And now the long awaited end of the hiatus, which kinda rhymes with "hate us," which is what you're saying now because the Blob is bringing back The NFL In So Many Words, the long-running feature that's been hailed as "stupid," "incomprehensible" and "so bad just reading it will make you dumber than Matt Patricia.":
1. Matt Patricia!
2. (Will now shave his beard to avoid detection in Detroit, and also to look more like his predecessor, Jim Caldwell, who at least never lost 48-17 at home to the freaking Jets, for God's sake, who were starting a freaking rookie quarterback, for God's sake. And making him look like Joe Freaking Namath, for God's sake.)
3. Meanwhile, Jim Caldwell be all like "What? I'm fired? For Beard Guy? Really?"
4. Hey, look! It's Willis Reed limping onto the court again!
5. Oh, sorry. That was Aaron Rodgers, limping out to beat the Bears again. Our bad.
6. Hey, look! It's the Great Jon Gruden!
7. Oh, sorry. It's just Jon Gruden, Some Dude Who Won A Super Bowl Eleventy-Hundred Years Ago. Our bad.
8. Meanwhile, the Browns!
9. Tied, dammit! Tied!
10. Take that, doubters.
Tuesday, September 11, 2018
Monday, September 10, 2018
As Luck wouldn't have it
More on the NASH-onal FOOT-ball League tomorrow, when the Blob again inflicts it's universally despised annual feature, The NFL In So Many Words, on an uncaring world. But first ...
First, an Andrew Luck update!
The good news is, he threw the football 53 times and his arm didn't fall off.
The better news is, he completed 39 of those throws for 319 yards and two touchdowns, with one interception.
The bad news is, he threw the football 53 times because the Colts have no running game whatsoever.
The worse news is, the Colts gave up 17 points in the fourth quarter and blew one at home to the Bengals, 34-23.
Which undoubtedly made Andrew Luck feel worse than he would have if his arm had fallen off.
First, an Andrew Luck update!
The good news is, he threw the football 53 times and his arm didn't fall off.
The better news is, he completed 39 of those throws for 319 yards and two touchdowns, with one interception.
The bad news is, he threw the football 53 times because the Colts have no running game whatsoever.
The worse news is, the Colts gave up 17 points in the fourth quarter and blew one at home to the Bengals, 34-23.
Which undoubtedly made Andrew Luck feel worse than he would have if his arm had fallen off.
Sunday, September 9, 2018
Un-chair-itable
I can tell you what I'm seeing this morning, in the wake of Naomi Osaka's coming-out moment. It has nothing to do with the gracious, stunningly talented 20-year-old Japanese tennis player, and so you're forgiven for thinking the Blob has slipped a cog.
("Wouldn't be the first time," you're saying).
Anyway, Osaka overwhelmed Serena Williams 6-2, 6-4 in the U.S. Open women's singles final yesterday. It was impressive. It perhaps heralded the turning of a page in women's tennis. And yet all I could see was John McEnroe.
Standing with his hands on hips.
All that '70s hair springing Medusa-like from his headband.
Screaming at the chair umpire.
"(You're the) pits of the world!" McEnroe is shouting.
I don't recall the chair umpire docking him a game for that. Although admittedly it has been close to 40 years.
I do recall that when a seething Serena Williams told chair umpire Carlos Ramos he was a "thief" for docking her a point for a couple of infractions, one legit and the other absurd, Ramos did dock her a game. And thereby injected himself into Naomi Osaka's moment in a manner that should preclude him ever sitting in the chair again for a Grand Slam final.
Look. There's no question Serena let her emotions get the best of her in that moment. There's no question she should have been docked for smashing her racquet in frustration at one point. There is, however, completely a question that it should have been her second infraction, given that the first -- that she was receiving coaching because her coach made a gesture she never even saw -- was ridiculous, because it happens all the time in every single match.
But to dock her a game for talking back? Especially when male players don't get penalized in the same way for doing the same thing?
