All last week a lying imposter teased us, whispering that winter was done and spring had come. The air was a caress. Crocus shoots pushed through the earth. Grass greened, birds awoke, the sun shone too benevolently by half, a warm hand on your shoulder that winked and said, "Hi. I'm really April, you know."
As if.
As if, because all of us knew that, come Saturday, snow would be flying again. The furnace would kick back on. And for the Blob, especially, there would be this sense that spring had jumped the gun -- because for the Blob, spring never begins until today.
Sunday. At sometime past 1 p.m. When 40 damn fools get their muscle cars out again, and wind 'em up, and the blat and snarl of unleavened horsepower goes up to the Florida sky above Daytona International Speedway.
Happy Daytona Day, as NASCAR is billing it. Happy unofficial first day of spring, is how the Blob bills it.
Dale Jr.'s out there again, thankfully, and, look, there's Jimmie Johnson and Joey Logano and Matt Kenseth and Denny Hamlin, and both the Busch boys, those goobers. There's Brad Keselowski, another goober. There's Kevin Harvick. And sitting on the pole, right where it belongs, there's old No. 24 -- except it's not Jeff Gordon in the seat now, it's Bill Elliott's boy, Chase.
Pretty soon they'll be freight-training around the place, and it'll be spring on my television screen -- or, better yet, summer. The Daytona 500 is where winter exits stage left for me, and if NASCAR doesn't thrill me the way it used to, it's still useful in that capacity.
Who's gonna win?
Hell, I don't know. Plate races are always a crapshoot, and maybe never more so than this year, with NASCAR itself jimmying with the natural order of these things with its three-stage nonsense. The dopes still think they can regain the un-regainable -- the absurdly unsustainable success of the late 1990s and early 2000s -- and their latest crack at it is to make the points system even more confusing than it already was. So a third of the way in today, they'll stop everything and count up points. Then they'll do it again at the two-thirds mark.
How did this come to be? I don't know how it came to be. I'm guessing a couple drinks too many at some midnight hour might have had something to do with it, though.
In any case, predicting Daytona just got a little harder. I'm guessing Chase Elliott doesn't win, because the polesitter hardly ever wins Daytona. You can bet Junior will be up there at the end, because he always is. And unless they get caught up in one of Daytona's usual messes, so will Hamlin and Logano and Truex and J.J.,and probably one or two guys you didn't count on, because that's how it goes at Daytona.
Wind 'em up, boys. Spring's awaitin'.
Sunday, February 26, 2017
Reg Dunlop has your Oscar right here
Tonight is Oscar night, and you know what means, America. It means a bunch of actors and entertainers get to say mean stuff about the Child President.
(Which, frankly, is OK with the Blob. The Child President is only getting back what he's so abundantly dished out, after all. But I'd rather not hear actors do it, because, well, they're actors. I'd rather hear some Congress critters get up on their hind legs and do it -- although I recognize that, being Congress critters, most of them lack the anatomical requirements.)
At any rate, it's Oscar night, and we'll get to see if the Other Affleck, Casey, wins for bumming out moviegoers in "Manchester By The Sea." We'll get to see if the Academy has truly rediscovered the musical ("Hey, look! A musical!") and hand "La-La Land" all the other Oscars. And we'll get to see if history most of America didn't know about, but should, gets properly honored thanks to the excellent "Hidden Figures."
I know one thing: Reg Dunlop will not be there.
Neither will the Hanson brothers. Neither will Ned Braden, Denis Lemieux, Joe McGrath, Dicky Dunn and -- oh, my God -- Ogie Ogilthorpe.
If you don't recognize any of these names, well, then go back to watching Emma Stone sing. And accept the pity of the rest of us, who consider you culturally deprived.
That's because all of the above are characters from "Slapshot," released 40 years ago this weekend. It's the greatest hockey movie ever made, an admittedly dubious honor. Needless to say, it will be nowhere to be found on Oscar night. That's probably because the Academy fears the Hanson brothers would drop the gloves and start something with the Afflecks, and that Ogie Ogilthorpe would perform an obscene act with one of the statuettes.
