A Former Olympic Skier And Part-Time Police Cadet Got Raided Mid-Blood Dope, And It's Safe To Say It's Not His First Time
NYPost- Austrian Max Hauke, who is also a police cadet, was one of five skiers arrested in anti-doping raids at the Nordic skiing world championships in Seefield, Austria, on Wednesday.
Incredible footage released by Austrian publication Vorarlberg Online shows the shamed star caught in the act with a needle in his arm before a race. When asked whether anyone else is at home, an embarrassed Hauke, 26, shakes his head.
He admitted to blood doping and cooperated with police in the investigation, a statement confirmed. Austrian media claim Hauke and fellow doping countryman Dominik Baldauf are also qualified police cadets.
I suppose I could focus on this guy being such an experienced cheater that he may or may not have tried to cover his tracks (well, metaphorically at least) by hiding in plain sight by working with the police force, but I'm honestly more impressed than I am disappointed.
I mean, not even during college did I have the gumption to try my hand at rolling blunts, and this dude got so comfortable transfusing his own blood that draining his arm with a needle and enough plastic tubing to hogtie Lance Armstrong became as much of an inconvenience as loosening his belt before opening a beer. Not for nothing, but if the tainted results of bike races and the recently retracted medal count is any indication, there is a lot money to be made in being so skilled in recycling red cells that you could mindlessly do so while catching up on your DVR. It's not the most ethical line of work, but I'm pretty sure that Olympic dream died while the law enforcement route was hitting a bit of a snag, with his prospective co-workers kicking down his door and all.
I obviously can't say that Max Hauke is a good person or an equitable competitor, but I can say he's got what it takes to dope you up a fresh batch of blood without even breaking a sweat or staining your couch. At least he can add that to his resume since the vast majority of it just got tagged with the world's biggest asterisk.
Michigan State's Interim President Doesn't Much Care For The Survivors Of Sexual Abuse That Make His Job More Difficult
DetroitNews- John Engler said the next president will have many challenges but work has been done so that person can come in and look ahead.
But he acknowledged it's been a tough time, "very emotional."
"You’ve got people, they are hanging on and this has been … there are a lot of people who are touched by this, survivors who haven’t been in the spotlight," Engler said. "In some ways they have been able to deal with this better than the ones who’ve been in the spotlight who are still enjoying that moment at times, you know, the awards and recognition. And it’s ending. It’s almost done.”
In fairness, the process of picking favorites is one that is innate to the human condition. I personally don't think it's one that should be employed amongst sexual assault victims, as humans shouldn't be conditioned to forget about multiple decades of gross negligence that allowed for some creepy old bastard to inappropriately put his paws all over hundreds of innocent, underage women. Still, for someone in the position of Michigan State's interim President, I can't pretend I don't understand why he might prefer those whose eternal silence could be bought.
Now, why he chose to go about saying so out loud into a microphone, as if getting "recognition" for being sexually abused isn't basically the same thing as spreading awareness in hopes of preventing the same damn disturbing thing from happening again in the future, I can't quite wrap my head around. It's not really a secret that Michigan State would rather society have a short memory, as it tends to do nowadays, thus bringing an "ending" to the PR nightmare that is Larry Nassar's tenure. However, seeing as it's an actual (and reoccurring) nightmare for so many young women who were made uncomfortable in coming forward by a mindset similar to the one required to think that something so traumatizing could be "almost done" in the time it takes to graduate from a Community College, maybe it's better left unsaid.
I don't know, I'm not exactly fit to run a university for any period of time without it turning into a Van Wilder production, but I'd think it might behoove someone who theoretically is to avoid publicly calling out victims for "enjoying" the spoils of surviving sexual assault. Especially if what he's most interested in is the story (of which he's actively made himself a villainous part of) going away.
Bad News, An Irish Soccer Team Needed To Postpone Their Match Due To The Death Of One Of Their Players. Good News, Turns Out He's Very Much Alive.
BusinessInsider- An Irish soccer team has issued a grovelling apology after it faked a player's death to get a league match postponed.
Ballybrack FC, an amateur soccer club in Dublin, told the Leinster Senior League that Fernando Nuno La-Fuente had died in a motorbike accident on Friday, November 23.
The league postponed Ballybrack's match against Arklow Town, organised a one minute silence before the kick off of other league matches, and published a death notice in an Irish newspaper to offer its "heartfelt condolences" to the La-Fuenta family and all at Ballybrack, the BBC reports.
Liffey Wanderers FC was one of the teams to observe a minute's silence before a match and even posted a photograph of the moment on its Facebook account.
