As his first at-bat resulted in him getting on base and eventually scoring from said base, I see no reason to believe there was something superstitious about Alex Bregman's decision to shave mid-game. Oddly enough, that exactly why I'm on board with it being the right move. Some people just aren't meant to be mustache guys. I say the following as a person that's never been able to suppress the self-consciousness required to get the past the awkward stage in which people wonder aloud in a joking-but-not-entirely fashion whether or not they should feel comfortable leaving their children around you unsupervised. Confidence is key in both carrying a new look and swinging a big stick. Perhaps the Astros' third baseman just figured he couldn't have one without the other. Every man has contemplated compromising weeks of negligent grooming to relieve that all too familiar itch, but there was not nearly enough hair on the face of the Astros' third baseman for external discomfort to be an issue. Internal discomfort, however, is a whole different story which I believe can explain the case of Alex Bregman's missing mustache.
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You know, as much as I appreciate the creativity that the San Diego Padres showcased in arriving to an away stadium in style, I don't think enough is being made of this missing team bus. I'm sure there's a logical explanation that the organization was made privy to shortly after they were left momentarily stranded, but I still feel there was a clear lack of an initial concern for a misplaced motor-coach. Oh well, such is reality when you're part of a Major League ball club I suppose, but I can't help but feel those currently playing for Minor League ball clubs didn't get theirs checked by seeing how expendable the vehicle by which their lackluster livelihood is made at all possible is in the bigs. I'd imagine the refusal of one wheel to go round-and-round is liable to cause the rescheduling of some random suburbia's season in Single A, and yet a complete vehicular no-show is nothing more than an excuse for a professional team to get treated to the sights and sounds provided by a topless tour of sunny San Fran. I'm sure the guys that proved less than ripe in the Grapefruit League already know they are the guts to the glory of Major League Baseball. Still, not even a walk-off RBI in front of 155 people drives home the point that they are very much an independent production in comparison to 'The Show' as well as having their hellscape of a mobile home viewed as more disposable than a missing television remote. Especially by players whose "inconvenience" was immediately met with a hero's welcome through the downtown area of the beautiful city they were visiting. 
NYPost- Luke Heimlich, Oregon State ace’s left-hander who went undrafted this month for the second year in a row largely due to a past sexual-assault conviction, might yet land a pro baseball job.
The Kansas City Royals are looking into signing the 22-year-old Washington state native. In 2012, when Heimlich was 15 years old, he admitted to sexually assaulting his 6-year-old niece. Royals general manager Dayton Moore told the Kansas City Star this week: “We continue to seek information that allows us to be comfortable in pursuing Luke. … You try to be open-minded. We’re an organization that has constantly given players second and third chances.” Moore added: “The easy thing is to wipe your hands of it and don’t even look into it or deal with it. We’re going to continue to look into it. I think that’s what good organizations do. I think that’s what good people do. And we try to be both.” ------- For what it's worth, which is really nothing more than the highlighting of organizational hypocrisy, Dayton Moore sure has a lot of balls to talk of child molestation as if it could be a circumstantial result of youthful ignorance like a public intoxication ticket or something. After all, this is the same exact executive that took the opportunity granted to him by his own player's drunken adventure into a fast food drive-thru to discuss his baseless belief that watching porn is basically the leading cause of domestic abuse...
