PK Subban Mentioned The New Jersey Devils on 'First Take', And I Guess That's a Real Headline6/11/2019
What does this mean, you ask? Well, other than that the New Jersey Devils were universally understood to be the poster boys for a strangling level of defensive dominance en route to winning three Stanley Cups between the mid-90's and early 2000's, less than absolutely nothing. In fact, I'd go as far as saying that it even being referred to as though it might have some underlying relevance to an unsourced trade rumor of some sort speaks more to the point here, which is that Devils' fans are quickly approaching the cliff towards full-blown Crazy Town if they aren't soon offered the opportunity to feel even a little bullish about the team's blue line. Ray Shero, heed these words. I'm not even sure it gets more conspiratorial than studying the semantics in reading into PK Subban making easy-to-absorb basketball analogies to an ESPN audience that is half-witted towards hockey. However, if it does then you might as well make the first promotion a tinfoil hate giveaway if no NHL-caliber defensemen are added prior to October. I can't imagine Taylor Hall would be too ecstatic about the idea of continuing to receive outlet passes off the glass after spending 30 seconds a shift chasing the puck while his defensemen chase their own tail for the foreseeable future, and if he wants out then straight jackets might have to come complimentary with season tickets. Therefore, I strongly suggest some reinforcements are made to the backend so that a throwaway mention on 'First Take' is no longer the last resort of impatient Devils' fans who are near certain their pets heads are about to start falling off.
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Look, I get it. Everyone loves a juicy punchline, and Kyle Lowry's thicc ass has been unable to squeeze one damn good one dry, postseason and pathetic postseason, for quite some time now. For that reason, I couldn't imagine myself asking the following when he tried to go through a defender's legs on the final possession of a one-score playoff game a mere month and a half ago...
That being said, are we so stuck in our same old storylines that we'll ignore the entirety of what was an otherwise excellent performance by the Raptors' guard who has been tirelessly trying to rewrite the book on 'Playoff Lowry' under a far different genre and shame him for one missed shot free of circumstance? The internet, as it's one to do, is still having fun with what was soon determined to be a brilliantly blocked shot as though it were some sort of blooper, and I can't help but wonder what Kyle Lowry ever did to its users other than provide them the type of annual comedic content they figured to last forever...
On first glance, I thought Draymond Green made a hell of a contest on a buzzer-beater that could have brought Toronto a title, so I was hardly surprised to learn that he got finger on a ball that ended up sailing about 30 yards South of bringing an NBA championship to the North. That begs the question, how ignorant and uncreative must you be to still be taking to Twitter as if it were some sort of wide-open jumper that left Kyle Lowry's hands and took a direct, behind-the-backboard path to a neighboring province? I'm far from innocent when it comes to taking liberties in an effort to mock professional sports' easiest targets, but when they ferociously fight back on a stage as big as that of the NBA Finals, I refuse to be willfully blind in sticking to an overdone script in pushing an unapologetic agenda. Kyle Lowry was great last night and he's been very good this series. Ignoring one of the better defensive plays you'll ever see save a season isn't going to change the fact that you're in desperate need of some new material, so you might as well stop making fun now before he's raising the Larry O'Brian trophy like the high school dork who got the last laugh on his way to the bank.
There's one thing that the Saints can cross off from the top of their to-do list, and considering Cam Jordan's unwaveringly elite impact on the field and his leadership off of it, they can do so with a shit-eating grin on their collective face. As proven by Mark Ingram's dumbfounding departure, nothing about the cutthroat business of the NFL is inevitable. So, while this extension felt as though it was only a matter of time, it's comforting that said time has already come. As expected from someone who made his intentions to be a "Saints' lifer" known, Cam Jordan - who had every right to break Mickey Loomis' bank as the most versatile of All-Pro pass-rushers - agreed to leave a little money on the table in exchange for the majority of that which he will take home being almost as guarantee as (::knock on wood::) his dominant presence on the defensive line...
With the negotiations of Sheldon Rankins, Alvin Kamara, Marshon Lattimore, and especially Michael Thomas looming all-too-rapidly, it's nice to put any order of business in the rearview. Even if it is just business as usual with a player who, quite frankly, has been too understanding in offering up (adopted) hometown discounts for performances and production that are consistently above his pay grade. New Orleans' defense might as well revolve around Cam Jordan with how reliably revered he's been throughout his career, and he more than deserved to get compensated for his role as its brightest star until he retires as an absolute shoe-in for the Saints' Hall of Fame.
