Ah, those apples. They just never fall far from the tree.
And so here we have the son of Al Davis, Oakland Raiders owner Mark Davis, messing with the city of Oakland just like Daddy did. Al yanked the Raiders out of town and moved them to L.A,, then moved them back. Now his son is schmoozing Las Vegas with plans to move the Raiders there.
This would at once erase the fiction that the NFL and gambling isn't a hand-in-glove arrangement, despite the Shield's protests to the contrary. Its own requirement that teams release weekly injury reports already gives the lie to that, because the injury reports are nothing but a service to the bettors who regularly plunk down immense wads of cash on NFL games.
And then there's this: Davis has pledged to give $500 million toward the construction of a 65,000-seat domed stadium near the Strip (another great optic for the Shield). That sounds magnanimous until you hear that the proposed price tag for said stadium is $1.4 billion.
Three guesses who picks up the rest of the tab. And the first two don't count.
Billionaires strong-arming taxpayers into subsidizing venues that largely benefit only the billionaires is an old story in the land of games, and it will continue until municipalities learn to say two words: "Hell, no." But welfare for the Mark Davises of the world is always justified by the perceived return on the investment, which, as study after study has shown, is negligible on the major-league level. And yet the old lie -- Hey, you're gonna get more out of this than I will -- persists.
And city after city gets burned over and over as a result.
Consider: At roughly the same time Davis was courting Las Vegas, a very different scenario was playing out in Portland, Maine, interim home of the Portland Pirates of the American Hockey League. I say "interim," because the Pirates just announced, pretty much out of nowhere, that they're moving to Springfield, Mass., ditching a city that has supported minor league hockey teams for 39 years. And they're doing so just two years after Portland poured $33 million into renovating the Pirates' arena.
The lesson here?
Well, it should be that cities should be as wary of trusting the word of a team owner as a motorist would of picking up a hitchhiker in the middle of the night on a highway that runs past a prison. But, of course, that lesson will be lost. The lure of having your very own team will always override common sense.
And that's why Mark Davis will get away with paying only a fraction of the cost of a stadium that will mostly be his private preserve. You can, ahem, make book on it.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
Friday, May 6, 2016
Casualty of bore(d)
Hey, I get it, Larry Bird. Sometimes a guy just gets tired of a guy.
Sometimes you've just gotta switch it up, and so you call a news conference and you say nice things about your head coach and then you fire him, trying to soften the blow by saying you're not really firing him (except you are). You say stuff that sounds good until you stop to think about it, like how the Indiana Pacers needed a "new voice." As if this were, I don't know, an episode of American Idol or something.
The truth is less fuzzy.
The truth is, Larry Bird apparently just got bored with Frank Vogel.
No other rationale makes sense for offloading a coach who, despite what Bird thinks, worked pretty close to a miracle with a flawed team this season. The Pacers braintrust, of which Bird is the lead brain, gave Vogel an almost entirely new team whose second-best player was a 19-year-old kid named Myles Turner. They were Paul George and the Georgettes. And somehow Vogel squeezed 45 wins out of them, turned them into the third-best defensive team in the league and got them to the playoffs, where the Pacers pushed the 2-seed in the East to seven games.
And yet somehow Bird viewed that as an indictment.
It all gets curiouser and curiouser the more you examine it, because Vogel is clearly one of the bright young coaches in the NBA, winning 250 games in six seasons and making the playoffs every year except for 2014-15, when George was out after gruesomely breaking his leg. He lost one All-Star (Danny Granger) and never got him back. He oversaw a virtual revamp of the lineup after David West, Roy Hibbert and Lance Stephenson departed. And still he won a heck of a lot more than he lost.
Now he's on the street, where he won't linger long. And Bird is left to replace him with ... who, exactly?
That's the other thing about this: The timing. Is there anyone available right now among the usual suspects you could call an upgrade from Vogel and keep a straight face? And if there isn't, why do you cut ties with a coach the rest of the league is going to trample one another to hire?
Because you needed "a new voice"?
Well. I suppose Kelly Clarkson could throw her hat in the ring. Or maybe Bird will pick up the phone and give the Chicago Bulls a jingle.
The Bulls! Sure, that's it. Remember how they dumped Tom Thibodeaux because he was too grumpy and brought in that nice boy Fred Hoiberg? Look how awesome that turned out!
Call 'em now, Larry. Operators are standing by.
