.
But you know why this story is not just about one man's epic failure?
Because in a lot of ways that matter, he's not a failure.
Think about it: Here's a guy who has to be carrying around a boxcar full of frustration, and yet it wasn't himself he was thinking about after setting the oh-fer record on Monday. It was his young teammates, whose achievements he feared were being obscured by his transcendent zero-ness.
"It takes away from so many positive things that we're doing," Davis said this week after declining to speak with the media Monday because he wanted the focus on the Orioles' 12-4 win. "We won the game and I went 0-for-5, and I knew that the media was going to want to talk about it. For me, that was just such an unprofessional thing to do, to sit there and talk about my own personal circumstances when we had so many things to be excited and encouraged about as a ballclub.
"I want these guys to enjoy playing in the big leagues. I want them to enjoy playing for the Orioles, playing for the city of Baltimore. I want them to understand that it's a privilege to be able to put on this uniform night in and night out. I want them to do as much as they can to have the best outcome possible, and I don't think it's fair for me to bring all the baggage that I have with me right now and dump it on those guys."
Root for this dude, Blobophiles. Root for him hard.
Well, you need to meet Chris Davis, then.
Who's really got troubles.
Maybe you missed it, maybe you didn't, but Chris Davis -- a baseball player for the Baltimore Orioles -- is barreling hellbent for election down the futility highway, and he's fresh out of brakes. The poor guy flied out in his only at-bat yesterday, making him hitless in his last 50 trips to the plate. That's a record, in case you were wondering. It means Davis hasn't had a base hit -- a line drive, a gapper, a flare, even a seeing-eye blooper -- since last September. Children who were born the last time he got a hit are walking now.
But you know why this story is not just about one man's epic failure?
Because in a lot of ways that matter, he's not a failure.
Think about it: Here's a guy who has to be carrying around a boxcar full of frustration, and yet it wasn't himself he was thinking about after setting the oh-fer record on Monday. It was his young teammates, whose achievements he feared were being obscured by his transcendent zero-ness.
"It takes away from so many positive things that we're doing," Davis said this week after declining to speak with the media Monday because he wanted the focus on the Orioles' 12-4 win. "We won the game and I went 0-for-5, and I knew that the media was going to want to talk about it. For me, that was just such an unprofessional thing to do, to sit there and talk about my own personal circumstances when we had so many things to be excited and encouraged about as a ballclub.
"I want these guys to enjoy playing in the big leagues. I want them to enjoy playing for the Orioles, playing for the city of Baltimore. I want them to understand that it's a privilege to be able to put on this uniform night in and night out. I want them to do as much as they can to have the best outcome possible, and I don't think it's fair for me to bring all the baggage that I have with me right now and dump it on those guys."
Root for this dude, Blobophiles. Root for him hard.
Wednesday, April 10, 2019
And now, That Golf Tournament
It's Masters week again in America, which means there will be many references to azaleas, and Amen Corner, and Magnolia Lane. Also the Cathedral of Pines. Also A Tradition Unlike Any Other, and Rae's Creek.
CBS will provide extensive beauty shots of golden shafts of sunlight falling on pines and azaleas and slanting across billiard-table greens and fairways. Jim Nantz will talk about Augusta National like it's better than heaven because God actually lives there in the Butler Cabin. He's also a big fan of Augusta's famous pimento cheese sandwiches, which are reputedly not very good but at least are cheap.
Also, there will be tinkly piano music.
(About which, the Blob has always wondered: Who recorded it? My guess is Nantz. Late one night, he slipped into the clubhouse, sat down at the old Steinway and started playing. God, Bobby Jones and Arnold Palmer stopped by to listen. Arnie made God buy a round.)
Anyway ... everyone's favorite golf tournament begins tomorrow, and as always there are questions. The Blob, in fact, has several. It also has answers.
1. Will Tiger Woods win?
(Answer: No. OK, maybe. But no.)
2. Will Charl Schwartzel be in the mix?
(Answer: You just asked that because you like saying "Charl Schwartzel", didn't you?)
3. How about Xander Schauffele?
(Answer: OK, stop it.)
4. Brooks Koepka?
(Answer: ENOUGH.)
5. Will Patrick Reed win again and thereby shed his reputation as, you know, kind of a big jerk?
(Answer: Maybe. And, no.)
6. How much does one of those pimento cheese sandwiches cost?
(Answer: $1.50.)
7. OK, I'll take five, then.
(Answer: That's not a question.)
8. Among Tiger, Rory, Rickie, Phil, D.J., Jordan, Justin and Keegan, who has the best shot?
(Answer: You forgot Ronaldo, LeBron, Steph, Serena and Zion.)
9. If Tommy Fleetwood wins, will he cut his hair?
(Answer: Let's hope not. He's the coolest guy out there because of it.)
10. Will Jim Nantz, at the behest of his Augusta National masters, go after him with shears in the Butler Cabin?
(Answer: Count on it.)
CBS will provide extensive beauty shots of golden shafts of sunlight falling on pines and azaleas and slanting across billiard-table greens and fairways. Jim Nantz will talk about Augusta National like it's better than heaven because God actually lives there in the Butler Cabin. He's also a big fan of Augusta's famous pimento cheese sandwiches, which are reputedly not very good but at least are cheap.
Also, there will be tinkly piano music.
(About which, the Blob has always wondered: Who recorded it? My guess is Nantz. Late one night, he slipped into the clubhouse, sat down at the old Steinway and started playing. God, Bobby Jones and Arnold Palmer stopped by to listen. Arnie made God buy a round.)
Anyway ... everyone's favorite golf tournament begins tomorrow, and as always there are questions. The Blob, in fact, has several. It also has answers.
1. Will Tiger Woods win?
(Answer: No. OK, maybe. But no.)
2. Will Charl Schwartzel be in the mix?
(Answer: You just asked that because you like saying "Charl Schwartzel", didn't you?)
3. How about Xander Schauffele?
(Answer: OK, stop it.)
4. Brooks Koepka?
(Answer: ENOUGH.)
5. Will Patrick Reed win again and thereby shed his reputation as, you know, kind of a big jerk?
(Answer: Maybe. And, no.)
6. How much does one of those pimento cheese sandwiches cost?
(Answer: $1.50.)
7. OK, I'll take five, then.
(Answer: That's not a question.)
8. Among Tiger, Rory, Rickie, Phil, D.J., Jordan, Justin and Keegan, who has the best shot?
(Answer: You forgot Ronaldo, LeBron, Steph, Serena and Zion.)
9. If Tommy Fleetwood wins, will he cut his hair?
(Answer: Let's hope not. He's the coolest guy out there because of it.)
10. Will Jim Nantz, at the behest of his Augusta National masters, go after him with shears in the Butler Cabin?
(Answer: Count on it.)
The Lake Show, Part 1,237
So remember last fall, when the talk was all about how the Lakers adding LeBron James to a roster of exciting young talent was going to make the Lake Show a player in the Western Conference, that it might even challenge the Steph Show if all the pieces came together quickly enough?