Needless to say, he doesn't exactly have a track record of taking an open-minded and nuanced approach to excusable means of sexual gratification. So, while I'm not what anyone would call a life coach, I can't help but think he would have been better off pivoting from his prudish ways by exploring the pleasures of some prostate play rather than defending the pursuit of someone that fondled a first grader of his own family. The truth is that there is little else more shameless than prioritizing the pitching prowess of an arm that was once used to assault the innocence of an elementary schooler, but I'll be damned if trying to do so from the moral high ground from which you're currently considering the disposal of all your organizational ethics doesn't fit that criteria. I'd have to be the same age as the victim was to still be naive to how bankrupt of principle the business of pro sports can be. That said, even I'm dumbfounded that a General Manager in Major League Baseball managed to spin his interest in a pariah and a pervert into a validation of his own personal and professional integrity. Luke Heimlich just went unselected in a forty round draft for the second straight year in which he earned PAC12 Pitcher Of The Year honors. That means all thirty teams chose to pass on adding a promising prospect at a position that absolute every one of them needs upwards of eighty(!) different times. Yet, the Royals' GM wants you to believe that he's the only guy honorable enough to investigate this potential injustice. You know, regardless of the fact that he was entirely complicit in it when adding a red dot on an online registry to his roster would have required calling negative attention to his franchise in front of a televised room full of his peers. I've come to expect the worst out of people whose job security is tied directly to something as fickle as success in sports. However, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't near floored by the duplicitous cowardice of someone who thinks everyone else should have sex through a sheet, but could be convinced that the predatory perusal of a playground can be forgiven in exchange for a formidable fastball. Getting a "second chance" doesn't mean being granted the privilege to get paid handsomely to play a kids' game when you're someone that never had to pay handsomely for(e) playing with a kid. Acting like it is to cover up your own unabashed attempt at winning more baseball games isn't as disturbing as offering a convicted pedophile a ridiculously profitable reprieve, but it might be just as unprecedented...and that's saying a lot. Dayton Moore has preemptively justified the possible signing of Luke Heimlich as some magnanimous maneuver, and that's almost as tough to swallow as the idea of watching the latter take a Major League mound. In The Best Way Possible, The Devils 1st Round Pick Of Ty Smith Was Basically Made For Them6/23/2018 
Since kneeling in worship at the work of Ray Shero has quickly become my customary response to almost all of his masterful acts of management, it brings me momentary sadness to inform you that not even I can fully credit the Devils' GM with the first round selection of Ty Smith. While he was the one that stood on stage and made it, the automated list by which your forgetful friend "drafts" his fantasy team could have just as easily done so. I don't know if you happened to catch the announcement of the Hart Trophy winner, but it provided a pretty good reminder that Ray Shero's standards of success are far above that of someone like...oh, I don't know...let's say Peter Chiarelli. Therefore, not falling victim to overthinking when the easiest of decisions fell right into his lap doesn't register as a huge win by him personally, even if it could turn out to be a monster victory for the franchise he's rapidly made reputable. We're years away from finding out whether or not Ty Smith reaches his potential as a fleet-of-foot two-way defenseman that thinks the game at as high a level as he played it in putting up a ludicrous number of points in the WHL. That said, his potential was basically that of the lovechild of 'best player available' and 'organizational need' for the New Jersey. I would say that the left-handed blue liner with legs for days and leadership qualities (Captain of Team Canada U-18) could really Ty up some loose ends in the Devils' lineup. However, there will be plenty of time for the nauseating forcing of puns if he comes even remotely close to remotely close of fulfilling the promise of the Drew Doughty or Duncan Keith comparisons that I've seen (far too liberally, mind you) floated. In making a laughably premature projection, the only opinion you could possibly come away with is that a ton of value was gotten out of the 17th pick and that's really the best you can ask for when predicting the development of underdeveloped teenagers. The area in which Ty Smith comes up the most short is size, but if he were three inches taller he probably would have been picked in the top ten instead of just being ranked there by a multitude of sources much more knowledgeable than I. If nothing else, that's a testament to his wide variety of merit-based talents that the Devils just added to a prospect pool that was specifically lacking in well-rounded defenseman that check all of the boxes that pertain to upside. I don't know if the streak of success they stumbled upon with Nico Hischier, Will Butcher, and Jesper Bratt is a sign of what's to come from their scouting department, but just as things broke right for them this past season, they broke about as well as you could have hoped for them last night. Ty Smith could end being quite the addition to Ray Shero's resume, even if it would realistically be more of a black mark on those of the GM's that picked before him...
That's it. That's all you need to see. Now that this video is at our disposal, there is no longer any reason for us to use our discouraging words in describing how the NHL is successful in spite of itself. That clip is such a perfect microcosm of the how out-of-touch the league is with just about everything that resonates with its fanbase that it makes the fact that they brought out a ventriloquist in Vegas to serenade an audience of grown adults in song seem like a smashing success by comparison...
I know Anze Kopitar didn't intentionally snub the magician whose greatest trick was getting us to believe he knew what the hell he was doing prior to revealing the winner of the Selke Award with a puzzle of wayward body parts that looked like it was pieced together by someone that dons a bib during dinner. Still, in that moment, we could all sympathize with the indifference of the player that pushed past the piss poor pageantry that felt more forced than that attempted handshake to get to the celebration of excellence in a league that would cease to exist if not for the merit of its product. If anything, I appreciate that the Kings' forward clearly didn't see the extended hand of the bargain basement illusionist that has probably never pondered if life were still worth living more than he did in that exact moment. If there's anything I can relate to it's focusing on the hockey so as to remain immune to the NHL's failed attempts at gesturing to its overly loyal audience. 
