See, now THAT is how you do it! Not by tainting what was a thoroughly dominant win over a entirely under-womaned Thailand team by running a goddamn Conga line through them after every uncontested goal. Instead, by feigning class in displaying what overly repressed idiots would consider a lack of class following a legitimately meaningful goal on a massive stage. Mocking the time-honored traditions of literally every other country in the world is a time-honored American tradition, so I'm not sure Alex Morgan could have possibly done a better job paying homage to her homeland on the day of her birth. As far as I'm concerned, that was a red, white, and blueprint for how to express yourself at the expense of your international opponent. Go ahead, try to write up a think-piece on her perfect pinky extension without sounding like you didn't already have that bee in your bonnet, I dare you! As long as they are celebrating things that are worth celebrating I thoroughly encourage the USWNT to troll the entire globe a dozen times over en route to winning back-to-back World Cups. Especially if the birthday girl can teach her teammates some more incredibly dignified ways to clown the customs of actual competition. Sip on that England, but beware the bitter taste it'll leave in your mouth. On behalf of Alex Morgan, CHEERS!
1 Comment
As someone who cringes whenever the concept of class is thrown around in regards to sports, like fields of play hosting the most competitively cutthroat of athletes are supposed to be treated with the reverence of a 5-star dinner amongst dignitaries, I get it. I really do. The phrase "act like you've been there before" makes my goddamn skin crawl, especially with "there" being the back of a goal and not a fucking black tie event. That being said, I also think that celebrating the 9th goal of a brutal bludgeoning of a soccer game, that was over once it was scheduled, like you're auditioning for a show tune objectively makes you look like an overzealous jackass in the moment...
As a veteran of multiple World Cups, the last of which she was instrumental in winning, it's almost impossible for Megan Rapinoe to derive that much joy from an uncontested tally against a Thailand team that had already tucked their tails. After all, if she genuinely does then it stands to reason that her heart might legitimately explode on the pitch if she pots one in the elimination round. I say the following as someone who knows the importance of goal differential during the World Cup, and as someone that takes pride in the fact that at least one American team is capable of pounding the piss out of the rest of the planet in the most global of game. Regardless of whether or not it was...::chokes back taste of vomit::..."sportsmanlike", adding the type of insult to injury that you'd expect of someone seeking retribution for the murder of a loved one was a completely clueless display of self-(un)awareness. The USWNT should have won by 100 if the opportunity presented itself. That doesn't change the fact that - regardless of gender, nationality, or whatever else people will stop at nothing to make this about - you should feel kinda stupid when you frolic shamelessly over a pretty forgiving line in reacting to what might as well have been the 100th goal as if it were the first. As it turns out, the world's best female athletes can also be assholes. Consider it a downside of the ongoing process of equality. The type of hugs you'd expect to see given to someone safely returning from deployment weren't just objectively over-the-top given the score. They were also awkwardly over-the-top given the score, and I say that as someone who would have liked to have seen said score tripled by ladies that distracted from their dominant talents by acting as if they'd just magically discovered them yesterday. I don't want to sound as if I'm against celebrating the realization of a lifelong dream, because I am most certainly not. However, I find it incredibly unlikely that any young soccer player, boy or girl, ever closed their eyes and dreamt of scoring the 13th goal against an overmatched opponent in the first game of the World Cup.
SI- Haney was suspended from his SiriusXM radio show on Thursday after making disparaging remarks regarding Korean golfers in the LPGA.
"I'm gonna predict a Korean," Haney said when asked to pick a winner for the upcoming US Women's Open. "That's gonna be my prediction. I couldn't name you, like, six players on the LPGA Tour," Haney continued. "Nah, maybe I could. Well, I'd go with Lee. If I didn't have to name a first name, I'd get a bunch of them right. I don't know...Lexi Thompson...Michelle Wie's hurt. I don't know that many." --------- In fairness to Hank Haney, I'm not sure what type of answer we should have expected out of 63-year-old white dude who was being asked about women's athletics after spending his entire life immersed in a sport that's not exactly known for its inclusiveness. I don't want to completely excuse him, because he certainly didn't have to wade that close to the unforgiving waters of social insensitivity, but - as far as questionable commentary goes - that's about as mild as it can possibly come out of an unfiltered mouth born of a less progressive generation. I personally wouldn't have gone the "ha, look at all the Koreans with the same last name!" route in un-artfully analyzing the best female golfers on the planet. However, I can think of far more objectionable observations to be made by a guy who is inclined by his age and ethnicity to say the type of things that make conversations uncomfortable during Thanksgiving dinner. Now, arguing that his "prediction" was made on the basis of mathematics is as much of a stretch as arguing that a Women's Open win by one of six Jeongeun Lee's participating completely exonerates him of any wrong spewing....
