I'll tell you what, as embarrassing as it to do the offensive equivalent of slapping the floor only to get your ankles tangled faster than a pair of pocketed headphones, I think Enes Kanter actually made a pretty compelling case for more playing time in doing so. Say what you want about his limitations as the type of defensive liability that's all-but-introduced the concept of a powerplay to the sport of basketball, but - just judging off that hilarious clip alone - I can't think of anyone who has better grasp of the Knicks' priorities this season. Granted, he doesn't exactly fit the criteria of a young, developing player with a lot to gain from piling up the playing time while his team tanks, but he sure knows how to have a little bit of fun while doing a whole lot of losing. Gaining experience is important, but let's not overlook the importance of entertainment value. Just listen to that crowd...
Surely Enes Kanter has made enough of a commitment to creating the latter to get some garbage time minutes. Hell, even if he hasn't, there has literally never been a time better than right...about...NOW...for the Knicks to do whatever is necessary to offer their fans some comic relief, assuming delirium-inducing drugs are out of the question...
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In a perfect world, that same penmanship would be the gracing the page of a 8-10 year contract extension worth 8-10 million per season, but - seeing as that's not even a possibility until July 1st - I'll take this sight as a close second in terms of soothing signatures. With Taylor Hall nursing the type of suspiciously vague injury that would allow Lou Lamoriello to dispose of his Viagra prescription and the Devils having run-through all of last year's optimism in wastefully wiping their way through a shitty follow-up season, a reason to smile is just what the doctor ordered. Needless to say, a reminder that they basically stole a Hart Trophy-worthy talent is exactly that. The future is still disconcertingly uncertain, but what's guaranteed is that the tweet that marks the start of Taylor Hall's time in New Jersey will forever live in infamy. Four score and seven years later we'll still have a clear memory of the trade being "one for one", as if such a simplistic announcement on social media were of as much historical significance as the Gettysburg Address. That, of course, is partially due to Adam Larsson's long understood limitations, but it's more so a credit to the transformative presence of the player that fully found himself as a 1st overall pick in being exchanged straight-up for a second-pairing defenseman. Taylor Hall turned a transaction that was seen as somewhat silly in the moment and slapped some Size 26 shoes and a clown nose on it (and Peter Chiarelli, for that matter) in making Bob McKenzie, of all people, more eternally viral than herpes. It's only right he pen his John Hancock under it, as he's been the muse for a hockey twitter masterpiece that's aged better than the fine wine I'll be anxiously guzzling like a lonely housewife on a Wednesday afternoon from when June ends until the most important of ink dries. 
— CJ Fogler (@cjzero) January 31, 2019 To the casual viewer, I can totally understand how that exchange could be seen as condescending. Hell, if I showed it to an expert in gender relations they'd probably have a damn aneurysm due to the awkwardness of an unabashed idiot using the type of exaggerated hand motions typical of a translator or a kindergarten teacher to mansplain hockey to an adult woman that's already reached its pinnacle. I legitimately wanted to scream in listening to Pierre McGuire talk to an Olympic Gold Medalist, who is less than a week removed from proving herself a peer of the fastest skaters on Earth, like she just arrived on this planet yesterday...
Therefore, I can't even begin to imagine how bad it sounded to those unfamiliar with the interactional incompetence of someone who has committed to memory the high school haircuts of 12-year NHL veterans, but still hasn't learned how to speak to them without making it weirder than weird. Again, I'd have absolutely no argument if you were to tell me you found the tone that exchange with someone as astronomically more accomplished as Kendall Coyne Schofield to be sexist. However, in fairness, I will say that Pierre McGuire's inability to interpersonally communicate is not limited by race, religion, gender, or - more than likely - species. Honestly, the only way he could possibly leave a conversation without causing confusion or controversy would be if he were having it with his clone, as neither would have enough of a command of social cues to feel stupid, slighted, or wildly uncomfortable. I don't think that the ignorance of social illiteracy is a valid defense for a 57-year old man who is paid to talk to hundreds of thousands of people at a time professionally, so he's not exactly innocent here. He is, however, less guilty than the employer that, for some reason, still tasks him with doing things he's woefully unqualified to do....like talk to people of importance. 