Considering the grace, professionalism, and - as officially evidenced by the award in his hand - perseverance with which he handled a preseason cancer diagnosis, I'm not so sure that the best compliment I can offer Brian Boyle isn't that he more than lived up to the contract he signed in free agency. What's happened since then has been anything but ordinary, and he obviously meant a hell of a lot more than your average bottom-six center to a young team that benefited from the veteran leadership he provided on the ice and inspiration he served as off the ice. However, if not for the occasional heart-warming and tear-jerking moment, the most notable thing about his seamless fit into the lineup that he almost immediately aided was that it made tragic news feel like somewhat old news. Perhaps it's wrong to even speak on all that he went through, because the vast majority of his fighting was done away from the rink, but - save for the times in which his resilience was being celebrated - what he went through certainly wasn't evident when he was on the rink. Of course, Brian Boyle wasn't a virtual lock to take home the Masterton Trophy because of the battles in the corners that he was quick to engage in, or the face-offs he won, or the goals he scored. Still, the willingness with which he did all those things without missing a beat certainly was made all the more impressive by the circumstances surrounding his personal life. We're not even just talking about a guy who kicked cancer's ass one month and was on the verge of returning to play meaningful minutes in the NHL the next. We're talking about a guy who wasted no time in becoming a proactive advocate for the fight against cancer while also dealing with a sick child as he was still indoctrinating himself into a locker room that he was originally added to as a "big brother". I think it's safe to say that he didn't just succeed in setting an example for the New Jersey Devils, but for the entire hockey community and everyone that's even mildly familiar with it. 
There's so much to be said about a season that was undoubtedly of MVP caliber well before it was made official last night. There's no shortage of adulation just begging to be heaped upon a player whose incredibly enduring excellence was the driving force behind a unexpected playoff berth that was always in doubt despite the Devils never having left the proverbial leaderboard from October through April. What there is a scarcity of, however, is original endorsements of Taylor Hall's value to a franchise whose future was made to look far, far more luminescent by the blooming of a star into a superstar. My ex-girlfriends might strongly disagree, but I'm not all out of compliments because I'm a stubborn S.O.B. that's hesitant to give them. Rather, I'm all out of compliments because falling back on the same two dozen or so for the umpteenth time would cheapen them. As tends to happen when someone rattles off a 26-game point streak (observe this, NHL ::violently grabs groin::) for a team that literally needed almost every single one of them to break their five year absence from the postseason, Taylor Hall exhausted any and all forms of authentic praise almost every time he took the ice. For that reason, I'm just going to casually mention in passing that the statistical disparity between himself and second highest scorer on the Devils looked to be one that you might expect of a 12 year old playing out an entire video game season as his 99-overall created self. Strictly out of habit I feel inclined to bring up that Taylor Hall spent half the season dominating alongside two of three youngest players in the entire NHL, so you're welcome for suppressing that urge as best I could. Because I know you've heard it all before in what seemed to be a never-ending debate about the definition of 'value', I'll even be nice enough to save you the repetitive reminder that #9 was hotter than the pistol he appeared to be shot out of when it mattered the most for a team that made the playoffs by all of one single point. After all, as the voting shows, his candidacy spoke for itself...
I almost feel as though the Oilers don't even deserve a mention, for as much joy as I derived out of Edmonton's misery as Taylor Hall resurrected his character as those that assassinated it were left digging their own grave, his season was so much more than just a massive middle finger to the most meddlesome of hockey markets. With how much was expected of him on a game-by-game basis, there was only so much time to revel in what can retrospectively be viewed, in part, as resolute retribution in one of its most satisfying forms. Taylor Hall went the "let bygones be bygones" route, which is fitting as his success was the result of him putting his past in the past, and letting nothing more than each next game chuck up the most devastating of deuces on a one-for-one trade...
For proof of just how important Taylor Hall was to a New Jersey Devils team of which absolutely nothing was expected, read the second half of the quote above. A then 18 year old center who had the muscle mass of a middle school distance runner on a month-long juice cleanse. A General Manager who, while highly accomplished, was mired in the middle of a rebuild. A first time head coach that was coming off a destitute season that undid all the positives of the year prior. Nico Hischier, Ray Shero, and John Hynes were all unbelievable in their own right, but - let's be honest - they make for pretty mediocre help relatively to what it takes to win a Hart Trophy. That's not so much an insult to an organizational culture that took as many powerful strides forward as their MVP as it is an acknowledgement of said MVP's undeniable impact on those strides. The Devils are now Taylor Hall's team in a way that's only been broached by Hall Of Famers that rest eternally in the Prudential Center rafters. There's not enough to be said about a player that gave an organization that won three Stanley Cups throughout two decades of perennial playoff contention their first Hart Trophy winner, and yet - in between the dropping of jaws - it was all uttered ad nauseam throughout a season that Devils' fans won't soon forget.