I mean, he's Ogie Ogilthorpe. It would be just like him.
Reg Dunlop -- played by Paul Newman in the film -- would probably just trash-talk everyone, because he was good at that. Joe McGrath, the team owner played by Strother Martin, would shout "Oh, (bleep) Eddie Shore," thoroughly confusing everyone. And Denis Lemieux, the French-Canadian goalie, would warn any Oscar loser tempted to make a scene about the soul-crushing (if temporary) properties of the penalty box.
"Two minutes, by yourself, you know," is how Lemieux put it in the film. "And you feel shame, you know. And then you get free."
Of course, the Blob realizes none of the above makes any sense to anyone not familiar with the film. The Blob does not apologize for this. If you are one of the aforementioned culturally deprived, that's on you. You could have been watching "Slapshot" instead of "Manchester By The Sea."
But suffice it so say "Slapshot" was sort of "Animal House" on skates, a completely ridiculous and obscene farce. And more fun than human beings should be allowed to have with their clothes on.
(Although not having clothes on sort of figures into "Slapshot," too. At least where Ned Braden is concerned.)
There were those immortal Hanson brothers, brought in to goon it up for captain Reg Dunlop's Charlestown Chiefs. There was Ogilthorpe, the quintessential goon. And of course there was Dicky Dunn, the sportswriter with the unimpeachable reputation.
It was glorious. And still as hilarious now as it was 40 years ago.
Of course, it's also one of those you-just-had-to-be-there deals. And so, while the rest of you settle in to watch the Oscars tonight, I know what I'll be doing.
I'll be puttin' on the foil, like the Hanson brothers. And waiting eagerly for Dicky Dunn's scrupulously accurate account of the proceedings.
Because, as everyone knows, if Dicky Dunn says it, it must be true.
(Which, frankly, is OK with the Blob. The Child President is only getting back what he's so abundantly dished out, after all. But I'd rather not hear actors do it, because, well, they're actors. I'd rather hear some Congress critters get up on their hind legs and do it -- although I recognize that, being Congress critters, most of them lack the anatomical requirements.)
At any rate, it's Oscar night, and we'll get to see if the Other Affleck, Casey, wins for bumming out moviegoers in "Manchester By The Sea." We'll get to see if the Academy has truly rediscovered the musical ("Hey, look! A musical!") and hand "La-La Land" all the other Oscars. And we'll get to see if history most of America didn't know about, but should, gets properly honored thanks to the excellent "Hidden Figures."
I know one thing: Reg Dunlop will not be there.
Neither will the Hanson brothers. Neither will Ned Braden, Denis Lemieux, Joe McGrath, Dicky Dunn and -- oh, my God -- Ogie Ogilthorpe.
If you don't recognize any of these names, well, then go back to watching Emma Stone sing. And accept the pity of the rest of us, who consider you culturally deprived.
That's because all of the above are characters from "Slapshot," released 40 years ago this weekend. It's the greatest hockey movie ever made, an admittedly dubious honor. Needless to say, it will be nowhere to be found on Oscar night. That's probably because the Academy fears the Hanson brothers would drop the gloves and start something with the Afflecks, and that Ogie Ogilthorpe would perform an obscene act with one of the statuettes.
I mean, he's Ogie Ogilthorpe. It would be just like him.
Reg Dunlop -- played by Paul Newman in the film -- would probably just trash-talk everyone, because he was good at that. Joe McGrath, the team owner played by Strother Martin, would shout "Oh, (bleep) Eddie Shore," thoroughly confusing everyone. And Denis Lemieux, the French-Canadian goalie, would warn any Oscar loser tempted to make a scene about the soul-crushing (if temporary) properties of the penalty box.
"Two minutes, by yourself, you know," is how Lemieux put it in the film. "And you feel shame, you know. And then you get free."
Of course, the Blob realizes none of the above makes any sense to anyone not familiar with the film. The Blob does not apologize for this. If you are one of the aforementioned culturally deprived, that's on you. You could have been watching "Slapshot" instead of "Manchester By The Sea."
