-------- My first instinct was to laugh off this story as a wild overreaction to an extremely talented teenager's terrible management of time that became exponentially more valuable the second he got drafted into the NHL. After all, the idea that a blue chip prospect of a prominent professional sports team is going to piss away his potential into a empty Gatorade jug to avoid pausing his first-person shooter is nothing short of insane. Unfortunately, being labeled a helpless video game addict at that age is like being labeled an alcoholic in college. You really have to have problem to stand out as a problem. In keeping with that comparison, this kid must be the gamer equivalent of the kid that skips class to bring in the rising of the sun with a solo swig of warm whiskey out of the bottle, and I'm pretty sure that makes him one more Fortnite binge away from early on-set arthritis. Given his status as a recent first round pick, the gamer in question is probably between 19-21, and I speak from an experience that was only more unhealthy than it was undrafted when I say that's the age in which you are at your most indestructible. As an adolescent masquerading as the youngest of adult I was about as familiar with a respectable REM cycle as I was with the inside of a gym, a mildly nutritious diet, or beer that wasn't predominantly sold in 30. Yet, despite having nowhere near as much talent as this unidentified player, I never found a noticeable lack of energy on hockey rink to be a problem. Therefore, I'm pretty sure this dude must have legitimately gotten his virtual reality and his actual reality mixed up to be considered this close to a lost cause. Hopefully he can successfully rehab his technology addiction to realize his potential, although - given the increasing popularity of eSports - getting his shit together might be two years away from becoming time that's more poorly spent than an 11th consecutive hour on Playstation.
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Recency Bias Be Damned, P.J. Tucker Has Declared The Rockets' Small-Ball Lineup The Best In The NBA5/17/2018
While I typically find the practice of professional athletes declaring their team the absolute best at one thing or another to be rooted in some combination of bias and insecurity, if you're living in the moment and literally only this exact moment then it's tough to argue with P.J. Tucker on this one. I mean, if there were even one hypothetical small-ball lineup that could match what the Rockets did last night don't you think they would have done it last night? Sure, the three undersized players chosen to compliment Houston's stars were damn near impossibly efficient in a way that would make a video game technician go back to the drawing board, and put all of their season and career long point totals and shooting percentages to shame, but whose to say that they can't continue to do so? What, other than simple math and common sense, is going to stop them? It's certainly not going to be the team whose four year reign with what's widely considered the scariest collection of skill and shooting in NBA history quite obviously came to an end last night. What the hell have they done since Monday night at approximately 11PM? In all seriousness, I can't say I'm surprised. We all heard how the Houston Rockets were built to compete with the Golden State Warriors in the playoffs well before they did. Now that they have an actual win under their belts, it only makes sense that those screams for respect have grown louder. Personally, I wouldn't poke the beast just prior to entering into the natural habitat in which it has heartlessly ripped so many teams limb from limb that it got nicknamed after homicide. But hey, maybe P.J. Tucker knows something we don't about the super small sample size that is the entirety of his eight year career, or sixteen virtually meaningless seasons watching Trevor Ariza. It's all about chemistry anyway, and what could the Golden State Warriors possibly know about moving the ball in a way that maximizes their talent that the Rockets haven't already taught themselves while watching their backcourt dribble the air out of a one-dimensional offense?
I want you to rewind to a time in which the world was expected of a Pittsburgh Penguins team whose young core had just won their first Stanley Cup while being led by an absolute phenom that basically became the best player in the entire league the second he entered it. A time when those expectations weighed heavily on the shoulders of a somewhat overshadowed first overall pick who played the one position in which postseason performances absolute cannot suffer without sabotaging the entire team's success. A time when the pressure mounted not only with each underwhelming and abrupt exit, but also with each passing puck that all-too-easily made it's way through, over, or around the pads of a goaltender whose resume was starting to tightly squeeze it's cold, unforgiving hands around his reputation. Think back to the burden that player must have felt as he became a playoff punchline while repeatedly letting down one of the most dominant 1-2 punches in the league when it mattered most. Now, feel free to record right over a sports' narrative that we all believed to be so undeniably true that even a non-planner like myself would buy a calendar just to mark it as an annual event with footage of that same player confidently-but-casually carrying a franchise to within two wins of the Stanley Cup Finals during its first season in existence. Marc-Andre Fleury did a a fantastic job of temporarily filling in for the guy that took his job en route to his third Stanley Cup last season, so it would be disingenuous to act like all it took was some casino air to breathe life into the concept that he's clutch. That said, at the expense of forcing a corny gambling pun, what we are currently witnessing is a professional athlete playing with house money for the first time in his playoff career. I don't know that the stress of undelivered promise is entirely responsible for haunting postseasons past. However, you can't possibly watch him interrupt his now regularly scheduled excellence only to amuse himself by treating an unsuspecting opponent like a toddler during a conference finals game and say that it wasn't a factor. The tale of tape is one of a player having such a Grand ole' time shutting down (and out) the best that the Western Conference has to offer that he's liable to instill FOMO in someone who happens to catch a quick glimpse of the game while poppin' bottles in a VIP section at the MGM. I'm pretty sure Marc-Andre Fleury is just eating it out of the tub with his fingers at this point, because the Golden Knights' cake is so far beyond iced that even an NHL official couldn't botch the call. As evidenced by the juxtaposition of him smiling through a tickle fight to him sprawling across the crease to maintain a late lead with by turning a save that was damn near cinematic into a double feature, both his personality and performance are currently carefree in all the best ways. Just as importantly, you can see that same approach reflected up and down an under-appreciated lineup that honestly doesn't look as though they realize they are making history on a bi-weekly basis. The Vegas Golden Knights aren't just happy to be there...but you wouldn't be able to tell from the ear-to-ear smile seemingly plastered across the face of their Conn Smythe frontrunner. P.S. Impossible not to cheer for the guy. Just impossible...
You know, for about as long as it typically takes him to spin an NHL defenseman's jock like a dreidel, I found myself astonished that Filip Forsberg showed up to World Championships mid-tournament and immediately started ripping completely unnecessary one-handed wristers from the goal line. After all, we are talking about an event that hosts a fairly high-caliber of competition. It was only after that half second passed that I realized where he just came from, the Stanley Cup playoffs, and what he was doing while he was there....
Filip Forsberg completely stole the spotlight in sharing hockey's biggest stage with players who worked their asses off for their entire lives to earn the opportunity. He basically used the long, treacherous road to championship glory to pop some proverbial wheelies, and - while his team came up short - he unquestionably shifted it into an another gear towards stardom. Speaking strictly from a comparative standpoint, he almost had no choice but to land in Denmark for a lesser tournament with a more extensive bag of tricks. There are plenty of crafty, flashy, and creative players in the NHL, but not all of them are showmen in the way that the Nashville Predators' endlessly skilled winger is. Just like any great performer, he's trying out his more risqué material in a situation with lower stakes. It's insane to think about, but it's a credit to his talent that a competition for international supremacy is the most fitting of place to bust out the moves that everyone else reserves for the portion of open hockey that is played with a buzz on.
TheComeback- The Fairfield Stags’ college baseball team had their home finale on Tuesday against UMass. That also meant the final home game for the Stags’ seniors, and of those seniors is first baseman Drew Blake.
In the bottom of the sixth, Blake crushed a two-run homer all the way to a parking lot well beyond the right-center field wall at Alumni Baseball Diamond. The ball landed right in the arms of the one fan standing in the parking lot. That fan is Blake’s dad. ---------- Sometimes sports are just too weird for words, and I say that knowing full well that Drew Blake's father was strategically standing out past that part of the outfield in case his son got all of a pitch in his wheel house during the last home game of his college career. Still, even you consider that the most mild of foresight made that feel-good moment possible, it's tough to argue that you wouldn't roll your eyes if you saw something as unlikely as a game-tying dinger directly to dad serve as a heartwarming scene in a movie. I mean, that ball wouldn't have been any easier for his father to catch if it was magnetized to his belt buckle. Maybe, and only maybe, it could have been more perfectly placed if it were tossed to him from right field. Other than that, he's probably had to move more during the passing of the asparagus than he did when taking one half-step to his left to casually corral a 400 foot bomb from the bat of his boy. It's also cool, awesome, and a whole host of other adjectives when sports give friends and families unforgettable memories to share, but - in this case especially - you'd have to include 'weird' in the list of ways to describe a college athlete being able to cap off his career with such a perfect caption. The Cavaliers Are Sabotaging The Eastern Conference Finals With Their Overwhelming Incompetence5/16/2018 Let's give credit where credit is due. The Boston Celtics, down their two most prominent offseason pickups, have looked great in taking commanding 2-0 lead over a team that rosters a multi-generational player who has maintained ownership of the Eastern Conference for so long that the damn trophy should be in his likeness. Between Terry Rozier, Jayson Tatum, Jaylen Brown, and Marcus Smart, they have no shortage of dynamic young talent that is both coming of age on the biggest stage they've seen in their careers, as well as allowing an under-appreciated veteran like Al Horford to shine as the versatile leader he was brought in to be. There is undeniably a lot to like about the job that Brad Stevens has done in molding a depleted roster whose future, even outside of their top-tier talent, looks insanely bright. So why, exactly, did it feel as though I wasted my time as I gladly changed the channel as Game 2 reached its inevitable and long overdue conclusion? Well, let's put it this way, if I could mold my own apathy into a turd-shaped trophy, I would deliver that son of a bitch right to the doorstep of Tyronn Lue and a Cavaliers' team that is so hard to watch that their incompetence somehow overshadowed - with ease, mind you - a 42 point triple-double from the most entertaining athlete on the planet. If I had to offer a comparison, trying to enjoy the rivalry that exists between the Celtics and LeBron James was like trying to take in a beautiful sunset...as it shines a glow over the fumes emanating from the 11-player pileup (I'll spare Kevin Love, since no one else ever does) that the latter was towing along with him. For every praiseworthy offensive possession, the putrid defensive effort of a over-40 pick-up game that enabled it was equal but opposite in its effect on the game's watchability. Boston's comeback was cool, but whatever it was that Cleveland was doing in the second half was so indiscernible as professional basketball that you would have thought their head coach just got clunked in the head by a coconut before trying, and failing, to explain it...
If we are being totally honest with ourselves, Toronto deserves to have a finger pointed in their direction for hardly raising one in defense of a player that willed a team that has no business sweeping anyone to four straight victories. The recency bias of the Raptors' extinction somehow clouded our memories of the Cavaliers puttering past the Pacers, but boy is that rearview vision vivid with how awful they have been against the Celtics. So vivid, in fact, that it almost impossible to shift the gaze away from the obvious divide that exists between a collective that, somewhat predictably given their short tenure as such, is a "team" in uniform only. Cleveland doesn't even look like they care, and it's ruining what should be a solid showcase of the best player in the world versus the upstart team that's trying to take his conference crown. USAToday- Nick Saban says he has “a tremendous amount of respect” for UCF’s accomplishment last season, because he knows how difficult it is to go unbeaten. But he’s not exactly aboard with the Knights’ claim on the 2017 national championship, either — not that you’d expect him to be. “If you honor and respect the system that we have, (despite) some of the imperfections that you understand that the system has, then you wouldn’t do something out of respect for the system that we have,” Saban told USA TODAY Sports. “I guess anybody has the prerogative to claim anything. But self-proclaimed is not the same as actually earning it. And there’s probably a significant number of people who don’t respect people who make self-proclaimed sort of accolades for themselves.” ------- Need you anymore proof of how flawed college football was, is, and probably always will be? Just think about the following for a second. All it took to kickstart months of conversation amongst some of the titans of the sport was one smaller school doing some online shopping for expensive but inconsequential jewelry that backs their claim, and only their claim, to a National Championship they didn't even play for. It's currently mid-May, months after the trophy has been handed to the person who orchestrated consecutive playoff wins over competition that was just as deserving, and that person is still justifying the same old question with a defensive and passive aggressive answer. If that doesn't speak volumes about the uncertainty surrounding college football's postseason system than I don't know what the hell possibly could. As a lover of underdogs, I actually appreciate the glorification of what could very easily end up being a once-in-a-lifetime accomplishment for a non-Power 5 program. That said, it's basically the large-scale equivalent of the kid from Big Daddy playing cards, with the main difference being that Central Florida didn't even have an active hand in the games they are baselessly declaring victory in. For some perspective on how ludicrous it is to continue debating this, that would make Nick Saban's vehement denial of it's authenticity akin to Rob Schneider's portrayal of an irritable and illiterate delivery man that travels by bicycle and has no patience for children. So, you tell me which party sounds more stupid.
Before I delve into the double-dealing of the most crooked cop to ever bear the badge of dishonor as a self-titled member of the player safety police force, let me just state the obvious by saying that Anton Stralman's hit was dirty. He left his feet to deliver it into numbers that were staring him in the face for nearly as long as the extra credit question on a calculus exam. Combine that with the fact that there is reason to believe there was a motive (below), and - while I hardly feel bad for the person on the ass end of it - I wouldn't have a problem with a hearing being held for the Tampa Bay defenseman.
It's just that the last person I need telling me what does or doesn't constitute prim and proper physical play is the dude that still maintains his innocence after capturing the 'Lifetime Achievement Award' of the extremely rare three-game suspension during the playoffs. The guy who laughed off a check that reconstructed a face and would have sent him soaring into the stands if not for the protective glass behind NHL benches doesn't exactly have resume I look for out of my athletic ambassadors for good, clean competition. Let's put it this way, Tom Wilson declaring that he "100 percent" would have been suspended for that same hit is about as disingenuous as just about every word that comes out of Gary Bettman's mouth regarding the long-term effects of concussions. In that particular circumstance, he's probably right, but if we are speaking historically, as opposed to hypothetically, then that's just a flat out falsehood. I know this because I have seen Tom Wilson both throw an eerily similar hit and skate away from it free of discipline despite it causing a a hell of a lot more harm than a suspiciously unnoticeable "goose-egg"...
