Invoke Darwin clause in
Last week in Chicago, Major League Baseball's owners conferred over the merits of contracting franchises that barely register an electro-cardiograph reading.
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Last week in Chicago, Major League Baseball's owners conferred over the merits of contracting franchises that barely register an electro-cardiograph reading.
Like any other sport, college football leaves itself open to scrutiny.
Gentle friends of the weekly monologue, I am here to serve you. You may skim past my byline, and avert your eyes from my hideous mug (that manages to turn my brown eyes green!), but this space is reserved for our collective sports experience.
Uh oh, America. Now you've done it.
Saturday, in the span of roughly 10 hours, a league commonly teased as "Florida State and the other eight" turned into FS-eeww and a band of unheralded and undaunted upstarts.
America is a nation of speed and efficiency, invention and progression, industry and ingenuity. Most of all, it is a nation in motion, forging ahead, foot glued to the clutch beneath an "ain't nobody gonna take my pride, ain't nobody gonna hold me down, oh no ... I've got to keep on movin'" mantra.
If football is synonymous with war, then Happy Valley is college football's ground zero.
I never understood how a bigger house, a faster car or a sleeker suit could cure the emotional distress caused by death. I never believed that a packed pantry could compensate for the unexpected open seat at the dinner table, and I never thought dollars made sense of human tragedy.
If it's dangerous living you seek, then do yourself a favor. Forget those childish, ESPN-concocted X-Sports (you know, all that skysurfing balderdash), and please don't stake your name and fortune to mercurial dot-com ventures.
The summer months are frequently disparaged as sports' dog days, and deservedly so. From mid-June until early August, every mainstream game save baseball decides to hibernate, leaving casual fans and ardent zealots alike with a sporting landscape rivaled in its exhilaration by "Meet the Press" marathons.
T he summer months are frequently disparaged as sports' dog days, and deservedly so. From mid-June until early August, every mainstream game save baseball decides to hibernate, leaving casual fans and ardent zealots alike with a sporting landscape rivaled in its exhilaration by "Meet the Press" marathons.
T he NBA recently disclosed its new motto - the suc- cessor to "I love this game," if you will - a jingle it hopes will bind the ageless legends of decades past to the far-from-aged boy scouts currently inhabiting the hardwood. Thickly veiled behind a sheath of self-deception, the association attempts to placate its own fears and those of the basketball public by assuring us that "it's all good."
The murmur in Charles Barkley's 314-pound gut whispers that Michael Jordan is 95 percent certain a comeback is in the cards (and he's not referring to the blackjack deck that cut a swathe through Jordan's pocketbook and image during the 1993 playoffs).
NFL front-office suits aren't exactly adept soap opera stars. That's why on 363 days out of the year the pigskin pundits let the crew from "Passions" fashion true television drama while the footballers stick to what they know best: busting the living bejeezus out of each other.
Augusta National Golf Club makes few promises.
Last Wednesday, Rick Pitino took another coaching job. That means, by my watch and Pitino's fickle finger, we should give him roughly 17 minutes before he's on the flirt again.
If only Phil and Juanita could have seen their baby boy Saturday afternoon. They would have been so proud.
Students of the staggered screen, pupils of the pick-and-roll: Gather'round.
A long, long time ago, I can still remember..." the days when the midrange jump shot still existed, when the forkball was so en vogue that every toddler was throwing it through a tire in the backyard, when "Who Let the Dogs Out" was only a nightmare we hoped would never consummate and when vinyl 44s of John Fogerty's "Put Me in Coach" still spun at sporting events.
In years gone by, Roger Mason's three-point dagger to seal a precious, if unspectacular, road triumph at Florida State likely would have spawned one of the following bow-tied, beer-swilling Cavalier responses: