I'd be lying if I said I know what to believe. After all, the whole point of doing draft analysis is to posture and pontificate in hopes of being able to pound your chest when you end up being right and completely ignore instances in which you were wrong. At the end of the day, we're talking about a crapshoot and speaking definitively - by way of first, second, or third hand opinions that may have an ulterior motive - about the potential results of a roll of the dice is inherently moronic. That being said, it is refreshing to finally hear someone drop a "yeah, but..." about a player that stepped from a pitcher's mound straight to a high ground on which he was viewed worthy of forcing a clearance rack-type selling of a second year, top ten-selected QB as the #1 pick in the NFL draft. Charley Casserly may well be full of shit in seeking attention, but it's certainly felt like the expectations on Kyler Murray were in need of a tempering and what better way to do so than by referencing a flaw that seems to fit a pretty fair narrative. Now, I'm going to go out on limb and say that the Heisman Trophy winner isn't the type of "student of the game" that sits in the back of the class with his hood up and his head down, as it was implied in basically questioning whether he knows an X from an O. However, I'd also be hard pressed to belief this guy had all the right answers to increasingly tough questions as an off-the-charts, awe-inspiring interview...
The hysteria over his hand size is proof of everything being wildly exaggerated come draft season, so - like everything else during this time of year - take this "news" with a grain of salt. Treat that hyper-critical dissection of his football mind as nothing more than an acknowledgement that he's neither Tony Robbins nor Tony Romo. Remove the hyperbole and I don't think that's all that crazy a critique of a two-sport athlete whose game has to speak for itself because he hardly annunciates often enough for he, himself to do so with any regularity. Especially as someone with unorthodox size and talent in the early lead at the most heavily-scrutinized of positions.
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— New Jersey Devils (@NJDevils) March 6, 2019
There are undoubtedly some self-loathing people that think you should have to either win a Stanley Cup or save a baby from a burning building to earn a tribute video, and thus find a flash in the pan backup goaltender to be undeserving. I'll never understand those people, since the regularly scheduled programming of an animated cookie falling face first in allowing a stupid-looking water ice to win the race to get through a routine ice-cleaning without being bored to tears isn't exactly what I would consider sacred, but you can bet your ass that they do exist. Luckily, however, they aren't currently in charge of the Devils' gameday operations, because showing appreciation to a player whose heroics are largely responsible for the only real success in the recent history of a struggling franchise felt like the proper way to go about his return. Maybe not entirely necessary, as the only way you'll find yourself reverently repeating the name Keith Kinkaid to your grandkids is if this rebuild takes longer than the construction of the Xanadu, but a cool thing to do for someone that made his mark on the organization in helping will them back to the playoffs nonetheless. Lou Lamoriello did a hell of a lot right in running the ship into the 21st century, but creating a personality-friendly culture in which the customer could view the player as...::audible gasp::...an actual person was most certainly not on that list, as he'd rather that ship be lost at sea than be wired for WiFi. Keith Kinkaid ran with the opportunity to endear himself to fans, and - considering how often they sucked something serious during the five years he spent in New Jersey - the fact that the team was no longer suppressed was about the only thing going for it. His resume isn't exactly putting him in the Ring Of Honor, but let his answer to the idea of a tribute video serve as an addition to the short but sweet on-ice argument for why he deserved one...
I'm not going to put to much thought into these tweets. After all, judging by both the frequency of the timestamps and the fact that their curator was coming off his birthday weekend in spending last night and this morning slowly riding around a city that's in an alcohol-induced hysteria, I can't imagine all that much clear thought was put into publishing them (hence the deletion of some). That being said, without pouring the proverbial drinks down Michael Thomas' throat, I love that all signs point to his version of "drunk words are sober thoughts" being related entirely to dominating the National Football League. I expected nothing less than for his competitive overdrive to be in 5th gear at all times, and him being unable to relax and enjoy Fat Tuesday without giving the rest of the league the skinny on the Saints' plans for reckoning is perfectly fitting of his personality. Michael Thomas has a one track mind, and that track just so happens to run clean over every single person that's either doubted him or lined up across from him. That couldn't be made more clear than him being unable to be guarded from his phone and serving as the eye of a tweet-storm during an otherwise upbeat event like Mardi Gras. _______
Ruthless. Absolutely ruthless. Perhaps not as ruthless as nicknaming an opposing left tackle after a mild vehicular inconvenience...