I could find other instances in which the Capitals' forward somehow survived the consequences of his countless kamikaze missions, but the truth is that it's so easy to prove the most long-winded "woe is me" hypocritical that I refuse to even venture to the search bar since I'm pretty sure we are all being trolled. I mean, he jumped up to that moral high ground so quickly that you'd think that there a defenseless defenseman awaiting him up there. He grabbed the rare opportunity to temporarily adopt ethics and skated so far and so fast with it that you'd think he was getting ready to lunge uncontrollably into the head of his prey with his next predatory hit. In the weirdest of ways, I actually respect the lack of self awareness from someone I have absolutely no respect for otherwise. For, if the alternative is once again choking back the taste of vomit while listening to Tom Wilson's two-faced take on player safety, I'd gladly welcome the suspension of a player as important to the Lightning's success as Anton Stralman. I'm pretty sure earning the Capitals a competitive advantage was his priority in ignoring the entirety of his playing career to shamelessly cry for consistency, since it's definitely never been the health of anyone but himself. As sick as it makes me to say, he does make a slight semblance of a point and potentially increasing his team's chances of winning is well worth the cost of whatever sliver of sincerity could have still been taken from either his words or his actions.
If we're going to get into what cost the Capitals a golden opportunity to take advantage of home ice and come within one win of playing for the Stanley Cup, then the slapping of a John Hancock on a household cleaning product is far from the top of the list. Their seemingly fatalistic failures of postseason's past might lead you to believe differently, but witchcraft probably isn't what has had Washington reliving the same nightmare year after year, and therefore a tainted broom didn't summon some all-too-familiar evil spirit. If we are sure that the Lightning's resurrection was the work of some superpower-play then I'd look the way of Nikita Kucherov's magical hands or the wizardry that was a Steven Stamkos one-timer that could flummox a physics student into changing majors. Simply put, the following is much more likely to have made the Eastern Conference Final competitive, rather than some sort of bad omen...
That said, I can't help but feel like it's the worst of form for Nicklas Backstrom to go around signing off on sweeps when he's not even in the damn lineup. To be honest, it kind of feels like the guy-on-the-couch inviting his friend's alcoholic ex-girlfriend to the party without asking when he's not the one who will have to answer to the potential consequences of doing so. Tampa Bay was due for a breakout performance based solely on the skill in their lineup, but cracking open the door for bad juju? Is that really something that the Washington Capitals, of all teams, really want to do at this stage of the game? Both their fans and one of their most prominent players are merely three wins removed from what once felt like a never-ending and sadistic cycle of the most anguishing of eliminations. Yet, all the sudden those whose "contributions" come solely from the stands are walking around carrying the cockiness one might expect from a back-to-back champ between their legs? Alexander Ovechkin, Braden Holtby, and the boys are no doubt still the favorites to move on after their dominant start to the series. Still, it might behoove the people that have benefited from their success to remember where they came from so they don't have to use that piece of memorabilia to mop up their shattered spirit if the unlikely happens and the Caps dilly-diddle themselves into "their year" ending in the same old pit of misery.
Well, well, well...looks like the jokes on Justin Verlander here. Not only because that response bears a stark and undeniable contrast to the one he had when it was his teammate getting suspended for the use of PED's...
...but also because the only thing the Astros' ace should have been counting was 'almost' (against Brandy's wishes, of course) after Robinson Cano beat his snarky little subtweet by a full nine minutes with an immediate press release that predictably claimed negligence... — Robinson Cano (@RobinsonCano) May 15, 2018 In all seriousness, I'm having a tough time deciding which party I find more unbearable here. On one hand, Robinson Cano looks like an even bigger schmuck for cheating the game while his wallet continues to get fat off the more statistically slender years of a $240 million dollar deal. On the other hand, it's extremely hard to sympathize with a pitcher who is ultimately whining about a handful of tainted at-bats throughout the longevity of his $180 million dollar contract. I know the cyclical arguments regarding the use of steroids, or a - ahem - "steroid masking agent", aren't entirely monetary in nature. Competitive advantage is definitely still a factor in how fans, athletes, and leagues alike view PED's, but it didn't seem to be one that had Justin Verlander up in arms when it was benefiting him. I don't know, I guess I would just have a much easier time relating to the thought process of both the guilty party and his most impassioned detractor if they weren't already set for f'n life. Give me an injury-plagued slugger that chose to jam a needle in his ass in hopes of turning his rookie contract into something that offers some long-term financial security and a young pitching import that's having his keep compromised by having the aforementioned slugger in his division. That's some financial risk/reward-driven animosity that I can get behind. But two guys who, at one point or another, set the insanely lucrative market for their respective positions aren't exactly tugging the strings at the heart of the steroid issue.
