Earworm Filler

Rafael Devers set a major league record by whiffing 10 times in the Red Sox' first three games. To reverse that mojo, I come here to post a song that's been in my head for a minute. It's got a G:TB connection. Bonus!

Opening Day 2025

Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends. 

We’re so glad you could attend, come inside, come inside.

That’s right sports fans, it’s opening day in Major League Baseball. At least stateside, as we will ignore the fact that the Dodgers are already on pace to go 162-0 after sweeping a two game set from the Cubs in Japan. 

While Rob kicked us off with some anime hype yesterday, I wanted to make sure that we had some content for our more senior demographic - looking at you Whit. 

We will start with this banger of a jam for anybody that loved Saturday morning TV in the 1980s. 

Then we have this little ditty, which should appeal to all the fans of the ongoing Rob Lasso program. 

Teaching kids the right way to play the game long before Tom Emanski’s teams won back to back to back AAU championships with the kid who threw the ball into a garbage can from centerfield. Plus, the San Diego Chicken and an Italian-American “dugout wizard” that lived in a blackboard. Interestingly, Zman will tell you he was a dugout wizard his senior year in college. Who are we to argue?

You will also note from the video that Pete Rose was guest on the show. Clearly, they missed an opportunity by not having Pete teach Michelle and Louie the intricacies of a three team parlay, or having the chicken break Pete’s legs for not paying up. 

Finally, for the Mets fans out there, hope springs eternal at least for a few minutes…

Happy opening day!

Play Ball!

Baseball returns to our loving arms tomorrow, with the Yankees' Carlos Rodon throwing out the first pitch of the season on American soil against the Brewers at 3:00. And while we won't follow it as closely as we once did (though the Mets' contingent here has significant reason for enthusiasm), we're still romantics at heart. Which is why we offer you this traditional season-opening sentiment:

Lotta ball left. Stay on target.

If you want a different sort of wholesome season-opening content, check out this video of Astros manager Joe Espada letting a rookie know he made it to the show.

Idol Worship

Let it never be said that we lack the fortitude to admit our mistakes. Today, I stand before you chastened and more than a little bit disappointed. 

It's a cliche that one should never meet their heroes. The little-known corollary is that one shouldn't elevate a politician to hero status. The shorter version: Fucking Fetterman.

We were one of the first major outlets to boost the Pennsylvanian's public profile, offering this puff piece about the aspiring Senator's rise. Later, we endorsed him to succeed Joe Biden as POTUS. We liked his everyman shtick, his independent streak, his muscular defense of traditional liberal values. 

As it turns out, we were conned.

Since the inauguration of the current POTUS and his minions' gleeful dismantling of the Federal government, many things about the Democrats' response have been wanting. You can count the number of senior leaders in the opposition party who are publicly resisting on two hands. The hand-sitters number in the scores. And the collaborators, well we've got some of them, too.

Led, sadly, by John Fetterman.

The big doofus was the first Democrat to travel to Mar-A-Lago, calling That Fucking Guy "kind" after their meeting. He's been a reliable vote for Cabinet nominees, one of only five Dems to support 10 of the clowns who now lead agencies. Not only did he vote in support of the budget agreement that handed the GOP a win, he lashed out at Alexandria Ocasio-Cortes in the aftermath, telling her to "deal with it".

Finally, in a particularly grotesque bit of political theater, the outspoken supporter of Israel accepted a gift from Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu in the form of a silver-plated pager, like the kind that the Israelis detonated en masse to injure and kill Hamas operatives. Regardless of your stance on the tragedy in Gaza, a sitting U.S. Senator jovially celebrating death and injury is fucking disgusting.

Other Democrats are starting to get uncomfortable with Fetterman, too. Cumberland County (PA) Democratic Party chair Matt Roan wrote an op-ed yesterday calling on the state's junior senator to resign, saying, "Fetterman no longer represents the interests of those who elected him, he seems disinterested in serving in his important position, and his actions in the Senate are actively harming Pennsylvanians."

Sadly, though not reluctantly, I agree. 

U.S. Reed and the 49-Foot Memory Maker

We recently passed the five-year anniversary of the moment the country shut down and the course of our nation's future and our lives changed irreversibly. We're better off from a health perspective, I suppose, but the number of ways in which we've gone backwards are hard to count, at least without causing inchoate rage.

Rather than marinating in anger (again), we'll use this moment to once again call back to a happier time. As I type from my couch in advance of not moving and watching 10+ hours of college basketball, we'll keep this post going, celebrating an unequivocally good thing.

------------------------------

There's an ongoing political meme happening in the zeitgeist at the moment because That Fucking Guy mused aloud about whether people were better off today than four years ago. Over at The Bulwark, Jonathan V. Last has been making sport of the question, pointing out that four years ago we were locked in our houses afraid to touch anything while also being told that this little viral kerfuffle was going to go away in a few minutes.

As for the Gheorghieverse, we were more focused on important things like sports. The cancellation of the NCAA Tournament meant that all we had left were the memories. So as a reminder of that bygone and damned time and a celebration of what we have back that we took for granted, today we re-up a post from March 2020. Do enjoy.

Big Besiktas fan here. Go Black Eagles.

It's increasingly likely that we'll not see anything resembling the live sports to which we're accustomed for an extended period of time. The television/radio listings in this morning's Washington Post, which usually run to eight column inches of small type, offer us a meager two entries today: a Turkish Super Lig soccer match between Besiktas and Galatasaray at noon, and the World Series of Bowling Storm XI at 1:30.

If you think I'm not watching that soccer game from Turkey that features two of the country's big three, you don't know me all that well.

But if the games must not go on, we do have the benefit of the memories of the games that did to remind us why this time of year is often such a thrill. 