Yeah, well ...
The Lakers went 37-45, missing the playoffs by a full 10 games, finishing behind even those perennial sad sacks, the Sacramento Kings.
LeBron suffered a lingering groin injury and was in shutdown mode when the season ended.
The exciting young talent shut it down, too, essentially, after the Laker front office made a clumsy play for Anthony Davis and alienated the aforementioned young talent by making them feel like mere trade bait.
And before the final game of the season -- before the game, not after -- Magic Johnson called a press conference and, without telling anyone in the organization, abruptly quit as Lakers' president of basketball operations.
A job, it becomes clear now, he was never really into to begin with, which explains the half-hearted way he went about it.
And so this just in from L.A., the scene outside the Staples Center this morning ...
Yeah, well ...
The Lakers went 37-45, missing the playoffs by a full 10 games, finishing behind even those perennial sad sacks, the Sacramento Kings.
LeBron suffered a lingering groin injury and was in shutdown mode when the season ended.
The exciting young talent shut it down, too, essentially, after the Laker front office made a clumsy play for Anthony Davis and alienated the aforementioned young talent by making them feel like mere trade bait.
And before the final game of the season -- before the game, not after -- Magic Johnson called a press conference and, without telling anyone in the organization, abruptly quit as Lakers' president of basketball operations.
A job, it becomes clear now, he was never really into to begin with, which explains the half-hearted way he went about it.
And so this just in from L.A., the scene outside the Staples Center this morning ...
Tuesday, April 9, 2019
U ... C ... L ... Hey, over here!
Well. I guess there's only one option left now, borderline blasphemous though it might be.
Time to call the good Lord and ask if he can send John Wooden back down for awhile.
(The good Lord's imagined answer: "No way! We've got a chance to go all the way next year!")
In any event, Coach Wooden surely wouldn't turn down the UCLA job, on account of he made the UCLA job what it is. Ten national titles, including seven in a row, will do that for a basketball program. In fact, it will do it so much a lot of folks in Westwood still think only Coach Wooden is deserving of sitting first chair in Pauley Pavilion, even though Coach went to join his Lord and his beloved wife Nell nine years ago.
Which of course is a big chunk of the problem here.
Since UCLA showed Steve Alford the road on New Year's Eve, it's had no luck finding anyone willing to take on both the job and the delusional expectations that come with it. UCLA has gone from perennial national power to intermittent national power to still-pretty-good-but-nothing-special, and now comes the greatest indignity.
Suddenly no one wants to go there.
Once the Zion Williamson of coaching jobs, it's become the 5-9 kid in Coke-bottle glasses sitting on the end of the bench, begging Coach to put him in the game.
Rick Barnes, the Naismith Coach of the Year, became the latest coach to turn down UCLA, even though UCLA was offering $5 million a year plus bonuses and incentives. Think about that: Barnes turned down UCLA, and $5 mill, to stay at Tennessee. He turned down the legacy of Wooden and Kareem and Bill Walton and all those titles to stay at a place where the basketball legacy pretty much begins and ends with Ernie Grunfeld and Bernard King. A place where the real basketball legacy rests with Pat Summitt and the women's program.
So who does UCLA go after next?
You figure eventually it will find someone, but this is the second time in a row it's found the selling job embarrassingly difficult. Alford, while a successful coach, did not exactly bring the sort of resume to town that UCLA might once have commanded. And now?
Well, I don't know who else will throw his hat in the ring, but let me put this out there: The Blob is available. UCLA could probably get me for $3 mill tops, so I'm a bargain. Of course, I have zero coaching experience, but I did once spend 90 minutes one-on-one with Coach Wooden.
That should be enough, right?
Know what else?
Sadly, I'm barely joking.
Time to call the good Lord and ask if he can send John Wooden back down for awhile.
(The good Lord's imagined answer: "No way! We've got a chance to go all the way next year!")
In any event, Coach Wooden surely wouldn't turn down the UCLA job, on account of he made the UCLA job what it is. Ten national titles, including seven in a row, will do that for a basketball program. In fact, it will do it so much a lot of folks in Westwood still think only Coach Wooden is deserving of sitting first chair in Pauley Pavilion, even though Coach went to join his Lord and his beloved wife Nell nine years ago.
Which of course is a big chunk of the problem here.
Since UCLA showed Steve Alford the road on New Year's Eve, it's had no luck finding anyone willing to take on both the job and the delusional expectations that come with it. UCLA has gone from perennial national power to intermittent national power to still-pretty-good-but-nothing-special, and now comes the greatest indignity.
Suddenly no one wants to go there.
Once the Zion Williamson of coaching jobs, it's become the 5-9 kid in Coke-bottle glasses sitting on the end of the bench, begging Coach to put him in the game.
Rick Barnes, the Naismith Coach of the Year, became the latest coach to turn down UCLA, even though UCLA was offering $5 million a year plus bonuses and incentives. Think about that: Barnes turned down UCLA, and $5 mill, to stay at Tennessee. He turned down the legacy of Wooden and Kareem and Bill Walton and all those titles to stay at a place where the basketball legacy pretty much begins and ends with Ernie Grunfeld and Bernard King. A place where the real basketball legacy rests with Pat Summitt and the women's program.
So who does UCLA go after next?
You figure eventually it will find someone, but this is the second time in a row it's found the selling job embarrassingly difficult. Alford, while a successful coach, did not exactly bring the sort of resume to town that UCLA might once have commanded. And now?
Well, I don't know who else will throw his hat in the ring, but let me put this out there: The Blob is available. UCLA could probably get me for $3 mill tops, so I'm a bargain. Of course, I have zero coaching experience, but I did once spend 90 minutes one-on-one with Coach Wooden.
That should be enough, right?
Know what else?
Sadly, I'm barely joking.
Unkillable
And so, in the end, everything the Blob told you about how to pick your brackets was an utter crock. Go figure.
Virginia?
Nah, you don't want to pick Virginia. The Cavaliers fold like laundry in Da Tournament. They've wrecked more office pools than a joykill middle manager. They're the No. 1 seed most likely to get taken out by a 16 seed.
Which, you know, actually happened last year.
This year?
Well, if this isn't the all-time worst-to-first fairy tale, nothing is. Because weren't those the same Virginia Cavaliers cutting down the nets last night?
Sure was.
The Cavs of this March were the Cavs of last March turned inside-out, in the sense that they were harder to kill than a Trumpoid's gullibility. If the Cavaliers made history by becoming the first 1-seed to lose to a 16-seed in 2018, they made history last night by becoming the first 1-seed to lose to a 16-seed in the first round and then win it all the next year.
The former may have been mostly about Virginia's otherworldly refusal to lose during this run, but a whole spray of stars seemed to be aligned in their favor, too. Think about it: The team that lost by 20 to Maryland-Baltimore County in the first round last year was down double-digits to another 16-seed, Gardner-Webb, in its first-round game this year. That could have the ruination of them right there.
But then weird stuff started to happen.