That said, I'd assume that most have ignored much more offensive jokes made by much more socially inappropriate elders, as the vast majority of race and/or gender-based humor doesn't highlight the successes of the minority on the ass end of it. The direction that Hank Haney went with his answer was definitely stupid, as golf enthusiasts/experts should never draw attention to the game's melanin deficiency. However, at the risk of defending a 'Hank', I'm not going to claim that it was some sort of egregious example of the racist and sexist undertones that exist throughout sports as much as it was an old dude wandering his way through word vomit and ending up in a no-win situation only to stub his toe on a sign of the times. Despite being right, he wasn't in the right. Still, I don't think it's crazy to that they are levels to being in the wrong, and he was far from the reaching the highest one. 
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SI- At Sunday's Mercy Health Glass City Marathon, Manning finished the race at 2:52:52 to win the women's division. As she approached the finish line, race workers held out the tape for Manning to break through, except Christian Floyd, who finished 36th in the men's group, ran through it instead.
Manning finished just behind Floyd and quickly shouted at him for running through her tape. "I was a little upset not to get to break the tape because I’ve never gotten to do that before," Manning told The Blade. "But in the grand scheme of things that doesn’t really matter." -------- Now, wait just a minute. Have we considered that it might have been ignorance? Far be it for me to offer any benefit of the doubt to someone who was accurately described as an asshole. However, how can we be 100% positive that the presumed Harvard grad isn't just some Ivy League douchebag that legitimately thinks that on the 7th day Jesus actually woke up early to set up the whole damn world to celebrate his, and only his, literal and figurative personal milestones and checkpoints? He is named after the religion that tends to spend a lot of time stuck up its own ass, so if the birth certificate fits then you might as well act like it's the only one ever printed. Now, I'm not so sure that makes for a solid defense of his personality, but him being an insufferable person would at least let him off the hook as a terrible person. The distinction might be slight, but the alternative is that he knew damn well what he was doing in maliciously stealing the moment from a much more accomplished runner after 26.2 miles. If I were him, I think I might put my hand up as the type of guy that has the tendency to forget that other people actually do exist outside of his universe, for it's much worse to be an insecure dude that needs the self satisfaction of running through a fucking ribbon to reinforce the type of delicate ego that can't handle coming in 36th place. Whatever the case may be, good on Amy Manning for crushing an entire marathon and managing to save one last breath to explicitly call it like she saw it. I wouldn't have even known of her accomplishment if it weren't for the gloved goober earning himself the attention he may or may not have been desperate for with the most unhonorable of mention, so maybe all is well that ends well...
You'll Never See a More Classic Case of One-upmanship Than The Flop Fest in This Random Soccer Game4/23/2019 
The most obvious way to react to this video would be to slowly shake your head while sighing and muttering "fucking soccer" through a light snicker. After all, helplessly flailing to the ground like you just stepped in a bear trap every time someone lightly grazes your person has long been an epidemic in the most worldwide of sport, and almost everyone in this clip appeared to be both infected and handicapped by it. That said, I can't help but be impressed by how quickly each floundering fraud of an athlete managed to upstage the flop before them. Honestly, if that video had continued being filmed I'm not entirely sure we wouldn't have witnessed an evil-spirited blade of grass cause a sham of a seizure, because as the severity in contact decreased the level of dramatics increased. It was like a comedy sketch in that it became easier and easier to perceive the parody as the same joke kept being made with escalated absurdity. You legitimately couldn't mock the sport of soccer anymore seamlessly than it mocked itself, as hiring good actors to create laughs wouldn't have created anywhere near as perfect a production as just filming bad actors engaging in what was supposed to be an intense competition. Long story short...stereotype, solidified. 
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. 
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.
Overdue update:
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."
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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. 
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. 
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. 
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...
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. 
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. 
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. 
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). 
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...
— Bryce Mitchell (@ThugnastyMMA) August 21, 2018 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. 
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. 
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. 
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. |
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