But suffice it so say "Slapshot" was sort of "Animal House" on skates, a completely ridiculous and obscene farce. And more fun than human beings should be allowed to have with their clothes on.
(Although not having clothes on sort of figures into "Slapshot," too. At least where Ned Braden is concerned.)
There were those immortal Hanson brothers, brought in to goon it up for captain Reg Dunlop's Charlestown Chiefs. There was Ogilthorpe, the quintessential goon. And of course there was Dicky Dunn, the sportswriter with the unimpeachable reputation.
It was glorious. And still as hilarious now as it was 40 years ago.
Of course, it's also one of those you-just-had-to-be-there deals. And so, while the rest of you settle in to watch the Oscars tonight, I know what I'll be doing.
I'll be puttin' on the foil, like the Hanson brothers. And waiting eagerly for Dicky Dunn's scrupulously accurate account of the proceedings.
Because, as everyone knows, if Dicky Dunn says it, it must be true.
Saturday, February 25, 2017
Common sense takes a holiday
Someone much smarter than all of us once said you don't ever pick a fight with them that buys their ink by the barrel. You take on the press (or today's many ink-less versions) in a free society, you lose. Or you take steps to make it a less-free society.
Which is what our Glorious Leader, President Donald J. "Donny" Trump took the first baby steps toward yesterday by barring several news outlets -- including the New York Times -- from the White House press briefing. It of course did not have the desired effect, because the outlets that weren't barred immediately shared everything they got out of the press briefing with the barred outlets.
This is what happens, see, unless you're willing to go all the way and just take a jackhammer to the First Amendment. Which GL and his minions might yet do. It's hard to put anything past the Child President at this point. He is, after all, the Child President.
In the meantime, all their chuckleheaded stunt did yesterday was make their "news briefing" even more irrelevant than usual. These deals always to some extent have been setpieces for disseminating propaganda. Barring news organizations that dare to raise uncomfortable but pertinent questions only enhances that perception.
So your "news briefing" just becomes something to be ignored, and more fodder for SNL. And meanwhile serious news reported by serious journalists continues to be reported without interruption.
As the Blob has been known to say before: Damn these people are dumb.
And apparently it's catching.
Out on the opposite coast, see, Glorious Leader has a kindred soul, apparently. As reported by the website Deadspin, University of Oregon football coach Willie Taggart has decided he will no longer speak to the Oregonian because he's mad at one of their reporters for doing his job.
That reporter is Ducks football beat writer Andrew Greif, who last month broke the story that an offseason workout regimen landed three players in the hospital. This set off a kerfuffle in which the newly-hired strength coach was fired and Taggart formally apologized.
Apparently Taggart hasn't gotten over it. So he's banned Greif's news outlet for characterizing workouts that landed three players in the hospital as excessive.
That seems like a reasonable conclusion to me. But what do I know?
I'm still interested in knowing what sort of shenanigans the president and his cabal of outliers and conspiracy kooks are up to with the Russians. Silly me.
Which is what our Glorious Leader, President Donald J. "Donny" Trump took the first baby steps toward yesterday by barring several news outlets -- including the New York Times -- from the White House press briefing. It of course did not have the desired effect, because the outlets that weren't barred immediately shared everything they got out of the press briefing with the barred outlets.
This is what happens, see, unless you're willing to go all the way and just take a jackhammer to the First Amendment. Which GL and his minions might yet do. It's hard to put anything past the Child President at this point. He is, after all, the Child President.
In the meantime, all their chuckleheaded stunt did yesterday was make their "news briefing" even more irrelevant than usual. These deals always to some extent have been setpieces for disseminating propaganda. Barring news organizations that dare to raise uncomfortable but pertinent questions only enhances that perception.
So your "news briefing" just becomes something to be ignored, and more fodder for SNL. And meanwhile serious news reported by serious journalists continues to be reported without interruption.
As the Blob has been known to say before: Damn these people are dumb.
And apparently it's catching.
Out on the opposite coast, see, Glorious Leader has a kindred soul, apparently. As reported by the website Deadspin, University of Oregon football coach Willie Taggart has decided he will no longer speak to the Oregonian because he's mad at one of their reporters for doing his job.
