Tuesday, November 5, 2024
Your PSA for today
A few brief thoughts on NFL Week 9
And now this week's edition of The NFL In So Many Words, the master-of-illusion Blob feature of which critics have said "Look! First it's there and then it's not! How wondrous!", and also, "Wondrous my a**, the only illusion is how he gets away with this garbage every week":
1. "Woo-hoo! Jameis Winston is the Man!" (Browns fans, after Winston threw for 334 yards and three touchdowns in the Browns' 29-24 upset of the Ravens last week)
2. "Crap! Jameis Winston is still Jameis Winston!" (Also Browns fans, after Winston threw three picks in the Browns' 27-10 loss Sunday to the Chargers)
3. Meanwhile, the Bears!
4. Lost to the Cardinals, 29-9, as the Greatest Rookie Quarterback In History, Caleb Williams, was sacked six times and couldn't generate a touchdown for the Bears offense)
5. "Hey, where's my offensive line? I was told there would be an offensive line." (Caleb Williams)
6. "But ... but ... we were 2-0 once!" (The New Orleans Saints who lost their seventh straight game -- to the Panthers, for heaven's sake! -- to fall to 2-7, costing head coach Dennis Allen his job)
7. "But ... but ... I had 'em 2-0!" (Dennis Allen)
8. In other news, the Patriots, Dolphins, Cowboys, Giants, and Raiders all lost again. But the J-E-T-S Jets-Jets-Jets beat the Texans, prompting Jets fans to once again declare "We're goin' to the Super Bowl!"
9. "Dude, we're 3-6." (The J-E-T-S Jets-Jets-Jets)
10. "OK, so we're goin' to second place in the AFC East, then!" (Jets fans)
Monday, November 4, 2024
One Average Joe, with questions
Wait, so ... what was the point of this again?
The Indianapolis Colts use their Great Big Quarterback Pick on a 21-year-old with limited college experience and "project" screaming from every pore, and then they make the horrendous decision to throw him into the deep end right off the jump.
Then the GBQP, Anthony Richardson, gets hurt, and hurt again, and winds up sitting out most of his rookie season. Which means his second season is actually an RSE (Rookie Season Extended).
Then the Colts pull the plug on him after just 10 starts (which makes you think they're already giving up on him even though they say they aren't), and decide 86-year-old Joe Flacco (OK, 39-year-old Joe Flacco) is their best option going forward.
Then Joe Flacco puts up zero touchdowns, one interception and a "meh" quarterback rating of 63.7 in a 21-13 loss to the Vikings.
So again: What was the point of all this?
And by that I don't just mean benching the alleged future of your franchise for Average Joe, who at 86 (39) is not even the present of anything, let alone the future.
I mean, what was the point of drafting a project like AR and deciding he was QB1-ready when he clearly was not, then benching him after 10 starts because ...
Well, what? Because you're a .500 football team that stands a better chance of making the playoffs with Average Joe at quarterback? And what then?
Then you lose a wild-card game and exit stage right. That's what then.
This is not intended as a swipe at Flacco, who after all does have a Super Bowl ring. But he's not going to save your season. He's not going to take you to another Super Bowl even if he might still be good enough to get you into the playoffs.
What. Is. The point?
Because, listen, now the Colts are in a limboland of their own making. Now they've made the future the past, and the past, the future. Now head coach Shane Steichen stands up there after last night's loss and says Flacco is still his starting quarterback "right now".
The heck does that mean?
I'll tell you what it means.
It means Chris Ballard 'n' them blew the draft pick you absolutely cannot blow, and they can't bring themselves to admit it. Eventually they will. Eventually they'll find some way to spin this ... this ... whatever this is.
And the point?
The point is, there is no point. Or at least right now, to quote Shane Steichen.
Sunday, November 3, 2024
Family matters
I wouldn't know sports columnist Marcus Hayes of the Philadelphia Inquirer if he smacked me in the gob with a dangling participle. But I like to think I know a thing or two about sports columnizing, having done it for the better part of 38 years.
What I know is it's your job to occasionally criticize athletes, coaches, administrators and front-office knuckleheads in print. Especially if they've got it coming.
But dragging their family members into it?
Not the job at all.
This is true no matter how glancing is the mention, especially when one of the family members is no longer with us. It's the surest way to get shoved around by an athlete/coach/administrator/front-office knucklehead, which is apparently what happened to Hayes the other night.
See, Hayes wrote a column, not for the first time, taking 76ers center Joel Embiid to task for his seemingly endless stints on the injury list. And that's OK. It's absolutely in-bounds for a columnist to do that, and it's up to everyone else to decide if he's being fair or not.
Problem is, Hayes mentioned Embiid's brother, who's deceased, and Embiid's son. And that is not OK.
Now, I don't know in what context Hayes mentioned Embiid's brother and son. But, again, it doesn't matter. You inject a man's (or woman's) family into a piece, you're going to lose the point you're trying to make. And you're going to lose, period.
In Embiid's case, you make him the injured party. You give him carte blanche to ream you out in the locker room (which Embiid did), and you make him a hero for doing so. And if you don't believe me, check out the public reaction when the Sixers duly punish Embiid for putting his hands on Hayes.
Guarantee Embiid gets all the love. And not just because it was one of those bleepity-bleep sportswriters he shoved, speaking as a bleepity-bleep sportswriter myself.
It'll be because Hayes touched that third rail.
Look. I've written about my subjects' family members before. There is a time and place for it. But the time and place is when they're the story in some form or fashion, and when the subject of your piece acknowledges that and willingly talks about them.
But to inject them into a column willy-nilly? Especially one that's expressing a critical point of view?
Bad form. And bad judgment, too, because, again, you make the story about something other than what it was supposed be about. In Hayes' case, about a locker room confrontation with Joel Embiid, and about Embiid's righteous anger.
And the column itself?
Sorry, man. What were you saying again?
Another day, another W
And now it's a Twilight Zone episode, this Indiana football season.
No, not because the Hoosiers went up to East Lansing yesterday and floor-waxed Michigan State 47-10 in the Old Brass Spittoon game, which most of America and even a healthy chunk of the Hoosier state itself probably didn't know existed. But it does, and now Indiana has the thing, and the more irreverent among us (OK, so me, then) are thinking that between the Old Brass Spittoon and the Old Oaken Bucket, Indiana could use some spiffier trophies.
Anyway, it's not the Hoosiers winning again that turns this into a Twilight Zone episode. Nor is it even that they're 9-0 for the first time in program history.
What makes it a Twilight Zone episode is how ordinary it's become.
As in; "Oh, look, Indiana won again."
As in: "Oh, look, Kurtis Rourke threw four touchdown passes two weeks after having his thumbnail torn off."
As in: "Oh, look, the Hoosiers fell behind for the first time all season and then scored 47 freaking unanswered points, and isn't that the sun rising in the East again?"
Because now Indiana winning football games is every bit as natural an occurrence.
Now the Hoosiers are expected to win. Now everyone has gotten used to the fact they're a real boy, and they win because they have real players, and their No. 13 ranking isn't Monopoly money after all.
What Curt Cignetti has wrought, in just nine games, is an Indiana program that expects to go up to East Lansing and strap 47 on Michigan State, and is in turn expected to, if not exactly do that, at least expected to win.
And, yes, that's a hell of a Twilight Zone episode for a football program with so much beige in its palette.
Fun fact, now that the Hoosiers are 9-0 for the first time ever: Across 137 years of playing football, Indiana is 200 games under .500 (512-712-44). It has lost 58 percent of the games it's played. It has won two conference titles and three bowl games in 137 years.
No wonder its fans and alums became notorious for never making it inside Memorial Stadium from the pre-game tailgate. No wonder the ones who did make it inside became notorious for expressing the following post-game sentiment: "Hey, Illinois only beat us by two touchdowns. That's pretty good."
Now the Hoosiers have Michigan coming next week, and those same fans and alumni fully expect to lay a sheep-shearin' on last season's national champs.
Now the IU alum sitting next to me at the bar last night is seeing the 47-10 score go final, and -- thinking about a certain game in Columbus, Ohio, in three weeks -- saying, "You know, Ohio State is beatable."
An Indiana guy is saying that.
Same sort of IU guy who used to be satisfied with losing by only a couple scores.
And now here comes Rod Serling, cigarette smoldering between his fingers, regarding us solemnly from beneath those sinister eyebrows.
Meet the Indiana Hoosiers, a football team for whom losing has always been as instinctive as breathing. But now a man named Curt Cignetti has arrived on campus from a tiny school in Virginia, and something remarkable is about to happen: The Hoosiers are not only going to win, but everyone will soon start EXPECTING them to win. Tonight's sojourn into the gridiron section of the Twilight Zone ...
Right?
Friday, November 1, 2024
Casualties
North Side High School will play another football game tonight -- maybe the last of its season against undefeated Concord in Class 5A sectional play -- and that is normal, that is everyday, that is Friday night lights and American autumn at its most elemental.
The Legends, however, will be missing one of their own. And that, too, regrettably, is as normal as those Friday night lights, and an America not just for autumn but for all seasons.
The missing Legend, see, died of a gunshot wound to the chest 13 days ago.
It happened at a Halloween party.
The deceased was a North Side athlete who arrived packing a gun, forced his way into the suburban home where the party was being held, and began blazing away until another partygoer pulled out his gun and shot the shooter.
This according to the police report. This from the officers who arrived that night to find a war zone, with one North Side student dead and nine others wounded.
And how many times have we seen this?
How many shootouts at the OK Corral or a Halloween party or a supermarket or an elementary school does it take before we become numb to it, before it becomes just part of the day-to-day American tapestry?
Before, in other words, it becomes normal?
I've got news for you, or perhaps not news.
We passed that mile marker a ways back.
Normal in America now is children shooting children at a Halloween party, and grief counselors at high schools, and looking up at Walmart and seeing some GI Jethro with an AR-15 on his back.
It's form-letter thoughts and prayers from politicians who apparently think this should be normal, and from at least one vice-presidential candidate who says, well, yeah, that's just America now, and we just need to get used to it.
It's road rage that turns into a shooting gallery because of course both the principals are carrying ... and hysterical cries of "They're comin' for our guns!" whenever someone suggests maybe we ought to make it a little harder for children to turn a party into the Earps vs. the Clantons ... and more thoughts and prayers, thoughts and prayers, thoughts and prayers.
And body counts, body counts, body counts.
