I think we all know that LeSean McCoy, as it stands, is innocent until proven guilty. Even if he doesn't have the greatest track record of being a remotely good person, there's enough hearsay surrounding this story (for which the accused has an alibi) to hold off on jumping to conclusions. If he's even 10% as awful of a human as is being alleged then the justice system will (Lord willing) do him far more damage than any presumably biased Instagram ever could, but there's still enough skepticism to question whether he's truly one slap of a senior citizen short of hitting the superfecta of domestic violence. That being said, things aren't exactly looking too sunny for Shady right about now. Those wounds were extremely disturbing to look at regardless of who inflicted them, and - considering the NFL's reliance on a Kangaroo Court - that alone doesn't bode well for the accused. For that reason, you might think a vote of confidence/declaration of innocence from literally anyone with even the slightest knowledge of the situation would behoove him in the court of pubic opinion. Unfortunately, you'd only be about 99.9% correct. You see, there is only a handful of voices that would ring hallow in support of LeSean McCoy, and one of them definitely belongs to the person that just rained in on the subject with a tweet storm in his defense...
I say the following with sadness because it's starting to sound like the result of an obvious case of CTE, but - given his actions of late - it's basically a coin flip as to whether or not Richie Incognito knows what planet he's on at any given time. He might have/have had insider info, but the legitimacy of it became forever compromised when he showed up at a public gym and started playing dodgeball with dumbbells while spouting more delusional nonsense than Randy Quaid's character in Independence Day...
Like, if Richie was totally "with us" then he would have realized that his word is currently as strong as that of homeless man preaching about the rise of Satan from the corner of a busy city block and shut the hell up. Even if you ignore both the bullying scandal and his general point of view on just about every single sensitive subject, an offseason that would have been better off Incognito is enough to discredit the former Buffalo Bill and his biased ruling on battered women, children, and pets. How much truth is included in that damning social media post that paints LeSean McCoy as the juiced up combination of all the worst parts of Michael Vick, Adrian Peterson, and Ray Rice is still up for debate. However, if he's looking to strengthen his side of it then calling Chip Kelly to the stand would somehow make for a more beneficial character witness than the one he just got.
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LBS- The Cleveland Indians blew a 4-0 lead in the ninth inning against the Cincinnati Reds on Tuesday, and a bullpen miscommunication was a big factor.
Cody Allen struggled in his attempt to close out a 4-0 lead and exited the game with the bases loaded, two outs, and the score 4-3. The Indians needed one out to end the game, but the dangerous Joey Votto was due up. Indians manager Terry Francona wanted Oliver Perez to face Votto in a lefty-lefty matchup, but there was a miscommunication. According to Francona, pitching coach Carl Willis thought Francona asked for “OP,” but Willis heard “OT.” OP would have been Oliver Perez, but “OT” turned out to be Dan Otero. So the wrong pitcher was called for out of the bullpen. Otero allowed a bases-clearing double to Votto then a walk and a single before the inning ended with Cincinnati up 7-4. Cleveland couldn’t score in the bottom of the ninth and lost. Keep in mind that in addition to the lefty-lefty matchup compared to Otero, who is a right-hander, Perez has a 0.77 ERA this season vs. Otero’s 5.71 mark. ------ First and foremost, a tip of the cap is owed to the Cincinnati Reds. As complicit as the Cleveland Indians were in falling asleep at the wheel just prior to parking themselves in the win column, sparking a last second comeback the likes of which hasn't been seen since the days in which a fat drunk had the entire sport of baseball by its bat is nonetheless impressive...
That said, the miscommunication that let to said comeback is just further evidence for a theory I've long stood by. So, one more time for the people in the cheap seats... THE BASEBALL SEASON IS TOO DAMN LONG! I'm willing to listen to other explanations for a bullpen coach's inability to use common sense in crunch time and warming up a reliever that had no business facing one of the best hitters in baseball with the bases loaded and the game on the line, but right now the fatigue of 162 games played primarily through the dead of summer is the most logical reason I can conjure up for such carelessness. I suppose I could also point to Cleveland Indians use of generic and oddly similar nicknames as a basis for the confusion. However, since simply looking at the direness of the situation or the handedness of the players involved in the confusion could have cleared it up, I think I'm sticking with blaming the dog days for a coach's mental cat nap. Again, the Reds deserve all the credit in the world popping out the casket right before it got lowered into the ground, but the Indians completely losing all forms of focus during the burial isn't exactly a great look for baseball. The idea that the man whose job it is to prepare the players with which a victory is to be trusted was about as attentive during a call to the bullpen as he is when his wife tells a work story would be alarming, if not for the idea that it seems like an extremely monotonous practice to partake in by mid-July. I'll tell you what, I'm glad that J.R. Smith made this joke when he did. I'd argue it's still a bit too soon to make light of an inexcusable act of stupidity that will somehow reign supreme over all his other inexcusable acts of stupidity in becoming synonymous with his illustriously tumultuous career. That said, this is really the best timing anyone could expect out of someone whose mind somehow wandered over the river and through the woods during the waning seconds of a tied NBA Finals game. More importantly, those most prone to having their heart wrenched by this reminder already had it ripped out of their chest a little over a week ago. Like, is there any actual harm in twisting the knife in a zombie? Now that LeBron left, Cavaliers' fans are basically The Walking Dead if the undead just walked lifelessly among us as opposed to relentlessly trying to eat our innards. Can't really get too upset about a 51 point effort that went to more waste than J.R. Smith's brain as he literally sprinted away from a shot for the first time (and worst time) in his life when the person that dropped those 51 points already took his frustrations to a place where the weather can help ease them. The castle was bound to crumble as soon as the King left it. I don't know that those who remained needed the court jester to use a shamelessly adorable prop to force self-deprecating jokes on them amongst the rubble, but it's not like the situation can possibly be made worse at this point. The town scapegoat that couldn't even cough without being lambasted as a spreader of locker room cancer for the last 4 years is now the heir apparent by which any semblance of the Cavaliers' respectability is to retained, so I have a hard time believing that their fans still have feelings to be hurt. Basketball season is now just a time of year in which to watch 'The Block' on loop until their eyes bleed. That's a much better fate than re-suffering the anxiety of the following play over and over again, which is what they might feel inclined to do if they still had hope, faith, competitive spirit, or even interest...
