In the September of our discontent, or at least of our lesscontent, I come here to serve, even more slapdash than normally.
I'm still working on the definitive list of Premier League clubs Gheorghies should support, but I must tell you that it may not work out for your teams. Case in point, zman's beloved Norwich, which currently sit bottom of the league table with six losses in six matches, two goals for and 16 against. The Canaries have a handful of winnable (or at least drawable) games over the next few weeks. If they don't start grabbing some points, they could be relegated by Christmas.
My anniversary weekend was pretty damn sublime. I did have occasion over our time away to regret not doing something at our wedding all these years ago. Stumbled across video of a Brazilian named Gustavo Durso Aleixo headed down the aisle at his wedding in August. Y'all think I could've taught Whitney and Dave to do this?
GROOM'S GOT MOVES!!! This groom & members of the wedding party in Brazil make quite an entrance to the wedding service... Justin Timberlake check this out!🎵🕺🏽🔥(🎥:gustavodurso) pic.twitter.com/mLF1N5SeW6
If you're not following the end of the Major League Baseball season, you're missing out on a barnburner of a wild card race in the American League. With four games to play, a mere two games separate four teams. The Yankees are 90-68, currently in the lead. Boston trails by a game, with Seattle half a game behind the Sox and Toronto back just a half-game more. New York and Toronto play each other this evening, while Boston plays at Baltimore. The Yanks close with three at home against division champs Tampa Bay. The Sox play three at the dismal Nationals (I'll be at the Saturday game). Seattle finishes with three at home against the Angels, and the Jays host the rock-bottom Orioles for their final set. Crap. shoot.
Let's have a week like Dustin Johnson had a night after his dominating Ryder Cup performance, shall we? (At least in terms of fun - not sure we could survive the hangover he's probably still got.)
To help us move on from dogs, dogshit, and dogs eating dogshit, I will throw up (pun!) my latest Shazams.
First up is "Walking at a Downtown Pace" by Parquet Courts. I'm getting hit with it by WFMU, WFUV, and Spotify so you've probably heard it by now too. It's a complete earworm.
How have I never heard "Cold Turkey" by John Lennon before?
rootsy will recognize Billy Stewart's "Sitting in the Park" as the inspiration for Slick Rick's "Sitting in my Car."
I know Whit loves the Beach Boys so he's very familiar with "San Miguel." Sounds like something from the Sir Douglas Quintet.
G:TB needs more disco and Loleatta Holloway has it with "Hit and Run." It's precisely what you think it's about.
Rex Doane knows that zkids named their dog Ivy because on Saturday he played "My Girl Ivy" by Jimmy Witherspoon.
I don't know much about The Rezillos but I assume TR is involved. "Flying Saucer Attack" sounds like something Greasetruck would create, minus all the fuzz and distortion.
This is Tom T. Hall's song about the time he almost starved to death in Roanoke, VA. That's exactly how "Ode to a Half Pound of Ground Round" starts. I assume rootsy is involved.
Last night was Show 2 of the new and improved ORF Rock, our local hometown radio show. I had hoped to post the video, but the meanies at the record companies have blocked it, since it has licensed content. And hilarity. And a Zman shout-out. And good music like this:
Those into nostalgia can sift through our show from 6 years ago.
Let's close out the weekend with some good vibes, shall we?
As mentioned in the comments yesterday, I went to see Harry Styles last night at the Capital One Arena. My kid is a huge fan, so much so that she willingly skipped the final Homecoming dance of her high school career to go see him finally make good on a long-delayed local show. We'd purchased tickets for her over a year ago, but last week, a friend of hers offered her and her pal new tix in a suite. Not a hard decision that.
Initially, my wife and I planned to drive the kids downtown and grab a leisurely meal while the kids watched the show. But yesterday, as the time to leave grew closer, we went all 'fuck it' and decided to use the extra tickets ourselves. When I found out that Jenny Lewis was Harry's opener on the drive to the venue, I was all the more excited.
We dropped the girls off and grabbed a quick dinner and a few drinks. Made it into the arena in time to see about half of the opening set, and to give my daughter a primer on Jenny Lewis' general badassery. Which is substantial.
