The toll, continued

 Last night I watched "Concussion" again, the flick in which Will Smith plays Dr. Bennet Omalu, a pathologist who's largely credited with discovering CTE, or chronic traumatic encephalopathy. I did it because Billy Ray Smith Jr. and Ahman Green were in the news this week.

Billy Ray Smith Jr. -- whose father, Billy Ray Sr., played on the same Baltimore Colts defensive line with Bubba Smith -- was in the news because he's dead. A former Pro Bowl linebacker for the San Diego Chargers, he was 64 years old and died from what his family says was CTE  dementia.

And Ahman Green?

The leading rusher in Green Bay Packers history was in the news because he announced on a podcast he had early-onset Parkinson's, a neurological disorder that's frequently accompanied by Lewy-Body dementia. I know this because my dad died of it, slipping slowly away from us until he simply wasn't there anymore.

My dad was 91. Ahman Green is just 49. But sure enough, he says his short-term memory is "trash" now.

Green played 12 seasons in the NFL, after high school ball and college ball at Nebraska. Billy Ray Smith Jr. played 10 seasons in the NFL, after high school ball and college ball at Arkansas, where his daddy also played. 

Now, it's far too presumptuous to say Billy Ray Jr. would be alive today, and Ahman Green's short-term memory would be just fine, had they not played what has become our great American game. But it's not presumptuous at all to say banging heads at cartoon speeds for 18, 19, 20-some years is hardly the secret to a long and healthy life.

Football ain't good for you. Which is not exactly a revelation handed down from above.

On the other hand, it's also a multi-billion dollar industry and a cultural touchstone, which means it's not going anywhere soon. The trick is to alleviate the toll without destroying what created that industry and that touchstone.

The Blob is of the opinion it can't be done. Not to everyone's satisfaction, anyway.

The codgers and knuckle-draggers already are shaking their bony/hairy fists at their TV screens on fall afternoons, saying the colleges and the NFL have let pantywaists and sissies take over the game. Can't touch a quarterback anymore. Can't clock a receiver going over the middle. And what the hell is "targeting," anyway?

Why, son, targeting's just sorting through the pile until you find the schlub with the ball, and then knocking the goo out of him. It's what Dick Butkus or Ray Nitschke or Night Train Lane did on every blessed snap.

And the guys who wind up like Billy Ray Jr. or Ahman Green because of it?

Well, they knew the risks. Didn't they?

The problem with that is they didn't know the risks, or at least the worst of them. And the reason they didn't know, at least on the professional level, is the NFL -- the very pinnacle of the American game -- didn't want them to know. It's why the league spent better than a quarter century telling the world concussions were just a bump on the head, and didn't affect brain function at all. Heck, that's what the helmets were designed to prevent, wasn't it?

So the league just kept stacking cash, while at the same time trying to wreck the careers of the Dr. Omalus of the world. It wasn't just irresponsible; it was flat-out criminal.

And meanwhile, CTE kept showing up in more and more deceased NFL players.

In Junior Seau and Andre Waters and Justin Strzelczyk and Dave Duerson, gone before their time.

In old timers like Frank Gifford and Paul Hornung and Ken Stabler; Jim Kiick and John Mackey and, yes, Bubba Smith.

The toll, continued.

The toll, which is unavoidable without pissing off the fan base -- or at least the codger/knuckle-dragger constituency, most of whom have likely never stood on a modern major college or NFL sideline and heard the sound it makes when two 220-pound 4.5-forty cyborgs come together at warp speed.

I have heard it, and it makes a sound like a car crash. Unless you've also heard it, you simply can't imagine.

Look. Football is not going to go away. We've established that. So what is its future?

Its future is maybe abolishing tackle football until, I don't know, middle school or so.

Its future is a game the codgers and knuckle-draggers hate, but that in time will simply be the football succeeding generations grew up with.

Its future is what I saw on TV the other day.

It was a bunch of kids in shorts and T-shirts playing in the National Flag Football Championships, and it was a blast to watch. There was a girls division and a boys division. The football was fat and white and reminded me of the ball they use in Australian Rules Football. There was running and passing and terrific catches and, on one play, a leaping one-handed interception that turned into an amazing pick six.

It's everything athletic we love about football, without brains getting knocked to squash inside skulls. I don't think it'll ever replace the tackle version, but no one who plays flag is going to die not knowing his or her own name.

He or she won't be Billy Ray Smith Jr., or even Ahman Green. Which is how I wound up watching a certain movie last night, and thinking about all this.

An educator's reward

 Drove past the place that will bear Russ Isaacs' name from this fall on, and it's a fine-looking joint. Immaculate emerald turf, grandstands gleaming in the sun on either side, big modern scoreboard looming above the south end zone. There's even a pressbox (Thanks, guys!) done up in the school colors of black and gold.

It's been years and a couple of state championships coming, but Snider High School will have a home field come late August. Should have -- could have -- been done a long time ago, but high school football fields don't come cheap these days, and the money always seemed to be needed elsewhere.

But now the thing is done at a price tag of $30 million, and if the usual codgers will gripe about that ("In our day we didn't need $30 million for a football field, we just used Farmer Brown's cow pasture!"), no one within earshot is griping about calling the place Russ Isaacs Stadium. This is because Snider could hardly have named it for anyone else.

Calling someone an institution is far too easy in these devalued days, but if Russ Isaacs isn't one at Snider High School, they should retire the word. He spent 50 years walking the halls there, for one thing, and during that time he did everything but sell popcorn -- and who knows, he might have done that, too.

Most of us knew him as Snider's head football coach for 18 years, during which time his teams won the school's first state title and were runnersup a couple of other times. But that was just one hat he wore.

He also coached wrestling and taught business and served as dean of students and athletic director at various times, a career arc that virtually made him Mr. Snider. And something more, above all else: An educator.

You could miss that on Friday nights, when Russ prowled the Snider sideline wearing the football coach's trademark glower above his signature Fu Manchu. One of the local teevees once aired footage of one of his fiery locker room speeches, and my wife saw the Fu and that intense gaze and said, "He looks mean."

All I could do was chuckle.

"You couldn't be more wrong," I said.

Because when you got to know Russ you quickly discovered there was more to him than Triple Flood X-Curl On Two. Underneath the glower and the intensity was a man who saw football its proper context -- not as an end in itself, but as part of the educational whole. It's why he always wanted his football players to wrestle or run track or play baseball or whatever, because he realized they'd be better football players and more wholly rounded young adults because of it.

Recently, one of his former students addressed that very thing in a letter to the Fort Wayne Community Schools board, which announced last week Snider's new field would be named for Isaacs, and honored him for his induction earlier this summer into the National High School Athletic Coaches Hall of Fame.

"He had a unique gift for seeing potential where others saw limits," wrote Terry McKinney, a 1989 Snider grad, as quoted in The Journal Gazette. "He pushed me tirelessly to maximize whatever ability I had. And, more importantly, he demanded and encouraged me to become the best man I could possibly be."

In other words, Russ Isaacs did what an educator is supposed to do, if he or she is at all devoted to the calling.

He educated.

The money game

We begin today with this, from ESPN yesterday:

Notre Dame has reached a multiyear deal with SoFi Technologies that will place the financial service company's brand on the Fighting Irish's jerseys in every sport starting this season, the university announced Tuesday.

The six-year deal is worth about $18 million to $20 million per year, according to industry sources, and is believed to be the richest in college athletics history ...

And so it goes, and so it goes, as Kurt Vonnegut was so fond of saying.

So it goes, as our congress critters put their shaggy heads together to figure out what to do about college athletics, now that college athletics has gone full professional. As usual with the politicians, they're about 30 years too late.

See, the road to athletes-for-hire and unrestricted transfer portal warfare didn't begin yesterday, when Notre Dame signed on with a financial services company and Ohio State finalized a $17 mill deal to plaster its student-athletes with (speaking of financials) JP Morgan Chase logos. No, indeedy.

It began the first time a school cut some chunky deal with an apparel company, and turned its student-athletes into billboards for its corporate partners by outfitting them in Nike swooshes and the like. It began when schools started selling some rocket-launcher quarterback's jersey in the school bookstore, and Rocket Launcher didn't see a dime.

It began when the college pashas decided it was OK for video game companies to use images of student-athletes without the student-athletes' permission, and again without any compensation for them. And it began the first time a Nick Saban or Dabo Sweeney signed an eight-digit deal to coach football, or the Big Ten or SEC or Notre Dame inked their own eight-to-ten-digit agreements with ESPN or NBC or Fox or CBS.

So, yeah, it's a money game now for the sis-boom-bah set, and what else is new? Other than the worker bees getting to negotiate their own fat arrangements these days.

Which, let's face it, is why the politicians are suddenly in a dither about Saving College Athletics. Don't recall any of them palavering about College Athletics needing Saving when the universities started paying the Sabans and Dabos like CEOs.

Look. There's no denying the current system is unsustainable, if for no other reason than it's not really a system. Thanks to the NCAA's benign neglect, it's Judge Roy Bean and the Law West of the Pecos now. Which of course is no law at all.

But that's hardly the fault of the "student-athletes," who are only following the example set for them over the years by their colleges and universities. You reap what you sow, and the reaping has scorched the earth. So at least some structure would be, you know, nice.

Letting Congress pokes its nose in, however, is hardly a solution. Especially under the current Regime, which rivals Larry, Curley and Moe in its ability to make a bad situation worse.

You want to "fix" college athletics?

Great. Turn the clock back.

Let the SoFis and Morgan-Chases contribute to a school's scholarship and career development programs without using the student-athletes to promote their businesses. Make the coaches part of the university again by paying them like any other member of the faculty and requiring them to teach academic courses, the way they used to. And tell the ESPNs, CBSes   and NBCs they're welcome to televise the games, but the schools reserve the right to decide where and when.

"Oh, come on, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "That's totally unrealistic. You might as well  try to bring back the Model T."

Maybe so. But you know what?

At least the Model T was reliable.

An ancient lament

 Some guys re-invent the wheel. Others just re-invent complaining about how boring the wheel can be when you put it in the wrong place.

And so here I am today, cruising the tangled undergrowth of the interwhatsis per usual. And here are all these folks saying what a shame it was NASCAR couldn't put on a better show at motorsports' holiest of holies ... and, gee whiz, what a snooze-fest that was ... and, boy howdy, how embarrassing was it when the cameras went wide-angle and it looked like you could hit most of the grandstands with a grenade launcher and not harmed a soul?