The Blob doesn't have a lot of articles of faith, but one of them has always been that we get the country we deserve in a democratic republic. And so, yes, this is apparently the country we deserve, because we keep electing representatives who at the very least are comfortable with it. And who think it's perfectly normal for GI Jethros to patrol the frozen food aisle with military-grade weaponry, and for the average Joe or Josephine to stockpile enough firepower to outfit a battalion of Marines.
And why do they think it's normal?
Because it is.
Because tonight there will be a high school football game, and maybe there'll be a moment of silence and maybe not, and someone will win and someone will lose. And in another town and another place, children will shoot children again, and God bless America.
Because someone sure needs to.
Thursday, October 31, 2024
Boo!
Today is All Hallow's Eve, popularly known as Halloween, which means tonight tiny "Frozen" princesses and Spider-Men will be coming to extort candy from law-abiding citizens like yourselves.
Naw, I'm kidding. I love Halloween. Love the kids. Love handing out the candy so long as the little goobers don't take it all.
(In my day, it was apples, popcorn balls and Milky Ways the size of Lincoln Logs. Of course, Mom always made us eighty-six the apples and popcorn balls on account of that silly urban legend about psychos hiding razor blades in them. Ticked me right off.)
Anyway ...
Anyway, this being a night for fright, it occurred to me that in Sportsball World there are plenty of things scarier than ghosts, goblins and Donald Trump masks. And seeing how I have way too much time on my hands, I started thinking of what those might be.
Here's what I came up with:
* Aaron Rodgers showing up at former Jets head coach Robert Saleh's door dressed as Aaron Rodgers. Trick or treat, mother(bleeper)!
* A kid in a Washington Commanders jersey showing up at the Chicago Bears complex with video of Jayden Daniels' Hail Mary on continuous playback.
* A kid in a Freddie Freeman jersey showing up at the New York Yankees complex with video of last night's fifth inning on continuous playback.
* Six tiny Caitlin Clarks showing up at Angel Reese's door.
* Six tiny Angel Reeses showing up at Caitlin Clark's door.
* A miniature trans athlete showing up at the door of any number of fear-mongering politicians.
* A kid dressed as the transfer portal showing up at the door of any number of college football and basketball coaches.
And last but not least ...
* A couple of tykes dressed as the Kelce brothers, and another dressed as Patrick Mahomes, demanding you buy more Reese's Puffs and Subway and State Farm and T-Mobile and ...
Karma's a ... well, you know
Don't know what happened to the two Yankees jamokes who assaulted Los Angeles Dodgers outfielder Mookie Betts as he made a catch at the wall in Game 4 of the World Series (and, yes, "assaulted" is the proper word), but they got theirs last night.
First, they were ejected and banned from attending Game 5.
Second, wherever they were last night, they got to see their baseball team take a 5-0 lead into the fifth inning (Oh, yeah! We're BACK, baby! The Dodgers are hearin' footsteps!). Then they got to watch their team clumsily blow every bit of that 5-0 lead in the fifth (Wait ... what?).
Then they got to watch the Dodgers win 7-6 and celebrate their eighth World Series title in Yankee Stadium, right out there with the monuments and the ghosts and Babe Effing Ruth (Oh, god. Oh, god. Look out, I'm gonna hurl!)
All the Blob has to say about that is, karma lives.
'Cause somewhere in the night, Mookie Betts was slammin' champagne, and the two jamokes were ... not. Because their Yankees went down easy, in five games, beaten by a 35-year-old with a bum ankle (Series MVP Freddie Freeman), who batted .300 with four homers and 12 RBI in those five games.
Stick that in your pinstripes and smoke it, boys.
Wednesday, October 30, 2024
Changing horses
Well, this is interesting.
Three days past the eighth game of the season, 18 months after the Indianapolis Colts handed him their future (because what else does taking a quarterback with the fourth pick in the draft imply?), the Colts are moving on from Anthony Richardson.
I'm sorry, what?
Yeah, OK. "Moving on" is a bit much. For now, anyway.
For now, Richardson's just going to the sidelines, and the Colts will hand the keys to 85-year-old Joe Flacco, or at least 39-year-old Joe Flacco. This indicates a couple of things, both of which are admittedly bald-faced conjecture.
One, management has decided, at least for the present, to play for the present.
Two, Chris Ballard 'n' them are admitting Richardson -- who was just 21 years old and had a small college sample size when the Colts drafted him in '23 -- wasn't ready to for the deep end right off the jump.
Neither of those might not be true, of course. But if the latter is at least in the ballpark, imagine how hard it was for Ballard in particular to admit he screwed up in pushing the kid too fast.
Not that he ever would admit it, Ballard being Ballard.
In any case, Richardson will sit, the geezer will play, and it's fair to wonder how much of what happened Sunday played into that. Was it just that Richardson was mostly atrocious again? Or was it because, late in a tight battle for first in the AFC South, he tapped out of the game on a crucial third down with the Colts driving?
Said he was gassed, and needed a breather. Wasn't the first time it's ever happened, but it's not what a franchise QB is supposed to do -- especially when it so clearly violates bedrock NFL protocol.
Maybe that was the tipping point. Maybe it wasn't. Again, bald-faced conjecture.
At the very least, though, benching Richardson after just 10 starts -- half of which he didn't finish -- suggests the Colts are starting to get a trifle queasy about their roll of the dice 18 months ago. They're still a long way from Omigod we blew the quarterback pick, but changing horses in mid-stream is never a confident look.
They can defend it by saying Flacco gives the 4-4 Colts their best shot at making the playoffs, and making the playoffs (even as a team that doesn't appear to have a deep run in it) is a big deal in the modern NFL. If nothing else, it gives you something to build on.
As for Richardson ...
Well, who knows? Maybe Richardson can sit and learn behind Flacco -- same as Aaron Rodgers sat and learned behind Brett Favre, and Jordan Love sat and learned behind Rodgers, and Patrick Mahomes sat and learned behind Alex Smith.
Could work. Might not.
Out on West 56th Street in Indy, the fingers are crossed.
Tuesday, October 29, 2024
A few brief thoughts on NFL Week 8
And now this week's edition of The NFL In So Many Words, the ain't-over-'til-it's-over Blob feature of which critics have said "So when WILL it be over?", and also "Oh, it's over, bucko. It is SO over":
1. "It's over!" (Bears fans before the Commanders last snap)
2. "It's over, schmuck-os!" (Bears defensive back Tyrique Stevenson, taunting Commanders fans while Jayden Daniels was trying not to get tackled before he could launch a desperate Hail Mary with zeroes on the clock)
3. "Aww, bleep!" (Stevenson, seconds later, after Daniels got the pass off, and Stevenson tipped it, and Commanders wideout Noah Brown, standing behind him in the end zone, caught it for a miraculous 65-yard score and an18-15 win)
4. "Holy bleep!" (America)
5. "BLEEP-BLEEP BLEEPER-BLEEP!!" (Bears fans)
6. (Also Jets fans after their Super Bowl-bound football team lost again, this time to the sorry-ass New England Patriots.)
7. (Also Ravens fans after Jameis Winston and the even-more-sorry Browns shocked Lamar Jackson 'n' them in Cleveland)
8. (Also fans of the Bengals, the Saints, the Cowboys, the Vikings)
9. "Hey, remember when we thought we were good?" (The Bengals, the Saints, the Cowboys, the Vikings after another loss)
10. "BLEEP-BLEEP BLEEPER-BLEEP!!" (Bears fans, still, two days later)
Monday, October 28, 2024
Whither AR
I live two hours and change north and east of West 56th Street in Indianapolis, so I couldn't hear the quiver in Chris Ballard's innards even if there was one. I assume there isn't, at least yet. I also assume we'd never know otherwise, given the bulletproof confidence the Colts GM forever exudes.
But the Horsies lost another football game yesterday, putting up a hell of a fight on the road before the Houston Texans got 'em 23-20. And while you couldn't totally hang the loss on quarterback Anthony Richardson -- he did, after all, throw a 69-yard touchdown pass to Josh Downs -- he once again didn't resemble at all the quarterback Ballard and the Colts keep telling us he is.
Or will be. Or something.
His numbers yesterday: 10-of-32 passing, 175 yards, one spectacular touchdown, one horrendous interception at the end of the first half. A 31.2 percent completion percentage; a 48.3 quarterback rating.
And maybe, if not yet in Chris Ballard's gut, a building quiver in the guts of True Blue fans everywhere: OMG we blew the quarterback pick.
The Blob's position is that's still an overreaction, but one that becomes less over-reactive almost by the week. Richardson's anemic showing (save the bomb to Downs) followed a 10-of-24, 129-yard outing last week in a win over the punchless Dolphins. If you're keeping score at home, that makes him 20-of-56 for 304 yards in his last two starts, a 35.7 percent completion rate.
For the season, he's now 59-of-133 (44.4 percent) with four touchdowns and seven picks. Close observers keep saying they're seeing progress; the rest of us see regression from even last season's small sample size.
Which of course is not what you want to see when you take him with the No. 4 pick in the draft.
You take a quarterback with the No. 4 pick, as the Colts did in 2023, you're saying he's The Guy. You're putting the future of your franchise in his hands. You're expecting him, in most cases, to make an immediate impact, because that seems to be the business model these days.
See: C.J. Stroud. See: Caleb Williams. See: Jayden Daniels, Josh Allen, Kyler Murray, a bunch of others.
AR, on the other hand, came in as an admitted project of sorts, a work in progress of whom progress was supposed to come quickly and spectacularly. Instead, he got hurt.
Then he got hurt again. Then he missed most of his rookie season.
In his second year, he's already missed time because of injury, during which old head Joe Flacco came in and won a couple of games, throwing seven touchdown passes against one pick and completing 65.7 percent of his throws. The contrast with Richardson was glaring, and did little to quell the unease among the Colts faithful. Some are even saying now the Colts should bench Richardson and play Flacco the rest of the way.
That, too, is an overreaction, by the Blob's lights. For now, anyway.
This is because I watched bits and pieces of Colts-Texans yesterday, and not everything was AR's fault. He was victimized more than once by drops on balls that were straight money. His offensive line leaked like an abandoned shack, allowing sundry Texans to chase him around the backfield and sack him five times.
And yet ...
And yet.
A season-and-a-half in, and Anthony Richardson is still the same phenomenal physical specimen we saw on draft day 18 months ago.
But we still don't know if he is, or ever will be, an NFL quarterback.
Sunday, October 27, 2024
How good?
OK, OK, O-kay. So I wasn't completely right.
