For it to still be a surprise that the NHL postseason is a fickle beast whose results so often fly in the face of 82 games worth of evidence to everything we thought we knew requires a dedication to logic and rationale that is entirely unwelcome in most hockey circles this time of year. Therefore, while we weren't yet to the point where the unexpected is to always be expected, seeding being nothing more than a formality is far from a new concept. Still, there were very few things that you can get the vast majority of society to agree upon in the year 2019, and the love of a true underdog was one of them. Unfortunately, with a mesmerizing meltdown for the ages, the 62-win Tampa Bay Lightning took that love and stomped all over it, as there is no longer such thing as a sure thing to root against during the Stanley Cup Playoffs. As fans of unforeseen failures, we've officially peaked in watching the Columbus Blue Jackets go all-in to win their first ever playoffs series by way of an uncompetitive dusting of a team whose talents will undoubtedly make for multiple hilariously uncomfortable appearances at the NHL awards. In terms of shock value, it is now eternally depreciating. Every other matchup in which the favorite falls short for the foreseeable future will be met with a mere shoulder shrug, as we've been desensitized to dumbfounding outcomes by the All-World juggernaut that took not one single step in a middle ground in going from Valedictorian to dropout in six days time. If there is a saving grace to a series that was really only intriguing in the way that a billionaire going broke is intriguing then it's that an organization managing their assets how a drunk college kid might manage his bank account actually worked out in a way that might result in franchises being less risk adverse going forward. The Columbus Blue Jackets gave a middle finger to the future on behalf of the present, and not only narrowly avoided suffering an embarrassing end to their own season but basically pulled down the pants of the Presidents' Trophy winners and sent them into the summer with the most public of spankings. At least we can appreciate the boldness it takes to even attempt that, because we certainly can't continue to appreciate even the most astronomical of NHL postseason odds after they were overcome with such ease.
0 Comments
Honestly, who has got it better than Ryan Fitzpatrick? Never mind being subjected to a dumpster of a diet that comes part and parcel with having to sneak in ways to satiate yourself while raising an entire touchdown worth of children. The truth is, he might as well wake up and eat some cake regardless of whether or not the calendar says it's a date on which he once successfully reproduced. 36 years old. Starting NFL quarterback. Still living good off an Ivy League education in and on a field where it largely doesn't translate. No real expectations of which to speak. Can show up unkempt and overweight to his job as a pro athlete and have it be a laughing matter. His blessed life might as well be the product of blowing out all the right candles, so who is to say every day isn't his birthday? All his wishes have seemingly some true, like two dozen times over, so it would simply be ungrateful of him not to show his appreciation by bulking up on a bunch of batter and icing for another stress-free gig under center that probably best described as...well...cake. Evander Kane Lost His Fight With Ryan Reaves, But Won The War of Words by Unanimous Decision4/16/2019
--------- Oh. My. God. My jaw just about hit the floor right around halfway through that transcription, and it was still left looking down at how low Evander Kane went in ripping Ryan Reaves' entire on-ice existence limb from limb. That interview, in its totality, is far and away the most disrespectful you'll ever see one NHLer be towards another publicly. Of course, that's mostly due to professional hockey players biting their own tongue so often you'd think it satisfied some sort of sexual fetish. Still, the fact remains that the oft-enigmatic San Jose forward damn near made up for decades of dumbed-down diplomacy in going below and beyond to emasculate the impact of Las Vegas' resident goon. And ya know what, seeing as he already faced both the literal and figurative music by being played off to 'Baby Shark' following his decision to fight up a weight class and down a skill level, Evander Kane should say whatever he damn well pleases...
Ryan Reaves' primary role is to intimidate, and the player he invested his little amount of playing time in targeting certainly doesn't sound as though he was too phased by the experience. Evander Kane losing both the fight and the game is a moot point in the discussion of how much his opponent actually contributes to winning. Him feeling comfortable enough to call it exactly how he sees it is in the aftermath of answering the bell points directly to the irrelevance of the antiquated, WWE-esque role he just verbally ran over thrice while cutting a Game 4 promo that would make 'The Rock' proud. I say the following as someone who doesn't even particularly like Evander Kane. If you want to drop the mitts and start swinging with an exponentially more talented player just to prove your place then you better make sure you connect well enough for the message to get through his admittedly thick skull. Either that, or he has every right to give a middle finger to personality-less political correctness by not showing you an ounce of respect as the type of player whose best skill is supposed to be in pounding it out of opponents.
