Big Mo loses again, Part Deux

 Well, of course. You knew how this would go, didn't you?

This was easier to predict than sunrise at dawn, which is the only way the Blob could once again have gotten right. Pacers win Game 4 by 32; Pacers lose Game 5 by 30. And that means ...

Yup. Pacers win Game 6 by 13. Right on absolute cue.

The same Pacers who got Windexed 53-29 on the glass in Game 5, with the Knicks collecting 20 offensive boards, Windexed the Knicks 47-35 this time around. Even outboarded them on the offensive end, 14-13.

All six Pacers starters snagged at least half-a-dozen rebounds. Pascal Siakam went for 25 and seven as the Pacers exploited one mismatch on him after another. Myles Turner scored 17 points and grabbed eight boards. Isaiah Hartenstine, the Knicks 7-footer who dominated the Pacers in the paint in Game 5 with 17 boards, got just seven this time out.

And so it's on to Game 7, back in New York. Where, of course ...

Oh, heck. You know.

Nothin's sacred

 The big story in golf this morning is not Xander Schauffle filching a majors-record 62 from Valhalla in Louisville in the first round of the PGA Championship. Although that was pretty big.

No, the big story is what happened in Chicago. In a federal courtroom, to be exact.

What happened was a 39-year-old man named Richard Globensky pled guilty to a wholly different sort of filching -- the kind where you actually steal stuff. Globensky, it turns out, stole a pile of Masters memorabilia from a warehouse at Augusta National, where Globensky was once employed as an assistant. And when we say "memorabilia," we mean memorabilia.

One of Arnold Palmer's green jackets, for instance. Yep, Globensky stole it.

Also green jackets belonging to Ben Hogan and Gene Sarazen.

Also Masters tickets dating to the 1930s, chairs, and assorted commemorative T-shirts and mugs.

It was all part of a scheme that lasted more than a decade and allowed Globensky to supplement his income by, oh, about $5 million. He'd steal an item here and an item there and sell them to various oily memorabilia dealers in Florida, who'd then sell the items at a significant markup. To hide the whole disgusting enterprise, the dealers paid Globensky through a limited liability company set up in his wife's name.

And now I'm thinking about the guardians of the Sacred Kingdom of Augusta, and just how tight a twist their shorts must be in over all this.

No one wallows in self-reverence the way those folks do every April, when CBS is compelled to bend a knee to the Sacred Kingdom and its signature event, the Masters. The azaleas! Amen Corner! The Cathedral of Pines! Those world-famous pimento cheese sandwiches!

Oh, they are fierce protectors and myth-makers, the guardians. They even insist the Masters doesn't have fans. It has "patrons." "Fans", it seems, is for the little people -- or the little tournaments, which includes every tournament except the Masters.

And woe betide a broadcaster who refers to the Masters gallery as a "mob," as Jack Whitaker once did in the 1960s. That got him banished from the premises for six years.

Now to find out that the premises was regularly being robbed by a warehouse worker? And that among the victims (in absentia, anyway) were Masters icons like Palmer, Hogan and Gene Sarazen? The guy for whom Augusta named the Sarazen Bridge?

Why, Globensky might as well have unzipped and relieved himself in Rae's Creek. Or gone all Carl Spackler on the azaleas. I mean, if you can steal Mr. Sarazen Bridge's green jacket and sell it for filthy lucre, surely nothing is sacred anymore.

Not even in the Sacred Kingdom.

Today in anachronism

 Yeah, well, that's just like your opinion, man.

-- The Dude

Sometimes a guy's heart just has to go out to the Harrison Butkers of the world. Imagine waking up every day and realizing it's not the 17th century anymore.

By now you've heard, or maybe not, about Butker's commencement address at tiny Benedictine College, in which the Kansas City Chiefs placekicker unleashed the traditional lament of the man out of his time. To say he's a conservative Catholic does not lend nearly enough weight to the term "conservative", and so of course he told the women graduates how much more rewarding it would be if they'd stay home and raise babies instead of pursuing (ugh) a career. And a bunch of other stuff, besides.

He said President Biden isn't a real Catholic because he's all in favor of killing babies. Bashed gays by obliquely referring to Pride Month as a deadly sin. Inveighed against IVF, surrogacy, "dangerous gender ideologies" and the "tyranny of diversity, equity and inclusion," and lamented what he perceives as the decline of masculine culture.

(The last of which, by the way, almost always makes the Blob smile. Ever notice it's always the men who trumpet their masculinity who are the first to whine about how men are disrespected these days, simply because they get pushback now when they say and do stuff for which they didn't used to get pushback? Some masculinity.)