That's the argument Serena made post-match, and it's pretty hard to argue with it. That there was more than a breath of sexism in what Ramos did seems undeniable. Ditto that he allowed his emotions to get in the way just as surely as Serena did.
In any event, by doing so he committed the sin of sins for a sports official: He made it about him. His ruling incited the crowd, which was already pro-Serena. It spoiled Osaka's moment at the end, as boos reigned down on her head and she wept. Some of this might have happened without Ramos doing what he did. But when he failed to do what a good chair is supposed to do -- defuse situations, not exacerbate them -- he certainly intensified it.
And all because a woman talked back to him.
And the woman in question?
When last seen, she was putting an arm around Osaka's shoulders as she wept. Then she addressed the crowd and, essentially, told them to knock it off with the booing.
In other words, she was doing what Carlos Ramos didn't do: Defuse the situation.
His job, in other words.
("Wouldn't be the first time," you're saying).
Anyway, Osaka overwhelmed Serena Williams 6-2, 6-4 in the U.S. Open women's singles final yesterday. It was impressive. It perhaps heralded the turning of a page in women's tennis. And yet all I could see was John McEnroe.
Standing with his hands on hips.
All that '70s hair springing Medusa-like from his headband.
Screaming at the chair umpire.
"(You're the) pits of the world!" McEnroe is shouting.
I don't recall the chair umpire docking him a game for that. Although admittedly it has been close to 40 years.
I do recall that when a seething Serena Williams told chair umpire Carlos Ramos he was a "thief" for docking her a point for a couple of infractions, one legit and the other absurd, Ramos did dock her a game. And thereby injected himself into Naomi Osaka's moment in a manner that should preclude him ever sitting in the chair again for a Grand Slam final.
Look. There's no question Serena let her emotions get the best of her in that moment. There's no question she should have been docked for smashing her racquet in frustration at one point. There is, however, completely a question that it should have been her second infraction, given that the first -- that she was receiving coaching because her coach made a gesture she never even saw -- was ridiculous, because it happens all the time in every single match.
But to dock her a game for talking back? Especially when male players don't get penalized in the same way for doing the same thing?
That's the argument Serena made post-match, and it's pretty hard to argue with it. That there was more than a breath of sexism in what Ramos did seems undeniable. Ditto that he allowed his emotions to get in the way just as surely as Serena did.
In any event, by doing so he committed the sin of sins for a sports official: He made it about him. His ruling incited the crowd, which was already pro-Serena. It spoiled Osaka's moment at the end, as boos reigned down on her head and she wept. Some of this might have happened without Ramos doing what he did. But when he failed to do what a good chair is supposed to do -- defuse situations, not exacerbate them -- he certainly intensified it.
And all because a woman talked back to him.
And the woman in question?
When last seen, she was putting an arm around Osaka's shoulders as she wept. Then she addressed the crowd and, essentially, told them to knock it off with the booing.
In other words, she was doing what Carlos Ramos didn't do: Defuse the situation.
His job, in other words.
Chirp-chirp!, The Sequel
In which the Blob was wrong about his Ball State Cardinals, only not really, because if they did NOT shock the damn world, they did rock Brandon Wimbush's world a few times, and maybe gave Knute Rockne's statue a couple of facial tics here and there, and ran around the hallowed Notre Dame turf without soiling it or leaving unsightly chalk outlines on the premises.
In other words, they lost.
But not, you know, 66-7 or eleventy-hundred to 13 or anything like that.
No, sir. The final was 24-16, and if the Cards really didn't cause the Irish any moments of true alarm, they did cause a contusion or two, particularly defensively. Running back James Gilbert ran for 72 yards. Quarterback Riley Neal played with guts and verve and a defiant stubbornness. And the gambling, blitzing Cardinals D took on Wimbush and the Irish offense and earned at least a draw.
Sacked Brandon four times, the defense did, and picked him three times. Hurried him four other times. Recorded 10 tackles for loss. Absolutely stuffed the Irish run game, yielding just 2.8 yards per carry.
