STLToday- A St. Louis jury has awarded millions of dollars to a former NFL running back who suffered a severe knee injury in a game at the Edward Jones Dome in 2015.
The Los Angeles Rams were ordered to pay Reggie Bush $4.95 million in compensatory damages and $7.5 million in punitive damages. The jury found the Rams 100 percent liable for Bush's injury. He had also sued public agencies that own and operate the Dome, but they were dismissed from the suit by a judge last week after arguing the football team had control of operations at the facility on game days. "I'm very happy with the verdict," Bush told the Post-Dispatch after the verdict. "The people spoke and decided very fairly." ----- First and foremost, it's just nice to see the little guy get a win for once. I know that feels like a weird thing to say that about a universally recognizable athlete that lays claim to maybe the most viewed highlight tape in sports history, a gone-but-not-forgotten Heisman Trophy, the endless love of a region that was inspired by his timely draft selection, a Super Bowl ring, and - most importantly given the context - over $60 million dollars in career earnings. However, in comparison to a multi-billion dollar organization that, like all others, only bends over backwards to bend its talent over the barrel, Reggie Bush couldn't be anymore of the sympathetic figure here. Of course, it's preposterously inexcusable to circle your NFL stadium with a slick concrete ring that would primarily be stepped on by freak athletes running uncontrollably in cleats. But even if his season-ending and career-threatening injury wasn't the result of a run-in with an off-the-field death trap, everyone should have been rooting for Reg to come out richer in his legal battle against a representative for a league that shamelessly chews up and spits out it's athletes on the field. If you enjoy your Sunday football in spite of the soulless sycophants that suck dry both the earning power and the brain power of its actual entertainers, then you should have reacted to this news in the same way that the people's prosecution did... — Reggie Bush (@ReggieBush) June 12, 2018 In this case, that's especially true if you happen to be from St. Louis. As someone that couldn't imagine having to deal with having a team I root for uplifted by greed, the idea that even one member of the jury factored their neglected fandom into their decision against a defense that included the prick that orchestrated the move to Los Angeles makes me smile. It's a small win that doesn't make right the fact that Missourians have had to watch the Rams transform into a contender on the Left Coast, but it's a win nonetheless. When your undying hatred is directed at one of the NFL's untouchables, those are harder to come by than a human highlight reel like Reggie Bush.
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 TheBigLead- Marla Ridenour of the Akron Beacon Journal said yesterday on ESPNLA Afternoons with Marcellus and Travis that LeBron is not a fan of Houston (37:07):
“I heard this from his own lips when we were in Houston this season, he does not like Houston as a city. So, that would require him moving to a place he is not crazy about.” ----- One down, twenty-eight to go! Just got to convince everyone, LeBron James included, that LeBron James hates every NBA city other than the one he calls home and he's basically a lock to end up back in Cleveland next season! It's such a brilliant strategy that I can't believe it wasn't employed the first time Akron's own left Ohio burning in an incineration of his own memorabilia! To be clear, I have absolutely no idea where Houston falls on LeBron's list of his favorite domestic destinations. For all I know, it is entirely possible that he finds the wineries in the Deep South to be positively off-putting, and - as a result - he's soured on the entire region. That said, I have a very hard time treating a comment he more than likely made in passing as he prepared to play a far superior Rockets team during a regular season that he largely slept through to be unwavering gospel. Unless LeBron James sat down and crafted a lop-sided list of Houston's cons as he sat across Marla Ridenour, I think it's safe to assume that this is being overblown out of fear that she'll be stuck writing columns on Jordan Clarkson next season. I guess I can't blame her for grasping at every straw in hopes that the Cavaliers won't once again end up with the short end of the stick. However, considering the fact that we're talking about someone that willingly went back to Cleveland, I'm going to need more damning evidence than one comment made an irritable player who was tired of being on the road to cross Houston off the short list of places he can immediately win another title. 
OttawaCitizen- Melinda Karlsson has filed an order of protection against the longtime girlfriend of Senators forward Mike Hoffman — alleging a campaign of harassment that plagued the Karlssons after the death of their son and through much of the last NHL season, this newspaper has learned.