The Cavs rallied to win. Then they won again. Then they won again in the Sweet Sixteen. And then, in the Elite Eight ...
Well. They were toast flambé in that one, down by two to Purdue after a missed free throw, Kehei Clark rummaging around back there beyond halfcourt with two seconds left.
And then, the nightmare Purdue fans will be reliving forever: Clark somehow having the presence of mind to heave the ball back downcourt to Mamadi Diakite, and Diakite throwing up an impossible moonshot over Matt Haarms as the buzzer sounded, and the ball impossibly dropping down the well to force overtime.
Where the Cavaliers won to get to Minneapolis.
Where, in the national semifinal, they were dead again, until Auburn's Samir Doughty fouled Kyle Guy as Guy released a last-gasp 3-point attempt with 0.6 seconds left, and Guy hit all three free throws to deliver Virginia to the national title game.
Where ...
Well.You know how this goes by now, right?
The Cavaliers had a 10-point lead on Texas Tech in the second half. Then they didn't. Then they were down three with 22 seconds left in regulation. Then Tech had a shot to end it with a second to play, but Braxton Key blocked it, and it was on to overtime.
Where the Cavaliers finally put the Red Raiders away.
I don't know if that's karma or destiny or just a heapin' helpin' of plain old garden variety luck. But something, or someone, decided Virginia was simply not going to lose this time.
That they did so in an outstanding championship game was only icing on the cake.
Which, of course, confounded all the wise guys, too. Remember how everyone said this was going to be a terrible championship game -- epically so, perhaps -- because both teams had the bad manners to play defense?
They couldn't have been more wrong. Great defense actually made this a great game, because to score you had to do amazing things. And people did, over and over, clutch shot after clutch shot arising from the usual suspects, spacing and court vision and ball movement. It was damn beautiful basketball, at least to anyone who knew the difference between a back-cut and a paper cut.
And in the end, no one could say Virginia didn't earn it. Like, about four or five times over.
Virginia?
Nah, you don't want to pick Virginia. The Cavaliers fold like laundry in Da Tournament. They've wrecked more office pools than a joykill middle manager. They're the No. 1 seed most likely to get taken out by a 16 seed.
Which, you know, actually happened last year.
This year?
Well, if this isn't the all-time worst-to-first fairy tale, nothing is. Because weren't those the same Virginia Cavaliers cutting down the nets last night?
Sure was.
The Cavs of this March were the Cavs of last March turned inside-out, in the sense that they were harder to kill than a Trumpoid's gullibility. If the Cavaliers made history by becoming the first 1-seed to lose to a 16-seed in 2018, they made history last night by becoming the first 1-seed to lose to a 16-seed in the first round and then win it all the next year.
The former may have been mostly about Virginia's otherworldly refusal to lose during this run, but a whole spray of stars seemed to be aligned in their favor, too. Think about it: The team that lost by 20 to Maryland-Baltimore County in the first round last year was down double-digits to another 16-seed, Gardner-Webb, in its first-round game this year. That could have the ruination of them right there.
But then weird stuff started to happen.
The Cavs rallied to win. Then they won again. Then they won again in the Sweet Sixteen. And then, in the Elite Eight ...
Well. They were toast flambé in that one, down by two to Purdue after a missed free throw, Kehei Clark rummaging around back there beyond halfcourt with two seconds left.
And then, the nightmare Purdue fans will be reliving forever: Clark somehow having the presence of mind to heave the ball back downcourt to Mamadi Diakite, and Diakite throwing up an impossible moonshot over Matt Haarms as the buzzer sounded, and the ball impossibly dropping down the well to force overtime.
Where the Cavaliers won to get to Minneapolis.
Where, in the national semifinal, they were dead again, until Auburn's Samir Doughty fouled Kyle Guy as Guy released a last-gasp 3-point attempt with 0.6 seconds left, and Guy hit all three free throws to deliver Virginia to the national title game.
Where ...
Well.You know how this goes by now, right?
The Cavaliers had a 10-point lead on Texas Tech in the second half. Then they didn't. Then they were down three with 22 seconds left in regulation. Then Tech had a shot to end it with a second to play, but Braxton Key blocked it, and it was on to overtime.
Where the Cavaliers finally put the Red Raiders away.
I don't know if that's karma or destiny or just a heapin' helpin' of plain old garden variety luck. But something, or someone, decided Virginia was simply not going to lose this time.
That they did so in an outstanding championship game was only icing on the cake.
Which, of course, confounded all the wise guys, too. Remember how everyone said this was going to be a terrible championship game -- epically so, perhaps -- because both teams had the bad manners to play defense?
They couldn't have been more wrong. Great defense actually made this a great game, because to score you had to do amazing things. And people did, over and over, clutch shot after clutch shot arising from the usual suspects, spacing and court vision and ball movement. It was damn beautiful basketball, at least to anyone who knew the difference between a back-cut and a paper cut.
And in the end, no one could say Virginia didn't earn it. Like, about four or five times over.
Monday, April 8, 2019
What's that smell?
Why, it's baseball, you ninny. That's that smell.
This just in from Darren Rovell: At opening day in Wrigley Field today, among the wares for sale were three Wrigley Field colognes. One was called Dirt, one was called Ivy and one was called Leather.
And at this point, reasonable people are no doubt asking, "Why would anyone want to smell like dirt, Mr. Blob? Even as a joke?"
The obvious-if-not-entirely-serious answer is because there's no dirt quite like Wrigley Field dirt. It's the most dirt-smelling dirt out there -- a manly scent not unlike Irish Spring, of which women reportedly have said "And I like it, too!"
But I digress.
Truth is, I don't know why anyone would want to smell like dirt, even Wrigley dirt. Ivy, OK, I can see that. And I can almost understand leather, although even if it's the intoxicating scent of a new baseball glove, I can't see it mixing well with a romantic evening.
HER: What's that smell?
HIM: It's Old Catcher's Mitt. Now with Neatsfoot oil!
Something like that.
No, the idea of Dirt by Wrigley Field, Ivy by Wrigley Field and Leather by Wrigley Field only gets the Blob wondering why there aren't other Wrigley Field fragrances. I mean, think of the possibilities ...
1908 Can Suck It: A delightfully intoxicating mix that combines the clean scent of autumn rain, the brisk snap of a W-flag-snapping breeze, Old Spice (for David Ross) and champagne. Unavailable since 2016.
Olde Old Style: The pungent fragrance of spilled beer takes you right back to all those summer nights in the left-field bleachers working on your eighth Old Style and yelling at the Cubs bullpen to for God's sake get somebody out. What extremely hazy memories!
Bleeping Damn LaRussa: A spicy fragrance, equal parts bile and disgust. If losing to bleeping LaRussa and the bleeping Cardinals AGAIN had a scent, this would be it.
Day Game In July: A heady mix, redolent of hotdogs, beer, peanuts and armpits, because it's 98 degrees and the fat guy sitting next you has taken off his shirt.