I say the following not to take away from what's been an awe-inspiring offensive display that spits directly in the face of everything you've ever been told about the beautiful game of basketball since your first lay-up line, but I needed that. Hell, at the risk of being presumptuous, I'd say we all needed that, and that 'we' includes the entirety of the NBA as well as James Harden. Again, you can't give enough credit to a player whose skill-set is unprecedented in shouldering the load for the rest of his team while they stare spellbound from beyond the arc like they are observing a piece of performance art. That being said, you definitely can give enough calls to a player who has been bailed out so many times that he no longer fears being handcuffed by his hubris. The truth is, with the Association having about as good an understanding of lefties as they do of alien life forms and apparently just accepting that it takes James Harden more steps to gather his shot off the dribble than it takes an afternoon alcoholic to gather his balance off the barstool, I can't really blame 'The Beard' for feeling untouchable. His success rate in putting his fate in the hands of the officials must have him feeling like Bruce Willis in Unbreakable. That's why being made to accept his mere mortality by taking what, according to usage rate, is basically his ball and walking halfway home before realizing that his personal protest of physical on-ball defense proved unsuccessful was as long overdue as it was hilarious. We're talking about someone who gets rewarded by the referees so easily and often that you'd think he was a child of their divorce. It's about damn time he was denied ice cream for dinner in being made aware that there's a coinciding risk involved with what's become an entirely understandable assumption that a whistle will always save him from looking stupid in a big spot. Seeing as every single hand check addressed to him gets bounced, a reality check was the only thing that was going to balance his account of a sport that, contrary to his experience, does encourage a little contact. 
As a bigger man than the one paid 40 million dollars a year to oversee a league that is completely confounding in how profitable it is despite its best efforts to self-sabotage, it's time for me to come clean. While I was ranting and raving about Roger Goodell hiding under a rock like the robotic rodent that he is, I was fully aware that whatever empty ass answer he eventually offered was going to be unsatisfactory at best and absolutely infuriating at worst. Due entirely to low expectations, I'd say he managed to land somewhere in the middle, but the point is that - unlike the idiotic analysts that chastised Sean Payton's late-game play-calling - I'm able to admit that my criticism was convenient. Be it silence or stupidity, I was going to crucify the Commissioner for being either too intellectually incompetent or too professionally castrated to adequately respond to the NFL's integrity being completely compromised. I know, I know. How dare I? On to the idiocy, which started with a compelling proclamation that the players had, indeed, spoken with Roger Goodell. The Saints' most angsty and boisterous bullshit detector determined... 
...that was...::act surprised now::...a lie! I'd say that it could be a simple miscommunication, but that would be a very weird way to refer to an amount of communication that would make a full-on ghosting seem graceful by comparison. I was going to suggest that Michael Thomas' memory might be off, but then I remembered that he actually wasn't the defenseless receiver who had his brain rattled by an attempted beheading while the ball had yet to cross county lines. Oh well, on to the other highlights! Those include the type of laugh that lingers with its unfortunate audience well into a sleepless night. A reminder that bad officiating is, in fact, bad. A heads-up that being human actually absolves you of being some combination of an idiot and a coward. An admittance that the NFL has the technology, but they won't use it for "judgement calls", regardless of whether or not said "judgement calls" only require the level judgement used in determining whether or not you should put on pants before going out in public. I suppose there were a bunch of other hollow words and half-assed deflections that indirectly implied nothing is going to change, but - as a whole - it was about as forward-facing as Ace Ventura talking out of his ass-crack. In retrospect, you might say that makes his prolonged silence prior seem golden, but was retrospect really required in concluding that Roger Goodell wasn't going to make things any better by opening his mouth? 
On one hand, it is absolutely inexcusable for the "Worldwide Leader in Sports" to get tricked by a fake Instagram comment that was nothing short of outrageously over the top. The internet can definitely be one unforgiving SOB, but I think there are enough hands on deck in Bristol to put in the man hours to double-check the authenticity of something that would serve as a loogie from the deepest, darkest part of LeBron James' throat to the eye-ball of the NBA before blasting it off to millions of people. On the other hand, it's pretty telling of how much leeway, leverage, and leg room that LeBron James has with the NBA that even one person, never mind a person like Neil Everett who has been at ESPN for damn near two decades, could be fooled by a comment that wouldn't be done justice by the definition of tampering. Even the most gullible of audience offering a "well, maybe..." to the most satirical of satire is an indictment of how insanely obvious the Lakers' pursuit of Anthony Davis has been. Simply put, there should not be a world in which one of the most calculated athletes of all-time publicizing an intentionally punny typo like "cya laker" is seen as anywhere close to remotely realistic. Long story short, while the sports' media should definitely stay a hell of a lot more suspicious considering the era of online tomfoolery we currently in, player movement in the NBA should probably be just a little less comically collusive if preposterous parodies of it aren't unanimously identifiable as such. 