Anyway ... none of that was particularly shocking, given Butker's particular worldview. There was a lot of vintage Thomas-More-taking-on-Henry-VIII in it, and perhaps a whiff or two of 1692 Salem. It wasn't hard to imagine Butker dressed as a disapproving Puritan of those times, complete with broad-brimmed and buckled black hat. Pass that turkey, John Alden, and let's get on with the witch-burnin'!

That's an exaggeration, of course, but the truth is Butker came off as such an anachronism it was hard for me to work up a lot of outrage at what he said. As the Dude said, that was just like his opinion, man. That it was so out of touch with the reality of 21st-century America -- that he saw such darkness in those who are simply different from him, or who support certain practices (IVF, surrogacy) out of a different sense of human charity -- made him a figure more to be pitied than scorned.

I can't speak for anyone else. But I reserve my scorn for those who reflexively jump to the defense of the Harrison Butkers, and who castigate anyone who has the temerity to call them out. I reserve my scorn for those who loudly promote freedom of speech for those with whom they agree, but try to muzzle it for those with whom they don't.

Look. I don't particularly care if Harrison Butker comes out and says Copernicus and Joe Biden should burn in hell side-by-side, or that any woman who chooses a career over staying at home and birthin' babies should be cast into outer darkness. There will always be people out there like that. And in most cases, thank God, they will be more a curiosity than a menace.

The menace comes from those who believe anyone who speaks out against the Harrison Butkers is a menace. They are not, and suggesting they are -- that they're evil simply because they disagree -- is a dangerous path to tread. History is rife with examples of what happens when that sort of mindset gains power, and those examples are always stained with the blood of innocents.

And that's MY opinion, man.

Big Mo loses again

 The Blob makes no claim that he has figured out the NBA. But it seems I have figured out the NBA.

See what happened in Indianapolis Sunday?

Yes, those were your Indiana Pacers laying an almighty tattooing on the New York Knicks, 121-89 to even their Eastern Conference semifinal series at two games apiece.

See what happened in Madison Square Garden last night?

Yes, that was those very same Pacers getting floor-waxed in Game 5 by those very same Knicks, 121-91.

If you're keeping score at home, that's a 61-point swing. And while the Blob didn't exactly predict that, it did write the following two days ago, for those who might have forgotten:

... And now the series goes back to New York all even at two games apiece, with the Pacers (what a surprise!) suddenly not uttering a peep about the officiating. Any idea what happens in Game 5, momentum being what it's not?

Sure you do: The Knicks will hit everything they put up, and win in a walk. 

Only thing I got wrong there was the walk part, because when you win by 30 you've won in a dead sprint, not just a walk. Jalen Brunson, who was 5-of-17 from the floor in Game 4 and missed all five of his attempts from the arc, scored 44 points on 18-of-35 shooting. Josh Hart added 18 and Miles McBride 17. And some guy named Alec Burks scored 18 off the bench and was 5-of-8 from Threeville.

All told Sunday, the Knicks made just seven threes, not nearly enough for a team that lives on the three-ball. Last night, they made 12, which was more like it.

And the Pacers?

They actually made a dozen threes themselves, on 44.4 percent shooting. But the Knicks forced 18 turnovers and outboarded Indiana 53-29, which hardly seems possible.  Twenty of those rebounds came on the offensive end, which seems even less possible.

Momentum is a phantom, in the NBA. It's as mythical as Paul Bunyan, as tall a tale as  Mark Twain ever spun.

And that means what, boys and girls?

Thaaat's right. Pacers win Game 6 back in Indy to force Game 7.

To repeat what the Blob said the other day: Book it.

And now, the reality

 The rook played like a rook. And not just a rook, but, you know, a rook.

As in "Welcome to the bigs, rook."

People waited 2 1/2 hours to get into the arena in Uncasville, Conn., last night for Caitlin Clark's official WNBA debut, and the Connecticut Sun handed out 170 media credentials, and what they saw was an old, old story. What they saw was a rout -- and, no, not the Sun making kindling out of the Indiana Fever, 92-71.

What they saw was reality once again smacking hype upside the head.

Folks who should know better have been saying Clark is the greatest women's player ever, and saying she will turn the woeful Fever around all by her lonesome, and saying ... oh, hell, all manner of fanciful things. It got to the point where you began to feel sorry for Clark, because there's no way she could possibly meet all the absurd expectations heaped upon her unless she actually grew wings and flew in last night's debut.

She did not. What she did, instead, is demonstrate that the WNBA is an entirely different level than women's college buckets -- as some WNBA vets have been saying, and for which they were dismissed as jealous old grumps.