It's really a shame that it's damn near impossible to feel bad for Dwight Howard. If there is a career that deserves our pity it's that of the former first overall pick and future HOFer that's been traded for the likes of Mason Plumlee and Timofey Mozgov in back-to-back offseasons. The player that's probably stuck renting month-to-month despite never going one single season (out of the last 14) without averaging a double-double with ease might as well be a magnet for mercy. The player that somehow remains a laughingstock regardless of being long and athletic enough to defend the paint, own the boards, and run the rim is basically begging for sympathy. Unfortunately, it's the person whose general demeanor has gotten him exiled from three separate teams since 2016 that just keeps slapping the proverbial hat out of said player's hand every time I think I'm ready to lend him even the smallest sliver of support. Dwight Howard is his own worst enemy to such an egregious extent that not only is it no longer a surprise, but it leaves piss poor NBA teams hopelessly asking "please tell me whyyyyyyyy?" before shipping him off at a discount to infect the next locker room on his tour of a league that is coming mighty close to a consensus hatred of him. Professional basketball is home to no shortage of eccentrics, egomaniacs, or - for lack of a better term - assholes, and yet the one dude that keeps getting handed his eviction notice routinely handles his on-court upkeep. I can't even fathom how unlikeable of a person you have to be for a decade and a half of consistent productivity to get completely neglected in professional sports, but I imagine that the Brooklyn Nets (thankfully about 7 years later than they hoped) are about to find out that not even a fuckboy is as difficult to deal with as a fraud. Dwight Howard's stupid, sociopathic smile spoiled about the same time his reputation turned rotten, so I implore the Barclay's Center to stock up on Febreze. While the team in it is slowly but surely cleaning up its act, the locker room is undoubtedly taking on nearly seven feet of stink this upcoming season...
UPDATE: ...or not!
MercuryNews- Hunter Strickland did something really dumb on Monday night.
After blowing his fourth save of the season — and making a big huff as he walked off the field — the Giants’ closer decided to keep the party going in the clubhouse by punching a door and broking his hand. Now the Giants’ closer is out six to eight weeks. It’s a blow to a San Francisco team that has spent the season on the brink, fighting bad injury luck and bad play to stay in the hunt for a playoff spot this year. -------- What I don't want to do here is downplay how much of a dumb-dumb someone as important to a baseball team as the closer has to be to open up a can of whoop-ass on an unforgiving and inanimate object while his team is clinging hopelessly to the outer frame of the playoff picture. No matter how infuriated Hunter Strickland was with his efforts, there's no legitimate excuse for him not to have been a little more prudent in punishing himself via pain. If you absolutely have to destruct property as a disgruntled pitcher then, at the very least, you need to be smart enough to summon the most baseline number of braincells in using your off-hand to do so. Fun fact: Frustration flows just as well through the left arm as it does the right. Therefore, even if he needed to violently let off some steam, it was wildly unnecessary for him to put the limb responsible for his paycheck in peril simply because it packs a more powerful punch. All that aside, Hunter Strickland, much like every other professional athlete that has hurt both himself and his team by getting recklessly enraged (LeBron James, Amar'e Stoudemire, etc. etc.), gets paid millions of dollars to perform at the height of competition. Is it too much to ask of franchises whose fate hangs from the broadest of shoulder blades to insure themselves by providing their players with an outlet for their anger? It will never not be excessively stupid to punch something solid because you are pissed off, but since when did we start requiring unflappable intelligence out of people whose jobs are dependent on a chemical imbalance of competitiveness and the exertion of brute strength? Again, I want to make it clear that I'm not blaming the door here. Still, have we not seen more than enough moronic injuries to consider a locker room punching bag to be a worthwhile investment for any organization that's truly committed to creating an idiot-proof environment for their players? Given the daily rigors of professional sports, I can almost guaranteed that it would be of more productive use than a vast majority of amenities that currently reside in clubhouses. The hardest battle to fight might be the one within, but - since you can't win them all - why not save athletes from themselves by offering them the lifeline of a guarantee draw? 
I say the following without exaggeration. Of all the empty apologies that have been tossed around in hopes of speeding up 2018's news cycle and directing the ire of the easily offended to the next unforgivable act that becomes easily forgotten, this one might just be the most senseless. Personally, I found the most relatable display of frustration ever to take place on a prestigious golf course to be hilariously endearing. However, even if I were to step foot in the straight-laced shoes of golf purists here, I can't imagine that a "sorry" this late in the pretentious game is what's going to cure their endless constipation. The think pieces have been written. The opinions have been formed. The sides of the fence have been firmly taken. What good does bringing this up again do? I think the poor children would have eventually pulled through their devastating disappointment had Phil Mickelson not offered his amends to distraught reporters. As fragile as its participants can be at times, I can't help but think that both the spirit and the sport of golf would have persevered without Lefty's belated plea to make things right. At the risk of giving the most sanctimonious of sports enthusiasts too much credit, I think we have all moved on from talking about a stupid 2-stroke penalty taken by someone who was playing out the remainder of an awful performance as nothing more than an obligation. It's Wednesday. More so than anyone, those that are so emotionally entrenched in a sport that predominantly takes place on weekends should prescribe to the concept of hump day, and therefore an inability to get the hell over it is their own damn problem at this point. For that reason, I think I'm now offended. Not by a professional golfer channeling his inner pissed off putt-putter or the insanely over-the-top reaction to it, but rather by the timing of an apology that was either too-little-too-late or too-much-too-soon depending on whether or not you watch golf with a 9-iron lodged up your ass. 