Thirty-nine years ago yesterday, and I remember it as if it were, like, 20 years ago. The shot Arkansas' U.S. Reed hit to beat Louisville is one of my earliest NCAA Tournament memories. The Razorbacks, seeded fifth in the West, fell behind fourth seed and defending National Champion Louisville with five seconds to play on a Derek Smith jumper in the the lane. The Cardinals' press had bothered Arkansas all game, so coach Eddie Sutton instructed his team to just get the ball as far up the court as they could.

And then this happened:

Sports was pretty cool.

Red Flagg

It’s pretty much given that Duke’s Cooper Flagg will exercise his one-and-done rights and declare his intention to ball professionally when the season ends. The freshman is the presumptive No. 1 pick in the upcoming NBA Draft, a kid who exceeded even the lofty expectations surrounding him when he arrived on campus. 

Flagg caused a bit of a stir recently when he said in a piece in The Athletic that he might consider returning to Duke. “Sh*t, I want to come back next year,” was the exact quote. It was a lengthy story, however, and was said in the context of how much he enjoys college and competing for championships at the highest level. Add the fact that the Blue Devils have the No. 1-ranked recruiting class for 2025 on the way, which with Flagg and whomever else returns would make for an embarrassment of riches and presumably increase the fun. 

Few believe he’ll return to school, though the story and Flagg’s remarks ignited the hooperati and various opinionators about what he should do. The majority take is that he should declare for the NBA Draft, because by delaying even one year he could cost himself tens of millions of dollars in the long haul. 

Perhaps, but there’s a case to be made for returning to school for another year, precisely because it potentially benefits him over the long haul, in terms of physical maturity. No one disputes that Flagg can compete at the highest level. He demonstrated that for an entire college season and against NBA players last summer during pre-Olympic workouts. But if he declares for the Draft and turns pro this Spring, he will have jumped from high school and its four-month season, to top-tier college competition and its six-month season, to the NBA and its eight-to-nine month season and 82-plus game grind, all in the span of three years. And he’ll still be a teenager. 

Recall that he re-classified in high school to graduate a year early and enter college at age 17. He doesn’t turn 20 until Dec. 2026. He’s 6-9 and 205 pounds, but his body isn’t yet fully developed, and he’ll still be expected to compete, and excel, daily against grown-ass men. Tall ask. 

There’s no way to accelerate physical maturity, and another year of college would provide a small step in that direction. The financial argument for Flagg to turn pro immediately is compelling. I’ll spare details related to the salary cap and contract structures because 1) I don’t completely understand it, 2) it will rupture attention spans, and 3) the people who devise such systems are often those who love numbers and hate sports and should not be encouraged. The upshot is that rookie draft choices are slotted into early contracts and are not permitted to bargain for comparatively large numbers until three or four years into the league. 

If Flagg returns to Duke, he’d delay eligibility into his second, or so-called “rookie max”, contract. As a guide, last season’s No. 1 draft pick, French teenager Zaccharie Risacher, received a deal from Atlanta worth $57 million over four years, an average of a little over $14 million per season. Maximum contracts are based on a percentage of a team’s total salary cap. Projecting ahead with annual increases, if Flagg enters the NBA next season he will be eligible for an extension in 2029-30 that could pay him $67.8 million per season. 

So, by delaying one year, he could cost himself more than $50 million, the difference between the first year of a max deal and the last of a rookie contract. If his health and productivity hold, a similar dynamic could play out between the end of his second contract and start of a third deal. 

The advent of Name, Image and Likeness (NIL) and player pay have somewhat mitigated the traditional argument for college players to turn pro immediately. The question used to be: “What if he gets hurt and is never the same again and torches his pro career?” But Flagg’s valuation and endorsement deals this season are reported to be in the $4-million range. If he returns to Duke, he is projected to make more than $16 million next season. The decision then becomes whether to jump into the deep end now, or hope that another year’s maturity will benefit him down the line and perhaps help extend his career. 

Implicit in that call is answering the unknowable question: Where might he more likely suffer severe injury, during a college season workload, or in the middle of the nine-month NBA season as a 21-year-old when his body is still developing? Was his recent ankle sprain in the ACC Tournament a one-off or an omen? If he begins the NBA journey this year, there’s no telling what sort of toll it may take on his body by his mid- and late 20s, when he reaches the peak of his earning power. Perhaps he’s a physical outlier and is productive and efficient into his 30s. But should that be assumed for someone at 18? (We pause for a moment to recognize LeBron James, athletic marvel and possible mutant. 

The NBA’s career leading scorer also arrived in the league as a teenager and through talent, will, genetic blessings, self-care and good fortune, elevated himself into the GOAT discussion. At age 40, in his 22nd season, he is still balling at elite level. He averages 25 points, 8 rebounds and 8 assists, while shooting almost 52 percent from the field and 38 percent from 3-point range and playing 35 minutes per game. Consider, too, that he’s played 287 playoff games, the equivalent of 3½ entire seasons on top of the regular calendar payload; one might say he’s actually played 25½ seasons. Enjoy him now, because we will not see his like again.) 

Look, Flagg is going to make generational money regardless of when he turns pro. He and his progeny and extended family will be able to buy boats and bunkers and comforts to navigate our deteriorating landscape for decades to come. They can afford eggs. Any decision he makes requires financial advisors. He may choose “adult” or delay full immersion for a year, and the difference will be “wealthy” or “wealthier.” Pretty good gig.

A Brief History of Time

Eleven American lads crossed the pond last week to engage in a frank exchange of ideas and promote American values (the old ones, not the new ones) to our friends in the UK. Though this effort was disguised in occasionally drunken tomfoolery under the cover of rugby rooting, the impact on our sister people in England and Wales was no doubt profound.