Sometimes you've just gotta switch it up, and so you call a news conference and you say nice things about your head coach and then you fire him, trying to soften the blow by saying you're not really firing him (except you are). You say stuff that sounds good until you stop to think about it, like how the Indiana Pacers needed a "new voice." As if this were, I don't know, an episode of American Idol or something.
The truth is less fuzzy.
The truth is, Larry Bird apparently just got bored with Frank Vogel.
No other rationale makes sense for offloading a coach who, despite what Bird thinks, worked pretty close to a miracle with a flawed team this season. The Pacers braintrust, of which Bird is the lead brain, gave Vogel an almost entirely new team whose second-best player was a 19-year-old kid named Myles Turner. They were Paul George and the Georgettes. And somehow Vogel squeezed 45 wins out of them, turned them into the third-best defensive team in the league and got them to the playoffs, where the Pacers pushed the 2-seed in the East to seven games.
And yet somehow Bird viewed that as an indictment.
It all gets curiouser and curiouser the more you examine it, because Vogel is clearly one of the bright young coaches in the NBA, winning 250 games in six seasons and making the playoffs every year except for 2014-15, when George was out after gruesomely breaking his leg. He lost one All-Star (Danny Granger) and never got him back. He oversaw a virtual revamp of the lineup after David West, Roy Hibbert and Lance Stephenson departed. And still he won a heck of a lot more than he lost.
Now he's on the street, where he won't linger long. And Bird is left to replace him with ... who, exactly?
That's the other thing about this: The timing. Is there anyone available right now among the usual suspects you could call an upgrade from Vogel and keep a straight face? And if there isn't, why do you cut ties with a coach the rest of the league is going to trample one another to hire?
Because you needed "a new voice"?
Well. I suppose Kelly Clarkson could throw her hat in the ring. Or maybe Bird will pick up the phone and give the Chicago Bulls a jingle.
The Bulls! Sure, that's it. Remember how they dumped Tom Thibodeaux because he was too grumpy and brought in that nice boy Fred Hoiberg? Look how awesome that turned out!
Call 'em now, Larry. Operators are standing by.
Thursday, May 5, 2016
Commitment issues
You've gotta feel a little something for Aaron Moorehead. Someone should have told the guy there are beasties in that there Twitter jungle.
Most of them are beasties of one's own devising, which is what made a snack this week of Moorehead, the receivers coach at Texas A&M. Not long after blue-chip quarterback Tate Martell announced (via Twitter, of coruse) he was re-opening his recruitment after a long commitment to A&M, Moorehead took to Twitter himself and spouted this: "I feel sorry for ppl who never understand loyalty. I can't really even vibe with u. At the end of the day trust is 100 & everything else is BS."
Then he said he wasn't referring to a certain player specifically, because doing so would have been an NCAA violation.
Of course, the timing pretty much makes that BS, too, and the fallout commenced. Not very long after Moorehead's 140-character homily about loyalty, another A&M recruit, wide receiver Mannie Netherly tweeted that he, too, was de-committing, on account of he couldn't play for a position coach with Moorehead's attitude.
Here's the bizarre thing about all this: Moorehead is absolutely right. He's also a damn fool.
He's right when he says a commitment should mean something, and that when a young man backs out of it, it says little to recommend him. And he's a damn fool because a college coach -- particularly position coaches who do so much of the recruiting legwork -- should know the recruiting landscape in 2016 better than this.
Which is to say, a commitment is not a commitment these days. The Blob has argued long and loud that it ought to be, that once a kid pledges his troth to good old State U., good old State Tech should honor that and quit recruiting him. I have been called a fool and worse for that, a sad relic clinging to a bygone era when coaches actually did honor a young man's word.
Let me say right here that my critics are absolutely right. I am a fool.
I'm a fool for thinking this immense corporation that is big-time college football could be expected to operate as anything but an immense corporation. Corporations poach one another's employees all the time. It's simply business. How could I have been so silly to think college football would behave any differently?
What I think now is, if these "commitments" don't really mean anything, university athletic departments and the media should stop acting as if they do. Which is to say, stop treating them as if they're actually news. They're not. It's just Player A deciding he likes School B better than School C for the time being. And that's exactly how you phrase it when you type it up as a one-sentence item for the briefs.
In other words: Nothing to see here, folks. Yet.
