Like a lot of change, the movement towards allowing collegiate athletes to monetize their name, image, and likeness (NIL) happened at a glacial pace, right up until it accelerated to plaid.
Haley and Hanna Cavinder have already signed deals with Boost Mobile and Six Star Pro Nutrition
After literally decades of debate and litigation, the Supreme Court ruled ten days ago that the NCAA's rules limiting student-athletes'* educational compensation violated antitrust laws. From that ruling, it was a short sprint to the NCAA throwing the barn doors open and letting college athletes test their earning potential on the free market.
* - Ain't it nice to see that phrase, so redolent of antiquated legal trickeration, going the way of the dodo?
It is far to early to see how college athletes' newfound freedoms will change the competitive landscape. Some argue that the playing field will level, as kids at schools like Memphis and Wichita State - the only games in their towns - will find their limited supply causes their value to be bid up in comparison to other locales. Others think the rich will stay rich, as Alabama's national footprint leads Ford to outbid Chevy for the next Najee Harris's commercial appeal. Still others say that the massive influx of money and interest in a short period of time is a recipe for fraud, hucksterism, and burned collegiate athletes.
Meanwhile, former collegiate stars lamented the timing of their births. J.J. Redick said on Twitter, "From 2004-2006, I would have made a bag 💰 on NIL endorsements. Sadly- I would have blown it all on Natty Light and Lacoste polos (with the collars popped, of course)." Chris Webber said he'd have stayed in college for four years if he was getting paid (legally). Reggie Bush immediately agitated for the restoration of his Heisman. Not bloody likely, that - we've got a whole bunch of drug convictions to overturn, first.
With all that as prelude, let's get to the point. This post isn't a prediction. Rather, I come here with a very much intended consequence.
We're very pro-athlete around here. And we love the underdog, especially if she wears green and gold. I propose to you today, friends, our first sponsorship deal. If the executive committee ratifies it, we're going to offer $250 to the 12th man and woman on William & Mary's men's and women's basketball teams to be the official spokespeople of Gheorghe: The Blog. Additional promotional considerations are also on the table, including guest blogging privileges, free G:TB t-shirts, and naming rights to the next child born to a Gheorghie or his/her family.
Please provide your approval in the comments, as well as any other ideas for compensation for our spokesfolks.
It's sort of Les Coole and The Cukes, in that it's comprised of Les Coole and two high school chums who helped make the Cukes' tune The Coliseum.
We decided we will come up with a different band name for future issuances from this particular trio. Nothing exciting was coming to mind. When a particular track we'd created reminded one of us of Jane's Addiction and another of Grandmaster Flash, we went with Peripheral Flash. The name doesn't matter. The music does.
I've never been scuba diving and I never will because the ocean is a scary place. For example, a commercial lobster fisherman recently found himself inside a whale's mouth. His name is not Jonah but his first mate is Josiah so perhaps it should've been expected.
Also scary: moray eels. Click on that link and feel bad for the reporter who had to write that story. Her LinkedIn profile says she graduated from Brown in 2016 so she's probably delighted to be writing for the Times, and she has sufficient license to come up with witty captions like "When an Eel Climbs a Ramp to Eat Squid From a Clamp, That’s a Moray" and "If the squid is so big, it still eats like a pig, that’s a moray" but the subject matter is nightmare fuel. Apparently moral eels can crawl out of the water and hurl themselves at food which they catch in their mouths, and then their second set of "pharyngeal jaws" shoot forward from the back of their throat to drag the food into their guts.
Reminds me of a Xenomorph.
A glutton for aquatic punishment, the same reporter also wrote about why walruses clap. Apparently it's "a demonstration of strength and fitness to rivals and potential mates." Sort of like the clapping at Robbie's wedding. The walrus at issue, Sivuqaq (that's his name, not a typo), "started clapping as he approached sexual maturity and the behavior was often accompanied with a visible erection." Imagine if this is your job, studying walrus erections? Even worse, imagine paying all that money to go to Brown only to report on walrus erections?
That's not the terrifying part though. "Walruses are able to clap underwater so hard that the water between their flippers vaporizes into a cloud of bubbles, which then collapse onto themselves to produce an extremely loud sound." The sound reached 200 decibels! That's some ferocious clapping. This is a family blog so I won't add a gif like the clapping at Robbie's wedding. Instead, here's Sivuqaq making it clap.
"If splurging on the latter is in the cards, consider an $850 gray-black pair from French haute-house Saint Laurent or a $595 wan blue pair with appliqued skeleton bones running up the side from Japanese label Kapital."
I leave you with two distinct jort-wearing fashionistas:
James Conrad dropped a short putt to win the 2021 Professional Disc Golf World Championship in a playoff over Paul McBeth. The dagger before he, though, came on the last hole of regulation play. Conrad trailed by a stroke (stroke? fling? fuck if I know) before he did this:
— Disc Golf Pro Tour (@DiscGolfProTour) June 27, 2021
Back in the day, when we made a habit of playing frisbee golf around the W&M campus, we didn't know we could do it professionally. That might've changed some things. Out, out, brief candle.
Tom Brown sounds like the name of a guy in the witness protection program, but he's a 79-year-old retired chemical engineer who loves apples. More specifically, he spends his retirement researching and hunting for obscure apple varieties in Appalachia. I know this because I read this article.
So far Mr. Brown found over 1,200 different varieties of apples, some that were thought lost for over 100 years, and he grows them on his orchard, Heritage Apples. Oddball names include Greasy Ball, Bug Horn, Curtis Cheese, Cow's Snout, Smutty, and None Better Seek No Further.
I never knew there were so many different kinds of apples. This is a pretty wholesome way to spend one's retirement.
As the assembled Gheorghiage knows, my family just completed a week-long vacation to the Greater Denver area. I won't bore you with a lot of details, but it was a wonderful trip to a place 3/4 of our team had never been, and I've got some decent photos, so I'll bore you with a few.
The ostensible excuse for the trip was to visit the University of Colorado (which abbreviates as CU, an odd sort of thing), as my rising senior daughter is being dragged kicking and screaming into the college application process. We knocked out the visit on our first full morning in Boulder. It's a beautiful campus with incredible views of the Flatirons (more about which later), and one of the most insanely appointed student rec centers I've ever seen. My daughter actually paid attention and asked questions, which I took as a good sign.
Once we dispensed with the formal portion of our week, we spent the next few days in Boulder taking advantage of the scenery and the outdoor opportunities. We did a six-mile hike on the Boulder Canyon Trail, which parallels Boulder Creek. The creek's snow-cold water serves as a natural air conditioner for much of the hike. We also did a shorter but more challenging hike at Chautauqua Park, where we came around a corner and found ourselves hard up against the base of one of the Flatirons.
These sandstone marvels jut from the land like misplaced shark teeth, and form the backdrop to much of Boulder's visuals. Both kids and I climbed the slab we found, to varying degrees of success. Youth, and everything. My wife mostly just covered her eyes.
All that outdoor activity worked up powerful appetites, and Boulder's food scene obliged. The Pearl Street Mall area is a pedestrian plaza with a bunch of good bars and restaurants. We had great dinners at Leaf (a cool vegetarian spot), Santo (a super-creative Mexican place founded by a Top Chef winner), and Avery Brewing, and filling breakfasts at Walnut Cafe and Snooze.
Checked off a bucket list item by catching a show at Red Rocks. That place is visually and aurally spectacular. We didn't know much about Umphrey's McGee, but they're thoroughly entertaining and a good match for the clouds of weed smoke floating about the amphitheater.
That's one contented dude
We left Boulder after several days for the mountain town of Estes Park. Among other things, the town is known for the Stanley Hotel, the inspiration for the hotel in The Shining. It's also dead gorgeous, 7,500' above sea level and mountains in every direction. Had a brilliant meal at a joint called Bird and Jim, ate some killer Himalayan/Indian at Nepal's, and caught an award-winning singer-songwriter named Justin Faye while chilling in an outdoor beer garden in the town center. We also took the Estes Park Aerial Tramway (rolling on the same cables as when it was opened in 1955) up to 9,000 feet to catch some even better views.
While in Estes Park, kinda on a whim, we booked a half-day whitewater rafting trip on the Cache la Poudre river. I can't believe I waited this long to try that. It's a blast. Can't recommend it enough, though 45-degree water hitting one's skin on an 85-degree day takes some getting used to.
Kicked it in Denver for a night on our way out of town and got dinner with FOGT:B and Mile High native Cricket. We did a little fighting, normal in such close quarters for a week, but on balance, it was a lovely week together. I don't think my daughter will wind up at CU, but I sure wouldn't mind visiting her if she does. And I'm feeling a little bit jealous of my man TR.
From time to time I break various Gheorghian's balls about their kids' driving. I might shoot Juan Carlos a text when I see his daughter's car beached on the curb in front of his house, or when she almost causes an accident a block from home. I might shoot rob a text questioning the plausibility of his daughter's story that she hit one pothole with both front tires. They both, along with others, come to me when their kids ask for some specific car and I usually give advice that the kids don't like. All this is to say that many of your children hate me.
I will make minor amends with this post.
I learned to drive in two of the worst possible contraptions for student drivers. One car was a 1986 Nissan Sentra that had zero options other than a rear defroster. No radio, no AC, nothing. Vinyl seats, roll-down windows. No power assist for the brakes or the steering. Five on the floor. You might ask why we had this thing, and the reason is a mix of stupidity and poverty. My mother refuses still to this day to buy used cars (her rationale being "Why would you want to buy someone else's problem?" because she assumes everyone buys cars and drives them until the wheels fall off and only trades them in if they're a lemon and also refuses to listen to my explanation of the economics of off-lease cars). She also refuses to buy into the concept of leverage (she was appalled when I financed zwoman's VW for 60 months at 0% interest no matter how much I explained that 0% interest means I pay no interest and instead put those dollars to work in my savings and brokerage accounts for five years). Taken together with her and my stepfather's general lack of professional success, the only new car they could afford without taking a loan was a stripped down Sentra. It looked like this but in white.
Because there was no power assist on the steering, you really had to saw away at the wheel to maneuvre the little shitbox around a corner. Parallel parking was hazing--not only did I have to deal with the heavy steering, I had to feather the clutch to creep backwards into the spot without stalling. My mom would take me to a parking lot and set up two garbage cans to practice parking around (parallel parking is part of the driving test in NJ). This meant that we had to wrestle two garbage cans into the back seat (the trunk was too small and she was too stupid to use a bungee cord to hold it closed) and drive around with the front seats all the way forward until we got to the empty parking lot. Then she would yell at me if I hit a garbage can while practicing because I would dent the can ("My garbage can!!"), so then I had to practice metallurgy and push the dent back out.
The brakes were a study in non-linear response. The stopping power varied depending on how deeply you pressed on them so it was hard to stop smoothly. My mother, of course, berated my herky-jerky stops and warned me that this would damage the car (TR and Juan Carlos recognize my mother's irrationality and are slowly nodding along as they read this). So I learned to dip in hard to make it stop, and then feather my way off them to avoid making the car bob back and forth. Just like the end of this Nissan ad, only not as cool.
The other car was also a shitbox, but completely different in character. My father had a 1987 Nissan Van. That's all they called it. Van. It was one of those blocky Japanese minivans everyone adored in the 80s. It was silver but this is enough to give you the gist of the thing.
It had AC and an automatic transmission and power windows, locks, steering and brakes. But it was a terrible contraption to learn in. The driver sits directly on top of the front wheel, so you have to take turns like you're driving a school bus, not a car. In any normal car you turn the steering wheel before your body actually gets to the turn, because the wheels are out in front of you. But in this monstrosity you have to drive out to where you want to turn, then crank the wheel. At least it had power steering. I had no idea where it ended so we never tried parallel parking.
The power brakes could not have been more different from my mother's car. If you dipped in hard (like I had to do on my mother's Sentra) the car would stop short, causing my father to spill his omnipresent caffeine-free diet Pepsi and then berate me. His driveway was gravel, and if you've ever lived with a gravel driveway you know that stopping a car in gravel creates a little pile of gravel in front of the wheels, acting as a chock to help stop the car much more quickly than it normally does on pavement. So if you have to routinely stop a 1987 Nissan Van in a downward sloping gravel driveway while my father drinks caffeine-free diet Pepsi, you learn how to feather the brakes veeeery carefully.
