New Logho

When I wear my GTB logo t-shirt zdaughter always remarks on the gross dreadlock of hair in Hakeem's armpit.  Recently she asserted that GTB needs a new logo so I told her to make one.  This is what she came up with.

Apparently we have a blob.

Gheorghasbord: The NBA Season Opener Edition

Really should have Mark write this, but I've got a minute and some hastily-cobbled information, so let's kick off this excuse to start a thread for the NBA's opening week.

By far the biggest story across the league this year is the beginning of the Victor Wembanyama Era. And yes, it does need to be capitalized, I think. Erik Spoelstra had this to say about the 7'4" Frenchman after his Heat took on Wemby's Spurs in a preseason game over the weekend, "We’ve seen the footage, we’ve read about him, we’ve heard what everybody said about him. But until you actually see it, live, in person, there’s no real way to describe it.”

Thomas Bryant had no way to describe it, that's for sure:

Andrew Wiggins, similarly vexed:

Wembanyama averaged 19.8 points, 4.8 rebounds, and 2.8 blocks in only 20.8 minutes per game during the Spurs' four-game preseason. With all the caveats about staying healthy, adjusting to the grind of an 82-game season, and dealing with the physicality of grown-ass men acknowledged, we're massively excited to watch the kid play. And we place a great deal of faith in Greg Popovich's ability to both protect his player and maximize the rookie's production. The grapes are coming in nicely for the veteran coach.

On the other end of the spectrum, the NBA released this year's City Edition uniforms, and they appear to have been designed by a group of 13 year-olds who thought they were playing Dungeons and Dragons. Seriously, look at this crap:

We'll go back to the good for our final two items, both involving former W&M stars. Nathan Knight will suit up for his fourth NBA franchise in 2023-24 after signing a two-way contract with the Boston Celtics. As Tribe booster No Bid Nation noted on Twitter, "William and Mary hoops, a feeder school for the Maine Red Claws.

Speaking of the G League, Tribe (and Gran Canaria) legend Jim Moran was named the head coach of the Rip City Remix, Portland's top affiliate. Moran (who started his coaching career with the...wait for it...Maine Red Claws) has been an assistant with the Blazers and Pistons since 2015. Put one foot in front of the other, Jimmy, and soon you'll be walking through that door, unlike Larry Bird, Kevin McHale, and Robert Parish.

Happy NBA season, Gheorghies. You the man you the man.

nate knight

jim moran

Those Who Do Not Learn History Are Doomed To Repeat It: World Series Edition

A handful of weeks ago, I commented to nogheorghie in particular that the divisional/wild card races in baseball were as worthy as the football dominating our viewing. I wasn't wrong then, and I'm not wrong when I say that while the early playoff action was interesting only for its surprising knock-offs (the top four teams in baseball were dispatched quickly and quietly), down the stretch they've become downright thrilling.

Both the unheralded Diamondbacks and the schizophrenic Rangers have, after being left for dead on a dark desert highway, charged back in eyebrow-raising fashion.

Arizona takes on your friends and mine, the Philadelphia Phillies, in Game 7 tonight. Check it.

The Texas Rangers, meanwhile, secured their berth aboard the World Series Express last night by drubbing the Houston Bangers & Trash for the second consecutive evening. Balls were flowing out just like the Grand Canyon, and if the cards get played right tonight, they'll have a Grand Canyon companion. (Bastardizing the Beasties ain't always so smooth.)

Surely you all recall the D-backs ending the Reign of George (never spelled our way) in 2001 on this fisting. Here's how they won their first and only World Series:

That's just a little nugget for my friends in pinstripes, since they had so much fun at our expense through the years preceding.

The Rangers, however, have never ever hoisted baseball's coveted trophy. The big one. That prestigious piece of silver and gold-plating nicknamed "Six Flags times five." The World Series crown.

Fast facts for those not in the know on the Texas Rangers:

• They were a franchise relocation. The Washington Senators left DC in 1971, and it took until 2005 until the District got another team.
• 10 years before that, the then-Washington Senators had picked up and moved west to become the Minnesota Twins, don'-cha-know.
• The Senators were hapless, leading to this chaos. A quip of long ago yesteryear that almost always brings a smile is "Washington: first in war, first in peace, and last in the American League."
• The Rangers' first year in Texas, they were managed by none other than Ted Williams. The Splendid Splinter actually skippered them in Washington as well, but he lasted just that one inaugural year in the Lone Star State, as the club went 54-100. Turns out the move didn't solve all their problems... which shouldn't have been surprising, since they only went from DC to Arlington!! (Sorry.)
• The first year the Rangers ever finished in first place? 1994. Strike-shortened season. Yipes. 