CharlotteObserver- In the final answer of his otherwise charming first press conference as the new owner of the Carolina Panthers, David Tepper said Tuesday he is “contractually obligated” to keep the 13-foot statue of former Panthers owner Jerry Richardson exactly where it stands outside the north gate of the stadium.
So Richardson turned out to have one final surprise in store for fans: A going-away present that means he will never quite go away at all. The statue stays — Richardson insisted on it during negotiations. And because of that insistence, Richardson will remain in all his suited “glory” between two snarling black Panthers that are supposed to represent North and South Carolina. ------ I'm not going to lie to you, I laughed. I soon felt shame for doing so, but this self-aggrandizing display by someone who got pushed out of the cushiest of gigs for, at the very least, meeting the highest standard of scumbaggery in sports (your move, Donald Sterling) is so preposterously over-the-top that I couldn't help but find it funny at first. As a matter of fact, I should probably go easier on myself, since even the most trained of internet oddsmakers would consider this story to have a 50/50 shot of ending up satirical on initial analysis. In retrospect, I don't know why I underrated the narcissism of someone that orchestrated the construction of his own 13 foot likeness and surrounded it with bronzed jungle cats. Still, the idea of an 81 year old man who had to pay victimized women and minorities a salary (and in a lot of cases, a settlement) for them to stomach spending time around him becoming the wrinkled face of vanity is enough to make Donald Trump tip his MAGA hat. For a disgraced figurehead to halt arbitration and demand that the most unrelentingly vicious of predators....and his pets remain erected in front of a stadium that no longer welcomes him before signing off on the forced sale of his pride and joy is egomania personified. Jerry Richardson doesn't even care if he goes down in history as a racist pervert as long as his image stands tall in effigy as one with the Panthers. This negotiation was handled insanely poorly by whoever failed miserably in leveraging the prevalence of the #MeToo movement into the removal of an obnoxiously-sized statue honoring someone who, legally speaking, caused seven figures worth of emotional distress with his sexual harassment. However, the stipulation on which said deviant held uncompromising is undeniable proof that he is still shamelessly unapologetic. That creepy old fuck remaining immortalized is as stupid and unnecessary a reminder of organizational sins as you'll find, but at least the only Jerry Richardson that's still a fixture on the premises is ironically powerless to being objectified and provides quite the canvas for well-deserved defacement.
Now, that's what I call dedication to the craft! Filling hour after hour of dead air during a baseball season that can get pretty boring is an art, and Jon Sciambi is so devoted to painting the perfect picture that he can't even watch a game he's not calling without instinctively sharpening the tools of his trade. Say what you want about his yet-to-be-diagnosed ADD, but don't say that the guy who caught himself practicing during a break in the game treats broadcasting as more of a profession than a passion! Considering this apparent propensity to just start blurting out exactly what he happens to be watching at any given time, I probably wouldn't enjoy drinking beers next to him in the cheap seats, much less companying him to the movies. That said, you can't ask for much more out of an announcer than a guy who might randomly break into giving the play-by-play of his day-to-day. Especially when said guy has the rare ability to laugh at himself despite making a mistake while working a job that is too often taken too seriously.
TMZ- Ben Simmons believes his ex, Tinashe, has been tailing him and showing up at the same places he parties with gf Kendall Jenner ... and it's gotten so bad he's seriously thinking of significantly beefing up security.