Another charming feature of the 1987 Nissan Van is that the brake pedal is stupidly close to the steering column. This will be important later. Here's a bad photo but you can kind of see the proximity.
So I'm 16 years old and I have my learner's permit (you have to be 17 to get a license in NJ). I've been practicing with my parents regularly, learning to drive two completely different vehicles as best I can. I only see my father on Saturdays so the Van is less familiar to me than the Sentra but I'm very familiar with my father's temper and general disdain for all things relating to me so I try hard to remember how to operate the Van.
It's a clear sunny day and we're out for a drive in the Van in Tappan, NY. At some point I failed to turn where my father wanted me to go but he's cool about it. He points to a driveway and tells me to make a 3-point turn there, then head back to where he wanted to go.
Now, I'm being charitable when I call this thing a driveway. Tappan is an ancient place with narrow roads, narrow houses, and narrow driveways. It really was a paved path that some farmer put there 200 years ago so he could lead his goats from the barn to the street. It was 6.9 feet across at best. The mouth of the goat path was shrouded on one side by bushy weeds. I immediately recognized the high degree of difficulty with his ask.
We're going about 25 MPH so I need so slow down but I'm also worried I'm going to spill his Pepsi. I'm also worried about putting the Van in such a narrow slot of tarmac. I lift off the gas and move my foot over to the brake, but I bang into the steering column. At the same time my father yells "Jesus Christ, turn in here I said!"
So I turn. But it's too soon because it's the Van, not the Sentra, and we weren't on top of the turn yet. We bounce over the curb and through the shroud of bushy weeds into the goat path. My foot is still firmly against the steering column and there is Pepsi all over the place. My father is yelling "Fuuuuuuuck!" I slide my foot down the steering column onto the brake but I don't slam it down because this isn't the Sentra and if I slam it down I'll put the old man through the windshield. The goat path is not gravel though, so there is no little gravel pile to form a chock to help stop the Van. Instead, I rely on the house adjacent to the goat path to stop the Van. I hit the house.
"You hit a house!" bellows my father. Over and over. Sometimes he peppers that exclamation with "fucking" or "goddam." I realize there's no way he will agree but I sheepishly ask "Can we keep this between us?" and he retorts "Are you fucking kidding me?!? Back out of here before the guy whose house you hit comes out and gets our license plate number!"
So I put it in reverse and tear out of the goat path, through the shroud of bushy weeds and back onto the narrow street. I did not hit anything and I got the car pointed back from whence we came. I mention this to my father ("I made the 3-point turn at least") but he is not impressed. We turn down another street and survey the damage. There's a scuff on the front bumper but no major damage.
As soon as we get back to his house he regales his wife with this story, and she puts it in her memory bank of reasons why he abhors her stepson. My father lives to humiliate me, and he feasts on this story for years. As far as I know he's still telling it to people.
So if I'm the reason why you don't have a Jeep Grand Cherokee, or a vintage VW Golf, or your father suspects that you plowed over a median trying to make an illegal left turn at excessive speed as opposed to hitting a pothole, think back on this story of the time I hit a house in a Nissan Van and laugh at me as my father has done for decades.
Sometimes my work-related google alerts serve up gems, such as this:
Bygone Muncie: History of local mass transit, from the 'Donkey Railroad' to MITS buses
To alleviate the growing distances for workers, the city chartered the Muncie City Railway Company in 1887 to build a trolley system. Two years later, MCRC built a few lines connecting nearby suburbs to downtown Muncie. This first system was pejoratively called a Donkey Railroad, so named because the trolleys were powered by inefficient and very loud "donkey" steam engines. Munsonians were quick to reject it. The Muncie Daily News even joked in 1890 that when the steam streetcar made its way up the tracks, “people fled in all directions. Many of our oldest citizens thought the courthouse was coming up the street on wheels.”
I often text Mark about sneakers. I think he often buys the sneakers I text him. As a result, I'm pretty sure his wife is sick of me. So it goes.