Team seems a little snakebit, eh? Stay tuned. 

• They did, however, win their division 3 of the next 5 years with names like Pudge, Raffy, and Juan Gone leading the way. They, ahem, . . . well they lost each of those playoff series in straight sets. Oh, wait, in the 10 playoff games they played in the 1990's, they lost 9. All to the Yankees. (See, Yanks fans, a little something for ya!)
• After that, following a decade of astonishing futility centered around $252 million of A-Rod misguidance, they made it into the Fall Classic in 2010 and 2011. 
• In 2010, the Giants, who'd finally lanced that pesky Barry Bonds Boil from their tuchus, cruised by Texas for their first title since Willie Mays played for them (and was 23 years old). San Fran would win 3 in 5 years, dredging Bill Simmons' Ewing Theory out of the shed and evoking a wince on Bonds and schadenfreude in weak souls like mine.
• The next year for the Rangers, though, . . . well, that's why I've gathered you here today. 

In 2011, the Texas Rangers came close to winning the World Series for the first time. Like damn close. Like daaaaaaamn close. Like 1986 Red Sox close.

And up until today, I didn't know yet another little factoid tying those two clubs together. 

So that season's club ripped off 96 wins, largely because of prodigious batsmen. Beltré, Hamilton, Kinsler, Napoli, and Nelson Cruz. They smacked 210 homers as a team, led the league in BA, and were in the top 3 for most offensive categories. Including runs scored, and, of course, nose hair. 

Their rotation was middle of the pack, excepting C.J. Wilson, and they had a pretty nice 'pen. Their fielding, as it turns out, was pretty good. The sabermetric stat that supposedly tells the story on D is Total Zone Total Fielding Runs. You could look it up. That year, Texas finished third in this stat with 39. You don't have to know what that all means to know that the Mets getting a collective -81 that season (worst in MLB by 15 points) is hysterical. Lord.

Anywho, good ballclub. Texas took 3 of 4 from the Rays and 4 of 6 from Detroit in successive series to get back to the Horsehide Funslide (not a real nickname) for the second year in a row. They faced an old Mets/Whitney nemesis, the St. Louis Cardinals (and Yadier Stinkin' Molina, though that's extraneous). 

12 years ago tonight, the Rangers went up 3 games to 2 on the Cardinals in Arlington and headed back to the Gateway to the West. Also called Mound City. Whaaa?

And headed to the bottom of ninth inning of that Game Six ballgame, Texas led St. Louis by a score of seven to five. Two runs. Three outs. One glorious championship waiting for them. 

Texas outfielder Endy Chavez had pinch-hit unsuccessfully in Top 9, and smart historical money would suggest that he would head to the field to replace a weaker-fielding OF.

I mean, Endy was the guy who had pulled this off against the Cardinals five years prior: 

Oh, man, so bittersweet.

But that didn't happen. I mean, what I just learned today, if you believe the internet, and I always do, is this:

Endy Chavez was supposed to replace Nelson Cruz in the bottom of the 9th inning in Game 6 of the 2011 World Series. According to reports, [Texas manager Ron] Washington wanted Cruz in the outfield because he said he deserved to celebrate with the team on the field.

Sure.  Sure. Makes sense. I mean, unless you remember that the Boston skipper in '86 John McNamara wanted Bill Buckner to be on the field for the celebration, so he went against his own historical pattern and opted not to have Dave Stapleton play first base in Game 6 of that series. And just in case you lived under a rock, and so rob gets a taste of the pain, this then happened...

Sorry, little buddy, though I know it doesn't irk you like it once did.

Given that high-profile lesson, how can any student of the game -- and Ron Washington is certainly one, a veteran steeped in playing and coaching the sport at the highest levels -- ever want to tempt that same cursed fate once again by putting someone in for the celebration? Because here's what happened.

Oh, my.

And while it's not the kind of nutmeg that haunted Buckner unduly for too long afterwards, Nelson Cruz's play is bad. (Replays make it look worse.) And gut-wrenching for Texans. And avoidable. 

And the stuff of fun, amusing rehashing 12 years later. 

And so the game went to extras (body blow!), and then the Rangers blew another 2-run lead in the 10th (uppercut!), and then the Cards won it on a David Freese (MVP, one shining moment) home run (knockout!). St. Louis wrapped it up the next night in a game that featured (like the Sox in '86) the Rangers going up early, only to blow the game in a slow malaise that felt like melting ice cream. 