Man, if only the Cleveland Browns knew how the career of the do-it-All-Pro defensive end was going to turn out then there's no way they would have let Cameron Jordan (in that order) slip through their fingers.........while he was in New Orleans getting ready to introduce himself to the Saints' staff? In all seriousness, I regret to inform you that this mistake isn't nearly as stupid as we'd all like to believe. It's certainly not below the Browns' organization, especially circa 2011 (or 4 months ago, for that matter), to not update their draft board and jump at the chance to select a player who was already well en route to the facilities of the franchise that had him called up to the stage in front of literally everyone as their first round pick a day earlier. In fact, it speaks volumes that most immediately assumed that to have been the case upon reading the caption above. Unfortunately, that's not what happened. I hate to ruin what would be an all-time "oh Cleveland..." moment, but far smarter men have had their minds melted by the Cameron, Jordan/Jordan, Cameron mix-up...
Now, those smarter men definitely didn't have the responsibility to double or triple-check the number before placing a life-changing call to a young, increasingly anxious athlete, but we're talking about the Cleveland Browns here. You know, an organization that recently tried to trade a 2nd and 3rd round pick for a 2nd or 3rd string quarterback, and were only saved from their own stupidity by their inability to file the paperwork on time. If only because the bar is almost as low as Hue Jackson's winning percentage, I think it's fair to offer them praise for actually picking the player they meant to pick, regardless of their dyslexia in trying to share their excitement with him after the fact. 
Now that...that is something that can certainly help the Who Dat Nation accelerate the seemingly never-ending healing process. Drew Brees being as classy as ever in devastating and undeserved defeat was predictably encouraging and all... ...but nothing speaks to the Saints' resilience quite like their head coach, who has been battle-tested by the bullshit of BountyGate, having already regained full form as the pettiest of prick in the NFL's ass. All-too-relatably, it apparently took him a few days of eating his feelings in the dark while diving head first into the distraction of mindless entertainment...
...but the ability to keep his chin up, his head held high, his chest puffed out, and his zipper perfectly positioned to send a message of mockery that was only as subtle as a turquoise undershirt could possibly be is what makes Sean Payton the quintessential voice of both New Orleans and the tight-knit team that has collective taken on its/his personality. If there ever a sign that the Saints will, once again, rebound from having their season shocked to a screeching halt, it's their long-time leader getting a head start on the retaliation tour before the Super Bowl he had stolen from him has even taken place. I think I speak for the entire Who Dat Nation in saying no one is going to fully get over what will eventually go down as the most infamous non-call in NFL history until they get back at a league that had absolutely no shame after screwing them out of chance at a championship. Therefore, not even sitting across a candle-lit dinner table from the most voluptuous of date has left me as excited for the potential of what's to come as Sean Payton showing juuuust enough chest to prove he has team's back in flashing some shade in the direction of a complete clown of a commissioner. Just about the last thing the alter-ego of 'Petty Payton' needed was an offseason-long enabling, but the first thing a perpetually pissed off group of players and fans needed was a reassurance that - from the top down - payback was already being prioritized. The clown might as well keep ducking and covering like a coward, because the amount of shit the Saints are about to shower on a circus of a league is going to make him jealous of the Barnum & Bailey employees that only had to worry about scooping up elephant dung.
God bless the NBA. After spending almost every Sunday since September wondering just how much air you're allowed to hump/sex you're allowed to simulate following each sack or score, the liberal sensibilities of professional basketball hit like a freshly rolled joint in being a breath of fresh air. There's just nothing that speaks to the difference in how seriously each sport takes itself than Jimmy Butler casually ripping an imaginary L as a way to laugh off the actual L he took in botching an easy basket. While the NFL treats marijuana like everyone of its athletes is one wayward whiff of weed away from falling dangerously deep in love with the "white girl", even the most irritable of NBA All Stars has absolutely no reservations in doing some team bonding through the indirect promotion of recreational drug use between plays. It's genuinely an incredible juxtaposition. Of course, there are surely a bunch of half-dead fans that prefer their professional basketball to have more Princeton offense and less paraphernalia, but to the target audience that isn't one missed step away from a walker these are the types of antics that make the NBA so endearing. Jimmy Butler has proven himself to be a bit of an overly serious asshole, and he looks like a light-hearted (and heavy-lunged) comedian in comparison to those that have a problem with him pretending to smoke the pot after smoking a lay-up. The NBA has its problems, mainly a lack of parity, but neither personality nor progressiveness are one of them. 