But Fuente was not dead at all, so it was not long before Ballybrack backtracked.
On Tuesday, the club said the management team made "a gross error of judgment" and that the person in question had been "relieved of all footballing duties," according to a statement posted on the club's Facebook page.
But La-Fuente saw the funny side. "I was playing some video games and suddenly I got a call from work and they said 'You're a celebrity.' That's how I found out that I was dead," he told RTE 1 radio on Wednesday.
La-Fuente said he always knew something was amiss as the club had contacted him beforehand to tell him to ignore any forthcoming statement from the Leinster Senior League that might claim he had "an accident."
He was expecting fake news of an injury like a leg break, so when he heard he had died, he wrote to the league to say he was actually alive. "They wrote straight back and apologised," he said.
La-Fuente, who recently moved to Galway and cannot play for Ballybrack anymore, said he did not believe the team was afraid of playing Arklow but probably having "a rough time getting players."
Well, that's certainly one way to guarantee that your team's amateur soccer match gets postponed to a more a convenient date. Of course, it's also a way to stick an unexpected finger directly up the tight ass of the vindictive bitch that is Karma, as I'd imagine that faking the disastrous demise of someone who is entirely healthy without so much as notifying them that you've done so is as frowned upon cosmically as it's frowned upon societally. Still, if you go as far as to fabricate a tragic death in hopes of ever-so-slightly increasing your odds of winning a relatively meaningless game then it stands to reason you were more concerned with results than rationale.
That's why I can't help but find myself more perturbed by the lack of foresight that went into the execution of this plot more so than the plot itself. Personally, I'd encourage everyone not to make an enemy of the Grim Reaper, but if you're going to take a crap on death's doorstep to push back a stupid sporting then at least bring moist towelettes to clean your tracks after. Semi-metaphorically speaking, if you're going to bury a still-breathing body then maybe get your damn hands dirty in digging that ditch a little deeper.
Okay, that got dark quick, but - point being - you can't just speak someone entirely out existence without taking some precautions first. That web of lies was eventually going to grow into the stickiest of situations, but to not do the due diligence necessary to make sure you didn't get caught in it until after the fictitious funeral services is almost as stupid as putting yourself in charge of them in the first place.
Poor bastard didn't just have to learn that he died in a motorcycle accident. He had to learn that he died in a motorcycle accident without so much as a successful reschedule for his former team to show for it. That's the real shame in this story, as the person responsible for it clearly has none.
Don't Fret UFC Fans, Jon Jones Is So Confident He'll Pass His Drug Test That He's Having It Administered By Lance Armstrong's People
Look, as a casual fan of mixed martial arts, I want to believe Jon Jones. Not only because he's got an unimpeachably awesome nickname like 'Bones' that fits his ability to splint an opponent's shin with the power of his own, but because he's one of the most athletically gifted fighters that combat sports have ever seen. Time and time again he's proven to be an unlawful prick, but the UFC as a product is undeniably more intriguing when it's most talented employee is fighting someone other than his own personal demons. Therefore, I genuinely hope he was being genuine in his response to a line of questioning whose tone was rightfully doubtful.
That being said, if that interview served as the actual drug test then that toxicology report is coming back more tainted than his own resume. To drop one name, and have that name belong to debatably the most longstanding and successful cheater in the history of competitive athletics isn't a red flag for one reason only, and that reason is that you can't inject yourself with a flag...though if Jon Jones were hopped up on enough blow he might be liable to test that theory.
Like, why even keep it at a Lance Armstrong reference? He might as well have covered his tracks by lacing his wrists with all the yellow Livestrong bracelets that got tossed in the trash when their spokesperson got outed for accepting any and all praise, profit. and glory that came as a result of cycling circles around cancer with the blood of a centaur and the moral high ground of Mother Teresa. After all, there's no real difference between that and coming within a half a step of calling Barry Bonds' biceps to the stand as his character witnesses.
Now, I suppose I didn't expect someone whose actively sabotaged his insanely promising career to be the smartest, but - if it's goal was to make people believe that he's changed his ways - an answer that asked us to trust the most disgraced of dope identifiers was undoubtedly the dumbest.
I don't want to give any sort of pass to the nut job who started throwing friendly fire at his own cornerman out of pure frustration, but I really only find it shocking in the sense that it's the first time we've seen such a thing. Levan Shonia appears to be the combustable combination of a sore loser and a loosely-screwed lunatic, but no more than I'd expect from literally anyone that's devoted their life to the sweet science of competitive face-punching. I don't condone throwing haymakers at your trainer for trying to help you out of precarious situation, but I'd imagine there's only so much criticism a coach can give to a fighter before said fighter quite literally shows him how much easier it's said than done. Mix in the disappointment of taking a presumably unexpected loss that he prepped months in advance in hopes of avoiding, and a cranky combatant being prone to causing some collateral damage to a person who grabs him from behind just doesn't exactly seem all that off-brand.