While signing your way on to a roster of your choosing is typically a privilege granted to draft picks only after they've proven themselves professionally, I can't help but respect that DeAndre Ayton is so confident in his perceived status as the #1 pick that he's put himself at risk of creating the most cringeworthy of collector's item. That picture is going to look really silly is he somehow ends up in Sacramento, but you have to imagine that Phoenix appreciates having a top-end talent actually lust after them for once. That's not to say the Suns should settle for the prospect that gives them the most attention like a self-conscious teenager. Though, considering their lack of success shooting their shots in free agency, I suppose I could understand why they might. With the amount of players that turned down opportunities to work out for teams in the lottery, it might not be the worst idea for them to take into account DeAndre Ayton's mutual interest. Granted, that interest is highly influenced by his desire to hear his name called prior to everyone else's so that his cash register rings the loudest, but you kind of have to take whatever you can get when your anchor sank the fastest in a fleet full of teams that were actively trying to lose ground...
In past years, that hasn't been the opportunity to take solace in a potential future-defining talent looking happy to have a Phoenix hat on his head and appear willing to partake in autograph sessions for their fans prior to being contractually obligated to do so. Being extremely tall for someone of his skill set should literally give DeAndre Ayton a leg up on the competition, but so should an attribute that's even more rare than a seven and a half foot wingspan...which is his desire to dig the Suns out of the NBA dumpster. 
--------- Nepotism giveth, and nepotism taketh away. As this the case with just about everything that doesn't go her way, Ayesha might have lost all respect for the process and plan to claim that her Yelp! reviews are absolutely rigged for money...or ratings, I'm not sure which... 
The truth, however, is that Steph Curry with the shot is what's allowed her to stay cooking with sauce to become Chef Curry with the pot. This isn't to say that she doesn't know her way around the kitchen, but this arrogantly located restaurant exists because of her husband, and likely to go into the tank because of him too. Barring her slathering up some BBQ that's good enough to make a region full of experts alter their hoops' allegiance, International Smoke does NOT want smoke with the H-Town faithful. Granted, good food is one of the few things that's powerful enough to influence principles. Even still, I just can't see Houston's finest bending on the belief that even indirect affiliates of the Golden State Warriors are entirely off-limits. If not because of the wide range of alternative options at their disposal then because they are too prideful to once again let themselves get flexed on by a Curry. Let's be real, strictly from a business perspective, Ayesha opening up a BBQ joint in enemy territory is the pull-up three pointer from just over half court with 19 seconds left on the shot clock of culinary endeavors. It's as unnecessary and inefficient as her husband's entire pregame warm-up. I'm not one to root for failure when comes to comfort food, but someone needs to put this family in its place before Kindergarten Curry learns this behavior and is ruling over recess like she's the Lord Of The Flies. We're talking about 'The First Lady' of the Bay Area. It would be an absolute lay-up to monopolize San Francisco's market on tenderized meat, but instead she's taking enough step-backs to make James Harden call for a travel in trying to stunt on a regionally crowded industry? If that doesn't make you want to throw your mouthpiece and put your palate aside then nothing will. I respect that Warriors fans are trying to buoy her rating, but if Rockets fans don't torpedo this restaurant before the first rack of ribs gets revealed then I have no choice but to question their loyalty. Now is the time to prove their persistence, so they better not get caught sitting on the sidelines when it matters most like Chris Paul. Can't let another good start go to waste... 