SportingNews- Todd Wilson, the president of the Winnipeg Rifles, a team that plays in the Canadian Junior Football League, has resigned following a racially insensitive post about Nashville Predators defenseman P.K. Subban.
Wilson, who is also the deputy commissioner of the CJFL, posted a picture of a Bell MTS Place arena worker selling beer, with the caption, "Two nights ago he was in game 7. Tonight PK Suban [sic] is selling me beer." The post, which can be seen below, has since been taken down. Wilson resigned from his position Sunday. ------ Welp, it's tough to disagree with the forcing of his resignation, but at least the punchline was worth it. I mean, giving up control of an amateur sports team seems like a steep cost, but it's really a bargain price for a half-dozen likes on an endlessly witty "don't they all kind of look alike?" joke. It sucks that it took even a second of attention away from hockey's biggest stage and put any sort of focus on the inherent hurdles somehow still faced by African Americans in the least diverse of the four major sports, but what was Todd Wilson supposed to do? Take into account the prominence of his role as a relatively public figure and not spread his astute observation that his beer vendor shares a similar shade of skin with a high profile member of the team that his Jets just eliminated? Come on, nobody has that type of will power when a one liner for the ages is just standing there, in the form of a minimum wage worker, waiting to be made at the expense of a recently dismissed opponent! Not when their objectively hilarious comedic stylings are just begging to be spewed throughout a social circle that's apparently not as like-minded as they once thought. I guess I see why it was in the best interest of the CJFL to move on from its deputy commissioner since it surely rosters plenty of players that he might accidentally identify as P.K. Subban. But hey, let's look on the bright side, at least his failure to facially recognize anyone that doesn't look like him didn't directly insult Winnipeg's own dominant, darker-skinned defenseman in Dustin Byfuglien. He might have had to hand in his fan card, in the form of future tickets, out of sheer embarrassment if that were the case.
I think everyone with a fully functioning head on their shoulders can admit that getting arrested, detained, and slapped with a lifetime ban is a punishment that it is so egregiously unfitting of the crime of switching seats in a half empty stadium that the sentence might it as well be wearing an obnoxiously neon cap. I'd imagine that inching as close to the playing field as the attendance permits is a practice as old as professional sports themselves, so I'm not going to shame a guy for trying to take advantage of a harmless benefit one might feel entitled to after having waited out the rain. Unfortunately, I have no choice but to shame him for repeatedly doing so while dressed like this...
Now, I think 24-hour stays in central booking should probably be reserved for the thousands of actual criminals running around New York City at any given time. Still, shameless self promotion comes at a cost, especially in the prestigiously priced 'Legends' section of a building as self important as Yankee Stadium. As annoying as Marlins Man is, at least he pays top dollar to guarantee he gets as much screen time as possible while dressed like a complete dickhead. The same can't be said about his distant cousin in the family tree of self-titled human mascots. The Bronx Boob, as he'll be affectionately known be me and only me, clearly doesn't care as much about his view of the game as he does the camera's view of him. You want to run around a professional stadium like it's your own personal playground then at least have the damn decency to show some inconspicuousness by changing out of your self-made EDM outfit before doing so. Again, a lifetime ban is an outrageous penalty, but considering those are impossible to uphold in a stadium that seats tens of thousands of people, all this really does is take attention-drawing, luminescent colors out of his game day wardrobe. If not being able to walk around looking like a crossing guard is enough of a reason for a self-proclaimed "superfan" to stay home then I'd argue it's not enough of a punishment for a guy who seems to like the limelight just as much as he does baseball.
TribLive- Pirates pitcher Jameson Taillon is so determined to make his next start he'll try anything to heal the cut on the middle finger of his pitching hand.
And when he says anything, he means it. Chief among the many suggestions he's received from well-meaning friends and fans is this one that he hasn't tried, but is considering: peeing on his finger. “I said if it helps, I'll put a sign-up sheet and everyone can come and pee,” he said Sunday, two days after the injury forced him to leave the game three innings into it. “I don't care. I just want it to go away."