June Swoon: A sourly familiar scent that reminds you of the time Rizzo slumped and Bryant suddenly couldn't hit the ball out of the bleeping infield. Also, OUR BULLPEN IS STILL DAMN WORTHLESS.
Bartman Nights: The fierce, hot essence of ear steam mixed with a subtle tinge of creeping dread as you realize this is how we're going to lose this time.
And last but not least ...
It's Our Year: The bright, candy-coated scent of rainbows paired with the clean-linen smell of fresh hope and a nostalgic whiff of new grass.
Available every spring.
This just in from Darren Rovell: At opening day in Wrigley Field today, among the wares for sale were three Wrigley Field colognes. One was called Dirt, one was called Ivy and one was called Leather.
And at this point, reasonable people are no doubt asking, "Why would anyone want to smell like dirt, Mr. Blob? Even as a joke?"
The obvious-if-not-entirely-serious answer is because there's no dirt quite like Wrigley Field dirt. It's the most dirt-smelling dirt out there -- a manly scent not unlike Irish Spring, of which women reportedly have said "And I like it, too!"
But I digress.
Truth is, I don't know why anyone would want to smell like dirt, even Wrigley dirt. Ivy, OK, I can see that. And I can almost understand leather, although even if it's the intoxicating scent of a new baseball glove, I can't see it mixing well with a romantic evening.
HER: What's that smell?
HIM: It's Old Catcher's Mitt. Now with Neatsfoot oil!
Something like that.
No, the idea of Dirt by Wrigley Field, Ivy by Wrigley Field and Leather by Wrigley Field only gets the Blob wondering why there aren't other Wrigley Field fragrances. I mean, think of the possibilities ...
1908 Can Suck It: A delightfully intoxicating mix that combines the clean scent of autumn rain, the brisk snap of a W-flag-snapping breeze, Old Spice (for David Ross) and champagne. Unavailable since 2016.
Olde Old Style: The pungent fragrance of spilled beer takes you right back to all those summer nights in the left-field bleachers working on your eighth Old Style and yelling at the Cubs bullpen to for God's sake get somebody out. What extremely hazy memories!
Bleeping Damn LaRussa: A spicy fragrance, equal parts bile and disgust. If losing to bleeping LaRussa and the bleeping Cardinals AGAIN had a scent, this would be it.
Day Game In July: A heady mix, redolent of hotdogs, beer, peanuts and armpits, because it's 98 degrees and the fat guy sitting next you has taken off his shirt.
June Swoon: A sourly familiar scent that reminds you of the time Rizzo slumped and Bryant suddenly couldn't hit the ball out of the bleeping infield. Also, OUR BULLPEN IS STILL DAMN WORTHLESS.
Bartman Nights: The fierce, hot essence of ear steam mixed with a subtle tinge of creeping dread as you realize this is how we're going to lose this time.
And last but not least ...
It's Our Year: The bright, candy-coated scent of rainbows paired with the clean-linen smell of fresh hope and a nostalgic whiff of new grass.
Available every spring.
Homecoming
It was nothing, really, until you stopped to think about it. Only a white-haired old man in a golf cart, coming on a soft April afternoon to watch a college baseball game. Only a white-haired old man, coming to watch a college baseball game because A) he likes baseball, and B) he was somewhat familiar with the college in question.
Such a small thing. Such a huge, huge thing, perhaps.
Bob Knight coming to an Indiana University baseball game was no big thing, until you remembered that he hadn't stepped foot on campus since he was fired as its head basketball coach 19 years ago. Said he'd never come back, as recently as two years ago. Didn't come back even when one of his successors, Tom Crean, repeatedly reached out to him. Didn't come back even when his former players begged him to, and when his greatest team, the 1976 undefeated national champions, was honored at a game one night.
They'd have brought down the house, if Knight had walked out there with his team that night. The ovation would have lifted the roof off Assembly Hall. But, no.
He would be, as he has always been, consistently bullheaded. There has always been an element of Greek tragedy to his saga, an element of sadness that he could never stop being Bob Knight even when it was to his benefit. From his first days to now, he's been his own worst enemy, and the architect of his own troubles.
So, yes, he would cling to grudges as if they were family heirlooms. Long after everyone who had been involved in his dismissal from IU was either dead or long gone -- a dismissal, true to form, that he brought on himself -- he refused to make peace. The war was long over, but he remained that lone Japanese soldier hiding in a cave for decades, refusing to surrender.
And then came this soft April afternoon, and here he was. And maybe that was just Bob Knight coming to watch a little baseball, and maybe it was something more.
Much has been written and said these past few months about Knight's deteriorating health, in particular an advancing erosion in his mental faculties. At his public appearances, he sometimes repeats stories several times, and forgets he's introduced people minutes after doing so. It's apparently a jarring thing to witness, particularly for those who remember what a brilliant man he's always been.
And so maybe this baseball game was something more than a baseball game. Maybe it was the opening of a door. Maybe it was the beginning of reaching out to the place with which he will always be synonymous, before it's too late.
Mortality tends to focus human beings on what's important, after all. And to clearly delineate what is not.
Perhaps that's what's going on here. One can only hope.
Such a small thing. Such a huge, huge thing, perhaps.
Bob Knight coming to an Indiana University baseball game was no big thing, until you remembered that he hadn't stepped foot on campus since he was fired as its head basketball coach 19 years ago. Said he'd never come back, as recently as two years ago. Didn't come back even when one of his successors, Tom Crean, repeatedly reached out to him. Didn't come back even when his former players begged him to, and when his greatest team, the 1976 undefeated national champions, was honored at a game one night.
They'd have brought down the house, if Knight had walked out there with his team that night. The ovation would have lifted the roof off Assembly Hall. But, no.
He would be, as he has always been, consistently bullheaded. There has always been an element of Greek tragedy to his saga, an element of sadness that he could never stop being Bob Knight even when it was to his benefit. From his first days to now, he's been his own worst enemy, and the architect of his own troubles.
So, yes, he would cling to grudges as if they were family heirlooms. Long after everyone who had been involved in his dismissal from IU was either dead or long gone -- a dismissal, true to form, that he brought on himself -- he refused to make peace. The war was long over, but he remained that lone Japanese soldier hiding in a cave for decades, refusing to surrender.
And then came this soft April afternoon, and here he was. And maybe that was just Bob Knight coming to watch a little baseball, and maybe it was something more.
Much has been written and said these past few months about Knight's deteriorating health, in particular an advancing erosion in his mental faculties. At his public appearances, he sometimes repeats stories several times, and forgets he's introduced people minutes after doing so. It's apparently a jarring thing to witness, particularly for those who remember what a brilliant man he's always been.
And so maybe this baseball game was something more than a baseball game. Maybe it was the opening of a door. Maybe it was the beginning of reaching out to the place with which he will always be synonymous, before it's too late.
Mortality tends to focus human beings on what's important, after all. And to clearly delineate what is not.
Perhaps that's what's going on here. One can only hope.
Fight! Fight!