Most of them are beasties of one's own devising, which is what made a snack this week of Moorehead, the receivers coach at Texas A&M. Not long after blue-chip quarterback Tate Martell announced (via Twitter, of coruse) he was re-opening his recruitment after a long commitment to A&M, Moorehead took to Twitter himself and spouted this: "I feel sorry for ppl who never understand loyalty. I can't really even vibe with u. At the end of the day trust is 100 & everything else is BS."
Then he said he wasn't referring to a certain player specifically, because doing so would have been an NCAA violation.
Of course, the timing pretty much makes that BS, too, and the fallout commenced. Not very long after Moorehead's 140-character homily about loyalty, another A&M recruit, wide receiver Mannie Netherly tweeted that he, too, was de-committing, on account of he couldn't play for a position coach with Moorehead's attitude.
Here's the bizarre thing about all this: Moorehead is absolutely right. He's also a damn fool.
He's right when he says a commitment should mean something, and that when a young man backs out of it, it says little to recommend him. And he's a damn fool because a college coach -- particularly position coaches who do so much of the recruiting legwork -- should know the recruiting landscape in 2016 better than this.
Which is to say, a commitment is not a commitment these days. The Blob has argued long and loud that it ought to be, that once a kid pledges his troth to good old State U., good old State Tech should honor that and quit recruiting him. I have been called a fool and worse for that, a sad relic clinging to a bygone era when coaches actually did honor a young man's word.
Let me say right here that my critics are absolutely right. I am a fool.
I'm a fool for thinking this immense corporation that is big-time college football could be expected to operate as anything but an immense corporation. Corporations poach one another's employees all the time. It's simply business. How could I have been so silly to think college football would behave any differently?
What I think now is, if these "commitments" don't really mean anything, university athletic departments and the media should stop acting as if they do. Which is to say, stop treating them as if they're actually news. They're not. It's just Player A deciding he likes School B better than School C for the time being. And that's exactly how you phrase it when you type it up as a one-sentence item for the briefs.
In other words: Nothing to see here, folks. Yet.
Horse sense
First off today, a shameful admission: The Kentucky Derby took me completely by surprise this year.
It came creeping in on little horse feet, leaving me no time to wax lyrical about the best sporting event in the world of which I know practically nothing. I didn't get to talk about the twin spires ("Look! There's two of 'em!"). I didn't get to make the usual jokes about the Kentucky Colonels ("Kentucky Colonels? You mean like Artis Gilmore?"). I didn't get to mention that song by Dan Fogelberg, or those hats designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, or the peculiar joys/torments of the worst mixed drink ever conceived by man, the mint julep.
(It's a cocktail! It's cough syrup! It's two mints in one!)
Anyway ... here we are two days from post time, and the Blob's got nothin'. It hasn't told you who the favorite is. It hasn't told you who the favorite should be. It hasn't offered the kind of intelligent analysis you've come to expect from a guy who once got his Derby intel from a talking horse.
(Mr. Ted, 2000-2012. RIP, Big Mouth)
And so, without further ado ...
A few observations:
1. Hey, look, it's a horse named after a hockey player!
No, I'm not kidding. The horse's is name is Nyquist, and he's the favorite, and he's won a bunch of races in a row, like, I don't know, seven, maybe. He's brown. He's named, no lie, for Detroit Red Wings forward Gustav Nyquist. And did I mention he's brown?
2. Hey, look, it's a horse who hasn't raced in eight weeks!
That would be Destin. He's got no chance. No, not because he hasn't raced in eight weeks. I saw a picture of him, and he's gray. Never bet on a gray horse. They're frequently Alpo.
3. Suddenlybreakingnews is an awesome horse name.
I mean, come on. It is. Plus he's a 20-1 shot out of the not-great No. 2 post position, so you could make some serious coin on him if he wins.
4. Mor Spirit is the horse to bet on if you don't want to bet on Nyquist, and also if you can't spel.
He's pretty good, I hear. Also he has the correct number of legs, four, and a mane and a tail. Also he's not gray.
5. Apparently there are an inordinate number of mutts in the field this year.
The field, as a whole, is generally slower than erosion. There are a few OK horses, like Creator, Moyhamen and My Man Sam. Out of that group, I'd go with My Man Sam. Especially if your name is Sam.