An American Soccer Player Mocked The Shortness Of A Player On The Mexican National Team, And Got Exactly The Type Of Response He Was Looking For
Racial generalizations aside, I can't help but think that Diego Lainez and the rest of his fellow ankle-biters owe the sub-6-foot community an apology for succumbing to every stereotype that haunts the vertically challenged.
After all, if there is one venue that proves Randy Newman wrong in providing short people that all-too-elusive reason to live, it's professional soccer stadiums all over the world...
Some of the most professionally and sexually accomplished futbol'ers on the planet couldn't even kick it with their friends while on line for the big boy rollercoaster. Therefore, while they say that the one-eyed man is king in the land of the blind, I say that the 6'4 yankee is the freak on the pitch of the petite.
Unfortunately, that proclamation rings pretty hollow when one height joke has a legion of Napoleon's cocking their complexes and ready to sick their insecurities on those that intentionally play way, way down to them.
As demeaning as that measuring stick mockery was, you have to act like you've been there before if you're Diego Lainez, and by "there" I mean 3-4 inches below the average male's line of sight. So either fake a jumper in his face, as Matt Miazga clearly sucked as a shooting guard growing up, or go the "sticks and stones may break my bones, but cricking my neck to look you in the eyes will never hurt me" route. If not because shortness is a stature that serves you well in soccer then because getting defensive and jumping up and down in desperation is sure to make you look far worse when getting dunked on.
A Motorcycle Racer Reached Over And Pulled The Brakes On An Opponent's Bike While Traveling At Over 125 MPH
Maybe my lack of familiarity with the amount of loose screws required to compete in motorcycle racing had me thinking they misspelled 'detainment' when I read that Romano Fenati received a disqualification for a move that seems like it's one step short of cutting someone's breaks. Like, ignorance must have been bliss, because I was fairly happy living in a world in which high speed attempts at vehicular homicide were more likely to be punishable by a prison sentence than a short two-race ban.
To be fair, I think most sports benefit from branding a "bad boy", but maybe not the sport that entails whipping around a race track on a two-wheeled death trap at upwards of 135 MPH, as petty gamesmanship is decidedly less entertaining when it's potentially fatal.
I don't know, I'm probably the wrong person to make this call, but slapping Romano Fenati with a restraining order to remain at least 100 yards away from all forms of transportation seems like the move here. At the very least it's a better option than giving him some alone time to work out his own psychosis, since he clearly can't keep his hands to himself in a sport in which your life should probably only end up in your own hands.
UPDATE: This is more like it. Credit to him for at least halfhearted admitting he was wrong before making excuses as to why...
Serena Williams Was Fined $17,000 For Her Actions During The U.S. Open Final, As Tennis Doubled Down On Its Own Stupidity
In my personal opinion, the time and place for a heated discussion about double standards in a particular professional sport is not on the field of play during the late stages of said sport's nationally televised championship match. Call me crazy, but hashing out the intricacies of a rulebook, that's apparently filled with nothing more than strong suggestions when it's enforced during men's matches, is probably best done behind closed doors, as opposed to in front of a crowd of tens of thousands of customers who - by and large - paid to see the aggrieved party.
Unfortunately, therein lies the problem, for tennis is the only highly tense and competitive sport played head-to-head between athletes that have dedicated their entire lives to it that could manage to set a scene in which it makes even a sliver of sense for the biggest of stars to turn brightest of stages into a public forum for feminism.
To the casual viewer, it's not about Serena Williams arguably going overboard in receiving coaching...from her coach(?), or smashing her racquet, or demanding an (unnecessary) apology before calling the chair umpire a liar and a thief. It's about said chair umpire proceeding to prove he's exactly that by stealing a full game from Serena Williams, stealing the moment from the young woman - Naomi Osaka - who went on to make history as the first Japanese player to win a Grand Slam, and stealing the intrigue from a viewing audience that wanted to see the most high stakes of match decided in its totality by...::audible gasp::...those actually participating in it.
I know that professional tennis, as an entity, doesn't think that its shit stinks, but the crappiest thing that happens in sports is when officials have a highly circumstantial impact on the outcome of a game, never mind literally having a statistical impact on the outcome of the game. We're ready to replace baseball umpires with robots because we're fed up with their strike zones, and tennis umpires are out here doing the equivalent of retracting turns at-bat during Game 7 of the World Series due to bad behavior. If that's not a sign that your holier than thou code of conduct needs the stick removed from its tight (predominantly) white ass then I don't know what does.
Assuming that all coaches do...wait for it...coach, and that the worst thing that a man has said to a chair umpire without punishment of (less important , given the length of the match) points is probably a bit more abusive than words that didn't even require censoring on cable, I'd imagine that a pretty clear double standard does exist. That, however, isn't my biggest problem with what took place during the US Open Final, as Serena Williams wasn't exactly as innocent as the soapbox from which she spoke would indicate...
My biggest problem is that clouds were voluntary introduced unto an event in which a well-deserved star was being born. You want to fine the person that's currently keeping one half of the damn sport afloat for being complicit in turning it into a bit of sideshow then fine...I guess, but at least let the match play out on its own volition first. To varying degrees, we all lost on Saturday, and it was due to the thin-skinned authority of someone who had nothing to win but some attention, and the sport that ultimately sided with the most replaceable person involved in it.
Masters' Winner Patrick Reed Had Quite Possibly The Whitest Company Complaint In The History Of The Internet
A pro golfer? At a pro baseball game? On the company dime? Taking to twitter with a complaint that his free tickets in a highly sought after section that he self-named to sound dangerous because "third baseline" doesn't have the same bite to it as "line drive section"? While having more than enough money to casually piss away $650 to move up a couple dozen rows tops to be with his peers in the best seats in the house?
Honestly, if there's a @RichWhitePeopleProblems bot automatically curating the most caucasian of company complaints from around the internet then Patrick Reed just made it overheat and start billowing smoke with a tweet that makes "Hey @Starbucks, Becky only has one 'E' #ugh" look deserving of its own Sarah McLaughlin soundtrack. Seriously, someone get that grievance some SPF 90 and an umbrella, because that baby is a burning faster than the skin on the person who decided it was fit for public consumption.
You probably have to spend a hell of a lot of time in and around country clubs to develop the type of talent that's necessary to win the Masters, but is it possible that Patrick Reed has never actually been anywhere that doesn't require you to wear a collar? Like, perhaps he was delivered by way of a water birth in the type fountain that spits at the idea of being tarnished with change, and has just been getting shipped around from private course to private course ever since. This being his first venture beyond the safety of a security gate is really the only thing that could possibly explain being this out of touch.
Also, I thought the access into the world where the most privileged of circumstance is worthy of sympathy is dependent upon staying offline in these situations so as to not let people in on the extent of its exclusivity. Was Alfred not around to correct this injustice against full-blown entitlement? How is it possible that he was left with nowhere else to turn but to social media at its most sadistic when it came to righting a near impossibly unrelatable wrong?
While I am impressed with how much pretentiousness was crammed into less than 280 characters, I do think we need to send the collection plate around to gather some thoughts and prayers for Patrick Reed. After all, not only did he spend an inning at risk of having a foul ball hit to him, but he betrayed his fellow high society members in making public their ludicrous level of snobbery. For a guy who was already pretty hated in the golf community, I can't imagine that'll play well in the clubhouse.
Sidenote: Apparently Patrick Reed has completely cut off communication with his parents to appease his wife, and - if I were to be shallow for a moment - WOOF! That might actually be a more problematic choice than choosing to let the world take a glance at the thickness of the bubble he lives in.
A Boxer Just Straight Up Left The Building Upon The Start Of A Televised Fight Due To A "Contract Dispute", Or Something Like It
This is just a unmistakable reminder that everyone has their price. Typically, when becoming a willing combatant in a professionally sanctioned boxing match, that price is decided upon once the ink dries on the contract. However, how does one know how much an ass whooping from an African American adonis is worth to them until being blinded by the light reflecting off pecks that were chiseled out of stone?
Don't get me wrong, Curtis Harper is worthy of just about as much sympathy as he is "respect", with both clocking in at something close to zero, but what's he supposed to say? That being face-to-face with an opponent who looks like a post-op centaur turned human made him feel like half a man and a horse's ass? That, after halfheartedly trying to pump himself up for 3-5 seconds, he decided the structural integrity of his jawline was worth more to him than his personal and professional pride? There's no good answer for up and leaving the ring prior to the televised fight you voluntarily choose to participate in, so it shouldn't really be a surprise that Curtis Harper's explanation for his abrupt departure absolutely sucks. That said, after taking a quick look at both him and his competition, I can't say I don't understand why he got a bit greedy when it came time for the completion of the agreed upon sale of his general well-being.