OK, guys, listen up: You aren't supposed to take the Blob's Battle for the Cellar this literally.
("Arrrgh! No! Not another stupid Battle for the Cellar reference!" you're saying.)
Yes, Blobophiles, another stupid Battle for the Cellar reference. Because in this case, it was an actual Battle, sort of, between the sucky Reds and my sucky Pittsburgh Pirates. It was touched off by Pirates pitcher Chris Archer throwing behind a guy, and Yasiel Puig (who wasn't even the guy at the plate) going nuclear as a result.
Baseball being what it is, it wasn't much of a Battle, as you can see here. Just typical baseball stuff, a pile of guys pushing and shoving and yelling a lot, and trying not to get hurt. But it sort of points out, or seems to, how weary these two franchises are of constantly fighting for the title of Cruddiest Team In The NL Central.
In which case, expect more trying-not-to-get-hurt sissy fights in the future.
("Arrrgh! No! Not another stupid Battle for the Cellar reference!" you're saying.)
Yes, Blobophiles, another stupid Battle for the Cellar reference. Because in this case, it was an actual Battle, sort of, between the sucky Reds and my sucky Pittsburgh Pirates. It was touched off by Pirates pitcher Chris Archer throwing behind a guy, and Yasiel Puig (who wasn't even the guy at the plate) going nuclear as a result.
Baseball being what it is, it wasn't much of a Battle, as you can see here. Just typical baseball stuff, a pile of guys pushing and shoving and yelling a lot, and trying not to get hurt. But it sort of points out, or seems to, how weary these two franchises are of constantly fighting for the title of Cruddiest Team In The NL Central.
In which case, expect more trying-not-to-get-hurt sissy fights in the future.
Sunday, April 7, 2019
The glory of ugly
So, Virginia and Texas Tech for the big prize tomorrow night, and, no, boys and girls, it will not be prettified. Drop a pile on the winner making it to 70 points, because you'll be rich if it happens. Vegas isn't going to touch that one.
This is because, if Virginia plays lockdown defense, Texas Tech plays lockdown-and-throw-away-the-key defense. What the Red Raiders did to Michigan State last night, they've pretty much been doing to everyone all year. They climb in your jock, and they stay there. They take away your passing lanes. They switch, collapse, switch again, force you to take shots with which you're not comfortable.
In the face of that, Michigan State shot a tick under 32 percent last night. The Spartans went 7-of-24 from the 3-point line. Cassius Winston, the engine of everything for Sparty, scored 16 points, but he had to hoist 16 shots to get there. Twelve of them didn't find a home.
"It's like they never make mistakes," summed up Michigan State forward Kenny Goins, who played 33 minutes, managed just four shots and missed them all.
Virginia, meanwhile, limited Auburn to 62 points, and for the second game in a row escaped when it had no earthly business doing so. On the Cavaliers' last possession, they got away with a blatant double dribble, and then Kyle Guy was fouled releasing a desperate triple from the corner when his defender stumbled into him with his lower body.
And so, we may get a 64-61 final tomorrow night. Or, shoot, maybe even 54-51. One Shiner Moment instead of One Shining Moment.
It's not the kind of basketball the masses can get behind, not in the age of Steph and James Hardy and the Greek Freak. America likes its buckets filled here in 2019, and the more outrageously the better. And yet here we are in Minneapolis with two teams whose specialty is taking the outrageous out of the equation. No one is going to get anything they don't earn tomorrow; during one two-minute stretch of the Tech-Michigan State game, for instance, six of eight shots put up were airballs.
You can say no one's going to want to watch that. Or you can say this will be one for the purists, all those pebble-grained dweebs who thrill to the arcane business of helpside shifts and double-downs and gloriously impeded passing lanes.
And who wins?
You've got to like Virginia, I suppose, simply because the Cavaliers play killer D, too, and are more offensively gifted than Tech. But the Blob believes in the relativity of luck, and the Cavaliers all but exhausted theirs against Purdue and Auburn.
So, I'm taking Tech to become the first Texas school to win a national title since Texas Western won in 1966 with an all-African-American starting five, changing the landscape of college basketball forever. The Blob does love its history.
Which is frequently un-pretty, too, of course. Fitting.
This is because, if Virginia plays lockdown defense, Texas Tech plays lockdown-and-throw-away-the-key defense. What the Red Raiders did to Michigan State last night, they've pretty much been doing to everyone all year. They climb in your jock, and they stay there. They take away your passing lanes. They switch, collapse, switch again, force you to take shots with which you're not comfortable.
In the face of that, Michigan State shot a tick under 32 percent last night. The Spartans went 7-of-24 from the 3-point line. Cassius Winston, the engine of everything for Sparty, scored 16 points, but he had to hoist 16 shots to get there. Twelve of them didn't find a home.
"It's like they never make mistakes," summed up Michigan State forward Kenny Goins, who played 33 minutes, managed just four shots and missed them all.
Virginia, meanwhile, limited Auburn to 62 points, and for the second game in a row escaped when it had no earthly business doing so. On the Cavaliers' last possession, they got away with a blatant double dribble, and then Kyle Guy was fouled releasing a desperate triple from the corner when his defender stumbled into him with his lower body.
And so, we may get a 64-61 final tomorrow night. Or, shoot, maybe even 54-51. One Shiner Moment instead of One Shining Moment.
It's not the kind of basketball the masses can get behind, not in the age of Steph and James Hardy and the Greek Freak. America likes its buckets filled here in 2019, and the more outrageously the better. And yet here we are in Minneapolis with two teams whose specialty is taking the outrageous out of the equation. No one is going to get anything they don't earn tomorrow; during one two-minute stretch of the Tech-Michigan State game, for instance, six of eight shots put up were airballs.
You can say no one's going to want to watch that. Or you can say this will be one for the purists, all those pebble-grained dweebs who thrill to the arcane business of helpside shifts and double-downs and gloriously impeded passing lanes.
And who wins?
You've got to like Virginia, I suppose, simply because the Cavaliers play killer D, too, and are more offensively gifted than Tech. But the Blob believes in the relativity of luck, and the Cavaliers all but exhausted theirs against Purdue and Auburn.
So, I'm taking Tech to become the first Texas school to win a national title since Texas Western won in 1966 with an all-African-American starting five, changing the landscape of college basketball forever. The Blob does love its history.
Which is frequently un-pretty, too, of course. Fitting.
Friday, April 5, 2019
Woman's work
It was back in the days after Charlie Weis schematically advantaged himself out of the Notre Dame football job that the Blob planted its tongue in its cheek and made a mostly modest suggestion.
Maybe, I said, Notre Dame should forego the search committee and hire the best coach, who happened to already be on campus: Women's basketball coach Muffet McGraw.
Thought about that again yesterday when someone at the Final Four asked McGraw about her pronouncement that she wasn't going to hire any more men for her coaching staff, on account of men were already way over-represented in women's college buckets. This happens to be true, because the numbers say so: In 1972, when Title IX arrived on the scene, women comprised 90 percent of the head coaches of women's teams in a dozen sports. That's down to 40 percent now, and in women's basketball, it's 59 percent -- 20 percent lower than four decades ago.