...but celebrating the extended contract of a familiar foe and blatantly using it as recruitment tool for your own impending free agents before the ink has even dried on it is pretty close to as cutthroat. Cam Jordan doesn't quite have a Michael Thomas-level of vindictiveness in his veins, but you can see Cam Newton's wine rack as proof that he's certainly not one to mince words that reference division rivals. Hopefully Alex Okafor returns, but the Buccaneers are going to need to do a lot more than cross their fingers if they don't want Marcus Davenport or whoever lines up opposite Cam Jordan to sack an investment that the Saints' resident stock breaker has determined to be no more valuable than leftovers. He might as well speak for all Saints' fans, so tell 'em Thomas...
I can't tell you why Antonio Brown thought the period of time in which he's actively seeking a trade was also the right time to go public in telling the world - and, more importantly, his prospective employers - that he could take or leave football. However, I would have to agree that someone with both the charisma and the...well...crazy of Antonio Brown has plenty of revenue streams to go splashing around in outside of sport....
That being said, at the risk of giving too much credit to consumers in 2019, I'm just pretty sure video greeting cards aren't his next business to boom. Judging by the linguistically laughable pause both before and after "wedding", I just have a hard time believing there's much of a future in getting paid $500 a pop to awkwardly grin his way around the laws of the English language...
He is a lock to remain successful in dying his hair six shades of sapphire as the type of wildcard that can continue to profit off social media, or run rampant as a reality star, or push product as the most boisterous of business man/brand ambassador. Unfortunately, no matter how bright his smile, a walking, talking Hallmark card he is most certainly not. Needless to say, he's far more wackjob than wordsmith, which actually serves him far better given that the current state of society places a premium on attention prostitutes.
I don't know If Alvin Gentry actually night-capped the Pelicans' 3-game road winning streak by sucking down a couple cold ones prior to his media availability or if he simply found a funny excuse for stumbling over his words, but I do know that I'd take not a single issue with either/or. That's partially because we can all relate to using alcohol to ease social awkwardness, despite never finding ourselves in a situation nearly as absurd as the ill-fated "dumpster fire" -his words, not mine - he was tasked with putting out. However, it's mostly because we should all be clanking our glasses and lushing our libations to the poetic justice of the Pelicans' recent performance. Never mind persevering through an organizationally implemented minutes restrictions on one of most transcendent talents in the entire NBA, because doing so while the team that tried to shove a fist up the ass of their franchise completely implodes is worthy of both a toasting and a corresponding roasting. If I were Alvin Gentry, I can't say I'd be above DVRing Lakers' games and using them as an excuse to get liquored up and laugh at LeBron James, because the job he's done in keeping his locker room copacetic makes what's currently going on in Los Angeles seem all the more ludicrous. One team has displayed maturity in rallying around, for most intents and purposes, the loss of their leader. Meanwhile, the team that ultimately drove that wedge is making a complete mockery of itself, in part due to their "leader" literally needing to be pushed in the direction of his defensive rotations by the inexperienced teammates he took it upon himself to "teach". If you can't drink to that juxtaposition then just don't position yourself anywhere along the admittedly low bar that the Pelicans have risen high enough above for their head coach to comfortably slam his empty and entirely deserved beers on.
I said it when Doc Rivers stopped an NBA game in order to offer an opponent a lifetime achievement award-winning reception from the opposing crowd, and I'll say it again. If everyone's favorite euro has his passion for basketball prevail over his interest in keeping his noticeably aging body in one piece then it will be awkwardly and endlessly entertaining, in a way perfectly fitting of Dirk Nowitzki, to see him return to the NBA next season. That being said, you've got to believe that he's starting to feel the pressure of being forced into retirement by, ironically enough, unprecedented displays of universal respect. We're talking about a road crowd absolutely roared the roof off the joint upon the soon-to-be 6th leading scorer in NBA history notching his first bucket in ten attempts during the waning minutes of a game in which his team was losing by damn near half a hundo. As awesome a moment as it was, if Dirk wasn't Dirk then that standing ovation would have been heard as far more of a juvenile jeer than any sort of genuine cheer. Point being, both foes and their fanbases are going so far out of their way to give him his well-deserved due, and rightfully so, that they can't possibly be expected to recreate such a reverent regard if this externally initiated farewell tour is more "c'ya later" than "goodbye". Again, I personally would enjoy seeing just how far a beyond beloved player can push those limits before he's seen as overstaying his welcome. However, for Dirk Nowitzki to do so he'd have to love the type of socially disconcerting situations that make Larry David curb his enthusiasm as much as he still loves his patented fadeaway "jumpers"...