Here follows a loosely chronological travelogue from my biased perspective. Most names have been withheld or changed to their Welsh equivalent to protect those who pretend to be respectable in their stateside lives.

Five of us left the U.S. on Wednesday evening for an overnight in London. Smart idea in plan, ludicrous in execution. After a few hours of napping in our luxuriously appointed hostel (78 steps up to the top floor), we did a rock and roll-themed pub tour in Soho. Our guide, a theatrically charismatic Cuban-Russian-Swedish fellow with a background in astrophysics and a current one-man show (a naked homage to James Bond) entitled "Pull My Goldfinger" took us to four different pubs with a musical connection. At the beginning, he told us that we'd only have 15 minutes or so at each stop, so perhaps we should only order half-pints. Challenge extended and challenge accepted. Friends, we did not order half-pints.

We dined that evening at The Guinea, an institution that was the local for the father of one of our number back in the 70s. Food was top notch, wine flowed like water, another of our number fell off a barstool at the neighboring pub and shattered his mug (possible that this was your humble scribe), and then we took our leave. 

After a stop at a chippy, another team member crawled up the final two flights of stairs (possible, once again, that this was the same humble scribe) and we passed an uneventful evening. Uneventful for all but one of us. We'll call him Hrrbrrt. 

At some point in the night, he awoke in the pitch dark with water pouring down on him. Terrified, he inched his way along the wall for (literally) an hour before he made his way out of the bathroom and turned on the light to the main room, soaking wet, his heart racing. We pieced it all together slowly the next morning. As best we can tell, Hrrbrrt somehow passed out in the tub, then accidentally kicked the shower mechanism and turned on the water. There were no windows in the bathroom. 

We know the timeline to be accurate, as his smartwatch captured his thrashings and elevated heartrate. As he finally calmed down, he said to another of us, "I'm 57 years old. When is this going to end?"

I don't know when it's going to end, but it wasn't to be this weekend.

Unidentified Team Member with Gws

We gathered ourselves, slowly, and caught a train to Cardiff, now numbering eight. Reached our well-appointed flat on Penarth Road, in the shadow of the train station, by the early afternoon. Among the appointments, several cases of Guinness thoughtfully provided by our host. Right back into the breach, then, lads.

Also in the apartment, this sign:

In the grand scheme of things, that Friday was probably the least eventful evening. We split into groups for dinner, one going for takeaway Indian food, another to Welsh Applebee's, as the chain pub came to be derisively known. Chrrlyy and I split off looking for proper whiskey, failed at that, but did find The City Arms in the shadow of the Principality Stadium, which would become a bit of a home office for the lads.

It was there we met a pair of young Welshmen who worked in Parliament and began our learning journey. One of them had studied at The College of William and Mary. Good school. Hard to get into. Small world. 

Proper pub, The City Arms

The night closed with what turned out to be one of the mini-themes of the weekend. The last four of us standing in Cardiff's nightlife district (a too-convenient .3 mile walk from our flat) stopped into KFC (yes, that's correct) because Hrrbrrt and Whytttny (The Welsh eschew vowels with abandon) wanted a snack. While they waited for the food, a young Welsh lass came up to me and one other and asked, "Are you Americans?"

I responded in the affirmative and she said, "Can I ask you a question?" To which I said, "Yes, we hate him, too". 

Turns out that wasn't her line of inquiry. Instead, she said quizzically but not unkindly, "Why are you here?" When we explained the nature of our quest to see a rugby match in all six of the Nations, I do believe she was impressed. Right up until Whttnyy made a vulgar display of the relationship between Kentucky and West Virginia, which was her cue to ride off on her bicycle.

The Welsh ladies, you see, seem to be besotted by yours truly. [Did he say besotted? Do you think he meant 'bemused'? Or befuddled? Ah, fuck it. Let a fella dream.]

On that night, as each of the next two, I struck up lengthy conversations in multiple venues with Welsh gals, to the great glee and confusion of my mates. I learned a ton, friends, about the Welsh language, culture, geography, and I perhaps gave a good account of Americans at the same time. I don't think I've talked to that many women in bars in the past decade combined. Could be I was born in the wrong nation. Cymru am byth.

Saturday was match day, and as we took a few trips up to the city center for coffee and breakfast, one could sense the energy rising, the red of the Welsh mixing with England supporters' whites, the hum of a big-event day growing slowly but inexorably.

Same species, allegedly

Took us a while to get rolling after breaking our fasts, which turns out to be a bit of a metaphor for the match. First bar we went to was packed, so we headed away from the arena. Second spot, an outdoor garden, blew out their nitrogen lines and only had flat beer. On we went, undeterred, to another too-crowded place. Finally back to a bit more of a posh spot where we found purchase and a video screen showing the Italy/Scotland match - the first of the day's three Six Nations contests.

To the arena, then, bang downtown, looming over all of the pubs, standing guard over a plucky people. As we reached our seats (in three groups spread across the stadium), two young Welshwomen sat down next to me. Whattyaknow about that? The streak continued! A pair of Emilys, friends through their fathers, and lovely to chat with.

Top to bottom:
Chrrlyy, Clyffy, Jyssyn, Rwb, The Emilys

Less lovely, the performance of the home side. Wales are in a bit of drought on the international level. Understatement, that. They've lost 17 consecutive international matches. Their squad is young and inexperienced, and they fired their manager in the midst of this Six Nations cycle. Nonetheless, their enmity for the English is never far from the surface, and this correspondent expected the red side to make a go of it.

Friends, they did not. First, though, a bit about the atmosphere. The Principality is the largest retractable roofed stadium in Europe. It seats 75,000, and with the roof closed, it was a bubbling cauldron, complete with pre-match pyrotechnics so massive one could feel the heat of the flames from 75 meters away. A choir sang a medley of rousing local tunes, and the anthem gave this American goosebumps. 