One wiseass even compared the Brickyard 400 to the Tournament of Roses parade, and said if he squinted just right he could see Goofy running fifth on the City of Pasadena float.

Oh, wait. That was me who wrote that.

Fifteen years ago.

In a column I wrote about the president of Fox saying the problem with NASCAR was its races were just too darn long.

In other words, all this chatter about the Brickyard -- even about the length of races, which Kyle Larson brought up on Sunday -- is as old as the sands of antiquity. So as I hacked through the aforementioned undergrowth, all I could do was smile and shake my head and mutter, "You guys been living in a cave somewhere?" 

Because the Brickyard's been a lousy venue for the stock car boys since practically forever, and you can credit Dale Jarrett and Robert Yates for exposing that. Back when the world was young -- OK, so when the Brickyard 400 was, anyway -- Yates brought all those muscle-y Fords to Indy, and in 1999 Jarrett just drove away from everyone in one, rendering comatose the six-figure crowd broiling in the early August sun.

Jarrett led 117 laps that day, as everyone else hopelessly gave chase. And there, perhaps, you had the birth of the ancient lament: Gee, this is a really special place and all, but, man, the racing is BORRR-ing.

And then along came 2008, which killed the vibe for good. Two calamities showed up at once that year: One, the economy crashed, hitting the working class that has always been NASCAR's base hardest of all; two, Goodyear brought a marshmallow to Indy instead of a racing tire, turning the Brickyard into a series of half-hour episodes punctuated by mandatory yellows to switch out the Stay-Pufts.

That was the end of the mega-crowds, and the beginning of advertising and American flags covering vast swatches of the Speedway's miles of seating. The race still draws 70,000 or so every year -- other venues would kill for that sort of turnout -- but 70,000 in the vastness of IMS looks like empty. Horrible visuals, in other words.

Anyway, 18 years have passed since 2008 stuck a fork in the Brickyard 400. Which of course makes the internet chatter the last couple of days very old news to those of us with long memories.

"What a boring race!" they cry, or words to that effect.

Well, yes, and what else is new?

"What a terrible venue for NASCAR!" they cry.

Yes, and water is wet.

"Not a single green-flag pass for the lead!" "These races are too long, especially this one!" "It's all the fault of this terrible Next Gen car!"

Replies, in order: Been there, done that ... What, you're just noticing? ... No, it's not exclusively the fault of the Next Gen car. Because the Brickyard was an afternoon nap when the Original Gen car was was tooling around the place.

So what to do about it?

Nothing, because no one's going to tear down IMS and start over again. Although I suppose what might help, at least for the race-length part of it, is getting rid of the idiotic stage system -- a wholly artificial construct which brings everything to a screeching halt twice a race for made-for-TV restarts, and which everyone ignores except the talking heads who are paid not to.

Quick: Who won Stage 1 and Stage 2 on Sunday?

That would be Ty Gibbs and Ross Chastain. But you'd never have known that if I hadn't told you just now.

So, yeah, offload it. As for the rest ... it is what it is. 

Which is a phrase I hate like Brussels sprouts. But it seems to fit here.

Heim time

 I wouldn't know  a genuine phee-nom these days if he went upside my head with his phee-nomness, this being an era of supercharged hype. But I think I saw one yesterday, tooling around the Indianapolis Motor Speedway in a stock car.

His name is Corey Heim, he turned 24 just three weeks ago, and if he's not the next big star in NASCAR Cup racing, he sure played one on TV yesterday. Driving the 67 car for Michael Jordan and Denny Hamlin's team, 23XI Racing, he qualified seventh for the Brickyard 400, passed his boss (Hamlin) for the lead on the last restart, and led 58 laps -- including the last 35, when Christopher Bell and an onrushing Joey Logano were filling his mirrors and every nerve in his body must have been singing arias.

But the kid stayed cool, the kid stayed chilly. Despite his ride getting looser with every lap -- and despite the veteran Bell hanging within half-a-second of him all the way -- he just kept getting into and off of Indy's notoriously quirky corners, never giving Bell enough of an opening to get a run on him.

It was a masterful piece of wheel work from a young driver who A) isn't even a full-time Cupper yet, and B) had never so much as seen IMS until this weekend.

And yet there Corey Heim was at the end, kissing the bricks, kissing his girlfriend and kissing the trophy as if Indy were, I don't know, South Hog Wallow Speedway or somewhere. He'll run all of 12 Cup races this season, and already in his first eight starts he's  won two of them -- including, yesterday, one of the series' crown jewels.

Last guy to win twice in his first eight Cup starts?

Some dude named A.J. Foyt. Perhaps you've heard of him.

So who is Corey Heim?

Well, he hails from Marietta, Ga., and last season he won NASCAR's Craftsman Truck series in a blowout. Won a series-record 12 races, and led at least a lap in every race on the schedule. 

Everyone knew the kid was special, in other words. But this special, this fast?

Hoo boy. 

Now, it must be said here that Heim's win was only the culmination of a weekend in which youth was well-served. Carson Hocevar, who started on the pole and finished ninth, is just 23. Tyler Gibbs, also just 23, started fourth and led 46 laps. So there's that.

There's also this: At 24, Heim is the youngest Brickyard winner since ... well, since a dude named Jeff Gordon, who was just 23 when he won the first Brickyard 400 in 1994.

Perhaps you've heard of him, too.

A too-close encounter

 (In which the Blob departs Sportsball World for a brief excursion to Wackadoodle World, or something like that. The standard hall pass/library procedures apply to all those who don't want to make the trip.)

I've always wondered what a certified loon of the MAGA variety would sound like in person, not being one who runs in those circles. Thanks to a trip to the supermarket to replenish my ice-cream bar stash, I wonder no longer.

 See, I bumped into this guy walking out. And out of nowhere he turned around and asked if I knew how long it would take to count to a trillion. 

"A while?" I guessed.

"THIRTY-TWO THOUSAND YEARS!" he bellowed.

He was a raggedy sort who looked to be about my age (71), with gray aging-hippie hair and a gleam in his eye that was genial with a touch of ... well, crazy. And as we stood there, he launched into a tirade about the trillions the government spends, and how we needed to "cut the head off the snake" because the Deep State and the New World Order were coming for us, and also the damn Muslims.

"They ARE the New World Order!" he cried, or words to that effect. "And, boy, if you don't believe the way they believe they'll cut your head off! That's gonna happen here if we don't do something about it! You know what I'm sayin'?"

I said, sure, absolutely (or words to that effect). and we parted ways in the parking lot.  After which I said to myself, "Well, THAT was interesting" and headed home before the ice cream bars melted.

Later still I surmised that my too-close encounter of the nutso kind was with a man who was likely mentally ill and off his meds, if in fact he'd ever been on them. I also suspected (entirely without evidence, mind you) that he spent an inordinate amount of time watching Fox News or Newsmax or one of the other hard-right propaganda outlets, which daily stoke the sort of paranoia and nutso-ness my friend displayed in all its glory.

Can a steady diet of Laura Loomer or Laura Ingraham or Dan Bongino literally drive you insane? An interesting hypothesis.

In any case, now I know what a certified MAGA loon sounds like. As they say, you learn something every day.

A narrative derailed

 Team Spoon beat Team Coop 129-122 last night in the WNBA All-Star game, and, hey, look, none of those mean black girls (or mean white girls) punched out Caitlin Clark. Why, there's even a picture here of All-Star game MVP Jonquel Jones holding the trophy in one arm and hugging Caitlin with the other.

And when Caitlin dropped back-to-back logo threes on her way to 17 points?

Paige Bueckers from Team Coop -- one Clark's "rivals" who allegedly are just eaten up with jealousy of her -- didn't sneer or make a snippy comment or turn green with envy.

Nah. She just laughed and said "You goin' for MVP? Damn!"

This was bad news for the yapping sports talk poodles and other media poop-stirrers who've been working overtime to sell the narrative that poor Caitlin's being roughed up and persecuted by (choose one or all) hate-filled lesbians; hate-filled black lesbians; or  hate-filled established stars who can't stand that this relative newcomer is stealing their starlight with fame she doesn't deserve.

So they're playing rough with her because it's a jealousy thing or a black-white thing or a gay-straight thing, and not because, well, it's a rough league and has been for a long time -- mainly because the officiating stinks like Christmas leftovers in March.

It's a narrative that ignores the fact CC sometimes brings it on herself, because she's a platinum-grade chirper and an enthusiastic seller of fouls. And then chirps at the officials when they don't buy, which is why she's one tech away from a game's suspension.

None of this is criticism, mind you, at least explicitly. After all, Clark's hardly the first player, nor will she be the last, to bring a certain combativeness to her work. You could even argue it's part of why she's so good.

But when the media and grandstanding politicians choose to refract that through a black-white, gay-straight lens, they're using Clark to push an agenda, not reality. And that rightly ticks her off.

"I think there's just like a false characterization of who I am sometimes," she said in an ESPN interview Friday. "And I get it, like as a reporter or blogger, you can write an opinion piece and that's your job and whatever, but at the same time, you don't know me. We've never had a conversation.

"I get people have a job to do, but at the same time, like don't make accusations about my character and who I am when you don't know me."

Absolutely. And the villains in this manufactured narrative could say exactly the same thing.

Perhaps last night they did.

Brickyard memories

It's either a measure of my own squishy mind, or the continuing diminishment of one of NASCAR's crown jewels, that the Brickyard 400 just flat snuck up on me this week.

It was Thursday before I realized the stock cars were at Indy again this weekend, and that's a hell of a note for someone who spent the first 20 Brickyards sweating through his shirts in the midsummer IMS heat. Covered Jeff Gordon's first win at Indy in the first Brickyard, and covered his last win there in the 20th. Not that I was going for symmetry or anything.

In any event, they're runnin' the big track again today, and it's not Gordon or Dale Earnhardt or Jimmie Johnson bringing them to the green. It's some kid named Carson Hocevar, who hails from Portage, Mich., just south of Kalamazoo. Carson Hocevar is 23 years old, which is the same age Gordon was when he won the first Brickyard in 1994.

Not that I was going for symmetry or anything.

Anyway, I know next to nothing about Carson Hocevar, except that if you'd asked me I'd have guessed he centered the second line for the Montreal Canadiens. I also know next to nothing about the team he drives for -- Spire Motorsports -- except that it's not Hendrick or Gibbs or Penske or Michael Jordan's team.

