The Boycott Bowl? Ohhhh, you man that foolish display from infantile fans who had the gall to let their faith in the NFL be compromised by the most inexcusable and monumentally "missed" call in league history...
How dare the thousands upon thousands of unconditional members of the Who Dat Nation leave their homes to publicly bitch, moan, and stomp their feet - in a way that was oddly reminiscent of cheering, singing, and dancing - instead of devoting their Sunday afternoon to a (shitty) Super Bowl for which they clearly felt spite?! It's as if they thought it was okay to host a city-wide tantrum just because it was filled with the blasting of music during parades that flowed as smoothly as the drinks and made for an atmosphere in which people were more than happy to fund their own fun by donating money to a great cause...
Now that I think about it, I suppose one might be inclined to define such a large gathering of well-intentioned people as a "party". However, who told Saints' fans they were allowed to do anything other than wallow silently in their self-pity so that others could enjoy the big game free of a reminder of its undeserved participation? Are we all just supposed to be okay with a city rallying around the misfortunes of its beloved franchise and thus turning them into an opportunity to raise tens of thousands of dollars to be locally directed at creating a better today for the children of tomorrow? Bullshit. Get over it New Orleans, but definitely don't do so by showing your spirit, selflessness, smile, or sense of community. Instead, grow up and go whine about the watchability of the Super Bowl on social media...ya babies.
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Obviously, it's impossible not to hate what this says about the NFL's oft-balleyhoed line of bullshit regarding their zero tolerance approach to their players being violent towards women. You'd have to live amongst sugarplums and fairies to think that a 23 year old with a rushing title under his belt didn't have a future in football after being cut predominantly due to PR. However, for that future to come to fruition merely one week following a season in which his skill-set (as amazing as it may be) was proven replaceable, and for it be to offered by an organization who doesn't even necessarily have a need for said skill-set somehow makes this inevitable news even more inexcusable. The Browns. The Cleveland Browns. The franchise and fanbase that, after decades of dysfunction and defeat, was finally heading into an offseason with a legitimate reason to be positive. The roster that, for the first time in forever, actually appeared built to either contend or come close to it. You want to know how little risk NFL teams associate with giving a second chance to those that place their hands on women? Consider that the reward for the one team who had every reason to avoid upsetting an apple cart that was finally not filled with rotten fruit is already incredibly limited by Nick Chubb (who is just as young and talented), Duke Johnson (who is just as good of a pass catcher), and a suspension that's yet to have started. On the surface, this isn't as much of an indictment of the moral compass of the entire NFL as it is that of the Cleveland Browns. After all, thirty-one owners didn't jump at the opportunity to sign someone whose checkered past is caught on tape. That being said, regardless of Jim Dorsey's familiarity with a running back he drafted during his time in Kansas City, his urge to pull the trigger as soon as the sun set on the season tells you all you need to know about his expectations of his competition.
While it was both unforgivable and extremely hard to watch, the uncertain circumstances surrounding Kareem Hunt's assault of a young woman made me uneasy in calling for the end of his career, no questions asked. Therefore, I'm begrudgingly okay with him getting an opportunity to prove himself as a changed person. I'm just not nearly as okay with the idea of him being silently salivated over like the last slice of pizza and being shamelessly snagged by a team that's far from starving for talent at the position only two months after the video went public. Those aspects truly speak all-too-loudly to the lack of fucks given in NFL circles.
In theory, I don't really hate this move. After all, the Knicks traded a young, cost-controlled talent that was touted to be as rare and awe-inspiring as a flying, horned horse that farts rainbows for nothing more than cap space. It's not as if their offseason intentions weren't already written across the collective forehead they've had planted firmly in their hands for the last decade plus. As far as I can tell, tampering at its most shameless only costs around $50,000, so if the image of the back-to-back Finals MVP helped coerce even one court-side season ticket holder into an early renewal then it already paid for itself. The fact is, pitching a brighter future is key to promotion, and if the Knicks go Durant-less over the summer then the atmosphere in The Mecca next season will make the darkest and dreariest scene from The Day After Tomorrow seem like a plausible place to host a picnic. I, for one, actually appreciate them unofficially admitting as much. For whatever it may be worth, that advertisement of their 'all or nothing' optimism isn't false. The execution, however, is what has me up in arms. Like, really? A picture that was haphazardly sought out by way of 'Google Image' and implies that New York's most encouraging roster piece is a center that, while steadily improving, is averaging 6 points and 4 rebounds per game this season? If I were Kevin Durant, that picture being the most intriguing that the Knicks could find in trying to sell a long-suffering fanbase on overpriced ticket packages would have me more likely to go play in Greece than the Garden. All due respect to Mitchell Robinson, but they might as well have gone full-photoshop in giving KD an orange and blue makeover. That visual "aide" is simply sad...even aside from it desperately featuring another franchise's First Team All-NBA player that has already made it pretty damn clear he'd rather argue in circles with internet trolls than prematurely answer to the hysteria of his impending free agency.