Starting today, Roger Federer is auctioning off a collection of clothing and racquets he used in various major tournaments, the Olympics, and Davis Cup play. All proceeds go to the Roger Federer Foundation. The crown jewel of the auction are these Air Zoom Vapor/Air Jordan III mashups from the 2014 US Open.
They are, as the kids say, hot fire. Seven years ago Mark commented on them, saying "Z- you see the new Federer/ Jordan 3 mashups? Whoooo."
The estimate is £40,000 to £60,000. That's about $56,000 to $84,000. Mark's wife hates me right now.
Luckily, there are other similar, cheaper options to bid on. These are estimated at £30,000 to £50,000. As are these.
But look, no sane human being spends that kind of money on used shoes. Mark has dogs and kids and a house to pay for. Much more problematic are these Air Zoom Vapor/Air Max 95 mashups:
They're new, autographed, and come in a fresh box. Crispy. As. Fuck. The £3,000 to £5,000 estimate is still a lot of quid, but not enough to bankrupt the college fund. Mark's wife really hates me right now. But it's for a good cause!
(TR makes another clumsy stab at channeling Rob Lasso's coaching anecdotes. TR is the handsome guy in the grey shirt in the poorly shot photo above.)
It is a bittersweet summer for TR in Chatham, NJ. The weather is perfect, my life is filled with youth baseball, and I have a crowded social calendar. These are good things! Yet at the same time, I am packing my life up, saying goodbye to friends and neighbors, and getting ready to move 1,800 miles away after spending 10+ years in my town.
I head-coach my younger boy's U11 travel baseball team. I coached him four of the last five years. This year has been special for a couple reasons. The first is that our club is strong. Really strong. We are a true B team, but it's a deep age group in our town. We went head to head with our strong A team in a scrimmage and held our own. We went 8-1 in our spring season and won our league title, earning some gold. We thumped our rival in the finals. We grinded out six runs against their ace over five innings before blowing things open in the top of the 6th, scoring 10 to win 16-2. In all competitions and scrimmages, we are 14-3 (through 6/13).
I could see the team improving, so I entered us into the district travel tournament, known as Ripken. This is where (mostly) strong A teams battle it out. Part of my rationale was hearing of the success of other strong B teams from my town, including one that the son of Juan Carlos played on. My goal was to get good competition so the boys could measure themselves. One win in the four pool play games would be a success, a 2-2 performance would be great, and making the playoffs would be a home run. My boys loved being a part of this, just like the "A team" kids (many of whom are worse than my top players). Getting the Ripken t-shirt and wearing a jersey with the Ripken patch on it was almost a prize in itself.
I felt good about my team's bats and our top pitchers, but I wondered how we would do. The tournament started last Wednesday. After falling behind 6-2 early and giving up a bomb of a HR to a kid my size, we clawed out a 9-8 win. Our athletic catcher retrieved a wild pitch and ran back to tag a runner trying to score to end the game. High drama. And we did it with our second and third best pitchers. Our ace was still resting after pitching five no-hit innings for the spring title.
We had our second Ripken game last Thursday night. Our kids did not play great D, but our starting pitcher (our fourth best) battled. And our bats were on fire, as they usually are. We cruised to a 16-6 mercy rule, 4-inning win. My kid had another nice lovable a-hole moment. He was playing 3B and ran to catch a foul pop. He was right in front of the opposition dugout. They screamed "DROP IT! over and over again. I never let my kids do that. He caught it, he told them to shut up from five feet away, and then he trotted in to our dugout (it was the 3rd out). I love that kid. He's gonna get punched in the face soon.
But I'd like to talk about the second reason this year is special. And that is because it is the Holy Grail of good vibes on the team. No negative energy kids. No parents reminding me ten times that their kids are great pitchers. Just kids and coaches having fun.
During games, my wife and the other parents get their load on. I mean, they REALLY get after it. I basically watch a fun party with 20-25 people that I can never attend. Two dads bring a grill each game and get hot dogs and sliders going for the kids once the game ends. One was a First Team PAC-10 safety in the late 80's from Arizona who is now a football coach. Great guy. He knows how to tailgate.