That reporter is Ducks football beat writer Andrew Greif, who last month broke the story that an offseason workout regimen landed three players in the hospital. This set off a kerfuffle in which the newly-hired strength coach was fired and Taggart formally apologized.
Apparently Taggart hasn't gotten over it. So he's banned Greif's news outlet for characterizing workouts that landed three players in the hospital as excessive.
That seems like a reasonable conclusion to me. But what do I know?
I'm still interested in knowing what sort of shenanigans the president and his cabal of outliers and conspiracy kooks are up to with the Russians. Silly me.
Thursday, February 23, 2017
A walk too far
So now comes the news that baseball is getting rid of the intentional walk, and I all I can say is, I hope a few of the old 1970s Oakland As are still around to see this. They must be having a good laugh, if so. Or, considering that group's Wild West rep, another drink.
I say this because I have a memory, admittedly hazy now, of As catcher Gene Tenace fake-signaling for an intentional walk, then squatting quickly back behind the plate during the 1972 World Series against the Big Red Machine. The goofy, unconventional As upset the BRM in that Series, and one of the signature moments was Tenace signaling to put Johnny Bench on base, then squatting down as Rollie Fingers fired a third strike that caught Bench flat-footed.
That play never happens if the new rule baseball is instituting were in place -- i.e., a rule that now decrees an intentional walk no longer will be played out on the field with four pitches outside the strike zone, but will simply be signaled from the dugout.
It's all part of baseball's initiative to speed up the pace of play, which the Blob has applauded because, let's face it, the pace of play in baseball these days makes a crawl look like Helio Castroneves on a qualifying run at Indy. It's become in some cases like watching paint dry, only without the drama.
Here's the thing, though: Getting rid of the intentional walk robs the game of those delicious moments, albeit rare, when the pitcher screws up and the batter reaches across the plate and lines one of those lollipop intentional balls to the opposite field. It's the sort of flawed, human moment that makes our games worth the watching.
Plus, there are a million better ways to rev up the pace of play -- most of which involve enforcing rules already place.
For instance; You know those batters who constantly call time to adjust their batting gloves or their jocks or simply to collect their thoughts? That's a violation of the rules, and umpires shouldn't be granting them time in those instances. Instead, they should be saying "Your batting glove is fine. Get in there and hit or I'm counting you out."
I've always wondered, also, why a relief pitcher who's been warming up in the bullpen for 10 minutes needs another five or six or eight warmup pitches once he comes to the mound. No. Sorry. In my world, once you're on the mound, your next pitch is live. Get in there and pitch -- and no taking a long weekend between pitches, either.
There's a rule about that, too, see. And in my world, if you break it, it's a balk and the batter takes his base.
Of course, my world is not baseball's world.
More's the pity.
.
I say this because I have a memory, admittedly hazy now, of As catcher Gene Tenace fake-signaling for an intentional walk, then squatting quickly back behind the plate during the 1972 World Series against the Big Red Machine. The goofy, unconventional As upset the BRM in that Series, and one of the signature moments was Tenace signaling to put Johnny Bench on base, then squatting down as Rollie Fingers fired a third strike that caught Bench flat-footed.
That play never happens if the new rule baseball is instituting were in place -- i.e., a rule that now decrees an intentional walk no longer will be played out on the field with four pitches outside the strike zone, but will simply be signaled from the dugout.
It's all part of baseball's initiative to speed up the pace of play, which the Blob has applauded because, let's face it, the pace of play in baseball these days makes a crawl look like Helio Castroneves on a qualifying run at Indy. It's become in some cases like watching paint dry, only without the drama.
Here's the thing, though: Getting rid of the intentional walk robs the game of those delicious moments, albeit rare, when the pitcher screws up and the batter reaches across the plate and lines one of those lollipop intentional balls to the opposite field. It's the sort of flawed, human moment that makes our games worth the watching.
Plus, there are a million better ways to rev up the pace of play -- most of which involve enforcing rules already place.