As much as I think he's a bit of a prude for going back on his word, I can't help but agree with Jameson Taillon's decision to clarify that he's not actually soliciting a golden hand-washing from any and all sources, even if it would just be for medicinal purposes. Once again the power of social media prevails, seeing as the only thing worse than being taken out of context or having your tone misjudged is having that annoyance intensified by urgently anxious and overly hydrated men showing up at your locker looking for a welcoming hand to relieve themselves on. As any female co-habitant will gladly tell you, while joking about an additional public bathroom line is not a laughing matter, pissing anywhere but directly in the toilet should remain a personal problem. Now, if Jameson Taillon cared about the members in a clubhouse of whom he just denied the opportunity to tinkle on their teammate then he would absolutely, positively take a leak on his own laceration. After all, there is plenty of reason to believe that a messy encounter with the contents of his own bladder isn't unchartered territory for someone named after an affordable Irish whiskey. Therefore, he better be walking around with so much Aquafina coursing through his urinary tract that he could heal a stab wound with one prolonged touch from his liquid lunch. If walking around smelling like the restroom on the concourse hours after a hot and humid day game has concluded is what it takes to get back on the mound then his impending entrance into the room should be tipped off by the faint aroma of digested asparagus until he's back in the rotation. The Warriors Are Going To Make Quick Work Of The Rockets Just To Prove A Point, Aren't They?5/15/2018
It was one game. It was just one game. I keep trying to ease my mind by reiterating that fact to myself, but even the eternal optimist in me thinks we just watched a fatal nail get driven into the dream of seeing the Warriors truly challenged in the playoffs. After all, that one game came in front of the Houston crowd, with the Rockets having everything to prove, featured an extremely efficient 40+ point effort from their offensive lynchpin, saw a mediocre performance from the two-time MVP on the opposite side of the floor, and still resulted in a double digit loss in which they only felt close to attaining a moral victory. So, how could I not feel like we are far more than 25% of the way to the harsh realization that the most compelling part of this series was in theory when we were gassing up the Rockets as competition before they even proved they had the capability to reach such historic heights when it mattered? The following response from Mike D'Antoni is a joke, but it's effectiveness as such just might hinge on its hint of truth more than its use of hyperbole...
With Klay Thompson being left more alone than he is when chugging chocolate milk in the back corner of the party to effortlessly knock down the same type of wide open threes that Luc Mbah A Moute was presumably launching towards the basket with his eyes closed, the Rockets may very well need James Harden to put up a double-nickel on the stat sheet to keep things close. As good as he and Chris Paul have been this postseason, they've rarely both been great on the same night, and if that simply has to be a game-by-game occurrence if they even want to hope to keep pace with a more talented group that plays a better brand of basketball. As there was last night, there will be times when it appears as though the Rockets and the Warriors are on the same level. Unfortunately, mixed in between those times the latter is going to sprinkle in the occasional and infamous back-breaking barrage of team offense that, metaphorically speaking, bulldozes the opposition's door and rips their heart out of their chest before spitting in their spaghetti sauce and kicking their cat into the yard upon exiting with an insurmountable lead. They've done it too many times for it not to be a considered inevitable at this point. It's not just about having four superstars on their roster, although that certainly helps. It's about having four selfless superstars that are just as likely to make things easier for one another as they are to make the insanely difficult look stupid simple. Their reliance on 3-point shooting isn't anywhere near as much of an initiative as it is for the Rockets, and that's because their ball movement makes it so that shooting from range is only one advantageous byproduct of their approach to the game. Consider this, if Draymond Green kicked one dick last night he would have hit more testicles than buckets and he still arguably had as big of an impact on the game as any Rocket who's shaved in the last six months. I suppose you could bank on Kevin Durant missing a few more shots going forward, but that seems to be as terrible an idea as placing a future's bet on Steph Curry to continue to making only one three per game. What I'm trying to say is that we didn't even see the Warriors' best, and they still made the Rockets look noticeably worse. The Hampton's 5 might be the lamest nickname in sports history, but being reminded of the type of talent and chemistry they have made it all-too-easy to see them sending Houston on a luxury Long Island vacation in 4, or maybe one more.
Honestly, it's a credit to LeBron James' that I'm left extremely underwhelmed by his ability to recall, in detail, the start of the last quarter of basketball that he played just about an hour after if ended. Considering the stories we've heard of him telling opponents where they are supposed to be on certain offensive sets, or prematurely calling game-winning shots, it's no surprise that his ability to retain and predict what happens on a basketball court is almost as superior as his ability to use that knowledge, in conjunction with his transcendent talent, to his advantage. We are talking about someone who gets no shortage of well-deserved admiration for being the most durable and dominant athlete on the planet for the last 15 years. He doesn't need me, or anyone else for that matter, fawning over his recollection of how much he and his team sucked during a blowout loss. As far as heaping praise on a multi-generational player is concerned, that's where I draw the line. Now, that doesn't mean I wasn't left impressed by LeBron James overly literal answer to a question from a soon-to-be stumped reporter. As someone who typically finds him to be unbearably passive aggressive when things aren't going his way, even I was left disarmed but his play-by-play driven pettiness. Make no mistake, that was a kind of a dickhead response. It was just pieced together in such an intelligent and matter-of-fact fashion that not only did it not come off as such, but it actually garnered a round of applause! That long-winded answer could be loosely translated to "that question is so unworthy of my time that I'm going to spend even more time making myself difficult to transcribe by telling you exactly what you already watched", but it was so inconspicuously veiled as perfect memorization that no one even caught on. For that masked act of mockery, I can't help but tip my cap.
There's undoubtedly an impassioned subsect of Saints' fans that automatically correlate last season's rough start with what turned out to be the highly unnecessary presence of Adrian Peterson. In reality, it was a confluence of other factors - such as youth, inexperience, poor execution, and a lack of defined roles - that cost New Orleans their first two games against two very tough opponents. Unfortunately, nuance has not much of place amongst overreactive football fans, so I'm sure that hearing both parties would consider a reunion after Alvin Kamara, in the most heartwarming way possible, sabotaged their first attempt at a relationship has forced the bunching of quite a few panties. That said, it's not all that hard to see why there might be mutual interest between the Saints and a veteran running back that knows a system that he'd likely improve in if offered an increased role by the vacancy that Mark Ingram is going to leave in the lineup. I can't see them bringing aboard a 33 year old to temporarily help replace a back-to-back 1,000+ yard rusher for just 4 games unless every back that's not coming off a 'Rookie Of The Year' campaign shows a complete lack of professional promise in training camp. Still, worst comes to worst, the abruptness of how things ended isn't going to stop the Saints from fortifying their roster at the least durable of positions in a pinch, just like it won't stop a future first ballot HOFer from exploring one of the the few opportunities presented to him. That unforgettable glare couldn't have looked more mean, but Sean Payton and Adrian Peterson have had nothing but nice things to say about one another since their midseason split. If absolutely nothing else, they definitely share respect. Honestly, that's all it really takes to respond to "would you be interested in possibly giving it another go?" with something only slightly more open-minded than "HELL NO!". TMZ- A 27-year-old man was arrested Friday for sending a letter to NBA Commissioner Adam Silver that essentially demanded Silver to let him play in the league ... or else.
"If you don't let me play, I'm going to come up there and kill you with my f*cking gun," David Pyant allegedly wrote in an email sent to NBA offices ... police sources tell us. It doesn't appear Pyant has any real professional basketball experience -- but he does have a criminal record ... 13 prior arrests, according to the NY Post. -------- I think we are all in agreement that death threats, in and of themselves, are not humorous. They are especially lacking in comedic value when the person delivering them is not an anonymous internet internet troll, but rather a man who must have had all the good luck in the world to be granted access to the internet - or the free world, for that matter - despite maintaining such an unlucky number of arrests in his career as a criminal. So, as hilarious as it should be that a down-sitting citizen basically tried to pry a spot start out of the NBA Commissioner during the Conference Finals, David Pyant is the type of guy whose fatal intimidation tactics definitely need to be taken seriously. Admittedly, I do slightly empathize with him wanting to make more convenient the annoying act of e-mailing by sending one person a threat on their life as opposed to going through the trouble of CC'ing the 30 people who actually have roster autonomy. Still, caging someone with a loose enough connection to reality to believe that Adam Silver can just pull the magic pen from behind his ear and knight a societal straggler into 'The Association' will likely save someone's life in the long run. I suppose I can't hate the guy for giving it his best shot, but it's probably not a good sign for him, or anyone crazy enough to let him join in on a pick-up game, that said shot was supposedly loaded into a firearm as opposed to unloaded from the top of the key. And to think, he might have had himself an argument for the seat at the end of the Cavaliers' bench if it weren't for the meat of his e-mail switching the focus to the high profile manslaughter of a powerless party.
Exactly how far are we past the point in which a typically encouraging phrase like "everything is going as planned" stopped being comforting to Indianapolis Colts' fans? We have to be at a full year now, right? If I had to guess what the plan was at this point I'd assume it was to have Andrew Luck inducted into the 'Hall Of Fame' for having set the NFL record for longest recovery period or most unrealized potential, so perhaps there's a more assuring way in which to speak of his prognosis. Admittedly, Frank Reich is new to this whole "franchise quarterback without a functioning throwing shoulder" debacle, so he's surely still getting used to dealing with the rightful frustrations of fans. I just can't help but think it would behoove him to expound on the availability timeline of the arm for which his team's fortunes rest on. Maybe, just maybe, he could have given a target window for when he expects Andrew Luck to be able to pick up a football and raise it up passed his head without risking the complete detachment of one of the most valuable limbs in all of sports. I don't know, something...no...anything other than referring back to some vague plan that has been revised more times than Jim Irsay's prescription at the street pharmacist. The Colts' new head coach inherited quite possibly the most botched case of modern medical care so, relatively speaking, he might somehow be correct in his assessment of "exceptionally well". I just think that he's probably better off saving such glowing terms for the first time Andrew Luck is a limited participant in practice, if only because his fanbase has already suffered through more disappointing changes to an unwritten itinerary than those on a group vacation planned entirely by me.
Both obviously and deservingly, the overwhelming opinion regarding this clip of a battered and beaten fighter being forced back into action against her own will is that her "team" makes LeBron's look helpful by comparison. The juxtaposition of the most disheartened of "I'm done" from the person whose face had already been transformed into a pufferfish to the most impassioned of denial from a group of people who were supposed to use common sense to look out for her well-being isn't the type of thing that gets positively digested publicly. Now, in fairness to her corner, I think there is bit more convincing that goes into ringside pep talks than most are willing to admit. The throwing of towels would probably be a hell of a lot more prominent if it was left solely to the discretion of those that just used them to wipe the blood from their own unrecognizably swollen face. That said, when your combatant's nose is the only thing more broken than her spirit, it's probably best to take her word for it when she says she's had about enough of being pulverized within the unfriendly confines of a cage. I'm not exactly a body language expert, but Raquel Pennington didn't exactly have the look of someone who was a mild mindset alteration from flipping the script of a lopsided MMA match. In fact, if you had asked me how that fight was going to conclude after watching one of the participants passively attempt to bring it to an early end then my prediction would have been far too close to accurate for someone that completely lacks familiarity with either fighter...
I guess what I am trying to say is that we probably shouldn't apply real world sensibilities to every interaction that takes place during something as barbaric as organized human brutality. There are almost certainly cases in which fighters have appreciated being told to get back out there by their trainers. Unfortunately, her team shouldn't have needed a crystal ball - or even a rudimentary knowledge of MMA, for that matter - to see that this particular case stood a far better chance of looking like the scheduled feeding of a wounded animal to a lion than getting overturned in an unforgiving octagon.
Perhaps the twinge of disbelief in the headline is disingenuous. After all, the Washington Capitals are coming off a series in which they disposed of the silently smug, patchily bearded opponent that gave a face to their playoff demons. Since physically overcoming the Pittsburgh Penguins required them to mentally overcome themselves, it shouldn't be too much of a surprise that they've hit the ice faster than a bobsled team in jumping out to a 2-0 lead over a team that didn't possess the same type of decade-long strangle hold on their psyche. Still, it's not where they currently are, which is two wins away from conference supremacy, that has me taken aback, but rather how they've gotten there. Take last night, for example. Once again without the helping hands of their best playmaking center, the Capitals took the earliest of leads with a goal that will ultimately turn up the volume on their fanbase's mind-numbing glorification of Tom Wilson's contributions, but that's not the impressive part. Rather, the impressive part is that, despite immediately falling behind on two power play goals that came after back-to-back bullshit calls that were so unbelievably ill-advised that they might as well have been dialed up after a dozen shots of tequila, Washington never wavered.
Considering how bad those penalties were, I don't think anyone would have been too critical if a team that had already authoritatively stolen home ice proceeded to get struck by the Lightning in their desperate attempt to salvage any sort of ground. Instead, they spanked one of the deepest offensive units in the league into submission so unrelentingly that it probably left the sting of a five fingered handprint on their ass. In case that renewed sense of resilience isn't enough to prove to you that this year might be different, let's go back to Game 1 for a minute...
Tell me, in what world does Washington Capitalize on such an that absurd set of circumstances? If anything, those types of mountainous momentum swings have typically haunted their postseason's past, not ended up reinforcing their belief in themselves. Historically speaking, if you flipped a coin as to which team would be the beneficiary of a goddamn trifecta of timeliness, that thing would be more heavily weighted against Alexander Ovechkin than every anti-Russian stereotype. The Capitals are plenty familiar with the surreal turning of events, but realistically it's more innate to their own disappointment than the annual, Spring-time shaming of their captain. So, whether it be enough for them to declare league-wide dominance remains to be seen, but there is definitely something different and more perseverant about these Capitals. Now, it's incredibly stupid to discount a team as talented as Tampa Bay, but they certainly aren't the the group that looked either looser or more laser-focused as of late...
I don't necessarily know that I'm ready to say it's the "Caps Year", but - since May has never been their month and yet they are currently blooming in almost every aspect of the matchup - the idea that it is isn't the least bit laughable anymore. |
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