What I do know is I'll probably watch the Brickyard anyway, on account of those 20 years I covered it and the memories they stir. Which I suppose means this is as good a time as any to resurrect what I wrote two years ago on the 30th anniversary of the first Brickyard ...

Thirty years on now, and ye gods, time is a mighty river. It rolls and rolls and now it's 2024, and 1994 seems as far away sometimes as Model Ts and bathtub gin.

It  is not, of course. I know this even though Rick Mast is 67 years old now and owns an environmental cleanup service down in  Rockbridge Baths, Va., and he hasn't strapped into a stock car in 22 years.

Rick Mast, you see, brought the field to the green as the polesitter in the first Brickyard 400 on the first Saturday in August in 1994. This weekend the Brickyard turns 30, but Rick Mast is where this all starts for me, because I was there for the first one and somewhere I have a photo of Mast in his black-and-white No. 1 diving into the first turn on the first lap. 

If I dug that photo out of whatever box it's in now, it would all come back to me: The 250,000 Mass O' Humanity; the newness; the blare of Detroit iron rocketing off those cliffs of grandstand running the length of the most famous main straightaway in motorsport. 

I close my eyes now, and I see a forest of Confederate stars-and-bars fluttering above the campers along 25th Street, because NASCAR gonna NASCAR. I see the thin smoke rising from the morning campfires. And I see the men and women in their Dale Earnhardt Goodwrench shirts and Ricky Rudd Tide shirts and Terry Labonte Kellogg's Corn Flakes shirts watching the morning bacon sizzle, and cracking open the first cold one of the day. 

Oh, it was some show, that first Brickyard. The Journal Gazette sent four (or was it five?) of us down to cover the thing, and all four (five?) of us crammed into one tiny hotel room clear across town from the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. It was just about the only lodging left in the whole blessed town.

Out at the track, meanwhile, there was this prevailing sense of wonder ("Holy gee, Martha! Stock cars at Indy!") to everything, and not a little out-of-body weirdness. It wasn't just looking up and seeing Rudd or Earnhardt or Rusty Wallace rumble out of the garage area in their Fords or Chevies or Pontiacs. It was looking up and seeing Indy 500 veterans Danny Sullivan and Gary Bettenhausen and Stan Fox wheeling stock cars around, and A.J. Foyt trying to stick a Barney-the-Dinosaur-purple car in the show.

Eighty-six entries showed up looking to get in the field, and some of them were driven by  ancients. Fifty-two-year-old Morgan Shepherd was there. Fifty-seven-year-old H.B. Bailey.  And then there was 66-year-old Hershel McGriff, who'd started racing when he came back from the war in 1945.

Everyone wanted in on this, in other words. Everyone was acutely aware history was riding shotgun with them in a way it perhaps never would again -- and that included me with my little cheapo camera, and all the other media who crammed into the tiny cinderblock building  that served (inadequately) as the media center then.

What we all got from that first Brickyard was not only history but a decent race besides, and none of us then understood how rare a thing the latter would become. The stock-car boys barreled down those long, long straightaways and through the squared-off, one-groove turns, and there were some fascinating storylines. 

Who could forget the Battlin' Bodines, Geoff and Brett, who wrecked one another and then went public with their brotherly feud? And who could forget the finish, when it got down to Ernie Irvan, Rusty Wallace and young Jeff Gordon?

Irvan was leading when he had a tire go down, opening the door for Gordon, who grew up eight miles down the road in Pittsboro. The kid blazed home to the checkers, and it was as if the narrative was ordained by the racing gods: (Almost) hometown boy wins the first Brickyard 400.

Now it's 30 years later, and Jeff Gordon is a 53-year-old racing exec and elder statesman. And I haven't been to a Brickyard 400 since 2015, long after the shine wore off and the multitudes stopped coming because the racing frankly stinks, becoming a really loud parade of sponsor billboards more often than not ...

But 30 years ago?

Well, I've got this photo here to remind me how different it was. And hanging in my closet I've got an inaugural Brickyard 400 polo I bought that weekend, with a gold-and-purple crest that forever reminds me of the date: Aug. 6, 1994 ... 

Time like a mighty river, carving its path.

Writer-ly sins

I once wrote a line in a column that spoofed a player's unusual name with bathroom humor unworthy of a sixth-grade boy. So I know how it feels when you try too hard to be clever or deep or, heaven forbid, writer-ly, and wind up stepping in a big ol' pile of goo.

"You're better than this," my sports editor told me at the time.

He was absolutely right. I was.

And Nancy Armour is better, too.

By now social media has been all up in our faces with its usual performative outrage about what Armour wrote the other day in a USA Today column about Caitlin Clark. The gist was that Clark's own performative victimhood -- i.e., her flopping -- was inciting death threats and possible violence against black players in the WNBA from the lint brains who see white folk as the new persecuted class.

It's an interesting theory, but one that tightropes the rational in the Blob's opinion. And Armour didn't help her cause by pointing out that the WNBA All-Star Game was in Chicago this weekend, and Chicago was Emmett Till's hometown, and there's a display there right now about Till and what his life would have been like had he not been brutally lynched in Mississippi in 1955.

So here's a national columnist trying to make her point about possible threats to black basketball players by invoking one of the most notorious acts of racial violence in American history. It was not only a bridge too far; it was the saboteurs blowing up the bridge over the River Kwai at the end of the movie.

It was, in short, a big pile of goo, and Armour stepped in it. So much so, she issued a statement the next day admitting the Till reference was "unartful" while defending her original point.

Which, again, in the Blob's opinion, contains a grain of truth, but perhaps only a grain.  Plus it contributes to the damaging and largely phony black-vs.-white narrative the media and certain performance-art politicians (Come on down, Marlin Stutzman!) seem hell-bent on pushing about the WNBA.

Look. I don't know Nancy well, but I met her at several sporting events, and she always struck me as a kind, soft-spoken and incredibly intelligent person.  Someone who doesn't deserve the venom she's drawing from the usual buttheads for whom mining outrage is not only their brand, but their only discernible talent.

As one of my dearest friends and former colleagues pointed out with his usual laser perception, a good copy editor might have saved Armour from herself, or at the very least  have said, "Whoa, Nance, Emmett Till? Really?" But, as this friend also pointed out, the vandals who've either destroyed or gelded so many media entities these days -- including Gannett, for whom Nancy Armour works -- have laid waste to copy desks in the process.

You reap what you sow, in other words. Nice goin', dummies.

And Nancy Armour?

Yeah, she blew it this time. But you know how they say if 10,000 monkeys typed for 10,000 years, one of them would produce the works of Shakespeare?

Same applies to columnists, only in reverse. If you write 10,000 columns, sooner or later you're gonna write one that clanks. And Armour's written about 9,999 that didn't.

Even if, human nature being what it is, they only remember the one that sucked.

Today in irony

 Which involves our illustrious fear-mongering senator, James "Jimbo" "The Fear-Mongerer" Banks, who posted a photo of his ownself with NCAA president Charlie Baker that highlighted the pleasant chat they had about, among other things, how to "protect girls sports."

Protect them from what, he didn't have to say. Because by now we all know what.

It's those evil transgenders, who are invading girls and women's with their sick gender-confusin' transgender-in'. Not that Banks, butt-hurt former swimmer Riley Gaines or any of the other bigots have anything against transgenders, mind you. Oh, heavens, no.

Now for the irony.

The irony is the guy Banks is so proudly posing with is on record as saying there only 10 or so known transgenders competing in NCAA athletics. Ten out of 554,298 athletes circa the 2024-25 academic year.

In other words, Banks said he discussed this issue with a guy who says it's not really an issue, and has the numbers to back it up.

So we're back to the original question: Protect girls and women's sports from what?

Because claiming you're protecting them from transgenders is like claiming you're protecting Nebraska from killer whales. That is all.

Autumn whispers

 Listen close this fine summer morning, and you can hear it coming. Coming on little cleated feet, to cadge from Sandberg.

Football, boys and girls. And here you thought autumn was a ways off yet. 

To be sure it's a mere whisper of a whisper just now, a stir in the breeze under July's fierce sun. But sooner than you think -- so much sooner -- the little cleated feet will be clackety-clacking into our ordered lives again, and then the clackety-clack will become a CLACKETY-CLACK, and pretty soon it will be a CLACKETY-CLACKETY-CLACKETY-CLACK that fills the world.

I know this because ESPN's website is telling me this morning that NFL training camps are officially open.

I know it because the major college football conferences are beginning to roll out their annual preseason media ragers again.

I know it because I dreamed it last night.

Dreamed I was covering a high school football game between a local school (I won't name it, but the team wore orange) and some school I'd never heard of, and the local team's quarterback was throwing touchdown passes and catching touchdown passes, and a bunch of college coaches were there to watch him.

As dreams will do, the details have gone tattery around the edges here in the light of day. So I don't remember who the coaches were, only that they were big-deal guys. I've also lost the quarterback's name. the name of the school the orange team was playing (only that it was weird), or what the final score was (although the orange team won big).

What I do remember is the quarterback looked a little like Arch Manning, only he wasn't Arch Manning. And I remember he threw 54 passes and only completed 21, but four or five were for touchdowns -- including one that seemed to cover half-a-mile in the air before hitting the receiver in stride. Also, Not Arch Manning caught six passes for 72 yards, though I don't remember seeing him do it.

In other words, it was as ridiculous as dreams tend to be.

But it stayed with me long after I awoke, and now I'm thinking about football. About training camps opening up. About all those high school Friday nights -- including the night I got locked in some area school's stadium and had to climb an eight-foot fence to get out. And about our college mercenaries telling a mob of phones and tape recorders about the great season their latest whistle stop will have -- if in fact they can remember which whistle stop it is.

Yeah, we're gonna kick some prime booty here in Columbus this year. Wait, did I say Columbus? I meant Corvallis. Or maybe College Station. One of those "C" places.

Whatever, dude. In any event, I dreamed of football last night, and when I got up this morning it was 53 degrees outside and the windows were open and it felt almost ... kinda-sorta ... a wee bit like autumn. Like a Friday night, or a Saturday afternoon, or a Monday/Thursday/Sunday night.

And I know if I walk into a supermarket in the next few days, I'm going to see pumpkin spice Cheerios or something on the shelves. I know it.

The Republic of the SEC

 SEC commissioner Greg Sankey dropped a warhead the other day at the conference's preseason football soiree, and all the Blob has to say is, it's not like we haven't seen this before. Bunch of southerners talking about secession?  Old news, baby.