And then the match started. England took a mere 150 seconds to score their first try, then followed that with another seven minutes later. Wales looked to have drawn one back in between those tries, only to have the score ruled out by video review. On 31 minutes, Welshman Ben Thomas scored the first of his two tries (that bright moment captured below), which made the score 14-7 after a conversion. Wales' resurgence was short-lived, however, as England restored the 14-point margin two minutes later and added two more tallies before the halftime break to lead, 33-7.

And that, gentle reader, was that. After England scored to make it 40-7 15 minutes into the second half, we adjourned to The City Arms to try to beat the post-match traffic. At least we were able to get in. 

England kept its foot on the gas, even scoring a try in added time to try in vain to catch the French to win the tournament. The 68-14 final was Wales' worst-ever home defeat in Six Nations play. Our group of intrepid travelers fell to 0-3 in backing the home side on our sojourns. England are not happy to see us coming in 2027.

We spent the rest of the evening at The City Arms, where I chatted with a pair of young Welsh lasses (21 year-olds, as it turns out, which...yeeps) for 45 minutes or so, again to the glee of the rest of the lads. One was named Ffion, and she gave me an extended tour of the Welsh language. You learn something every day. Headed home amidst the carnage of a big event in a city centre.

Sunday was meant for taking it easy, as we all had to catch early trains back to London to catch flights home on Monday. We were meant for ignoring that direction.

After a bit of edification at Cardiff Castle (the keep you see in the photos below was built in 1130), Jyssyn and I made our way to The Elevens (so named because its owner, Welsh soccer legend Gareth Bale, wore number 11 throughout his storied career). We went to watch The Old Firm match between Glasgow Celtic and Glasgow Rangers, one of the legendary fixtures in world football. The rest of the lads joined us a bit later.

The lads. Behind us, Cardiff Castle and The Principality Stadium

Classy pub, The Elevens. A large contingent of Rangers fans lived and died on every kick, their exhortations and angry recriminations fun and funny at the same time. They left happy after their side overcome blowing a 2-0 lead to win, 3-2 at their rivals' stadium. We left, too, for a calm afternoon of winding down.

Ha! No we didn't. We stayed to watch Arsenal/Chelsea. We stayed still longer to watch the Carabao Cup final between Liverpool and Newcastle in the company of a number of supporters of both. Newcastle famously hadn't won a trophy in 70 years, and it was a blast to see the joy erupt from their backers when they held on for a well-deserved 2-1 win. And then we left.

To go around the corner to Temple 7 Bar to listen to live music and drink more beers. I chatted up the lady bartender for while, closing out my account with the distaff Welsh. Got a couple of free shots of whiskey for the boys because of my repartee.

Finally, back home to get some rest before early-morning wakeup calls. After we had a nightcap and told stories.

All of us made our trains back to time, and spent a lonnnng day flying back to parts American. I left Dulles at 6:15 and headed directly to coach a high school soccer team. Once I got home and the adrenaline wore off, I felt exhaustion like I can't really recall. Today's a bit better, but it's weird to be hungover after not having had a drink.

It's not weird to feel the afterglow of time spent in fellowship, joy, and love with a bunch of one's besties. While there are parts of the trip I won't remember for long (in the case of our evening London, I didn't remember parts of even the next morning), the overall experience will take up a prominent chapter of my life's story for some time to come.

Love you, boys. Yma o Hyd.

Tree Goats

Argan trees grow in Morocco, where people eat the trees' fruit and press the seeds for oil (don't tell RFK!).  And where goats climb them to eat the fruit and leaves.  

I know a thing or two about goats.  They'll eat anything.  They can climb anything.  They can herd up to make it through anything.  You can put one in a goatapult and it will cling for dear life, no matter how hard you actuate the device.  But climb a tree?  That's news to me.

It might be news to you too, so here's a video featuring someone channeling her inner Margaret Jo McCullin and herds of rascally goats hoofing it up and down some argan trees.  Starting at 5:47, you can see some goats that have been herded into the equivalent of caprine hell, a Bummingdome if you will, forced to stand in one uncomfortable place for an extended period of time.  As the narrator says, "Those goats standing in one spot are, unfortunately, unhappy goats."

May all the goats in your collective lives be happy goats.

Postcards from Abroad

Rob and I are headed to Wales!

By the time you read this, we will be will on our way to Cardiff... if all has gone well. You never know with air travel. We will be draped in these:

I mean, as national flags go, there are way worse, right?

Here's what else you need to know about Wales:

• a country that is part of the United Kingdom
• bordered by the Irish Sea to the north and west
• bordered by England to the east
• population: 3.16 million
• size: 8,000 square miles (roughly the size of New Jersey)
• Languages: Welsh and English
• Food: Welsh rarebit, lots of lamb dishes

Famous people from Wales:

• Richard Burton
• Dylan Thomas
• T. E. Lawrence
• Anthony Hopkins
• Terry Jones
• Catherine Zeta-Jones
• Henry Morton Stanley
• Christian Bale
• Laura Ashley
• Henry (Captain) Morgan
• Rob Brydon
• Timothy Dalton
• Desmond Llewelyn
• Jonathan Pryce
• Matthew Rhys 
• Charles Rolls
• Ian Woosnam
• Gareth Bale

And, relevantly...

Sir Gareth Owen Edwards CBE (born 12 July 1947) is a Welsh former rugby union player who played scrum-half and has been described by the BBC as "arguably the greatest player ever to don a Welsh jersey". Gwaun-Cae-Gurwen, Swansea, Wales.

Generally speaking: Wales is a poor, coal-mining country, the Welsh loathe the English, and they didn't quite understand why Yanks would bother to come see their rugby team when I was there (2000). 

How about music?

Iechyd Da!