A crown of seven contests of nine or more frames of 9 versus 1 players on the field and many more penned and dug out, with pitching and hitting and fielding (I repeat... oh, my) and all that jazz . . . well, it's hard to justifiably place Win or Lose on a single untimely gaffe of one chap wearing a misused mitt and the boss fellow who should have upgraded when the hour was ripe. And yet . . . uggggh, dude. 

Stay tuned to see if they can shake that monkey like the Sox did in '04. It takes some doing to get free of it, but they've had the kind of season that makes you think it's their time. 

Lagniappe

If the over/under on the number of texts I got over the weekend about Squirrel White was 4.5, and you took the under, you'd have lost. My people get me.

For the uninitiated, Marquarius Malik White is a sophomore wide receiver at the University of Tennessee. He's listed at 5'10" and 165 pounds. We'll give him that, I suppose. Last Saturday, he caught a career-high 10 passes for 111 yards and a touchdown against Alabama, giving him 39 catches through the season's first seven games (and 69 on his career, which is nice).

He also made this play early in the game:

It's times like these when I'm glad we've got a vote for football All-American teams. I think you know where at least one of our nods is going.

A Grand Experiment

At least someone in an Iowa uniform can score

Last week, the Iowa women's basketball team defeated DePaul, 94-72, in an exhibition game played outdoors at the school's Kinnick Stadium. 55,646 people attended, making it the largest crowd ever to watch a women's hoops game. Iowa, and Caitlin Clark, continue to push boundaries on the court.

Quietly, and very certainly without fanfare, the Iowa football program is doing their own kind of barrier-breaking. The 24th-ranked Hawkeyes are 6-1 this season, their only loss a 31-0 drubbing at Penn State. Their remaining schedule is, how shall I say this, softer than marshmallow fluff. There is a reasonable likelihood that Iowa represents the Big Ten West in the conference title game. Which will raise a remarkable question: can a team whose best player is its punter make the FBS Playoffs?

Entering this afternoon's home game against Minnesota, Iowa sports the worst offense in all of major college football. The Hawkeyes are last among 130 FBS teams in total offense and first downs, 128th in passing offense (ahead of only run-dominant Navy and Air Force), and 113th in scoring offense with 20.9 points per game.

6'4" senior punter Tory Taylor is, according to many, the team's best player. He averages 48.33 yards per punt, good for sixth-best in FBS, having launched 45 kicks, which is the second-most in the nation. Iowa's net punting average of 45.24 yards trails only Vanderbilt. In his career, the Hawkeyes are 10-1 when Taylor punts eight or more times, which is among the most brain-bending stats imaginable. He only punted seven times against Penn State, which seems to me to be bad coaching.

It's not as if Iowa's offensive ineptitude is a surprise, either. Coming into the season, the school modified offensive coordinator Brian Ferentz's contract to allow for early termination if the team fails to average 25 points per game. Ferentz needs 300 in 12 games to keep being paid at his current $850,000/year salary. They have 146 through seven games (with two defensive touchdowns, which count towards the total). Iowa must average 31 points per game over the remaining five regular season games to hit the mark. They've reached that level once this season, and haven't done it against a Big 10 opponent since October 29, 2022. Oh, and Ferentz is the very definition of a modern Nepo Baby, being as he's the son of long-time Iowa head coach Kirk Ferentz. Not great, Bob.

As you might imagine, Iowa's decent at stopping opponents. They rank 10th in the nation in scoring defense and 27th in total defense. Tomorrow's game against Minnesota may well set the sport back decades. The Gophers come into the matchup 119th in total offense and 109th in scoring offense. Vegas has pegged the over/under at 30.5. 

Tory Taylor's gonna have a field day. Make sure you stay far away from NBC from 3:30 to 6:00 Eastern tomorrow, lest Iowa rub off on you.

After tomorrow, the Hawkeyes play Northwestern, Rutgers, and Illinois at home and travel to Nebraska to end their regular season. If they run the table, they'll be in the conversation for a playoff berth. And my Lord, wouldn't that be something?

I saw The Walkmen!

I saw The Walkmen this past weekend as my first post-pandemic concert.  I've been a fan for a long time and I thought I would never get to see them because they went "on hiatus" in 2013 so I was excited for their Revenge Tour.  I got on the pre-sale list early this year.  Tickets went on sale at 10 am and when I logged in at 10:01 am (because I had a fucking Teams call) they were sold out.  Luckily they enjoyed their short tour so much that they greatly extended it and I was able to catch them at Asbury Lanes, up close and personal.  It was great.

If you aren't familiar with The Walkmen you should acquaint yourself with them.  If you're a traditionalist like me and prefer the album approach, start with "A Hundred Miles Off."  They have an early-2000s sound, jangly and indy, but also really boozy.  Lots of their songs sound drunken.  Here's a Spotify playlist based on the setlist from the show.  