Said yesterday I had a nagging suspicion Notre Dame-Navy was not going to be the slugfest some people might have expected, and that it would more likely be another Notre Dame-Navy extravaganza. Meaning the Irish would stroll into East Rutherford, N.J. and walk away with a win in, oh, let's say the 35-14 range.
I was wrong.
Notre Dame beat the previously unbeaten Middies 51-14.
Riley Leonard -- who can't throw, remember -- threw for 178 yards and two touchdowns. . He also took off running 10 times for 83 yards and another score. Jeremiyah Love had another 100-yard day (102 and two scores in just 12 carries), the Irish rushed for 265 yards and averaged 6.6 yards per carry, and the defense forced six turnovers, including five fumbles.
Meanwhile, downstate ...
Yes, Indiana won again, in front of former coach Lee Corso and the rest of the ESPN Gameday crew, and another full house. Beat Washington by two touchdowns, ho-hum. Starting quarterback Kurtis Rourke was out with a hand injury, so backup Tayven Jackson stepped in, completed 11-of-19 passes for 124 yards and a touchdown and ran for another score.
The Hoosiers are 8-0 now. Notre Dame is 7-1.
"But how good are they really, Mr. Blob?" you're saying now.
The Blob's answer: I don't know.
Pretty darn good, obviously. Better than any lingering doubters might think, almost certainly.
The doubters are gonna say what they always say, which is that Notre Dame is beating up on the usual imposters and Little Sisters of the Poor, and Indiana also has benefited from a soft-serve schedule. This is partly true.
But it's not true enough to dismiss them as imposters themselves.
No, Notre Dame isn't going hand-to-hand with Texas and Georgia every week, but the Irish haven't gotten fat on Directional Hyphen Tech State, either. They went down to College Station the first week and outslugged Texas A&M 23-13, and the Aggies hasn't lost since. Last night they got No. 9 LSU in Kyle Field and whipped 'em 38-23.
The Irish, meanwhile, beat a decent Louisville team at home by a touchdown, and crushed a decent Georgia Tech team 31-13 on the road.
And Indiana?
Yeah, the Hoosiers filled up early on some cream-filled pastry. But last week they dropped 56 on a Nebraska team that was giving up just 11 points per game, and yesterday they took care of Washington, and they still haven't trailed in a game so far this season.
Next week they're at 4-4 Michigan State. Then they get Michigan, 5-3, at home. Then they go to Columbus to face Ohio State, which is where the doubters figure they'll finally get exposed as the usual Indiana wannabes.
Except.
Except one week after Indiana upholstered Nebraska 56-7, the Cornhuskers traveled to Columbus themselves. And the No. 4 Buckeyes beat them, too.
The final score?
21-17.
And Ohio State needed a touchdown with six minutes to play and then a game-sealing interception to pull it out.
Sooo ...
So, again, I don't know. But I do know this: There are a whole pile of decent Power 4 teams who aren't 8-0 or 7-1 right now. And most of them aren't playing Texas or Georgia every week, either.
Nor will they make the new 12-team playoff. Says here Notre Dame and Indiana will.
Saturday, October 26, 2024
Today in Sure To Be Wrong
And now, the University of Navy, as Lou Holtz used to call it.
Notre Dame has been playing the Midshipmen since Calvin Coolidge was president and Capone was buying cops and whacking Bugsys, which is to say 1927. Only Covid in 2020 interrupted a string of Irish victories that is not unbroken but close enough.
Today that script might flip like Simone Biles. Or so we've heard.
This Navy team, it seems, is not your father's Navy team (or maybe it is if your father was around for the Roger Staubach years.) It's undefeated, for one thing. It's ranked 24th in the nation. And it's No. 4 in the nation in scoring, averaging 44.8 points per game while trouncing six opponents by just shy of 25 points per game.
Also: Under second-year head coach Brian Newberry, the Navy quarterback occasionally throws the football. And Navy receivers occasionally catch it.
Conventional wisdom says that's why the University of Navy will be more than just brave in the attempt not to lose 42-7 like usual. It says Marcus Freeman and Notre Dame better show up in East Rutherford, N.J., with their chinstraps buckled, because the Brigade of Midshipmen will be especially baying for a chunk of Domer hide, and this Navy team is capable of delivering it.
However.
However, the Blob, whose wisdom has never been conventional nor even particularly wise, thinks this might be one of Those Games.
As in, "One of those games everyone thinks will be a real dogfight, but instead winds up as dogs merely playing before one of them wins, um, 42-7 like usual."
Understand, I don't think it will be that lopsided. But I have a nagging suspicion the Brigade is going to go home more than a bit deflated at the end of the day. This is because Notre Dame knows Navy will be especially jacked, and so the Irish will be especially jacked, and a jacked Notre Dame is going to beat a jacked Navy all day long because Notre Dame simply has better athletes.
So, let's call it 35-14, 35-21, something like that. Coming to you direct from the Sure To Be Wrong Division.
Ridicule away, Middies.
Why we watch
Quietly, the World Series began out in Los Angeles last night, and be honest, you almost forgot about it, didn't you? There was a high school football game to go to or a handful of college football games on the tube -- hey, look, Yale trounced Penn -- and of course a pile of NBA and NHL games.
(Although why the latter two mattered considering their seasons go on for entire epochs of the human experience is a mystery. But that's just me.)
Anyway, the Series began and even ESPN didn't seem to care much, considering the top entries on its website for much of the night were NBA games.
However, then came the bottom of the 10th.
The home team was trailing, 3-2, as it had much of the night. But then, miraculously, the bases filled up with Dodger blue, and to the plate came 35-year-old Freddie Freeman, who'd earlier tripled and died at third with his only hit of the night.
One pitch from Nestor Cortes, one swing of Freeman's bat, and it was over.
In that one swing the baseball was a white dot against the night sky, streaking out toward the left-center. It landed in a sea of leaping, waving, howling humans, and Freeman briefly held his bat aloft as he started his home-run trot, hobbling on a sprained ankle, slapping palms with the first-base coach, still holding high the hand that had held the bat.
Walk-off grand slam, and a 6-3 victory. Walk-off grand slam, and it was 1988 again and Kirk Gibson was hobbling around the bases after his iconic walk-off homer, and somewhere in the celestial expanse Fernando and Tommy Lasorda and Carl Erskine and, oh, heck, all the old Bums were raising a ruckus.
And the rest of us?
We got another reminder that there is no drama like World Series drama.
Maybe you can replicate it in basketball or football or hockey, but baseball goes back further, and it calls up memories that are as elemental to our shared experience as dirt and grass. Freeman walks it off with a grand slam, and here again is Gibson in '88 and Joe Carter in '93 and Bill Mazeroski in '61, and of course the Babe with his called-shot-or-not in '32.
Freeman joins that lineage now. Afterward he said it was something you dream about as a kid, and every former kid who grew up in a time before pro football and basketball swallowed America's attention span knew exactly what he was talking about.
It's why we still watch every October. Or at least should.
Thursday, October 24, 2024
A cosmic event (maybe)
Fernando Valenzuela died the other day at 63, and if that seems far too young it also seems far too old for those whose memory has some reach. Isn't it always 1981, where Fernando lived? And isn't he always 20 years old, just a kid from Mexico trying to make his way as a pitcher in the bigs?
Sure he is. Why, you can see him out there on the bump in Los Angeles Dodger blue, making another batter fan the breeze. Doing that thing where he rolls his eyes toward the heavens in the middle of his windup, right before he unwinds and sends another seed dipping and darting toward the plate.
Happened just yesterday, didn't it?
Fernando peering toward the heavens. Fernando chaining another batrack. Fernandomania plucking the 20-year-old kid from obscurity and transforming him into a cultural icon.
Seemed almost as unlikely as imagining Fernando Valenzuela at 63. When the hell did that happen?
And if Fernando at 63 is way too early to die and way too old to grasp, what about the timing of his passing? What script writer dreamed that one up?
Fernando Valenzuela going off to the angels, see, happened the very week the World Series starts up. And not just any World Series, but a Dodgers World Series. And not just a Dodgers World Series, but a Dodgers-Yankees World Series.
Some sort of cosmic hoo-rah going on there, you have to think. Might even call it an omen.
But what kind of omen, exactly?
By the Blob's lights a Dodgers icon joining the company of heaven right before this Series means one of two polar-opposite things. Either it means Fernando will reach out from the next world to inject every Dodger arm with spectral Fernando lightning, or it means one extinguished spark will herald another.
Fernando dies; the Dodgers lose the Series. The synchronicity of the eternal, or something like that.
Me?
I'm ecumenical about these things. Could go either way.
Although how perfect would it be to see some current Dodger arm -- Walker Buehler, maybe, or maybe closer Blake Treinen -- suddenly start rolling his eyes toward heaven in the middle of his windup?
"That would be tres spooky, Mr. Blob," you're saying now.
And with Halloween just a week away. Like I said, perfect.
Wednesday, October 23, 2024
A man and his boy
My dad and I used to play basketball together.
He played high school ball in Indiana in the 1940s (Go, you Montpelier Pacers!), because when you stood 6-3 and lived in Indiana in the 1940s, playing basketball was your sacred duty. So he played, and one time he missed a last-second shot that would have won his school a sectional, and he laid awake all night thinking about it. Because that was also what you did in Indiana.
Anyway, we'd go out in the driveway, and he'd hoist up his funny little 1940s quasi-jumper, and I'd hoist up my modern, mostly wayward jumper. Two generations; one game the tie that bound.
All of this is the Blob's meandering way of saying I'm totally OK with nepotism when it comes to basketball.
Nepotism, see, got LeBron James' son Bronny a place on the Los Angeles Lakers roster, and last night nepotism got LeBron something he'd been publicly dreaming about for a good space of years. With four minutes to play in the second quarter of the Lakers' regular-season opener last night, he and Bronny checked into the game.
Father and son. On the floor together in an official NBA game. For the first time in NBA history.
They were on the floor together for two minutes and 41 seconds before Bronny checked out. In that time, his dad set him up for an open 3-pointer he missed, and he was blocked by Rudy Gobert on a putback attempt, and he grabbed that one rebound. It was pretty much what you might expect from a kid who was the second-to-last pick in the NBA draft, and who averaged 4.2 points on a tick under 30 percent shooting in the preseason.
In other words: No, Bronny James is not really an NBA player. He's a work in progress who ought to be, and likely will be at some point this season, buffing up his game in the G-League.