It was in late November that the Karlssons announced on social media that they were expecting their first child, a son they would later name Axel Michael who was stillborn on March 19, 2018. “Monika Caryk has uttered numerous statements wishing my unborn child dead,” says Melinda Karlsson’s sworn statement to the court. "She also uttered that she wished I was dead and that someone should ‘take out’ my husband’s legs to ‘end his career'. Monika Caryk has posted over 1,000 negative and derogatory statements about me as a professional.” In March, Sens captain Erik Karlsson blasted an anonymous online troll who, in the comments section of a post mourning his dead son, accused his wife of “popping painkiller medication” during her pregnancy. In an Instagram post mourning his son’s death, Erik Karlsson posted a photo of Axel’s tiny footprints. In the post, Karlsson thanked the city and the team’s fans for their love and support and wrote: “We feel very lucky to be Axel’s parents. Even though he was stillborn, we know we will hold him again one day under different circumstances and the joy he gave us will be with us forever.” The post garnered more than 10,000 comments, with the overwhelming majority of them expressions of support and sympathy for the couple. However, one comment, posted by user @sandydandy45, stood out: “I feel bad for the baby he didn’t have a chance with Melinda popping pain killer medication everyday.” It took the league’s top defenceman just seven minutes to respond: “How dare you. You have been making fake accounts and buying hacked ones for months to harass me and my wife but this is an all new low even for you. You are a disgusting person.” The user @sandydandy45 has since deactivated that account. This newspaper also found other social media users coming to Melinda’s defence after Twitter user @petersonmegan51 used an anti-bullying event to insult her. That account has also since been deleted. --------- Be careful what you wish for. That's how the saying goes, is it not? I ask only because clearly I had forgotten of it's importance as I followed along with the hilarity of the Bryan Colangelo saga and longed for the day in which someone in the NHL would find themselves mired in similarly idiotic internet hijinks. Turns out, the story I thought I was hoping for was right around the corner, but running a burner account that essentially labels the wife of your boyfriend's teammate as a pill-popping baby killer is too hot for me to handle with two dozen oven mitts. I suppose it bears mentioning that Mike Hoffman has denied everything, as any good fiancée to an (alleged) loose cannon/lunatic should, but there seems to be a lot of smoke for there not to be some sort of fire behind extremely personal attacks regarding something as sensitive as someone's deceased child. Just using common sense here, but I think though doth protest too much by claiming "150%" non-involvement when there's already been an order of protection filed and an article from a reputable news source written about said order of protection...
Technically this is still one-sided hearsay at the moment, but if any of it is proven even remotely true then Mike Hoffman looks just as bad as his sociopath of a soon-to-be life partner. Not just because it's his job to keep lady trouble out of the locker room, but because he should be responsible enough not to get down on one knee and pledge his future to the type of person that feels vindicated by the unexpected death of even their own worst enemy's infant. Monica Caryk is probably a freak in a sheets if she is truly that disconnected from reality, but - as an NHL player - Mike Hoffman has to up his standards higher than someone who appears to be mentally ill in the internet streets. If not because his significant other currently comes off as the type to chop her husband's dick off if he doesn't finish doing the dishes to her liking, then because his talent doesn't outweigh his reported baggage by as much as that of the player whose wife finally WAG'd the finger after months of being victimized. A third, fourth, fifth, and sixth party have spoken, and it's not exactly glowingly of the relationship that the Senators' winger is in...
Therefore, if I were Mike Hoffman I might think about prioritizing long-term stability over the absolute psychosis of a fatal attraction. Although, in fairness, the latter does make his relationship a match made in the hellscape that is a dysfunctional organization. If nothing else, it would be very fitting of the Ottawa Senators to get forced into keeping someone who put a ring on a locker room cancer while trading away a franchise cornerstone that damn near dragged them to a Stanley Cup Final on one foot. 
There's no doubt about it, this is a classy move. Blurred and slurred in what appears to be an all-time bender is that the liquid diet that the Stanley Cup Champs are currently on came at the expense of an expansion team that overcame historic odds. Ovechkin and Company deserve every single watt of the spotlight, but when - if ever - the proverbial keg finally gets kicked on the Washington Capitals' frat party there's going to come a time when we all sit back and appreciate what the Vegas Golden Knights were able to do in coming within three wins of the most expedited title in sports history. The organization that was doing parade prep got a head start on everyone else by taking out an ad in a Las Vegas newspaper on the day in which they were officially commemorating their championship, and they deserve credit for being so humble in victory. All that being said, I think we can all agree it's a bit easier to shower your opponent with compliments when they are run by the same man that put together half of your roster that will now reign eternal...
Not to make it sound any less generous, of course, but the least the Washington Capitals could have done for George McPhee was to give a noble nod to the second championship contender he has put together in as many tries. I'm sure this was nothing other than a genuine show of praise towards a worthy opponent, but best not forget that "world class" descriptor when the head of that class helped give you the world. 