ESPN- Four years after naming McDonough general manager, Sarver acquired some live goats from a Diana Taurasi event at Talking Stick Resort Arena and planted them upstairs in McDonough's office. The stunt was both a practical joke and an inspirational message -- the Suns should find a GOAT of their own, one who dominates like Taurasi. The goats, unaware of their metaphorical connotation, proceeded to defecate all over McDonough's office.
------ Imagine showing up to work and opening your office door to find out that your workspace had unknowingly been turned into an unkempt petting zoo with all poop left unscooped. Now, imagine your boss showing up in your office unannounced to both passive aggressively and condescendingly offer you the type of professional advice that's about as helpful as the token moron in movies that breaks the tension by routinely stating the completely obvious. Now, imagine the combination of those two scenes making for just about the smelliest of slaps in the face, and how the stink of that soiled sucker punch must have lingered with the NBA executive on which it was delivered. Honestly, if I were his General Manager, I think I would have preferred Robert Sarver to squat atop my desk and leave a steamer to slow cook overnight in an attempt to satisfy his own immature sense of humor than to insult my intelligence by suggesting I try acquiring transformational talent. Never mind the idea of using livestock to do so. I suppose it depends on what the goats ate the day of, but - at least theoretically - the feces of farm animals can be cleaned out of carpets. The stain of your employer interacting with you as though you are an unforgivable idiot, however, is one that's got the staying power of the coffee Ryan McDonough undoubtedly spilled all over himself upon stepping in a situation more crappy than even the Suns themselves were capable of producing at the expense of their own pants. Acquire the greatest of all time, while an entirely novel directive, isn't exactly one that was worth the loads of goat shit it was packaged in. Anyway, that's my time, so here's Greta to give you a more enlightening and educated look into the type of entitled tightwad we are talking about here...
I can't even say I am impressed by the attention to detail that went into using the magnificence that is Mardi Gras to put forth the pettiness of Saints' fans into parade form. After all, I truly expected nothing less than a marching body of blind referees to be somewhat synchronized in their mockery while using the carnivalized face of professional football's head clown in charge to cover the never-to-be-fully-healed stab wounds in their back. Even taking time constraints into consideration, a float being dedicated entirely to the incompetence of the NFL and the suspiciously un-thrown flags of their officials was a foregone conclusion. That theme, in perfect New Orleans' fashion, was bound to be one that was explored in excess of excess. Even during the most unbridled of festivities, Saints' fans never, ever forget, so save your "get over it" for a later date in which they will undoubtedly still not have completely recovered from having a Super Bowl appearance stolen from a city that would clearly do the honor justice in going above and beyond in celebrating it...or anything really.
I don't know that it's entirely fair to say that the NFL combine has jumped the shark, because that would be underselling the type of vertical one would have to measure in at to hurdle a megalodon. To be clear, I'm all for athletes letting their emotions get the best of them after proving all their hard work to be worth it. However, the fact that "it" is really just the shaving of mere milliseconds off a timed sprint, as opposed to the production of multiple years of game tape, makes me think we just might be putting too much of an emphasis on the results of the quickest of workouts in judging the potential of the NFL's immediate future. It's not the shedding of tears that I take issue with, but rather the fact that an insanely fast 40 yard dash has apparently come to be treated as important enough to instinctually send them uncontrollably streaming down the face of those that run them now-a-days. DK Metcalf and Devin White did nothing more than peak what were already formidable draft stocks. Therefore, we should probably reel back the relevance of running fast relative to your position group or make sure they show up to the draft to collect the actual fruits of their labor in water-proof suits, as that day should be exponentially more prideful and emotional than the one in which they slapped a number on their superhuman speed.
ESPN- The Los Angeles Lakers and free agent Carmelo Anthony are pausing talks on a possible contract agreement unless the franchise makes a turn back toward pursuit of Western Conference playoffs contention, league sources told ESPN.