Well, hello, people. With veteran WBNA guard DiJonai Carrington putting the clamps on on her for much of the night, Clark didn't score until midway through the second quarter, didn't warm up from the 3-point line until the second half, and played a horrendous floor game, turning it over 10 times. It was the most turnovers in a career debut in league history.

She did score 20 points to lead the Fever, but was 2-of-10 from the floor while Carrington was dogging her and dished just three assists. Welcome to the bigs, rook, indeed.

None of this is to suggest Clark isn't a terrific player, She is, or will be. What she's not -- yet -- is the greatest women's player ever, nor even the greatest WNBA rookie ever. The Blob can name at least half a dozen more accomplished rooks, the most recent being Breanna Stewart.

And in the meantime?

In the meantime, Clark continues to have her head screwed on far straighter than a lot of those around her.

After last night she said, look, she was disappointed, but she wasn't going to dwell on it, because that wouldn't be good for anyone. All she can do, she said, is learn from the experience and keep moving forward.

Good advice at any time, and for anyone.

On Pace(rs) again

 So remember the other day, when the Indiana Pacers were whining about the refs like a bunch of losers, and the Blob was saying whining about the refs is what losers do, and they were down 2-0 to the New York Knicks and looking like, well, losers?

Um ... forget all that.

Forget all that, because the Blob forgot one of the major tenets in NBA basketball and pro sports in general, which is there's no such thing as momentum. It's a myth, Big Mo is. It exists only in that brief window of time between the shot you just hit and the one you're about to miss. Or the one you just missed and the whole buttload you're about to hit.

Hear what happened in Indy yesterday?

Well, your Pacers hit a whole buttload of shots and buried the Knicks deeper than Pompeii with them.  Routed the New Yorkers by 32 points, 121-89, after leading at halftime by a ridiculous 28 points and at the end of three quarters by an even more ridiculous 38 points.

The Knicks, last seen shooting 57 percent from the floor and 46.7 percent from the 3-point arc, shot 33 percent and missed 30 of 37 three-ball attempts. And their vaunted starting five, which scored 118 of their 130 points in Game 2, scored just 39 in Game 4.

Oh, yeah: And now the series goes back to New York all even at two games apiece, with the Pacers (what a surprise!) suddenly not uttering a peep about the officiating. Any idea what happens in Game 5, momentum being what it's not?

Sure you do: The Knicks will hit everything they put up, and win in a walk. And the Pacers will miraculously re-discover how bad NBA officiating is, and how small-market teams never have a chance, and how it's just not fair.

Book it. Book it right now.

Premi-notions

 Alex Palou won the Grand Prix of Indianapolis for the second straight year yesterday, and he won it from the pole. And maybe that means this will be Palou's month of May the way last year was supposed to be Palou's month of May, and the year before that was supposed to be his month of May, and maybe even the year before that.

All I know is this: At some point, it is going to be Palou's month of May. We all take that as gospel, right?

Well ...

Well, here is something else I know, having spent most of my life either covering the Indianapolis 500 in May or hanging out at the Speedway in May: The Big Five is both the most venerable event in motorsports, and also the most capricious. It eats assumptions for breakfast -- even gospel assumptions -- and if there are any left over, it eats them for dinner. No place is as adept at transforming premonitions into mere premi-notions.

A.J. Foyt, Al Unser Sr., Rick Mears and Helio Castroneves have won the 500 four times. Mario Andretti, the greatest race driver in American history unless it's Foyt, won it once, in 1969. He never won it again in 24 more starts stretching from 1970 to 1994.

Scott Dixon, the most accomplished IndyCar driver of his generation, won the 500 in 2008 and hasn't won it since. Bill Vukovich could and probably should have won four times in a row from 1952 through 1955, but his car broke with nine laps to run after he dominated the '52 race, and he was killed while leading the race yet again in '55.

Not-quite-superstars like Buddy Rice, Buddy Lazier and Kenny Brack all gulped the milk in Victory Lane. Marquee names like Michael Andretti, Lloyd Ruby, Ted Horn and Rex Mays never did. You just never know with this place.

Palou, for instance?

He's one of the brightest young stars in a series crammed with more of them than IndyCar has seen in three decades. He's got the skill set and temperament that fits the place and the event, and he races for Chip Ganassi, who knows how to win at Indy on Memorial Day weekend. 

And none of it means a thing once the green drops on race day.

Last year, for instance, he won the Grand Prix, and then won the pole for the 500. And he finished fourth.

In 2022, he finished second to Marcus Ericsson.

In 2021, he finished ninth in his first season with Ganassi.

This year?

Well ... we'll see. 

ybe it'll be his month of May. Maybe it'll never be. Only Indy knows.