I always thought these guys should be way more popular than they are, but now I realize that they need a stylist and a little more on-stage charisma to win over the masses.  They're one of those bands that you see live and you realize that it's really two guys doing all the work.  Hamilton Leithouser, the frontman, reminds me a lot of former Unit M'er Sammy the Bull in both appearance and dance moves.  Fortunately for him, he sings like someone threw Rod Stewart, Julian Casablancas, Brandon Flowers, and a fifth of gin into a blender.  The other main guy, Peter Matthew Bauer, plays just about every instrument except the drums.  Like Leithouser, he has some awkward moves.

But they fucking rocked the house.  Leithouser sang his ass off, Bauer hustled his ass off between instruments, and the other guys worked their asses off too.  Much like Prince's pants they were completely assless by the end of the show.  I was delighted to hear Little House of Savages, The Rat, Postcards from Tiny Islands, Angela Surf City, On the Water, In the New Year, Thinking of a Dream I Had and the songs from A Hundred Miles Off.  I wish they played the other songs from A Hundred Miles Off (especially Brandy Alexander, Tenley Town, Lost in Boston, Another One Goes By and Emma Get Me a Lemon), Revenge Wears No Wristwatch, and Greasy Saint.  It was $30 well spent.

So sign up for their newsletter and go see The Walkmen if they ever go on tour again.

Requiem For a Conference

As we approach the midpoint of the college football season and sample sizes increase, it’s worth highlighting the Pac-12 Conference amid one of the great exit interviews in the history of American sports. It’s equal parts series finale of “Breaking Bad” and the homecoming parade in “Animal House.”  

For the better part of the past decade the league was often an afterthought, with a few interesting figures and teams, and telecast windows tailored to insomniacs. Now, with the league preparing to splinter and members scattering like dandelion seeds, it’s in the middle of a glorious, flawed, entertaining mess of a season that drives home the question: how did they f*ck this up? 

The short answer is Michelin star-rated mismanagement and a level of greed that would make Jeff Bezos go, “Daaayum.” All that’s left is to revel in the here and now, and hope they can keep it up. This week six Pac-12 teams are ranked in the AP Top 25, down from seven the week prior. 

As recently as two years ago, the league finished the season with the same number of ranked teams (two) as the American Athletic Conference. Washington and Oregon remain in the top 10 after their sublime taffy pull last Saturday, and Oregon State and Utah are in the top 14. Southern Cal and UCLA, the schools that kicked the realignment carousel into gear, are also ranked even after losses, and Washington State is among those receiving votes. 

And that doesn’t even take into account Colorado, the combination fireworks factory and blowtorch manufacturer that owned the first month of the season, thanks to Coach Wallflower and his made-over roster and a series of unlikely, dramatic results.

The Pac-12 has reigning Heisman Trophy winner and draftnik darling Caleb Williams of USC. It has three of the top six scoring offenses nationally and four in the top 12. It has two of the top three offenses in total yards per game and five of the top 25. It has the top two quarterbacks in passing yards per game – Michael Penix Jr. of Washington and Coach Prime’s second-favorite child or wherever Shedeur ranks this week – and five of the top 15. Three of the top four touchdown passers and five of the top 14 are in the conference. Four of the top 10 quarterbacks in total offense and five of the top 15 work in the league. 

Washington State QB Cameron Ward is 12th in the nation in passing yards per game (296.3); he is merely fourth in his own league, just ahead of Williams, by the way. And Utah’s dynamic playmaker Cam Rising isn’t even in the picture, still recovering after knee surgery. Washington and its No. 3 offense are currently atop the heap under second-year head coach Kalen DeBoer. Huskies’ offensive coordinator Ryan Grubb turned down a job offer from Nick Saban last winter, choosing to return to a room that includes Heisman candidate Penix, the nation’s passing yards leader (383.5 ypg) and deliverer of a lovely ball, and three quality receivers. Oregon has the nation’s No. 1 offense, its own Heisman darkhorse in former Auburn QB Bo Nix, a stable of skill position folks, and a head coach, Dan Lanning, who goes for it on fourth down as if it’s a contract incentive. 

Utah has been the best program in recent years, largely because the Utes play defense (No. 5 scoring, No. 9 total) and are consistently as ruthless as a Russian bookie. USC, on the other hand, might be the college football equivalent of the Stones’ “Emotional Rescue” or “Voodoo Lounge,” brilliant moments on offense coupled with a ghastly allergy toward tackling and defense. Oregon State and Washington State, the two schools left without a chair when the realignment music stopped, are making plenty of noise – the Cougars with an offense averaging 431 yards per game, the Beavers with the No. 12 scoring offense (38.1 ppg) led by QB and former Clemson pinata D.J. Uiagalelei. 