Because of that, there's been the usual griping from the usual cranks about what a charade this is all is. Mostly this has come from people who, for whatever reason, just don't like LeBron. Of course, they're the same people who'll ignore the way nepotism has lifted certain other people to heights for which they were clearly (and often painfully) unequipped.
Those voices, thankfully, have been cries in the wilderness for the most part. The vast majority of the media/intertoobz swamp has reacted with a shrug to the LeBron/Bronny situation. This is because the vast majority recognizes LeBron James is LeBron James, and the rest of us are not. He's one of the two or three best players in the history of the game, and so has earned a special dispensation or two.
In other words: Let the man have his father/son moment. Who better deserves it?
Hard to say how many of those expressing that sentiment were thinking about shooting hoops with their own dads in the driveway. But it's not hard to guess.
Tuesday, October 22, 2024
A few brief thoughts on NFL Week 7
And this week's edition of The NFL In So Many Words, the Blob feature that enlivens America's Tuesday mornings, and of which critics have said "'Enlivens?!' More like curses America's Tuesday mornings", and also "With an especially dark, evil curse bringing pestilence and death upon the land":
1. It's Tuesday morning, and Lamar Jackson just threw another touchdown pass.
2. Oops, he just did it again.
3. Stop it, Lamar! Seriously, dude!
4. It's Tuesday morning, and the Jets are still the Jets.
5. "But we got Davante Adams now!" (Jets fans, and also Aaron Rodgers)
6. "But you're still the Jets!" (America)
7. In other news, it's Tuesday morning, and Patrick Mahomes is still winning; the Patriots, Panthers and Giants are still losing; the Saints just gave up ANOTHER score: and Anthony Richardson is still not the Next Big Thing.
8. "But look! He threw a pass that didn't wind up in Carmel! There's still hope!" (Colts fans)
9. It's Tuesday morning, and skeevy Browns quarterback Deshaun Watson is still out for the season after tearing an Achilles against the Bengals two days ago.
10. "He's been out for the season all season!" (Browns fans, cruelly)
Monday, October 21, 2024
Fries with that*
(* A semi-dip into our noxious political waters, although not much of one. Blobophiles who wish to leave the room, however, may do so at this time. Just make sure you have a hall pass.)
Saw the photo op of Donald John Trump "working" as a McDonald's stunt double yesterday, and it made me chuckle. This was partly because our soon-to-be Senator Bootlick, aka Jim "Jimbo" Banks, said it was proof the Crown Prince of Mar-a-Lago was a "man of the people", and never mind that gold toilet business.
But it also made me chuckle because I actually worked at McDonald's, back when dinosaurs strode the earth.
Worked there most of a summer after my senior year in high school, and you know how long ago that was? It was so long ago we all still wore those paper garrison caps -- white for trainee, blue for employee, red for manager, if memory serves. It was so long ago they still put paper rings around the Big Macs to hold them together, and the store stayed open until 1 in the morning on the weekends.
Taking orders that last hour wasn't a job, it was an adventure. That's when all the stoners came in (it was 1973, after all) and took 15 minutes pondering life's great mysteries, like whether they wanted a chocolate, strawberry or vanilla shake.
Eventually they settled on all three.
Now I see that Donald John Trump dishing up an order of fries makes him a man of the people, and I have a better idea. It's the perfect way he could actually be a man of the people, or as much of one as a guy could be who's never done a real day's work in his life.
Forget the the photo ops, in other words. I want to see Training Wheels Mussolini deal with some french-fried burnout at 12:55 a.m.
I want to see him work the fry vat for six hours and go home coated with grease, from paper hat all the way to regulation black patent leathers.
I want to see him keep his cool when some Red Hat who thinks he's Napoleon at Austerlitz swipes his grimy fingers across your counter and makes you wipe it down again.
I want to see him handle a spatula on grill duty, garnish a burger with just the right amount of ketchup, mustard and diced onion, work lot-and-lobby for eight straight hours.
Mop that floor, Donny. Empty the trash cans and haul the bags out to the incinerator. Patrol the parking lot picking up more trash. Do all of it again, like, six or eight times as the clock crawls along on its hands and knees.
Lastly, I want to see his face when he gets a look at his paycheck. That would be some quality entertainment.
Of course, he'd probably blame its meagerness on all those Haitian Venezuelan drug cartels taking over our communities and eating Fido. Or, you know, on the crooked FBI, the crooked DOJ, the crooked media and the crooked Biden economy.
Because Donny gonna be Donny. Man of the people or not.
Let Liberty ring, or something
You know a sport has reached the main stage when the conspiracy kooks start showing up.
Today's home truth, or something like it.
Also today's take after the New York Liberty won the WNBA title in Brooklyn yesterday, and the intertoobz were suddenly bloomin' with folks saying the whole thing was rigged, that the suits wanted the Liberty to win and that's why the officiating smelled like moldy tuna casserole.
Leading the charge was Minnesota Lynx coach Cheryl Reeve, who's never been shy about flapping her gums and wasn't after the Liberty won the deciding Game 5 in overtime. Basically, Reeve said the zebras stole the title for New York.
No, wait. What she actually said was this: "This s*** was stolen from us."
To back up her point she cited the disparity in free throws -- the Liberty shot 23, the Lynx just six -- and the foul whistled against Lynx center Alanna Smith with 5.2 seconds to play in regulation, which sent Breanna Stewart to the stripe.
Stewart cashed both to tie the game, and on it went to OT, where the Liberty outscored the Lynx by five to claim the title.
"These guys shot 30 percent. Shot 30 percent," Reeve said of the Liberty. "The difference was the foul line."
Well, yeah. The conspiracy crowd could also point to the fact Lynx star Napheesa Collier scored 22 points on 23 shots Sunday, and never went to the line. She'd never before in her career shot at least 20 times without a free throw attempt.
The Liberty aided and abetted all this, of course, by playing like a bunch of goofs for most of the night. Stewart, who finished with 13 points and 15 rebounds, was 4-of -15 from the floor. Sabrina Ionescu, who saved the Liberty with a dagger trey at the end of Game 3 after New York had trailed the entire game, couldn't hit water if she fell out of a boat, going 1-for-19. The Liberty as a team bricked 50 of their 72 shots and 21 of 23 from the 3-point arc.
Little wonder the Grassy Knoll Brigade emerged from Mom's basement claiming evil sorcery was afoot.
Here's the thing, though: The fact they did so meant they were watching.
Last year hardly anyone was, but then Caitlin Clark came along, and people started paying attention. With the attention came the Grassy Knoll Brigade, and with the Grassy Knoll Brigade came the sort of interbooz shite-stirring that usually attends only marquee acts like the NFL or NBA.
All the black women in the league were ganging up on the white girl (Clark). They were intentionally trying to hurt her because they resented the attention she was getting (but also bringing to their league). And then the zebras let New York win the title because it was, you know, New York.
Most of this was nonsense, as it usually is. But it was the kind of nonsense a sport gets only when people are invested in it. And more people were invested in the WNBA than at any time in its history.
So, yeah, all the black-vs.-white garbage (driven mostly by perpetually aggrieved white folk, natch) was bad. But it was also good, sort of.
Oh, and speaking of garbage ...
About all that refs-screwed-Minnesota business.
In Game 4, which the Lynx won at home to stay alive in the series, the Lynx shot 20 free throws. The Liberty shot nine. Stewart shot one free throw. Jonquel Jones, the eventual finals MVP who led the Liberty with 21 points, shot only three. And it was Liberty coach Sandy Brondello who wound up griping about the home cooking instead of Reeve.
Know how I know this?
Because, like a bigger chunk of America than ever before, I was paying attention.
Throwback Series
Alrighty, then: Yankees vs. Dodgers for the marbles.
It's a World Series that might have been ordered up by Carl Erskine -- and, who knows, maybe Carl did from whatever grand corner of heaven he now occupies. He'll be rooting for the clock to spin back to 1955, when the world was young and his Dodgers finally beat those goons from the Bronx. Maybe he'll call in Johnny Podres to pitch the final game, the way Johnny did in '55. Jackie will be there, and Duke, and Campy, and Pee Wee, and, oh, hell, all of them.
And the Dodgers will still be Dem Bums from Brooklyn.
Which of course isn't true anymore.
Of course, it's 2024 now, and Carl and most of the rest of 'em are gone. And the Los Angeles Dodgers are no longer underdogs, but the doggiest of over-dogs.
They throw money around like confetti, just because they can. Their revenue stream could drown the Low Countries. They bought the best player in the game, Shohei Ohtani, for the GNP of Thailand, and rumor has it they'll buy Finland next because they heard there's an umlaut in Helsinki with a killer knuckle curve.
The Yankees, of course, can go dollar-sign-to-dollar-sign with 'em. Rumor has it they only own half of Belgium and a piece of Mozambique. Sold 'em both to get Juan Soto and Giancarlo Stanton to help Aaron Judge send baseballs into geosynchronous orbit.
In other words, this isn't just a throwback World Series. It's a Throw Back The Little Ones And Keep The Big Ones Series. It's a Money Talks And Small Markets Walk Series. A Pull The Car Around, K.C., And Hand The Keys To Detroit, My Driver, Series.
"OK, we get it," you're saying now. "The rich get richer, which is why the teevees love-love-love this matchup. It'll pull so many eyeballs they'll have to add six more cameras -- including a Drunk Cam for the poor schlub from Yonkers who gets nailed by one of Shohei's rockets. 'Whatta ya mean it was only one baseball?' the schlub will say. 'I saw three of 'em.'"
Well ... yeah. I get all that.
But I have to choose between High-Priced Spread and Higher-Priced Spread?
I choose the Dodgers, for two reasons.
One, they're not the (bleeping-bleep) Yankees.
Two, Carl Erskine was one of the finest gentlemen I ever had the pleasure of knowing.
So, go, Dodgers. For you, Carl.
Sunday, October 20, 2024
Legit
So, how do we begin this morning, after Indiana 56, Nebraska 7?
Paging Pinocchio ... paging Pinocchio ... your Real Boy-ness is here.
That's one way.
Wake up the WHAT?
That's another way.
Outlined against a blue-blue October sky, Kurtis Rourke 'n' them others rode again ...
There you go.
There you go, because yesterday your Indiana Hoosiers got Nebraska down there in an amped-up Memorial Stadium (and when's the last time anyone could write that?), and flat-out Nebraska'ed 'em. Which is to say, Justice Ellison did to the Cornhuskers what I.M. Hipp used to do to them. Elijah Sarratt and Miles Cross and Zach Horton and Myles Price played 1971 Heisman Trophy winner Johnny Rodgers in the movie.