Sources close to Simmons tell us ... Tinashe's been suspiciously popping up regularly at places he goes with Kendall ... way past the point of coincidence. You'll remember, the singer showed up at Delilah Thursday, and a couple weeks prior she surfaced at Poppy in WeHo when Ben was there. We're told Ben is convinced Tinashe cannot accept the fact he ended their relationship and has moved on with Kendall. He believes she's showing up to keep tabs on him so she can see if there's a chink in the armor between him and Kendall. Our sources say Ben thinks she's become so obsessive he doesn't want to take chances ... especially because of Kendall, and that's why he's talking about hiring extra muscle. ----- I don't want to be too critical of Ben Simmons here. Fearing the type of crazy ex-girlfriend that orchestrates run-in's in hopes of sabotaging your new relationship is totally normal. If I had his means, I might also try to put an end to the paranoia one surely experiences when a scorned women of their past starts popping up in the same place with a suspicious amount of frequency. It's for that reason (amongst many, many others), however, that I don't have aspirations of dating into a relationship that will be broadcast on television. Seriously, I don't know who the Sixers' star thinks he's gotten into bed with, but he made quite the rookie mistake if he feels as though privacy is something he's still privy to. As if his decision to bolster his security team won't directly result in Kendall Jenner's family bolstering their camera crew. Like, what are we even talking about here? Light stalking? That might be considered a scandal in reality, but in "reality" it's considered a storyline. In the Kardashian world, publicly snitching on his ex for spying might actually be more frowned upon than her busting out the binoculars from the bar top. Kris Jenner probably has Tinashe on the payroll, and Ben Simmons is out here acting like he's in some regular ass relationship that's based on boundaries, trust, and mutual respect? Poor bastard is trying to turn an attention whore into a housewife like she's the only fish in the sea when she and her sisters have been catching and releasing NBA players since before he was shooting jumpers with the wrong hand. Someone needs to break him out this tabloid-induced trance before he ends up single with a broken heart and 7,000 security guards. The World's Most Depressing Gender Reveal, Starring Gordon Hayward And His Otherwise Female Family7/10/2018
Disappointment. Disbelief. Devastation. If you took all three of those depressing emotions, mixed them together, and seasoned them with far more salt than necessary then you'd have the strong dose of reality that Gordon Hayward was forced into choking down on video. From the very moment the sun shone off that first ball of helium it was awkwardly obvious that the Celtics' small forward resented its color. From the feigned enthusiasm of the initial reaction, to the balloon punt, to the cynical sarcasm of "daddy's alwaaays happy", the only ways in which Gordon Hayward could have made it more clear that he was hoping for a boy would have made that clip too explicit for a professional athlete (or his wife) to post on the internet. I think it bears mentioning that we are talking about a guy that somehow managed to maintain most of his likability in throwing up the deuces to a small market team in NBA free agency. He knows what to say to appease the masses, and yet he was so outward in his inability to grin and bear that his wife had to question his level of excitement before the 30 second gender reveal reached it's conclusion. I legit think that, for at least a split second, he would have been more enthused to see a rabid animal poke its head of that box if only to keep alive his faith in finally fathering a son. That's how badly Gordon Hayward wants just one other boy in the house, and it would be nice if fate would intervene before he ends up raising an entire sisterhood as a starting five in hopes of continuing his basketball legacy.
You know, as illiterate as he was in reading a room, this (now former) unnamed assistant coach at Indiana wasn't entirely wrong. Modeling his mentorship style after a man that orchestrated the targeted extermination of well over five million Jewish people and countless others that dared to so much as disagree with his beliefs doesn't exactly speak glowingly of him as a person or a professional. However, given the hierarchy of college football, history provides much worse (not be confused with more evil) leaders to look up to. Be it through horror or hive mind, Hitler was unquestionably successful in getting others to absorb his wrathful wish as their command. Unfortunately, you'd have to flat out lie to yourself to believe that, to a much lesser degree, some of the same scare tactics aren't used at a level of coaching that can occasionally border on the dictatorial. To be clear, the nameless coach in question is undoubtedly an ignorant buffoon who's probably capped out his on upward mobility if spin-zoning the "positive" elements of the Holocaust was his best attempt at trying to rally players of all races, colors, creeds, and religions. Football inherently has more than enough of its own problems without sharing a sentence with genocide. Still, all he really did was invoke the obvious, which is that some of the most accomplished coaches in college football prescribe strictly to the "my way or the highway" approach. Hell, look no further than how quickly some of those very same coaches flame out of the NFL when forced to relinquish a portion of their power to players whose long overdue paychecks offer them the slightest bit of autonomy. Now, implying that Hitler would have made for a heck of a coach if he focused his attention on running gassers on an undergraduate gridiron instead of inside enclosed chambers of the unlawfully imprisoned is as much of a stretch as referencing him as "great" in any context. That said, there's plenty of former Penn State football players that still believe in nothing more strongly than the innocence of the winningest coach in NCAA history who admittedly enabled a pedophile for decades on end. I wish Zander Diamont weren't overly optimistic in presuming that all "great" college coaches have emotional intelligence in common, but - sadly - it's naive to pretend that instituting a cult-like mentality that forces players to blindly follow as opposed to adapting hasn't worked out pretty damn well in the past.
I don't want to make it sound like I'm siding with TSA here, as not taking particular precaution with what was obviously all that remained of a passenger's loved one is, as said passenger put it, asinine and irresponsible. I'm just saying that I'm not even remotely surprised by what the careless hands of the clueless are capable of. A.J. Francis has every right to be absolutely furious that an item as unmistakably invaluable as his mother's ashes was treated with just about as much negligence as...well...every other replaceable piece of luggage. Unfortunately, what he also has is an inordinate amount of faith in the common sense of airline workers. I'd also be sick to my stomach if I were in his shoes, but my belly aching would have begun the second that bag left my sight. I would have had a lump in my throat before my baggage even came around the damn carousel to be claimed, for dealing with the troubles of TSA requires a "hope for the best, but expect the absolute worst" approach. I'm not blaming the Giants' defensive lineman, for the rules clearly state that the deceased are to be treated delicately. Unfortunately, those in charge of enforcing those rules just so happen to be the most disgruntled people in a place that's permeating with irritability at all times. An important lesson was learned at the most heart-wrenching of time. You're only actually promised your own health and safety when traveling with hundreds of people by way of a steel tube tens of thousands of feet in the sky, and that's only because you won't be able to bitch and complain if that promise goes unfulfilled. Therefore, do everything in your power to keep anything of true importance on your person, as those that have to deal with every other person don't give a damn about you, your belongs, or - in the most extreme of cases - your late mother's memory. The following is both sad and true, but not even death can save you from being disrespected as a person while flying. I don't suspect that will change anytime soon. PFT- NBC Los Angeles reports that Browner was arrested today on charges of kidnapping, burglary, false imprisonment and violation of a restraining order.