Even the league’s lower-tier programs are in on the mayhem. Arizona took USC to triple overtime before falling, then last Saturday dump-trucked Washington State in Pullman, 44-6. Stanford authored one of the season’s signature moments, erasing a 29-point halftime deficit to Colorado in a 46-43 win aided greatly by the Buffs’ players and coaches. 

With half the season still ahead, it’s likely that there will be cannibalization within the conference. Here’s hoping that the college football overlords recognize that one or two losses in a deep quality league shouldn’t disqualify teams from playoff and major bowl consideration. For years, we’ve been subjected to the tautology that multiple-loss teams from the Southeastern Conference are better than undefeated and one-loss teams from other leagues because of the SEC’s overall strength. Well, since the SEC appears a little down this season, why can’t another conference fill the void, or at least receive the benefit of the doubt? 

Regardless, may Pac-12 football’s final chapter produce an avalanche of yards and points and drama and chaos. Enjoy it while it lasts. Memos to departing members from their new conference homes will come soon enough about the best places to visit in Stillwater, Okla., and the beauty of the punt.

It's the Money You Moron

We had such high hopes for Gianni Infantino. When the Swiss native took over the lead role at FIFA after Sepp Blatter's reign of crass fuck-you-pay-me corruption we were taken in by his cuddly comments on his love of the game and seeming support of the women's side of the world's sport. 

We were so naive. (We, obviously, is me. I don't want to admit it, so I'll paint you into the picture with my grammatical wizardry.)

The global soccer community has watched as FIFA has played men's World Cups in Russia and Qatar (in fairness to Infantino, those rights were awarded (corruptly - so, so corruptly) before he took over), as FIFA kowtowed to the Qataris and squashed players' right to support gay rights, as Infantino offered a bizarre, rambling speech during that competition ("I feel African, I feel gay..."), as scores of migrant workers perished while building the stadia for that stained World Cup, as - in an amazing coincidence - Infantino moved to Doha, as the men's World Cup was expanded to 48 teams despite the complexity that adds to the competitive structure, as multiple federations failed to pay their 2023 Women's World Cup squads on time, and as the Spanish federation demonstrated its institutional misogny even as its team WON THE WORLD CUP.

All of that gross, nakedly corrupt institutional venality was in keeping with FIFA's legacy. And this month's news about the 2030 men's World Cup and the knock-on implications for the 2034 competition were of a slimy piece with everything that's come before, and even more so.

On October 4, FIFA announced that the 2030 World Cup will be hosted by Spain, Portugal, and Morocco. (The 2026 event will be held in the U.S., Canada, and Mexico.) And in a nod to the event being held on the 100th anniversary of the first World Cup in Montevideo, the tournament will kick off with a single game being hosted by each of Uruguay, Paraguay, and Argentina. 

Unwieldy, but interesting - that was my first thought. If the U.S., Canada, and Mexico can host, the more geographically compact trio of Spain, Portugal, and Morocco certainly can. And having another Cup on African soil is a positive...waiiiit just a goshdarn minute!

FIFA's rules stipulate that the same continent can't host consecutive World Cups, and with the 2026 event in North America, our continent is effectively sidelined for a while. And with FIFA's "celebratory" inclusion of three South American games in 2030 on top of the Moroccan addition, the field for 2034 has been reduced to Asia and Oceania. 

At the same time it announced the 2030 hosts, FIFA declared that bidding for the 2034 event would be closed next year, which is a departure from the previous plan to vote in 2027 or 2028. It also voted to reduce the number of fully-certified stadiums required of a host nation from seven to four.

In an astounding (non) coincidence, the day after the 2030 announcement, Saudi crown prince Mohammed bin Salman released a statement expressing the kingdom's keen interest in hosting the 2034 event. Saudi Arabia, as it turns out, is in Asia. Who knew? [FIFA knew, duh.] Wanna guess how many fully-certified stadiums exist in Saudi Arabia?

Australia and New Zealand have been planning a bid for the 2034 Cup, and they're both eligible and proven, having just hosted a very successful women's event. They also have as much chance as Jamal Khashoggi did in that room.

I confess, friends, that I was surprised to see FIFA's corrupt machinations laid this bare. And then I was surprised that I was surprised. This isn't new, just grosser.