The Lakers had been leaning toward signing Anthony for the rest of the season -- until losses in four of the past five games left the organization and Anthony's camp wondering if it made sense to bring the veteran into an unsettled environment with suddenly so little chance of making the playoffs, league sources said. ------ If we're being honest, that explanation reads a lot like the Lakers' organization getting creative in finding a way to say "no" to the most needy of superstars and his suggestion to add a high-profile scapegoat to distract from his tour de force of baby-back bullshit...
It's clearly a blessing that LeBron James is one of the most consistent winners of all time, because he's showing himself as potentially the worst loser of all time as he sulks his way to one of the longest summers of his career. He's shamelessly lashing out like an angsty teen, so it's nice to see an organization for which he is supposed to be a leader stick to their guns in not giving him each and every thing that he wants when he wants it. Also, as an aside, I think we should take this moment to celebrate the most recent win of a HOF career that has been marred by far too many L's. Relative to the dwindling list of accomplishments Carmelo Anthony has to hang his hat on over the last few seasons, the Los Angeles Lakers implying that they are not worthy of his services is quite the moral victory. Of course, it's also an unspoken admission that they don't see an inconsistent, jump shot dependent journeyman as capable of putting out the dumpster fire that managed to burn through all their playoff hopes in a pathetic loss to the Phoenix Suns. However, with Melo taking what he can get, he should be basking in the somewhat outlandish idea that his impact would be a lot more positive in the postseason. If you set aside all fawning over his financial well-being, that's the most complimentary thing that's been said about him as a player in years. At the admittance of one of the most prestigious organizations in sports' history while they are rostering the most talented player in basketball history, Carmelo Anthony is currently too good for the Los Angeles Lakers. Might be a low-point for LeBron James, but it's a long-overdue feather in the funny-looking cap of the least winningest member of his NBA foursome.
Obviously, I think any and all sports' fan would consider such an over-reactionary act of officiating to be inexcusable at best and unforgivable at worst. Tossing one of the brightest young stars in basketball out of a game for using his male gaze in a way that wouldn't even offend the most dedicated of feminists is objectively idiotic. That's just a fact. The NBA, which - even more so than other professional sports leagues - prides itself on its entertainment value, shouldn't be legislating the weaponization of eyeballs like killing someone with a cold-hard stare is anything more than a figurative crime. That being said, even if they are to continue doing so, Trae Young shooting Kris Dunn a glance that reeked more of motherly disappointment than it did mockery wouldn't be a good example of an unlawful glare. Simply put, for a defender who didn't so much as raise his arms when "contesting" the shot of an opponent with unlimited range, that look was more lesson than it was lampoon. The hands on those hips, as well as the subsequent head shake, were those of a parent watching their child leave the room to complete a chore that should very well be second nature to them at this point. Realistically, there should no such thing as the flagrant use of vision in sports. Contextually, however, these eyes tell me that reaction wasn't anywhere near as disrespectful as the laughable attempt at defense that proceeded it.
I'm not saying that Brad Marchand bursting into flames would have been a possibility or a pleasure, but I am saying a huge opportunity to spritz him with holy water as a precaution was missed on Saturday night. With the Department of Player Safety looking out for the well-being of players more than ever, it required negligence of the highest order for them not to send a representative to Boston to sit rink-side armed with a Bible and a crucifix. At the very least, it could have potentially saved them a hell of a lot of headaches in the future if, however unlikely, the Devil's cover as a rat-nosed prick of a really good hockey player was finally blown. I'm not even particularly religious, but seeing as those that are tend to obsessed with signs, I find it a bit odd that the hockey world just laughed off the most satanic of symbolism like it was nothing more than a mere coincidence. Even if the mark of the beast making multiple appearances wasn't enough to spark your suspicion, the way Brad Marchand's 666th game diabolically played out certainly should. Scoring the only goal mere minutes in. Starting and finishing said game with 666 penalty minutes despite injuring someone with a blindside crosscheck directly in front of a referee...