After her set was over and the house lights came up for the crew to prep for the headliner, it became clear how much energy was displaying. These (mostly) kids had been sitting on a fuckton of pent up emotion of all kinds, and they were ready to blow to the roof all the way off. They screamed their lungs out singing a One Direction song during the intermission, they went off for Bohemian Rhapsody, they loved their collective vibe. And that vibe was incredibly, overwhelmingly positive. As I said on the tweet machine, "I’m at a Harry Styles show and there is some amazing young people energy here. I couldn’t love it more. Even the parts I don’t really understand."
And the kids were dressed to the absolute nines. Sleek party dresses, flowing bell-bottomed pants with shimmering tops, a cornucopia of youth fashion celebrating a genre-defying artist. It was a visual feast.
Styles's trip around the world is called Love on Tour, and as soon as he hit the stage, coming up through a trap door in the middle, love was spread around in copious measure. I don't know his stuff all that well, but his band was great, his stage presence elite, and his message simple and profound. Love each other.
And that's a fine way to end the week, my friends. Here's a collection of fan-shot video from the show. Enjoy. My wife and I sure did.
Immediately after Daniil Medvedev beat Novak Djokovic, ESPN ran this awful chyron:
After going 44-6 on the tour, including 5-2 in Masters tournaments and a stunning 27-1 in Major play, the best thing they could come up with is "Fell 1 win shy of the Grand Slam"?! This type of stupid sports journalism inspired my first Djokovic rant. Be positive, it's tennis for god's sake! It's not like he came 1 second shy of defusing a bomb. How about "Compiles historic second 27-1 season in Major play"?
On another positive note, Australian Dylan Alcott deserves more coverage. He won all four Majors in Wheelchair Quad Singles play this year, and he also won the gold medal at the Paralympics for a Golden Slam. Since 2015 there have been eighteen Majors in Wheelchair Quad Singles and Alcott reached the finals in seventeen of them. He won fifteen. He also reached the finals in twenty of the last twenty-one Doubles finals in Major play--he didn't attend the one tournament--and he won the finals eight times. Unsurprisingly, he's ranked #1 in the world.
Alcott is also an accomplished cager, with a gold medal from the 2008 Beijing Paralympics and a silver from the 2012 games in London. He also won gold at the 2010 World Championship and a bronze in 2006.
Here's how he celebrated his victory at Flushing Meadows.
“There was no chance I wasn’t going to skull that beer on Arthur Ashe after I just won the golden slam,” he said. “I just want to leave the sport in a better spot for the next generation of young tennis players to come, wheelchair tennis players and tennis players in general,” he said. “I hope I played a very small part in that. I’m proud to be disabled. I’m proud to play wheelchair tennis. I ’m proud I’ve won the golden slam in wheelchair tennis.
“I want to be me. I’m proud of me. I’m proud of the journey that we’ve had.”
There are examples of professional athletes and entertainers conspicuously doing the right thing, so I'm not here to claim that the event we're here to discuss is entirely unique. But it's on the rarer side of the grilled meat of sporting meals. I'm jumping on zman's beat to celebrate sportsmanship in the face of frustration and the worst pain there is.
Tennys* Sandgren is a modestly-successful American professional tennis player. He's earned more than $3.3m in his ten-year pro career, even reaching a pair of Aussie Open quarterfinals. He's been ranked as high as 41st in the world, and sits today just outside the top 100. Which explains the setting for today's story.
* Sandgren is named for his Swedish grandfather, and kinda didn't have a choice about his career path.
He was the top seed at this weeks ATP Challenger event in Cary, North Carolina. The Challenger Tour is one step below the main tour, kinda like AAA tennis. Sandgren faced fellow American Christopher Eubanks in the first round. Sandgren broke Eubanks to start the match, then faced deuce in the second game.
So tonight I got hit in the nuts by a ball kid toss with a little too much mustard, slapped the wayward ball into the fence, which collided with a refs tushy as he was walking to the other side, resulting in a default. How’s your evening going? 😂 pic.twitter.com/Tqe7lOkCLy
He followed that Tweet up with another that read, "And just to be clear, this was all totally my fault."