Therein lies the beauty of college basketball, and by that I mean that's just a likely to resemble a semi-professional brand of basketball as it to not resemble basketball at all. If you judged that scene only on the amount of bodies that hit the floor, you'd think that kindergarteners were playing soccer or the city of Boston was "celebrating" another championship. You certainly wouldn't think that athletes on scholarship had orchestrated the most unlikely of last second comebacks in an otherwise organized competition. That might sound hyper-critical, but truth is that the unpredictability of college hoops is what makes up for its incredibly questionable execution. That truth is self-evident in an inexcusably reckless in-bounds pass ultimately creating a scene worthy of the Benny Hill theme music and somehow still working its way from the bottom of the blooper reel to the top of the highlight reel in the matter of a second. We can credit both the hustle and the heave, of course, so long as we make sure they are taking a proverbial bow alongside the half-witted help that made it all possible by allowing for a bunch of proud amateur athletes to look as drunk as their peers probably were in the stands. Madness, turns out it's not just reserved for March.
In understanding how cutthroat the business of professional sports so often is at the expense of athletes, it pains me to ever side with management. That's usually because it feels wrong to offer billionaires the one and only thing they can't buy, that being sympathy. In this particular case, however, it's because a 7 foot freak of nature who was under the heavy influence of the destructive drug that is LeBron James' figurative and literal agency basically put everyone in a headlock and dragged them out of the way in an attempt to get a deal to the Lakers done. Of course, the NBA should have a high level of interest in their top-end talent taking center stage whenever they are available to do so, but - the way I see it - the league basically appraised the mess made by Anthony Davis at $50,000 then threatened to charge the victimized organization upwards of millions of dollars to clean it up. The fact is, it wasn't the New Orleans Pelicans' prerogative to change the designation on the most impactful player in franchise history from 'athlete' to 'asset', but it is their prerogative to do everything in their power to make sure said asset doesn't depreciate. Essentially charging them 100K, even if it's much less relative to the networth of the finee, for each game's worth of insurance just seems silly when all they are doing is trying to control damage that they didn't cause. This isn't some indictment of the NBA's player empowerment (of which I am a fan) or some principled stand on behalf of small markets (of which I find to be an overused excuse for failure). Rather, it's a nod to the everyday rivalry that is Risk Vs. Reward. Anthony Davis bet heavily on the latter in hoping he'd get quickly flipped to a historically prestigious franchise to play alongside the best player on the planet. The cost of the former covering should have been 20-some-odd games in which he, proverbially speaking, gets packaged in bubble wrap and prepped for auction. Fingers crossed that this argument is made moot by AD finishing his final, increasingly awkward season in New Orleans healthy. However, if he doesn't then it's going to be a terrible look for a league that apparently considers collusion less criminal than a couple dozen DNP's in games that will only be made meaningful if the disaster they are openly inviting strikes.
I know everyone is going to pounce on this seemingly silly soundbite much like...well...the fine folks over at 'First Take' might if an athlete mere to mutter something similarly stupid, but let's hear the guy out. After all, who the hell are we, other than the fully-functional viewership of oft-televised college football, to say that the Ohio State product that hardly left the pocket doesn't fit the athletic profile of the dangerously stereotypical black quarterback that Stephen A. Smith apparently assumed had popped up on his screen? It's as if we all became willfully ignorant to the idea that stats can be played with and that numbers can occasionally lie as soon as we saw any opportunity to mock a notable NFL Draft pundit for the results of a 20/200 eye test that run contrary to popular visual evidence. Admittedly, Dwayne Haskins' numbers would have to be telling the type of tall-tale fitting of a man who mysteriously came home to his wife with ruffled hair, make-up on his collar, and a condom still on his cock after "working late", but hey - crazier things have happened. For example, Stephen A. Smith being caught dead to rights in being the exact opposite of dead ass right...