I don't know what this will do for Mike Neu's program going forward. But I do know it certainly couldn't have hurt to show up and play the way the Cardinals played in front of a national TV audience. What kid wouldn't want to play for a program that displayed so much grit and want-to and plain old non-lay-down-ishness?
So good on ya, dear alma mater. You fought the good fight. Once again you showed the world -- as did Eastern Michigan, 20-19 upset winners just down the road at Purdue -- that you don't ever, ever, ever sleep on the Mid-American Conference.
As David Letterman was always so fond of saying: The cardinal is the fiercest of the robin-sized birds.
Chirp. Chirp.
In other words, they lost.
But not, you know, 66-7 or eleventy-hundred to 13 or anything like that.
No, sir. The final was 24-16, and if the Cards really didn't cause the Irish any moments of true alarm, they did cause a contusion or two, particularly defensively. Running back James Gilbert ran for 72 yards. Quarterback Riley Neal played with guts and verve and a defiant stubbornness. And the gambling, blitzing Cardinals D took on Wimbush and the Irish offense and earned at least a draw.
Sacked Brandon four times, the defense did, and picked him three times. Hurried him four other times. Recorded 10 tackles for loss. Absolutely stuffed the Irish run game, yielding just 2.8 yards per carry.
I don't know what this will do for Mike Neu's program going forward. But I do know it certainly couldn't have hurt to show up and play the way the Cardinals played in front of a national TV audience. What kid wouldn't want to play for a program that displayed so much grit and want-to and plain old non-lay-down-ishness?
So good on ya, dear alma mater. You fought the good fight. Once again you showed the world -- as did Eastern Michigan, 20-19 upset winners just down the road at Purdue -- that you don't ever, ever, ever sleep on the Mid-American Conference.
As David Letterman was always so fond of saying: The cardinal is the fiercest of the robin-sized birds.
Chirp. Chirp.
Saturday, September 8, 2018
Chirp-chirp!
Well, I've got my afternoon planned.
It's a five-item agenda that, OK, involves a fairly significant prison break from reality. But to hell with you and your guffawing. Loyalty is loyalty, even if it makes no sense. In fact I would argue it frequently makes no sense.
In any case, the agenda is this:
1. Sitting down on the couch.
2. Strategically placing snacks and libations within easy reach.
3. Turning on the TV.
4. Spending the next three-and-a-half hours watching my Ball State Cardinals SHOCK THE DAMN WORLD by pounding lumps on those candy-asses from Notre Dame. It will be ugly. It will be glorious. The statue of Knute Rockne outside Notre Dame Stadium will come to life and demand to know what the hell is going on. The statue of Frank Leahy will come to life, mournfully shake his head and say "Oh, lads." Fair Catch Corby will be seen to weep.
And then ...
5. I'll wake up.
It's a five-item agenda that, OK, involves a fairly significant prison break from reality. But to hell with you and your guffawing. Loyalty is loyalty, even if it makes no sense. In fact I would argue it frequently makes no sense.
In any case, the agenda is this:
1. Sitting down on the couch.
2. Strategically placing snacks and libations within easy reach.
3. Turning on the TV.
4. Spending the next three-and-a-half hours watching my Ball State Cardinals SHOCK THE DAMN WORLD by pounding lumps on those candy-asses from Notre Dame. It will be ugly. It will be glorious. The statue of Knute Rockne outside Notre Dame Stadium will come to life and demand to know what the hell is going on. The statue of Frank Leahy will come to life, mournfully shake his head and say "Oh, lads." Fair Catch Corby will be seen to weep.
And then ...
5. I'll wake up.
Once more into the ... something
And now for an idea whose time has come, and also gone. And gone. And gone. And ... gone.
That makes four "gones" by the Blob's sketchy math, which is how many times Fort Wayne has been down the rabbit hole known as indoor football. If you're scoring at home, there was the Safari/Freedom, the Fusion, the Other Freedom and the FireHawks. Weird stuff happened with all of them, but all of them eventually met the fate of pretty much every indoor football entity on the level a Fort Wayne is going to be involved in it.