In addition to defaulting the match against Eubanks, Sandgren was forced out of the doubles event, as well. Costly nut shot, but Tennys Sandgren earned some fans by being accountable and even having a little fun at his own expense. He even earned a Twitter follow from me. Which has gotta be worth something.
Here's video of the entire very short match - the action that matters happens at about the 1:20 mark:
A small story about air travel in the wake of 9-11: When sports resumed, I was assigned to cover the Virginia Tech at West Virginia football game in early October. Flight from Norfolk to Pittsburgh, rent a car, hour-plus drive to Morgantown.
Much has been made of the national comity after the terrorist attacks, but in the days and weeks following 9-11, airports were tense places. People wary, on edge. Folks climbing into vehicles that were used as missiles, others desperately working to avoid a repeat. I arrived in plenty of time and crept through the check-in line. Here’s what I wrote a few days later, as part of a mostly football piece:
… “Security officials ran my carry-on bag through the X-ray machine twice and asked me to open my shaving kit. The officer rifled through it and pulled out a set of nail clippers. You cannot travel with this, he said. Really, I asked. He then swiveled the 3-inch nail file around the base, demonstrating how it could be a weapon.
OK, I said, can I get it back after my return flight Sunday? A serious man with a serious job, he looked at me as if I had asked him to dance. No sir, he said, this goes to the police. The police want my nail clippers, I asked. This goes to the police, he repeated. Whatever you say, sir.
Repacked my stuff and headed for the gate. Imagined an evidence room at the station house with confiscated guns on one side, confiscated drugs on the other, a small tub of confiscated nail clippers in the middle and a precinct full of well-manicured policemen.”
After the attacks, our leaders stressed the need for vigilance as they encouraged everyone to return to leading normal lives, which prompted me to routinely deliver stupid non sequiturs: If you settle for the fish sandwich and don’t get the seafood platter, the terrorists win; if we don’t get tickets for Blues Traveler, the terrorists win.
I’ll keep the gasbagging to a minimum, since I’m more practiced and comfortable reporting and observing, rather than offering opinions. But 9-11 seemed to unleash streaks of jingoist and nativist behavior that inform our thoughts and actions to this day. It also appears to have contributed to our increasingly tribal divide.
Certainly, there have been victories in the 20 years since 9-11. No major terrorist attacks on our soil. Far more robust and broader communications systems. We off’d bin Laden. But the costs have been enormous, in financial and human terms, and to our national standing and prestige around the world. Brown University conducted a Costs of War project that concluded, among other things, at least 897,000 people around the world have died due to violence linked to the War on Terror. At least 38 million people around the world have been displaced, and the effort has cost the U.S. at least $5.8 trillion, with more to come.
A case can be made that, in some ways, the terrorists did win.
Daniil Medvedev is a Russian tennis player making his third appearance in a Grand Slam final today. He lost the first two so he's hoping to get off the schneid. Medvedev is a long lanky guy with my hairline from five years ago and a funny grasp of the English language. Here he is daring Stefanos Tsitsipas to step to him, more or less.
"Man you better shut your fuck up ok?!" and "He's a small kid he doesn't know how to fight!" are not things you often hear on a tennis court. He's famously dooshy.
I'm working on a post about the sudden explosion of over-sized string-bean chicken-legged hard-hitting male baseliners in the ATP and the evolution of what I call bigman tennis. He's one of those guys.
The other guy is Novak Djokovic. You've heard of him. I've written about him before. He's really good at tennis.
It's hard to say whether he's the best of all time--as I get older I think those arguments are futile. Could any fighter from any single point in time have beaten Mike Tyson the night he fought Michael Spinks (Trump was involved?!)? Could Djokovic beat Pete Sampras at the height of Sampras's powers if they played on Centre Court circa 1992 before they changed the grass to make it slower? Could he beat Bjorn Borg at Borg's peak at Roland Garros if they both had to use wooden racquets? Who knows.
I can, however, say with great confidence that if Djokovic wins today he will have the best resume of all time.