I hesitate to give too much praise to Mitch Marner, as Mike Babcock has killed careers for less than belonging to players who are unwilling to go eye-to-eye with high-speed vulcanized rubber when it matters most. Point being, the fact that he was put on the ice in the waning seconds of a pivotal Game 3 in the first place is evidence, in and of itself, that we shouldn't be shocked by his willingness to do whatever it takes to win in a fairly unfamiliar end of the ice. That being said, convincing your coach that you're selfless enough to literally put your baby face in front of a slap shot is a hell of a lot easier than actively throwing yourself in front of some live grenades, so credit goes to a young, offensive dynamo like Mitch Marner for gambling the authenticity of his smile in potting a huge victory for the Toronto Maple Leafs. The reaction from his teammates speaks to how much it was appreciated, even if it wasn't entirely unexpected of someone who's apparently not nearly as self-interested as you'd be led to believe by the regularity which his upcoming contractual demands are discussed.
As much as teenagers can be young and dumb with full ass plums, I'm not sure Andrei Svechnikov's decision to lure the gloves off a grizzled grown man who still plays the game like he's in desperate need of a cocaine fix can be classified as nothing more than a "rookie mistake". There are first year players who've been benched for putting blind, cross-ice passes onto a platter for opposing players that would resent the idea that their birth year leaves them liable to poke an absolute bear of a physical freak. Therefore, it feels like there was something more to that fight than youthful ignorance.
Now, far be it for me to assume that "something" is some sort of regional blood-feud that dates back generations. However, if the threat strongly implied through the use of a universally understood horror movie reference is any indication then said indication provides better reasoning for a super-skilled 19-year old to go blow-for-blow with Alexander Ovechkin than any other I can think of. Seems pretty far fetched for Russian mob ties to rope two professional athletes into an unfair fight on American ice, but the illogical obligations of gang-like affiliations make for a more logical motive than the inherent idiocy of adolescence alone. I'm certainly not suggesting that polarizing opinions on Putin were ultimately responsible for an unnecessary fight that resulted in an unfortunate knockout whose ramifications could theoretically be felt throughout the rest of a suddenly competitive series. Just saying I'd understand that more than I understand a boy being frustrated enough to believe it behooved him to man (a whole hell of a lot of levels) up in actively and inexplicably escalating an oddly timed confrontation between fellow countrymen.
Make no mistake, that one hurts more than your "average" cataclysmic home playoff loss in a game that was led by 30+ midway through the third quarter. I don't mean that in the sense that the Warriors' odds of winning a championship, much less this first round series with an undermanned-but-unrelenting opponent, have taken a significant hit. However, you can bet your ass that their pride woke up this morning feeling like it absorbed every big shot in a 12-round slugfest with a bottle of tequila, and that's due - in part - to the identity of the opposition that, metaphorically speaking, proceeded to crack them over the head with it. Ever since Chris Paul & Co. delayed their dominance by one year in a contentious postseason series, the Warriors have pounded their chest just a little a bit more pompously in beating the Clippers. Though the roster for which they harbored such resentment has changed drastically, the spite with which they have shot their lights out over the past few seasons has far from faded. Patrick Beverly has talked...and talked....and talked himself into the role of demonstrative defensive nuisance that was left vacated by the departure of CP3, and Golden State has used that to fan alive a flame that probably should have died out once Blake Griffin got shipped off to Detroit.
I don't know whether the Warriors would admit to the following or not, but it's pretty obvious that the only thing they relish more than winning is doing so at the expense of the Clippers losing. Therefore, it stands to reason that the sting of being defeated in the most humbling, humiliating, and historical of fashion (well, since they blew a 3-1 series led to LeBron, anyway) would reverberate just a little more painfully with said loss having carved out a spot for the Clippers in the NBA record books. If you wanted to pull down the corner of the web page on which you watched the highlights of history being made in order to look at the big picture then you could craft a decent argument that the Warriors aura of invincibility is much more penetrable than in years' past. You could also use last night as proof in suggesting that the Clippers are the perfect destination for premier free agents, as their proposal of pieces young and old is laughably more intriguing than that of the self-important team they share a city, arena, and market with. However, I would rather take some time to appreciate last night for the aspect of it that the Warriors are most likely to dismiss, with that being the most unforgettable of role reversals in the otherwise one-sided rivalry that they went out of their way to resuscitate.