If success in boxing was based entirely on physique then it would be far too easy to gamble on, and thus would have completely died out as a sport years ago. Still, if intimidation counts for anything inside a boxing ring then it counts for a first round knockout of Curtis Harper's reputation, as he got bullied out of his original billing without one blow being delivered. Oh well, that embarrassing scene was a shocker, but what it wasn't was the first topless walk of shame that Efe Ajagba's looks have been heavily responsible for.
Recently Unretired Golfer John Peterson Snapped His Putter Over His Knee After Making A Mid-Round Putt On The Web.com Tour
TheBigLead- John Peterson retired from golf, for a little while. Apparently he realized that it would be kind of ridiculous for him to “retire” at the age of 29 if he is good enough to compete on the PGA Tour no matter how difficult the grind.
However, because he didn’t have enough points to automatically qualify for his Tour card for next season, he is currently playing in the Web.com Tour finals where the top 25 finishers earn their Tour cards for the next season.
Things aren’t going so well for Peterson this week in the Nationwide Children’s Hospital Championship. He’s currently four-over and the leader, Henrik Norlander, is seven-under.
On Thursday, Peterson lost it while on the 15th green and snapped his putter...
To be clear, I have absolutely no familiarity with John Peterson outside of watching him knock down a putt prior to...umm...re-purposing his putter. Therefore, to put it lightly, my outside opinion of him is wholly uneducated. With that said, is it possible that he didn't give that whole retirement thing an honest enough go by stepping away from the game for one measly month?
I typically don't like to see top-notch talent go to waste and any 29 year old who was on the PGA Tour should theoretically still have plenty of potential to realize before calling it quits. However, if your first instinct is to shatter the one club whose absence is impossible to play around after a made putt in the middle of a round then you might need a little more time away from the tee box.
I get that he was having a tough go of things at the time, but if there's one lie I am actually familiar with on the links then it's the lie you tell yourself when promising that the next 18 holes are going to be different. On a much, much grander scale then I'll ever begin to understand, that was the truth revealing itself, and the truth is that John Peterson really f'n hates the sport golf right about now.
It certainly makes him more relatable to someone like me, who starts talking about golf the same way a massively hungover person talks about drinking ("never again") by the time I shank the approach shot on the 13th hole. Still, he might want to take this poor performance as a sign and submit to a true sabbatical before he ends up recycling the entirety of his bag out of frustration (with flawless form, for the record).
Bryce Mitchell Somehow Tore His Scrotum With A Power Drill, Thus Reminding Us That MMA Fighters Are Legit Crazy People
Quickly grab your groin, ladies and gents, for I don't even think you need a ball bag to feel second-hand pain in the deepest part of your genitals as you both read and see the following...
What I do like about this gut-wrenching story, and I use the word "like" insanely loosely, is that it highlights exactly how psychotic you have to be to choose mano a mano attempted murder as your career path while knowing that the unfriendly confines of a cage will be your workplace.
I say the following with the upmost respect to Bryce Mitchell, as I would never in a million years have the balls to do what he does. However, the fact that he damn near lost them to the live drill he voluntarily chose to pack next to his penis while doing manual labor is a pretty good sign that his grasp on an opponent's neck is typically a lot tighter than his grasp on the reality of what is or isn't inherently dangerous.
I know I have always wondered what personality type is required to watch two people beat the consciousness out of one another and say to themselves "that's what I need to do when I grow up". Now I know it's the same personality type required to tuck a power tool in your waistband like it's an untimely erection, live to tell the tale of uncoiling your nut sac like it's a poorly manufactured slinky, and matter-of-factly act as if that's merely an unfortunate occurrence that could happen to anybody.
Most people know not to put themselves in a position where a muscle twitch could result in a Saw-esque scrotum injury, but most people can't get in an octagon across from a trained killer with nothing to fear but fear itself. I deeply and truly hope he can learn that first lesson sometime soon, but - in retrospect - I'm not so sure we should have been totally surprised that a UFC fighter treated his manhood like it was immortal.
Jordan Spieth Launched His Ball Into The Water After Hitting It Out Of Bounds, And I'm Now Officially A Jordan Spieth Fan
Look, I know that now is a very convenient time to jump on the bandwagon. It's not every day you come across a professional golfer who is shooting to put himself in historical company as a Grand Slam winner. Therefore, I will totally accept being labeled a frontrunner for finally backing an illustrious career during the tournament in which claiming you're a Jordan Spieth fan could potentially be at its most beneficial.