The good news is that, given the ease with which he was able to turn a routine play into a blooper of gut-clutching embarrassment, Chase Chambers may have shown the Mets that they hit on someone that will fit seamlessly into their culture of comedic incompetence with their 18th round draft pick. It almost seems like a self-fulfilling prophecy that the Metropolitans can't even avoid comically bad looks in the college game, but at least a first basemen that can't catch a pop fly seems destined for a farm system that will suit him the best. The bad news is that the visual of that blooper is somehow about 100x more embarrassing than the explanation of it, and that it will be eternally enjoyed by the entirety of the internet. Having a fair ball deflect right off your dick only to skip over the plate that an opposing runner ever-so-casually took at the expense of a sore shaft and a bruised ego sounds bad, until you see it in GIF form. Maybe it's because it's impossible to describe how mystified an observer the pitcher was, but my words could never do justice to a sequence of events that I'm liable to watch on loop all day. That clip might haunt the online existence of Chase Chambers, but it's an absolute godsend of a GIF to anyone looking for a non-verbal way to respond to any and all situations in which someone was made to look stomach-curdlingly clumsy. 
The two plays above are most definitely noteworthy enough to be referenced separately, as one was a timely act of trickery and the other was simply a mistake, but it's the summation of them that is going to haunt Auburn for the foreseeable future. I would argue there's a cap to be tipped to both the ballsy base running and the outfield effort that went awry, but there's nothing the Tigers could possibly be told that make them feel any better about losing on a stolen run and a self-inflicted walk-off. Just like the hand that laser of a game-winning home run careened off of, that loss is going to sting for a while. The pitcher, in all likelihood, will blame himself, even though it would take a whole dormitory worth of Adderall dosing to keep his full focus on the runner at third while there was a runner swimming in the sand in his periphery. The outfielder, who it bears mentioning is a recently converted catcher, will probably blame himself, even though the visual of his detrimental defense is worse than his execution of it on a ball that was absolutely crushed. The truth is, Auburn would have been hurting no matter how they lost to the #1 seed with a College World Series appearance on the line, but these particular circumstances really played matchmaker between the salt and the wound. A great game that went extras, and an obvious "what if" or two is all they are going to be able to lament on heading into the offseason. So, next you find yourself praying to the sports' gods, keep in mind that they have a tendency to be quite sadistic. 
I don't want to be too critical of Kevin Durant here. Mostly because he's proven that he can't speak the thick skin he desperately desires into existence, but also because it would be stupid to make too much of an offhand quote. Of course, it's an offhand quote that probably doesn't lack as much context as he'd more than likely claim if pressed on the issue, but it is just an offhand quote that makes a lot of sense coming from a guy that isn't getting anywhere near the amount of credit that literally any other back-to-back Finals MVP would. Now, there's a good reason that everyone sighed and changed the channel as opposed to singing Kevin Durant's praises. Still, as predictable as this deserved diminishment of his inevitable accomplishments was, I do ever-so-slightly pity the fact that he reached the pinnacle of his profession in back-to-back seasons and is somehow left trying to insecurely spin-zone his successes into sounding more impressive. That being said, for someone that has an increasingly hard time deciding whether or not he's okay with being disliked, he sure makes it impossible to like him when he's hitting his detractors with a "well, actually..." instead of simply thumbing his nose at them. Never mind the fact that this could be interpreted as an on-the-record subtweet at LeBron James with Steph Curry serving as the collateral damage, because the truth of the matter is that it's just a desperate plea for appreciation. As if we're supposed to laud a 7 footer that's deadly accurate from anywhere inside the arena for simply "standing out" amongst athletically inferior All Stars. I've gotten over the fact that Kevin Durant wanted to make his job easier, but the second most talented player on the planet would be so much better served if he stopped trying to convince people how much harder it is to live up to his potential while playing in a system that maximizes it. He sacrificed some of his reverence for rings, and no amount of tale twisting is going to change that. Sidenote: No wonder the guy has his sights set on retiring at 35. Thinking up roundabout reasons as to how winning with the Warriors is some huge burden on him is probably more exhausting than actually winning with the Warriors...