I'll tell you what, it must pay to have a striking resemblance to a famous celebrity, for when I first read that entirely irrelevant analogy, I pictured it coming from the lips of Rob Lowe and just automatically assumed it was somewhat coherent/applicable due to the actor effect...
I guess with a little creativity it still could be. That is, if you think of LeBron James as the pastor, Magic Johnson as the fiancee (or vice versa), and the rest of the Lakers' roster as 100 strangers that were told by a blasphemous pastor and his fiancee to get off at the wrong stop before jamming their way back onto the trolley just as the doors were closing. So long as you accept that the pastor and his fiancee proceeded to continue conspiring how to coax a bunch of young nuisances with their loud music and piss-poor personal spacing out of their way at subsequent stops so as to create some leg room for more prestigious company, I suppose the comparison holds up. Unfortunately, I have the sneaking suspicion that's not the contentious spirit that Rob Pelinka was trying to summon with this story, which really leads you to believe that he would be better off having Rob Lowe make his public appearances for him.
Ah yes, the age old question that has been asked by every shockingly sad sitcom episode in a which a deadbeat dad returns with an ulterior motive to selfishly regain the trust of his child before once again showing his true colors in about 22 minutes time. That being, exactly how glistening a grin do you have to attach to "I promise I still care" for it to be believable? Personally, I think Magic Johnson would be better off letting the short attention spans of a young team stay centered on a buzzer-beating, double-digit comeback win over a historical rival on the road than bringing up what was a bad, bad week in Laker Land...
I mean, far be it for me to tell the man how to spend his endless supply of money, but it just doesn't seem worth it for Magic Johnson to gas up the private jet every single time he tries and fails to keep LeBron happy for half a second. After all, he has always struck me as more of the ultimate used car salesman than the guy you speak to when said used car breaks down a block off the lot. I just don't know that a smile that beams brighter than most diamonds is as useful a tool in doing damage control as it is selling snake oil. I'd be a damn fool to question his ability to talk people off the ledge, as his bottomline speaks to his business acumen, but legislating an open forum with the preposterous personalities in that locker room sounds about as thankless as trying to referee a food fight. The truth is, even if that Lakers' team builds over their won off Boston, they know damn well that The King's roster is always due to have dynamite taken to it. No use flying all the way out to Philly to try to save face in lying to them about it. They might be young, naive, and impressionable kids, but they are young, naive, and impressionable kids that have been paying attention to both the availability of Anthony Davis and the combustible career path of LeBron James.
It feels so weird to say now, after every win from last February through last April basically had the effect of chugging a chilled glass of dopamine, but the Devils losing doesn't have me down. At this point, the only way they could do more on-ice damage to their chances of signing Taylor Hall to a long-term deal is if they literally brought them out to beat with their sticks as a form of intermission entertainment. Therefore, having made their bed, they might as well hibernate in it so as to increase their odds of adding a difference maker come draft time. Still, even as an begrudged member of 'Team Tank', I'd really appreciate it if the Devils didn't take advantage of the fact that I have ZERO expectations in meeting them in a way that makes them feel as though they've been stood up on a first date. For example, I wasn't quite convinced they'd put forth a competitive effort against the Kings on Tuesday. I was, however, hoping they'd play a baseline brand of defense that wouldn't allow for Ilya Kovalchuk to flash that stupid, self-satisfied smirk after scoring the easiest and most low-effort goal of his Communist career...