A win today gives him 21 major titles, the most of any man (but behind Margaret Court's 24, Serena Williams's 23 and Steffi Graf's 22 majors). It would also give him a calendar Grand Slam which has only been done by Don Budge and Rod Laver (twice), and Maureen Connolly, Margaret Court, and Steffi Graf. This would be a companion to his non-calendar Grand Slam that spanned Wimbledon in 2015 through the French in 2016. Only Martina Navratilova, Steffi Graf, and Serena Williams (twice) have done that.
He has winning records against almost every other man who won a major since he turned pro in 2005.
He's 27-23 against Roger Federer, including a 3-1 record at Wimbledon (all three wins were in the Finals).
He's 30-28 against Rafael Nadal, including a 2-7 record at the French. That French stat might not sound too impressive, but he's 98-1 against everyone else in the world combined at Roland Garros so Djokovic's two wins are meaningful. He is the only person to ever win the French Open by going through Nadal and he did it twice.
He's 25-11 against Andy Murray (including 5-2 in major finals), 19-6 against Stan Wawrinka (but 0-2 in major finals), 16-4 against Juan Martin del Potro, 7-5 against Dominic Thiem, and 17-2 against Marin Cilic. Only Marat Safin retired with a winning record against Djokovic, they played twice and Safin won both matches.
He owns the Australian Open. He's 82-8 there, including 9-0 in the finals. No man has more Australian titles--Federer and Roy Emerson are in second place with 6 each. His 6 Wimbledon titles is fourth-most (Federer has 8, Sampras and Willie Renshaw have 7).
He reached the semis or better 12 times at the US Open, including 9 finals and at least 3 titles (today would make 4).
He holds a bunch of oddball records too, like holder of all four Major titles on all three different surfaces at once, 4 streaks of 3+ consecutive Grand Slam titles, 6+ finals at each Grand Slam, 3+ consecutive finals at each Grand Slam, 79+ match wins at each Grand Slam, and 2 Major titles after saving one or more match points.
I could go on but that would be less fun for you than watching the match.
Djokovic is playing insanely good defensive tennis right now. He keeps losing first sets, possibly because his opponents come out guns blazing, super hyped to topple the best, so he holds back and lets them tire themselves out. Sort of a tennis rope-a-dope. After that he turns up his game at the end of the second and the start of the third to get some breaks, then dials it back until a convenient time in the fourth. This almost didn't work against Zverev (and I didn't see it all because I fell asleep putting zdaughter to bed) and I don't think he's going to fuck around against Medvedev (he's too good and there's no next match for which Djokovic needs to save a reserve of energy). I also think he wants to slam the door with authority on this Grand Slam. I'm taking the Djoker in straight sets.
In a world that's mad with complexity and uncertainty, sometimes what's required is a dose of old-fashioned blunt talk that strips away the layers and reveals universal values. I'm not sure that's what I'm celebrating today, but it's a useful introduction to the topic.
Duncan Ferguson is an assistant coach at Everton Football Club in Liverpool, where he played 139 games over parts of 11 seasons. The Scotsman is known as Big Dunc because of his height (he's 6'4") and the aggressive way in which he used his size. He's the joint leader in Premier League history for red cards, with 8, and he spent three months in jail in 1994 due to an on-field assault of Raith Rovers' John McStay.
Suffice it to say, not many people willingly fuck with Big Dunc.
Last year Everton supporter Jack Simmons reached out to Ferguson asking for help getting his younger brother Tom to focus on his studies. Big Dunc warmed quickly to the task:
Big Dunc sticking to his word after my brother got the results he needed in school and took him out for food. Made sure that I got invited to and not one of his mates 🤣🤣 🔵 https://t.co/7h7N08r74Ppic.twitter.com/dD0k4Ph7oI
Last year our tiny dictator posted a post about posts. Unpublished G:TB posts. Well, this one has sat in the hopper for quite a long while. It never really come together, it sounds thoroughly preachy, and it wasn't finished. But with a semi-local milestone in the news this morning -- which will undoubtedly elicit some of the same shopworn outcries from traditionalists, rednecks, and racists -- well, here we go...
Studying people is interesting.