Marcus Davenport Is Set To Have Surgery, And That News Isn't Anywhere Near As Bad As It Could Be6/11/2018 
Seeing as the Saints are merely a month and a half removed from mortgaging a significant chunk of their future on a project of a player whose cost was almost unprecedented given his position, hearing the news that Marcus Davenport was going under the knife didn't exactly uplift my mood on a Monday morning. That being said, while I pray they don't take this as a challenge, the unrelenting injury bugs are going to have to bite a hell of a lot harder than that if they are trying to get the Who Dat Nation to pile into a padded room in fear of the sky falling. At this point last offseason, New Orleans was already without anyone that was even remotely accurate in snapping a football as Max Unger found himself upon a random foot injury. They were also on the verge of learning that their late first round pick was going to be rushed into action as Terron Amstead lost the following 4-6 months to a blocking dummy. And, as if that wasn't enough, the harsh realization that the irregular heart of prized free agent re-signee, Nick Fairley, was all the sudden beating down the door of early retirement. To put it simply, thumb surgery on even the most promising of hand is basically a hang nail in comparison to the unforeseen shit that got shoveled the Saints' way last summer. When I skimmed through the tweet initially and caught only the name and the word "surgery" I was about ready to seek comfort in the arms of my old friend (and fellow Saints' fan) darkness, but I damn near laughed when I decided to prioritize proofreading ahead of numb paralysis. A thumb injury, HA! We are way past my panties becoming that easily bunched. If Saints' fans weren't immune to a prominent player's offseason operation on a body part that can't even call itself a finger we all would have been knocking down the locked doors of whatever mental institution was keeping us from our schizophrenic Sundays last season. It undeniably sucks that a pass-rusher who is still rough-around-the-edges is going to miss out on valuable mini-camp reps, but Ocshner Medical is going to have to go two-a-days on the malpractice before a thumb surgery starts costing me any rest. 
TheComeBack- It’s preposterous that Chad Pinder hit back-to-back foul balls to the exact same seat. And it’s even crazier that the fan sitting in that seat proved capable of snagging both pop ups with his bare hands. That’s not easy!
So who was this man with some of the softest hands in Northern California? His name, he told the A’s broadcast, is Bill, and he lives in Pittsburg, California. “I caught the first one, and by the time I could get the other ball and put it in my pocket, the other one was coming at me,” Bill explained. “I reached up and grabbed the other one too.” Bill said he goes to about 10 Athletics games a year and had never before caught a foul ball, which should give hope to all you out there waiting for that pop up to be hit in your direction. One of these days it will happen. And then it just might happen again. -------- Before now, I didn't necessarily think that you can learn a lot about someone by gauging their reaction to a rare event like the snagging of their first ever foul ball, but I feel pretty damn confident in saying that fan is second only to Beane as the Bill that's most invested in the success of the Oakland Athletics. We can even set aside the fact that the self-torn sleeveless is the unmistakeable mark of a grown ass man in his comfort zone, because the outfit isn't even as telling as the actions of the person in it. I know that fame is typically measured in 15 second increments in 2018, but how many excitable fans out there would set their watch to not overstaying that observance after casually snagging their first souvenir in decades? Bill didn't just act like he'd been there before in quickly pocketing that ball, but he managed to swiftly make it through all his rounds of slapping fives and kissing babies to be standing back at attention for the next wind-up. I don't even think it's a 7th inning-esque stretch to say that there were active Royals' outfielders who weren't as fiery in their focus on the upcoming pitch during the 6th inning of a game between divisional doormats in early June. Of course it bears mentioning that the odds of back-to-back pitches being hit to the exact same seat are about as overwhelming as the pythons on Wild Bill, but - as some of the greatest athletes have our time have taught us - you create your own luck. In this case, it probably wasn't so much the creation of luck as it was the avoidance of a massive migraine. Still, always keeping your eye on the ball isn't just characteristic of the tee-ball players that have the chops to hit a coach's changeup. It's also characteristic of the type of fan that's not just there for a fearsome farmer's tan, but also to root on his team throughout the entirety of the afternoon. 
The thing I regret most about that headline is that, at the very least, it sounds like a joke about the expense of a 25 year old rookie who battled his ass off to get through the G League system and over unceremonious releases following week-and-a-half long contracts from multiple NBA organizations. The truth is that I admire the perseverance Quinn Cook showed in sticking on one of the most talented teams in league history, as well as appreciate the level of enthusiasm he displayed in reaching the peak of his profession. That why it's not his unbridled exhilaration that I take umbrage with. Rather, it's the stark contrast that it drew to his teammates whose excitement was that of a group that just stumbled upon their early shipment of free hats and shirts, as opposed to having just won the championship that was embroidered across them. Not to re-open old wounds here, but the player whose most notable playoff moment was when his urine-soaked compression shorts were damn near noticeable from the nosebleeds as he clunked away Game 5 in crunch time was the one looking like the only kid in a candy store that was full of diabetics prior to his arrival...
Not to be rude, but it legit took being confronted by the player whose most impressive feat of the NBA Finals was his Superman-esque transition from Clark Kent to Quinn Cook for Steph Curry, Kevin Durant, and Steve Kerr to show anywhere near the amount of emotion you'd expect from back-to-back champs...