Point being, I really don't think I'm asking for too much. However, even when offered more than enough opportunities to bring to a long-overdue conclusion the most mathematically mesmerizing and confidence crippling of losing streaks for a goaltender who has been through AH(el)L and back in trying to find a shell of himself, they still couldn't answer against the Islanders. As a long time Cory Schneider apologist, even I had to start making jokes at his expense when he managed to go a full calendar year without a win in a deflating form and fashion that was almost as oddly impressive as it was woefully depressing. His future between the pipes remains about as bleak as his future on the books. That said, we're talking about a proud professional who hasn't caused a single commotion in being let down (and sent down), to varying degrees, by his body and his team. He's been brutally bad far more often than not, but on a night where he was undeniably good, the Devils' powerplay looked about as shorthanded as their lineup and their execution was as emotionally exhausting as it must have been physically exhausting to chase after the pucks they misplayed. There shouldn't have been a non-Tavares jersey burner in the building last night that wasn't desperately rooting for Cory Schneider to get the King Kong-sized monkey off his back. Yet the team in front of him was more likely to slip on the proverbial banana than use it to help coax the gorilla off their beDeviled goaltender. The truth is, getting beaten by a touchdown would have felt less frustrating than what I watched last night. A win that would have been worth far more than an extra point in standings that are now pointless was well within their grasp, and - in flat missing the net on multiple shootout attempts - they basically grabbed at it as clumsily as Miles Wood might handle a stick or Kurtis Gabriel might contain his emotions. It's genuinely nice to hear that the locker room still believes in Cory Schneider, but if actions speak louder than words then he should keep his back to the wall and his head on a swivel. Simply put, this isn't the first time they found a way to keep the most embarrassing of streaks alive as effortlessly as they've found ways to piss me off during games of which I walk in the door not caring about the outcome.
Ugh, I'm disgusted. Not by the fact that the best young coach in the NFL has an unbelievable amount of respect for someone who is almost undeniably the best football mind of all-time. That much should have been pretty obvious before he even spoke a single word to him. Rather, I'm disgusted by how quick Sean McVay was to get up under that oversized windbreaker and massage the ego of a peer who thrives off intimidation and mental manipulation. We've seen it countless times now. Staring across the field at Bill Belichick makes opposing coaches act completely out of character in big spots. Hell, if we sniffed their drawers in the postgame we might even detect a whiff of stale urine. Honestly, if you made a blooper reel of the ten most inexplicable and monumentally dumb plays of the last decade then the leading man would be the homeless-looking grumpy old man emotionlessly sneering in the background. Now, Sean McVay didn't exactly leave Marshawn Lynch to helplessly hold his dick in the backfield when he only needed one more yard to clinch a Super Bowl victory. However, he did put a damn bow on the gift of the psychological edge by absolutely gushing in appreciation of Bill Belichick's ability to deploy and maximize talent. By my estimation, he was like two steps of starstruck short of screaming and fanning himself like a teenage girl when the Jonas' brothers walk on stage. I suppose that self-assurance will come with experience, as he is only 33 years old. Still, Sean McVay was acting like he just reached the front of the line for a meet-and-greet instead of waiting for the Super Bowl to kickoff. No wonder Bill Belichick had the Rams' offense looking half-blind, their protege of a head coach was still trying to shake the damn hearts out of his eyes.
TheAdvocate- New Orleans Saints defender David Onyemata was given a misdemeanor citation accusing him of illegally possessing marijuana in his Elmwood apartment late last month, according to the Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office.