Hammer, down. Message, sent. That hammer might resemble one of those rubber-tipped ones that the doctor might gently use to test your reflexes and that message might ring hollow to the main recipient, but that $50,000 fine for what's starting to look a lot like the most conspired trade of a transformative player in NBA history has put the league on notice. Of course, that notice really just reads "there, happy now?" in being CC'd to every organization that complained about the laughably obvious tampering that has gone on throughout the Lakers' (more accurately, LeBron's) shameless pursuit of Anthony Davis, but at least everyone knows where the NBA stands on the matter. To be honest, I had no idea that trying to force a trade through your agent was forbidden by the CBA. Be it through an official or unofficial request, it seems to happen quite often. Kind of leads me to believe that NBA HQ has one of those decibel measuring devices that tracks the volume of the bitching and moaning around the league and has a threshold in which discipline, no matter how dumb, is required. Make no mistake, dumb is exactly what that five-figure fine is, as the player who is being asked to pay it has already set tens of millions of otherwise promised dollars on fire in asking out of New Orleans. As far as I'm concerned, this slap on the wrist wallet is basically the pro athlete equivalent of the annoyingly vague convenience charge that gets tacked onto your total right before you click 'Purchase' for tickets on the secondary market. Anthony Davis has already made it quite clear he's willing to shell out about $33 million on a one-way trip to Los Angeles, so - relatively speaking - that additional 50K makes a $25 baggage fee seem expensive by comparison. It's like punishing your child for coming home shit-faced by making him chug another beer before bed. Anthony Davis already accepted the cost and consequences of his actions, might as well tip well on top of it. If anything, what's basically a parking ticket-sized penalty to an elite NBA talent is just patronizing to the franchises that don't have to concern themselves with clearing garage space for the player-comp of a fully-stocked Range Rover.
 Ah, the Pittsburgh Penguins. Just what the doctor ordered. Of course, considering the "why does everything seem so awesome?"-esque high that accompanied the temporary cure to almost all the symptomatic failures throughout the Devils' lineup of late, it was probably the type of doctor who is due to have his medical license revoked. However, with winning being nothing more than recreational for a young team that - relative to the playoff picture - has played their way into the role of the girlfriend that gets strategically placed on the end due to the entire family's knowledge that they'll soon be able to officially cut her ass out, the occasional optimistic overdose is damn near necessary. Now, how a team that is a year removed from winning back-to-back Stanley Cups has become the Devils' drug of choice over the last couple of seasons, I'll never know. Crosby and Co. haven't just found a way for their presence to coincide with even the most passing of positivity, they've found a way to up the level of play of key Devils' players to such a degree that a suspicion of steroid use wouldn't be entirely unfair. Keith Kinkaid has been the goaltender that backstopped the Devils to the playoffs when facing one of the most top-heavy lineups in the league. Counterintuitively, Travis Zajac might legitimately be a Selke candidate if he lined up across the best two-way center in the sport every game. I don't know if he inspired by the fat face of Phil Kessel, but Blake Coleman plays even hungrier in eating up the scoresheet whenever Pittsburgh is on the opposite side of it. Kris Letang could actually learn a thing or two by watching Damon Severson when, and only when, they share the same ice. Brian Boyle kicked cancer's ass, and even it considers itself lucky it avoided taking the pounding he's put on the Penguins this season. Hell, I think even Pavel Zacha found his potential in whatever was used to spike the Devils' Gatorade, as he absolutely bodied Evgeni Malkin in delivering one of the prettiest primary assists you'll see before tacking on a powerplay goal that was so elusive that I had to pinch myself myself after. Even without the services of Taylor Hall, the Devils just look like a different team against a roster whose experience should theoretically expose them. Again, I don't know exactly what it is about the Pittsburgh, but if I'm going to eventually be forced into tagging along for the tank-a-thon then I'm going to need the occasional uplifting performance during which the Devils collectively play above their pay grade. Hopefully it doesn't absolutely require the Penguins to be on the other end of the ice, but at least they are scheduled to come to town in February if it does. 