So, yeah. McGraw's got a point. And, it turns out, not just about basketball.
Here's what she said about the latter yesterday: "When you look at men’s basketball, 99 percent of the jobs go to men, why shouldn’t 100 or 99 percent of the jobs in women’s basketball go to women? “Maybe it’s because we only have 10 percent women athletic directors in Division I. People hire people who look like them. That’s the problem.”
She was only getting warmed up.
“When these girls are coming out, who are they looking up to to tell them that’s not the way it has to be?” McGraw went on. “Where better to do that than in sports? All these millions of girls that play sports across the country, we’re teaching them great things about life skills, but wouldn’t it be great if we could teach them to watch how women lead? ...
Maybe, I said, Notre Dame should forego the search committee and hire the best coach, who happened to already be on campus: Women's basketball coach Muffet McGraw.
Thought about that again yesterday when someone at the Final Four asked McGraw about her pronouncement that she wasn't going to hire any more men for her coaching staff, on account of men were already way over-represented in women's college buckets. This happens to be true, because the numbers say so: In 1972, when Title IX arrived on the scene, women comprised 90 percent of the head coaches of women's teams in a dozen sports. That's down to 40 percent now, and in women's basketball, it's 59 percent -- 20 percent lower than four decades ago.
So, yeah. McGraw's got a point. And, it turns out, not just about basketball.
Here's what she said about the latter yesterday: "When you look at men’s basketball, 99 percent of the jobs go to men, why shouldn’t 100 or 99 percent of the jobs in women’s basketball go to women? “Maybe it’s because we only have 10 percent women athletic directors in Division I. People hire people who look like them. That’s the problem.”
She was only getting warmed up.
“When these girls are coming out, who are they looking up to to tell them that’s not the way it has to be?” McGraw went on. “Where better to do that than in sports? All these millions of girls that play sports across the country, we’re teaching them great things about life skills, but wouldn’t it be great if we could teach them to watch how women lead? ...
“I’m getting tired of the novelty of the first female governor of this state, the first female African-American mayor of this city. When is it going to become the norm instead of the exception? ... We don’t have enough female role models. We don’t have enough visible women leaders. We don’t have enough women in power.”
Here's the clip, in its entirety.
The Blob says amen to all of that. And also, you go, girl.
It also is reconsidering what it said a few years back, when it suggested maybe Muffet should take over the Notre Dame football program.
To heck with that. Maybe Muffet oughta be President.
Here's the clip, in its entirety.
The Blob says amen to all of that. And also, you go, girl.
It also is reconsidering what it said a few years back, when it suggested maybe Muffet should take over the Notre Dame football program.
To heck with that. Maybe Muffet oughta be President.
Thursday, April 4, 2019
Your non-revelation for today, Golf Division
There are some things I know, like why you always hit that one tiny piece of debris and pop your tire (Motorist Law 101, section B, sub-section 3.5), or why your furnace always goes out in the middle of the worst winter storm in decades (Homeowner Law 225, section D, sub-section We Can't Make It Out Until Monday.)
What I don't know is why anyone with half a working brain cell would be shocked by, or even compelled to dispute, this latest thing Rick Reilly has written.
The erstwhile Sports Illustrated megastar has churned out a new book, the name of which is "Commander in Cheat." As you can surmise, it's about Our Only Available President. More to the point, it's about the shady underhanded crap Our Only Available President pulls on the golf course.
This is opposed to the shady underhanded crap he's pulled in all other walks of his life. His entire life story, after all, is a testament to shady underhanded crap, not to say lying spectacularly about it. When you are the president not only of the United States but the Born On Third And Thinks He Hit A Triple Club, accepted norms of decent human behavior do not apply. You can do what you want because, hey, who's gonna tell you you can't?
And so it's a profound non-revelation that Our Only Available President cheats at golf, because, come on, he's Donald Trump. Of course he cheats at golf. Epically, apparently.
Which is yet another non-revelation.
It's not just that he apparently does the routine cheating stuff, like using a Foot-Joy wedge to kick errant drives back into the fairway, or miraculously "finding" his ball on dry land after hitting it in the water. He's also notorious, apparently, for throwing his opponents' golf balls into bunkers when they're not looking. And one of his caddies told Reilly that Our Only Available President used to carry a can of red spray paint in his cart so he could mark any tree he hit for removal.
This is completely verifiable because certain trees that used to adorn his various golf properties are no longer there. Our Only Available President would no doubt say they had been whisked away by aliens. His followers have believed far less plausible fables from him.
Probably the most egregious thing in Reilly's book, according to Deadspin's review of it?
Our Only Available President apparently also has a habit of declaring himself the winner of championships at his various clubs, even when he wasn't there. Once he apparently took a score he shot at one club, penciled it in at another, and declared himself that club's senior champion.
Which, again, is epic. In a perverse sort of way.
In any case, again, none of this is particularly shocking. After all, someone once said that golf, among other things in life, doesn't build character. It reveals it.
So it does.
What I don't know is why anyone with half a working brain cell would be shocked by, or even compelled to dispute, this latest thing Rick Reilly has written.
The erstwhile Sports Illustrated megastar has churned out a new book, the name of which is "Commander in Cheat." As you can surmise, it's about Our Only Available President. More to the point, it's about the shady underhanded crap Our Only Available President pulls on the golf course.
This is opposed to the shady underhanded crap he's pulled in all other walks of his life. His entire life story, after all, is a testament to shady underhanded crap, not to say lying spectacularly about it. When you are the president not only of the United States but the Born On Third And Thinks He Hit A Triple Club, accepted norms of decent human behavior do not apply. You can do what you want because, hey, who's gonna tell you you can't?
And so it's a profound non-revelation that Our Only Available President cheats at golf, because, come on, he's Donald Trump. Of course he cheats at golf. Epically, apparently.
Which is yet another non-revelation.
It's not just that he apparently does the routine cheating stuff, like using a Foot-Joy wedge to kick errant drives back into the fairway, or miraculously "finding" his ball on dry land after hitting it in the water. He's also notorious, apparently, for throwing his opponents' golf balls into bunkers when they're not looking. And one of his caddies told Reilly that Our Only Available President used to carry a can of red spray paint in his cart so he could mark any tree he hit for removal.
This is completely verifiable because certain trees that used to adorn his various golf properties are no longer there. Our Only Available President would no doubt say they had been whisked away by aliens. His followers have believed far less plausible fables from him.
Probably the most egregious thing in Reilly's book, according to Deadspin's review of it?
Our Only Available President apparently also has a habit of declaring himself the winner of championships at his various clubs, even when he wasn't there. Once he apparently took a score he shot at one club, penciled it in at another, and declared himself that club's senior champion.
Which, again, is epic. In a perverse sort of way.
In any case, again, none of this is particularly shocking. After all, someone once said that golf, among other things in life, doesn't build character. It reveals it.