Yet that's what we've got here, because the warhead Sankey dropped was admitting that, hell, yes, the SEC might just go out on its own, and for much the same reasoning South used back in 18 and 61: Because a Union isn't working for them. The Union, in this case, being the NCAA.

Which admittedly has made total hash of college athletics here in the new age of NIL and unrestricted transfer portal warfare, to the extent that the college game is now just the pro game without any guardrails. The high-end talent goes where the money is, and, unlike the NFL or NBA or MLB, it can go there two, three, four times in four years if it wants to.

Free agency on that other level at least has some rules. Not so in the NCWildWest.

Which is why the SEC, or at least its leadership class, is seriously contemplating telling the NCAA to go fly a kite. And to form, I don't know, the Democratic Republic of the SEC or the Kingdom of Sis-Boom-Bah or the Confederate State U.'s of America or some such thing.

This of course would blow the current college construct to matchsticks, and it's a measure of just what a cluster that construct has become that a good chunk of America would say, "It's about damn time." And unlike that previous secession, it wouldn't carry the seeds of its own destruction from the jump.

The SEC could pull it off, see. It has the beefiest network in its corner (ESPN); its TV numbers are consequently the biggest; and you can't dial up March Madness, the College Football Playoff, or any other tournament in the revenue sports without tripping over six or eight SEC schools.

So, yeah. The Democratic Republic of the SEC could do its own thing -- and by its own rules, which it no doubt figures it could enforce better than the NCAA enforces its rules. If in fact it actually has any worth the name anymore.

A noble sentiment. But what happens then?

This is where the reception gets a bit fuzzy.

If the SEC goes out on its own, how long would it be before the other super conference -- the Big We-Can't-Count Ten -- breaks away, too? And if that happens, whither the Big 12, the ACC and so on? And speaking of the ACC, what would Notre Dame do if its longstanding deal with NBC either didn't survive the big shakeup, or would at least be significantly altered? 

What if Stonewall Jackson had been at Gettysburg?

Questions upon questions. For instance, if the SEC breaks away, would it stage its own March Madness? Its own CFP? Would it entice schools from the NCAA to participate with cash on the barrelhead and other incentives? And if it did, would the NCAA retaliate by trying to poach SEC schools for its tournaments by saying, fine, play with yourselves if you like, but wouldn't you rather be national champs?

Because you know the NCAA would claim whoever won its March Madness or CFP would be the REAL national champions, and not just champions of the Democratic Republic of the SEC.

"Nuh-uh!" you could imagine Sankey and the SEC responding.

 And there we'd be, with two different schools calling themselves national champs. Why, we'd be right back to the days (in football at least) when the AP poll declared one team the national champion, and the coaches' poll declared another team the national champion.

Voila: Dueling "We're No. 1!" bumper stickers.

Which actually was kinda fun, come to think of it.

Hmm.

The LeBron Watch

 So, then ...

Spain won the World Cup over a bunch of butt-hurt toddlers from Argentina.

A guy named Ryan Fox won The Open Championship by dunking a birdie putt on the 72nd hole ... after playing Royal Birkdale12-under across the last three days ... to become the first New Zealander to win the Open since Bob Charles way back in 1963.

The Boston Red Sox have won 14 straight games. Some guy is winning a bike race over in France. Caitlin Clark put up 45 points and 10 assists for the Indiana Fever the other night.

And still we don't know where LeBron James will be playing basketball this season.

"So?" you're saying now.

Also, "Is this like The Decision, only more annoying because LeBron's 41 years old now and it really doesn't matter where he plays basketball next year?"

Also, "In other words, who cares?"

The Blob's answers, in order: "What do you mean 'so'?" ... "Maybe" ... "'Who cares'? I'll tell you who cares -- Adam Silver."

Who is, of course, the commissioner of the NBA, and who the other day issued a public statement about the free agent negotiations of a single player. I can't say if this was unprecedented, but it was fairly extraordinary. And it demonstrated once again that LeBron James is one of the two or three greatest players in the history of basketball, and certainly the most significant player of his generation.

What Silver said, essentially, is LeBron needs to quit screwing around and tell everyone where his landing spot is for next season, which presumably will be his last. That's because where he lands will impact NBA scheduling, his auld-lang-syne season obviously requiring premo TV dates. So it would be nice to know which team to pencil in for those dates.

"Come on, LeBron," Silver said. "Poop or get off the pot."

OK, so he didn't actually say that. But the sentiment was there.

In response, of course, LeBron's close friend Rich Paul said King James will not be rushed, by Adam Silver or anyone else. He'll decide when he decides, and he'll go public with it when he goes public. This assumes he hasn't already decided where he's going, which a lot of NBA watchers suspect he has.

So perhaps this really is a sequel to The Decision, a ruinous public relations splatter that made LeBron appear incredibly self-absorbed, not to say high-and-mighty and I'm-LeBron-and-the-rest-of-you-peons-aren't, and who knows what all.

"What an a**hole!" was America's reaction.

And now?

"What an a**hole!" is both America's and Adam Silver's reaction.

(And, OK, again, Adam Silver never said that. But I'll put good coin down that he's thinking it, or something like it.)

In any event, LeBron ain't sayin' nothin', and there's nothin' even the commissioner of the NBA can do about it. Which makes the Blob imagine all sorts of ridiculous news items ...

NEW YORK, August 15 -- With LeBron James still not revealing where he'll play this season, NBA commissioner Adam Silver is busily working the phones trying to figure it out on his own.

"Is it you?" he asked the Philadelphia 76ers.

"Is it you?" he asked the Cleveland Cavaliers.

"Is it you?" he asked the Miami Heat, the Golden State Warriors, the New York Knicks, even the old Syracuse Nationals and Rochester Royals.

All of them declined to comment.

"Oh, come on, you guys!" Silver reportedly cried.

Or perhaps there'll be this ...

LOS ANGELES, September 3 -- LeBron James called a news conference today to finally announce where he'll be playing this season, as the entire NBA waited with baited breath.

"Looks like I'll be taking my talents to ... the Kentucky Colonels!" James announced.

And then, with an exaggerated wink: "Nah. Just messin' with ya. I just wanted to see if I could get you all out here."

"What an a**hole!" the assembled media cried.

"What an a**hole!" concurred Adam Silver.

And this time he meant it.

Espana!

 Generalissimo Francisco Franco may still be dead, but Spain is alive and well and, when last seen, was holding up the World Cup.

(Not to dredge up an ancient Chevy Chase bit or anything.)

Spain dunked defending champion Argentina 1-0 in extra time in the final yesterday, and consider it justice served. The best team doesn't always win in Sportsball World, but it surely did this time.

La Roja won because it's a precise and disciplined side that controls the ball and squeezes the life out of its opponents with the remorselessness of a python, or some other overheated metaphor. They spread you out and pounce on every ball that isn't as well-placed as theirs, and all of that was on full display Sunday against an Argentine squad that was mostly helpless against it.

Some numbers: In a game contested almost entirely in the Argentine end, Spain put 12 balls on goal to, incredibly, zero for Lionel Messi 'n' them. Only the brilliance of Argentine keeper Emiliano Martinez -- who made 11 saves, a record for a World Cup final -- kept it from being a blowout.

Spain did what Spain does, in other words. It made accurate passes an astounding 89 percent of the time, and compelled an increasingly desperate Argentina side to ugly up the game with ridiculous fouls and theatrical appeals to the game referee.

It wasn't a good look for the defending champs, nor was their unsportsmanlike postgame petulance. And Argentina paid for it, playing a man down for the 30 minutes of extra time after Enzo Fernandez was red-carded for two profoundly witless decisions. 

He drew his first yellow card for mockingly clapping after a foul call; then he drew the second, and his walking papers, for recklessly charging Spain's precocious 19-year-old center back Pau Cubarsi and flattening him with what amounted to a body block. Dumb and dumber.

Fernandez' red card happened three minutes into stoppage time. Eleven minutes into extra time, Nico Williams headed a slick backward pass from the end line to Ferran Torrez, who rocketed the only goal of the day into the top of the net.

Game, set and match for Espana, which is now 2-for-2 in World Cup finals. Incredibly, in eight games this time around, it surrendered just one goal -- against Belgium in a 2-1 quarterfinal win.

I know how most of us spell domination, in the wider world. But in the futbol world, on this warm July morning, it begins with "S".

A world united

The young man's name was Ishaan and he was wearing a Morocco soccer jersey, but today was not about Morocco. Today it was Colombia vs. Switzerland on the big screen in the back room of JK O'Donnell's here in the Fort, and Ishaan was rooting for Colombia.

"I put $20 on Colombia to win," he said proudly.

The seven or eight men and women dressed in Colombia yellow nodded and smiled when he said that. Then they went back to laughing and watching intently and moaning whenever Colombia -- which was forcing the action -- got a chance that came thisclose to a goal, but not close enough.

None of them were speaking English. 

Yet all of them seemed to understand whenever Ishaan expressed admiration for the way Colombia played this game of futbol, which of course is why we were all here in the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday.

"Colombia's really good," Ishaan declared, and the men and women in their Colombia gear all nodded as if to say, "Thanks. And you're damn right we're good."

Something occurred to me just then.

It occurred to me that this World Cup business has been great for the human business, because it's knocked down all those flimsy, artificial barriers of language and culture and ignorance. In English or Spanish or German or Portuguese -- in French, Korean, Persian or Norwegian -- there is a universality to a man kicking a ball to another man. In every language on the planet, there's a way of saying, "That IDIOT! How did he misplay THAT ball??"

It's the mossiest cliche in the forest to say sports stitches us together like few other things, but we've seen the truth of it in close-up in America this past month or so. Foreigners our float-brain leaders encourage us to fear and loathe in other contexts have, in the context of the World Cup, seen the real America. And they have embraced it as readily as the real America has embraced them.

The Tartan Army of Scotland taking over Boston, and Boston returning the favor. The Clockwork Orange of Netherlands discovering barbecue in Kansas City. Another town in Kansas -- Lawrence -- embracing the Algerian team and fans as if they were its own.

We have learned about each other, in other words. And about ourselves in the process.

The Scots and Dutch and Norwegians and Algerians, first of all, have learned not just about barbecue and (go figure) ranch dressing; they've learned that Americans are not the worst of us.  We are not the bigots and xenophobes and bullying loudmouths who regrettably have become the official public face of our country here in the second Trump abomination. 

We are not Those Asshats, in other words. And Those Asshats do not speak for us.