I'd be lying if I told you I fell within 35 channels of being tuned into a Senate hearing, so Lord only knows what I did or didn't miss (seeing as everyone else who watched was probably sleeping through it with their eyes pried open). That said, from what little I caught, I think it's fair to say that we should be applauding Kelly Cohen for not interrupting what was a shockingly slow moving discussion with an on-air aneurysm. Yet another circular conversation about Russia and collusion that, in all likelihood, leads nowhere but the next circular conversation about Russia and collusion is enough to make even the most savvy of political savant turn into a zombie. So, while the shock was written across her face, I'd say she did a great job containing her heart from leaping out of her chest. That was definitely a possible outcome of stumbling upon the news that the head coach of a Stanley Cup champion was walking away from the organization less than two weeks after bringing them to the promised land for the first time ever while otherwise catatonic. Now, my jaw didn't exactly hit the floor when I found out, as Todd Reirden appeared ripe to push Barry Trotz out the door all the way up until Barry Trotz was presumed to have blocked said door with a three foot tall trophy that might forever smell like Alexander Ovechkin's beer-soaked beard, but I also hadn't been lulled one step short of a coma at the time. To consider what Kelly Cohen experienced to be a swing of emotions would be to consider the pirate ship ride at your local carnival that leaves your stomach firmed fixed in your esophagus to be a "swing". Therefore, one must credit a professional reporter for handling a taser-like jolt to the system with as much grace as did the head coach that respectfully resigned when his unbelievably fair contract demands weren't met.
Fitting Of How Toxic He And His Fiancée Currently Are, Mike Hoffman Was Traded TWICE This Morning6/19/2018 
I'm fully aware that this was a case of San Jose clearing some cap space prior to free agency by unloading one of their relatively bad contracts on a desperate organization that might have accepted nothing more than a bottle of prescription pills as a cure to hockey's most heinous headache. I know they only traded for Mike Hoffman to turn around and maximize the diminishing value of a player who may have sabotaged his career by (allegedly) proposing to Cruella DeVille's even more evil step-daughter. What I don't know is why the Senators were worried about trading a ticking time-bomb to a team in a division that they aren't in any way, shape, or form ready to compete in regardless, but credit to the Sharks for leveraging a laughably run organization's ineptitude against them. I suppose we shouldn't have expected Ottawa to get themselves out from between a rock and a hard place without their totaled reputation absorbing another dent or two in the half-assed pursuit of retaining Erik Karlsson.
Anyway, how can you not appreciate this move? Even if you had a high-level of interest in keeping the Sharks from swarming John Tavares come July 1st, you'd at least have to find it hilarious that Mike Hoffman and his multiple overcharges worth of baggage were (at least in spirit) sequestered to three separate and extremely distant reaches of the hockey world in just over two hours time. I don't even care that it was the circumstantial result of one team's diligent management, because the symbolism of San Jose shipping (allegedly) the world's most wrathful WAG as far away as possible before she even got anywhere near close enough to poison their lunch, never mind their locker room, is just so perfectly fitting. I can't say I'm surprised that a team that has trouble attracting outside talent, like the Panthers, decided to accept the (alleged) risk of a walking, talking internet virus when they stumbled upon the power play porn of a proven 25-goal scorer. I'm just glad that we'll always have the morning in which it appeared that Mike Hoffman and the big ball of (alleged) human feces chained to his ankle were getting passed around the NHL quicker than the mumps virus. If only during a fleeting moment of weakness, it gave me hope that some franchises have it in them to overlook deadly accurate one-timers if it means potentially infecting their team culture with (allegedly) the most reprehensible of two-timers. Good luck to the Panthers in their blind trust of the talent. I can't help but think that Mike Hoffman would rather his long-time girlfriend get presented with a clean hard-drive as opposed to a clean slate, though the good news is that the staff at the BB&T Center is highly trained in rodent control...
To be honest, I already feel weird about dissecting the before and after pictures of a half-naked professional athlete that, had he spent the last 5 weeks laid up on his couch eating a variety of cheeses by hand, would only stop running circles around me to jump clear over me in every form of competition that didn't involves ice skates. That being said, all the praise being heaped upon a freakishly long and athletic NBA player that admittedly looks like he's dedicated himself to the weight room this offseason has me wondering whether or not people understood the aesthetics of this scene from Fast Times At Ridgemont High... 
What I mean to imply is that while whatever Myles Turner is doing from a health perspective is clearly working for him, but so is the glare glimmering off his ludicrously lathered body. There's a reason why there's more modeling shoots held on beaches than in deserts, and I'm pretty sure it's not entirely due to availability. If someone is drenched in anything, including sweat, while their picture is being taken in complimentary lighting they are simply guaranteed to look more in shape. I'm pretty gyms are keeping the mirror industry afloat, and it's due to that very premise. Now, none of that is an indictment of the Pacers' forward's training program, which has obviously increased in intensity. It's just an indisputable fact. Hit him head-to-toe with a hair dryer for a few minutes, and - while we'd still notice a more defined stomach and jawline - it probably wouldn't appear as though Myles Turner were chiseled out of granite. I respect his hustle in upping the expectations of his fans, but to believe this is more of a full transformation than a tune-up you'd also have to believe that summer bodies are in no way visually aided by the sun, swimming, and tanning. Myles Turner's physique is top notch, but to look like he just pulled a baby from a burning building while wearing nothing but gym shorts he had to get greased up by the metaphorical fire. 