I'm sorry Toronto, but I tried. I thought long and hard about giving the benefit of the doubt to Canadian courtesy, but with every re-watch it became more and more painfully obvious that not even the most regionally inclined aren't without fail when it comes to putting aside sports' allegiances to show a baseline level of compassion. Now, I'm sure most of the volume in a building that was already buzzing was due to the audibly shocking realization that an insanely impactful moment had just upped a passionate fanbase's chances of seeing and celebrating their first championship. That doesn't make it much better, of course, but expecting the entirety of Scotiabank Arena to go from raucous to respectfully reserved in a matter of seconds during what could have easily been the biggest night in its existence simply wasn't realistic. What should have been a realistic, however, was for fans to stop themselves from offering the universally condescending gesture for "GTFO" to an opposing player in waving him into what sounds like it's going to be an extremely elongated offseason. I hardly think every eardrum-pounding decibel could be attributed to the disingenuous dickheads in attendance, but the primitive reaction of Jurassic Park didn't exactly lead me to believe that Raptors' fans cheer and jeer from some sort of moral high ground. The sins of the few (hundred) shouldn't exactly lead to the punishment of the many. However, when your reputation is righteous enough to put organized religion to shame it is going to take a hit when you get noticeably loud and proud in response to an opposing player hobbling to the hardwood. Credit to Kyle Lowry and Danny Green for encouraging Raptors' fans to use their collective brain and do some damage control by starting a 'K-D!' chant while clapping him back down the tunnel, but said damage was already done. Hate to break it to you Toronto, but America ain't the only country with overly fanatical assholes who can't read a room when their favorite team is playing a meaningful game in it.
Well, that was...a lot. That's not to call into question the sincerity of Bob Myers' words, as he went above and beyond effusive in expressing his respect for Kevin Durant as both a player and a person. Still, that was a lot. Especially so when you consider that it managed to do very little to convince anyone that an athlete who was likely on the verge of testing free agency should have been on the court out of desperation when he was apparently one minor misstep away from a career-altering aggravation, exacerbation, or byproduct of an already existing injury. There were plenty of knowledgable people that still remained skeptical that what spent the last four weeks hampering KD was more achilles-related than calf-related, so it would be quite the untimely and unfortunate coincidence for the former to tear if only the latter was thought to be at risk. Whether that miscalculation made by the Warriors' medical staff was influenced by them working on behalf of the best interests of the organization that employs them, as opposed to the best interests of its most talented player, we'll probably never know. What we do know, however, is that it absolutely was a miscalculation.
At the end of the day, it was KD's decision to give it a go in a pivotal Game 5 with his team's season on the line. That much is certain. Why that go was 'full' and without any sort or minutes restriction, despite him being entirely unable to compete in the NBA Finals as of three days prior, with one of those days being devoted to a practice he couldn't complete, I'm not sure I understand. However, it was his decision to play. I just don't think I can take Bob Myers' seriously when he's lashing out at the internet's most obnoxious idiots as if leaks from his own locker room don't paint a picture of internal aggravation that one of the most thin-skinned superstars in the NBA would have to be blind not to see...
The fact of the matter is that there absolutely is blame to be passed around, as this wasn't some entirely unrelated freak setback for someone who, Drake be damned, went 0 to 100 real quick. Now, I'm not quite sure how it to accurately divvy it up, but the Golden State Warriors should feel guilty, since they did no better a job looking out for the long-term well-being of their back-to-back Finals MVP than he, an emotionally manipulated competitor, did.
I can't imagine it's all that important to Chauncey Gardner-Johnson's impending NFL journey that he is willing to test his coverage capabilities against one of the most transcendent athletes playing an entirely different sport, while he is on the downside of his career in said sport, free of charge. After all, he's actually being paid to lock up actual football players, so it stands to reason that should be pretty far ahead atop the list of his priorities. Nonsensical cross-sport competitiveness aside, however, I absolutely love the level of self-contained cockiness he's shown, both on and off the field, since his suspiciously belated selection. I'd certainly hope he could mirror the rudimentary and rounded-off routes of a 34-year old NBA player, no matter how freakish his athleticism, but that's not really the point. The point is that the Saints' 4th round pick will fit right into the collectively confident culture of New Orleans' secondary as he has a 1st round grade when it comes to unabashedly believing in his talent. Considering the dynamic versatility of said talent, as well as the quickness with which he flashed it during practices that far and away favor the offense, there's reasons to believe that we'll be seeing it trusted in far more important circumstances than lined up opposite LeBron sooner rather than later.