Incredible. Simply incredible. I mean, how? Just how? I don't even have the words for the work ethic it must require to...::gathers breath::...continue pulling otherwise asinine tasks out of your ass in hopes of making an athletic alien shed a bead of perspiration. Honestly, I'm only being half-sarcastic when I say that the most shocking thing about this video was the creativity of the trainer. That's partially because neither my body nor brain is capable of truly comprehending the difficulty of the exercise at hand. However, it's mostly because Alvin Kamara, whether it be on or off the field, has spent the last two years getting Saints' fans way too used to his ability to make near impossible feats of physicality look entirely effortless. The pegs on those projectiles being red and blue is quite fitting, because that is some Matrix shit...if Neo had both swag and his superpowers weren't a product of pill-popping. Yet still, due mostly to desensitization, I was left responding to that video with nothing more than a shoulder shrug that matched what little anxiety Alvin Kamara appeared to be exuding as his ears, eyes, and hands casually coordinated to put forth an otherworldly display of instantaneous telepathy. I personally didn't need to see this to know that someone who could probably break your balls while balancing himself on a bed of marbles is an absolute freak far beyond this galaxy, never mind a football field. Therefore, I'll treat this clip as a relief knowing his offseason regimen isn't in the idle hands of someone who is going to rest on their laurels and stop going above and beyond the call of duty in the hopeless endeavor to humanize AK's talents. I wish Dr. Reef the best of luck, for he genuinely looks to be working harder than the wonder kid he's allegedly working out. The Lightning Losing Isn't Nearly as Concerning as the Soreness With Which They Are Doing So4/13/2019
Ironically, my sentiments mirrored those of Victor Hedman until Victor Hedman echoed those sentiments in the direction of the opposing bench of players who was in the process of orchestrating a near clinical destruction of his own bench's aura of invincibility. As a fan, I am supposed to sink into my own couch while lazily drawing convenient comparisons to series' past between two teams that are, when you take into consideration the amount of moves the Blue Jackets have made over the last 12 months, entirely different. The reigning Norris Trophy winner whose most notable contribution to the series thus far was facilitating his team's untimely collapse in the postseason opener by putting forth a preseason-opening effort, on the other hand, is not...
Point being, there was plenty of reason to believe that the Tampa Bay Lightning, with their embarrassment of riches from a talent perspective, could "buy" their way out of a surprising two game hole. I say was because that reasoning took a sizable hit when one of their most prominent and underperforming players chose to openly base all of his optimism on the efforts of a Stanley Cup Championship winning team that he, need I remind you, proceeded to lose to later in last year's playoffs. I say was because the Head Coach of the team in question referred to the first gut punch his team has taken all year as a "five alarm fire" in an overreactive way that reminds you that the smoothest of regular seasons has left him entirely unfamiliar with alarm fires one through four...
I say was because last we saw the league's leading scorer he was more concerned with selfishly going out of his way to try to damage the brain of the defenseless opponent he chopped down in a fit of frustration than trying to carry his success into the time of year that actually matters...
Honestly, I don't know what's more dispiriting for Tampa Bay, the fact that their most prolific game-breaker did something that was sure to get him suspended from a pivotal Game 3 despite having run-in's with Player Safety in previous postseasons or that it might not even matter with how he's played thus far. The truth is, Nikita Kucherov acted out like a spoiled brat who thinks winning is a given despite having entered the time of the year where not even an inch is given. The even harsher truth is, if Victor Hedman's lousy and off-target trash talk is any indication, that sounds like it may be a prevailing thought process in a locker room that's in too deep to keep playing like they deserve to win as opposed to playing like they are desperate to win. The harshest truth is that the comparison of a 2-0 series deficit to a five alarm fire sounds like somewhat of a self-fulfilling prophecy, as no one thought their chances of coming back were that close to ashes before the member of their organization who is supposed to be the most grounded said so. Each round of the NHL postseason is an up-and-down grind, so at the end of the day it's not exactly 'The End of Days'...but someone might want to notify Jon Cooper of that. And someone might want to let Victor Hedman know that history doesn't just magically repeat itself because it's happened do so enough times since the advent of written word to popularize that saying. And someone might want to put a drop of vodka under Nikita Kuchero's tongue and have him suck on a binky in the owner's suite until he sleeps off his irritable entitlement during the game he made sure not to be a part of. Again, the Tampa Bay Lightning may very well show some spine and rebound from this, as they have the top-end skill, depth, and experience to do so. However, as of last night they were all on very different pages and not one of those pages read like it was destined to lead into a more uplifting chapter. That's far more of a cause for concern than one of best regular season teams of all-time sputtering off to a slow start in the playoffs.