6. Speaking of mutts ... Hey, look! It's Trojan Nation!
The first horse in Derby history to get into the field with a fake ID (or so I suspect), Trojan Nation has yet to win a race. He's a 50-1 shot. And he's starting in the Position of Death, aka, the No. 1 slot next to the rail. I'd put a bundle on him.
7. Victor Espinoza is the man.
If you bet jockeys, he's the guy to bet on. He's won the last two Derbys. He's going for four Derby wins overall. He goes off at 20-1 aboard Whitmore, who, as far as I know, is not named for the actor James Whitmore. So there you go.
And, there you have it: Your Kentucky Derby primer. But, wait, you say. What about the incredibly bad betting advice the Blob always gives out, on account of the Blob doesn't know anything about betting on horse racing?
Hmmm.
OK, here's a name: Tom's Ready.
He's going out of the 12 hole. He carries 30-1 odds. He's Ready (because why would you name him Tom's Ready if Tom wasn't Ready?), and his trainer is Dallas Stewart -- about whom I know nothing except that he looks like a horse trainer, or at least what I imagine a horse trainer should look like.
Oh, yes: And the "Tom" in his name alludes to his owner, Tom Benson, who also owns the New Orleans Saints. And Tom could use a break after the way the Saints pooped the bed last fall.
Yes, sir. Tom's Ready is your horse.
Ready, set, go.
That's how they send 'em off, right?
It came creeping in on little horse feet, leaving me no time to wax lyrical about the best sporting event in the world of which I know practically nothing. I didn't get to talk about the twin spires ("Look! There's two of 'em!"). I didn't get to make the usual jokes about the Kentucky Colonels ("Kentucky Colonels? You mean like Artis Gilmore?"). I didn't get to mention that song by Dan Fogelberg, or those hats designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, or the peculiar joys/torments of the worst mixed drink ever conceived by man, the mint julep.
(It's a cocktail! It's cough syrup! It's two mints in one!)
Anyway ... here we are two days from post time, and the Blob's got nothin'. It hasn't told you who the favorite is. It hasn't told you who the favorite should be. It hasn't offered the kind of intelligent analysis you've come to expect from a guy who once got his Derby intel from a talking horse.
(Mr. Ted, 2000-2012. RIP, Big Mouth)
And so, without further ado ...
A few observations:
1. Hey, look, it's a horse named after a hockey player!
No, I'm not kidding. The horse's is name is Nyquist, and he's the favorite, and he's won a bunch of races in a row, like, I don't know, seven, maybe. He's brown. He's named, no lie, for Detroit Red Wings forward Gustav Nyquist. And did I mention he's brown?
2. Hey, look, it's a horse who hasn't raced in eight weeks!
That would be Destin. He's got no chance. No, not because he hasn't raced in eight weeks. I saw a picture of him, and he's gray. Never bet on a gray horse. They're frequently Alpo.
3. Suddenlybreakingnews is an awesome horse name.
I mean, come on. It is. Plus he's a 20-1 shot out of the not-great No. 2 post position, so you could make some serious coin on him if he wins.
4. Mor Spirit is the horse to bet on if you don't want to bet on Nyquist, and also if you can't spel.
He's pretty good, I hear. Also he has the correct number of legs, four, and a mane and a tail. Also he's not gray.
5. Apparently there are an inordinate number of mutts in the field this year.
The field, as a whole, is generally slower than erosion. There are a few OK horses, like Creator, Moyhamen and My Man Sam. Out of that group, I'd go with My Man Sam. Especially if your name is Sam.
6. Speaking of mutts ... Hey, look! It's Trojan Nation!
The first horse in Derby history to get into the field with a fake ID (or so I suspect), Trojan Nation has yet to win a race. He's a 50-1 shot. And he's starting in the Position of Death, aka, the No. 1 slot next to the rail. I'd put a bundle on him.
7. Victor Espinoza is the man.
If you bet jockeys, he's the guy to bet on. He's won the last two Derbys. He's going for four Derby wins overall. He goes off at 20-1 aboard Whitmore, who, as far as I know, is not named for the actor James Whitmore. So there you go.
And, there you have it: Your Kentucky Derby primer. But, wait, you say. What about the incredibly bad betting advice the Blob always gives out, on account of the Blob doesn't know anything about betting on horse racing?
Hmmm.
OK, here's a name: Tom's Ready.
He's going out of the 12 hole. He carries 30-1 odds. He's Ready (because why would you name him Tom's Ready if Tom wasn't Ready?), and his trainer is Dallas Stewart -- about whom I know nothing except that he looks like a horse trainer, or at least what I imagine a horse trainer should look like.