And now, we wait. As Jack Hughes gets ready to fulfill what has been his destiny for all of...::checks calendar::...two months and Devils' fans clench their asscheeks while clutching their Taylor Hall jerseys in preparation for what better be an eventful offseason, consider this signing to be a fairly good fail safe. Second to only a blueline that, figuratively speaking, is bereft of reasons to live, I think it's a pretty universally held opinion that New Jersey should be prioritizing the collection of high-level skill to flank their soon-to-be solid center depth. Jesper Boqvist, although entirely unproven on North American ice, unquestionably fits that bill as a dynamic offensive asset regardless of what happens between now and October. Whether or not he has danced enough Swedes in developing enough physically to make the team out of camp is probably about as reliant on his performance in said camp as it is on the outside additions made prior to it. However, he makes for a highly intriguing back-up plan for a team that hasn't exactly made a habit of owning the rights to top-six level skill-sets. As of right now, it's naively optimistic to pencil Boqvist in as a second line left wing for a team whose 'Hart' wants it wants, which is to play meaningful hockey beyond April. That said, it's nice that the Devils have another offensive option at their disposal as their fans have laid witness to far less provocative worst case scenarios than the one that has them deploying a multi-Jesper attack atop their lineup.
Look, I get that baseball has a number of rules that have somehow remained unwritten in ink since they were unofficially instituted by the gaggle of white men who chiseled them into the walls of their culture-less cave. I even understand that the most important of those rules is that one must not express emotion nor enthusiasm, and especially not personality, while playing a kid's game at the professional level. I just ask that we make one very small amendment, with that being that you are allowed to take a second or two to admire your hit when you've bombed it hard enough for it blow a hole in the side of a vessel. Personally, I think Max Muncy earned the right to round the bases solely in backhand springs with a blast that damn near demanded its own firework display, but something tells me that multiple generations of closed, insecure minds like Madison's would disagree with that assessment. Therefore, I just reasonably request that pitchers eat their humble pie and use the proverbial napkin to wipe their tears when they get taken a distance that would most accurately be measured in leagues. Especially when the aesthetics of his earned run were about 100x more worthy of his attention than the relatively reserved, run-of-the-mill celebration happening as a kayaker narrowly avoided being left lost at sea with a concussion.
Despite being the type of person who rarely leaves games early, I try not to fault those that do. Traffic can be a real son of a bitch, and even I can admit that the juice of a final minutes of a fatalistic foregone conclusion aren't worth the squeeze of 10,000 cars all thinking they have the right-of-way in exiting the parking lot. That being said, with the game in question potentially being the last one ever played in a venue that has offered it's attendees multiple lifetimes of memories over the last handful of seasons, Game 4's mass exodus from Oracle Arena was inexcusably embarrassing. Take that snapshot of Raptors' fans making Oakland their own and frame it in the spoiled supporter's 'Hall of Shame', as it encapsulates the entitlement of a fanbase whose most incredulous arguments are over which of their superstars will win Finals MVP. The bandwagon of every successful sports' team gets packed to the brim, but for that bandwagon to bail out early due to a couple bumps in the road during what was potentially the final ride in an otherwise incredible escort certainly fits the way people have come to feel about Warriors' fans. I hate drawing comparisons between the NBA and the NHL, because hockey fans are entirely too up their own ass, but St. Louis Blues fans stayed during the dying minutes of a blowout to loudly and proudly wish well their team despite the final home game of their season being a demonstrably depressing one. Meanwhile, Warriors' fans were in a full-on sprint out of seats that have served witness to no shortage of greatness that they may well not sit in ever again. The main difference, of course, being that Blues' fans are desperately hoping to celebrate their first championship whereas Warriors' fans are pissed off that their 4th parade in 5 years isn't already underway. Still, to leave such an accomplished home court for dead while opposing fans danced on it's eventual grave is potentially an atrocious lasting look for Oracle Arena. More importantly, it's an exponentially worse look for those that priced the loyalists out of a building in which they spent decades living and dying with the results of the games it hosted, be it to their most triumphant or bitter end. Credit to Raptors' fans for a strong international showing, for while their team looked destined to dethrone a dynasty they sounded inspired to put to eternal shame those that used to unconditionally make raucous its residence.