That's certainly understandable given all he's been through, but it also highlighted exactly how little his star-studded starting lineup has been through en route to an inevitable title that spent approximately one off-day in doubt. Ultimately, it's up to the entirety of the Eastern Conference to provide the Warriors more than one individually formidable foe, but let's call a spade a spade here. After we had been put out of the misery we endured while suffering through an NBA finale that had the feel of the ass end of a back-to-back in mid-December, the end of Finals festivities seemed lame even before you had to do the deductive reasoning to identify that it was actually Quinn Cook who just graced your TV screen. Somehow, they were made even more underwhelming when, of all people, the guy that spent a championship-clinching game in street clothes reminded us what winning an NBA title is supposed to look like. 
Eat your goddamn heart out Ferris Bueller. Assuming that a new one can't truly start until you actually close your eyes for longer than it takes to blink champagne out of them, the following was all in a day's "work" for Alexander Ovechkin and the Washington Capitals...
My first thought upon seeing Alexander Ovechkin treat hockey's ultimate prize like some combination of his birth blankey, a freshly-tapped keg, and - sooner rather than later - his right hand in the court of law was that the Capitals have really deprived us of a pricey version of Project X by having a low tolerance for high pressure situations prior to this postseason. Of course, my second thought was that they probably wouldn't be using the entire city of Washington like the backyard of a low-rent, off-campus college house if this untimed shit show hadn't been in the making for about three decades-worth of the dog years in which Ovi's looks have been aging. Both things are probably partially accurate, but whatever the case may be, the Caps are following their leader off the ice about as well as they did on the ice. Luckily for those of us living vicariously through the Stanley Cup's bender, their leader just so happens to be the type to inject some energy into a power nap with the crisp cracking of a cold one. To be clear, I'm not completely lukewarm on acting like you've been there before, as humility doesn't get anymore nauseatingly commendable than it does in the hockey world. Unfortunately, having not been there before, riding the high of a 48-hour binger with not a concern in the world but where your next drink (and/or chant) is coming from is a hell of a lot more more relatable. Since the two are always going to be compared to one another anyway, let's put this in the following context. Sidney Crosby is the consummate champion, but his rival just became the people's champion by seemingly matching the amount of debauchery he has gotten into with hockey's Holy Grail within the confines of one extended Saturday. Mathematically speaking, if you tallied up all the laughs that have been had at the Caps' expense throughout all of their self-proclaimed years and multiplied it by amount of goals Ovi scored before they became eternally validated by a championship then you'd probably get close to the quantity of fun they've had since Friday. Alexander Ovechkin might not be carrying the Stanley Cup like he owns it, but I'll be damned if there's not something incredibly endearing about watching him fill it up enough times to get his money's worth out of the summer long lease he's got on it. Cheers to him continuing to drink em' up, on the condition that it doesn't require him to put his life's work down for more than 5 minutes at a time. 
You know, for someone that would have every reason to take it as an insult if I merely called his on-court vision '20/20', LeBron James sure has a weird way of seemingly seeking out bad looks off of it. To be clear, as undeniably stupid a move as it is, I don't even blame the Cavaliers' only chance at remaining competitive for fracturing his hand out of frustration. Historically speaking, a 51-8-8 performance in the Finals has never, ever been entirely offset by the frontrunner for the dumbest play (and replay) we've ever seen in said Finals, so there's not a person or player on the planet that can definitively say that they wouldn't have mismanaged their anger in that situation. He probably should have gone with a more forgiving target, like his professional punching bag of a head coach, but coughing up Game 1 in such a cringeworthy fashion all-but-ended the series while it was just getting started. LeBron could have had more fully functioning limbs than a mutated frog and he still wouldn't have gotten the Cavs past a return trip to 'The Bay' with how detrimental it was to their chances to watch J.R. Smith flounder uncontrollably in it. Games two through four were basically just a formality, even if 'King James' with unimpaired range could have pushed it to five. That said, you cannot go the "not to make excuses, but you do see this hand wrap that I've been hiding until right this very second, correct?" route. Only idiots, assholes, and Jordan jerkers were laying blame at the feet of the person that proved reverentially retardant in dragging a fully-engulfed dumpster fire to the Finals. By immediately scapegoating a self-inflicted injury, however, he basically turned himself in as an accomplice to the brooms being busted out. Simply put, when you're already the most polarizing player in professional sports, you need not offer such an open invitation to criticism, and that's what LeBron did by adding a cast to his list of attention grabbing accessories. Those that remain skeptical of exactly how much damage he did to himself are willfully ignoring the proximity of the dots that are just begging to be connected. I just can't imagine that it's a coincidence that this swelling coincided with this obvious reluctance to apply a jump shot that had otherwise been deadly throughout the entirety of the playoffs...