Which is to say, it imploded. Or couldn't make payroll. Or got fleeced by snake-oil salesmen from out of state. Or, you know, died because every other franchise died around it and there was no one left to play.
This is what happens in indoor football, a niche sport even at the top level. On the Fort Wayne level, it's a niche-niche-niche sport, attracting the same sort of passionate but limited fan base indoor soccer did. This means it's not likely to attract any Rooneys, Maras or even a Jerry Jones to run the show and the teams. You're far more likely to get grifters, quick-buck artists and honest but under-capitalized civic leaders.
It's too early to tell which of these the ownership of the fledgling National Gridiron League best resembles, but Fort Wayne is taking the plunge again anyway. Four times burned is not enough, apparently, and so welcome to the Indiana Blue Bombers, who'll play in the Allen County Memorial Coliseum for a construct in which there will be no franchises. The league will own all the teams.
And if you're saying here, "Oh, my God, it's Isiah Thomas and the CBA all over again," congratulations. You know your Fort Wayne minor league history, particularly all the infamous parts.
It was Isiah, after all, who bought the Continental Basketball Association, a 40-some-year-old concern of which the Fort Wayne Fury was a proud member. Within less than two years, Thomas had killed the league and fled -- proving that even if grifters are people you've heard of, they're no less grifters.
I hope this isn't another merry trip down that primrose path. But I'm a prisoner of history just as everyone is. So color me not just skeptical but wary.
As in "extremely wary."
In any event, there's already some strangeness to this. It starts, of course, with the team name: The Indiana Blue Bombers. Who came up with that? And why are they "Indiana" when there's another Indiana team in Evansville? What are they going to call that team? The Really Close To Kentucky And Illinois Whatevers?
All I know is, the Blob is something of a snob when it comes to nicknames, and "Blue Bombers" sounds like something you come up with when you've never stepped foot in Fort Wayne and know zip about the community -- which pretty much describes this situation. If anyone had asked, we could have come up with any number of names with some local flavor to them ...
1. The Fort Wayne Gimme Fives.
(Because this is the fifth go-around for indoor football, so why not?)
2. The Fort Wayne Downtown Arenas.
(Because, come on, tell me an indoor football team doesn't bolster that argument.)
3. The Fort Wayne Not The Cougars.
(A nod to the real football entity in town, the two-time defending national champion Saint Francis Cougars.)
4. The Fort Wayne Freedom.
(Just, you know, for the irony.)
And last but not least ...
5. The Fort Wayne Fightin' Madder-Than-Anthony Optimists.
(Because you pretty much have to be one of those at this point to think this will end well. Don't you?)
That makes four "gones" by the Blob's sketchy math, which is how many times Fort Wayne has been down the rabbit hole known as indoor football. If you're scoring at home, there was the Safari/Freedom, the Fusion, the Other Freedom and the FireHawks. Weird stuff happened with all of them, but all of them eventually met the fate of pretty much every indoor football entity on the level a Fort Wayne is going to be involved in it.
Which is to say, it imploded. Or couldn't make payroll. Or got fleeced by snake-oil salesmen from out of state. Or, you know, died because every other franchise died around it and there was no one left to play.
This is what happens in indoor football, a niche sport even at the top level. On the Fort Wayne level, it's a niche-niche-niche sport, attracting the same sort of passionate but limited fan base indoor soccer did. This means it's not likely to attract any Rooneys, Maras or even a Jerry Jones to run the show and the teams. You're far more likely to get grifters, quick-buck artists and honest but under-capitalized civic leaders.
It's too early to tell which of these the ownership of the fledgling National Gridiron League best resembles, but Fort Wayne is taking the plunge again anyway. Four times burned is not enough, apparently, and so welcome to the Indiana Blue Bombers, who'll play in the Allen County Memorial Coliseum for a construct in which there will be no franchises. The league will own all the teams.
And if you're saying here, "Oh, my God, it's Isiah Thomas and the CBA all over again," congratulations. You know your Fort Wayne minor league history, particularly all the infamous parts.