How? Just, how? Unless the St. Louis Post-Dispatch had a mole acting in the best interests of fellow rodent Brad Marchand in order to give the Blues the maximum amount of bad juju and the Bruins some billboard material, I don't know how you possibly let this see the light of day before the long overdue Stanley Cup-inspired smiles throughout the city of St. Louis were lighting said day. I guess the short answer would be that it's easier for such a mistake to be made when your medium is slowly dying due, in part, to the same cutthroat deadlines that forced an employee or two to prematurely put together a celebration section in bad faith. Still, to not quadruple check in making sure it was under some sort of foolproof lock-and-key when working on the most time-sensitive Sports Section in the largely unrewarding 52-year history of Blues' hockey is beyond comprehension. Now, the rational person in me knows that what got published in the online special addition of a paper has no tangible effect in what later played out on the ice. The truth is that this series always had the feel of one that was destined to go seven, as beating the Boston Bruins three straight times was as unlikely a proposition as getting through a playoff round without a dumbfounding officiating controversy. Therefore, it's hardly surprising that it has done so. The irrational sports' fan in me, however, is hearing none of it as my confidence in the Blues dropped about as low as my jaw when that tweet went viral. It's somehow exponentially less surprising that this series is going the distance after a challenging of the hockey gods suddenly opened up a season-long underdog story to a narrative of eternal mockery. Hopefully the spirits got all their spite out of the way during a Game 6 that allowed the home fans very little excitement, or that embarrassing use of the internet will live on in infamy. For a team that's spent all postseason attempting to erase the misgivings of fanbase whose balls have been left bluer than their jerseys far too many times before, I hope the type of devastating cocktease that will be revisited ad nauseam by an obnoxious opponent isn't in the cards.
I don't know that people are referring to fortuitous music being played behind the unfriendly fire of inter-fanbase fisticuffs between fucking assholes when they say that sometimes there are other forces at work during sporting events. That said, it certainly felt like some sort of higher-power - perhaps even a stumbling, bumbling St. Patrick himself - summoned his sense of humor in cueing the most aggressive entrance music in wrestling history as a bald drunk with an attitude problem dripped domestic beer while dropping an unprepared antagonist. If the surroundings, circumstances, and score of that shamelessly stupid scene weren't hand selected by the hockey and/or wrestling gods themselves then that's just some...ahem...Stone Cold serendipity. We're talking about a lottery-esque level of luck manifesting itself so that over-served idiots falling all over themselves could be part of something truly magical, as opposed to solely being a part of something truly stereotypical. The unmistakable sound of glass shattering in the background was the type of stunner of a script flip that could bring Vince McMahon to his knees, even if Boston fans belligerently boozing themselves into a 5-body pileup as their over-confidence turned into anxiety was the exact opposite.
Ha! Joke's on Bruce Cassidy, and I don't mean the perpetual punchline that has been the entirely overwhelmed cast of characters (poorly) officiating the Stanley Cup playoffs. Instead, I'm referring to the joke that is the implication that one missed call, albeit an inexcusably missed call that led to an eventual game-winning goal, has made any blacker eyes that already looked like those of a raccoon after being bruised beyond belief by a postseason that's seemed destined to expose every potential defect in the NHL's product. If we're rolling with the analogy that the league is a living entity that takes a punch every time they suffer a bad look then a dead horse has nothing on the beating they've taken prior to last night. Long story short, one passed up penalty, no matter how impactful its aftermath, is a drop in the bucket of tears from teams that have far more reason to feel fucked. Now, Bruins' fans absolutely have every right to bitch, just as Bruce Cassidy has every right to do exactly what Craig Berube did earlier in the series to try to influence officiating going forward. However, let's be very clear here. During a time of the year in which referees, for better or worse, tend to let the players play, every team in every game can point out a missed 3rd period penalty that went against them. They aren't always that obvious, nor do they always lead to backbreaking goals. However, it stands to reason that's partially because most victimized teams don't stand around, dicks in hand, waiting for a whistle instead of actually playing to it. Boston may have lost by a goal that shouldn't have had the chance to come to fruition, but to say they lost because of a goal that shouldn't have had the chance to come to fruition is a very convenient way to point the finger away their best players making their only impact on the groin of the opposing goalie. The officials definitely deserve their fair share of blame for, yet again, getting exposed as incompetent, but - make no mistake - this was no hand-pass assist in overtime. With a multitude of mystifying misses, such as the like, so fresh in everyone's mind, an objectively crappy judgement call not made with plenty of time left on the clock hardly meets the high standard of abject stupidity we've seen throughout the Stanley Cup playoffs. With the incredibly controversial way this postseason has played out, we were damn near guaranteed another high-profile head-scratcher during the Final, and - has been proven time and time again throughout the last few months - this one could have been much, much, much worse.