Oh, yes: And the "Tom" in his name alludes to his owner, Tom Benson, who also owns the New Orleans Saints. And Tom could use a break after the way the Saints pooped the bed last fall.
Yes, sir. Tom's Ready is your horse.
Ready, set, go.
That's how they send 'em off, right?
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
Against all odds
The Blob knows its audience, which is why it rarely strays into what for Americans constitutes the wilderness on this planet of games. But sometimes attention must paid.
And so, this morning, all hail Leicester City.
If you've never heard of Leicester City, it's because you regard soccer as some alien incursion that must nipped in the bud forthwith. But right now it's as big a story in England as the NFL Draft and the NBA playoffs are in the States, because Leicester City just pulled off the greatest upset in the history of sports as we know them.
Yes, bigger than the Miracle On Ice, because that was just one game. Yes, bigger than Villanova over Georgetown, or North Carolina State over Houston, or Buster Douglas over Mike Tyson.
That's because Leicester City just clinched the championship of the Barclay's Premier League, English soccer's version of the NFL. It did this despite being a 5,000-to-1 shot to win the title. It did this a year removed from nearly being relegated (i.e., sent down to the minors), and with a lineup that averaged an ancient 28 years in age and comprised mostly benchwarmers from more celebrated clubs.
In short, Leicester City winning the Premier League is like Chico's Bail Bonds winning the World Series. Or, closer to home, like the Komets winning the Stanley Cup.
Actually, it's more astounding than that, because Leicester did it across an entire season. Almost incomprehensively, it occupied first place for all but one week from November on. And if it benefited from traditional heavyweights such as Liverpool, Chelsea and Manchester United having down years, it also did it by consistently beating head-to-head its main rivals for the title -- in this case Arsenal and Tottenham Hotspur, among others.
Not bad for a 5,000-to-1 'dog. Which, if you're looking for comparisons, made Leicester City light years more a longshot to win the Premier League than Mitt Romney is to be elected president this year.
According to some books, Romney's odds are a mere 200-to-1.
And he's not even in the race.
And so, this morning, all hail Leicester City.
If you've never heard of Leicester City, it's because you regard soccer as some alien incursion that must nipped in the bud forthwith. But right now it's as big a story in England as the NFL Draft and the NBA playoffs are in the States, because Leicester City just pulled off the greatest upset in the history of sports as we know them.
Yes, bigger than the Miracle On Ice, because that was just one game. Yes, bigger than Villanova over Georgetown, or North Carolina State over Houston, or Buster Douglas over Mike Tyson.
That's because Leicester City just clinched the championship of the Barclay's Premier League, English soccer's version of the NFL. It did this despite being a 5,000-to-1 shot to win the title. It did this a year removed from nearly being relegated (i.e., sent down to the minors), and with a lineup that averaged an ancient 28 years in age and comprised mostly benchwarmers from more celebrated clubs.
In short, Leicester City winning the Premier League is like Chico's Bail Bonds winning the World Series. Or, closer to home, like the Komets winning the Stanley Cup.
Actually, it's more astounding than that, because Leicester did it across an entire season. Almost incomprehensively, it occupied first place for all but one week from November on. And if it benefited from traditional heavyweights such as Liverpool, Chelsea and Manchester United having down years, it also did it by consistently beating head-to-head its main rivals for the title -- in this case Arsenal and Tottenham Hotspur, among others.
Not bad for a 5,000-to-1 'dog. Which, if you're looking for comparisons, made Leicester City light years more a longshot to win the Premier League than Mitt Romney is to be elected president this year.
According to some books, Romney's odds are a mere 200-to-1.
And he's not even in the race.
Monday, May 2, 2016
No-memtum
He is, it turns out, one of the great mythological figures of all time, at least within the proscribed confines of our playing fields and athletic arenas.
Mo. Mo Mentum. Guy's about as real as the Easter bunny.
Oh, we all like to talk about him as if he's flesh and blood and bone, especially when we're talking about the artificial construct of a playoff series. It's the first to four wins in a seven-game universe, and Mo is huge in that universe, the acknowledged ruler of the kingdom. Win Game 1, and Mo's with you. Win the pivotal Game 3 or Game 5, and he'll be with you for Game 4 or Game 6, guaranteed, because that's the way the world works.