I was a Sociology major who also took a number of Psychology courses. I earned full Psych credit by completing the requisite guinea pig assignments for upperclassmen's Psychology dissertations... including double-dating with Dave and some unlucky co-eds, then writing about whether we remained "date-anxious" after the encounters. It was an ordeal, but I got through William and Mary by learning about humans, our crazy cultures, and the ridiculous stuff we say and do. Despite my marks, I learned a lot.
People love to root for a cause.
A football team.
A political party.
A god, and and a very particular strain of dogmatic do's and don'ts that go with that god.
A cure for cancer.
You can levy your own opinion on whether time, money, and emotional energy being poured into each of those four things in equal volumes is a societal ill or just the way we homo sapiens are. But we root for a million different things out there, and we root hard.
We cheer. We congregate. We celebrate.
We bemoan. We bitch. We abandon, only to identify with another "home team" and start anew. Not very often, but it can happen. (Rob, TR.)
Such identification gives us joy and pride. Go ahead, posit the argument that it "shouldn't" because groupthink is potentially dangerous and frequently mindless. Share a post about that on Facebook, counting the hypocritical Likes.
Doesn't matter, this instinct has pervaded our world from the time we donned cave skins to tunics to knickers to zubaz pants (cave skins to zubaz is not an evolutionary marathon, mind you) and beyond. That's just how we are. We sign on with a group of like-minded nitwits like ourselves, rally and cry for the good guys, boo and beat on the bad guys, and talk about it afterwards for the rest of our silly, little lives.
Enter Southern pride and the joy of being identified as a rebel.
You could study US history between the Reconstruction period through the modern era and delve into the phenomenon of Southern humiliation-turned-hubris as a coping mechanism. (I'm sure I was supposed to study that at some point in my illustrious undergrad career.) Or you could just watch "The Dukes of Hazzard," an Ole Miss football game, or Deliverance in a bar in the Bible Belt. (Ever think you'd hear that Ned Beatty got what he deserved?) Tradition, honor, glory, and the beating back of oppressive aggressors is part of the charade of revision history over the last hundred-fifty, but no truths can be heard over the hoots and howls of revelry in certain parts of the country, not to mention the Dixie horn from a '69 Dodge Charger with stars and bars on the roof.
Not all association with the Confederacy is an approval of human bondage and enslavement. In fact, a hell of a lot of has nothing to do with that. It's just belonging. Banding together with fellow humans to navigate our lives as part of a team. Our team. With symbols like sweet tea and cornbread, trucks and tractors, Lee and Jackson. Ignoring images, memories, and any true ties to the hatred and evil and oppression of our fellow humans from days gone by. We aren't anything about that horrible stuff; we just want to break bread, love the Lord, and get down the dusty road that is Life with folks who see shit like we see shit.
There can be energy and positivity in such affiliations and groupings. The endearing image of the underdog... the humble survivor... the rebel... this draws in most humans. Hell, Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker were rebels! (So is Luke Skyywalker.) Massimino to Tarkanian, Stirling Bridge to Rorke's Drift. It's natural, and people can't help but want to be a part of it. Don't assign that horrible history to us because we embrace and honor the best in those rebellious confederate symbols while living the best lives we can, being the best we know how to be to our fellow humans in this century.
Yeah, I do get it.
The thing is, right now, that doesn't really matter.
You see, good people, you and I do not get to decide what logical associations exist between our identified groups, teams, leaders, or heroes and some very bad things. And once those associations become ubiquitous, I'm sorry, but we're screwed.
You can be a huge fan of someone or something for a very long time -- all your life -- and then one day it's impossible to appropriately acknowledge rooting for them. This happens seemingly all the time.
You loved Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids? You're like school on Thanksgiving... no class, turkey. Love it! And he was commencement speaker at my college graduation! Tough shit. He's a rapist. (A free one now.)
You love the Washington pro football team through and through and through and through (despite common sense and your utter disdain for the owner)? Yeah, about that... turns out that team name is pretty friggin' racist. Caricature out front shoulda told you. Oh, and Chris Rock in 1991. (NSFW)
You were wondering whether your alma mater's best football player ever (by a substantial margin) will get in the NFL Hall of Fame? Sorry, he's also a rapist. And in prison. For a long time.