Police got a call that Browner broke into a home this morning, and when the resident tried to run away, he forced her back in. Police say Browner physically harmed the woman and threatened to kill her before taking a Rolex watch from her and leaving. The woman reportedly had previously been in a relationship with Browner and had a restraining order against him. Browner spent two days in jail in May for violating a restraining order. Today’s arrest is at least Browner’s fourth arrest in the last year. In addition to the May restraining order violation, he was arrested on drug charges in October, and he was arrested for making criminal threats in September. ------- We're going to work under the assumption that Brandon Browner doesn't have CTE. Only time will tell whether or not it was safe to assume that brain trauma didn't turn a repeat offender on the field into a far more threatening repeat offender off the field. However, during that time, I'm just going to appreciate (for lack of a better term) this somewhat rare instance in which an athlete's behavior translates so well between both his professional and personal life. Admittedly, I'd prefer the crimes were of the more victimless variety, but him racking up four different charges on his rap sheet in one single day is so unbelievably characteristic of the unforgiving flag magnet that refused to own up to the laundry list of disturbances he cause during his sole season as a wildly overpaid New Orleans Saint. I don't want this to read as if I'm relishing in the arrest of someone simply because he was in abject failure in helping my team win relatively meaningless football games. Brandon Browner belongs behind bars because he's a clear and present danger to women, loved ones, and society at large, not because he couldn't even cover his own tracks without getting burned for at least 120 yards (50 by penalty) and an uncontested touchdown. That said, with how often our judgements of pro athletes as people are proven to be prematurely presumptuous, it's nice to know my Saints' bias wasn't entirely at work when I considered Brandon Browner to be a huge asshole that completely lacked any sort of consideration for others after he tried to fight both his coach and a reporter after two separate dismal performances. Here's to hoping he stays behind bars, as he's given not a single reason for anyone to believe he won't end up back there sooner rather than later anyway.
Let's make one thing very clear, the Buffalo Sabres don't actually owe their fans a damn thing. The $49 dollars off that they are giving anyone that wants their Jack Eichel jersey to be both numerically accurate and associated with a future that can't possibly be as dark as the past three seasons is a nice gesture, but it's far from a necessary one. A superstar randomly changing to a new number when the old one is stitched on to the back of 75% of a home crowd that thought their investment would be safe for the next eight years might provide the most ruthless of reminders, but every single person (over the age of 12) that chooses to wear a professional athlete's name on their back does so with the understanding that its authenticity is temporary. The inherent issue of roster fluidity, however, isn't the main reason that a sports team shouldn't feel obligated to extend an olive branch to their long suffering fanbase. The main reason they should just charge full price to any and every person that's fiscally inclined to keep their wardrobe up to date with the professional progression of Jack Eichel is that any price deduction short of 100% isn't anywhere near enough to offset the emotional and financial toll that the Sabres sucking has taken on the fine folks of Buffalo. Giving even one single dollar off on a second $200+ jersey bearing the same last name of a transcendent player whose efforts have been wasted by the ineptitude of the organization that drafted him is an admission that atonement is due, and if atonement is due then it's due in a hell of a lot more than $49 dollar increments. Simply put, coming off a season in which you finished dead last in your division for the 4th time in five years, it's more insulting to offer a discount that's smaller than the percentage of games you won than not offering a discount at all. then don't even offer a discount at all. In a "don't bother paying until you plan on paying in full" sort of way, it's not about about the payment as much as the principle. For that reason, a genuine, heartfelt apology that reads "sorry...for literally everything" might actually go further with Sabres' fans than a single nosebleed seat's worth of savings on a redundant expense. Sidenote: I don't encourage torching jerseys as a display of fandom, but if Jack Eichel eventually bolts after pulling this move then the record he's going to hold in the amount of ash formed by the burning of his likeness will be a well-deserved one.
This bet is such a nonsensical lose-lose that, even by insecure teenage boy standards, it's one that could only be mildly explained by the influence of rapidly chased shots of grain alcohol. Trevor Bauer doesn't drink, so take that as your introduction to the type of grown ass man child that we are talking about here. I never thought that a fuck-ton of financial security would become the sworn enemy of toxic masculinity after fueling it for so many years, but if the Indians' pitcher was willing to put his testicles in its crosshairs (guns, fuck yeah!) then maximizing one's worth must also be one of the many things that are now "for pussies". Look, as much as I'd like to sit here and besmirch the entire existence of the type of Trump supporter that worships the ground on which the Donald waddles, the truth is that this "gentleman's agreement" that was made between two immature idiots is a win-win for society as a whole. It's not quite natural selection, but Trevor Bauer is likely going to end up retiring with the regret of wages lost to the exacerbated aging process of starting pitchers (or the unforgiving blades of a drone) or he's going to put his ability to reproduce in the hands of a highly pressurized paint pellet. Personally, I'd rather the latter come to fruition, but since he's seems adamant about overvaluing both his balls and his word, I think we're better off crossing our fingers that he misses out on as much unearned money as possible. I'm usually all for professional athletes securing the biggest possibly bag during the limited window in which they are able to do so, but - judging by the shocking sobriety of his beer muscles - there's no better person to be left clutching his sac as that window closes on him than Trevor Bauer. You get what you deserve when you consider stupidly sourced personal pride to be priceless.