While understanding that getting in the face of a teenager isn't the greatest of look for someone who is not at all unfamiliar with the occasional awful one, I think one aspect of this video that's flying under the radar is the ruthlessness of the next generation. I mean, not for nothing, but Cam Newton responded to a wrath of ridicule by lurching down in a fashion that could only be duplicated by the Mega-Ultra-Super-Duper-Saurus in 'Jurassic Park 10: The 9th Return Of The Failed Experiment'. One of the most physically imposing athletes in all of sports basically created the moment of tension that's meant to draw a jarring juxtaposition between the sheer size difference between a genetically-engineered dinosaur and its human prey...and it barely bought him a second free of Super Bowl jokes. It's expected of a professional athlete to ignore the occupational hazard of hecklers as he jogs in and out of stadiums full of dumb drunkards, but that's not at all what we are talking about here. It sure looks to me as though Cam Newton graciously volunteered his time to help mold the young players that could, in theory, eventually replace him...only to end up getting chirped non-stop by an overly aggressive pack of annoying little brothers. Turning a deaf ear to those that wouldn't even care if they were scared into publicly wetting their pants so long as getting an NFL MVP's attention netted them the false validation of retweets definitely would have behooved Cam Newton. However, I would imagine you can only be reminded of one of the lowest moments of your career but so many times before irritably reacting to a peanut gallery full of pip-squeaks wondering aloud what you got Von Miller for Father's Day. Personally, I don't think Cam Newton has a damn thing to apologize for. No when even doing right by the future of football proved to be a thankless endeavor that left him under attack by the next crop of attention-starved kids that are self-aware enough to know they aren't in danger, but shameless enough to remain immune to the lasting effects of intimidation in feasting on someone else's fame. 
The following admittedly feels like a weird thing to utter about a coach that, had he chosen to stay with the organization that was left lying to itself year after disappointing year before he helped lead them to the promised land, would have spent the entirety of his two-year extension working with a leash long enough to lightly jog circles around every single one of his peers. Still, dare I say that Barry Trotz' decision to briskly walk out from behind the bench of the Washington Capitals two weeks after they rose the Stanley Cup for the first time in the franchise's 44-year history was somewhat...relatively...easy? Sentimentality aside, scoffing at a small bump in salary (albeit contracted) that spoke volumes about the team's preferred direction as well as left him well below market value for any coach, never mind one coming off a championship, was to be...well...expected. I mean, leave it to the franchise that was previously allergic to success to only achieve it after putting a successor in place, but the truth of the matter is that the newest coach on the unemployment line just won his way into a win/win situation by choosing to lose his job. If you want a look at a man that will forever be welcomed back in Washington D.C. then look not through the hallowed halls of The White House, but rather at the neckless wonder that appeared damn near Presidential in how calm and collected he remained throughout the entirety of a title run that presented no shortage of adversity. Barry Trotz was basically Joe Cool in every single postseason press conference. You have to imagine that was due, in large part, to the acceptance that not even all the ice that was used to chill the championship champagne would have completely extinguished the heat of Todd Reirden's seemingly inevitable promotion from singeing at his ass hairs. Barry Trotz was playing with house money for the first time since his arrival in Washington, and not only will he have potentially tripled his earnings when the cards fall in regards to his future, but he'll forever have ingratiated himself into an irreproachable past in the nation's capital. Judging by their social media presence throughout the last two weeks, the Capitals might not even be sober enough to have a Stanley Cup hangover until the next All Star break. Yet, the man that has to answer to expectations that will be innately upped won't be the one that forever solidified his place amongst the limited lore of Washington sports in graciously leaving them behind. Once you reach the peak of your profession, you're typically left choosing between riding that high downward or going out on top. Due to a mutual willingness to move on, Barry Trotz gets to pick and choose the best of both those worlds. Come the time in which the possibility of an unlikely repeat is being discussed, he might very well still be enjoying an extensive vacation while watching his value gain interest on the open market. These are undeniably strange circumstances, but they are guaranteed to work out in favor of the guy that just put a ring on the 27 Dresses of sports' cities while becoming the league's most eligible bachelor. I can't say for sure what his plans are, but if Barry Trotz can stomach some time off then he could easily use this honeymoon period to prove - once and for all - that it is possible to have your cake and eat it too. 