And when Rourke cut his finger and departed for the day -- mainly because he could, because the Hoosiers led 28-7 at the half -- Trayce Jackson-Davis' brother came in and completed 7-of-8 passes for 91 yards and two scores.
That would be Tayven Jackson, who finished off a Cornhuskers bunch that surely must have been wondering what hit them. They came in 5-1 with the seventh best scoring defense in the nation -- they were giving up just 11 points per game -- and the Hoosiers set them on fire.
Ran for 215 and yards and five sixes against a D that hadn't surrendered a rushing touchdown all season. Ellison ran for two of those scores and lugged it nine times for 105 yards. That's almost 12 yards per lug to you and me, kids.
Ty Son Lawton added 64 yards on eight carries. That was an 8.0-yard average.
In other words, the Hoosiers gashed 'em. And their wide receivers gamboled through the Cornhusker secondary like Wildfire or Fury or My Friend Flicka or something. By halftime Indiana had piled up 329 total yards on the way to 495 for the day.
Oh, yeah: And the defense forced four turnovers.
All of this not only means Indiana is 7-0 for the time in 57 years, it also means they're 7-0 and good. Like, really good. Like, top-ten in the country good -- and, no, the Blob does not think it's getting carried away in saying that.
Right now you could take a picture of the Big Ten standings, and it wouldn't be like Lee Corso calling timeout to take a picture of the scoreboard one year when the Hoosiers somehow jacked around and scored first on Woody Hayes' fearsome Ohio State Buckeyes. Woody's legions went on to crush the Hoosiers, of course; no one's going to crush this Indiana team, which that picture of the standings would show is tied for first with Oregon.
Legitimately tied. Deservedly tied.
They're a team that has athletes on both sides of the football, and an authentic Cool-Hand Kurt at quarterback, and a wide receiver corps as deep and gifted as any in the country. If there were lingering doubts about just how undefeated they were -- come on, it's Indiana, and in their first six games they hadn't really played anyone good -- there should be no more doubts now.
That 7-0 record?
'Tain't Monopoly money, children. It's cash money.
Saturday, October 19, 2024
Blast from the past
Grantland Rice won't be there today when Illinois and Michigan suit up for the 100th anniversary of what some people (OK, me) call the Red Grange Game. Granny went off to join the angels some time back, so the pressbox poets will be on their own in conjuring the appropriate purplish prose.
Red, of course, will not be there either. The Galloping Ghost/Wheaton Iceman joined the angels himself 33 years ago -- or 67 years after he destroyed Michigan virtually by himself on that October afternoon in 1924.
Scored five touchdowns that day, Red did. Threw a 20-yard pass for another score. Took the opening kickoff 95 yards to the house, then scored three more times in the first 12 minutes on excursions of 67, 56 and 44 yards. In the second half, he slalomed through the Michigans for another score.
Oh, yeah. He also intercepted two passes on defense.
In the century since the Illini haven't seen a day like it, and Granny Rice immortalized it with a few typically embroidered lines that began with "A streak of fire, a breath of flame." It wasn't quite "Outlined against a blue-gray October sky, the Four Horsemen rode again," but it would do.
Irascible Michigan coach Fielding Yost and his Wolverines, of course, likely would have described the proceedings a bit more pungently. Now, 100 years almost to the day (in 1924 they played on Oct. 18; this is Oct. 19) Yost's lineal descendants and Red Grange's meet again in Champaign.
Both teams are ranked, though not highly. I'm going with the Illini only because history would seem to demand such symmetry, and also because Illinois is summoning every ghost it can by dressing out their players in throwback 1924 unis.
No one, of course, will be wearing Red's fabled No. 77. That's because Illinois retired it as soon as he played his last game in 1925. It remains one of only two retired numbers in school history, the other the No. 50 worn by Dick Butkus.
Instead, the lion's share of the running game likely will be carried by Josh McCray, a 6-1, 235-pound junior from Enterprise, Ala., who lugged it 16 times for 78 yards last week against Purdue. McCray got the work because leading rusher Kaden Feagin was sidelined, as he will be again today.
McCray, by the way, wears No. 6. It ain't 77, but for one blast-from-the-past afternoon the Illini faithful might pretend it is.
It's not like Michigan will mind. After all, Ol' Red's long gone, right?
Um, right?
Friday, October 18, 2024
Canaries in the mine
We won't know until today why Tony Bennett abruptly decided to walk away from college buckets yesterday. That's when the announcement becomes formal and he gets up in front of the world and tells us.
Couple of things we can surmise, though.
One, it wasn't all that abrupt.
Two, it's not because he got sick of the Xs-and-Os.
More likely, it's because Virginia's decorated coach finally got his fill of college athletics in the time of NIL and the unregulated transfer portal. We can surmise this because of an interview not all that long ago in which he he didn't exactly sound enthusiastic about what had happened to a landscape that had become the wild west of myth and legend.
That may or may not be the whole story, but it's the part that makes the most sense when one of college basketball elite coaches decides to leave his high-dollar job a month before the start of another season. And at the age of 55, which isn't young but isn't old, either. And not because of health.
Regardless, it'snot a good thing when a two-time national coach of the year with a national championship, six ACC titles and 10 tournament appearances in 16 seasons at Virginia apparently decides he's had enough of this shite, so to speak. And at an age when coaches with that sort of resume are usually just entering legendary status.
It makes Bennett the latest canary in the mine for college athletics, signaling there's poison in its air and it's getting thicker. Nick Saban walked away from the Alabama football job this year because he was sick to death of the lack of guardrails in the new reality. And it's only been two years since one of Bennett's contemporaries in basketball, Villanova coach Jay Wright, abruptly hung it up after two national titles and 642 wins in 28 seasons at 'Nova and Hofstra.
Wright was only 60 years old at the time.
And now, Tony Bennett. And it's easier than it should be to understand why.
Recruiting was hard enough, and demeaning enough, back in the day, when all a coach had to do was convince some 18-year-old to matriculate at Whatsammatta U. A grown man having to suck up to high school kids certainly was distasteful, but it was worth it if you it landed you a 5-star or two.
The Blob is almost alone in this, but I think it got even more distasteful when coaches stopped behaving like gentlemen and kept recruiting a kid even after he or she had committed to a school. There was simply too much capital at stake to respect the young man or woman's decision, let alone respecting the coaching staff that recruited him or her.
To hell with them, and to hell with propriety. A cutthroat business demanded a cutthroat mentality.
And it backfired on them cataclysmically when the kids they were recruiting -- following the grownups' example, as kids will do -- adopted the same mentality.
In other words: You want me? Pay me. You want to keep me? Pay me more, and play me x minutes, or I'll jump in the transfer portal and go somewhere else. The NCAA won't stop me from doing that as many times as I like, and you CAN'T stop me.
Imagine being a coach and having to deal with that, as well as everything else a coach has to deal with. Imagine recruiting a kid, and then having to re-recruit him every year to keep him from flying the coop. Now imagine having to do that with six or seven other kids -- or, in football, maybe 30 or 40.
That coaches and administrators brought all this on themselves by making college sports as wholly corporate as Microsoft or Amazon is wickedly ironic -- and a nightmare from which the perpetrators cannot wake fast enough.
A nightmare, it seems, more and more of them are choosing to escape.
Thursday, October 17, 2024
Never enough
Saw a story the other day in USA Today and something called Saturday Tradition that both amused and perplexed me. Although perplexed probably won in overtime.
It was a piece about how the SEC and Big Ten were thinking of launching an SEC-Big Ten football series, much like college buckets has the Big Ten-ACC Challenge/Showdown/Early Season Soiree and similar Challenges/Showdowns/Early Season Soirees. The driving force behind the idea is, of course, TV money, seeing how three early SEC-Big Ten matchups this season were ratings blockbusters.
According to USA Today/Saturday Tradition, that got the boardroom suits in both conferences thinking, gee, maybe we should expand this little dealio. After all, who wouldn't be intrigued by an Illinois-Missouri Border War? Or an IU-Kentucky Not-Basketball-But-We-Still-Don't-Like-Each-Other Bowl? Or an Egghead Bowl between Northwestern and Vanderbilt?
Why, you could schedule six or eight such matchups -- even as many as 12 to 16 -- and everyone would still have room for eight or nine conferences games and even the annual pencil-in W against Directional Hyphen Tech State.
The idea, if it could be worked out, is that it would "boost revenue capabilities" according to the Saturday Tradition headline.
This is where the Blob gets amused/perplexed.
"Boost revenue capabilities"?
Since when do the Big Ten and SEC need to do that?
They're both already doing the backstroke in wads of cash, thanks to the revenue generated by their Big Ten and SEC networks and their various other TV rights deals. Isn't boosting revenue why they collectively blew up the entire college football landscape? Didn't the Big Ten destroy its footprint because it wanted the lucrative East Coast and West Coast TV markets, which is why Rutgers and Maryland and UCLA, USC, Oregon and Washington are "Big Ten" schools now?
And you think the SEC murdered the old Big 12 (and before that, the old SWC) because it thought Texas burnt orange was a cool color? Hell, no. It gobbled up Texas because Texas is one of the most lucrative properties in college athletics. And it pirated Texas A&M, Oklahoma, Missouri and Arkansas because A) it could, and B) those schools all added more to the pile.
It was always about money, never anything else, and now the Big Ten and SEC have box seats atop an Everest of it. And somehow it's still not enough.
We used to call this what it is -- greed -- until it became politically incorrect in some circles to utter the word. Now we call it "boosting revenue capabilities" and "increasing market share."
It's still just greed, though. Pure, grasping, Montgomery-Burns-summoning-the-hounds greed.
Spin it any old way you like.
Wednesday, October 16, 2024
A perhaps revealing moment
Hey, we all know what the wise guys thought. They told us enough times.
What they told us was there was no room in the NBA anymore for a low-blocks big man like, oh, you know, two-time college player of the year Zach Edey from Purdue.
They said Edey was a big 7-4 galoot who was just a garbage collector around the rim and had a shooting range of approximately two feet. Said no big in the Association played that way anymore, that the best of them played out on the floor and handled the rock and could knock down the three when the opportunity presented itself.
Edey was a late first-rounder at best, they said. More likely a second-rounder.
And then ...
And then the Memphis Grizzlies made Edey their guy with the ninth pick in the 2024 NBA draft.
And the wise guys, or more than a few of them, wondered what on earth the Griz were thinking, reiterating all the big-galoot stuff.
And then ...
And then, the other night.