So hooray for the Tartan Army, decorating Boston statuary with traffic cones and drinking up all the Sam Adams. And hooray for Norway's Erling Haaland, the Viking-est Viking ever, and the Viking row the Norwegian team and fans did everywhere they went.

Hooray for Lionel Messi and Kylian Mbappe and Mohammed Salah and Lamine Yamal, and for Switzerland's Breel Embolo and England's Jude Bellingham -- whom the English fans in their face paint and chain mail and Three Lions costumes saluted with a chorus of "Hey, Jude" after his two-goal performance against Norway, because of course they did.

Hooray, finally, for Ishaan in his Morocco jersey and the Colombian fans in their Colombian jerseys in the back room at O'Donnell's. I don't speak Spanish, regrettably, and I don't know how much English they knew. But we understood one another anyway.

Because when I got up to leave and said "Good luck",  they smiled and nodded and gave me a thumbs-up. For one small sliver of time, we were a world united.

Blessedly so.

Kickin' it with history

 England plays France today in the World Cup third-place game, and the history geek in me could not be more geeked. This is the Seven Years War and the Hundred Years War and the Second Hundred Years War all wrapped up in a tidy corner kick, or perhaps a setpiece starring Harry Kane or Kylian Mbappe.

"That's just silly, Mr. Blob," you're saying now. "France and England haven't made war on each other in decades. This is just another soccer match between two strong European sides."

Is it, though? Is it REALLY?

Because the Blob's over-caffeinated imagination (and confirmed history nerdity) envisions something else when the French and English square off today. 

Like, if Mbappe scores for France, will he taunt the Brits by shouting "Cornwallis ... paging Lord Cornwallis ..."?

And if Kane or Jude Bellingham score for England, will the English fans pantomime shooting arrows while chanting "Agincourt! Agincourt!" in a mocking sort of way?

Will the French respond by raising a banner that reads "We Killed Nelson And We're Not Sorry"? Will the Brits retaliate by raising a white bedsheet that reads, "National Flag Of France"?

Oh, the insults will fly then ...

"You lost India to a guy in a loincloth!" the French will mock.

"Thanks for the Northwest Territories! Nice of you to surrender them to us!" the English will reply.

"Hastings!" "Waterloo!" "They shall not pass!" "Vini, vidi, Vichy!"

On and on.

"Silliness," you're reiterating. "Pure, undiluted silliness."

Yeah, well. Sorry not sorry.

Cruds alert!*

(* -- Pittsburgh Pirates not included.)

(*-- Because my Buccos are a .500 baseball team now, and we're already more than halfway through July. So kiss my Rennie Stennett/Iron City/Primanti Brothers hindparts, y'all.)

Now where was I?

Oh, yeah, cruds and their cruddiness. Which today features not your Colorado Rockheads, not your New York Mutts, but an exciting new entry in the Cruds Alert pantheon.

Come on down, you Don't-Say-Sacramento Athletics!

The Athlessics were riding a nine-game losing streak going into last night's clash with the "meh" Washington Nationals, after which it became a 10-game losing streak. And not just any 10-game losing streak, boys and girls!

No, this one was achieved with a football-score 23-4 loss to the Nationals, the Athlessics  apparently having scored their points on two safeties. The Nats, meanwhile, got four touchdowns, er, four hits and eight hundred yards, er, eight RBI from AndresChaparro in the win.

The A's, meanwhile, now are 41-56 and just 31/2 games clear of the AL West cellar, which is occupied by the horrific Los Angeles Angels, who are the worst team in baseball right now by a percentage point or two.

But at least the Angels (Mange-els?) have a home city. The Athlessics are not allowed to. In the standings they're just the "Athletics", because apparently MLB regards Sacramento not as a real MLB city, but as a B&B or Super Eight or something as the A's make their eventual way to Las Vegas.

Insult added to injury, if you ask me. And boy are the Athlessics good at injury, if nothing else.

Bloviators in the wind

 (In which the Blob, like Andy Dufresne, once again crawls through half a mile of s***-smelling foulness to escape Sportsball World. Those who wish to leave the room know the standard protocol.)

Sometimes the cross you bear for being from Indiana is having to admit you're from Indiana. We remain, after all, the state that once tried to legislate the value of pi.

Therefore, this morning, I declare this: Yes, I am from Indiana.

And, yes, one of my senators is the illustrious Jim "Bag O' Hammers" Banks, who recently joined several other bags of hammers to venture into the realm of satire without realizing it.

Here's what Jimbo said: "Every Summer, Canada burns. Every summer, we have to deal with their heavy smoke & hazardous air quality. Every Summer, they tell us they'll take action to fix this mess & they never do. Our patience has run out, the time for excuses is over, & if they won't fix this, we will."

Before you ask, no, this is not The Onion. Or Babylon Bee or an Andy Borowitz post or that of any other satirist. Jimbo and his fellow bloviators in the wind actually said this.

Being a former journalist, I can already envision the headlines.

Banks Decries "Invasion" Of Canadian Wildfire Smoke; "This Aggression Will Not Stand, Man," He Says, Unwittingly Quoting The Dude.

Banks Demands Canada Put The Damn Fires Out; Says "We Can't Breathe," Unwittingly Quoting George Floyd.

And so on.

In any event, Banks and his fellow BOHs say it's merely a matter of better forest management on Canada's part, and if the hosers refuse to to do it, why, the U.S. will step in and do it for them. We are, after all, masters at forest management. It's why, every Summer, we have only 13 times more wildfires than Canada does, producing mega-volumes more smoke.

Of course, Banks doesn't address that. And he doesn't say exactly how the U.S. would "step in and do it for them." Do we send in the 82nd Airborne to seize Canada's forestry service? Invade western Canada with an army of patriotic Americans wielding giant brooms? Build a wall of mammoth industrial fans to blow all that Canadian smoke back across the border? ("Mass deportation NOW!" you can imagine the MAGA crowd howling).

Now, I'm not saying the wildfire smoke isn't bad. It is. Even here in Fort Wayne, hundreds of miles from the fires, you can both see it in the air and smell it right now. It's frankly pretty crazy it's this bad this far away.

But what do Banks and the rest of the clowns want to do, start a war over it? Demand that Canada control the jet stream or we will? And what about the smoke from our own wildfires?

Because Canada isn't the only place that's burning this summer. So is Minnesota. And that smoke's blowing northwest to southeast, too.

Look. I know Banks and the rest of the dopes think they can control nature, but there's a long and disastrous history of what happens when humans try. Especially when the humans in question are our elected pinheads, and what they come up with is as vague and frankly absurd as this is.

 See, the bottom line here is you can't stop wildfires from happening, because they've been happening for millennia with or without forest management. You can't stop their smoke from riding the wind, because, well, it's the wind. And the bad part is they're only going to get worse as the planet warms and folks like Jim Banks deny human activity has anything to do with it.

Because climate change doesn't exist, you know. It's all a myth cooked up by commie socialist fascist libtards to keep America from being great.

So there goes one solution, or at least a mitigation, that might actually work.

Another, of course, is sending American crews to Canada to help fight the fires -- just as Canada (and Mexico) has done for us. But, nah, we'd rather threaten people. Because that's what our muscle-y new America is all about these days.

Unfortunately, as Bag O' Hammers and his ilk demonstrated this week, some of that muscle is in their heads.

Now about that jet stream ...

Non-preventive measures

 You play ... to win ... the game.

-- Herm Edwards

You tell 'em, Herman. And by "'em", we mean "those poor victory-averse Three Lions from England."

Who pulled defeat from the arse of victory again yesterday, just when it seemed they were about to bury 60 years of frustration in a well-marked grave. Anthony Gordon came off the bench to score an artful goal -- you try controlling an awkward cross with the side of your foot while steering it into the net in the same motion -- in the 55th minute yesterday, and suddenly England led Argentina 1-nil in the second World Cup semifinal.

If the Brits hung on, they were headed to their first final since 1966. Which is also the last time they won the whole deal. 

For 30 minutes, they did hang on. For 30 minutes, we were looking at a Spain-England final.

And then ...

And then Lionel Messi happened.

With five minutes to play plus stoppage time, the world's best player found Enzo Fernandez at the top of the box, and Fernandez ripped a gorgeous fade into the far top shelf just beyond the leaping reach of England keeper Jordan Pickford, who'd been bravely staving off Argentine attacks for half an hour.

Six or so minutes later, two minutes into stoppage time, Messi collected Alexis Mac Allister's ricochet off the near post, eluded two defenders and placed a flawless cross to the far post and Lautaro Martinez, who headed it home.

And just like that, Argentina, not England, was going to the final, its second straight. Just like that, the defending champs went from deceased to Not Dead Yet with yet another miraculous resuscitation.

And England had no one to blame but itself.

Remember what ol' Herm said?

You play ... to win ... the game.

England did not.

England, after Gordon put it ahead, unaccountably went into turtle mode, surrendering the attack to Messi and Argentina and retreating to what American football fans recognized as a prevent defense. And, just like 99 percent of the time in the NFL, the preventive measure didn't prevent anything at all -- except the "W," of course.

Instead of doing what had given it the lead to begin with, England chose to do the opposite. It began pulling attackers off the field for defenders with an astounding 18 minutes to play, giving Argentina all the opening it needed to storm the English gates.

 Which it proceeded to do for the next 30 minutes. 

Crosses and corners went into the box. Shots pelted Pickford, slid just wide, spanged off crossbars and goalposts. It seemed inevitable that one of them was eventually going to find a home.

And eventually one did, in the 85th minute.

And eventually another did. 

And not quite 10 minutes later, England was going home again, the latest victim of playing not to lose disease.

As for Argentina ...

Well, it was another high-wire act in a tournament full of them for the defending champs.

They needed overtime to knock out tiny Cape Verde in the round of 32. Trailed Egypt 2-0 with 11 minutes plus stoppage time to play in the round of 16 before scoring three goals in 14 minutes for a miracle 3-2 win. Needed overtime again to beat Switzerland in the quarterfinals, even though the Swiss were playing a man short for the last 48 minutes thanks to a dubious red card for diving against Breel Embolo.

Now, somehow, they're in the final again. Spain, European champs and an absolute machine that thoroughly smothered Kilian Mbappe and France in the other semi, will certainly be the favorite.

However ...

Ah, yes. However.

A hometown vote

 The Open Championship begins tomorrow at one of those courses not named St. Andrew's, and the Blob will not be doing the red-white-and-blue thing, 250th anniversary of America's founding or no 250th anniversary of America's founding.