I will miss this bunch. And I will missing coaching my kids. I am ready to step aside after I move. But for now, I will focus on our Ripken success. We are 2-0. One win in either of our next two games gets us into the playoffs. And we still have a summer travel title win (we are 1-0 there after a 14-3 win). Stay tuned.
The most difficult class I took in college was, without hesitation, General Entomology with Dr. Fashing. Yes, one should expect a 400 level biology class to be hard, but I figured it's a class about bugs, how hard could it be? I majored in biology so I was used to getting my lazy ass kicked, and friend of numerous GTBers Bekkah took Insects and Society with Dr. Fashing and raved about him and how low-stress the class was. Insects and Society is a 100 level course designed for Art History majors to fulfill their Area I requirements so in hindsight this wasn't the best recommendation to follow.
Dr. Fashing is a very nice guy and he's passionate about the subject matter, but the class was insane. The lab component was 1/4 of the grade and it was entirely taxonomy. He would start every lab with a quiz which involved him throwing 10-15 dead bugs on a table and he would ask you "What Order is this one? What Family is this one?" and I would write down "bug" or "cricket" or "butterfly" which was never the right answer. The lab required a project: go out and collect (i.e., catch and kill) forty different Families of insect. Not a mom and dad and sibling group of bugs, but a taxonomic Family. That's really fucking hard. Why you ask? Well, they all look the same so you can spend three hours out in the field collecting fifty insects but when you get back to the lab and key them out you'll find you only have four different Families. It was awful.
And it was bad socially. I rare knew anyone in any of my biology classes, usually it was everyone's favorite ER doctor but he wouldn't take bugs with me. Luckily Langdon from Sig was in there too so we would forage for bugs together. Everyone was assigned a butterfly net and a killjar (a mason jar with some substance mothball-like glued to the bottom that smothers the bugs) so I would wait for Langdon on the back porch, then we would meet up and go to the woods or a field or whatever. On one such occasion, erstwhile GTB contributor Dennis's girlfriend came flouncing by in a nightie with four or five of her similarly-attired fellow sorority pledges--they were off to perform some task which apparently called for "sleazy and demure."
Ever the gentleman, I said "Hello" and she replied, as sarcastically and sing-song as possible "Hey butterfly boy!" and all her trampy little friends giggled and tittered. It's my experience at W&M in a nutshell.
We had to save all the dead bugs we collected and mount them on pins in a box and turn them in at the end of the year. I didn't get to forty, all I ever had was a bunch of flies that mimicked other bugs to avoid being eaten--apparently this is their jam. The rugby girl with the leg brace took pity on me at the end and gave me a weevil and some evil looking creature I don't remember the name of and that got me to maybe thirty-eight, which is more than half-way to sixty-nine but not enough to get full credit for the lab.
It was also bad for rootsy because my box of dead bugs attracted live bugs--ants swarmed my collection which I kept on top of my wardrobe which was next to his face on the top of our cave. So he awoke to a facefull of ants. I, of course, was panicked--not for rooty's health but for the integrity of my box of bugs. No one had bug spray so I stole spray starch from one of the ROTC guys and surprisingly that did the trick. Between what the ants ate and the starch destroyed, I lost a few precious bugs for my project.
As you can see in the link to his bio above, Dr. Fashing's research centers primarily on mites which are arachnids, not insects. We were only allowed one arachnid for the collection so everyone had one spider. But we would've gotten credit for a tick, which is also an arachnid. And also gross. Here is without hesitation the most entertaining video I've ever seen about ticks. You should watch it because it's tick season and you need to know what you're in for if you go out in the woods. My friend got Lyme disease and now she's out from work on disability so it's serious business. You should watch even if you have no plans to go outside this summer. If not for yourself, watch it for Dr. Fashing, all his miserable bug-collecting students, and their ant-swarmed roommates.
And if you don't like that deer tick video, check out this Deer Tick video.
Since y'all apparently can't be trusted to keep this train on the tracks while I go away for a few days, here's a little something to tide you over.