The headline of this post references a quote by the late Italian (and New York Cosmos) great Giorgio Chinaglia on the early days of SiriusXMFC as he described the state of the modern game a decade or so ago. The various shows on that platform use Chinaglia's audio of that quote to this day to cut through whatever confusing decision leagues and teams and FIFA make. It has never been more true than in describing FIFA's near-certain move to award its crown jewel to a repressive regime that's embarked on a guns-blazing campaign of sportswashing, splashing its unlimited cash to curry favor and gain legitimacy on the world stage.

I get it, but god damn I can't help but continue to find it disgusting.

Prolly still watch it, though, which I suppose is what FIFA understands best of all.

That’s My Pie

Coach Prime brought in a guest speaker to talk to the team after last night’s game against Stanford. 

Up the Bison

Brian Dobie has been the head football coach at the University of Manitoba since 1996. He's a 70 year-old man who's spent his entire professional career in football, one of the most male-centric cultures in American (or, as the case may be, Canadian) life.

Maya Turner is a first-year kicker for the University of Manitoba. On September 23, she became the first woman to compete for the Bison. She did more than just that. On the last play of the second overtime of Manitoba's game against the University of Regina Rams, Turner kicked a 21-yard field goal for the win. It was her fifth made kick of the day (three extra points and a another 21-yard figgie) with no misses.

We've seen female kickers before, even one who kicked for an SEC program, and I suspect we'll see more and more as women's soccer continues to grow and produce strong-legged athletes. But what made me pay attention to this story was Dobie's post-game message to his team. If you ever want a definition of what it means to be an ally, just watch this:

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In Manitoba's next game, Taylor made two more field goals without a miss (from 26 and 32 yards) and converted all four of her extra points, making her perfect in 11 spot kicks this season. News about Manitoba football is a bit hard to come by, but it looks like the kicker who began the year as the Bison starter (Vinny De Rosa) is no longer on the roster, so Taylor may well be the starter for the rest of the season. 

At some point, she'll miss a kick. And I feel pretty confident in saying that her coach and her teammates will have her back. 

New Jersey News is Weird

I subscribe to a small hyper-local newspaper because I like to see hyper-local news and I like to support newspapers and newspapering.  Sometimes hyper-local New Jersey news is really weird.

For example, there's the article titled, "Budd Lake fire chief arrested, accused of masturbating in ShopRite parking lot in Sparta."  In a nutshell, "Budd Lake Fire Chief Joseph Compano was arrested and charged with lewdness after he allegedly masturbated with his penis exposed while making eye contact with a woman in the parking lot of the ShopRite in Sparta."  Here's the chief under happier circumstances:

According to the article, "Compano told police that he was the only person driving the vehicle and that he went to ShopRite to get lunch and proceeded to eat it while parked in the lot .... Compano denied the allegations, stating had a tray of watermelon on his lap and was eating it with a fork, suggesting that may have been the masturbation motion the woman observed."  I don't know how you eat watermelon, but the way I eat it isn't easily confused with masturbation.  Anyway, the cops pulled the surveillance video of the store and the chief never went in to buy watermelon or anything else so he finally broke down and admitted that he was indeed masturbating in the ShopRite parking lot.  So don't buy groceries in Sparta.

Not to be outdone, a Bernardsville Planning Board meeting generated this headline: "Not quite the application: Nude scenes put end to virtual Planning Board meeting in Bernardsville."  Here's the gist of it:

Around 9:18 p.m., while board members were discussing testimony from a developer’s professional planner, the ‘N’ word was suddenly heard.  

Almost instantly, project site plan drawings on the screen were replaced by a series of scenes of naked men, most of whom were African American, having sex with each other or fondling themselves as loud, pulsating music with repeated use of the ‘N’ word all but drowned out the voices of planning officials. 

After a couple of minutes, the videos and music stopped and the meeting appeared to be back on track.

“That was interesting,” said one of the planners.

“That was more than interesting,” said another.

But then the videos and music returned, and after about six minutes the board opted to terminate the Zoom feed and start over.

When the feed resumed, the videos and music were gone but within a few moments they started up again. Board members and representatives for the applicant, straining to be heard above the noise, mutually agreed to end the meeting and resume at an undetermined date.

I'm not sure why the reporter felt the need to make the aside "most of whom were African American," but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that it was to provide context for the N word.  Board Administrator Frank Mottola asserts that this was "a professional hack by people who knew what they were doing." I agree that this was the not the result of people who didn't know what they were doing, but I doubt professional hackers spend their time concocting ways to disrupt Bernardsville Planning Board Meetings, choosing instead to concoct hacks that will make them money.  I bet it was a rival Planning Board, maybe Basking Ridge, trying to make Bernardsville look stupid.  Or maybe it was just some kids screwing with old people.