Preseason game against the Pacers. Edey back home in Indiana. An evening that perhaps, or perhaps not, revealed the Grizzlies had not in fact lost their minds by taking Edey so high.
Zach Edey played 19 minutes, see. He scored 23 points in those 19 minutes. And he cleaned nine rebounds off the glass while he was doing it.
Again, perhaps that proves something, and perhaps it doesn't. It was, after all, only a preseason game.
But this is not the NFL, where preseason games are as useless as the appendix. In the NBA, they're warmups for the real thing, which you kinda need when your regular season spans entire epochs of human history. Also, NBA rosters are 12 guys, not the 70 or 80 NFL teams bring to their early preseason games.
In other words, Edey wasn't doing it the other night against fifth-string linebackers who are about to be cut. He was doing it against a lot of the same people he'll see all season.
Make of that what you will.
Tuesday, October 15, 2024
A few brief thoughts on NFL Week 6
And now this week's edition of The NFL In So Many Words, the Blob feature that never changes except when it changes, and of which critics have said "How about making like a tree and leaving for a change?", and also, "I got a pocketful of change for ya if you just go away":
1. "Gah! We suck again!" (Cowboys fans, after the Lions flame-broiled the Pokes 47-9 in Dallas)
2. "Hooray, we don't!" (Lions fans)
3. Meanwhile, the Patriots!
4. Swapped out Jacoby Brissett for rookie Drake Maye at quarterback. Still lost.
5. "Drake Maye, Doris Day, Earl Grey. Doesn't much matter without Bill-ay." (Patriots fans)
6. (Bill-ay Belichick chuckles, orders more drinks on the beach with his 27-year-old girlfriend)
7. In other news, the Colts beat the Titans (again!). The Browns lost, the Panthers lost, the Giants lost, the Jets lost (even with Aaron Rodgers!). The officiating was standup comedy (eternally!).
8. "Look, guys, we're 4-2!" (The Falcons, the Bears, the Buccaneers)
9. "We were 2-0 once! Well, we were!" (The Saints, who fell to 2-4 after being car-washed at home by the Bucs, 51-27)
10. "Gah! We suck again!" (Cowboys fans, still)
Monday, October 14, 2024
Da Bearz! (Maybe)
The Chicago Bears pureed the Jacksonville Jaguars 35-16 over in London yesterday, and Caleb Williams looked like the quarterback Chicago hasn't had since Mrs. O'Leary's cow kicked over the lantern. And now the predictable is happening in the Windblown City.
The citizenry is turning into all those fat guys in that old "Da Bearz" SNL skit.
If Caleb Williams fought Superman, who would win?
Caleb Williams!
If you made one team out of the Lombardi Packers, the Chuck Noll Steelers and the Bill Walsh 49ers, and they played Da Bearz, who would win?
Da Bearz!
That sort of thing.
And, OK, sure, there's likely plenty of skepticism out there. But the fan base is all revved up. Even the Chicago media is in on it, with columnists columnizing that Caleb Williams is the elite quarterback Chicagoans have been waiting for since great-grandpa was storming the beaches of Normandy and Sid Luckman was whupping various Giants, Eagles and Lions.
This is because the kid completed 23-of-29 throws yesterday for 226 yards and four touchdowns, and when he had to run he ran for 56 yards and averaged 14 yards per tote.
It's because the Bears are 4-2 now and have won their last three games by a combined score of 95-44.
It's because the Bears look like a real football team with a real quarterback, and it's just possible that's what they really are.
So I guess now is the time for the Blob to do what the Blob does best.
Stick a pin in some kid's balloon. Burst a bubble or two. Conjure rain just in time for the parade. All that.
Yes, I am That Guy. I'm the driver's ed instructor who was always telling you to SLOW THE (BLEEP) DOWN. I'm the party pooper, the buzz killer, the responsible one holding onto the back of your coat when you tried to rush headlong off the cliff.
I'm the guy who's saying, yes, the Bears are getting better every week, and Caleb Williams is getting better every week, and maybe he is the long-awaited golden child. But a couple of things must be said.
One, two of the Bears victories in their three-game win streak have come against the two worst teams in the NFL.
Two ... well, have you seen the Bears schedule from mid-November on?
Yes, it's OK to feel good about the last three games, but Jacksonville is 1-5 and the Jags only W came at home against the Indianapolis Colts, who never win in Jacksonville. And the Carolina Panthers, whom the Bears pole-axed last week, are also 1-5 and are giving up a tick under 34 points per game.
I'm not trying to feng anyone's shui here. I'm just pointing out that the Bears haven't exactly been beating up on the Lombardi Packers, the Noll Steelers or the Walsh 49ers.
Also, I've gotten a look at the schedule. And, ye gods, what a gauntlet from the week before Thanksgiving on.
Between Nov. 17 and Dec. 22, here's who the Bears play: The Packers, the Vikings, the Lions, the 49ers, the Vikings again and the Lions again. That's four teams with a current combined record of 16-6. And if you throw out the Niners, it's 13-3.
I'm guessing that's where we find out who these Bears really are.
Da Bearz? Or just, you know, the Bears?
Sunday, October 13, 2024
Proof of life
In the end, maybe it was just a numerology thing.
Purdue was playing a guy wearing 3 at quarterback, but then he got hurt. That handed the ball to a guy wearing 15, who was offered up as a live sacrifice to No. 23 Illinois in Champaign.
Except.
Except you know who else wore 15 at Purdue?
Drew Brees wore 15.
Mike Phipps wore 15.
I don't hold with much anymore in this world, but I think young Ryan Browne might have been channeling both yesterday for the Cradle of Quarterbacks.
All the live sacrifice did was steal some of that Notre Dame business, even though the Purdues lost in the end. He woke up the echoes, is what Browne did. Threw for 297 yards and three touchdowns on 18-of-26 passing. Pulled it down 17 times and rambled for 116 more yards. Cracked open some daylight for beleaguered running back Devin Mockobee, who crashed for 103 yards and another score on just 11 touches.
For one almost glorious afternoon, in other words, Purdue looked like an actual football team. The corpse Wisconsin embalmed 52-6 and Notre Dame humiliated 66-7 showed proof of life. Yeah, the Boilers lost again, because not even Browne/Brees/Phipps could make their DBs faster or their O-line block better. But it came down to one play, in overtime, against a ranked team on the road.
That play was the last play, Purdue down 50-49 in overtime. Ryan Walters went for the two-point conversion and the win rather than another OT, and, please, no howling from the peanut gallery. You go for the win on the road. Always. Football 101.
You especially do that if you're Purdue, and you haven't been within a light year of a W in over a month. So Walters dialed up a rollout for Browne, and the O-line leaked again, and Browne got buried.
Now, you can question why Walters didn't elect to just give the ball to Mockobee on that play, seeing how he was averaging almost a first down a carry. But Illinois was going to hit him with the entire state if Mockobee got the mail. Even Abe Lincoln would have been involved.
And so, the rollout. Everything else in the fourth quarter and OT had worked for Purdue -- in including a two-point conversion -- so why not that?
The Boilers were down 40-28, and then they scored. And then they pulled off an onside kick. And then they scored again, running the clock down to under a minute before they did.
That made it 41-40, Purdue. The aforementioned two-point conversion made it 43-40. All Illinois could reasonably hope to do was tie it to force OT.
Of course, the Illini did. It looked like curtains for them when the Boilers sacked quarterback Luke Altmyer, and then they almost sacked him again. But Altmyer got away and chucked it far downfield, where it was caught close enough for Illini kicker David Olano to cash a sand-wedge field goal and send it to OT.
That set up a hell of a finish on a hell of a weekend for college football. Arizona State knocked off No. 16 Utah. Alabama almost lost again when South Carolina recovered an onside kick, but an interception saved the Tide, 27-25. USC almost got No. 4 Penn State in L.A., but the Nittany Lions survived 33-30 in overtime.
No. 8 Tennessee beat unranked Florida in OT. No. 13 LSU beat No 9 Ole Miss in OT. No. 1 Texas blew out Oklahoma in the Red River Rivalry game. And of course No. 3 Oregon clipped No. 2 Ohio State 32-31 in the big showdown in Eugene.
The Blob hates the term "instant classic," but that one was an instant classic. I think the lead changed hands eleventy-hundred times. Neither team ever led by more than a touchdown. In the end, you could reasonably say only the clock was the difference, because Ohio State was driving when it ran out of seconds.
For Purdue, the difference was one last failed play. Coaches love to say there's no such thing as a moral victory, but one last failed play gives Walters a lot more to build on than one last note of the national anthem.
Which is where Purdue has commenced failing too many times this season.
Saturday, October 12, 2024
The carryover
You heard it, of course. You always do when women's sports are the topic du jour, and it always comes from the same crowd.
We're talking about the WNBA, of course.
We're talking about Caitlin Clark, and how she made the WNBA appointment viewing in a way it had never before been, and how Same Crowd sneered that only she could have raised the profile of such a lousy product.
"Wait'll Caitlin loses in the playoffs," went the refrain, or something like it. "No one will be watching this trash."
Except ...
Except Caitlin's been out of the picture for awhile now. And a whole lot of folks are still watching.
According to Sports Media Watch, which tracks these things, almost a million-and-a-half viewers tuned in Game 1 of the WNBA Finals, even though it was up against the NFL Thursday night game and Yankees-Royals in the ALDS. It was the most-watched Game 1 of the finals in league history, and the most-watched finals game, period, in 21 years.
And, yeah, more eyeballs were on Clark whenever she played. But even after she and the Indiana Fever lost in the first round, the playoffs have attracted more eyeballs this year in comparison to years past.
So clearly everyone who tuned in to watch Caitlin Clark saw something compelling besides just her. They got a look at the women's game itself, and they liked what they saw.
Call that the Caitlin Carryover if you like. But call it also a W for a league that deserves that and more.
Friday, October 11, 2024
Life, imitating ... well, you know
... in which the Blob begs your indulgence to make a brief detour into the muck-encrusted hellhole of American politics, seeing how there's a presidential election coming up in about three weeks.
Let's start with this: I am a devoted Stephen King fan.
Been one of his Constant Readers since I picked up a copy of "'Salem's Lot" almost 50 years ago, and it scared me so bad it gave me the heebie-jeebies to read it alone at night in my apartment. It also reeled me in completely, and now I've read a good chunk of everything he's churned out since.