A Quarter Billion Dollars Can Change Your Mind

Remember Trump's lengthy diatribe during the 2024 campaign about how stupid electric vehicles are, the one that started out with cars, drifted into tanks, meandered into boats and sharks, and wound up hitting on a truck driver?  This one:

That was December 4, 2024, a little over three months ago.  On March 11, 2025, Trump bought a Tesla and did an infomercial for it in the White House driveway:

What prompted the change?  A newfound commitment to the environment?  A sudden rush of interest in new technology?  A change of heart regarding the Green New Deal?  Or maybe it was the $260 billion Elon Musk donated to his campaign?

I'm not saying Trump is for sale, but his taste in cars is lightyears behind Biden's.  Remember this?

A Poignant Erection

We've all had to deal with erections.  Ry Williams handles them for a living, specifically dinosaur erections.  Williams is a self-described "dinosaur erection specialist" at Dino Lab in British Columbia, where he couples his training as a welder with his love of dinosaurs to erect their skeletal remains in lifelike positions.

And some not-so-lifelike positions.

Yes, that's a dinosaur tea party.  Williams is rightfully proud of this particular erection--it took him three years to get it up.  It was a challenging mount!  And a meaningful one too.  "A real T. rex and a real Triceratops sitting down and having tea together," he said.  "The most iconic enemies in the history of the planet having a conversation. I think the world needs that kind of message right now."

We could all learn a thing or two from Williams's poignant erection.

Game Week!

Since none of you slack sumbitches came up with something better, I'm gonna be a little selfish today. [Today? Isn't this whole project a monument to his selfishness? Forget it, he's rolling.]

The first match of the 2025 Huskies girls soccer season kicks off tomorrow evening. We won't be running back the Ted Lasso series, but we will offer the occasional update for our fans. Today, a brief season preview, a look ahead at my first season as the big whistle (with a nod to OBX Dave for the nomenclature).

Over the past three seasons, the Lady Huskies have won three district titles, advanced to two state title games, and won it all in 2023. That trophy-lifting team had seven players who went on to compete collegiately, four at the Division I level. We graduated four kids in 2024, including the district player of the year. Solid pedigree, the program.

This season, we return three starters from a team that won the district and lost in the final minute of the regional tournament semifinal. Two of our three best returning players chose not to play high school ball this season to focus on their recruitment (an increasingly common practice among elite female players). The other underwent elbow surgery three weeks ago and is doubtful for the season. We have more freshmen on our Varsity roster than we do seniors. We have one player who is a collegiate-level talent (though a couple of the freshmen have potential), but she's even more talented as a cross-country and track athlete, so her future likely lies there. Ava (2022 State Class 4 POY, Junior defender at William & Mary) and Mia (2023 State Class 4 POY, Junior midfielder at ODU) aren't walking through that door.

What I'm saying is that this will be a rebuilding year. (Now I'm starting to understand why the long-time head coach stepped down.)

I have been very impressed by the kids' work ethic, coachability, and energy in training. We are far better defensively than on the attack, at least right now. Gonna need to coax some 1-0 wins out of the squad. We scrimmage tomorrow against a school from the largest of Virginia's six high school classifications (we're in Class 4), so it will be an uphill battle. I've told the kids that I don't care about the score, but about how they compete.

That'll be our mantra for the first 10 (two scrimmages and eight non-district matches) outings. My goal for the non-league portion of the campaign is to figure out how we best set up to have a chance to win in the district. I think we have a chance to be competitive in the league, and the aforementioned trend of elite players sitting out (or in the case of last season's three best players, graduating early and starting college in January of their high school senior years) means that the district and region could be wide open.

That's a lot more words than I intended to type. I'm kinda excited, if you can't tell. More to come, and I'll leave you with this goal from Tigres' Jacquie Ovalle from the weekend. Check out Jenni Hermoso, the player who gets the assist, at the 1:12 mark. Que golazo! Gonna tell the kids to channel this.

Your Friday Moment of Pure Love

It is within the realm of possibilty that Dolly Parton is the very best person in America. You may have seen the sad news recently that her publicity-shy husband of 60 years, Carl Dean, passed away on Monday at the age of 82. Dolly just released this to honor and remember him:

We need more Dollys and fewer Donalds.

We're #69! Tar Heels Edition

One peculiarity this basketball season is the inconsistent, at times puzzling, performance of North Carolina. The Tar Heels are one of the sport’s blue bloods, an annual NCAA Tournament participant and on the short list of the nation’s most recognizable programs. 

UNC was ranked in the top 10 in preseason polls and picked to finish second in the ACC behind a loaded Duke, facing a schedule dotted with premier games. Fast forward, and the Heels have zero marquee wins. As recently as three weeks ago they were scuffling along just one game over .500 in the league and were barely on the fringe of NCAA consideration. 

A current win streak fueled by lineup tweaks has lifted UNC into the discussion, though ESPN bracketology gerbil [Ouch, babe.] Joe Lunardi and The Athletic hoop snoop Joe Rexrode both have Carolina among the first four omitted from the 68-team field. NCAA Net Rankings have the Heels a very bubbly No. 38, and Ken Pomeroy ranks them 38, as well. 

Let’s dig in our Heels: (Full disclosure: I grew up in Maryland, a fan of the Terps and Lefty Driesell and later attended College Park. Carolina’s consistent excellence under Dean Smith and frequent wins versus Maryland provided constant anguish for a kid in the days of the old ACC. Once I began covering sports for a living, however, my rooting interests subsided. I became a fan of decent stories, accommodating deadlines and reliable wi-fi connections. Though I must admit, there remains a small corner of my brain that smiles when Carolina struggles.) 

Recent History: Not too shabby. Twenty NCAA appearances since 2000. Three NCAA titles this century (2005, 2009, 2017), seven Final Fours, 13 appearances in Sweet 16. 