So it does.
Wednesday, April 3, 2019
Downed punts
In the end, you are what you are in this world. You can adorn a thing with bells and whistles, pretend it fills a need or demand or simply claim there is a market for it, but ultimately what you are reveals itself -- all illusions notwithstanding.
And so the Alliance of American Football is done, after less than a season.
And the National Gridiron League -- and the Indiana Blue Bombers that were Fort Wayne's entry in this chimera of an indoor football entity -- is done before it begins.
The first happened because minor league football is still minor league football, no matter how you dress it up.
The second happened because minor league indoor football is chronically sketchy and undercapitalized at best, and an out-and-out shell game at worst.
Color the NGL the latter, and woe on anyone who didn't see it from the jump. There were any number of klaxons going off, certainly; in Fort Wayne alone, there were fraudulent players and a convicted felon for a coach and no boots-on-the-ground presence whatsoever except for a website where, surprise, surprise, the NGL would gladly separate you from your money for tickets to a product that never had a prayer of existing.
Good luck seeing any of that money again, if you were one of the unfortunate souls who bought what the NGL was selling. That money's in the wind, just like league owner Joe McClendon was largely in the wind last night, when local media was reaching out to him to explain himself.
All you had to do was watch the introductory news conference in Fort Wayne to know the NGL, and McClendon himself, were not on the up-and-up. The whole thing smelled to high heaven, especially to those of us who've seen all the other incarnations of indoor football in the Fort. McClendon had no answers to even the most basic questions -- and now personnel who signed onto this in good faith are reporting they've never been paid a dime of the salaries they were promised. Additionally, operational money has vanished without a trace.
Unavoidable conclusion: They've all been fleeced as thoroughly as some poor rube on a carnival midway.
And the Alliance of American Football?
Supposedly the long-term goal was to establish itself as a developmental league for the NFL, but the premise -- that the American appetite for football was an insatiable one -- was flawed to begin with. Turns out that insatiable American appetite was for the NFL, not any old football. Oh, people tuned in initially out of curiosity, but by the second week investors were already having to bail out the league, and by the end of March teams were drawing as few as 9,000 fans to stadiums that seated 50,000 or more.
Unavoidable conclusion: Minor-league football played by NFL washouts was not going to sell, particularly in the very wheelhouse of March Madness, the start of the baseball season and the enormous draw the NBA has become.
Truth is, sports are star-driven now, and the AAF had no stars. NFL fans tune in to see Aaron Rodgers and Tom Brady and Pat Mahomes and Odell Beckham Jr. Trent Richardson and Johnny Manziel, on the other hand, are simply not appointment viewing.
Plus, the NFL is nearly a year-round entity now. The season begins with training camp in July and ends with the Super Bowl in February. The league plays on Sunday afternoons and Sunday nights and Monday nights and Thursday nights, and occasionally Saturdays, too. And when the season ends, the run-up to the NFL Draft in April begins. It's virtual wall-to-wall market saturation.
And that doesn't even include college football, a thriving professional venture in its own right which literally plays every day of the week now.
You are what you are, in the end.
An inferior product in a market stuffed with superior product, on the one hand.
A pea under a shell on the other.
Update: NGL owner/president Joe McClendon has announced the league will now kick off in 2020. In other news, oceanfront property in Nebraska is going for cheap.
And so the Alliance of American Football is done, after less than a season.
And the National Gridiron League -- and the Indiana Blue Bombers that were Fort Wayne's entry in this chimera of an indoor football entity -- is done before it begins.
The first happened because minor league football is still minor league football, no matter how you dress it up.
The second happened because minor league indoor football is chronically sketchy and undercapitalized at best, and an out-and-out shell game at worst.
Color the NGL the latter, and woe on anyone who didn't see it from the jump. There were any number of klaxons going off, certainly; in Fort Wayne alone, there were fraudulent players and a convicted felon for a coach and no boots-on-the-ground presence whatsoever except for a website where, surprise, surprise, the NGL would gladly separate you from your money for tickets to a product that never had a prayer of existing.
Good luck seeing any of that money again, if you were one of the unfortunate souls who bought what the NGL was selling. That money's in the wind, just like league owner Joe McClendon was largely in the wind last night, when local media was reaching out to him to explain himself.
All you had to do was watch the introductory news conference in Fort Wayne to know the NGL, and McClendon himself, were not on the up-and-up. The whole thing smelled to high heaven, especially to those of us who've seen all the other incarnations of indoor football in the Fort. McClendon had no answers to even the most basic questions -- and now personnel who signed onto this in good faith are reporting they've never been paid a dime of the salaries they were promised. Additionally, operational money has vanished without a trace.
Unavoidable conclusion: They've all been fleeced as thoroughly as some poor rube on a carnival midway.
And the Alliance of American Football?
Supposedly the long-term goal was to establish itself as a developmental league for the NFL, but the premise -- that the American appetite for football was an insatiable one -- was flawed to begin with. Turns out that insatiable American appetite was for the NFL, not any old football. Oh, people tuned in initially out of curiosity, but by the second week investors were already having to bail out the league, and by the end of March teams were drawing as few as 9,000 fans to stadiums that seated 50,000 or more.
Unavoidable conclusion: Minor-league football played by NFL washouts was not going to sell, particularly in the very wheelhouse of March Madness, the start of the baseball season and the enormous draw the NBA has become.
Truth is, sports are star-driven now, and the AAF had no stars. NFL fans tune in to see Aaron Rodgers and Tom Brady and Pat Mahomes and Odell Beckham Jr. Trent Richardson and Johnny Manziel, on the other hand, are simply not appointment viewing.
Plus, the NFL is nearly a year-round entity now. The season begins with training camp in July and ends with the Super Bowl in February. The league plays on Sunday afternoons and Sunday nights and Monday nights and Thursday nights, and occasionally Saturdays, too. And when the season ends, the run-up to the NFL Draft in April begins. It's virtual wall-to-wall market saturation.
And that doesn't even include college football, a thriving professional venture in its own right which literally plays every day of the week now.
You are what you are, in the end.
An inferior product in a market stuffed with superior product, on the one hand.
A pea under a shell on the other.
Update: NGL owner/president Joe McClendon has announced the league will now kick off in 2020. In other news, oceanfront property in Nebraska is going for cheap.
Tuesday, April 2, 2019
It's April 2 and the sky is falling
And now the very first Cub Angst Report of the new baseball season, a recurring Blob feature much like the Battle for the Cellar, only probably not recurring as much because the Cubs are usually really good these days, and the Blob's baseball team, the cellar-battling Pittsburgh Pirates, are cruddy.
Anyway, we're four games into the season with the Cubs, and the gnashing of teeth and rending of garments has already begun for Cubs fans. This is because the Cubs are off to a 1-3 start, and it's been an even more unlovely1-3 start than most 1-3 starts.
For instance, the pitching has been terrible. The Cubs actually scored 10 runs the other day and lost. They've given up eight runs apiece in their other two losses. Since opening the season with a 12-4 win at Texas, they've been outscored 27-16. That means they're giving up almost seven runs per game so far.