My head is well aware that the defenders with which a 47 year old Jaromir Jagr seamlessly split through like a fat-barreled ginsu knife are inferior in talent, and that his speed wouldn't look to match his immortal skill anywhere near as well if it were on the ice alongside NHL players. My heart, on the other hand, doesn't really give a shit that his ability to twerk overly optimistic opponents a town over has aged out of the NHL and just wants to see him back playing in a place where the horses in his back can be appreciated on a bi-weekly basis. I get that the style with which Father Time has forced him to play doesn't quite fit the direction in which the league is trending. Still, can't we just Grandfather back in someone who would be old enough to be a Grandfather if he wasn't still sleeping with women who he could have theoretically Grandfathered had he not eternally eloped in marrying himself to the game? Team owner or not, it just feels wrong to have Jags overseas dangling through dummies with a reach that must make them feel as helpless as getting posted up by Giannis Antetokounmpo. Especially when he should be solidifying his status as a national treasure somewhere in the states while approaching the half-century mark of 50 years young.
It's times like this that I am reminded that I didn't go to law school. I'm sure the stupidity of this situation would have been easily explained in detail during the first semester, but I'm at a loss for understanding how already breached contracts handed out by a now defunct business could still, in any form or fashion, be binding. Somehow even more so than that, I'm baffled that a league which was theoretically formed to give fringe players a second chance to extend their playing careers is now treating those players less like human beings than the NFL does their athletes. I'm sure there is a bunch of legal liabilities (::pats self on back for sounding somewhat versed in the subject::) wrapped up in the laughable amount of lawsuits they are about to be drowning in. Still, denying rapidly expiring job opportunities to those whose jobs you just unlawfully terminated is a move that makes Roger Goodell's heart look like it bleeds for the bruised brains his league leaves in its wake. Honestly, solely by comparison, the AAF self-destructing about as quickly as a seagull that's been fed an Alka-Seltzer is basically the best PR the NFL has gotten in ages. So much so that if I didn't know any better, I'd assume the outside competition (that wasn't) was an inside job. The NFL won't fully guarantee you a contract for killing yourself slowly, but at least they aren't at risk of folding only to actively sabotage your next chance at employment. They'll let your earning window close with the quickness, but they won't board up all your doors from within when a comparative opportunity comes a knockin'. The AAF is the ultimate reminder that business ethics could always be worse when the NFL had us presuming that was impossible as little as 2.5 months ago.
I say the following definitively as someone who wouldn't dream of watching a full 9 innings prior to late September at the absolute earliest. I'm more than fine with 10 minutes being added to the running time of a Major League Baseball game by a senior citizen ball shagger so long as his spirit shines as brightly as that of the Orioles' ball boy. That endearing elder might have the first step of Manny Machado in late May, but - as far as his effort is concerned - you can call him Mr. Hustle...even if he'll undoubtedly tell you to stop aging him and just call him Johnny. I know baseball's braintrust has started checking their watches with the hopeless regularity of a teenager nodding off during post-lunch history class. However, if they want to maintain a little love in their game then the Grandpa who speed shuffles only to package each souvenir with a smile is just the guy to do it, as he's irrefutable proof that you can actually send a man to do a boy's job. Plus, as an added bonus, if Baltimore ever needs someone to replace Chris Davis' production in the lineup, I could certainly think of less enthusiastic people to provide an easy out.