With as much of a lock as the Warriors were to win their third title in four seasons, none of this really matters. The best LeBron James could have legitimately hoped to have earned was a flattering farewell. Unfortunately, with a combination of recklessness and self-incrimination, he cost himself sympathy when he had done such a good job building up throughout a peerless postseason performance. After doing such a good job making it seem impossible to hate him, he reminded us all of the one reason why some people do when he didn't even have to.  Hook. Line. Sinker.  Seeing as T.O. hasn't exactly proven to have MacGyver-like survival skills in everyday society, even he has to be surprised that it was this easy for him to get a trusted media member to bite and admit that he lets his personal feelings regarding players off the field dictate how he judges their past performances on the field. Now, let me be clear, Gary Myers isn't the first person with a Hall Of Fame vote to let his ballot be determined by his heart instead of his head, as evidenced by T.O.'s prolonged wait outside the walls of Canton. He's just the first I'd approach if I had a bridge for sale. To be honest, part of me feels bad even writing this, as it sort of feels like watching a fish that's been caught for the first time squirm helplessly on deck without any clue as to what happened to it. Terrell Owens had barely made it back behind the tree after setting the trap, and - boom - a self-important sports' writer had not only already taken the bait, but was bitching about the carelessness of leaving such a dangerous device right next to such a juicy headline. It's a shame, really. If the composer of it wasn't part of the old, white coalition of "experts" that kept an all-time wide receiver sitting on the sidelines of being properly sanctified for multiple seasons, I would actually assume his tweet to be a brilliantly crafted piece of satire. Like, if you read it backwards, it goes from the dumb question to the blatantly obvious answer he was looking for in a way that's quite witty if not for the fact that it was completely unintentional. Oh well, at least it's ass-backwards in a way that's ironically fitting of someone whose voice is only still heard because he managed to make it so far up his own keister that he made it back out the other end. 
After more than an hour of listening to the deliriously delighted try to put into perspective an accomplishment that literally has a commercial dedicated to how speechless it leaves you... ...even I, as the viewer, began to wonder just how many quotes were needed before the Capitals got the green light to blow through just about any red lights in lifting all available spirits in a more tangible way. I know professional athletes have media obligations and all, but the Q&A portion of an inevitable evening of viva'ing the ever-loving-shit out of Las Vegas did seem to be disproportionally long. And who better to remind a reporter of that fact than Braden Holtby? Attention needed to be drawn to an itinerary that was decidedly too far over the influence, and only someone psychotic enough to make an unforgiving living stopping high-speed vulcanized rubber could do such a good job bringing an abrupt stop to a conversation in a way that didn't allow it a chance to continue. Anyone else and that passive aggressive answer comes off as obnoxious, but - as anyone even mildly familiar with hockey knows - nothing is all that weird coming from the lips of goaltender. If the 4th station in ten minutes absolutely needed to learn of Braden Holtby's emotional state after winning the Stanley Cup then they should have at least had the professional courtesy to butter him up with a beer. If I've learned anything from having little patience, run-of-the-mill social anxiety, and a hollow leg, it's that doing so definitely would have made his responses more retweetable. 
I could honestly probably wrap up this blog here, as the most appropriate reaction to witnessing a heartwarming moment of weakness from someone whose play makes him seem immune to vulnerability is speechlessness. For a multitude of reasons, I can't say I even remotely understand what T.J. Oshie was feeling as he broke down about the ailing father that he'd soon hoist the Stanley Cup with shortly after acheiving his lifelong dream of winning it in front of him. However, if I were to give an unbelievably poor comparison to make things even somewhat mildly relatable, I'd say that the hearts of those involved were probably somehow about 10,000x more full than those of these two...
In crying along with the innumerable amount of complete strangers who were soaking their cheeks while sympathizing with just about the widest variety of emotions, 'Captain America' reminded us that, on rare occasion, sports can be just as meaningful as they typically are meaningless. Beyond it being merely a game at it's core, this is what hockey at it's most heartfelt is all about. It's been a struggle to try to put into words what last night must have meant for both T.J. Oshie and his family, so I'll let the pictures finish this one up with a couple thousand...