It was Isiah, after all, who bought the Continental Basketball Association, a 40-some-year-old concern of which the Fort Wayne Fury was a proud member. Within less than two years, Thomas had killed the league and fled -- proving that even if grifters are people you've heard of, they're no less grifters.
I hope this isn't another merry trip down that primrose path. But I'm a prisoner of history just as everyone is. So color me not just skeptical but wary.
As in "extremely wary."
In any event, there's already some strangeness to this. It starts, of course, with the team name: The Indiana Blue Bombers. Who came up with that? And why are they "Indiana" when there's another Indiana team in Evansville? What are they going to call that team? The Really Close To Kentucky And Illinois Whatevers?
All I know is, the Blob is something of a snob when it comes to nicknames, and "Blue Bombers" sounds like something you come up with when you've never stepped foot in Fort Wayne and know zip about the community -- which pretty much describes this situation. If anyone had asked, we could have come up with any number of names with some local flavor to them ...
1. The Fort Wayne Gimme Fives.
(Because this is the fifth go-around for indoor football, so why not?)
2. The Fort Wayne Downtown Arenas.
(Because, come on, tell me an indoor football team doesn't bolster that argument.)
3. The Fort Wayne Not The Cougars.
(A nod to the real football entity in town, the two-time defending national champion Saint Francis Cougars.)
4. The Fort Wayne Freedom.
(Just, you know, for the irony.)
And last but not least ...
5. The Fort Wayne Fightin' Madder-Than-Anthony Optimists.
(Because you pretty much have to be one of those at this point to think this will end well. Don't you?)
Friday, September 7, 2018
Welcome to the crossroads
It's a rare moment when The Now intersects with What's To Come, but tomorrow we're going to get it on a tennis court in New York. Maybe you missed it, but that's when Serena Williams, the greatest women's player in history, plays Naomi Osaka, the greatest tennis player yet to come, in the women's final at the U.S. Open.
The Blob will watch because it can't resist these sorts of intersections, when history is driving the bus on both sides of the net. I'd dust off that mossiest of clichés -- "the torch is being passed" -- but Serena seems remarkably stubborn about handing it over, and Osaka, who's only 20, has all the time in the world to wait until she does.
If you don't know her name yet, you're going to. Not only is she the first Japanese woman to reach a Grand Slam final, those who've seen her, and who know what they're looking at, say she has rare gifts and clubs the ball with stunning pace. And she's refreshingly honest and engaging.
Asked how she saved 13 break points in a straight-set erasing of Madison Keys in the semis, for instance, Osaka just laughed.
"This is going to sound really bad, but I was just thinking 'I really want to play Serena'," she said.
Well, she'll get her wish. Whether she's ready depends on how badly Serena wants to make history herself; if she wins, it will be her seventh U.S. Open title and 24th major singles title, tying Margaret Court for the most in tennis history -- both pre- and post-professional era.
Anyway, it's going to something to see. Even on a college football Saturday, in the middle of the first weekend of the NFL season.
The Blob will watch because it can't resist these sorts of intersections, when history is driving the bus on both sides of the net. I'd dust off that mossiest of clichés -- "the torch is being passed" -- but Serena seems remarkably stubborn about handing it over, and Osaka, who's only 20, has all the time in the world to wait until she does.
If you don't know her name yet, you're going to. Not only is she the first Japanese woman to reach a Grand Slam final, those who've seen her, and who know what they're looking at, say she has rare gifts and clubs the ball with stunning pace. And she's refreshingly honest and engaging.
Asked how she saved 13 break points in a straight-set erasing of Madison Keys in the semis, for instance, Osaka just laughed.
"This is going to sound really bad, but I was just thinking 'I really want to play Serena'," she said.
Well, she'll get her wish. Whether she's ready depends on how badly Serena wants to make history herself; if she wins, it will be her seventh U.S. Open title and 24th major singles title, tying Margaret Court for the most in tennis history -- both pre- and post-professional era.
Anyway, it's going to something to see. Even on a college football Saturday, in the middle of the first weekend of the NFL season.
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