I know everyone's first instinct will be to laugh at the irony, as Shaq couldn't shoot an uncontested 15 feet set-shot without causing a visually visceral pain to everyone who watched him do so. However, the truth is that this makes far more sense than Danny Green taking shooting tips from someone whose stroke is second nature. Haven't you ever heard that those that can't do teach? Diesel might make for the lousiest student in league history, but - considering the amount of expert advice he's collected over the years - he's got more than enough knowledge to be a shooter tutor. Now granted, "leave it" isn't the most enlightening of lesson, but it's advice that been sourced by a bigger crowd than that of someone who came out of the womb with their elbow gracefully tucked and their shot automatically rotating more reliably than the earth around the sun. If Wikipedia has taught me anything it's that more opinions always equal the most accuracy, so the strong night of one of the most accomplished clutch shooters in Finals' history almost has to be a direct result of Shaq's second, third, fourth, or fifth-hand suggestion...
I typically hesitate to heap praise on hockey players for playing through insane injuries, as it tends to inspire fans of a beautiful-but-barbaric game to take out their insecurities on sports that don't encourage athletes to stitch, wire, or glue themselves together and (almost literally) gut it out for glory. Therefore, as it pertains to Zdeno Chara somehow making a strong case to play in Game 5 of the Stanley Cup Final despite being without the use of his mouth, I'll just echo the motto of an infamously resilient Jackass in stating that if you're gonna be dumb then you gotta be tough. Make no broken bones about it, even thinking long and hard about taking a beating from the band of brutes along the Blues' front lines with a busted jaw is remarkably dumb. That, more than anything, means it could only be considered a possibility by someone remarkably tough. Amidst a host of other qualities - such as proud, noble, tenacious, and persistent - Big Z is undeniably tough as a veteran who led by example long before that was literally the only means of communication left at his disposal. Whether or not the Bruins' captain actually follows through in lacing them up and taking the ice in a limited role tonight is irrelevant. Even putting himself through the painstaking process of putting a helmet on and answering a line of questioning in ink is proof positive of how much this game means to someone who has accomplished more than the teammates who should be taking note of how dedicated he is to beating the Notes. Again, even trying to mumble his way into lineup Kenny from South Park-style is extremely dumb, but it's even more dedicated, and - above all else - it's a contagious type of tough. The Magic Man is Back as Ryan Fitzpatrick is Out Here Dropping No-Look Dimes at Dolphins OTA's6/6/2019
Clutch those pearls, Josh Rosen! It appears there's still quite a bit of magic in that Ivy League-educated arm! In all seriousness, let me first say that I very much enjoyed this clip. In fact, the only thing that's stopping me from saying that I loved it from the deepest depths of my heart is that it has yet to be placed side-by-side with a clip of that same no-look pass resulting in either a pick-6 or a concussed spectator when the magic wears off and Ryan Fitzpatrick inevitable turns back into the quarterback equivalent of a pumpkin. That might come off as condescending, but I genuinely appreciate that, in a league that claims to value consistency yet constantly finds itself imprisoned by any optimistic moment under center, exists a player who knows not mediocrity at a position with which it's most prominent. Ryan Fitzpatrick has seen himself pull off the incredible just often enough to continue attempting it, even though it's just as often he's been made to look like a damn fool by doing so. Speaking as someone who doesn't have to live and die with his performances, it actually makes for spectacular theatre. Will it be a tale of triumph or tale of tragedy? A show inspired by Pat Mahomes or Pat White? Might as well flip a coin, but let him confidently slinging the rock outside his line of sight while on the run serve as a reminder that this particular "coin", almost without fail, makes for one entertaining flip.