You loved Mad Max and Lethal Weapon? Well, Mel's a huge bigot.
You look like Kevin Spacey, according to too many people you meet? Bummer, Whitney. You look like a sexual assaulter.
Dammit, man! How is any of that fair? I had nothing to do with that crap.
What if you grew up of meager means in the Deep South, where one of the things that brought you rare joy was a sense of pride in a community that has as its emblem a Confederate flag and extols virtues like bravery and courage and heroism from names such as Lee, Jackson, Stuart, and Davis? And you're even named after one of them? And you have no hate for any race, you just want to get along and keep feeling that pride? You just want the feeling of belonging to a like-minded congregation of good people with family values and decency, a feeling that takes you back to those glorious days of yore?
I'm sorry. Doesn't matter at all. Today is Wednesday, and as Ronnie told you, Tuesday's gone with the wind. All those days are gone.
Today another nail was hammered into this particular coffin. The statue of one Robert Edward Lee was removed from its perch on Monument Avenue in Richmond, Virginia. You know, there are symbols everywhere, good and bad, and the elimination of this increasingly electric lightning rod of a symbol of the Confederacy is in itself as powerful a symbol of change as I can conjure from my vantage point here in the Commonwealth. Lordy, I would never have believed it if you'd bet me even 10 years ago -- with a Black President in office at the time. No, sir. No, ma'am. No how no way they'll let that happen on that street in that town.
Here we are. Nobody said or sang it much better than Sam Cooke:
It's been a long / A long time coming / But I know a change gonna come / Oh, yes it will
And with such change, it's not all that rosy when it happens, where it happens. Relief and a renewed sense of optimism that things can get better, yes, for sure. But it's not rosy. For both sides of the coin, there's just reflection on the wretched things that have gone on. For one side in particular, there's also the stark absence of the point of personal pride on which you've hung a whole lot for a very long time.
And that doesn't feel too good. And it's not any of their faults that things have changed. It's not fair, in a lot of ways.
Doesn't matter. Tuesday's Gone and it's Wednesday morning.
Many bemoan "cancel culture" with a broad brush, citing micro-detail-paintbrush lines as instances of fallibility therein; it's true that with FB as mighty as the AK these days, occasionally scenarios exist where loud axe-grinders and bitter bastards manipulate public thinking maliciously and erroneously. But by and large, we'd all rather live in a world where people are truly held accountable for dirty deeds like never before.
Of course, there's heavy-handed, condescending advice about not attaching yourself so permanently to any one person or group or team or cause or band (Dave, with permanent ink) or what have you. Because whether you like it or not, a change is gonna come. Yeah, well, that's easier said than done.
But as you see people these days aligning themselves so completely with one political faction or another that they lower themselves to spitting gobs of venom and vitriol all over their own neighbors very publicly for the crime of carrying a differentiated outlook . . . well, I gotta believe that there may come a day that there will be bales of regret stacked up out back on those folks' lower forty. Anyway, I'll keep studying people as I do, and they'll keep doing anything except making that habit boring.
In the meantime, I don't need to bash people over the head with "Get Over It" like the reconstituted Eagles did in 1994 via that clownish single. Bleh. If you really want us all to just get along, like Mr. King (not Dr. King) said, then we have to encourage us all to get over it together. Collectively. Moving to a new era of peace. And cornbread. Sweet tea and unsweet tea. And Ronnie Van Zant. And Neil Young.
And thoughtful, thought-provoking monologues like this one. And the song that follows it. Enjoy.
I had no idea until this very day about the connection between two of music's most compelling and unique female voices. Thirty-eight years and about 80 miles apart, Patsy Cline (1932, Winchester, VA) and Neko Case (1970, Alexandria, VA) were born on today's date.
Not much more to say about that, just welcome the opportunity to highlight these greats.
As rob and I talk about ad infinitum, we watched virtually every episode of Vice as re-aired on USA network in the summer of 1990. To think, it was just a few years old back then.