I'm not going to lie. Even as someone who likes to see happening in sports through various perspectives, albeit sarcastically, I'm having a tough time finding a good reason for why the Washington Wizards felt it necessary to make a financial commitment to Dwight Howard that will wear on their wallet long after he's worn out his welcome. At two years and 11 million dollars in total, it was far from the worst contract handed out in NBA free agency. I just think you'd be hard pressed to find one that was more confusing. Not that a team option would have all that much more cautionary for an organization dumb enough to decide on quelling their in-fighting with Dwight f'n Howard, but Ernie Grunfeld managed to give a player option to the one person that would be more likely to choose the wrong option than himself. We're taking about a guy whose name was met with a resounding and unanimous "he..he...he...hellllllll no" when it was presented to a team, in the Warriors, that prides themselves on mocking the rest of the league by treasuring their trash...
Yet, the franchise on the bi-polar opposite of the NBA's functionality spectrum decided that a near seven foot infection that's poisoned three separate locker rooms in the last three years and was preemptively (and expensively) exterminated from a fourth is so fitting of their culture that they incentivized a deal made with the the basketball equivalent of the devil? Maybe the Wizards are right, Maybe they are so broken that having a centralized figure to direct all their angst towards is a step in the right direction for a team that's constantly been turned against one another by turmoil. If nothing else, Dwight Howard has proven that he's nearly impossible to like and thus far less likely receive any sort of support in any sort of conflict. If his role in the organization is to be the punching bag for which internal frustrations get externalized then I suppose it could be a good addition that can finally do what Marcin Gortat couldn't in making John Wall look like a sympathetic figure in the eyes of his own teammates. I wouldn't exactly bank on it, but it's possible that the "enemy of my enemy is my friend" theory could make Washington a more cohesive unit. If ironic friendships formed amongst ex-girlfriends in bad romantic comedies have taught us anything it's that shared hatred is extremely underrated when it comes to unifying otherwise oppositional parties. I don't know that the reward of a second round exit is worth the risk of their sanity, but the Wizards don't exactly have championship aspirations to lose by getting experimental with their team building. Still, stat line aside, giving a person with the general disposition of a time bomb the choice to keep ticking under their roof for en entire second season was the most they could have done in assuring that it's inevitable detonation occurs on their watch. “Nah, I’ll never get over that because at the end of the day, if they call that goaltending, who knows what happens? I think we win that game, honestly, but it is what it is. I can’t really do anything about it now. Next year I’m gonna just make sure I dunk it.” - Victor Oladipo (h/t Get Up!) ------- For a refresher, here's both the play in question and the play that followed...
I'm quite sure he's been made aware of the most basic of math an incalculable amount of times, but the following is my own personal effort at saving Victor Oladipo from a lifetime of completely unnecessary anxiety. The only thing that would have been made different by the goaltending call that wasn't was the amount of pain felt by both the Pacers and their fans as LeBron stole from them a victory instead of merely the unknown of an overtime period. I'm not one to stand in defense of NBA officiating, especially when it comes playoff time, but all the referees altered with their incompetence was the height from which the hopes of the Indiana faithful were set to fall. I'm all for a good hypothetical, but let's save them for instances in which the butterfly effect would have at least changed the point of entry on one single in-bounds pass. We all like to fudge the numbers while playing the "what if..." game from time to time, but the only "what if..." that mattered on that particular night was "what if LeBron James was actually human?". Simply put, considering the casualness with the best player in the sport pulled up to the three point line and drained both a buzzer beater and the soul from the opposing bench that looked on in disbelief, there's no way you can convince me that being up two measly points at the time would have altered the trajectory of history. Victor Oladipo could have dunked that ball and spent the entire ensuing timeout hugging it, kissing it, and promising it the world in exchange for one clank off the iron, and it still would have been used as the weapon of his destruction. I don't discouraging lying to one's self about what could have been, but in the case of LeBron James Vs. The Eastern Conference you'd have to declare your independence from reality not to see that inevitable truth as self-evident.
"There was a point during [Kawhi's] rehab process in New York that some of the Spurs brass went out to see him in New York," Wright said. "As soon as those guys arrived to the building, Kawhi's people grabbed him and sequestered him to another part of the building. And so the Spurs' people couldn't even see him." "...These are the types of things that are going on that people don't necessarily know about." ------- I'd be lying if I said it wasn't impressive. Granted, it's also disingenuous, immature, and unprofessional, but what Kawhi Leonard has managed to do to his reputation without so much as uttering one single word publicly is nothing if not remarkable. To make about a dozen different demands in regards to his future while (presumably) "speaking" only in blinks and nods is resourcefulness at it's finest. I understand the Spurs' frustration in having paid him upwards of $19 million dollars to play nine games of basketball and the world's longest game of hide-and-go-seek over the course of the last year, but a franchise that prides itself on efficiency should at least tip their cap to what's apparently been the most effective silent treatment in the history of fractured affairs. Given the state of modern sports media, a professional athlete's mouth is what's most likely to do irreparable damage to his relationship with his employer. So while I hesitate to say that Kawhi Leonard is going about things like a real G, as "his people" have reportedly bullied him into looking like a complete brat, he doing quite the job of making moves in silence. The truth is that I don't have a problem with one of the premier players in basketball using his power to concoct his own career path. The top-end talent having the upper hand is one of the things that makes the NBA unique in comparison to other sports in which half-dead white dudes whose only skill is shameless greed man most of the hierarchy. Unfortunately, I think it's become all too clear that we've long crossed over into unfamiliar territory in which a mute, of all people, is abusing that power. It was already pretty difficult to believe that the medical staff of an organization that has consistently aged it's roster more gracefully than Entourage was trying to make perfect their freak of a forward through malpractice. Now, however, it's near impossible to view an operation that been running smoothly for the last two decades as the party most at fault for what's shaping up to be one of the most bizarre breakups in sports history. I suppose I can understand Kawhi Leonard being anxious to find a new home, but literally running away from the one in which he was raised under the parental guidance of Pop is about as ungrateful as it gets. If nothing else, the Spurs' culture at least partially aided in the development of their thin-skinned superstar. Not even having the decency to look them in the face as he was more or less slapping them in it by counting his checks while sequestered in a closet is some baby back bullshit. Six months ago most would have considered Kawhi Leonard the consummate professional and without so much of a public peep he has made it so that's increasing hard to see him as anything other than the most impassive of petulant child. I mean, literally pissing and moaning all over Gregg Popovich's office until he got what he wanted would've been a less messy way for Kawhi Leonard to get himself to Los Angeles. Though, by choosing the route in which a grown ass man hid from the people who just wanted to check out his bill of health while they were healthily paying his bills, the inner circle of the soon(..er or later)-to-be-former Spur proved, on his behalf, that actions do speak a hell of a lot louder than words. In complete contrary to the apparent priorities of Earl Thomas, the thing that I think is most deserving of attention here is Kam Chancellor's heartfelt farewell to professional football. Along with wishing the most bruising member of the 'Legion Of Boom' the best of luck in his future endeavors, it also bears mentioning exactly how bittersweet his 'goodbye' reads...