Look, without a shadow of a doubt, 95% of the emotion that Derrick Rose was overcome with when receiving that news was a product of having his first run-in with the business side of basketball be one that sent him packing from the hometown where he experienced the highest of highs (MVP) and the lowest of lows (enough injuries to finance a medical startup) as a professional athlete. As evidenced by his instant and audible loss of breath, the fraying of his strong ties to the city of Chicago was undeniably devastating. In that sense, this was a pretty relatable and humanizing moment for someone that's said some dumb shit and allegedly done some disturbing throughout the course of his career. However, in the sense that being traded for by someone who owns two entire fists full of championship rings and offered a home arena that's long been lauded as a mystifying Mecca where basketball players grow up dreaming of having their success, that reaction is at least slightly embarrassing for the Knicks. I can't emphasis enough that it says far, far more about his love for Chicago than his feelings toward New York at the time, but there wasn't even a half second of excitement about being courted by Phil Jackson to play at MSG. That proved more than fair seeing how instantly an era that was overseen by the senile became a contributing chapter in the dark comedy that James Dolan has spent the last two decades drawing up. Still, that doesn't make it any less funny to look back on a starting PG of the New York Knicks being unable to see any silver lining in being given that title.
NOLA- The speculation about New Orleans Saints coach Sean Payton eventually leaving to coach the Dallas Cowboys seem to be never-ending, but Payton had a funny line when discussing the topic Thursday evening on WWL radio.
“I’ve got fleur-de-lis tattoos that can’t be erased!" Payton said during the interview. “I’m in my 13th year. I don’t know how to answer it,” he said. “I feel like it’s every other year; it’s on the odd number years, so 2019 it comes up and then we’ll hear it in 2021.” With regards to staying in New Orleans, Payton said, “That’s clearly the plan.” -------- Despite being best described as NFL insiders crying wolf, the annual Sean Payton to the Cowboys rumors were never anything more than whispers. Whispers that could be rationalized by circumstance, with the Saints' head coach having a home in Dallas and a relationship with Jerry Jones that predates his tenure in New Orleans, but whispers nonetheless. For that reason, it became increasingly easy for the Who Dat Nation to tune them out as those riding America's bandwagon continue to hopelessly and shamelessly yearn for the day that their organization hires a head coach that can't be walked all over from an owners' suite. Still, if only due to the lack of a defiant dismissal from the one man most likely to open up and offer one, there was a small seed of doubt left untended to in the back of the mind of Saints' fans. Thankfully, Sean Payton finally put all his weight into the heel of his work boot and squashed that seed to smithereens. Speaking to the city of New Orleans and the Saints' organization being woven into the fabric of who he is as a person and a professional is the type of classic quotable that's always ingratiated him to fans and gotten under the skin of his haters (of which are there are many). Granted, it could have went without saying, for as much as he's been eternally influenced by the local culture, he's also pretty clearly put the stamp of his own petty personality on the team that serves as its heartbeat. Still, it was refreshing to learn of him boldly saying so in a way that only he would. Now more so than even the unforgettable honeymoon period, the relationship between Sean Payton, New Orleans, and the Saints is a symbiotic one. Due to the nature of the business, plans change and it'll inevitably come to an end at some point. However, if that point wasn't when the franchise stuck by his side throughout a season-long suspension or during the demoralizing deja vu of 7-9 seasons then it sure as shit isn't anywhere in a near future of which he can prove his brilliance beyond Drew Brees with the young, talented roster he put together. Luckily, you no longer have to take my word for it, as the ink has long dried on tattoos that, be they literal or figurative, speak for themselves.
As the saying goes, to the victory goes the spoils, so typically I'd say it's not my place to rain on the parade of the Columbus Blue Jackets following their unbelievably impressive and unlikely come-from-behind road win over the best team in the NHL. That being said, given my admittedly biased belief that John Tortorella is an insufferable blowhard, I'm bringing the shit storm if absolutely anyone is hailing him as the guest of honor at said parade. That's not necessarily a gripe with the content of his motivational monologue, though I hardly found it to be an award-winning incitement of determination that couldn't be heard bouncing off the walls of almost every other locker room in the league, but rather the timing and impact of it. This was a pregame speech, which means Columbus proceeded to get pushed around the ice as effortlessly as a curling stone almost immediately after their coach caused their ears to ring with a expletive-laced rant whose most intriguing quality was its censorship. The first period ended 3-0, and it could have been much worse if not for some heroics from a goaltender that has no intention of continuing to listen to Torts beyond this postseason. Therefore, assuming we're not crediting self-starting professional athletes for calming their nerves and scoring a bunch of timely goals over two hours later, or Victor Hedman for moving around the ice about as aimlessly as a parking cone with a rabid rat trapped underneath, I'd say it's much more likely the competitive spirit to put together a ferocious comeback was conjured up by blocking out the noise of that fiery failure of an pep talk. That is, if we absolutely must assign it some convenient correlation to the outcome in retrospect.