For instance; You know those batters who constantly call time to adjust their batting gloves or their jocks or simply to collect their thoughts? That's a violation of the rules, and umpires shouldn't be granting them time in those instances. Instead, they should be saying "Your batting glove is fine. Get in there and hit or I'm counting you out."
I've always wondered, also, why a relief pitcher who's been warming up in the bullpen for 10 minutes needs another five or six or eight warmup pitches once he comes to the mound. No. Sorry. In my world, once you're on the mound, your next pitch is live. Get in there and pitch -- and no taking a long weekend between pitches, either.
There's a rule about that, too, see. And in my world, if you break it, it's a balk and the batter takes his base.
Of course, my world is not baseball's world.
More's the pity.
.
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
Meanwhile, in Iowa City ...
... we check in with the Indiana Hoosiers, who rumor has it are still playing basketball, sort of, even if the point of doing so now eludes most observers.
Anyway, they lost their fifth straight game last night, falling to an unimposing Iowa team in overtime in Iowa City. Indiana is now 15-13 overall, 5-10 in the Big Ten. And they still have to play Purdue and Ohio State on the road and Northwestern at home.
Anyone want to bet against them running the table in reverse -- i.e., they lose all three?
Because, listen, this is a team that looks for all the world as if it's checked out of the season. It looks like a team more interested in spring break than fastbreaks. And it's clearly a team even less interested in the quainter basketball custom of defense.
This would be occasion for the gnashing of teeth and rending of garments for Hoosier Nation, except it's pretty much checked out, too. That's not good news for head coach Tom Crean, whose job is likely safe despite the current death spiral. Bad seasons happen to good people sometimes. And so he'll live to keep firetomcrean.com a going concern for at least another year, because two Big Ten titles in four years have bought him that.
On the other hand ...
On the other hand, a silent fan base is a dangerous fan base. When your followers not only stop living and dying with your program but no longer bother even to gripe, the clock is running on Coach.
Even if, in Crean's case, it has a bit left to run.
Anyway, they lost their fifth straight game last night, falling to an unimposing Iowa team in overtime in Iowa City. Indiana is now 15-13 overall, 5-10 in the Big Ten. And they still have to play Purdue and Ohio State on the road and Northwestern at home.
Anyone want to bet against them running the table in reverse -- i.e., they lose all three?
Because, listen, this is a team that looks for all the world as if it's checked out of the season. It looks like a team more interested in spring break than fastbreaks. And it's clearly a team even less interested in the quainter basketball custom of defense.
This would be occasion for the gnashing of teeth and rending of garments for Hoosier Nation, except it's pretty much checked out, too. That's not good news for head coach Tom Crean, whose job is likely safe despite the current death spiral. Bad seasons happen to good people sometimes. And so he'll live to keep firetomcrean.com a going concern for at least another year, because two Big Ten titles in four years have bought him that.
On the other hand ...
On the other hand, a silent fan base is a dangerous fan base. When your followers not only stop living and dying with your program but no longer bother even to gripe, the clock is running on Coach.
Even if, in Crean's case, it has a bit left to run.
Magic act. Maybe.
It's a hard dollar sometimes, being a presumptive savior. You're either Theo Epstein and get elevated to heights at which no mortal can survive for long, or you're Phil Jackson and track mud all over your legacy by picking petty fights with your star players and otherwise failing to save the day.
And so, out there on the opposite coast from Phil, we come to Magic Johnson, whose status as the Los Angeles Lakers icon of icons now hangs in the balance. His arrival in shining armor to save a Lakers franchise fallen on hard times carries with it the usual perils for those of his stature.
Which is to say, this goes one of two ways.
One, Magic displays razor-sharp business acumen and a deft understanding of the complexities of the modern NBA, and therefore does indeed turn the Lakers right-side up, becoming even more an icon than he already is.
Two, his disastrous stint as Lakers' coach presages what happens to him in the front office -- i.e., he fails utterly to get the complexities of the modern NBA, and finds himself unable to connect with today's players (or evaluate them) on any meaningful or effective level.
The Blob isn't betting one way or the other right now. Wait-and-see mode is now locked and loaded.