On one hand, it's great news that NFL players are starting to take heed of the long overdue information regarding head injuries and getting out of the game in one piece. On the other hand, the fact that it took a warning of potential paralysis for "early retirement" to cross the mind of one of the toughest players in the league is a pretty haunting reminder that we basically watch the slow but certain breaking of human bodies on fall Sunday's. I'm glad that Kam Chancellor is making a decision that probably seems far more obvious to those on the outside looking in at organized violence than it does himself, but the fact that he does so with his fingers crossed for the long-term health of his brain really sends a shiver down the spine. Anyway, on to the more entertaining aspect of this, which is Earl Thomas' (literally) self-centered show of support for the man he roamed a secondary alongside...
In a weird way, I actually appreciate that the caption covers what's taking place in this picture about as well Earl Thomas' t-shirt covers his neckline. I don't even care that it makes it seem as though the Seahawks' safety appears to have more love for his man purse than he does the beaten and battered player with whom he won a Super Bowl. It probably says some not-so-complimentary things about his personality type, but his shameless inability to let others in on his self-love is really just a laughable look into how inherently narcissistic the use of social media is. Plus, while it's definitely a bit extra to feel a random inclination to arrange "candid" photoshoots in the middle of an airport, I certainly can't say I've ever gone to a length as nonsensically ridiculous in showing someone that I care on the internet. Maybe simply going through my phone and posting an old picture of a friend whose birthday it is actually makes me a bad friend. Ugh, does my failure to pop open Instagram post-tinkle for a Father's Day bathroom selfie make me an ungrateful egomaniac of a son?!?! P.S. My guess is that he didn't want to post anything Seahawks-affiliated while still at odds with the organization, but I think Earl Thomas probably could have done a better job picturing the person that the post was directed towards. In fact, I know he couldn't have done a worse job. It's been just about...::checks watch::...two full days since Magic Johnson, acting on behalf of his beloved Lakers, signed the one and only LeBron James to a contract that is shockingly long in comparison to the professional obligations we've come to expect of the best basketball player and most alluring free agent in the sports world. Those unfamiliar with how quickly the NBA world rotates in the offseason might even say that makes it far too early to criticize his work. To those I say, what's this "work" you speak of? Let's be real, LeBron James was ready to promise himself to Los Angeles well before an unmistakeable smile lit up the living room of one of the homes that he already owns there. If the last 48 hours have proven anything it's that Philadelphia was the correct destination if winning was his priority, so the reasons for which he chose the City of Angels can hardly be accredited, either directly or indirectly, to its most renowned franchise's President of Basketball Operations. In fact, I'd imagine that all Magic Johnson really had to do was take LeBron by his non-almost-broken hand and walk him into the Lakers' front office to prove that it wasn't engulfed in the same type of flames that turned the Cleveland Cavaliers into an organizational dumpster fire for the King to feel comfortable picking out a new throne. I wasn't there, so maybe I'm underselling what went into making sure that the Lakers didn't sabotage a near guaranteed sale, but all that's happened since leads me to believe that we aren't exactly talking about a Pat Riley-esque powerpoint presentation here. Perhaps it's not fair to judge solely on paper, but it sure looks as though all the Lakers have done in the immediate wake of acquiring the most durable, versatile, and enduring of foundational pieces is gone quantity over quality in stacking it with suspect bricks. Never in my life have I seen a universal reaction that so quickly went from "whoa baby!" to "what in the actual fuck?" than I did when Los Angeles filled their remaining cap space with a combustible collection of miscreants. One year deals or not, the thought that Magic Johnson's first order of post-Bron business was trying to get Lance Stephenson to speak into the right end of the phone is mind numbing. How can Lakers' fans not be made furious by the idea that DeMarcus Cousins' bad blood was left to reach a boil during the pursuit of a far inferior player in JaVale McGee? Let's put it this way, if the light bulb that popped up over Earvin's head was filled with the idea that he had to overpay to get a repetitive roster piece, in Rajon Rondo, to curse out Lonzo while taking the Ball out of his hands then I think it's fair to reconsider its brightness. It's more likely than not that it's only a matter of time before Kawhi Leonard also joins the Lakers. That said, who's to say that his desire to give his thin skin a bake in the Southern California sun is never-ending? The Lakers thought Paul George was a guarantee, but Magic couldn't even get a goddamn meeting with the guy that chose Middle America over the city he spoke of as glowingly as the Catholic church references heaven. I could easily be made to eat my words prior to 2019, as the Lakers are undoubtedly headed in the right direction regardless of their management. That said, it's 2018 and they just surrounded maybe the best shot creator in the history of the sport with a team that treats the three point line like a dog treats an electric fence. I understand that the following question is premature and the answer is only in the initial stages of being made definitive, but are we sure that Magic Johnson has any damn clue what he's doing when it comes to actually evaluating and acquiring talent? Currently it seems as though he's a wee bit better at falling ass backwards into it.