Jersey is weird!  But you probably already knew that.

AITA, Small Town Intrigue Version

Settle in, boys and girls, for a tale of treachery, passive-aggressive Christianity, and stubborn resistance set amidst the rolling hills of the Virginia Piedmont. 

As I've detailed at length in this space, I live in close proximity to a small town that affords me the substantial luxury of being able to walk to bars, restaurants, and shops. My dog, in particular, enjoys our daily perambulations in search of various canine treats. On most days, our trip to the downtown area starts with a shortcut across the broad fields of St. John the Apostle Catholic Church.

Our house is the last in a row of homes on a quiet cul de sac (as the diagram below indicates). The church and its 20 acres is our neighbor to the west. Given our proximity to the church (which is also close to a large town park that's just out of frame to the northwest in the accompanying map), people have been cutting through our yard to make their way through a small copse of trees for easier access to the church and points west since we moved into the house in December 2004. So much so that a clear desire path has been claimed from the trees over the years, worn by the feet of shortcut-seekers.

We didn't give much thought to the path until we got a dog. There was a large play structure in the open space immediately west of our house that the church used for their preschoolers at recess, and when our kids were little we'd occasionally use the path to get to that. Once in a while we'd cut through the trees to get to the town Halloween or Christmas parades. But it was mostly an afterthought.

Once we got the dog, though, our use of the trail became an everyday thing. For a while, there was a sign at the northernmost point of the church property (along the road at the top of the image above) that prohibited dog-walking. In the interest of honesty, I ignored it. But once the church tore down the play structure, they removed the sign, so I assumed the two things were linked.

For more than four years now, we've walked the dog on the church property, almost always using the little trail to cross the woods, then bang south along the perimeter to get to a road that leads into town (as marked above). We would occasionally see the church's maintenance team mowing, edging, cutting down branches, etc, and I'd wave and usually get a wave in response. 

Last autumn, though, things took a weird turn.

As I headed out to take the dog on our daily, I reached the path to find that someone had piled a wagonload of leaves upon it. It was unquestionably intentional, given the location. "Well that's a dick move," I said to myself and proceeded to stomp over it and proceed on my way.

The feet of people and dogs slowly wore the leaves down until they were nothing more than a soft rug covering the path, until three months ago or so. I'd asked the church to remove a tree that had fallen and come to rest upon our neighborhood's fence. After a few weeks of radio silence, they eventually took care of it, clearing out a significant number of other trees in the process. Coincidentally (or, actually, not at all), a significant pile of brush from that effort wound up at the church-side entrance to the path, creating a second obstacle to human and canine foot traffic.

That ain't particularly Christian, is it?

My wife suggested I contact the church to complain, but that falls squarely in the category of issues you don't raise because you don't want to hear a particular answer. If they actively don't want people walking dogs or traversing their sprawling property (which, to be fair, is their right) despite years of custom, they can prohibit it more directly. 

And so JoJo and I continued to use the path, now stepping up over the brush as we did so. Until last week, when the church's bizarre Three Little Pigs game entered its next phase. 

We headed out one morning to find this:

That's the view headed from the path onto the church's meadow. JoJo is at right for size comparison. You're looking at a stick pile that's roughly two and a half feet high.

Here's a view from the other direction, headed back towards my house:

At this point, game on. I went back that evening and collected several armfuls of sticks to use as kindling for my fire pit, and resumed normal walking service. Since then, no new impediments have been added to the earthworks, though the church maintenance staff have been cutting down some pretty big trees of late, and it wouldn't surprise me to see them construct a brick wall that I won't be able to bypass. 

Meanwhile, JoJo blissfully skitters around the property, sniffing and chasing foxes and squirrels, ignorant of the ongoing cold war. There are other ways I can get downtown, but none of them allow her to roam free for so long, as God himself intended. See, for example, Genesis 1:25, "And God made the beasts of the earth according to their kinds and the livestock according to their kinds, and everything that creeps on the ground according to its kind. And God saw that it was good." At least that's my interpretation of the Scripture.

So I lay it unto you, Gheorghies. Am I the asshole for trespassing upon the church's bountiful fields to allow my dog to run and play (and taking care not to disturb any property, to clean my dog's messes, to leash her when people are about, and to be respectful of the grounds)? Or is the church acting unneighborly by piling obstacles in the way of a path that's been used peacefully for decades?

I'll hang up and listen.