You know, I'm no CBA savant, but I'm having a hard time wrapping my brain around the idea that a distinct advantage offered to teams that are lucky enough to have superstars is responsible for said teams' inability to offer any sort of their own merit in keeping said superstars. I mean, I'm all ears to anyone that wants to explain to me how an otherwise unavailable excess of tens of millions of dollars is to blame for the failures of organizations whose problems are the wrong kind of priceless in the eyes of some of the NBA's most prominent players. I just think that pointing the finger at the SuperMax like it was meant to be some sort of magic pill that saves small market teams from their own stupidity is a bit, shall we say, moronic? I don't know. Call me crazy, but missing your flight by 30 seconds and blaming the airport's moving walkway after refusing to pick up your damn feet while you were on it seems a bit disingenuous. That's basically the real life equivalent of speaking ill of an undeniably helpful stipulation for being too little in aiding franchises that were too late in building a contending team around the type of players that you absolutely need to retain to remain competitive. We're predominately talking about organizations that are piss drunk off their own dysfunction, and you wouldn't charge 'Poland Spring' with false advertising if drinking it in surplus failed to sober you right up. Generally speaking, professional athletes prioritize getting paid and winning. Since 90% of the time 90% of the NBA is, even on its tippy-toes, going to be standing well below the championship window, it stands to both odds and reason that the delicate balance of their interests might eventually shift in favor of fun/success when their finances are already well in order. That doesn't necessarily explain an outlier/outcast like Kawhi Leonard, who was as rare in position (set to get paid by a perennial title contender) as he was in "personality". It does, however, explain why Anthony Davis wasn't dead set on the number that comes after the dollar sign in deciding where he wants to spend the next step of a career that, relative to his transcendent talent, is still largely unaccomplished. If the goal of the SuperMax was to prevent superteams then it was always destined to fall far short, but there's a big difference between incentivizing players and strong-arming players. Despite the NBA being a league in which the athletes are empowered to act with an autonomy of sorts, the former is very much still in play, so long as the sales pitch includes more than a disproportionally large contract. 
TheAdvocate- Replaying even a few minutes of last Sunday's NFC title game would force a delay in the Super Bowl and confound years of intricate preparation for an event that demands an investment of “more than $100 million,” the NFL’s chief financial officer said Friday in a sworn affidavit.
The statement from Joseph Siclare, the league’s executive vice president and CFO, was submitted with a legal filing by the NFL to yank one of two pending lawsuits over Sunday’s officiating debacle from a state civil court to federal court in New Orleans. The filing marks the league’s first formal response to a legal Hail Mary by a pair of ticket-holders crying foul — and demanding damages — over the infamous “no call” that ended the Saints’ Super Bowl dreams. The NFL’s response to the lawsuit does not address the blown call, which came with less than two minutes to go and the Saints deep in Los Angeles Rams territory. ------- Ah, me thinks the greedy doth protest too much. No matter what the rulebook might state, the cries to replay even a single second of the NFC Championship Game were always of the crazy. Look no further than the ring leader of that retroaction for Undisputed proof that it was a less than grounded call to action...
That being said, the only thing more telling than the NFL's silence was the quickness with which they got down to finances once they did, under the threat of legal action, actually lend a voice to being unwilling to go back and photoshop one of the worst visuals in league history. It's not surprising that the NFL's main concern was money, but - given the variety of routes they could have taken in leading back to the notion that re-doing the last two minutes of a conference championship a week after the fact is objectively ridiculous - it was pretty damn stupid for them to disclose freely that their decision was based on their bottomline. Be it speaking to a lack of precedence, offering an inarguable reminder that bad calls (and bad no-calls) are an inherent and unfortunate part of sports, or just listing off the logistical nightmares that would arise as a result of rushing the Rams back to New Orleans to right an obvious wrong, the NFL basically had six ways to avoid looking selfish. Instead, after a full week of deliberation, they used their first public comments to basically slap a price tag - albeit a hefty one - on their integrity. You know, just in case you forgot that the league you dedicate a day of your week to is shamelessly biased in prioritizing only that which fills its pockets. 
NESN- “I’ve got Buffalo blood running through my veins, so you know I hate these guys,” Robey-Coleman told Bleacher Report’s Tyler Dunne. “I naturally hate them. I never liked New England.”