Well, during the lockdown, I re-watched a large number of those episodes once more. They're on Hulu. They hold up surprisingly well. I mean, the fashion is just silly, but it's fun. The plots are worthy, the characters remain compelling, the recurring storylines are intriguing, the cavalcade of huge-or-soon-to-be-huge guest stars are unrivaled by just about any show, the cars are cool, and the music kicks ass. I just started to move through Season 4 (of 5) when I slowed to a halt, but the first three seasons are just plain light-hearted fun.
And a nice companion piece to the latest Cocaine Cowboys piece, which I'm nearly through watching.
If you just feel like killing a few hours with Crockett, Tubbs, Castillo, Gina, Trudy, Switek, and Zito (poor Zito), check out the following episodes:
1-1; 1-2 "Brother's Keeper" (originally a two-hour pilot, but busted in half for your purposes): where it all began
1-5;1-6 "Calderone's Return" (Parts 1 and 2): the episodes discussed on SportGuy's podcast
1-7 "One Eyed Jack": the first appearance of both Castillo and Dennis Farina's Lombard
1-8 "No Exit": A pre-Moonlighting Bruce Willis as a nut job bad guy
1-16 "Smuggler's Blues": Glenn Frey, of course
2-1 "Prodigal Son": Miami v. NYC
2-12 "Phil the Shill": Phil Collins, of course, with Kyra Sedgwick
2-18 "The Fix": Bill Russell, Bernard King, Harvey Fierstein, and Michael Richards (as a huge douche)... I mean, wow
3-3 "Killshot": Lots of jai alai!
3-10 "Streetwise": Bill Paxton the cop and Wesley Snipes the pimp
3-12; 3-13 "Down for the Count": poor Zito
And my favorite of the lot, "Where the Buses Don't Run," a crazy episode about a crazy retired cop played by Bruce McGill, aka Daniel Simpson "D-Day" Day. A classic.
Anyway, the headline got me thinking. I have seen/read very, very little of Bill Simmons over the last few years, but that's just me. I know some of you may tune into his podcasts (obsolete grammar) or maybe read his posts somewhere, but I don't.
As much grief as I gave the guy once upon a time here, apparently I really wanted his pet project Grantland to work in 2011.
Read what I wrote here! It's worth a stroll through that last link, a post from 10 years ago. Just to see the comments and thoughts that rumbled through our heads.
Grantland... well for all the fanfare, and a masthead with some really prominent, really stellar writers... it lasted for just 4 years. Maybe that's how these things should and simply do go. But we chug along here in the slow lane, and we're nearing our 18th birthday.
I still read some of the Grantland writers. Bill Barnwell on ESPN, Charles Piece on Esquire, especially Steven Hyden on Uproxx. Jonah Keri was one I followed, and I made the mistake of googling him -- not good, dude. That they were under one umbrella is impressive. If there's a similar assemblage of quality writing I should be reading, let me know. If you already have, maybe even more than once, sorry about that.
In the meantime, here's a little South Florida wisdom for you.
Sonny Crockett: You just got to learn to go with the heat, Rico. It's just like life. You just gotta keep telling yourself, no matter how hot it gets, sooner or later there's a cool breeze coming in.
Today is the last Sunday without NFL football until some time in February. Y'all know that my affinity for Big Football has waned substantially over the past decade, but the league's status in the cultural firmament seems all the more solid. And even as I won't watch many games this year, it's impossible to ignore the NFL.
Case in point, William & Mary graduates Mike Tomlin and Sean McDermott face off next week in the early window as the Steelers travel to Buffalo. We're certain to see quirky features about how a small school off the beaten football path produced two NFL head men. Cradle of coaches, and all that, and have you heard the one where Lou Holtz said "too many Marys and not enough Williams"? A hoot, that Lou.
But our assignments editor in Norfolk forwarded me a column from The Buffalo News that takes a very different angle on the coaching clash. Seems that there are two colleges in America that boast that most noble of mascots, the griffin. The other one is Canisius, right there in Buffalo, and the Golden Griffin took time out of its busy schedule to thank W&M for giving Sean McDermott to the town.
I do appreciate Griff's shoutout, and can only hope that Canisius has a statue remotely as anatomically correct as the one that graces W&M's campus.