If Lucifer himself wasn't responsible for maintaining such inherently evil statistics then the on-ice officials sure need an optometrist. I was already skeptical of the unholiness that was Marcus Johansson swallowing his pride and selling his soul in teaming up with someone who cost him millions of dollars in free agency with an elbow from hell, never mind the least inconspicuous scumbag in hockey getting away with another cheap shot in ending up the hate-fueled hero in a win over the Devils. I don't know that Brad Marchand is the actual Prince Of Darkness, but I do know that letting him leave the building without even attempting an exorcism was about as safe as his style of play, with just about every aspect of the night pointing to him as the antichrist arisen.
I'm calling bullshit. That's partially because attaching the phrase "just saying" to literally anything is undefeated in sending the bullshit-o-meter into overdrive. However, it's mostly because my blood pressure would go into that same overdrive if I had to worry about what a poison pill of a personality would do to the internal makeup of a locker room that currently has perfect chemistry. Not to be overly dramatic, but I honestly think I'd rather keep my eye in a mason jar next to my bed than on this "rumor". Never mind him representing a great fit as another incredibly explosive target that quickly creates separation and runs pristine routes, or him representing a contract that's somewhat affordable relative to his skill-set at a position of need. I want Antonio Brown nowhere near New Orleans because of the culture, and I'm not even referring to the headlines that could be created by the walking, talking allegation while thirsting for attention in the hollow leg of sports' cities. This team, as currently constructed, couldn't possibly be more selfless, while the guy that was just very, very loosely linked to them is one narcissistic step away from making someone carry a mirror in front of him while literally singing his praises on the sidelines. I get that talent typically trumps all, but the Saints are an organization that's dealt with the downside of far too many characters to think character issues are a farce. On top of that, they run an offense that prides itself on feeding too many mouthes to worry about satisfying the biggest, loudest, and most insatiable one in the entire NFL on a week-to-week basis. Drew Brees is no Ben Roethlisberger in that he's not an unforgivable asshole, but he's also a guy that has too many children at home to have to also concern himself with temper tantrums at work while in the twilight of a career marked by spreading the ball around. The Saints do, pretty obviously, need more help on the outside, but that money can be better spent than on someone who would be about the worst influence in the world on Michael Thomas while also cutting into his workload. More importantly, they are going to need an entire Babysitter's Club worth of help on the inside if they bring aboard 'Mr. Big Chest' and the treasure trove of trouble that comes with trying to temper a loose cannon with a lit fuse in an otherwise like-minded locker room.
As is the case with almost all the overwhelmingly good and disturbingly bad things to be found on the internet, I've become dangerously desensitized to videos of professional athletes doing right by their most impressionable fans in offering souvenirs, autographs, and all that other fun stuff to children. Therefore, the lakes that started leaking down my face when Carey Price showed no hesitation in taking off his equipment to offer something far more moving than any piece of memorabilia to a kid who desperately needed it lead me to believe there was nothing average about that interaction. Saying someone is a great player and a better person has become a bit cliche, but credit to Carey Price for blurring the line between player and person while making the day of someone who was blurring the line between goalie fan and griever. That was just a special moment created a simple showing of sympathy that reminds even the most cold-hearted of curmudgeon that, from innocent kids to their athletic idols, we all have the emotional struggles that come as a result of being human in common.
NYPost- Austrian Max Hauke, who is also a police cadet, was one of five skiers arrested in anti-doping raids at the Nordic skiing world championships in Seefield, Austria, on Wednesday.