So Long, and Thanks for Everything

It's been an emotional few days for Red Sox fans. First, we were united in our vitriol towards hero turned heel Curt Schilling after the Nazi-curious blowhard disclosed the fact that Tim Wakefield and his wife were both battling cancer. I think Jason Varitek's wife said it best:

Fuck you Curt Schilling, that wasn’t your place!

— Catherine Varitek (@CatherinVaritek) September 28, 2023

Then, as we prepared to say our sporting farewells to Terry Francona, we learned that Wakefield had passed away from brain cancer at the age of 57. 

Wakefield ranks very near the top of my list of favorite Sox players. Realistically, only Yaz, Pedro, and Dustin Pedroia are higher, and the gap isn't very large. It's no so much that Wake was a great player, though he had his moments. Rather it's that he was the personification of the everyman, humble in his on-field craft, in his interactions with the media, and in his service to the community. One of the worst feelings I've ever had in sports was watching him standing on the mound after serving up the series-winning walkoff homerun to Aaron Boone that ended Game 7 of the 2003 ALCS in the Bronx. 

And one of the best was watching Wake get so much love from his teammates after the Sox avenged that loss in 2004. A little-remembered act from that series speaks to the reason why so many teammates have been so distraught over his passing. Wake was scheduled to start Game 4 of that series, but with the Sox being battered in Game 3, Wake volunteered to take the ball and eat innings to save the bullpen. He came in during the top of the 4th and left after the 8th, throwing 64 pitches and giving up five runs as the Yankees smoked the Sox and left them for dead, 19-8.

After the Sox won Game 4 in 12 innings, Wakefield came back on one day's rest to pitch the final three innings of Game 5. If I've been more nervous during a game than I was during the top of the 13th, I'd like to know about it. Varitek was not Wakefield's usual catcher - that inglorious duty was generally given to Doug Mirabelli. Despite his best efforts, he gave up three passed balls in the inning, the final one giving the Yankees runners on second and third with two outs. Wake, stoic and calm while his knuckleball danced and dove, took the rubber, flicked his wrist, and got Ruben Sierra to strike out swinging while Varitek held on as if his life depended upon it. Check out the first 1:35 of the video below.

One could argue that Wake's selfless act in Game 3 helped the Sox bullpen be just fresh enough to withstand 26 innings of baseball over the following two nights. Reality doesn't necessarily work that way, but his teammates say it's true. Maybe it's just that they didn't want to let him down. 

('Course you could also argue that his efforts laid the groundwork for the Bloody Sock game that covered  that cocksucker Schilling in so much glory. Bygones.)

Tim Wakefield pitched in Boston for the better part of 17 seasons. He retired with exactly 200 wins (something we wrote about way back in 2011), 186 with Boston, good for third behind Roger Clemens and Cy Young on the Sox' all-time list. His 3,006 innings pitched is more than any other Red Sox player ever. He started the most games, lost the most games, gave up the most hits and homers, walked and hit the most batters, threw the most wild pitches, and faced the most batters. I suppose one has to be somewhat ego-free to make a living throwing knuckleballs for two decades. 

So God Bless, and Godspeed Timmy Wake. May the ball never spin once it leaves your hand, and may all the catchers in heaven have giant gloves.

Great Moments in Gambling History

I won $4 on Powerball yesterday. Was feeling pretty good about things, and getting ready to write a post about Terry Francona's last game as a major league manager (which starts at 3:10 Eastern). Love that dude.

Then I got a text from Whitney with the following image, giving me instructions about my rooting interests for the day:

And so game on.

Things looked pretty dicey for the big fella as Jon Rahm trailed Scottie Sheffler 1 DN headed to 18, but perked up when the Spaniard took advantage of a loose chip by Sheffler to win the hole and earn a draw. Hovland, McIlroy, and Hatton took care of business without much drama, but Nicolai Hojgaard fought hard against Xander Schauffele until the diminutive American dispatched him by winning 15 and 16. 

Whit and I were exchanging increasingly incredulous texts at this point, because Fleetwood and MacIntyre looked pretty solid. Lowry, though, was struggling with Spieth. Then the Irishman drew even (YES!) and went ahead (NO!) while MacIntyre blew a tyre (see what I did there) and fell Even with Clark. We were poised on the razor's edge. 

Fleetwood and MacIntyre came through, but all seemed lost as Spieth and Lowry appeared to halve the final hole to give Lowry the win. Which was bad. Whit even went as far as to post a lament in the previous comment thread.

Lo and behold, in all the confusion, it turns out Lowry had lost 18 to Spieth to halve the match. Which meant that Whit's $10 bet made after multiple drinks at 11:28 pm last night earned him a cool $22,471. That aint' a typo:

The honeymoon's gonna be a doozy, y'all!