Why does the 27-year-old despise the NFL’s overlords? Jealousy? No, it’s not that. It’s their attitude and the general way they go about their business, like going for a fourth down while up by 17 in the fourth quarter. “S–t like that. Little s–t to look down upon a team,” Robey-Coleman said. “Little assh–e stuff like that. That’s what makes you not like New England.” “We have to stay connected,” Robey-Coleman says of Brady. “And he will slowly start to reveal himself. “Yes. Yes. Age has definitely taken a toll. For him to still be doing it, that’s a great compliment for him. But I think that he’s definitely not the same quarterback he was,” Robey-Coleman continues. “Movement. Speed. Velocity. Arm strength. He still can sling it, but he’s not slinging it as much. Whatever he was doing—because of his age and all that—he’s not doing as much of that anymore. He’s still doing the same things; he’s just not doing as much of it. And sometimes, it’s not the sharpest. But it still gets done.” “Stick a dagger in them. They’re not a team that you want to play around with. Stick the dagger in them and don’t leave it in them! Take it out!” Robey-Coleman told Dunne. “And let them leak. Let them leak slow. Put the dagger in them, pull it out, and let them leak slow. Just kill ’em slowly. That’s how you do them.” ---------- I'd like to congratulate Bill Vinovich and his trusted crew of co-conspirators, for they cumulatively created this monster. Seriously, way to put away those whistles and leave the guy whose desperately dumb and intentionally dangerous hit quite clearly should have cost his team a Super Bowl appearance to somehow see a juiced-up Jalen Ramsey when he looks in the mirror. Now, I imagine that the Rams' slot corner was a loudmouth prior to last Sunday. However, him being moronic enough to take aim at Tom Brady prior to the Super Bowl can only be explained by the type of invincibility one might feel after getting away with the NFL-equivalent of committing first degree murder in the broad day light of the public square. Between bragging his way into a $26,700+ fine after getting blatantly beat on the biggest play of his career and patronizing a Patriots' team that has unlawfully abused the underdog narrative, we're talking about a dude who defied certain death by way of dumb luck and suddenly thinks he's the Deadpool of the defensive backfield. Personally, I can't wait for him to get the humbling he's had coming (which will probably look a lot like what you see below), but this juvenile jackassery all could have been prevented with the throwing of one flag. I don't maintain a real rooting interest in a tainted Super Bowl that I don't plan on watching, but I certainly wouldn't mind hearing that Julian Edelman put himself in the MVP conservation in the process of pulling Nickell Robey-Coleman back down to Earth from whatever self-important planet he's been inhabiting alone. After all, being made the goat by the GOAT would fittingly trip up a mouth that simply won't stop running. Even if it's a stumble/stutter that comes two weeks too late due to officials that basically enabled this idiocy with their incompetence.
Sold. Wait, what was the question? You know what, never mind. I'll take an entire row, please and thank you. I don't necessarily love the figurative or literal direction of an organization that's being led by an overpaid parody of an antiquated NFL coach and stands next to no chance of playing their home games within 2,500 miles of my apartment. Regardless, all the sudden I just feel this insatiable urge to be a Raiders' season ticket holder. That's entirely illogical, but since when has the allure of the mysterious made sense? I don't even think they are flirting with prospective fans as much as they offering dismissive disclosure to those crazy enough to stay financially faithful to a franchise in flux, but they've certainly got me planning our fucked up future together. As it turns out, temporary homelessness is kinda hot, though we probably should have picked up on that when Shawn had lips puckering on Boy Meets World. I currently find myself so deeply attracted to a shitty team that left its roster in ruins when it shipped out a generational player that ended up outperforming their entire defense, and it's due entirely to the unknown. If their playing field is going to match their performance then they might end up playing on cracked pavement in a not-so-Golden area of the State, but what if they...well, I suppose there is not a single optimal option for where they might take provisional residence prior to relocating to Sin City. Whatever, that's not the point. The point is that I owe every girl who has ever instinctually fallen for a guy she knew to be an asshole an apology. After all, by being vaguely non-committal with their communication and shamelessly not giving a single smear of shit about their fans the Raiders might actually be attracting more. Other than not being remotely close to the case, I don't see any problem with the Raiders being run a laughably doomed relationship...if they'd even call it that. 
As competitive as he may be, Taylor Lewan's main goal while playing in the Pro Bowl mirrors that of every other participant, as - fire and foremost - he'd like to head back to the locker room with his ligaments in tact. Therefore, there's not all that much to take away from a clip that is basically just proof positive that the NFL's All Star Game is a complete waste of everyone's time. If there were a reward that matched the risk of putting actual effort into blocking someone who is entirely unfamiliar with playing the opposing position then Alvin Kamara's nose-ring would more than likely be piercing his asshole right about now. That's pretty much indisputable. That being said, I still think the ease with which the do-it-all playmaker bent the edge was a testament to a level of athleticism that has appeared absolutely effortless since Alvin Kamara's first preseason appearance. I don't necessarily know for a fact what his recess resume looks like, but I have very little doubt he was the kid who was annoyingly unbeatable at everything. Obviously he'd need to suffer from a decade-long addiction to steroid-infused beignets before he was capable of providing a 300-pound behemoth a worthy opponent, but specialization is probably the only thing that stops his freakish fluidity from being applicable on the opposite side of the ball. Personally, I'd rather not see the insanely versatile lynchpin to the Saints' offense rush the passer in a meaningless game that was all-but-over, but - after having watched him do so unscathed - it's impossible to not appreciate how gifted he is as a football player, as opposed to just a "running back". 