Mascot/Nickname Profile: Tar Heels and North Carolina’s nickname as the Tarheel State date to colonial times. The state was a massive source of material used in wooden shipbuilding – tar and pitch and turpentine from the state’s abundant pine forests – first for the British Royal Navy, and then domestically after independence. It was used to seal hulls and prevent rot. 

Around the time of the Civil War, outsiders began referring to NC natives and troops as Tarheels, a derisive nickname that natives later adopted as a source of pride, that they were more likely to “stick” to their causes and convictions than outsiders who were less committed. 

The school’s mascot, a ram named Rameses, dates to 1924. The football team’s star fullback, Jack Merritt, was nicknamed “Battering Ram” for his style of play. The head cheerleader at the time suggested that the school purchase a ram as mascot, which it did. Legend has it that in a scoreless tie against Virginia Military Institute, UNC’s kicker rubbed the ram’s head for luck and then went out and kicked the game-winning field goal. A ram has been on the sidelines at UNC football games ever since. The stuffed costume ram mascot seen at basketball games and other events dates to the late 1980s. 

IYKYK

Home Arena: Dean E. Smith Center, aka the Dean Dome (cap. 21,750). Opened in 1986. The baby-bluest building you’ll ever walk into. Smith was notably hesitant about a new arena three times the size of the program’s traditional home, Carmichael Auditorium. But he was eventually convinced because of the program’s growing popularity and the fact that it would allow more students to attend games. He was never entirely comfortable with the fact that it was named for him. For all of his success, he routinely deflected attention from himself. For instance, when people referred to UNC as a basketball school, he often responded that no, it was a women’s soccer school, owing to legendary coach Anson Dorrance and his title harvesting program. 

Notable Hoops Alumni: Dear lord, where to start? That Jordan fellow, Vince Carter, James Worthy, Tyler Hansbrough, Billy Cunningham, Phil Ford, Kenny Smith, Larry Brown, Antawn Jamison, Bob McAdoo, George Karl, Charlie Scott, Sam Perkins, Brad Daugherty, Al Wood, Armando Bacot, Walter Davis, Bobby Jones, Mitch Kupchak, Rick Fox. Three of their coaches are also in the Naismith Hall of Fame – Frank McGuire, El Deano and Roy Williams. 

Current Season: The Heels (20-11, 13-6 in the ACC) are in fourth place in the league, a half-game ahead of Wake Forest and SMU. Graduate guard R.J. Davis (17.2 ppg), the 2024 ACC Player of the Year and school career No. 2 scorer behind Hansbrough, is one of three players averaging in double figures, along with 6-4 freshman Ian Jackson (13.5 ppg) and 6-3 junior Seth Trimble (12.1 ppg). UNC has won six in a row and scored more than 80 points in each game, due in part to recent emergence of 6-9 graduate Jae’Lyn Withers (70 pts last six games) and 6-8 junior Ven-Allen Lubin (7.6 ppg, 4.9 rpg), who has scored in double figures in his past five games. Both bigs have also helped reverse the season-long trend of spotty rebounding. 

Hubert is a FOG:TB by proxy

Reasons to Believe: Late-season success, which is supposedly a factor in selection. Notion that it’s difficult to fathom the ACC not getting at least four teams into the tournament. The fact that they’re North Freakin’ Carolina. To that end, I was reminded recently that the selection committee knows precisely what teams they’re evaluating. The idea that the committee blindly compares resume’s for a supposedly more objective decision is a media concoction – often attempting to measure the worth of one team chosen vs. another that was left out. If you believe that committee members don’t consider conferences and schools when it comes to selection and seeding and juicy potential tournament matchups, we have a swell real estate proposition for you in a little paradise we call Gaza. UNC Athletic Director Bubba Cunningham is chair of the selection committee. Now, ADs are supposed to recuse themselves when their teams are discussed, but administrative back-scratching, anyone? 

Reasons to Fade Them: Metrics. The Heels have exactly one Quad 1 win, a Dec. 21 neutral site game vs. UCLA. They’re 1-10 against Q1 (Quad 1 results are home games vs. the top 30, neutral site games against the top 50 and away games against the top 75). The only team ranked above them in NCAA Net with one or fewer Q1 wins is No. 29 VCU (1-1), and obviously the Rams had only two opportunities. That said, a win against Duke Saturday and/or a deep run in the ACC Tournament would bolster their case. The fact that the ACC is down this season doesn’t provide the statistical cushion and boost of years past. In short, unless the Heels win the ACC Tournament, it could go either way. But don’t be surprised if they hear their name called on Selection Sunday.

Gheorghasbord: Heroes Gone But Not Forgotten

We've seen a handful of famous folks pass in recent days. Gene Hackman, Betsy Arakawa, Michelle Trachtenberg, all public figures whose deaths made the headlines. But we've a pair of others who haven't been quite as bold-faced in their personas, yet who left an indelible mark on this rapidly devolving global society.

For instance, it was sad news in my household when Francesco Rivella passed on February 14 at the age of 97. The Italian chemist was my daughter's favorite person for several years, though she didn't know his name. Rivella invented Nutella, which was my kid's go-to breakfast staple into the early high school years. We even made a trip to Chicago just to go to Mario Batali's Eataly because it had a Nutella-themed bar. (We didn't know, man.)

Literally millions of other families mourn and give thanks to James Harrison. The 88 year-old Aussie died on February 17, and his right arm could finally rest. Harrison's blood contained a rare and valuable antibody known as anti-D (sorry Daves, Danimal, and Donna), and he was generous with it. Anti-D is vital in preventing blood-related diseases in newborns, and Harrison's 1,173 blood donations between 1954 and 2018 are estimated to have contributing the saving of 2.4 million infant lives. Nearly as many as Elon Musk is going to kill this year.