Don't bother arranging a departure date because you can stay as long as you'd like Golden Knights fans, but I must warn you that here we carry our own emotional baggage and the only type of currency accepted at tables that are more depressing than a ride back to the Las Vegas airport is feelings. Pro tip, the house always wins, but hey - feel free to give the wheel of hypotheticals a spin. Though there's not a single bounce that will make you feel any better about whatever 'if' you happen to land on, it is our most prominent attraction in a pit that brings nothing but misery! To be honest, I didn't really take any umbrage with a team full of castoffs showing not a single growing pain in taking the league by storm during their inaugural season in it. Everyone should love a good, old fashioned tale of comeuppance, and the Vegas Golden Knights probably could've attached a different one to the pregame of every single home playoff game they participated in if they weren't busy portraying Medieval Times On Ice. As unlikely as their immediate success was, that historical run was both well-deserved and incredibly entertaining to witness. Unfortunately, as fans, we like to wrongfully believe that with our annual sobering stays at hockey's heartbreak hotel come some sort of frequent failure points that, in the long run, are redeemable in second-hand championship glory. Washington Capitals fans that probably haven't stopped drinking long enough to take a deep breath through their mouth, never mind have a hangover, might tell you they are currently maxing out that credit as we speak. The truth is that they are appropriately FUBAR'd and no such credit actually exists, but to be overly invested in the athletic performance of others simply because of the colors they wear in the cities they call home you must also believe that a compilation of pain is the most proven route to a payoff. That's why there was a strong contingent of the hockey community that was treating Golden Knights fans like the new neighbor that starts whipping their car through the development and playing their music too loud before even suffering through forced interactions with the jaded jackasses they now call peers. In these parts, you're supposed to pay some sort of "dues" before enjoying yourself by celebrating accomplishments that are completely independent of your existence. Therefore, we should all offer our condolences. It took far longer than expected, but I'd argue the uptick in anguish that results from watching your team come oh-so-close to taking a commanding lead in the Stanley Cup Final only to see them gentlemanly swept off their own home ice by way of a blown third period lead makes up for lost time. The argument can be made that Vegas' insane season should have ended with a heart-wrenching OT loss to really offset their extended euphoria, but I think even the most tortured of fanbase can settle for them taking up a temporary vacancy in something a little less dispiriting than the dark and dingy suite of sorrow. 
If we are speaking analytically, there is a very, very convincing argument to be made that Evgeny Kuznetsov should have been the one flapping his obnoxious wings on up to the next level of stardom after using his talons to snag a trophy that represents individual importance from the slimy hands of Gary Bettman. After all, in leading the playoffs by a handful of points, he did have a postseason coming out party that could put to shame a post-grad coming party thrown by a gender fluid boy who just moved out of his strict parents' repressed household. The kid was unbelievably electric, and I don't just mean in his proclivity to poorly feign foreign ignorance while dropping expletives into a live mic. If we are taking positional impact into account, some might say that Braden Holtby earned the opportunity to distract everyone from his grotesque neckbeard by accepting an award for the performance that was ultimately responsible for his lengthy transformation into teen wolf. After all, it was his insertion into the lineup that almost directly coincided with the first of many times in which the Capitals rewrote their reputation by proving resilient in storming out of an 0-2 hole against the Blue Jackets. During a time of year in which superior goaltending is of the upmost importance, Braden Holtby provided it with his paddle in flipping a Stanley Cup Final that, as hard as it is to believe now, was very much at risk of getting away from Washington. All that being said, when it comes to the player that most deserved to be celebrated in setting the stage for the ultimate prize in team sports, it was Alexander Ovechkin. Just take one look at the picture above, and you can't possibly tell me it wasn't always Ovi. If not because a poll of his own locker room would probably tell you the same then because fully negating the nauseatingly repetitive narrative that's followed him throughout the vast majority of his career is more important than dissecting the definition of value. Whether it was emotionally or physically, there's no doubt who was leading an incredibly cohesive Capitals' team, and I think it's relevant to point out that it was the person that was also bearing both the brunt of over a decade of disappointment and a 'C' that's served as a scarlet letter to Russian-born players. We have a way of tearing down even the most transcendent of superstars regardless of whether or not it's their teams or unforeseen circumstances that fail them. No player encapsulates that quite like the greatest pure goal scorer of all time who has long carried the 'loser' label despite posting playoff numbers that provide a much different second opinion. The original spirit of the Conn Smythe award undoubtedly had nothing to do with the media, but given their vulture-like tendencies, I have no problem with them factoring their guilty conscience into the vote. The truth is that I don't really care whether or not Alexander Ovechkin was indisputably the best player on the ice for the Capitals throughout their championship run and neither should you. With how often we've taken it upon ourselves to lessen his legacy, finally giving it a boost, be it a questionable one or not, is but a slight progression to the mean that's been 13 years in the making. The legend of Alex Ovechkin has managed to grow through no shortage of piss and vitriol, it's about goddamn time we were a bit liberal in offering it some water. Even if it would prefer vodka after a title-worthy two-way performance that put the boldest of exclamation points on both his Conn Smythe candidacy and his career...