— Rob Perez (@WorldWideWob) January 28, 2019 Look, it's entirely possible I'm being imprisoned by the moment. However, my memory took a longer jog than that of a suburban housewife on this fine Monday morning and I didn't come across anything quite as caucasian as what Davis Bertans, aka 'White Vanilla', did in finishing his overly optimistic alley with the most unfortunate of "oops". I know he's technically Latvian, but I can't help but think that prayer being answered in a way that could convert any professional athlete to Atheism is a bad, bad look for every melanin-deficient NBA player. Like, someone toss Luka Doncic the rock because we need to re-do all the progress that Davis Bertans un-did in coming up even shorter than he does in the showers by going long to himself like a lonely, uncoordinated grade-schooler. As if missing the backboard so aimlessly that he literally had to duck for cover didn't draw enough attention to the transparency of his skin, that self-disciplinary double-slap on his own hips really drove home the caucasity of someone who probably should've taken a few more lessons from the 'The Professor' before trying to drop an ad-lib on an 'And 1 Mixtape'. I don't know that you can call it a double standard, as this has to be the single instance in which an NBA player of any race, color, or creed has managed to peg himself in the back of his own head with the ball, but you have to tread lightly as the whitest dude on a basketball court. Needless to say, Davis Bertans should probably stick to nailing 3's at a league-leading rate, because clumsily stumbling his way to the wrong side of the risk/reward that is the blooper/highlight reel as a near seven-footer whose skin tone could make those sensitive to light squint isn't all that inconspicuous. I'm all for the hilarity of it, but it's best to stay in your lane if you don't want to avoid being victimized by internet traffic and the rubbernecking that comes along with it. Especially since Gregg Popovich has very few gray hairs left to spare.
If I have learned anything from the NFL's return to Los Angeles it's that living in Southern California is only as sure a sign that your rooting interest lies with one of their football teams as it is a sign that you spend your Sunday afternoons surfing. Other cities maybe, but - as a collective - the City of Angels is far from riding with the Rams come hell when there is high water nearby. Therefore, where they happen to call home is pretty far down on my personal list of reasons to reprimand the referees from the NFC Championship game. If you want to argue that the success of a team in a massive market that's about as tapped as your local dive bar's stale keg of stout, as its target audience doesn't much care for it, while they try to finance the type of multi-billion dollar abomination capable of appealing to celebrities matters more to the league than their own integrity then you might have a point. You're just not going to convince me that the blindness of an officiating crew was as regional as it was cowardly. In my opinion, sharing the fear of all-but-ending a playoff game with a penalty (no matter how obvious), as opposed to sharing either a conflict of interest or an area code, was the inspiration behind their incompetence. That being said, having even the hottest of air get breathed back into this controversy is, for lack of a better phrase, a breath of fresh air. The NFL, who has basically just watched the "shield" get pelted as they stood behind it during a week-long game of hide-and-meek, simply doesn't deserve to be let off the hook here. So while the Saints and their fans are being chastised for a failure to get over having a Super Bowl appearance stolen from them, the "concern" of third, fourth, and fifth parties serve as evidence of exactly why they haven't. I don't own a tin-foil cap, but teams that weren't even affected by the non-call are apparently looking everywhere, address books included, for an answer. If you don't think that speaks to just how inexcusable and unforgivable it was then you might actually be deaf, because it's not like Roger Goodell has spent any time occupying your ears this past week. The failure to throw a flag more than likely wasn't the result of a conspiracy, but that doesn't mean the collective decision not to isn't worthy of a handful of conspiracy theories. Everyone on the planet immediately identified it that helmet-to-helmet hit on a defenseless receiver as insanely illegal, except the three people standing within spitting distance who are paid to do so. Mathematically speaking, odds are there was a little more to it than professional officials all simultaneously making the worst "judgement call" of their lives at the worst possible time. Even if I couldn't care less of their residential radius to the Rams. 
NOLA- According to an Atlanta Falcons subreddit, Falcons fans raised more than $2,000 though a GoFundMe account to place billboards in downtown New Orleans alluding to the calamitous playoff losses the New Orleans Saints have gone through the last two seasons. That money has been refunded after the organizers could not find a New Orleans company to accept their business and display the message.