After having had a night to sleep on the idea of the Warriors adding another All-NBA caliber talent at the only position in which their starting lineup was truly without one, I've come to a conclusion. It's not such a bad thing to be well-rested and rejuvenated. I'd imagine a little R&R proves even more beneficial when you're a professional basketball player who is nursing a devastating injury that has sabotaged no shortage of promising careers in the past. Therefore, while my eyes admittedly rolled back in my head when I read that Boogie Cousins had accepted the NBA equivalent of a stick of gum in exchange for his services amongst the shooting stars, I do understand why he made the the wildly unpopular decision. The Golden State of the Warriors provides less than zero pressure for him to play before he's 100% healthy/ready. It guarantees when he is ready that he will have a chance to prove himself by playing at basketball's highest level prior to next year's free agent feeding frenzy. Last but not least, it offers him the opportunity to raise a ring right in the stupid face of every doubter that (rightfully, mind you) didn't feel comfortable breaking the bank for a potentially broken big man until he proved he could do what most before him couldn't in returning to form following an achilles tear. As imperfect as it could make whatever shambles that remain of the NBA's competitive balance, it's pretty much the perfect situation for a player who shouldn't give a shit what anyone thinks after sitting around hearing that he's damaged goods for the last six months. Unfortunately, he does care a little bit. If not, he wouldn't be exaggerating the extremes to which potential suitors stayed away....
For the sole reason that this decision makes sense for him both personally and professionally, I really don't need DeMarcus Cousins rationalizing his decision with half-truths. I'm sure his reasonably relaxed recruitment stoked the flames of his personal pride, but that smoke is better blown up someone else's ass. You want to take less to join a juggernaut then accept that taking the mid-level doesn't make you an exception to the hoards of hatred that come your way as a result. To put it nicely, you'd have to be a huge sucker to believe that the back-to-back champs were the only team that would have crossed their fingers and taken a chance on a dominant big man for 10 cents on the dollar. Boogie called Bob Myers out of spite for the other 29 organizations that didn't hit his line at midnight sharp offering him long term financial security for the next two-four years. I know petty when I see petty, and going out of his way to sell himself short to the one team that would piss off every single other team that wasn't offered the chance to buy at a bargain price is an undeniable example of petty. Whether or not this further "ruins" the NBA is a moot point, because it's not DeMarcus Cousins' job to maintain the integrity of the league. It should, however, be his responsibility to at least own up to what was a blatantly obvious act of retribution. Not only is the "woe is me, I was entirely unwanted" act disingenuous at best and complete bullshit at worst, but - more so than anyone else - Boogie should know that jumping between playing the victim and playing the villain makes him an incredibly easy target for whistle-blowing. Having witnessed what's been the most emotionally combustible of careers, do we think it's more likely that this was more of a massive middle finger or a calculated "chess move"? Come on, now...
Never Mind The Showtime Lakers, Magic Might Actually Be Trying To Bring The Lakers To 'Showtime'7/2/2018 — Klutch Sports Group (@KlutchSports) July 2, 2018 That should have been it. LeBron James, perhaps the best player in the history of basketball (greatest TBD by way of circular, never-ending arguments), heading to the bright lights of Los Angeles to once again make relevant one of the most prestigious franchises in professional sports. Mix in the fact that the deal locks him in for about 3x as long as we've come to expect the person who signed it to commit himself to one place, and I'd say that's more than enough sports news to take in on a Sunday afternoon. Granted, this decision was delivered in a very understated, matter of fact fashion that almost made it seem like we were silly not to see it as inevitable. Still, it's a lot to digest when the player who has represented the Eastern Conference in the NBA Finals the last eight seasons actively chooses to end that streak by taking his talents out West and trying his half-broken(?) hand at a far stingier side of the playoff bracket. That's why the following, while tasty, proved as overwhelming as the dessert cart after a hearty steak dinner...
Earvin Johnson, how dare we doubt that he had some 'Magic' up his sleeve? I haven't the slightest clue what the motivation behind these moves was, but - as far as personalities as concerned - the Lakers 'Big 4' just became unparalleled. Maybe the following is the whole point of these additions, but I couldn't possibly find myself less concerned with the Lakers' current standing in the Kawhi Leonard sweepstakes. In fact, I'd be just as content seeing if their current roster could surpass the dysfunction of last year's Cavaliers as I would be to see them add another superstar and try to contend with the Warriors. The NBA is as much a sports league as it is a soap opera, and this particular cast of characters is so unpredictably volatile that their games should be broadcast during broad daylight on Telemundo. LeBron James, Lance Stephenson, JaVale McGee, and - as much as he won't just shut up and let us forget - LaVar Ball. I certainly hope the cameras are already rolling, because I honestly don't think I can get a grasp on that reality unless it first comes in the form of a show. Just when you think NBA free agency might fall a little short of its hype, and all the sudden the bipolar blower is sharing a locker room with the peerless player he's made a career out of pestering, Shaqtin' A Fool's finest is currently in line to play Shaq to LeBron's Kobe, and all the while the biggest braggart in LaLa Land is just patiently waiting for the most inopportune time to say something stupid. Dealing with J.R. Smith literally almost broke LeBron James, and now he's tripled down on delusional doofuses he might have to deal with on a day-to-day basis. I don't know where the Lakers go from here, but I certainly hope they give us a heads up so we can DVR it, for - as of now - deep in the playoffs isn't anywhere near as likely as primetime television. UPDATE:
Not sure what else to even say at this point, so I'll just leave this righhhht about here...