I suppose this would earn me a flogging in some of the more deranged precincts of our great nation. But, sorry, it's just too easy to pick Scottie Scheffler.

I'm not picking Rory McIlroy, either, even though everyone always picks him to win The Open, on account of he's Rory McIlroy. And even though he had the quote of the year last week at the Scottish Open, after he hit a very un-Rory-like shot.

"Oh, my God, I'm so bad at golf!" cried one of the best golfers of his generation.

You gotta love that. However ...

However, I love Tommy Fleetwood better.

He's British, he's got way cool hockey-flow hair, and he's one of the more genial players on tour. Also, he's come thisclose too many times this season for the golf gods not to let him off the mat for once.

Oh, yeah.  Also, he's the hometown boy in this Open.

He hails from Southport, site of Royal  Birkdale, which is where The Open is being contested this week. Southport is a seaside town in Merseyside. What I know about Merseyside is Gary and the Pacemakers wrote a hit song called "Ferry Cross The Mersey" in the 1960s.

All the more reason to pick Tommy, I figure.

He's playing mostly terrific golf. He'll have the gallery behind him. He's even got his own song, sort of.

So, yeah. Fleetwood's my guy. If he wins -- or if, say, it's fellow Brit Matt Fitzpatrick, who's been one of the hottest golfers on tour in 2026 -- he'd be the first Englishman to win The Open since Nick Faldo in 1992. And he'd be the first to win it in England proper since Tony Jacklin at Royal Lytham & St. Annes.

That happened 57 years ago, in 1969. Which means somebody must be due.

Why not the hometown boy?

Today in un-jinxes

 The American League shut out the pathetic Nationals 4-0 in a dud of an All-Star Game last night, which you can take one of two ways by the Blob's lights.

One, it was a a complete failure of occasion by the Pastime in America's 250th year.

Two, it was exactly what host city Philadelphia deserved after its subhuman, pelting-Santa-Claus-with-snowballs fans booed everyone but the Phillies' Kyle Schwarber in the Home Run Derby.

But moving right along ...

Moving right along, it's on to the second half, and to an episode of ... well, I don't know what you'd call it. Harmonic convergence? Karmic transference? Sportsball cross-pollination?

Here's the deal: On July 1, the Boston Celtics traded Jaylen Brown -- Robin to  Jayson Tatum's Batman, or vice-versa -- to the Philadelphia 76ers for a washed Paul George and some magic beans. At the time, the Boston Red Sox were 11 games under .500 and dead last in the AL East.

Since the day of the trade, however, they've won nine straight games, and were the hottest team in the majors at the All-Star break. They've gone from last to third in the division, and are now just two games below water at 46-48.

So, Boston's basketball team trades a key player, and Boston's sorry-ass baseball team hasn't lost a game since. Honestly, what would you call that?

"Witchcraft?" you're saying now.

Clever. Way to work in the whole Salem thing.

"An interdenominational un-jinx?" 

Ooh. Good one.

"A mere coincidence?"

The un-sexy truth, perhaps.

See, the Jaylen Brown trade just happened to fall right before the schedule sent the Red Sox on a road trip, and not the sort of road trip where you get squashed on the center line like an armadillo. This was the other kind of road trip.

The kind where six of the nine games were against two of the worst four teams in MLB, the stinkin' Los Angeles Angels and the odiferous New York Mets. And so of course the Red Sox swept them both.

On the other hand, the other three-game set was in Chicago against the White Sox, who are no longer the What Sox but a slightly-better-than-.500 club that, owing to the "meh"-ness of the AL Central, are locked in a seesaw fight with Cleveland for the division lead. Still, the Red Sox swept them, too.

So three road series, three broom jobs. And 9-0 since the Jaylen Brown trade.

They ought to send the guy flowers. The Angels, Mets and White Sox could probably use some, too.

Tour de Obscure

 It's been a crowded hour lately in Sportsball World, what with the World Cup quarterfinals going head-to-head with the Wimbledon finals over the weekend, and this afternoon's mammoth France-Spain semi and tonight's MLB All-Star Game waiting in the wings. Also, did we mention the British Open starts in two days?

Well, it does. So, soccer, tennis, baseball (the Home Run Derby last night), more soccer, more baseball, and golf, all in the space of 96 hours or so. That's a heapin' helpin' of Big Sporting Moments and such.

I'm sorry, what?

What about the what?

Oh, right. There's also this bicycle thingy going on, over there in Europe.

It's the Tour de France, which once riveted the world's attention back when Lance Armstrong was cheating his glutes off, but now is the Tour de Obscure. Especially this year, with so much else going on, including NASCAR and the WNBA and professional cornhole.

The Tour these days ranks somewhere below the latter and just above professional pillow fighting (yes, there is such a thing) in the sports hierarchy, which is quite a comedown from the Lance mafioso era. Like, who are the top riders now? Does anyone remember what a peloton is ("An exercise machine?" you're saying now)? And who's wearing the leader's yellow jersey right now?

Well, that would be defending champion Tadej Pogacar, who's from Slovenia but somewhat less known than Luka Doncic, who's also Slovenian. Doncic is not another Tour de France-r. He plays basketball for the Los Angeles Lakers. You might have heard of him.

Anyway, Pogacar leads the Tour through nine stages, with a whole pile of stages to go. The winner of the ninth stage, by the way, was Mathieu van der Poel -- who is Dutch but is not  to be confused with other Dutchmen, like, say, Max Verstappen. Verstappen isn't a Tour de France-r, either. He drives a state-of-the-art F1 race car for Red Bull.

Perhaps you've heard of him, too.

Van der Poel beat out Tobias Johannessen from Norway and Tom Pidcock from Great Britain for the stage win, and, no, Tobias is not Erling Haaland, the towering Norwegian who became the breakout star of this World Cup. Nor does Pidcock's name spring as readily to English lips as Harry Kane or Jude Bellingham, who are gearing up to lead the Brits against Argentina in the other World Cup semi.

That happens tomorrow. Also tomorrow is the 11th stage of the Tour, a sprint through the Loire Valley.

If Pidcock wins it, all of England will rejoice.

Oh, wait. That's what will happen if Kane, Bellingham and England beat Lionel Messi and Argentina to reach the World Cup final. Sorry for the confusion.

Swing and a miss

 Saw an item on Awful Announcing the other day about a TV reporter in Knoxville, Tenn., missing a home run because he was reviewing a ballpark hotdog, and I thought, there but for the punishment of God went I.

Because, see, I was just a bit envious.

The reporter, Phil Stalzer, was at a Knoxville Smokies game, the Smokies being the Double-A affiliate of the Chicago Cubs. And he was reporting live on a foot-long hotdog called the Grinch Glizzy (it was "Christmas In July" night at the ballpark) when a player for the visiting Biloxi Shuckers smoked a monster home run.

The broadcast team elected to stay with ol' Phil, who kept right on talking about the Grinch Glizzy. Because, what the hell, it's the minor leagues, so why not?

Phil's laser focus on the job at hand is not why I was envious, however. I was envious because how come I never got to review ballpark hotdogs?

I scribbled about sports for almost 40 years as a professional, well, scribbler, and NOT ONCE did I get to write a review of a ballpark hotdog. I could have pulled it off, too, as someone who was somewhat conversant with ballpark 'dogs. But did my editors ever say, "Hey, why don't you review a ballpark hotdog"?

NO THEY DID NOT. 

And so this morning I'm harboring retrograde resentment toward said editors, although I say that with tongue firmly embedded in cheek. I mostly liked my editors, see. They let me scribble what I wanted for the most part, except when they were compelled to save me from myself.

But, man. Talk about a swing and a miss with the hotdog-review thing.

Had they turned me loose, I could have brought home the coveted Pulitzer For Hotdog Reviewing, a little-known category which I just made up. I could have written how my ballpark 'dog was a superbly grilled symphony of flavors, the onions and relish and mustard in perfect harmony with one another. I could have written about the 'dog's savory nose, and its subtle-yet-succulent finish.

Heck. I could even have branched out into other venues, and reviewed the Boiler Dogs at Purdue (excellent) and the 'dogs at Michigan Stadium (vile). And what's a comprehensive hotdog review without including the fabled Track Dogs at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway?

(And as a sidelight, the donuts from the Pennzoil room.)

Ah, but those days are done, and life's too short for regrets. I mean, I never got to review the strawberries-and-cream at Wimbledon, the mint juleps at the Kentucky Derby or those famous pimento-cheese sandwiches at the Masters, either.

Although I hear the latter are divine. Just divine.

Czech, and check

 Martina Navratilova, the grande dame of them all, was on hand, of course, sitting next to the Princess of Wales in the Royal Box. So was Petra Kvitova, in the same box. And crowding close, in spirit or in person, was a whole spangled lineage echoing down the years.

Because, listen, when was the last time two Czechs faced off in a Wimbledon women's final?

How about never?

So, yes, the Czechs were there yesterday, to watch their latest progeny ascend the heights. It was 21-year-old Linda Noskova against 28-year-old Karolina Muchova -- her former doubles partner -- for the women's singles title, and when it was over Noskova won 6-2, 5-7, 6-3. And there she was on Centre Court, lifting the Venus Rosewater Dish same as Martina and Kvitova and Marketa Vondrousova and Barbora Krejcikova and the late Jana Novotna before her.

The Czechs and women's tennis? Check.

Serena Williams remains the greatest women's player who ever sliced a forehand down the line, but no one nation has consistently produced more women's champions in the modern era than Czechia/the Czech Republic/Czechoslovakia. It begins with Martina, of course, but it's also all those who followed her and built on a proud legacy: Four-time major winner (and two-time Wimbledon finalist) Hana Mandlikova, and 1998 Wimbledon champ Novotna, and two-time Wimby titlist Kvitova -- whom Noskova idolized growing up, and referred to Saturday as "the Petra Kvitova."

And Noskova and Muchova?

They are good friends and former doubles partners who reached the semifinals in the Olympics just two years ago. Noskova gave a nod to that in the trophy ceremony, when she told Muchova she was happy it was Karolina on the other side of the net for Noskova's first grand slam final.

"I think we made history today," she said.

More like added to it.

A touch of irony

So the defending champs are through to the World Cup semis, and here's to irony and harmonic resonance, boys and girls. Argentina gets the Three Lions of England next, and everyone will again be talking about the bleep-bleep officiating.

In 1986, after all, it was an Argentina-England quarterfinal match that spawned the most famous illegal goal in World Cup history -- i.e., the Hand of God goal that Diego Maradona scored to send England to the sidelines yet again.