Obviously the main takeaway from the incident above is that, as has been seemingly discussed ad nauseam this season, NBA attendees need to know their goddamn role. Doesn't matter that you paid an egregious amount to sit close enough to forcibly tongue kiss the players. Touching them in any form or fashion is entirely off limits and should be universally understood as an unacceptable way to earn yourself an immediate ejection. For that reason, while I think a lifetime ban might be a bit extreme, I totally understand Kyle Lowry calling for one in order to send an unmistakable message to the most privileged idiots at NBA games...
On a much less serious note, I do find it hilarious how symptomatic that push was of just how audibly and visually frustrated the Warriors and their outrageously spoiled fanbase were last night. Aside from the unleashed superstardom of Steph Curry, who honestly owes Draymond Green a palm to the forehead for his performance in mashing the lob button more liberally than myself playing a drunk game of NBA Live during my college days, Golden State looked flustered from the first few minutes on. On the court that bewilderment manifested itself through careless turnovers and shameless tantrums, and in the stands that bewilderment manifested itself in a well-to-do fan (plot twist, he's now confirmed to be a part owner) serving as the sorest of hurt butts in shoving an opponent who helped greatly in kicking their ass. The last time the Warriors felt completely overwhelmed by the moment was probably the exact same time that overbearing asshole was made defiantly disgruntled by watching them play basketball. Safe to say it's been a long time coming that the entirety of Oracle Arena has been turned into an asylum for those suffering from anxiety attacks, and that's exactly the vibe it was giving off throughout a fight whose fate felt decided in the first quarter. Of course, that'll happen when you're down two of the top 10-15 players in the league and are rolling with a rotation whose most defensible perimeter defender is the NBA equivalent of a senior citizen (with all due respect to Andre Iguodala, of course) during a Finals game. The inevitability of it, however, doesn't make watching Steph Curry go full-LeBron in finally being forced to carry the team while the sky was basically falling around him any less entertaining. UPDATE: Point even more proven. With the exception of #30, the entirety of Dub Nation - from the front office, to the fans, to those on the floor - had their entitlement threatened and their cages rattled last night...
Why? I know that's not the question I should feel inclined to ask, as I am damn near maniacally appreciative of the NBA's smelliest conspiracy theory being confirmed as the truth by 'The Truth', but why not at least leave the illusion that it was false? That championship, and some of the clutch performances that he contributed to it, were like the last remaining reasons to take Paul Pierce somewhat seriously. So riddle me this, how do you take seriously a man that admitted his most legendary moment as an otherwise proud professional/future HOFer was made possible by what was quite literally a crippling inability to clench his asshole in time to find the nearest toilet? There were no shortage of shitty suspicions, but there's a very big difference between the allegation of soiled shorts on one of the biggest stages in sports and the confession of soiled shorts on one of the biggest stages in sports. The latter being the type of thing that'll never let you look at someone who was left in this helplessly handicapped state by a shart without hysterically laughing at him ever again...
The following backtrack reads like the desperate damage control of someone who, after uncharacteristically careful consideration, realized that he just discourteously flushed all doubt as it pertains to his legacy being stained by a skid mark. Not even the perpetual punchline of NBA "analysis" would joke about farts gone fecal during the NBA Finals, so - like toothpaste out of a tube - that turtle's head is forever out of its shell as any impending Paul Pierce autobiography just became bathroom reading.
One of a kind. Truly one of a kind. That might very well be because he was carefully engineered in a lab that has since misplaced the blueprint necessary to mass produce his prototype, but one of a kind nonetheless. I said it once and I'll say it again, if Kawhi Leonard was even slightly less convincing as the awkward and emotionless bionic basketball man, I'd swear he was self-aware in pandering to the public's punchlines with behavior that is so outrageously inhumane that it would only play well in a Terminator parody. I bet even E.T. arrived instinctually knowing to bump a fist that was placed in front of him, and he's the alien originator of the "phone home" maneuver Kawhi Leonard used in putting Norman Powell on hold to call to the court for which he was created. We're talking about a guy who has turned a near-humorless lack of personality into a hilarious personality of its own. That's mostly due to the highly intrusive age in which we might as well live in a drone hovering over every off-the-court mannerism of professional athletes. However, the mannerisms of this particular professional athlete are somehow still socially stupefying to those with which he's now only two wins away from winning a championship. As baffled as I am by his physical gracefulness on the floor, I'm just as befuddled by his social gracelessness off of it. It's like he's got a one track mind that merely commits to memory any and all things basketball, as evidenced by the fact that the only rituals of which his former teammates can speak are of him sounding like he was solely programmed to find the nearest court and kill at all costs. My guess would be that Norman Powell can certainly relate following what would be seen as a sociopathic snub...if, and only if, it wasn't executed by an anomalously introverted enigma whose off-court norm is above and beyond the universe of abnormal.