That said, it's also not everyday you come across a professional golfer that's plucking balls out of the roughest of rough and rocketing them into the water with no regard for the camera that's clearly on him. Therefore, I will not accept being labeled a fraud, as I have always held dear the golfers that most remind me of myself on the links. Whether it be at the PGA Championship or some podunk pitch-and-putt, any player that takes out their frustrations on inanimate objects without shame is a man (or woman) after my own heart. So here's to hoping that Jordan Spieth either wins the whole damn thing, or goes down swinging...at literally any surrounding that could unreasonably be deemed responsible for a shanked shot.
Tommy Fleetwood Won Over $150K At 'The British Open', Which Was Then Direct Deposited Into The Bank Account Of A Much Different Tommy Fleetwood
Golf.com- Thomas Fleetwood, 58, of Clermont, Fla., spotted an odd notification on his Wells Fargo bank account Friday night.
As a PGA teaching pro and a caddie at Streamsong Resort, he’s not exactly in the business of wiring funds. On Saturday morning, that notification had six figures attached to it. Thomas’s checking account was $154,480 richer.
That’s a stunning sum for most Tom Fleetwoods out there (there are more than you’d think), but it’s no big deal for the 11th-ranked player in the world, better known as Tommy, who tied for 12th at the British Open just 17 days ago.
The mix-up occurred because of a “clerical” error by the European tour , according to Tommy’s wife and manager, Clare. Via e-mail she explained that the tour had apologized and that “apparently the payments were made manually, not on automated system and there are two TF’s somehow?”
Some of the accounting confusion stemmed from the fact that Thomas was also a pretty decent stick in his day, if not of the world-class variety. “Back in ’89 I played a tournament, I can’t remember if it was the European or Challenge tour,” Thomas said. “It was the Lyon Open in France, but [the European tour] have my information from trying to get on their senior tour.”
Though Thomas was unable to carve out a place with the Staysure Tour, his bank information did, which is why it isn’t all too surprising that, when manually entered, a mistake between two Tom Fleetwoods could be made. An honest mistake, to be sure, but a six-figure mistake nonetheless, and a mistake that was Thomas’s to correct. It’s just that banks aren’t open on Saturday…or Sunday.
Fully intent on rectifying the mistake he labeled “humorous,” Thomas told some friends about it. It got his mother all excited. Over the weekend it was funny for him just to think about, or to glance at his Wells Fargo mobile app. He’d take care of redirecting the funds during the week.
As is the life of a teaching pro and caddie, Thomas was too busy to make a bank trip Monday. Tuesday was his day off and he simply forgot to visit the bank, adding a bit of context to his “meh” comment. Only on Wednesday morning did he receive a reminder via an ominous email from the tour.
“It just said, ‘Wrong deposit, please send it back. Here’s the information to send it back,’” Thomas said. “I emailed them back and I said, ‘Well, I plan on sending it back, but you’ve got to excuse me that I’m not going to send it to this thing you’re sending me randomly in email. But it will be sent back.”
Thomas went to work Wednesday, drove over to his local Wells Fargo on the way home, and asked for the funds to be redirected. Just like that his bank account was back to normal.
“I’m poor again,” he said laughing. His duty was simple, and as of 5 p.m., it was done. It just wasn’t completely settled.
Soon enough, he saw his name on golf websites, and he saw that Tommy had no idea his money went elsewhere. Not until early evening was he finally able to contact Tommy’s team.
It's easy to find this story humorous, as it's objectively funny that an operation as big as The British Open made the type of mistake you'd expect from a sloppy college kid haphazardly using Venmo but instead with approximately 11,000 drunk pizzas worth of money at stake. It appears both Tommy Fleetwood's took this screw-up in stride, so the fact that it was made in the first place is laughable, as all is well that ends well.
That being said, the wrong Tommy Fleetwood is a better man than I, for I would be absolutely irate if this happened to me. Never mind how many years would have been taken off my life by the rollercoaster my heart would looped through upon open seeing a six-figure notification pop up on my phone, because that pales in comparison to the amount of years taken off my life by having to make a goddamn trip to the bank to account for someone else's stupidity.
You're telling me that not only did the wrong Tommy Fleetwood have to give back over $154,000, but he had to inconvenience himself in the process? I'll tell ya, if I don't read about some type of sizable reward coming his way soon than I'll be left with even less hope for humanity than the wrong Tommy Fleetwood has currently been left compensation for his time and effort. We've got one wealthy entity frivolously tossing around a stupid sum of money and another wealthy entity being too well-off to have any idea it went missing in the first place, and the 58 year old man of humble means is the one that has to run around breaking his back to make things right?