Maradona steered that one into the net with his left hand, but somehow the game officials  missed it. So the goal stood, and on Argentina went to win its fourth World Cup.

And last night?

Another World Cup quarterfinal. Another officiating gift for Argentina. And, irony of ironies, not because of something the officials missed, but because of something they thought they saw.

Which was Swiss striker Breel Embolo taking a dive.

Because Embolo had been nicked for a yellow card earlier in the match, it was an automatic red card and therefore expulsion. It left Switzerland to play a man short for the duration, and it happened in the 72nd minute -- five minutes after Dan Ndoye leveled the match at 1-1.

The Swiss kept it even into the second extra-time period, before Julian Alvarez cashed the winner in the 112th minute in an eventual 3-1 Argentina victory.

The irony wrapped in irony in this case was Embolo was sent off for -- as soccer calls it, rather splendidly -- "simulation." In Americanese, that means he took a dive. Which is almost never called in the beautiful game, and hilarious on top of it, given the scenery-chewing that's considered a matter of course whenever a player is jostled, tripped or otherwise falls down with the greatest of ease.

Down goes the player, in seeming agony. Rolls around for awhile, clutching his leg and screaming. Sometimes he really is hurt, and has to be helped off the pitch; sometimes, if the officials basically say "Get up, I'm not buying this," he hops to his feet, gripes a bit at the injustice of the world, and heads back into play, miraculously cured. 

Everyone does this, including Argentina. Everyone is a thespian and a salesman. So for someone to actually get called on it -- and for it to benefit Argentina, of all sides -- surely is the soccer gods saying, "Pull my finger."

Oh, they must have been having a good chortle, up there in Corner Kick Heaven. Except, of course, in the Switzerland section -- where, as befits the Swiss, they were not amused.

Anyway, it's on the semis against England, which slid through with its own pinch of good fortune. The gritty Norwegians and their endearing fans had a go-ahead goal disallowed, and spanked point-blank shots off crossbars and into the arms of the English keeper, and generally gave the Three Lions (and Jude Bellingham) all the breathing room they needed for a 2-1 win in extra time.

Could it be? Could the soccer gods be smiling on England at last, 60 years after it last laid hands on the World Cup?

Maybe. Or, maybe they're all huddled in a corner somewhere, giggling.

"OK, guys," they're saying. "Go get the Hand of God out of storage."

A most soapy summer

 And now the latest episode of All My LeBrons, or The Guiding LeBron, or General LeBronpital, in which our hero breaks up with Laura, sending her into Luke's arms and making hope blossom in the breasts of Bam and Steph and Luke Kornet and who knows who all ...

Oh, it is a most soapy summer in the NBA, where 41-year-old LeBron James is a free man looking for one last place to steal his heart. 

Having broken up with the Los Angeles Lakers, in other words, where will LeBron land?

Steph Curry wants him with Golden State. Luke Kornet's pitched the Spurs. How about the Heat, where the Superfriends (LeBron, DwyaneWade and Chris Bosh) won a couple of titles?

Will the siren song of home again pull LeBron back to Cleveland for an auld lang syne closing of the circle?  What about the 76ers, where LeBron, Joel Embid, Tyrese Maxey and just-acquired Celtics star Jaylen Brown could be Superfriends II? Or the Timberwolves, where he'd team up with Ant (Anthony Edwards)?

Tune in, I don't know, sometime for the dramatic conclusion!

Or better yet, check out tomorrow's script, which the Blob has acquired through not at all nefarious means:

(Fade in on LeBron's palatial mansion. He and Steph Curry are having an intense confrontation)

Steph: But ... but ... you said we'd be together! You and me, the dynamic duo! That's what you said!

LeBron: Now, wait a minute, I never said that.

Steph: Yes, you did! 

LeBron: No I DIDN'T. I said we made a good couple. I never said we'd be THE couple.

Steph: So there's someone else! I knew it! Who is it? It's Embid, isn't it? Or ... or ... that trashy slut Ant! And don't think I haven't noticed you making goo-goo eyes at Cleveland! Really, LeBron? You want to go back to that well AGAIN?

LeBron: Look ... Steph ... this is a big decision. But no matter how it turns out, we'll always be tight, won't we? You know I have nothing but respect for you, brothe--

(Rustling noises and whispers from behind the closet door)

Steph: What's that? Who's in there, LeBron?

(Strides over and flings open the door. Staring back at him, slightly embarrassed, are Embid, Ant, Bam Adebayo from the Heat and Donovan Mitchell from the Cavaliers)

Steph: HA! I KNEW it! Why, you degenerate piece of crap! Sorry to interrupt your little bro-fest, 'Bron! Look, Mitchell's even wearing your old Cavs jersey, the little hussy!

(Stomps out, sobbing)

LeBron: STEPH!!

(He turns to the four men behind the door. Opens his mouth to say something. Fade to black)

What will he say? What will he do? Tune in tomorrow for the next thrilling installment of "Days Of Our Young And Restless LeBrons"!

Row, row, row your boat ...

 OK, so it's official now. I'm rooting for Norway from here on out in the World Cup.

And, no, not because I like movies about Vikings. And, no, not even because of the series "Vikings," although Ragnar Lothbrok probably would have been a hell of a striker.

I'm rooting for the Norwegians because they've never gone this deep in a World Cup, and I have a weakness for underdogs.

I'm rooting for them because, OK, I love the Viking boat-rowing thing the team and its fans do after every win. And because Leif Erikson, not that poser Christopher Columbus, is the European who really discovered America. And because Erling Haaland is a real-life Ragnar Lothbrok who can do things with his feet and head that probably aren't legal in most developed nations.

And because tomorrow, in the quarterfinals, the play England, Harry Kane and Jude Bellingham and them. Nothing against those fine lads, but I can't root for England. Not on the 250th anniversary of us kicking their limey asses out of our country. 'Merica!

Besides, England hasn't won a World Cup in 60 years. Why mess with tradition?

Anyway, I hope Erling Haaland gets five touches tomorrow and scores on three of them, which seems to happen fairly often. I hope Norway gets another chance to bring out the drum, have a designated player bang on it, and have the team and its fans pull on those imaginary oars in response. It's been the best celebratory deal in the World Cup outside of the Belgium players pantomiming that weird dance President Donald John "I'll Poke My Nose In Where It Doesn't Belong If I Feel Like It" Trump does at campaign rallies.

Their way, I guess, of saying "Nyah-nyah, nyah-nyah-nyah" after Donald John leaned on FIFA chief Gianni Infantino to get American star Folarin Balogun reinstated for the Belgium match -- and the Belgians took the USMNT apart like a cheap toy anyway, 4-1.

Any-hoo, I imagine Norway doing something similar should it continue its underdog run by knocking out the Brits. Maybe they'll form a circle and sing that one song about rowing ...

Row, row, row your boat

Gently down the stream.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,

Life is but a dream OF BEATING THE BRAKES OFF THE BLOODY ENGLISH ...

Or, you know, something like that.

Grandstand plays

 Oh, goody gumdrops. Our elected nitwits are comin' to rescue Caitlin Clark from the vile clutches of ... well, you know. Those people.

(And, no, we don't have to clarify who "those people" are. The dog whistles, especially from one side of aisle, aren't so dog whistle-y anymore. Fearless Leader has made it OK to say it right out loud.)

This upon the news that congressional Republicans have sent the WNBA a letter, signed by 11 reps including three from right'chere in Indiana, basically threatening to sic the Justice Department on it if it doesn't do something about protecting Caitlin Clark from, well, those people. Meaning the "violent targeting" they see when poor Caitlin gets fouled hard or winds up catching an elbow, a knee or even a fist while scrambling for a loose ball.

Which, you  know, never happens by accident.

It's all by design, and all by Those People -- i.e., those mean black lesbians who are picking on Caitlin because she's white and hetero, and whom our esteemed nitwits have no problem calling "thugs," no matter the racial shading of that term. 

"Republicans have consistently led the charge on protecting women's sports ..." the letter begins.

After which I had to stop reading for awhile because I was laughing too hard.

Look. As the Blob has pointed out many times before, it's almost always the Olympus of folly for politicians to comment on/meddle in the affairs of Sportsball World, because what most of them know about it you could fit in Jiminy Cricket's hat. This of course does not stop them from commenting/meddling, because there's no one so bulletproof-sure of his or her knowledge of all things as a politician.

Besides, whenever they do comment/meddle, it always reeks of political opportunism -- or as it's also known, "massaging the base." Which for the Republicans these days regrettably includes a not inconsiderable number of bigots, white supremacists and assorted other knuckleheads.

The congressional letter/gangster threat ("You got a real nice league here. Don't make us send Legal Brief Luca Brasi after you") courts all of the above, with its characterization of Clark as some of sort of great white hope under attack from the woke  mob. It's yet another meringue-and-fairy-dust narrative whipped up to keep the bigots, white supremacists and assorted other knuckleheads voting the right way.

Problem is, Caitlin Clark, who actually does know something about Sportsball World, won't play along.

The other day she released a statement about the whole Alyssa Thomas affair -- in which a still photo of Thomas' fist against Clark's neck got the congress critters all riled up -- that essentially told Congress to mind its own damn business. She wasn't some damsel in distress who needed rescuing, and she for sure didn't want to be the critters' latest political hobby horse.

She even defended Thomas, who, after the Flagrant 2 foul on Clark,was subjected to a blizzard of threats and racist garbage.

"As I've stood up here and said before, the harassment, the hate, none of that is OK," Clark said. "That goes for the opposing teams we play, that goes for my teammates, that goes for my coaches."

She also said the officiating in the WNBA needs to improve, which she correctly identifies as the problem here. Not mean black lesbians ... not "violent targeting" ... not the "woke mob." 

Of course, if you're a politician looking to make a grandstand play, that doesn't leave you much to go on. Can't justify taking time out from doing what you were elected to do -- legislatin', serving the people, boring stuff like that -- if it's just basketball we're talking about.

And, sorry, boys and girls, but it is.

All that "violent targeting" the grandstanders referred to in their letter?

Boil it down to the kernels, and it's jus defenders following the book on Clark -- i.e., getting physical with a player who doesn't like being defended physically.

It's lousy officiating that lets the physicality get out of hand way too often.

And it's, yes, Clark's habit of turning virtually every bump or contact into a Shakespearean deathbed scene.

Know how I know all that? And know why I suspect this political grandstand play is just another craven pitch to the worst elements of the Republican base?