Your Typical Anapestic Birthday Celebration

As many of you may know, I share a birthday with Dr. Seuss (and Desi Arnaz and Jon Bon Jovi, among others). But while I'm no "I Love Lucy Superfan," I've always felt a special connection to Seuss and his wild and whimsical words (and illustrations). Whitney has often regaled you with tales of our very popular (and very profane) song we made in college about the good doctor, inspired by his demise, so I don't need to recount that but in other shared birthday news . . .

For the last eighteen years, I've written a Seussian poem celebrating our respective birthdays. I thought this was a normal way to celebrate, but Google does not agree:

Here is my latest:

Me and the Seuss, we share birthday fun--
If the doc were alive, he'd be one-twenty-one!
I'm not quite that old, but D. Boon would be proud--
there's no shame in saying it, so I'll say it loud,
fuck all those youngsters, growing old is no crime--
I'll revel in my age: double nickels on the dime.

For the first time ever, I've collected all the rest of the poems in one place-- and it's a pretty weird ride. Starts as a creative lark, but then I start exploring the nature of time and mortality, and then, for no good reason-- unless perhaps it's just getting old and mellowing out, I become inspirational and optimistic and start looking on the bright side of life.

So here they are, in chronological order:

Today is the day-- I've turned thirty-eight!--
The Doctor and I, we share the same date--
If Seuss were alive, he'd be one-o-two,
And if I were like Horton, then I'd hear a Who!
(Actually, Seuss would be one-o-four,
but that is a fact that I choose to ignore).

I share my birthday with a Cat named Seuss--
who, like all writers, liked his juice
as I like mine, fermented and sweet . . .
especially for a birthday treat--
but this year, instead of getting all pissed
my present is a juicy sebaceous cyst.

This one is very Emily Dickinson:

A Birthday Slant Rhyme

Today is our day:
me, Seuss, and Bon Jovi,
and I am the youngest,
Though I just turned forty.

Today is my birthday, me and the Seuss
I'm now forty-one, and still feeling loose,
but if life is a train, I'm near the caboose.

Today is the day, I turn forty-two--
the meaning of life, but according to who?
and if you know, I'm willing to bet
that you have read all the books in the set--
you know that the dolphins had such simple wishes,
they just wanted to say thanks for the fishes.





If Seuss were alive, he'd be very old,
one hundred and nine years I am told;
I doubt very much that I'll make it that far --
but I have a tattoo of a fish in a car!

At this point, the poems become more existential and grim:

It's here once again, it's hard to ignore,
he's one-hundred and ten, and I'm forty-four.
My beard grows white, my skin grows loose,
the looming specter tightens his noose,
and if you deny him, he'll cook your goose . . .
let me remind you, it happened to Seuss.

The doctor and I are both a year older,
but his celebration is darker and colder.

Seuss was a man who created a cat,
with a number of tricks, and a fancy top hat--
I am the man who created a blog,
but I don't have a cat . . . I prefer my black dog.

Dave and Dr. Seuss Pontificate on the Meaning of Shared Birthdays (in a Universe That May be Experiencing the Nietzschean Eternal Return)

Me and the Seuss, we share the same date:
coincidence . . . or an act of fate?
I tend to lean towards the stochastic
but perhaps our world is finitely elastic,
so we run the same path after every big bang
and the Doctor and I share our groove thang.

The Doctor and me-- we share the same date--
Inevitably, we'll share the same fate.
As alive as he was, all the places he went,
In the end, he found out that his life was but lent.
I AM alive, I have places to go--
But since I'm now fifty, I'll just move kind of slow.
There is a lesson to be learned from the demise of the Seuss:
the best case with the reaper is an uneasy truce.

This one is quite historic, on both ends:

I share my birthday with a cat named Seuss
a man I respect for his creative juice
his rhymes were tight, his mind was loose--
and while the good Doctor liked to imbibe
Prohibition didn't feel his vibe--
I also like the occasional shot,
but on this birthday, alcohol is a NOT--
the shot I partake will go in my arm--
a present from Pfizer that might make me feel warm,
Seuss survived a pandemic: the Spanish flu--
Soon enough I might say: I survived too!

Then, for no good reason, I shake off this philosophical funk . . .

The good doctor and I share the same date of birth--
and for twenty-one years, we roamed planet earth--
our time intersected, we shared the same space,
we breathed the same air, we ran the same race--
but 31 years ago, the good doctor expired
while I continued living, he went and expired--
and I hope in good time, we'll meet once again,
and drink us some beers and eat us some ham.

The day has arrived, the day of my birth--
The day Seuss and I debuted on the Earth;
And while the good doctor has passed from this place,
I'm still hanging on still running the race,
still working the job, still writing the posts,
still chasing the lob, still taunting the ghosts--
I've been knocking around for fifty-three years,
my knees are a wreck, I can barely quaff beers--
but while I can walk, stand and not fall,
I'll remain in the game and play pickleball.

It's here once again, it comes without fail--
for rich and for poor, the next coffin nail . . .
for Bryce Dallas Howard, for the Wu's Method Man,
for me and Bon Jovi-- the occasional is grand:
We are still alive! our lifetime rolls on!
and one year from now we may well be gone . . .
But perhaps these trite rhymes will outlive my frame--


The Good Doctor is dead, yet you still know his name . . .
and the folks he invented, that lived in his books:
Yertle the Turtle, Thing One and Thing Two,
The Grinch and the Lorax and, of course, Cindy Lou Who--
you know all those souls, though they never lived--
you might know them much better than your very own kids!

So here's to creation--to birthdays and rhymes--
to writing it down, before there's no time.