I wish The European Tour would step to me asking to redirect the funds they flung around all willy nilly, just so I could tell them to redirect their goddamn attitude. They are lucky they messed with the right wrong Tommy Fleetwood, for a less understanding Tommy Fleetwood (with a loose understanding of both paper trails and the law) might have gone off the grid and become fleet of foot in trying to make them earn back every penny of their idiotic mistake.
Greg Hardy Emphatically Won His Second Professional MMA Match, As The UFC Intentionally Left Us Impatiently Awaiting His Downfall
Sigh. It's times like this one where you really just have to force yourself to look on the bright side, as it's too easy to be led into darkness by the ruthlessness of the business practices that have an unapologetic beater of women and a disgraced former football player once again profiting off violence. In combat sports where at least one person is almost guaranteed to get their ass kicked, a despicable piece of human trash is as good of a draw as a beloved brute. The concept of a heel is not new, but that doesn't make it any easier to stomach a victory for someone who might use his as a weapon against a defenseless victim that didn't cook his eggs to his liking.
So, try to ignore that Dana White is being as hypocritical as any other "good" business man in feeding a monster a couple minnows while watching the coins that come as a result of universal contempt pile up...
I know it's difficult to do so, but the harder Greg Hardy hits, the more impossible it becomes to forget that he used those same hands to throw someone half his size onto a stack of semi-automatic weapons. To anyone that possesses a long term memory, his temporary success make his past that much harder to escape. Not occupationally, apparently, but in the eyes of viewers he's as much of a psychotic piece of shit as he's ever been. Of course we are all eager to see his comeuppance. However, the fact that the fighter in question can't be viewed separate of his sins will have to hold us over until the UFC has fully milked it's new cash cow and finally sends it out for slaughter against an opponent that doesn't step into the octagon looking like he also just saw the ghosts of Greg Hardy's past.
Just another added bonus of being 'The Great One', I suppose. Even in the most copacetic of relationships, I'd say that wearing the last name of your soon-to-be father-in-law on your back in the public eye gives him the upper-hand in the unspoken power struggle that typically exists between a daughter's dad and her fiancee/husband. In this case, however, said daughter is the product of such exceptional sperm that even one of the most gifted golfers in the world has thrown in the towel on trying to be the most universally important person in her life.
I don't blame Dustin Johnson, as the father to his soon-to-be supermodel bride is basically synonymous with the entire sport of hockey to those that don't even know the rules of it. Wayne Gretzky is essentially the Canadian Tiger Woods had Tiger Woods not gotten the dominance beaten out of him with his own club after screwing the entire wait staff at every pedestrian chain restaurant within walking distance. Therefore, DJ really had no choice but to except that his celebrity will always come in second, if not third (as Paulina still goes by 'Gretzky'), during holidays.
That said, he deserves credit to embracing his eternally silver medal. A lesser man might continue to fight that uphill battle out of foolish and stubborn pride, but - if his decision to rock the illustrious number 99 on the links is any indication - then Dustin Johnson is keepin' it a 100 in regards to how retired his place will be in the family power rankings. The fact that he's living a better life than 99.9% of the population sure makes it easier to do so, but there are far too many people of his notoriety that would rather come off as a self-important prick than lean into being lesser in status than even .1% of their peers. Especially if they had to pass one of those peers the mashed potatoes on Thanksgiving,
Bradley Wright-Phillips Of The Red Bulls Was Fully Prepared To Become The Fastest 100 Goal Scorer in MLS History
Objectively speaking, that's exactly how it's done. That wasn't just a celebratory self-promotional spectacle, it was the thee celebratory self-promotional spectacle by which all others should be measured going forward. There's a bunch of antiquated sports fans out there who are falsely made to feel more comfortable with the placement of the stick up there ass every time an NFL player hands the ball back an official following a touchdown. Yet, even they would have to tip their ill-fitting golf cap to how much sweat and swag was spilled by Bradley Wright-Phillips in the making of history.
Take the foresight that went into having an authentic jersey bearing the #100 printed up. Throw in a dash of the self-assuredness necessary to throw it on under his actual uniform while playing a game as exasperating as soccer in the humid hellscape of Washington D.C. during the dead of summer. Mix it all up with the superior skill required to outrace a defender to the ball, stop on a dime, and almost too casually whip it it through his wickets into the back of the net. Apparently that is the recipe for an immaculate amount of moxie, because it would be impossible to argue that Bradley Wright-Phillips didn't "keep it 100" in earning the opportunity to feel himself.
Owning a big ego isn't particularly impressive, but keeping it fed off calories that are anything but empty is basically an art form. It's one that the Red Bulls' striker is especially skilled in, and since it's one that's become become a lot more quantity than quality as of late, I hope he goes into teaching when his playing days come to an end. Professor, Stunt 101-401.