And then there was last night.
When the Cubs were especially sucky.
The good news, if you can call it that, is that six of the eight runs they gave up in an 8-0 loss to Atlanta were unearned. This is because the Cubs committed six errors. Anthony Rizzo committed two on one play. At the plate, meanwhile, they stranded 10 baserunners in the first four innings and managed just four baserunners thereafter.
This from a team that was supposedly refocused, recharged and rarin' to go after losing the wild-card game to the Brewers last fall.
Now they're awful. They're horrible. They're going to be the worst team in the NL Central, even worse than the cruddy Pirates.
Well. Until they win a couple, that is.
Then everything will be fine.
Anyway, we're four games into the season with the Cubs, and the gnashing of teeth and rending of garments has already begun for Cubs fans. This is because the Cubs are off to a 1-3 start, and it's been an even more unlovely1-3 start than most 1-3 starts.
For instance, the pitching has been terrible. The Cubs actually scored 10 runs the other day and lost. They've given up eight runs apiece in their other two losses. Since opening the season with a 12-4 win at Texas, they've been outscored 27-16. That means they're giving up almost seven runs per game so far.
And then there was last night.
When the Cubs were especially sucky.
The good news, if you can call it that, is that six of the eight runs they gave up in an 8-0 loss to Atlanta were unearned. This is because the Cubs committed six errors. Anthony Rizzo committed two on one play. At the plate, meanwhile, they stranded 10 baserunners in the first four innings and managed just four baserunners thereafter.
This from a team that was supposedly refocused, recharged and rarin' to go after losing the wild-card game to the Brewers last fall.
Now they're awful. They're horrible. They're going to be the worst team in the NL Central, even worse than the cruddy Pirates.
Well. Until they win a couple, that is.
Then everything will be fine.
Monday, April 1, 2019
One and ... done
The kid's gonna look great, holding that big trophy aloft. A basketball net will hang around his mighty neck like delicate lace. His coach will beam and recite his usual smarmy litany about the vanquished foe and what a brave fight they made.
Then he'll point to the kid and say how much he's gonna miss him, how much he bought into the Duke ethos in his brief visit to campus.
Yes, that's right, boys and girls. A week from tonight, Zion Williamson will close out his bus stop in Durham with a national title, on account of officials have reviewed the tape of the regional final and determined the scorekeeper mistakenly added 35 seconds to the game clock. Which means Kenny Goins' go-ahead 3-pointer for Michigan State should not have counted, and Duke actually won 66-65.
OK, OK. So it's April 1, and that's my little April Fool's joke.
("Extremely little," you're saying.)
Anyway, we have our Final Four now, and Zion Williamson and his coach, Mike Krzyzewski of One-and-Done U., are not in it. Kentucky, the original One-and-Done U., is not in it, either. Neither is North Carolina.
Instead, we have a Final Four that, after a first weekend with a distinctly chalky aftertaste, has wreaked joyous dismemberment on America's brackets. Only one 1-seed (Virginia) will be in Minneapolis this weekend, and it's the 1-seed the fewest people expected to be there. Half the Final Four (Texas Tech and Auburn) has never been there before, and Virginia hasn't been there in 35 years. Only Michigan State knows its way around these precincts.
Here's what they all have in common, however: They all have players who know their way around the college basketball precinct.
Which is to say Zion Williamson and the bus stop brigade are not well represented. This is especially the case in the backcourt, where everything begins and where experience, savvy and the sort of composure needed to survive all the Madness count the most.
And so no surprise that the guy most responsible for getting Michigan State to its latest Final Four is a senior guard, Cassius Winston.
And no surprise that the guy most responsible for getting Auburn to its first Final Four is a junior guard, Jared Harper.
And no surprise that the three guards who steered Texas Tech to its first Final Four include two sophomores (Jarrett Culver and Davide Moretti, the team's top two scorers) and a senior (Matt Mooney, the team's third leading scorer).
And Virginia?
Leaned heavily on junior guard and former Indiana Mr. Basketball Kyle Guy, the Cavaliers did.
March after March the verities come home to roost, and one of the most constant is that the teams that get to this coming weekend almost always have reliable guard play, and more times than not it's veteran guard play. The one-and-dones might make for appointment viewing, but it's frequently the guys who actually know their way around campus you wind up watching the longest. And almost always at least one of them is the guy (or guys) bringing the ball up the floor.
It's a veteran guard's tournament, often as not. And that pattern holds again this year.
Even if so many other patterns so often don't.
Then he'll point to the kid and say how much he's gonna miss him, how much he bought into the Duke ethos in his brief visit to campus.
Yes, that's right, boys and girls. A week from tonight, Zion Williamson will close out his bus stop in Durham with a national title, on account of officials have reviewed the tape of the regional final and determined the scorekeeper mistakenly added 35 seconds to the game clock. Which means Kenny Goins' go-ahead 3-pointer for Michigan State should not have counted, and Duke actually won 66-65.
OK, OK. So it's April 1, and that's my little April Fool's joke.
("Extremely little," you're saying.)
Anyway, we have our Final Four now, and Zion Williamson and his coach, Mike Krzyzewski of One-and-Done U., are not in it. Kentucky, the original One-and-Done U., is not in it, either. Neither is North Carolina.
Instead, we have a Final Four that, after a first weekend with a distinctly chalky aftertaste, has wreaked joyous dismemberment on America's brackets. Only one 1-seed (Virginia) will be in Minneapolis this weekend, and it's the 1-seed the fewest people expected to be there. Half the Final Four (Texas Tech and Auburn) has never been there before, and Virginia hasn't been there in 35 years. Only Michigan State knows its way around these precincts.
Here's what they all have in common, however: They all have players who know their way around the college basketball precinct.
Which is to say Zion Williamson and the bus stop brigade are not well represented. This is especially the case in the backcourt, where everything begins and where experience, savvy and the sort of composure needed to survive all the Madness count the most.
And so no surprise that the guy most responsible for getting Michigan State to its latest Final Four is a senior guard, Cassius Winston.
And no surprise that the guy most responsible for getting Auburn to its first Final Four is a junior guard, Jared Harper.
And no surprise that the three guards who steered Texas Tech to its first Final Four include two sophomores (Jarrett Culver and Davide Moretti, the team's top two scorers) and a senior (Matt Mooney, the team's third leading scorer).
And Virginia?
Leaned heavily on junior guard and former Indiana Mr. Basketball Kyle Guy, the Cavaliers did.
March after March the verities come home to roost, and one of the most constant is that the teams that get to this coming weekend almost always have reliable guard play, and more times than not it's veteran guard play. The one-and-dones might make for appointment viewing, but it's frequently the guys who actually know their way around campus you wind up watching the longest. And almost always at least one of them is the guy (or guys) bringing the ball up the floor.
It's a veteran guard's tournament, often as not. And that pattern holds again this year.
Even if so many other patterns so often don't.
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