Fast forward to the other day, when King observed that he unknowingly made Donald Trump a character in one of this books four decades ago, before anyone outside New York had barely heard of him. The book was "The Dead Zone." King named the would-be Trump character Greg Stillson, a raving demagogue with a cult-like following who was so outlandish you suspected King deliberately crafted him as a cartoon.
Well. Not so much, apparently.
Now the cartoon is very real, in a way King admits he never dreamed possible. And that makes him far more scary than any dark invention the Master of Horror has ever dreamed up.
That hit home a week or so ago, when Trump was spouting his usual nonsense up in Michigan and said this: "If I return to office I will cut electricity and energy prices by half within my first year!"
Something about that rang a bell. And then it dawned on me: It sounded very much like a line King had Greg Stillson say while on the campaign trail.
From "The Dead Zone," second paragraph, page 289 in the paperback edition:
"Third board!" Stillson roared. "... We're gonna have clean air and we're gonna have clean water and we're gonna have it in SIX MONTHS!"
Stillson as Trump. Trump as Stillson. Same tone, same loony promises, almost exactly the same rhythm and wording, 44 years apart.
If that doesn't make you shiver a little, you're a better man or woman than me. Or perhaps your mind doesn't run the same wild channels mine does.
Consider that a blessing, if so. Trust me.
The Yankees thing
The New York Yankees advanced to their 19th ALCS last night with a 3-1 win over Kansas City, and, well, that's a damn shame. The Royals were a better story -- reaching the division series a year after losing 106 games, how's that for rags-to-riches? -- and they're one of those small-market clubs you're sort of obligated to cheer for, and ... and ...
Oh, hell. Let's be honest here. The Blob just doesn't like the Yankees.
It's not so much that they throw coinage around like Frisbees, buying their Giancarlo Stantons and Juan Sotos with their filthy big-boy money. Other swanky clubs do that, too. And it's not even that they have any particularly disagreeable personages to despise.
I mean, Aaron Judge seems like a dude. And Gerrit Cole was a Pirate until he got too good for their cheapo ownership to pay. And frankly, outside of those two, Soto, Stanton and Anthony Rizzo, I know next to zero about most of the other pinstripes.
Alex Verdugo? Jon Berti? Anthony Volpe? That Torres guy with the weird first name (Gleyber)?
Sorry. Got nothin'.
Heck, even the way the Yankees won this series should be a plus. They didn't do it with neon and glitz. They ground it out with defense, pitching and just enough offense. No one personified that as much as Cole, who missed the first 2 1/2 months of the season with elbow trouble but slapped a padlock on the Royals' bat rack last night, scattering six hits and just one run across seven solid innings.
Still.
Still, I have just one request of either Cleveland or Detroit in the ALCS: Beat these dopes.
Why?
Because George Steinbrenner was a jerk, and Billy Martin was a jerk, and Reggie Jackson was a jerk. That's why.
"Well, that's just stupid, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "George and Billy are long dead. Reggie hasn't played in almost 40 years. And it's been nearly half a century since they were the ringmasters of that '70s Yankee circus everyone outside the five boroughs despised."
Yeah, I know. And you're right, it's stupid. It's also kind of pathetic if you think about it.
Nonetheless.
Go, you Guardians. Or, go, you Tigers.
Either one. Doesn't matter. Just do it.
Thursday, October 10, 2024
Touchy
Ken Rosenthal has been writing about baseball, and baseball players, since Abner Doubleday did not invent the game, or so it seems. It's why Fox hired him as a dugout reporter, because he's been there and seen that and knows up from down as well as anyone.
This did not stop the San Diego Padres from essentially banning him from their dugout last night, according to the website Awful Announcing.
It happened because Rosenthal, in his other gig as a baseball reporter for The Athletic, wrote a column the Pads didn't care for. In it, he said Manny Machado throwing a baseball into the Los Angeles Dodgers dugout the other day was a "punkish response" to L.A. pitcher Jack Flaherty hitting Fernando Tatis Jr. earlier in the game.
"Manny being Manny," Rosenthal called this.
That's because it was.
And that's because it was a punkish response.
Rosenthal also wrote Machado wasn't the only irritating Padre, that Nando can be a "smiling, dancing peacock," and that Jurickson Profar is like the kid who pulls the fire alarm at school and then says, "Who, me?".
Pretty tame stuff, with the added benefit of being true in Machado's case. Or at least I think it's tame stuff, if the opinion of a cranky codger who worked the sports beat for 40 years matters at all.
Nonetheless, the Padres got their shorts in a bunch about it, and refused to talk to Rosenthal.
In my day (while walking to school uphill both ways through the snow, natch) we would have called this "touchy." We also would have called the Padres a bunch of pansies, except we wouldn't have used the word "pansies."
Look. I get it. I do. It's a different time now, and athletes and organizations look down on us from Olympian piles of money which have given them a sense of entitlement outsized even by their standards. You'd think that would make them especially immune to the slings and arrows of mere mortals, but all it seems to have done is make them ... well, more touchy about them.
As in: "How dare mere mortals fire slings and arrows at us. They're mere mortals!"
I say this because the Rosenthal incident comes on the heels of the NFLPA wanting to ban reporters from its locker rooms, and from the WNBA players association getting all outraged because a highly decorated reporter asked a question the WNBPA deemed inappropriate.
No, wait. They deemed it "indecent."
This after Connecticut Sun guard DiJonai Carrington swiped at a Caitlin Clark pass during a first-round playoff game and got Clark in the eye with a fingernail. This immediately fired up the noxious "look-at-that-black-animal-picking-on-the-poor white-girl" crowd, who swore it was intentional even though it clearly wasn't.
Or at least it was clear to anyone who wasn't trying to mine some phony narrative.
Anyway, because Carrington had been less than complimentary of Clark in the past (more fuel for the phony narrative), the reporter in question, Christine Brennan of the Washington Post, asked Carrington in the postgame if the eye-poke was, in fact, intentional.
It was a completely legitimate question, given the context. And the reason it was legitimate is because it was Christine Brennan asking it. Christine Brennan generally doesn't ask questions just to stir up s***, despite what the WNBPA believes.
Brennan, it claimed in a statement was attempting "to bait a professional athlete into participating in a narrative that is false and designed to fuel racist, homophobic and misogynistic vitriol on social media."
Well, no one wants that.
If that's what Brennan was actually trying to do, she deserved to be called out for it. Unfortunately for the WNBPA, it didn't look that way to anyone else -- or least to those of us who've sat in postgames uncounted times and asked elephant-in-the-room questions of those best equipped to answer them.
As one of the two principals involved in the play, Carrington was certainly that. You can fault Brennan for then asking if Carrington was laughing on the bench about it, because that might have been trying to stir up s***.
But the initial question merely gave Carrington the opportunity, on the record, to deny the phony narrative. It's been a couple of weeks now, and I'm still trying to figure out how that was a bad thing. And how it was Brennan being "indecent."
All I keep coming back to is what I said at the top of this: Everybody's touchy these days. This is especially of the WNBA, whose players and coaches are learning that the welcome spotlight Clark has focused on their league comes with sometimes less-than-welcome scrutiny, too. You don't get one without the other.
Even if it's mere mortals bringing it.
Wednesday, October 9, 2024
The door, shown
Robert Saleh never had a chance, if what everyone thinks they know is actually what they know. If "NFL" truly stands for "Not For Long," as Jerry Glanville once told us, the clock started on Saleh the minute a mostly used-up boutique quarterback swapped shades of green, trading the Green Bay Packers version for the New York Jets version.
That boutique quarterback, of course, was Aaron Rodgers.
Today, he's 40 years old and his best days are a memory.
He's also still employed by the Jets, which is something Robert Saleh can no longer say.
The Jets canned him as their head coach Monday in as abrupt and brutal a manner as such cannings happen. Essentially, the guy showed up for work and was told he no longer worked there. Then they had security escort him from the building like a criminal.
A lot of people assumed Rodgers was behind all this, but none of the principals offer a scrap of evidence to support that. Ownership says Rodgers was never consulted on the firing, and both Rodgers and Saleh say their relationship was fine. That head coaches and their quarterbacks always say that publicly, of course, is the obvious counterweight here.
In any case, Saleh is out, because in the NFL, coaches are always going to be more expendable than players. This is especially true of quarterbacks, and it's really true of quarterbacks like Aaron Rodgers, who'll have a bust in Canton someday but not for anything he's doing now.
In New York, however, he was welcomed as a conquering hero, or at the very least The Man Who'll Make The Jets Less Jets-y. It's what they tend to do in New York, because it's an article of faith there that the city can elevate even those who are past elevation. So everyone looked at 40-year-old Aaron Rodgers and saw 28-year-old Aaron Rodgers, and owner Woody Johnson surrounded him with presumed quality, and suddenly a whole bunch of people who should have known better were saying, by golly, this could be a Super Bowl team.
One problem with that.
In all the excitement, everyone forgot they were the Jets.
Who haven't been to a Super Bowl since Joe Namath was a brash young'un, and not the affable senior citizen who sells you Medicare Advantage on TV today. The Jets have had a few decent teams in the 55 years since, but somehow they've always managed to Jets it up.
Sunday in London they seemed to be in the process of Jets-ing it up again, losing 23-17 to the still-unbeaten Vikings. That dropped them to 2-3 on the season, and the 40-year-old conquering hero contributed mightily, throwing three picks, completing just 53.7 percent of his passes (29 of 54) and putting up an exceedingly beige 54.9 quarterback rating. No one in New York would dare admit it, but those were Zach Wilson-eque numbers.
As in, "failed bonus baby Zach Wilson."
And yet ...
And yet, Rodgers is still Rodgers, sort of. He's still the pack mule Jets ownership loaded up with their hopes and dreams. So no way in hell they'd admit he was the problem, or at least a big part of it.
That left one guy to blame: The head coach.
And so, Saleh is gone, a week into October. The door has been shown. He's not the first NFL coach to be pink-slipped before Halloween, but a common thread runs through all of them: Desperation.
It's a panic move, and panic moves rarely work in the En Eff Ell. You can count the number of playoff teams that have made midseason coaching changes on a couple of fingers. That's because the players are still the same players; if they weren't up to the task before Coach was sent packing, it's unlikely they'll be up to the task after.
But, hey. Who knows. Maybe the Jets will stop Jets-ing, now that Saleh is gone. And maybe Aaron Rodgers really will be 28-year-old Aaron Rodgers again.
Nah.