I have so, so many questions. The main one, of course, being how a professional athlete who followed up his second straight 10+ sack season by all-but-forcing his release from a $41 million dollar contract with organizational slander, domestic abuse charges (that were backed by video evidence), and enough character issues to make Hank Moody look like Phil Dunphy by comparison was able to avoid humility until now. Junior Galette went from going undrafted, to being (laughably, in hindsight) elected team captain, to getting cut, to spend ding two full seasons nursing career-altering injuries, to moderately contributing for the first since time since 2014, to scoffing at a multi-year deal that was worth well more than what he actually deserved. I guess I'm glad he ran into the reality check that is the lack of a paycheck, but how modesty didn't come close to crossing his mind until now is about as unfathomable as the fact that Drew Rosenhaus let him leave $10 million on the table while he was on an especially slippery downside of his tumultuous career. Junior Galette now has exponentially more NFL logos tatted on him than teams interested in him, but that was somehow predictable despite him possessing a skill set that's at a league-wide premium. Maybe it's just the scorned fan in me that had to sit idly by as the Saints spent years resurrecting themselves up from under the demons of dead dollars' past, but I'm pretty sure the last thing anyone wants to hear about is how grateful Junior Galette is. We're talking about a guy that was perhaps the league's longest standing unapologetic asshole. A player that showed zero appreciation for the God-given talent he had on the field by constantly pissing into the winds of the prosecution off of it. It just feels insanely disingenuous for him to try to bail from his wave of unabashed arrogance now that it's finally come crashing down on top of him. After compiling one more sack (3) than he did season-ending injury (2) throughout his three seasons in Washington, Junior Galette turned down a contract that was at least 2x as long and 3x as valuable as any other team would have offered. I'm of the opinion that a professional athlete is worth the max someone will pay them, but - considering the entirety of his past -it's impossible to view that negotiation as anything other than Junior Galette removing his belt and whipping a gift horse in the mouth. If nothing else, it's an indisputable sign that he learned absolutely nothing throughout one of the most up-and-down NFL careers that I can remember. So forgive me if I'm not ready to throw him a graduation party, as it's pretty clear he's only self-proclaiming his decency diploma in hopes that he'll finagle his way into another job after doing everything possible to get booted out of school. 
TheComeback- With the Milwaukee Brewers trailing the Phillies 8-5 heading into the eighth inning Sunday, manager Craig Counsell called on a 25-year-old reliever named Adrian Houser, who had been called up from Triple-A earlier in the day. Houser jogged in from the bullpen, took the hill, threw some warm-ups pitches and then… vomited. Right there behind the mound.
After a visit from the Brewers’ training staff, some water and a brief delay, Houser re-assumed the rubber, and promptly allowed a double to Jorge Alfaro. He induced Jesmuel Valentin to ground out to third base but was then hit with another round of sickness and deposited his lunch on the mound. With Brewers fans predictably chanting “puke and rally,” Houser served up an RBI double to Scott Kingery before retiring the final two batters of the inning, to head back to the dugout having allowed one run on two hits and a whole lot of vomit. --------- More so than being an unsightly display of regurgitation, that was a blatant reminder that you've successfully ignored more calls from your own mother than you have from a weak stomach. Even the most ironclad of insides have been put in a helpless position by impending hurl, but nothing highlights how powerless aggressive nausea leaves us quite like watching a 25 year old pitcher make a complete mess of the stage after finally receiving a call-up to 'The Show'. Of course no one would choose to vom on the mound in front of tens of thousands of on-lookers. Still, if it were at all possible, you'd think that the minor-leaguer whose career has already outlasted that of the Greyhound that was forced into early retirement by the amount of miles he spent on it would work especially hard to avoid having the majority of his professional impression made on the Brewers' janitorial staff. Credit to Adrian Houser for laughing off the unforgiving feeling of what was sure to come when his hands instinctual clutched his knees in response to his throat moistening. He might not have done all that much to prolong his stay in the Majors, but in having only a relative amount of success powering through a puke & rally he gave a glimpse of the future to all minors.
Even the most whistle-happy of official would agree that hit was delivered to an offensive party that more negligent than defenseless. That said, if only because the pale lower half of that streaker's body was only made more unflattering by laying lifeless, I think most would endorse the throw of a blanket, never mind a flag. Fair or foul, if deterring those that wander the middle the field too causally is the main purpose of blindside hits then, judging by an action shot that would best be captioned by "I've made a huge mistake", that particular one got its point across. If only the culprit/victim had applied the foresight he showed in not wearing shoes to avoid having his cleats suffer the same fate as his hat to his on-field focus then perhaps he could have been safely ridden out of bounds by a security guard. Oh well, as long as he didn't suffer any short or long term memory loss then at least he learned a valuable lesson. Don't stand on the tracks and take your eyes off the train...especially when you run the risk of having your brain injury broadcast as broadly as the thanklessness of your boxer briefs. |
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