Re-shaping The Discussion

It appears that elfin delivery magnate and newspaper dilettante Jeff Bezos saw fellow billionaire and serial ass-fez Elon Musk’s attempts to trample institutions and antagonize copious numbers of people and thought: Why should he have all the fun? 

Bezos continued his Solitaire Jenga of the Washington Post with a memo to staffers outlining an editorial shift that sent shock waves through the newsroom and beyond. He said the Post’s opinion pages will write every day “in support and defense of two pillars: personal liberties and free markets.” 

On its face, it’s a cheerleader call-to-arms. After all, who’s against personal liberty and free markets? (the Bolsheviks in the audience may want to sit this one out) Read more closely, however, and it’s a vague framework with more questions than answers and a fundamental misread of society and the role of newspapers. It’s the sort of memo written by someone whose wealth insulates them from the day-to-day and who builds a rocket ship for tourist junkets by other rich thrill-seekers. 

Here’s the full Bezos:

I’m writing to let you know about a change coming to our opinion pages. We are going to be writing every day in support and defense of two pillars: personal liberties and free markets. We’ll cover other topics too of course, but viewpoints opposing those pillars will be left to be published by others. There was a time when a newspaper, especially one that was a local monopoly, might have seen it as a service to bring to the reader’s doorstep every morning a broad-based opinion section that sought to cover all views. Today, the internet does that job. I am of America and for America, and proud to be so. Our country did not get here by being typical. And a big part of America’s success has been freedom in the economic realm and everywhere else. Freedom is ethical — it minimizes coercion — and practical — it drives creativity, invention, and prosperity. I offered (Editorial Page Editor) David Shipley, whom I greatly admire, the opportunity to lead this new chapter. I suggested to him that if the answer wasn’t “hell yes,” then it had to be “no.” After careful consideration, David decided to step away. This is a significant shift, it won’t be easy, and it will require 100% commitment — I respect his decision. We’ll be searching for a new Opinion Editor to own this new direction. I’m confident that free markets and personal liberties are right for America. I also believe these viewpoints are underserved in the current market of ideas and news opinion. I’m excited for us together to fill that void.

We live in a time when some have more liberty and are more free than others, the levels of which are often determined by money and race and class structure. In a society that’s increasingly gamed toward the wealthy and with a yawning income inequality gap, free markets ain’t exactly free for everybody. If an exercise of “personal liberty” offends or harms someone or some group, is that fair game or off limits for the Post editorial board? Do “free markets” include polluters and sweatshops where apparel seamstresses and shoemakers provide cheap goods without a squawk about hours and wages? How about corporate subsidies? Since when is free money part of free markets? Does Bezos, who’s made gazillions as Amazon honcho, want this new emphasis on personal liberties and free markets to champion everyone? Unclear, though his track record suggests not. 

Remember that the Federal Trade Commission and 17 state attorneys general sued Amazon in Sept. 2023, alleging monopolist and unfair business practices. The suit said that Amazon stifled if not squashed competition in multiple ways, manipulated prices and overcharged businesses, all while keeping wages criminally low and labeling many employees as gig workers to limit compensation and benefits. In the hands of the ultra-wealthy, phrases such as “personal liberty” and “free markets” are less aspirational and more license that translates to: “I get to do what I want.” For Bezos to justify the editorial shift by flippantly saying that the internet now does the job that newspapers did in the past is both tone-deaf and inaccurate. 

Sure, you can find all the contrarian takes you like on the interwebs. Few of them come with the heft and credibility of one of the nation’s most recognized, if increasingly self-immolating, newspapers. This is what happens when a newspaper becomes a possession rather than a public trust. Newspapers are supposed to speak truth to power – comfort the afflicted, afflict the comfortable, and all that; don’t pair the As and Cs. They have a responsibility to readers and to their communities, and should not be subject to the whims of the owner (your citation of William Randolph Hearst and Rupert Murdoch is so noted). 

You might recall that Bezos torqued off plenty of people inside and outside the Post last fall when he pulled an editorial endorsing Kamala Harris for President. He reasoned that presidential endorsements are outdated, unlikely to sway public opinion and demonstrate bias. In the aftermath of that decision, the paper lost a reported 250,000 digital subscribers. Does Bezos think going all-in on personal liberties and free markets will suddenly motivate Fox News viewers and Wall Street Journal subscribers to flock to the Post? Or will it make up for whatever the fallout is after this announcement? Doubtful. 

The man’s not stupid. The likely conclusion is that he made a calculation and is willing to follow through. He believes that he’s landed on a mission and now has a powerful platform to advocate for it. And he has money to burn, which not only entitles but blinds him. 

The last graf of Bezos’s memo is also a tell. The idea that free markets and personal liberties are “underserved” in the present news and opinion landscape is laughable. Look no further than the current occupant of the Oval Office and his inauguration, where billionaires and CEOs had better seats than Cabinet appointments, if you want a read on the impact of free markets and personal liberties. Look at the popularity of Fox News and the growing reach of Sinclair Broadcasting and its greasy affiliates and the aforementioned Wall Street Journal. Look at the consolidation of media and entertainment companies by corporate interests. 

Newspapers have been snapped up by hedge funds and vulture capitalists, who aren’t exactly going Marx and Engels on the editorial pages. Heck, today’s conservative movement and its mouthpieces have so glorified capitalism and the pursuit of wealth that any mention of government regulation or more equitable taxation is demonized as anti-business and anti-freedom and a bobsled run to communism. No, what Bezos and his ten- and eleven-figure bros want is validation. For them, America’s greatness isn’t as an idea but as a vehicle for extraction. Money isn’t enough. They all have plenty of that anyway. They want to hear that it’s good and right and noble to accumulate and acquire, that they’re the richest and smartest and bestest boys in the whole wide world. A newspaper with national cachet banging the drum every day is a swell addition to the club. Your move, Elon.