Welp, if nothing else, I'm glad that both Chrissy Teigen and Ryan Miller went to sleep last night having learned a valuable lesson life lesson that was foreign to them when they woke up yesterday morning. Hockey fans, much like celebrity stans, are quite insecure when it comes to having the work of those they admire even slightly diminished. What reads to me as two public figures engaging in some witty, sarcastic banter almost certainly felt like a second-hand stab to the backs of the most self-important and close-minded supporters of both hockey and modeling. I can't imagine what would have to go through one's head to view this exchange as anything other than wholeheartedly humorous. However, as a seasoned veteran of dealing with the uncomfortably devoted defenders of all things puck, I have a hard time ever finding myself surprised by how laughably easy it is trigger their inferiority complex. Something tells me those that "can't even" whenever their girl Chrissy tweets, well, just about anything are equally as defensive, so let's clear some things up for both of them... Chrissy Teigen, having just given birth to her second child in three years, does not truly believe that years of fighting off John Legend groupies has properly prepared her to stack the pads and deflect aside high-speed vulcanized rubber. Ryan Miller, having devoted his scrawny frame to a long career in the most thankless position in sports, does not truly believe that his skinny face and extended forehead are merely a touch of bronzing oil and some forgiving lighting away from gracing the cover of Men's Health. So, before we get into a debate about playing through injuries or the perplexities of posing, can we all just agree to crap on basketball instead?
What I am not going to do is sit here and pretend that what Terrell Owens is doing by rejecting a long overdue opportunity to be the sole focus of a large, accomplished audience that's celebrating his professional accolades is taking some noble and selfless stand against the system that crapped all over common sense in previously denying his induction. The truth is that all he's really doing is guaranteeing himself more attention, in a way that only T.O. truly could, by making an annual and somewhat sacred event all about his absence. That being said, I kind of appreciate that the dominant diva wide receiver by which all dominant diva wide receivers will be forever measured is sticking it to a self-important structure by sticking to what made him who he is. If being a "bad teammate" is what got the man that sits 2nd all-time in receiving yards and 3rd all-time in receiving touchdowns issued a two year penalty for his personality then being equally contentious towards the gatekeepers that actively held him back from being rightfully rewarded is pretty damn fitting. After all, what proves someone's extraordinary level of 'Fame' quite like having their unobserved enshrinement become the main story of a reverential weekend as they hold their own off-site ceremony? Let's face it, the voters temporarily moved the goalposts on 'Hall Of Fame' requirements to prove an unprecedented point. It's just vintage T.O. that when he inevitably reached those goalposts, as he did a transcendent amount of times throughout his career, he opted not to humbly hand the ball to the official but instead turn them into a place where he can flex on his haters by doing shirtless pull-ups. It's undoubtedly an arrogant move to announce that you're no-showing your induction for no real reason. Unfortunately, it's not as arrogant as pushing back said induction two full years due to a provisional principle that's completely unrelated to catching a damn football. Both parties are guilty of lacking conformity in this case, but only one of them is famous for turning his nose up at it. 
(h/t TMZ)
"UT's butt!". University of Texas...is...butt. That's the burn that got Kevin Durant to reverse course on a night during which he could otherwise not be stopped from getting to the spots he wanted to go when he wanted to go to them. Not serpent slander, or a blasphemous baked goods reference, or an implication that the fans of the championship team for which he's proved most valuable for the second straight season will never love him like they love their biological son with the Bambi ankles. Rather, an elementary anatomical insult to the current state of the college that I hesitate to even call his alma mater considering he's probably spent less time on it's campus than he's spent anonymously defending himself on twitter. That's what perturbed the new frontrunner for Finals MVP enough for him to interrupt an evening in which he should have been enjoying the fruits of 43-motherf'n-points worth of labor. If he didn't bring all forms of criticism, both hurtful and harmless, on himself by apparently not thinking through one of the most maniacal moves in sports history before he made it then I just might feel bad for the NBA's most thin-skinned superstar. If I wasn't forced into being so happy to see him face some form of adversity, I'd actually find it unbelievably sad that he cares so much what idiots, much like myself, think about him. After his performance last night, there is absolutely no reason that KD wasn't in full-blown "laaaaa, la, la-la" mode... 
Yet, instead he had to restrained from going face-to-face with some hopeless Cavaliers' fan whose optimism as a sports fan was likely just stabbed to death with Kevin Durant's not-so-vaguely familiar dagger...
I don't think I'll ever understand how the man who looked completely unbothered in hitting contested jumper after contested jumper in the face of a desperate team in their own building filled with their own fans can't ignore the opinions of assholes. But damn, he's on the wrong team if even the most gentle of jokes is better at aggravating him than the freakishly athletic specimens that simply look standard in his shadow.
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