Earlier in the year, a Sheriff’s Office narcotics investigator received tip “that a quantity of marijuana products” were going to be at an apartment in the 5300 block of Citrus Boulevard, agency Capt. Jason Rivarde said. The agent considered the tip reliable and secured a warrant to search the apartment, which turned out to be Onyemata’s and was raided Jan. 29. The Sheriff’s Office found marijuana, cannabis oil, marijuana edibles and hemp powder the Tuesday of the search, Rivarde said. Onyemata, whose first name is Ebuka, “was cooperative” with investigators and received a summons to appear in court at a later date, according to Rivarde. The Sheriff's Office believes the marijuana and other items were for Onyemata's personal use, Rivarde said. But in Louisiana, possessing marijuana is illegal except in rare circumstances that the Sheriff's Office said didn't apply in this case. League discipline for marijuana possession varies, though a positive drug test typically results in a four-game suspension. ---------- This story legitimately confounds me six ways to Sunday. So much so that I can't even direct my ire at David Onyemata for tempting the fate of a failed drug test from an idiotic league that derives far more joy from handing out suspensions for the use of medically beneficial drugs than the objective person derived from watching its sham of a Super Bowl. I don't know what the NFL's penalty is for possessing a reasonable amount of pot, instead of pissing the remnence of its internal presence into a cup, but I can't even begin to care with how confounding the other circumstances regarding this story seem. I want to be mad, because the worst case scenario is that depth in the middle of the Saints' d-line could be incredibly depleted to start next season, seeing as Sheldon Rankins will still be on the shelf and Tyeler Davison is set to be a free agent. Unfortunately, I just keep circling back trying to answer the same damn question before I get to the anger stage. That question, of course, being...huh? First and foremost, marijuana being illegal within sniffing distance of the city limits where you could be a plastic cup away from being able to walk the streets getting belligerently drunk enough to find yourself face-first in some horse dung is a huge conflict of attitude. Handing out citations for having a small quantity of weed stashed safely in your New Orleans' apartment would be like Amsterdam prohibiting pornography while profiting off prostitution. It's a juxtaposition that's nearly as stupid as the NFL preferring it's most battered and beaten athletes pop pills as opposed to puff trees. Second of all, a raid? Whatever David Onyemata did to piss off the person who ratted him out over what sounds like a couple grams, a weed pen, and a space brownie or two must have been 10x more illegal than presumably getting a little high on his own personal supply. The officer on scene should have went back, traced the tip, and arrested the snitch for making him waste his damn time getting a search warrant for nothing more than some ganja, as NOLA's crime rate suggests it has far bigger problems than people coughing up the occasional lung on their couch. At the end of the day, no matter how he got caught, David Onyemata has to know better than to test the repressed Resident Assistant of professional sports league. When you're in the NFL, you simply gots to stay off the wee-duh, no matter how much it may help you deal with the pain you're inflicted from bashing skulls with absolute monsters of men. He'll have to take whatever suspension will likely come his way on the chin and hope it doesn't send the Saints off to another slow start, because he knew he was breaking the rules...even if the rules are about a decade too dumb.
We can, and some professional shit-stirrers on sports' television probably will, debate the legitimately of Kevin Durant's argument all damn day. I think there probably is some truth to the public's drug addict-like demand for NBA news being responsible for the questionable lengths the media goes to in re-upping their supply. I'm not going to call into question the journalistic credibility of The Athletic's own Ethan Strauss, but I also don't know that KD has ever been anywhere near as open about the possibility of him joining the Knicks as we have been led to believe. Honestly, I don't care either way, because it's not the rhyme or reason of that rant that I am concerned with, but rather what it continues to tell me about the source of it. To be clear, I ask you this. Is that really the guy? That dude up there calling out reporters by name and telling them to grow up, despite being months removed from arguing with teenagers on Twitter, is the one that's going to attack the most ruthless of news' cycle head-on in finally bringing a little magic back to the Mecca? The once anonymous internet troll who needed a week-long sabbatical from answering questions and only returned from it to bitch and moan about the people asking them is going to run the goddamn gauntlet of gasbags looking for scorching hot headlines in the city that sleeps just about as often as it's actually satisfied with its sports teams? Really? Of all people, the thin-skinned superstar who somehow didn't foresee the backlash to come in attaching himself to a 73-win team is going to be the one to bear the cross for a long-suffering powder-keg of a franchise at which stones are most often thrown? We're talking about an athlete that once felt attacked by writers in Oklahoma City, and he's going to conquer the criticism that resounds off the walls of the concrete jungle? To Kevin Durant's credit, everyone should stop asking him about the Knicks, because he'd have to be a complete idiot to think his pissy personality would play in New York. That two minute distressed diatribe about sticking to basketball was really the best "answer" he could have given. Even if it didn't technically address the question he's been avoiding since Kristaps Porzingis more or less got traded to create cap room for him, it certainly did tell everyone everything you need to know about whether he can handle the media circus of Madison Square Garden. Whether or not he was listening, however, remains to be seen until this summer.