And so, out there on the opposite coast from Phil, we come to Magic Johnson, whose status as the Los Angeles Lakers icon of icons now hangs in the balance. His arrival in shining armor to save a Lakers franchise fallen on hard times carries with it the usual perils for those of his stature.
Which is to say, this goes one of two ways.
One, Magic displays razor-sharp business acumen and a deft understanding of the complexities of the modern NBA, and therefore does indeed turn the Lakers right-side up, becoming even more an icon than he already is.
Two, his disastrous stint as Lakers' coach presages what happens to him in the front office -- i.e., he fails utterly to get the complexities of the modern NBA, and finds himself unable to connect with today's players (or evaluate them) on any meaningful or effective level.
The Blob isn't betting one way or the other right now. Wait-and-see mode is now locked and loaded.
Tuesday, February 21, 2017
The divine wrong of Kings
That would be your Sacramento Kings, of course.
Who, on President's Day, made a total James Buchanan move, trading franchise center/serial problem child DeMarcus Cousins to New Orleans for, basically, a hill of beans.
(Actually, it was for three guys who are not household NBA names -- Buddy Hield, Tyreke Evans and Langston Galloway -- plus a second-round pick in this year's draft. Observers say it's the dumbest trade since A) Manhattan for beads, or B) Lou Brock for Ernie Broglio)
That's not what makes this the ultimate Kings thing to do, however. It's this.
Not to impugn the quantity or quality of brain cells in the Sacramento front office, but who does this except the Kings? Publicly acknowledging you had a better deal on the table and didn't make it? I'm sorry, what?
Look, it's one thing to make a bad deal. It's a whole other thing to make a bad deal and then admit you could have made a less-bad deal and didn't do it. I mean, can you imagine anyone else in professional sports -- even someone who works for the Cleveland Browns -- saying what Vlade Divac said?
REPORTER: Theo, you just traded Rizzo and Bryant for a bucket of spackle and a rendering of Elvis on velvet. Explain yourself.
THEO EPSTEIN: Well, yesterday we could have gotten Max Scherzer, Mike Trout and Bryce Harper in a three-way deal, but we decided not to.
Or how about this?
REPORTER: Jim, you just traded Andrew Luck for Sammy Baugh's mummified remains. What's up with that?
JIM IRSAY: Well, we could have had Aaron Rodgers straight up, but did you ever see Baugh throw a football? They didn't call him Slingin' Sammy for nothin'.
Dumbness. In Sacramento, it's what's for dinner.
Who, on President's Day, made a total James Buchanan move, trading franchise center/serial problem child DeMarcus Cousins to New Orleans for, basically, a hill of beans.
(Actually, it was for three guys who are not household NBA names -- Buddy Hield, Tyreke Evans and Langston Galloway -- plus a second-round pick in this year's draft. Observers say it's the dumbest trade since A) Manhattan for beads, or B) Lou Brock for Ernie Broglio)
That's not what makes this the ultimate Kings thing to do, however. It's this.
Not to impugn the quantity or quality of brain cells in the Sacramento front office, but who does this except the Kings? Publicly acknowledging you had a better deal on the table and didn't make it? I'm sorry, what?
Look, it's one thing to make a bad deal. It's a whole other thing to make a bad deal and then admit you could have made a less-bad deal and didn't do it. I mean, can you imagine anyone else in professional sports -- even someone who works for the Cleveland Browns -- saying what Vlade Divac said?
REPORTER: Theo, you just traded Rizzo and Bryant for a bucket of spackle and a rendering of Elvis on velvet. Explain yourself.
THEO EPSTEIN: Well, yesterday we could have gotten Max Scherzer, Mike Trout and Bryce Harper in a three-way deal, but we decided not to.
Or how about this?
REPORTER: Jim, you just traded Andrew Luck for Sammy Baugh's mummified remains. What's up with that?
JIM IRSAY: Well, we could have had Aaron Rodgers straight up, but did you ever see Baugh throw a football? They didn't call him Slingin' Sammy for nothin'.
Dumbness. In Sacramento, it's what's for dinner.
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