PFT- Jets running back Le'Veon Bell apparently has plenty of jewelry. For now, he has more than $500,000 less of it.
Via the Associated Press, two women allegedly robbed Bell of a more than a half million in jewelry last month. Per the report, two female acquaintances — described in the police report as girlfriends of Bell — absconded with the jewelry. Bell claims that he returned from the gym on May 25 to find the women gone, along with the jewelry. The New York Post reports that Bell claims to have lost via the theft two gold chains with diamonds, a black panther pendant with black and white diamonds and a Rolex. The total value amounts to $520,000. The theft happened in Hollywood, Florida. Bell has joined the Jets this week for the first time, to participate in the team’s mandatory offseason minicamp. --------- Unlike most Steelers' fans, I presume, I do feel bad for Le'Veon Bell here. Surely he'll be able to restock the old jewelry closet with those incredibly elusive fat ass checks he'll finally be collecting from the New York Jets, but - no matter your means - it always stings more when stung by people you even temporarily trust. That said, seeing as those people were simultaneous "girlfriends", or something close enough to be both described as such in a police report and offered unsupervised access to his place, I do feel as though it's fair to question his street smarts. I don't have one significant other, but even I know that if you have two concurrently that it's only a matter of time before they become closer to one another than they are to you. Somewhere in the fine print of 'Girl Code' is a stipulation binding all sexual partners of common man to bond over the shared experiences. When said experiences are shared with a professional athlete who clearly isn't the world's most loyal lover, it's only a matter of time before he becomes the target of the gossip when gone. Now, I think it goes without saying that such situations don't always end in a half a million dollar jewelry heist. However, that's risk you run as a rich man when you accept the reward of "dating" two chicks from Florida who are crazy enough to be cool with it. Especially when you don't have the foresight to lock them the hell out whenever it is that you leave. When in doubt, which Le'Veon Bell absolutely should have been, it must always be remembered that these hoes ain't loyal, which is true to the tenth power when offered absolutely no reason to be. TL:DR version: Typical Jets.
Free of context, I don't hate those answers from the first-time head coach and the second-year quarterback of a team that should be prioritizing cohesiveness, discipline, dedication, and loyalty throughout an organization that has suffered from a lack there of throughout multiple decades of doomed dysfunction. I just think they'd make a hell of a lot more sense if they weren't in reference to a previously productive, longer-tenured player who, up until this point, hasn't said boo despite being treated like a complete afterthought throughout last regular season and this offseason. As a versatile back who is in his prime as a reliable runner and the perfect complimentary playmaker in the age of pass-happy offenses, Duke Johnson Jr. somehow had all of one single game with double-digit touches last year. That year, mind you, was one in which Baker Mayfield (mostly) served as his quarterback and Freddie Kitchens served as his position coach turned offensive coordinator. Enter Kareem Hunt alongside Nick Chubb, and there is next to no reason for someone whose position doesn't allow him many lost seasons to believe that he'll be a oft-utilized beneficiary of the ball distribution in a backfield that has just as many mouthes to feed. If the Browns didn't make it crystal clear how they felt about Duke Johnson Jr. when they offered him 2-3 pity carries a week then they sure as shit did when they floated his name on the trading block as of March. Therefore, it feels rather hypocritical of their leadership committee to start talking tough and playing hardball as if they aren't well aware of who slapped the 'For Sale' sign on him in the first place. Especially since one of the members of that leadership committee had to transfer schools to get an optimal opportunity and motivated himself to become a quality pro by taking far less legitimate slights personal since. Contract be damned, since NFL teams have insured themselves a pretty penny by treating those as though they're as binding as a pinky promise with a used-car salesman. Put Baker Mayfield in Duke Johnson Jr.'s shoes and he'd have already been stomping them in hopes of ending up in a situation that better suited what was, objectively speaking, a woefully wasted skill-set. And honestly, it would take someone speaking selfishly in carefully walking the company line to blame him if he did. |
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