Time to test the salt levels in the water down in NOLA, because I honestly believe that's a level of scorn that would leave a prideful, sodium-filled tear dripping from the eye of Sean Payton to the screen-printed red nose of Roger Goodell. I can't say I'm surprised that the Pelicans are trained in the art of pettiness, as they conduct their business in a city that just successfully boycotted the goddamn Super Bowl and partially share a front office with a franchise that takes absolutely everything personal. I am, however, impressed with the intricacy of the brushstrokes they've used in painting a player as calculated as LeBron James and an organization as prestigious as the Los Angeles Lakers into a corner. Granted, no one could have predicted the damn near nuclear implosion of the Lakers against a undermanned Pacers' team, but if you light the fuse then you get to take the bow following the grand finale of the fireworks. Needless to say, we got quite the show of the combustibility of Los Angeles' team chemistry the other night. Therefore, for all the criticism he's received in wasting the work of Anthony Davis, Dell Demps deserves all the credit in the world for giving Magic Johnson's taint just enough of a light tickle to get him to shamelessly chase a complete ghosting. He basically got the one of the winningest franchises in NBA history to put their balls on the negotiation table....just so he could turn around to his team and laugh under his breath at the size of them. Granted, he fell ass-backwards into the "lesson plan" by having a transformative talent at his disposal, but if leading on the Lakers just long enough for LeBron to be left looking in on the playoff picture for the first time since 2005 isn't a masterclass in cock-teasing then I don't know what the hell is. Of all the people to deliver an equally powerful counterpunch for mid-season tampering, it's the goddamn New Orleans Pelicans who left the Lakers' balls bluer than the emotional state of all the young players with which their relationship has been ruined. Who woulda thought they'd achieve anything close to vengeance, never mind in a dominant enough fashion to do so in the victory formation?
When I first started reading what seemed to be a defense of a player who was treated like trash and an indictment of the organization that basically left him out in the sun to swelter, I thought it was bound to be the least self-aware commentary on the current power structure of the NBA, considering the source. After all, if it meant getting Anthony Davis in purple and gold as soon as possible, LeBron James has made it quite clear he'd have no qualms with going one-by-one in dragging the current Lakers off the court by their ankles like they were crying kids in the candy aisle. For him to go the "do unto others" route as a guy who is in the process of gut-punching his roster in trying to grab the league by the balls would basically refine the concept of hypocrisy. As it turns out, I completely underestimated LeBron James, for he turned that comment from a show of sympathy for a fellow player to a defense of himself as both an unappeasable athlete and an overreactive, yet unofficial executive. You want to talk about getting REAL and changing narratives? The tone of that rant went from "How dare they embarrass Harrison that way?!?" to "I'm not a businessman, I'm a business...man" in exactly one piece of punctuation. Somehow, I can actually respect the latter more, for if there's one NBA entity that treats players more like poker chips than people then it's LeBron James. Though, if we're "calling a spade a spade" then there was no need for The King to start off with the bluff of feeling bad for Harrison Barnes, as the Mavericks' lack of professionalism was just his ace in the hole in circling the conversation back to himself.
Henry A. Jaume, Sr. Not just a charismatic hero whose life and livelihood was dedicated to fighting for his country and protecting its citizens, but also a man of principle. We will have to wait on the autopsy before definitively saying that same principle is responsible for him passing away peacefully just prior to the playing of a sad, Saints-less excuse of a Super Bowl. However, I speak on behalf of the whole Who Dat Nation in saying that a small part of him died the day Bill Vinovich and crew closed their eyes, tucked their tails, and spit in the proverbial face of every principled professional that either came before them or will come after them. Now, I wouldn't go as far as charging them with murder, but would it be a stretch to say that the NFL, by way of a complete lack of integrity, prematurely pulled the plug on a proud patriot and a former police officer? Even having to ask the question tells you all you need to know about the level of injustice levied against a franchise and a fanbase that I only somewhat satirically suspect lost a funny family man hours before they would have had the rightful NFC Champion been crowned. If the citywide block party that was 'Boycott Bowl' had an MVP award then Henry A. Jaume, Sr. would be the consensus choice after taking his protest to the grave, but I'm certain he'd trade in that honor for the chance to be sent upstairs eternally while watching the black & gold in the Super Bowl. And to think, here we were assuming that all the NFL stole was a conference championship.