I want everyone to keep in mind that I'm judging based off the rarely referenced and extremely unforgiving scale of instances in which a dropkick has been executed to perfection on the pitch, but didn't that particular cleat(s)-on-sternum contact seem relatively unavoidable? I wouldn't go as far as saying that our boy Melisse even tried to avoid it, as he seemingly lifted his second leg for no apparent reason, but when there's a set of washboard abs at your disposal you're not going to not use them to break your fall. That's just human instinct taking over, as far as I'm concerned.
Getting hit with a move that's typically delivered by those wearing sequenced speedos and face paint in a WWE ring probably shouldn't be considered an occupational hazard of playing professional soccer. However, with how long his feet hung in the air, I think there's an excellent "he ran into me!"-type case to be made that the victim was at least mildly complicit in the collision. Of course the slow motion replay helps that case exorbitantly, but the fact remains that, of the handful of gut-punching dropkicks I've seen, that one seemed the most like the incidental result of applicable athleticism and happenstance meeting in the middle of an opponent's ribcage. Then again, that's not saying all that much when this is what it's being compared to...
It Took 20 Goals Against, But The Opposing Goalie In Everton's Friendly Finally Threw In The Towel In a 22-0 Defeat
I think the obvious question here is a rhetorical one. Other than boosting their own confidence by way of not-so-borderline bullying, there's no reasonable answer for why a Premier League team would find it a productive use of their preparation time to beat the absolute piss out out of some beer leaguers. I mean, if that was just a "friendly" then so was the time that Tim Riggins plowed his recently paralyzed quarterback's girlfriend on Friday Night Lights. Therefore, I'm not even going to ask why this massacre even took place, and instead focus on one of the most impressive achievements I have ever seen on the pitch.
Yeah, I guess the twenty-two unanswered goals in a 90 minute game that typically features under 10% of that much scoring was all well and good, but not nearly as commendable as the opposing goalkeeper nearly making it to stoppage time before quitting on his team. In the moment, it might have seemed infantile for him to turn his back on the ball as a form of protest. However, after his own teammate increased the lead to 19 by inexplicably booming one over his head for no apparent reason, anything more peaceful than breaking pint bottles over the head of each one of his peers became a stellar display of both sportsmanship and professionalism...
Honestly, any man of even slightly lesser character would have been impatiently waiting on the team bus with a pillowcase full of quarters by the time the lead was increased to a dozen, so credit to him for making it 84 minutes into that drubbing before relinquishing all responsibilities. Never mind throwing in the towel, he had plenty of reason to use it to chloroform his entire roster and leave them naked and hogtied at midfield. Hopefully he didn't pay for a single drink that night, and that includes those he would have been every bit justified in dumping on the heads of the bums that hung him out to dry all afternoon.
An MLS Coach Went On A Half-Assed Rant About The Officials, Showing How Far Soccer Has To Go In This Country
This doesn't happen all too often, but I'm offended. Not by a professional coach's use of an expletive in his attempt to emphasize how little he cares about being penalized for his opinion, but rather his abuse of the word "shit" in trying to make an otherwise mild outburst seem worthy of a fine in the first place.
Honestly, I just feel as thought I was lied to. I don't like being led astray, and labeling that overly thought out, long-winded, and completely coherent complaint a "rant" is as disingenuous as considering the even-keeled man who delivered it to be a martyr. I thought I was going to get a glimpse at a World Cup-worthy freakout from an MLS manager who got tossed from a game in which his team ended up losing by a single goal. Instead I witnessed a reminder that the ambiguous rules of beer pong are the cause for far more uncontrollable anger in the United States than crappy officiating at the highest level of domestically organized soccer.
Hell, if I were the Commissioner I wouldn't even give the manager of Real Salt Lake the satisfaction of a fine, for the only thing profane about that cuss word was how shamelessly it was inserted to get that interview rated PG-13. That might pass for a "rant" in Utah, but anywhere within spitting distance of the Tristate area and that's considered run-of-the-mill irritability. I know inconsolable animosity in sports when I see it, and native New Yorker Mike Petke sounding off in a way that made it seem more likely that his steak was slightly overcooked than his team was robbed of a victorious result in a professional sporting event ain't it.
The MLS needs a little more "they are who we thought they were!" (R.I.P. Dennis Green) if those fully invested in it want us to believe that it isn't what we think it is. Which is, of course, an extremely underwhelming attempt at trying to popularize soccer in a country whose upmost quality can't even qualify for tournament in which blood would literally be shed over a bad enough call.