Now, it's quite possible that Jae Crowder approached Patrick Beverley for tips on how to guard someone he used to see a lot of in practice. Plus, you don't exactly have to be a degenerate gambler to know that the odds of both the Clippers and the Jazz getting past the Warriors and the Rockets in their respective series don't stand to parlay into any sort of profit. Still, giving a prospective playoff opponent advice on facing another prospective playoff opponent is a very weird move. That being said, it's a very weird move that speaks directly to how frustrated the NBA, in its entirety, has become in trying to adequately defend James Harden. We've reached the playoffs, so the best chance you have of limiting him is probably to cross your fingers and hope the pressure turns him passive yet again, but the idea of the rest of Western Conference crowdsourcing strategies amongst themselves to stop one player is legitimately hilarious. What we likely witnessed is a kinship between defensive stoppers that take more pride in suffocating opponents than putting up stats. However, I'd bet you could find quite a few players primed for the postseason that would also be interested in eavesdropping on a conversation whose context can be directly clued into through physical communication. If nothing else, otherwise confident NBA players adopting the "enemy of my enemy is my friend" mentality in being open to suggestions is really a testament to just how insane James Harden has driven almost every single one his primary defenders (as well as the viewing audience) with his unprecedented ability to draw fouls.
At the risk of being ignorant to the undertones of what was obviously more of a battle of egos than a inter-organizational race war, I am going to go ahead and say that there are a lot of people going to absurd lengths to pick sides in a Steelers' saga that's become so much of a soap opera that it might as well be entitled 'General Hostile'. I get that society as a whole has become extremely polarized, but neither Ben Roethisberger or Antonio Brown are anywhere near likable enough for me to cast a vote of confidence in either of their innocence. To be honest, I can't really wrap my head anyone concluding that one has to represent right and other has to represent wrong, when it's pretty obvious - to me, anyway - that they are about as alike as their skin tones are different. By that, I mean they are both nauseatingly egotistical assholes who are quick to point fingers elsewhere, and is there really any protagonist in a dickhead-on-dickhead duel? Maybe that was Rashard Mendenhall's entire point. If it was then it was made preposterously poorly with an accusation of something as serious as racism that can confusingly be read as either sincere or sarcastic. Regardless, it's pretty clear he's #TeamAB when everyone should really be siding with those that had to work alongside their enigmatic asses the last few years. Fact is, the Pittsburgh Steelers bowed down to Ben Roethlisberger because he plays the one position with which the entire fate of a football team lies. They decided to stop putting up with Antonio Brown's bullshit, that stunk only as much as his former quarterback's bullshit, because he forced their hand and plays a position which which excellence hasn't equated to championships. Maybe I'm wrong and Big Ben was dropping n-bombs in between audibles while playing for a team coached by an African American, but I'd assume it's much more likely that both him and his main target were just immature, self-involved jackasses whose biggest problem with each other was that they had too many character flaws in common. If that's the case then it's really only their co-workers that deserve our support, how's that for fair?
Let's be real, he should have shot it. Not just because it would have been funny, but because it would have been a fitting, albeit unofficial, farewell. Dirk's final act was a made mid-range jumper over a helpless defender...
Wade's final act was capping off a triple-double with an assist to longtime teammate Udonis Haslem...