The last time I saw live music, I was with a murder of Gheorghies and friends at Tally Ho Theater in Leesburg, VA watching Carbon Leaf. Here's a sampling:
The next time I see live music, it'll be at one of America's legendary venues. Sunday evening, the whole fam is heading to Red Rocks Amphitheatre to see Umphrey's McGee. I don't know much about the band, but it's a) live music, and b) fucking Red Rocks. Here's a taste of what we're gonna hear and see (smell and touch, too - let's get all the senses in the game):
I suppose it's possible to celebrate every day for its place in history. Like the proverbial million monkeys banging away on a million typewriters, there have been enough days in enough places in our shared history for each one to be important. But today, as you'll see, is pretty damn important, historically.
For example, in 763 BC, an eclipse in Assyria served as the fixed date upon which Mesopotamian history was told, which obviously led to this:
And in 1215, King John signed the Magna Carta. Pretty fucking important, that.
In 1775, George Washington was appointed commander-in-chief of the Continental Army. I think we'd all agree that Big G played an important role in our history.
Phoebe Couzins became the first female graduate of an American law school on this date in 1871, and six years later, Henry Ossian Flipper became the first African-American graduate of West Point.
France surrendered to Nazi Germany in 1940. That was kind of a bummer.
UEFA was founded in Basel in 1954. Jury's still out on that one, though I'm enjoying their little tournament at the moment.
Bob Dylan recorded "Like a Rolling Stone" on June 15, 1965.
And on this day in 1968, "Yummy Yummy Yummy" by Ohio Express hits number four on the U.S. charts. I assume it was played at my parents' wedding on the same day.
Update: My Mom posted this one on her Facebook feed. Look at these kids!
“I think if you care about someone and you got a little love in your heart, there ain’t nothin you can’t get through together.” -- Ted Lasso
It was precisely because I've come to care for these kids that I was so righteously pissed off during the second half of our district semifinal.
Things started on a light note. I came across the picture below while scrolling through some of my photo library. The kid in the middle is my youngest. The two girls on the outside played against us this season. And the girl second from left is Breezy.
I showed it to her during our pregame warmups, and she shrieked with laughter, which got the attention of the other girls, who enjoyed it tremendously. Sid gave me balloons for my birthday. So we were loose.
We knew we had to defend well, and get a little lucky. And 90 seconds in, we defended poorly, but Ellie made a pair of terrific saves. I felt like the lucky part was going our way.
Not to be. A minute later, the opponent chipped a pretty diagonal ball over our back line and their sublime freshman striker hammered one. All Ellie could do was parry it right into the run of one of their players, who tapped it home, and the rout was on.
We were down 6-0 at halftime, and it could've been worse. Ellie legitimately recorded 10 saves, and she came off her line another half dozen times to blunt breakaways. They were great, we were at sixes and sevens.
Not much to say at the half, other than play for each other and keep fighting. That worked for about another minute. They scored twice in the first five minutes of the half to go up 8-0.
In Virginia high school soccer, if a team is up eight or more at the halfway point of the second half, the game is stopped. Mercy rule. Which meant we had 15 more minutes to go.
So we subbed in our backup keeper and seven or eight other girls who hadn't played much. Our opposing coach chose that moment to make a substitution as well. He brought his terrific freshman striker back into the game.
Hence my fury.
I'm a pretty positive coach. When a kid does something wrong, I point out what she did well before I correct her. I give praise to opposing players when they do something well. I may occasionally offer commentary to the referees about my opinions regarding their interpretation of the rules. But I don't get mad.
I got mad at the opposing coach, and I'm not proud of it. I wasn't profane, so there's at least that. But I lost my cool a bit and I don't love the idea that our kids heard it. I kinda like the idea that they knew I had their backs.
The opponent scored twice more before the mercy rule was invoked. They had two starters in the game at the end. We played all 25 kids we had dressed. Unconscionably bad sportsmanship.
As Dutch was subbed out for the final time in her high school career, she collapsed in tears. Hard to watch a fighter and a leader like her get so emotional, but I get it. Natasha was unabashed in unleashing a stream of f-bombs upon her removal. Didn't hate it.
In our post-game huddle, which was understandably somber, I told the team they wouldn't remember this game in 10 years, but they'd remember the way they all came together as a team in a strange time.
And I do believe that.
I'm still kinda pissed, to be honest. But it won't take me 10 years to remember the great experience I had in my first professional coaching gig. Hoping the AD extends my contract. Keep your eyes on the transaction wire.