Except it doesn't.
Except Mo is someone who exists only in the minds of men, a false god of well-being. Truth is, momentum ends the second the puck is dropped or the ball is tipped or the pitcher comes set and lets go of that first heater. Whatever happened before that has no consequence. Everything resets from that moment, and good old Mo is once more in the wind.
Thought about that a lot Sunday when the Raptors closed out the Pacers in Game 7 of their first-round NBA series, 89-84. DeMar DeRozen dropped 30 on the Indy boys. Paul George went for another double-double -- 26 and 12 this time -- but got little help from anyone else. The seedings -- Toronto was a 2-seed and Indiana a 7-seed -- held to form.
Go back 48 hours, however, and you'd never have believed it would play out that way.
Forty-eight hours before, after all, the Pacers crushed the Raptors 101-83 in Game 6 in Indianapolis. George double-doubled again with 21 and 11. All five Pacers scored in double figures. And DeRozen was a virtual ghost, finishing with just eight points.
The narrative that followed this was that the Pacers had seized control of the series, and the Raptors were in serious trouble. Examples were cited of previous Game 7 roadies in which the Pacers had triumphed. They had, it seemed, finally proved they were the tougher, smarter, more resilient team in this series.
Until, you know, they weren't.
All Game 6 meant, in the end, was that the Pacers were better in Game 6, a pretty much universal truth. No matter the sport, no matter the circumstance, a win in any one game of a seven-game series only means you were better that game. It has absolutely zero impact on what's going to happen in the next game; a seven-game series, it turns out, is not a narrative but a series of largely unrelated events. It's not a novel but a collection of short stories.
As we discovered once again Sunday. And no doubt will continue to.
Mo. Mo Mentum. Guy's about as real as the Easter bunny.
Oh, we all like to talk about him as if he's flesh and blood and bone, especially when we're talking about the artificial construct of a playoff series. It's the first to four wins in a seven-game universe, and Mo is huge in that universe, the acknowledged ruler of the kingdom. Win Game 1, and Mo's with you. Win the pivotal Game 3 or Game 5, and he'll be with you for Game 4 or Game 6, guaranteed, because that's the way the world works.
Except it doesn't.
Except Mo is someone who exists only in the minds of men, a false god of well-being. Truth is, momentum ends the second the puck is dropped or the ball is tipped or the pitcher comes set and lets go of that first heater. Whatever happened before that has no consequence. Everything resets from that moment, and good old Mo is once more in the wind.
Thought about that a lot Sunday when the Raptors closed out the Pacers in Game 7 of their first-round NBA series, 89-84. DeMar DeRozen dropped 30 on the Indy boys. Paul George went for another double-double -- 26 and 12 this time -- but got little help from anyone else. The seedings -- Toronto was a 2-seed and Indiana a 7-seed -- held to form.
Go back 48 hours, however, and you'd never have believed it would play out that way.
Forty-eight hours before, after all, the Pacers crushed the Raptors 101-83 in Game 6 in Indianapolis. George double-doubled again with 21 and 11. All five Pacers scored in double figures. And DeRozen was a virtual ghost, finishing with just eight points.
The narrative that followed this was that the Pacers had seized control of the series, and the Raptors were in serious trouble. Examples were cited of previous Game 7 roadies in which the Pacers had triumphed. They had, it seemed, finally proved they were the tougher, smarter, more resilient team in this series.
Until, you know, they weren't.
All Game 6 meant, in the end, was that the Pacers were better in Game 6, a pretty much universal truth. No matter the sport, no matter the circumstance, a win in any one game of a seven-game series only means you were better that game. It has absolutely zero impact on what's going to happen in the next game; a seven-game series, it turns out, is not a narrative but a series of largely unrelated events. It's not a novel but a collection of short stories.
As we discovered once again Sunday. And no doubt will continue to.
Sunday, May 1, 2016
Reefer madness
So here's what I hope now that the NFL Draft is finally over:
I hope the Miami Dolphins wind up splitting their sides laughing.
I hope Laremy Tunsil, the stud offensive lineman from Ole Miss the Fins got with the 13th pick, turns out to be what everyone thought he was before someone hacked his accounts and posted that video of him taking bong hits through a gas mask. No one knows who decided to ruin the biggest night in the kid's life by doing that, although there are prime suspects (i.e., the stepfather from hell who's currently making his life miserable). No one knows when the video was shot, although Tunsil says it's several years old. And no one can figure out why it caused NFL teams to run for their lives from the young man, who was originally projected as a top-three-or-four pick.