This welcomed piece of non-news can be taken for what it's worth. I personally consider its value to be a long, cautiously optimistic sigh of relief, but if you prefer to medicate your anxiety then I'd say this reassuring statement regarding the future of the Devils' suspiciously sidelined MVP should save you a valium or two. Of course, whatever sense of security you might feel upon hearing that the reigning Hart Trophy winner is staying through a lost season isn't exactly endorsed by ADT, as it could easily be hijacked by the lack of an encouraging word as soon as July 1st. Still, all remaining calm on the Taylor Hall front should temporarily put Devils' fan at peace seeing how much of a shit storm this year has been. What a source as reputable as Elliotte Friedman apparently understands is as good as it's going to get, and - with the Devils putting forth irredeemable clunkers like they did against the Kings last night - it's a hell of a lot better than nothing. Nothing, of course, is all it really is until the ink dries on a long-term contract that locks up one of the most impactful left wingers in the game. However, as the Devils insist on playing a pessimistic brand of puck, a little optimism can go a long way in keeping the fanbase somewhat sane up until an extremely telling summer.
— New Jersey Devils (@NJDevils) February 6, 2019 I don't think it would be fair to say there is nothing not to love about this deal, because the abrupt absence of a fan-favorite whose real life resilience and locker room leadership were so much of an inspirational asset to a young team that his improved play was almost an afterthought. When he was signed to be a veteran stopgap in the bottom-six of a rebuilding team two off-seasons ago, not even the man who offered him the contract could have possibly predicted the impact that Brian Boyle would have on the Devils. Of course, that's mostly because cancer has a sick and twisted habit of showing up unannounced, but it's also due to the strength and perseverance of the person whose door it kicked down for turning the worst of news into some of the best of memories. It feels a bit disingenuous to remember Brian Boyle's relatively short time with the Devils only for his first round knockout of a debilitating disease, as he was a reliable role player who earned his way onto both special teams units by doing the little things well while providing stability, toughness, and a surprising amount of offense. Separate of his diagnosis, his recovery, and all the hardships that went along with them, Brian Boyle more than fulfilled his end of what proved to be a bargain of a contract. That said, I'm not quite sure you can underestimate how incredibly cool it was to watch him add insult to remission by contributing a Masterton Trophy-worthy effort to an unexpected playoff run and turning just about every 'Hockey Fights Cancer' night into his own, superstar-esque stat night.
At the end of the day, this is an incredible return for the Devils. In removing all emotional attachment, a 4th liner - no matter how amazing a person and versatile a player - is still a 4th liner. Getting a 2nd round pick to replace the one they sold off last February was a priority, and - from a coldhearted hockey prospective - they didn't give up all that much to get it. It still sucks to move a beloved player who said he would have preferred to stay with the franchise that he quickly made himself an unforgettable part of, but snatching up a sizable asset while giving someone who deserves a Stanley Cup his best shot at one makes this is as much of a win-win as you could possibly hope for. I certainly wouldn't be shocked to see Brian Boyle return to New Jersey in free agency, given all his glowing reviews of the organization throughout the most trying period of his life. However, as that's nothing more than a maybe, he's owed all the thanks, praise, and appreciation in the world for making it way too damn hard to accept the reality of an absolute no-brainer of deadline deal. I can't possibly imagine that I don't speak for all Devils' fans in rooting for him to become as much of a champion on the ice in Nashville as he has already proven off of it during a stay in New Jersey that - to his credit entirely - didn't feel anywhere near as short as it was.