Why wouldn't Melo's final act be a meaningless and ill-advised jump shot that he took after holding on to the ball for longer than he should have been? That comes off as more mean-spirited than I'd like it to, as I do think Carmelo Anthony is a sure-shot Hall Of Famer whose bad rap isn't anywhere near as deserved as the teams that treated him like a scapegoat made it seem. For that reason, he's definitely earned a night like last of his own. Still, other than him shooting from wherever and whenever he wanted, there aren't too many things you'd think to be a necessary or appropriate part of it. That's not entirely his fault, as he made the mistake of "coming home" and putting his prime in the hands of a Knicks' organization that was at its most idiotic. However, the truth typically hurts and the truth is that Melo's career more than likely isn't going to be wrapped up with a pretty little bow like those of his best friends. Right or wrong, Carmelo Anthony is going to be remembered as an unbelievable skilled and selfish scorer who is far richer in bankroll than he is in reputation. Might as well have stuck to that extremely under-appreciated script by continuing to polarize opinions in getting up what could have potentially been his last shot taken during an NBA game. Joe Pavelski Deflected in a Goal With His Face in a Way That Only He Could Make Look So Intentional4/11/2019
To call that deflection intentional is probably extremely, extremely generous. After all, as the saying goes, every hockey player's got a plan until they get pucked in the face. That said, with that particular hockey player having long been blessed with the innate ability to damn near defy physics and geometry by tipping high-speed projectiles with perfect placement, I sort of feel as though even his face instinctually knew how to absorb vulcanized rubber in a way that would propel it towards the back of the net. Of course, it's more plausible that he was simply lucky in that his initial reaction to having his jaw get jacked up just so happened to be turning his head in a direction that allowed for the redirection to put the Sharks up early. However, in the same way that fortune favors the bold, benefit of the doubt favors the guy that's made quite the career out of using just about anything and everything at his disposal to add a marked margin for error to any shot sent within the general vicinity of the net. Therefore, if only as a sympathetic gesture to someone who definitely woke up feeling like he got sucker-punched with a frying pan the night prior, I'm going to say that Joe Pavelski had some spur-of-the-moment motive to make sure his impending dental appointment wasn't in vain. Especially during the playoffs. ::insert unoriginal and unnecessary jab at every other professional sport for being played predominantly by unworthy sissy boys::
I think what I enjoy the most about that lowlight is just how absolutely, positively certain the person who prematurely mounted the wall was that he was going to dismount with the week's top highlight in hand. Of course, the graceless fall from grace was also pretty goddamn hilarious, as was the ball serving as an extra in bouncing over the wall entirely unencumbered for a ground rule double. However, that split second in which Marcell Ozuna realized, much like someone treading water in the ocean while helplessly watching someone make off with their personal belongings from the beach, that the elements were not about to work in his favor is the stuff that the most timeless of bloopers are made of. Aside from in embarrassing videos of white teenagers scaring themselves sober halfway through the filming of attempts to impress their friends turned catastrophic injuries, that wide-eyed moment of dread in which he was forced to bail on his reenactment of a Ken Griffey Jr. classic in belatedly getting back down to the ground to catch a routine fly ball was unlike any I've ever seen. And honestly, to simply call it a miscalculation would be a loogie of dip spit to the face of math as we know it. It was as if any old crack of a bat unconditionally triggered an involuntarily decision to recreate the dream sequence in which he actually did scale the wall like Spiderman to Superman snag a ball that was hit about 25 feet further. Other than that, there's nothing else that could possibly explain such an illiterate reading of the situation at hand. Marcell Ozuna's brain wanted to play hero ball and wouldn't take no for an answer, while his body just decided to play the role of its little brother in following right along without hesitation. A monumental mental mistake became the most self-deprecating of physical comedy, in case you needed to be reminded of the inevitable up's and down's of a journey through which the blind are leading the blind.
Excuse me? Are we supposed to believe that Anthony Davis doesn't have the authority to pick his own wardrobe, despite being a superstar in a league where style speaks as loudly as stats? My gut tells me that he's lying and was just passing the buck of blame to his stylist after rocking an objectively funny fit to what's long been a cartoonish conclusion to his tenure in New Orleans, but if he's not then I'd consider his first grade level of free will as big a red flag as his past injury concerns. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that he prefers off-court matters be put in his hands other than his own, as he silently let LeBron James and (literal) Co. rust his sterling reputation in about six seconds flat. Still, not having the presence of mind to take credit for and/or own his first praiseworthy public display of pettiness leaves me wondering whether he's cut out for the business of professional basketball. The NBA isn't all about scoring at will as an intimidating and unguardable offensive presence, or protecting the rim with a pterodactyl-like wingspan. It's about showing a little me-first attitude while doing so. Unfortunately, too much 'tude would probably get AD's 'Looney Tunes' privileges revoked on picture day, seeing as he apparently has the autonomy and discretion of someone who still wears diapers...or would if they so happened to be laid out neatly for him at the end of his bed in the morning. |
Categories
All
Archives
January 2020
|