More Les Coole and the Cukes tunes! Welp, the latest single is out. And while I'd love to have a cue-in like the DJ at the 4-minute mark here:
I'll settle for my own "here ya go"... "Quitters"
What else is new out there among the gheorgherati?
FOGTB Lecky has an excellent new EP out called Pleasant Kingdom. It's an ear-opener. The guy who brought you this gem two years ago:
...now brings you this!
...and this:
School's nearly out, so expect some tunes from Dave/Almighty Yojo. His new EP The Shed should come out this summer. And then Live in the Shed, followed by Living in the Shed.
I've seen Rootsy's studio. It needs some action, dude.
Also, Marls Sings Bing should hit record shelves by 2022.
Alright, maybe not like that. But most of you guys are relatively simple too. We're simple men.
Chances are you already have all the stuff you think you need, and most of the stuff you want. With that in mind, here are a few simple Father's Day gift ideas to request this year.
A beef jerky subscription from Craft Jerky Co. Options include keto-friendly for TR, booze-infused for Whitney, hot & spicy (like "hot hot caliente") for Dave, gluten free for Marls, and paleo for rob (because he's old).
Some new sneakers. Like these Nike Killshots for about $69 or these Nike Blazers for about $52.
A slimmed down wallet. Like this for $40. I made the move from billfold to card holder a few years ago and it's liberating. You don't need to carry every membership card, collect-10-punches-get-a-free-sandwich card, car wash coupon, or receipt you've ever been handed. All you need is some cash, your license, ATM card, a credit card, health insurance cards, and maybe a subway/rail pass. The rest is all bullshit.
A Spotify subscription. Then you can make contributions to Notify.
An OXO computer cleaner. You probably spent the past 15-16 months working and living at your desk so your keyboard is full of dust and crumbs and your monitor is covered in sneeze stains and fingerprints. This $10 widget makes all that go away really easily.
A duffel garment bag. Like this one for $95 or this big one for $275. This is so smart I wish I came up with it. It's a garment bag with three flaps that fold up to form a duffel bag on one side of the garment bag, so when you have a one-day trip that requires a blazer or suit you can pack it in your carry-on. Or you could just be like me and wad your suit into a ball, stuff it in the rollaboard and hope for the best.
A mountain glass from North Drinkware. These guys hand-make pint glasses and tumblers with 3D reproductions of famous mountains rising from the bottom. I can't fully explain it, you have to click on the link. They have nifty topographical map coasters too. And I went to high school with one of the company founders.
Now when your wife or kids ask what you want for Father's Day you don't have to lamely say "I don't know" or "Just spending the day with you is all the gift I need."
My old nextdoor neighbor John is 65 years old. He's a CPA who likes to drink cheap beer and very good wine.
In 2016, we orchestrated a nice dinner for his 60th birthday, during which he poured me not one but two successive glasses from of a nice bottle he opened from his collection. Château Lafite Rothschild, something he showed me was then valued at over $1,000 a bottle. Something like this. I'm so not worth it, and I was sure my unrefined palate wouldn't appreciate it. I was fairly wrong... it was amazing.
John's got a fairly squat frame, he's short with a large belly. He is an avid bicyclist, so he's in decent physical condition. He also scales mountains. He's been to the highest point of elevation in 47 of the Great 48 U.S. States. He tried to reach the apex of Granite Peak in Montana twice, but weather and other factors nixed it.
Still... you wouldn't know it to look at him. I mean, based on my description of his physique you can probably pick him out of this photo.
So that photo was taken today in Moshi, Tanzania. John and his band of intrepid adventurers are beginning their ascent of Mount Kilimanjaro and its 19,340 feet as we speak.
I'm impressed as hell. And frankly, a little worried. Only 10 people a year die on Kilimanjaro. Rooting for him not to be one. And that he makes it to the peak.
Here's hoping it doesn't go like this:
Of course, his good buddy texted me that he's "taking the under on FanDuel -- he doesn't make it... for whatever reason." Ah, good friends.
Anyway, here's to the guts it takes to do such silly things. Fingers crossed and Godspeed, Johnny Boy.
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