Tuesday, October 8, 2024
A few brief thoughts on NFL Week 5
And now this week's edition of The NFL In So Many Words, the unremittingly polite Blob feature of which critics have said "Polite? Polite would be this wretched thing leaving the room, metaphorically speaking", and also "Polite? Yeah, about as polite as belching in church":
1. "You mean to say you haven't won here in a decade? Well, goodness, here you go, then." (The winless Jaguars, who tried to gift the Colts a win in Jacksonville for the first time since 2014, but managed to get their first W in spite of themselves)
2. "No, no, you need the W more than we do. Here, take it." (The J-ville jinxed Colts, who had the game lost, then had the game tied, then realized where they were and said, "Oh, right.")
3. In other news, the Panthers, the Bills, the Bengals, the Steelers. Also the Patriots, the Seahawks, the Browns, the Saints.
4. Graciously held the door to W open for the Bears, the Texans, the Ravens and the Cowboys. Just like the Patriots, Seahawks, Browns and Saints did for the floundering Dolphins, the so-so Giants, the resurgent Commanders and the mighty Chiefs.
5. "Hey, what about US? How come no one's holding the door open for US?" (The perpetually Jets-ing J-E-T-S Jets-Jets-Jets, after losing in London to the still-unbeaten Vikings)
6. "Ah, screw you. Like anyone's ever held the door open for us." (The also perpetually-snakebitten Vikings)
7. Meanwhile, back in Jacksonville ...
8. "No, really, we insist." (The Jags)
9. "No, no, we insist." (The Colts)
10. And so on.
Monday, October 7, 2024
A little locker room talk
I never really liked visiting locker rooms. I don't know many in the sportswriting biz who do.
They are cramped, some of them, and smell of stale sweat and analgesic, some of them, and there's a lot of crowded-subway jostling with other scribes and TV jamokes barking, "Move, you're in my shot." The players don't like this any more than we do. We are, after all, invading what they see as their personal space.
So suffice it to say I wasn't surprised the other day to see the NFLPA is pushing to close their locker rooms to reporters.
They cited the usual privacy and inner-sanctum issues, and while I get that, it also makes me immediately suspect this is just another way to squeeze the media. The reason it makes me suspect that is it's the NFL, which tends to be as media-averse as any other massive corporate monolith. Dealing with it is like dealing with the Kremlin sometimes.
As media savvy as it is media averse, of course, both the NFLPA and the league said all the right things about the proposed locker room ban, swearing it wasn't about limiting access but about finding a better way to accommodate everyone. It's what people who are trying to limit access always say before they limit access.
I say that because I worked the sports media gig for 40 years, and it makes me a highly skeptical creature. It also puts me at a loss to understand how they can close the locker rooms without limiting access.
This is especially true if you've got a tight window to file and need a player who doesn't come to the podium for the postgame presser. Or who dawdles in either getting there or in coming out of the locker room to talk.
Not to single anyone out, because he wasn't the only one, but I'm thinking here of Drew Brees during his Purdue years, when he was a notorious dawdler. You could finish a seven-course meal some days before Drew appeared at the podium. It got so bad the media relations crew set up a box in the south end zone at Ross-Ade so we could catch a few Drew bits before he headed for the locker room. We called it the Brees Box.
Anyway, there's that. (And, yes, before you accuse me of being a relic from the Pleistocene Age, I understand everything's online now and tight deadlines are presumably not as much of an issue). But there's also this: Some details you can't get outside the locker room.
Texture and context are not always possible in journalism, but when they are they add a fullness to the narrative not even video can replicate. You can be as accommodating as you like in bringing players out of the locker room to talk, but you can't always bring mood with them. For that you need more than just sound bites.
Let me give you can example. It's one I've used before, but it still works.
Years ago, before Bob Knight closed Indiana's basketball locker room and started limiting postgame access to three or four players, the Hoosiers suffered an especially dispiriting loss to Illinois (and Knight nemesis Lou Henson) at home. The game ended, the locker room opened, and in we trooped to a mausoleum.
Every IU player was sitting in front of his locker, stone-faced and silent. No one spoke unless spoken to. I was working for the late, great Anderson Daily Bulletin then, and so I sought out Ray Tolbert, the hometown guy from Anderson Madison Heights. It's been 40-some years now, but I can still remember his listless handshake and muted, sparse replies. It was a 180-degree turn from Ray's usual exuberance.
I was just a kid reporter then, but even I recognized how perfectly that encapsulated the entire night. So Ray, and the locker room vibe, wound up in my gamer.
Maybe that sort of thing doesn't matter as much anymore, I don't know. I've been out of the game for awhile now. But it made my story that night better, and it wouldn't have happened if I couldn't have gone into the locker room.
It was part of the job, in other words. Still should be, by my lights.
Sunday, October 6, 2024
Divergence
Watched a bit of two teams' football games yesterday, and it was like Robert Frost's two roads diverging in a yellow wood. One team was taking the well-trodden route; the other, the road less traveled by.
The teams were Indiana and Purdue. I'll let you figure out which was which.
Indiana, hard by the shore of Lake Michigan in Northwestern's temporary digs, let the Wildcats hang around too long but pulled away late to win 41-24. It was the Hoosiers' sixth victory in six games, and they're ranked now, and in five of their six wins they've scored at least 40 points.
Oh yeah: They also became the first team in FBS to become bowl-eligible. Indiana, for pity's sake.
If you had that one in the office pool, the drinks are on you tonight.
And Purdue?
Oh, me, oh, my. The Boilermakers got romped again, 52-6 by Wisconsin, and, good lord, what a vacant lot of a football team. Wisconsin is not known for its wide receivers, but the Badgers' wideouts frolicked through Purdue's secondary like antelope at play, catching balls in the clear and then outrunning one, two, three Purdue DBs like they were statuary. The speed differential was both obvious and embarrassing.
Wisky's backup quarterback, Braedyn Locke, threw for 359 yards and three scores for a team that's traditionally lived by the run. Purdue's best players, meanwhile, continued to struggle; talented tight end Max Klare caught just two balls for 26 yards, and stellar running back Devin Mockobee again had nowhere to go far too often, squeezing out 45 yards on 11 carries.
In short, Purdue is a program devolving before our eyes, and the worst part for second-year head coach Ryan Walters is what's happening in Bloomington under first-year coach Curt Cignetti. Coach Cig brought in a bunch of transfers from his powerhouse James Madison team, and snagged fifth-year senior quarterback Kurtis Rourke from Ohio in the MAC, and, voila, the Hoosiers are a new-look team that hardly resembles your traditional Hoosiers.
In other words, they're clocking people, instead of the other way around. The makeover has been instant and thorough.
And, yes, a big reason for that is Cignetti has a significant NIL war chest to play with, and he's used it and the unrestricted transfer portal to do what successful programs do in 2024, which is transform his program almost instantly. It's not like the old heads used to do it, bringing in blue-chip freshmen and molding them into a juggernaut across four years.
Well, later for that, in our instant gratification world. College football is Mercenary Ball now, and if you're slow to accept or adjust to that new reality, you get left behind. My wife Julie, a lifelong IU basketball fan if not much of a football fan, has taken to calling Cignetti's team the Rent-A-Hoosiers. I say, yes, they are, and the sky is blue. Everyone's a Rent-A-Something now, and there's nothing for it except to become one yourself.
Which brings us back to Purdue.
If they're the Rent-A-Boilers they don't seem to have played that game as aggressively as their rival to the south, and maybe that is or isn't because Purdue's athletic administration has been less aggressive in building its own NIL war chest. I honestly don't know, and so I'm reluctant to say that with stone certainty.
But to the naked eye, and with some notable exceptions, it seems obvious the Boilermakers are a significantly under-talented Big Ten football team. And that Walters is either out of his depth or close to it. Which is why right now they're clearly the worst team in the conference.
And Indiana, suddenly, is among the best, or at least looks capable of hanging with the best. It's worth noting that the meat of the schedule -- Nebraska, Washington, Michigan, Ohio State -- lies just ahead, which means 6-0 Indiana could become 7-4 Indiana in a hurry.
Or, you know, not. Strange things, and sometimes wonderful things, happen when two roads diverge in a yellow wood.
Saturday, October 5, 2024
Homecomings
Went to the alma mater's homecoming football game last night because an old friend asked me to sit in on their radio broadcast, and I was reminded again how the theorists and slide-rule boys got it all wrong. Turns out time travel does exist.
I know this because as I was walking into John Young Field at New Haven High School (long may its purple-and-gold live!), I happened to glance over at a huddle of kids chatting away. One of the girls was wearing ... well, not bell-bottoms, exactly, but pretty close.
And the weirdest thing happened.
For a second or two -- maybe not even that -- it was 1971 again. I could feel it. All the sounds and smells of those days (not to say the insecurities of scrawny teenage me) rippled past like a hurrying breeze, and then were gone.
Now, I don't know if that had anything to do with the fact it was homecoming again, and '71 is the first homecoming I remember. But '71 was stuck in my head for the rest of the evening.
First thing I ever wrote for publication was about the '71 homecoming, for one thing.
I was a newbie on the staff of the school paper (the New Haven Herald, long may it ... publish) because my best friend Kevin Leininger, who grew up to be a journalist of some renown here in the Fort, convinced me I'd be good at it. I joke to this day I've never forgiven him for setting me on the path to less than fabulous riches.
Anyway, they sent me out to do a color piece on homecoming, and so I basically just roamed around all night collecting impressions. The theme was rain, because that's what it did that night. So I wrote about crepe paper melting in the rain on homecoming floats, and the homecoming queen and her court looking like drowned princesses in the rain, and the football team slogging its way through the rain to a rare victory.
Beat newly-formed Wayne High School that night, as I recall. All I remember about the Generals is they ran out of the single wing -- a formation so archaic it was almost new again, and therefore effective if executed properly.
I told that story on the radio last night, even though the only thing about it that was relevant was the football team, as in '71, didn't win very often. In fact, the 2024 Bulldogs hadn't won at all until last night, when they pounded the gunk our of equally winless Bellmont, 50-9.
Other than that, there wasn't much to tie '24 to '71. The weather, for one thing, was gorgeous, clear and windless and awesomely mild for early October. The field was immaculate state-of-the-art artificial turf, not a churn of slick mud and grass. And the head coach was not old-school John Becker, but 27-year-old rookie Vance Shearer.
Friday was his first victory as a head coach. So of course he got the ritual Gatorade bath.
If the players had done that to John Becker back in '71, they'd have been running gassers on Monday until they were tripping on their tongues.
Or not, on second thought. Because perhaps things weren't as old school as I remember from 53 years distance.
Time travel notwithstanding.