Because not long ago, Isabelle Harrison of the Toronto Tempo was issued a Flagrant 2 and ejected from a game for violently throwing another player to the floor. It was as egregious as anything to which Caitlin Clark has been subjected, except this time the victim wasn't Caitlin Clark.

It was Angel Reese of the Atlanta Dream -- a black player often vilified by the usual suspects because she tends to say what she thinks.

You'll therefore be unsurprised to know her mauling didn't spark a letter from our elected nitwits. Make of that what you will.

Goin' all in

 A few thoughts this morning about the seismic news from IndyCar, which I realize isn't seismic at all to any Blobophile who's not a gearhead, which is most of them.

("Oh, lord, car racing AGAIN? Ugh," Most Of Them are saying).

Anyway, the seismic news is that Scott Dixon, the greatest IndyCar driver of his generation, is leaving Chip Ganassi after 24 years, 59 wins and six championships to join Arrow McLaren next season. Ditto Indianapolis 500 winner Felix Rosenqvist, who's leaving Meyer-Shank Racing to don McLaren's papaya livery.

Along with front man Pato O'Ward, that fills McLaren's three-car lineup next year, with Ryan Hunter-Reay coming on board as a one-off for Indy. 

"Wait, what about Christian Lundgaard?" you're saying.

(OK, so you're not. I'm saying that.)

But what about Christian Lundgaard?

That's a legit question, because Lundgaard's 24 years old and just coming into his own as a major talent. He won the Indy Grand Prix back in May; he's actually two spots ahead of O'Ward in the points (third vs. fifth); and Sunday he finished right on O'Ward's tailpipes as McLaren went 1-2 at Mid-Ohio.

Curious timing for this sort of shakeup. So what gives?

Was Lundgaard  becoming just a bit too good, challenging O'Ward's primacy on the team? Was O'Ward starting to feel threatened by that, or Lundgaard by O'Ward's tight relationship with team principal Tony Kanaan? Did team CEO Zak Brown see a budding conflict there that might split Arrow McLaren into rival camps, and wreck the cohesion that is every successful team's signature?

Maybe. Possibly. Could well be.

In any case, Lundgaard is out (along with Nolan Siegel) and Dixon and Rosenqvist are in. Two seasoned veterans to back O'Ward, two proven winners on the IndyCar circuit, and -- no small thing -- two men with a wealth of engine and program development experience. How valuable in particular will Dixon be, both as an iconic presence and someone with more than two decades of R&D experience at one of the premier IndyCar outfits?

So in that sense, the shakeup makes sense. Lundgaard notwithstanding, it's clearly an upgrade on the track -- even if Dixon, at 45, is in the late twilight of his run. You can read all this in a number of ways, but certainly a few are obvious.

One, the Papaya is going all in to win Indy, because Zak Brown wants to win Indy. Like, really, really wants to win Indy.

Two, in Dixon's case, this is a legacy deal.  He is, after all,  a New Zealander coming home to the team founded by the godfather of New Zealand motorsport, the late Bruce McLaren. It's unlikely Dixie would have left Ganassi for anyone else.

And three?

Three, Zak Brown really, really wants to win Indy. Or did I say that already?

Meanwhile, at Wimbledon ...

 You've probably never heard of Arthur Fery, but that's OK. Hardly anyone else has, either.

But yesterday, on the hallowed Wimbledon grass (and by this stage of the tournament, the threadbare Wimbledon grass) he did something no player representing Great Britain had ever done: Knocked off Grigor Dimitrov in five sets to become the first British wild-card in the modern era to advance to the Wimbledon singles quarterfinals. 

Scores were 7-5, 3-6, 4-6, 6-4, 7-6, the second five-set win in a row for a guy who'd never before won a five-set match. And once again he had to stage a miracle comeback to do it.

Against Zizou Bergs last weekend, he trailed 4-1 in both the fourth and fifth sets before pulling it out. Then, on Monday, Dimitrov, leading the match two-sets-to-one, had Fery down a break twice in the fourth set before the irrepressible Brit clawed his way back.

Not bad for a 23-year-old who's ranked 114th in the world and had, until this fortnight, had won only two grand slam matches in his career.

He made his Wimbledon singles debut as a wild card in 2023, and he's been ranked 114th for barely a week. It's the highest he's ever been ranked.

Something else: He's actually not British. He's French.

He was born in Sevries outside Paris to Olivia and Loic Fery; his mother was a professional tennis player herself. But as a child he attended King's College School in London, and later played collegiately at Stanford. And he plays for Britain internationally.

So, good on you, French/British guy. You're the best 2026 Wimbledon story not named Naomi Osaka, who just upset top-seeded Aryna Sabalenka on the women's side.

You go, mon ami. Or mate. Or whatever.

Karma. Curses. Reality.

So, okey-dokey, then. That's that.

Belgium 4, USA 1, and welcome to big-boy soccer, you striving Americans. 

Belgium 4, USA 1, a certified butt-kicking -- Adjusted NFL Score: 49-7 -- and a reality check for the Americans, who captivated the host country with some smart, sharp and at times even elegant play for four magical games on its own soi.

In the end, though, it was the same old World Cup saga for the USMNT, which came up as flat, tentative and occasionally brainless as so many American sides before it. And in arguably its biggest match in history.

So, yes, reality. And with maybe some karma and a curse of two thrown in.

Karma, because the U.S. team got one of the keys to its offense back thanks to one of FIFA's notoriously shady backroom deals, this one involving a behind-closed-doors call from the Meddler-In-Chief, President Donald John "Everything's My Business" Trump. We'll likely never know what threats were made or sleazy deals agreed upon by Fearless Leader and FIFA boss Gianni Infantino, but suddenly Folarin Balogun was magically unsuspended.

Curse, because once again Fearless Leader poking his nose in proved very bad juju. First F.L.'s in the house for the New York Knicks' only loss in the NBA Finals; then he intercedes on behalf of the USMNT and it turns in its worst performance in memory against a superior and -- let's face it -- supremely pissed Belgian side.

It may not be true, as Fearless Leader's harshest critics say, that everything he touches turns to kaka. But it certainly tries real hard to.

In any case, the jacked Red Devils all but erased Balogun, who was a non-factor, and exposed the helpless American backline again and again. The signature of the night happened in the 57th minute, when American keeper Matt Freese inexplicably came completely out of the box to play a long clearing ball, hesitated, and had his pocket picked by Charles De Ketelaere, and Hans Vanaken was there to collect the ball and fire it into the all-but-open net.

That jumped a 2-1 Belgian lead to 3-1, and essentially ended the Americans' tournament. Romelu Lukaku's easy stoppage time goal was simply piling on.

Karma. Curses. Reality.

FIFA gonna FIFA

 The rules are clear, and the penalties severe.

-- Former IHSAA commissioner Gene Cato

You're darn tootin', Commissioner Cato, God rest your soul.

In eight humble words you laid out succinctly what law and order means in Sportsball World, and whether you came up with the words yourself or swiped them from someone else doesn't matter, at least to me.  You're the guy I'll always associate with them.

The rules are clear, and the penalties severe. Yessir.

Except ...

Except now here comes FIFA, the international ruling body for soccer, to say, "Weeelll ..."

Remember last week, when USMNT star Folarin Balogun was red-carded for cleating a Bosnian player in the round of 32?

FIFA declared him automatically suspended for the Americans' round of 16 match against Belgium, because that's the penalty for a red card. There would be no appeal, FIFA said. Balogun was out.

Altogether now: Weeelll ...

Suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, FIFA announced Balogun was NOT suspended. Well, he was, but the suspension was being suspended for a year. So tonight he'll take the pitch for the stars-and-stripes after all.

Befuddlement, bumfuzzlement and bewildered outrage (from the Belgians, justifiably) followed. And on the heels of that, resigned acknowledgment of international soccer's basic reality.

Which is, FIFA gonna FIFA.

It's the master of chronic inconsistency, among other things. Several of which are, how shall we put it, not altogether kosher.

 You'll be unsurprised, for instance, to learn the Balogun reversal apparently followed a phone call from President Donald John "Let Me Insert Myself Into Stuff That's None Of My Business" Trump. Donald John asked FIFA president Gianni Infantino if FIFA could perhaps review the Balogun matter. Infantino, of course, has been shamelessly smooching the presidential hindparts for months. And so ...

Well. Far be it from me to raise an eyebrow of suspicion. Far be it from me, also, to suggest there might have been threats (You got a real nice World Cup here. Be a shame if something happened to it) and/or some sort of sleazy quid-pro-quo involved. Probably not -- but considering who we're talking about, you're certainly allowed to wonder.

And this Balogun business?

You're allowed, also, to be conflicted about that, because the red card he was issued was a horrible call. So if you're looking at the world through red-white-and-blue glasses, FIFA's reversal was simply justice being served. It even had precedence: Last fall Portguese icon Cristiano Ronaldo got a three-match sitdown for elbowing an opponent in the head, but FIFA decided to suspend two of them so Ronaldo wouldn't miss Portugal's World Cup opener. 

And yet ...

And yet: The rules are clear, and the penalties severe.

Until they're not.

Until one of the World Cup host countries is involved, and it's pouring Niagaras of cash into FIFA's pockets, and backroom dealing is that organization's preferred business model.

To retierate: FIFA gonna FIFA. And did, once again.

Hotdoggery

 I managed to scarf down two hotdogs (with relish and mustard) yesterday on our nation's 250th birthday, which means I did my patriotic duty, I suppose. It also means I came up 64 'dogs short of Joey Chestnut, Indiana native and the Michael Jordan/Babe Ruth/Tom Brady of competitive eaters.

Chestnut won his 18th Famous Nathan's Hotdog Eating Contest by shoving 66 'dogs and buns down his gullet, and they really ought to just retire the belt. He beat the field by 16, and it doesn't seem as if anyone's going to remotely challenge him in the near future.

I do wonder something, though, besides the fact only in America do we have something so bizarre and clueless as eating contests. The significant chunk of the world that's starving must regard it as such, anyway.

No, I just wonder what Joey's digestive tract must have felt like after the 66-'dog invasion. Especially because it was dryer-vent weather yesterday in New York, with a high of 93 under an equatorial sun, and a heat index of 105 or so.

So perhaps it's just my imagination, but I didn't think Joey looked all that triumphant standing there in the sun. He managed a smile when they presented him with the Nathan's belt, and even raised his fist to the crowd. But mostly he looked like a guy who was about to ralph.

On the other hand, appearances can sometimes deceive. Maybe he was just digesting.