Incredible footage released by Austrian publication Vorarlberg Online shows the shamed star caught in the act with a needle in his arm before a race. When asked whether anyone else is at home, an embarrassed Hauke, 26, shakes his head. He admitted to blood doping and cooperated with police in the investigation, a statement confirmed. Austrian media claim Hauke and fellow doping countryman Dominik Baldauf are also qualified police cadets. --------- I suppose I could focus on this guy being such an experienced cheater that he may or may not have tried to cover his tracks (well, metaphorically at least) by hiding in plain sight by working with the police force, but I'm honestly more impressed than I am disappointed. I mean, not even during college did I have the gumption to try my hand at rolling blunts, and this dude got so comfortable transfusing his own blood that draining his arm with a needle and enough plastic tubing to hogtie Lance Armstrong became as much of an inconvenience as loosening his belt before opening a beer. Not for nothing, but if the tainted results of bike races and the recently retracted medal count is any indication, there is a lot money to be made in being so skilled in recycling red cells that you could mindlessly do so while catching up on your DVR. It's not the most ethical line of work, but I'm pretty sure that Olympic dream died while the law enforcement route was hitting a bit of a snag, with his prospective co-workers kicking down his door and all. I obviously can't say that Max Hauke is a good person or an equitable competitor, but I can say he's got what it takes to dope you up a fresh batch of blood without even breaking a sweat or staining your couch. At least he can add that to his resume since the vast majority of it just got tagged with the world's biggest asterisk. As If They Needed Anymore Help, Officials Are Now Leading Fast Breaks For The Golden State Warriors3/1/2019
Sigh, figures. Had any other team been the beneficiary of an official's unintentional secondary assist it would be a pretty fun watch, but alas - the Warriors ruin everything. Of course, the only person to blame here is the dude who, in a fashion fitting of the Orlando Magic, worked the perimeter by blindly ripping a cross-court chest pass into an area of the court that was occupied solely by a referee. It's not like I can fault stripes for reacting the way anyone would to accidentally finding themselves in the crossfire of a heated game of dodgeball. Still, it's mildly annoying when the squirrel with cheeks stuffed fatter than those of Ben Roethlisberger wanders aimlessly into the most nutritious of nuts. Golden State already made undeniable greatness and beautiful basketball things I feel obligated to root against, and now I can't even enjoy the bloopers of brutal teams without being reminded of the reality that the rich always get richer? If not for the Warriors needing that official to put down his whistle and pick up some slack for four All Stars to beat the lowly Magic, that would be some bullshit.
--------- I'll say it before and, since absolutely nothing has changed, I'll say it again. John Tavares didn't owe the New York Islanders a damn thing after the organization basically sat on their thumb for the vast majority of a decade as his illustrious career slowly wasted away with nothing but a mere smattering of early playoff oustings to show for it. The stars aligning and damn near cosmically gifting the franchise a Stanley Cup-winning Head Coach and the goddamn Godfather of General Managers when they needed them the most made for a pretty nice pitch, but it's more than understandable that it was too little, too late from a team that is basically still living couch-to-couch in trying to lock down a home arena. The image of a young John Tavares sleeping tight under his Maple Leafs' sheets with dreams of playing in Toronto dancing in his head aside, the Islanders' fans acting like they were done more wrong than the superstar who devoted a third of his life to date to dysfunction are flat-out irrational. Fortunately for them, however, the entire concept of fandom is also irrational. As ridiculous as it is to crucify a player for finally taking the long overdue opportunity to do right by himself and his career, it doesn't hold a candle to the inherent absurdity of living and dying with the successes and failures of a team you don't play for, no matter who is on it. It doesn't matter what inspired John Tavares to leave, or how difficult the decision was to do so, or if he went about it the "right" way. Shame on anyone for thinking that unconditionally rooting for a logo on some laundry is that nuanced. All that matters is that a transformational player used to play for their team, and now - by choice - he doesn't. That obviously doesn't justify throwing things at him, but it sure as shit is enough reason to boo 'Pajama Boy' back to beddy-bye. That's exactly what Islanders' fans did as their team ran the player who chose not to be a part of it anymore off the ice and back under the covers. Regardless of what you think of the "why?", the "how?" was nothing short of incredible. By the time the third period rolled around, I legitimately had to remind myself that I had not one single issue with John Tavares, as the home crowd was so convincing in their contempt that I started to sympathize with their scorn like that socially awkward serpent of a traitor had slept with my non-existent girlfriend behind my back. Johnny might be the furthest thing from Judas, but I came pretty damn close to believing every word that came from the collectively loud mouth of Islanders' fans as the game wore on and their team continued to provide circumstantial evidence to their resounding cries of "WE DON'T NEED YOU!". Any obsessive pissing, moaning, whining, and crying that preceded last night was more than a little pathetic, as highlighted by this video, but the unrelenting performance of Islanders' fans in a building that lends itself to letting frenemies hear it was anything but. The chants were original, the energy was infectious, the Islanders responded, their opponent looked entirely overwhelmed, and an afternoon that's painful to remember was turned into a night they'll never forget. Fandom at its core is nothing more than the most toxic of relationship and, at its most faithful, it is dependent on far, far more crazy than classy. Simply put, last night was a deafeningly awesome display of it. |
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