OK, so that last is not quite true. Let's just say I can't figure out why it caused NFL teams to run for their lives, except that they're NFL teams and they'll run from any kid who's ever done anything kids in college do all the time as a matter of course.
Admittedly, it's a creepy piece of video. The whole gas mask thing reminds you of Tommies huddled in the mud of the trenches on the Somme in World War I. And, yes, it depicts a commodity of some value ingesting marijuana, which the Shield apparently regards with the horror society in general regarded it, um, 40 some years ago.
Here's the thing, though: It's not 40 some years ago.
Marijuana is legal now in a handful of states, and its medical use to relieve pain is becoming widespread as users discover it A) works as well or better than opioids, and B) is nowhere nearly as addictive. Which is a big reason why it'll likely be legal in most states before another two or three decades are out.
Yet the NFL continues to behave as if "Reefer Madness" -- the unintentionally hilarious public service film from the 1930s -- plays on an endless loop in Roger Goodell's head. That it still tests for weed as a banned substance is both an indictment of how out of touch the NFL is, and how blind it is to the fact that league-sanctioned trainers routinely dispense more powerful and addictive drugs just to keep players on the field.
Young people smoke weed now. They just do. Outside the bubble of the NFL, it holds no more stigma than drinking a beer before you're of legal age. And I daresay a good chunk of America has done that.
Of course, video of an under-aged Tunsil drinking a beer would likely have sent NFL teams screaming into the night, too. It is, after all, the NFL, where the sky is always falling on both the wary and unwary. And it's the age of TMZ, when even the most innocuous of activities -- Eli Manning pounding beers at a party, for instance -- is regarded as scandalous.
In any event ... here's hoping the Miami Dolphins will someday have a good laugh at the expense of all their Chicken Little brethren.
A good, long laugh.
I hope the Miami Dolphins wind up splitting their sides laughing.
I hope Laremy Tunsil, the stud offensive lineman from Ole Miss the Fins got with the 13th pick, turns out to be what everyone thought he was before someone hacked his accounts and posted that video of him taking bong hits through a gas mask. No one knows who decided to ruin the biggest night in the kid's life by doing that, although there are prime suspects (i.e., the stepfather from hell who's currently making his life miserable). No one knows when the video was shot, although Tunsil says it's several years old. And no one can figure out why it caused NFL teams to run for their lives from the young man, who was originally projected as a top-three-or-four pick.
OK, so that last is not quite true. Let's just say I can't figure out why it caused NFL teams to run for their lives, except that they're NFL teams and they'll run from any kid who's ever done anything kids in college do all the time as a matter of course.
Admittedly, it's a creepy piece of video. The whole gas mask thing reminds you of Tommies huddled in the mud of the trenches on the Somme in World War I. And, yes, it depicts a commodity of some value ingesting marijuana, which the Shield apparently regards with the horror society in general regarded it, um, 40 some years ago.
Here's the thing, though: It's not 40 some years ago.
Marijuana is legal now in a handful of states, and its medical use to relieve pain is becoming widespread as users discover it A) works as well or better than opioids, and B) is nowhere nearly as addictive. Which is a big reason why it'll likely be legal in most states before another two or three decades are out.
Yet the NFL continues to behave as if "Reefer Madness" -- the unintentionally hilarious public service film from the 1930s -- plays on an endless loop in Roger Goodell's head. That it still tests for weed as a banned substance is both an indictment of how out of touch the NFL is, and how blind it is to the fact that league-sanctioned trainers routinely dispense more powerful and addictive drugs just to keep players on the field.
Young people smoke weed now. They just do. Outside the bubble of the NFL, it holds no more stigma than drinking a beer before you're of legal age. And I daresay a good chunk of America has done that.
Of course, video of an under-aged Tunsil drinking a beer would likely have sent NFL teams screaming into the night, too. It is, after all, the NFL, where the sky is always falling on both the wary and unwary. And it's the age of TMZ, when even the most innocuous of activities -- Eli Manning pounding beers at a party, for instance -- is regarded as scandalous.
In any event ... here's hoping the Miami Dolphins will someday have a good laugh at the expense of all their Chicken Little brethren.
A good, long laugh.
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