— John Tavares (@91Tavares) July 1, 2018 — John Tavares (@91Tavares) July 1, 2018
While I sat pondering how even the most emotionally vulnerable of fan could look at the last nine seasons of John Tavares and the New York Islanders and come away with even the slightest inclination that the former should feel guilty for wasting the latter's time, I was reminded of something. That something was the feeling of resentment I felt for both Zach Parise and Ilya Kovalchuk whenever Michael Ryder "skated" around the ice as the bargain basement replacement for their offense. You can treat this as a disclaimer, I suppose, as the following stands to be pretty harsh, but I do get why some of the Long Island faithful have taken aim at their long time captain for making the easy choice of exploring far greener pastures seem extremely difficult. For the same reason that most husbands eventually accept what they've married into and stop putting up a fight when the opposite side of an argument is just begging to be taken, it's always easier to blame the former player when the organization is who you have pledged your undying allegiance to. That said, anyone that has taken any umbrage whatsoever with John Tavares is quite clearly lashing out, and while I understand their inclination to do so, I would be remiss not to remind them how ridiculous that is. I'd encourage all Islanders' fans to pop a percocet real quick because this is going to get painful, but let's talk facts for a second. A franchise who woefully missed the playoffs, due to a damning lack of defense and goaltending, by a considerable margin let their ownership of one of the most enticing assets in league history expire. It may be true that said asset expressed his desire to be retained, but to hold John Tavares responsible for maximizing the value of John Tavares tells you all that you need to know about the faith in the management at the time of the trade deadline. Consider this, the Islanders gave Garth Snow, of all people, the ability to trust in his own ability to sell a franchise that was the NHL equivalent of homeless to a guy that was set to be offered a world of possibilities by the prestigious team in his hometown. I don't even care if John Tavares was getting the infamous fisherman logo tattooed on his asscheek during the afternoon of February 26th, because the only ink that would have guaranteed his future in the "greater" New York area would have had to dry on a dotted line. Maybe I'm naive in believing that it truly was more gut wrenching than it should have been for the one of the best players in the NHL to opt out of gambling the rest of his career on an organization in flux, but not as naive as one would have to be to believe that their wasn't one single suitor capable of making the Islanders look like a second rate operation as soon as he hit the open market. Of course, what followed a season that did a shameful job of instilling confidence in John Tavares, could only be described as the work of the hockey gods. The goddamn Godfather of General Managers found himself available to the organization that already employed his son. A coach that still had the beer he drank out of the Stanley Cup on his breath stumbled into an unemployment pool that was currently home to one single raft. The Islanders seemingly breathed some life into their chances of keeping the league's most sought after of talent, but the truth is that they basically tripped ass backwards onto the horseshoe that somehow got stuck up their ass. The tandem of Lou Lamoriello and Barry Trotz is a formidable one, but it all-but-fell into the lap of a desperate franchise at the most opportune of time. In theory, bold moves were made to keep John Tavares. In execution, blatantly obvious moves were made to keep John Tavares. Now, I totally get why too much was read into them too soon when in reality it ended up being too little, too late. Still, you'd think that fans whose hearts were on the line would have checked the reviews of the basket before they put all their eggs in it. I'll appreciate Lou Lamoriello to my dying day. I think the personification of professionalism was an unbelievably easy choice for an Islanders' organization that needed their culture shocked. That said, the one thing he has not proven adept at throughout his illustrious career is putting personal pride aside and doing whatever is necessary to swoon superstars into staying. Scott Niedermayer, on the heels of having added to his three championships with a Norris Trophy during his first season taking over for Scott Stevens as the Devils' captain, decided to join his brother in Anaheim. Zach Parise, having captained his team within two wins of owning real estate in title town, decided home is where his heart was in heading to Minnesota. John Tavares could have been gifted the entirety of the Hamptons for his own personal use and he still wouldn't have had as many reasons to remain in Long Island as those two players had to remain in New Jersey. Lou Lamoriello is a lot of things. Excluding the outlier of the ownership-influenced Kovalchuk fiasco, a shameless seller of his stubborn soul for transcendent skill is not one of them. The fact that he's fallen a bit out out-of-touch as an executive doesn't make him anywhere near a bad one, but if his presence is your biggest bargaining chip then you're probably scrapping the bottom of the bag. If Islanders' fans want to be upset with John Tavares for ghosting them as their optimism lost its slipper and went full-Cinderella while Saturday ticked into Sunday then I can understand the frustration. If the image of Little Johnny boy wrapped cozily in his Maple Weafs' bwankey and the likely unintended implication that his tenure in Toronto was a foregone conclusion makes them want to scream then I can sympathize. What I can't do is blame John Tavares for exercising his right to make the most out of the rest of his career when the first half of it was held back by an organization that put an exclamation point on its ineptitude by wildly mismanaging the odds of his departure. If the painstaking waiting period was any indication, John Tavares actually did give the idea of retiring an Islander way more thought than anyone else would have. It's not his fault it took him meeting with other teams for hours on end to realize that he couldn't justify devoting his future to a franchise that waited until the last possible second to even slightly advocate for its own. |
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