Look, I can't think of a situation in which I would consider it worth it to basically burn between 150-250 bucks worth of money already spent. I'm sure those 5-6 seconds of misplaced personal pride that poor bastard experienced after throwing his jersey on the ice were therapeutic. Unfortunately, seeing as the subsequent silent ride home was undoubtedly fueled by self-loathing, it's certainly not the the type of withdrawal therapy that comes prescribed by a doctor. For that reason, I can't begin to relate to that act of rebellion. Here's the thing though. I'm not supposed to be able to relate to it. Much like any other dependence on something so undeniably detrimental, it's impossible to understand the highs and lows of an addiction to the Edmonton Oilers unless you have one. Considering the boiling over of his frustrations during another regular season debacle, that was a man who is hooked on a tragedy of a team that is hazardous to his health. Let that jersey toss serve as a desperate flushing on his drugs, and the long, long look he more than likely proceeded to take at the pro shop on his way to the car serve as his almost immediate fascination with finding another fix. Diehard fandom, especially that of a woefully dysfunctional franchise, is a disease. Thinking, if even for only one second, that personal property thrown on the ice will be treated as a message to a management group that's turned the transformative talents of Connor McDavid into nothing more than their circus' main attraction instead of merely a future merchandise sale is one of its most obvious symptoms. So before you go judging the childish antics of a grown man who was probably about 12 steps away from regret, try putting yourself in his shoes. I'd suggest holding your nose, because they have been stepping in the same pile of shit for about a decade now. — Rob Perez (@WorldWideWob) February 6, 2019 Admittedly, the basketball fan in me would rather enjoy seeing what type of Johnson-like Magic that LeBron James and Anthony Davis would be capable of creating together on the court. Unfortunately, the anarchist in me would absolutely love to see just how much of a shit show one of the most storied franchises in sports can turn into if 3PM on February 7th comes and goes with the Pelicans clutching tightly to their pearls in holding on to a premier asset out of pride. Don't get me wrong, having LeBron indirectly and diabolically disband his second professional basketball team in as many trade deadlines would be hilarious. It's just that the way that he and his agency went about trying to do so feels like the dirtiest of pool, and the most inherently combustible of rosters bursting into flames right in their face would make for the ultimate scratch on the old eight ball. I don't want to say that LeBron James made his bed, as Rich Paul was definitely there to help tuck in the sheets, but he more than deserves having to toss and turn in it while the nightmare of him missing the playoffs for the first time since 2005 comes to fruition. To be clear, I'm all for the player empowerment of the NBA. That said, this whole mess has seemed just a little too collusively orchestrated for my liking. Therefore, I actually think the awkwardness of a whole rash of young players half-heartedly playing out the stretch alongside the "leader" that's been laughably less than subtle in trying to get them all shipped off like spare parts would, oddly enough, be good for a league that could probably benefit from reminding it's high-end talent that it still technically has rules. A $50,000 slap on a diamond-studded wrist was a pretty lame attempt at restoring some semblance of order, but LeBron James and Anthony Davis having to suffer into the summer more or less working alongside their eventual exes with uncertainty surrounding their respective divorces would be a more fitting price to pay. Now, I have a hard time believing that the New Orleans Pelicans are going to field a better offer for Anthony Davis than...well...basically the entire Lakers' present and future plus picks and cap relief, so there's a very good chance this actually gets done by Thursday afternoon...
However, if for some stubborn reason it doesn't, a couple months of complete madness would make for a quality comedy that's almost as incredibly entertaining as watching two of the most transcendent basketball players on the planet play off one another. Between the Pelicans being as aggressively passive with their intro video as an ex-girlfriend might be with her Instagram and Lakers starting their very own spin-off of the soap opera that is the NBA, I think I'd prefer the continuation of this unprecedented pettiness to more player movement...
There was exactly one way to add even more attention and intrigue to the Todd Gurley situation. Even that seems crazy to say, as an MVP candidate who - due to no public acknowledge of the contrary - was presumed to be healthy, touched the ball all of eleven times in a low-scoring Super Bowl whose outcome could have been flipped by so much as one game-breaking catch or carry. The Rams scored three points. THREE. Exactly thirty less than their season average. THIRTY. Regardless of Bill Belichick's genius, it really shouldn't be possible to make the underwhelming usage of a physically dominant freak who was said offense's lynchpin all season a bigger storyline with how inept it was during the biggest game of it. Yet, the player that apparently didn't want to talk about it managed to do just that. Again, considering the suspiciousness of a situation in which mum has remained the word from all involved parties, the light interrogation he avoided facing wasn't about to be easy. That said, the longer his silence continues, the harder it's going to be to explain it. The less questions answered about his diminished role throughout the playoffs, the more that arise. His refusal to scratch the media's initial itch is only going to lead to them coming after him fiending for a fix like crackheads going through withdrawals.
Personally, no matter what speed he might have been clocked at, I can't see anyway in which his health wasn't a huge factor in being given a half-ass workload from a coach that's been lauded as an offensive mastermind. I don't know that to be the case, but - as happened with Malcolm Butler's SB benching - postponing the truth is only creating more false narratives that need to be debunked by the person who has dodged more disclosure than he did tackles in the biggest game of his otherwise illustrious career. |
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