The forum had users vote in a poll to select the message displayed on the billboard, which was to be placed within a half mile of the Superdome. Among the top five were, “Atlanta Weather Report: Sunday Feb. 3rd, 42 degrees, NO BREES," and “Last 2 Saint playoff scores ‘It’s a NOLA thing.’” Super Bowl LIII will take place in Atlanta on Feb. 3. The mock-up image posted on the forum was signed at the bottom, “brought to you by Atlanta football fans.” Among the responses from companies that rejected the billboards: “You won’t get anyone to put that board up here in NOLA and why would you want to. Drew Brees is more of a classy player than anyone in the entire league. Shame on you.” ------- What is this, what is this? I think I caught a glimpse of my teeth in the mirror out of the corner of my eye, but I'm too shook to double check as that sight would require a reincarnation of a smile that I was quite certain had died right alongside the NFL's integrity. This feeling, which I believe I remember as joy, is one that has lied dormant for the last week, so credit to Falcons' fans for doing the unthinkable by scraping the pan in slightly uplifting the scorched spirits of Saints' fans. The Who Dat Nation was so vulnerable to being kicked while they were down that they might as well have been on a tee, and their hated rival's failure of a fan base somehow didn't even need the loathsomeness of Lucy to Charlie Brown themselves in a form and fashion that could boost Cody Parkey's confidence. To think that the loyalty of a New Orleans-based business could be bought with nothing more than $2,000 is a laughable underestimation of the Saints' worth to their city, and yet I'd consider contributing even a quarter to that dumb, dime-a-dozen troll job is financially irresponsible. Honestly, while being an undeniable indictment of Atlanta's interest in its own football team, everything about this sequence of events is completely and utterly sad. So much so, in fact, that - if only for a brief moment - it actually reminded Saints' fans what it's like to be happy. The black & gold haven't exactly painted themselves as the most grounded group over the last week, as the cries of conspiracy have gotten pretty far out of hand, but at least they can take solace in the fact that they aren't the ones that could barely afford to buy a clue after their reality check bounced. As the backlash from the 'NOLA no-call' is blasted across multiple billboards in an enemy territory whose ad-space is theoretically in high demand for the next week, said enemy couldn't even 'Rise Up' enough funds for retribution...
The wound is still too fresh to focus on football, but leave it to Falcons' fans to unintentionally offer Saints' fans another reminder of how blessed they are not to root for Atlanta at a time when they needed it the most. That's the one offer New Orleans will take them up on. 
ProFootballTalk- “Brandin Cooks, talk about a smart football player” McVay told reporters, via NFL.com. “Having the presence when I give him a terrible play call on the third down to drop it, knowing that it would have been a terrible play where he intentionally drops it.”
Goff didn’t realize it was an intentional drop until later and said he should have thrown the ball at Cooks’ feet. Cooks saved him. “I think it’s one of those things where you see what happened, one of the D-ends and Marshon, the way that they played it, being able to be in the backfield before I technically really was able to catch the ball and get upfield,” Cooks said. “I think it was more important to save those yards, not that Greg needs them, but rather play it safe than sorry.”
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As it turns out, the person that coined the phrase "to the victor goes the spoils" didn't account for the rare instance in which the victor was determined by a miscarriage of justice. So, I guess my hands are pretty tied in how I respond to the extremely gracious fluffing of a receiver who shoo-fly'd what theoretically could have been a key 3rd pass as soon as he realized it was doomed to fail. I guess I can't bring up that Brandin Cooks, as evidenced by both his tenure in New Orleans and his early exit from last year's Super Bowl, is as objectively smart at playing football as he is objectively bad at breaking tackles. I guess I won't mention that Sean McVay, and apparently anyone that's ever shared a toilet seat with him, is so far beyond reproach as a play-caller that we've turned even his worst decisions into opportunities to praise his personnel. I guess I don't have the liberty to say that Greg and his preposterously powerful leg really saved a phenom of a head coach and and an intelligent wide receiver (no sarcasm in this sentence, by the way) from looking like the ring leaders of a situational circus. If - and only if - I were offered the leeway, I'd really love to point out the lengths we are going to applaud an intentionally dropped screen pass by a speedy, but not-so-slippery wide receiver that was inevitably going to result in an absurdly long FG attempt that, had it been missed, could have cost the Rams both field position and a Super Bowl berth. Unfortunately, the Saints lost so I'm required by the law of retrospect to instead shame Sean Payton. How dare he actually play to win? Calling two pass plays that would have resulted in first downs or touchdowns if not for the most accurate QB in NFL history short-arming a wide-open slant to the most sure-handed wide-receiver in football and the absence of a yellow flag following the most egregious uncalled penalty in playoff history? What was he thinking?! He should have changed his entire approach to the sport and played it insanely safe, like McVay, in hoping a kicker and a clock would bail him out with a gift basket of brilliance to spoil his players with for the next two weeks. In all seriousness, Brandin Cooks balled out against his former team and smacking the ball down was the smart play. Falling into the trap of fawning over it like forcing a 57 yard field goal instead of a 60 yard field goal is some big-brained chess move, on the other hand, is the convenient play. |
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