DATELINE: Where is he?
Lost in Art?
Lost in Art?
DATELINE: Brady Boys Up a Tree
New England’s Patriots have done the near impossible: they have kicked themselves in the keester after a cramp nearly decapitated them of a head below the belt.
Bill Belichick has reached a stage of joking.
This week he thought about recalling Wes Welker out of retirement to be his emergency kicker. You know this idea did not emanate from Tom Brady—or it would have been seriously dead on arrival.
Welker is now coaching Jimmy G in San Fran where the Pats’ true heart is in little cable cars, halfway to the stars.
Brady himself pulled his foot out of the kicker sweepstakes by claiming his boot is in Denver. It may be where he ends up playing for the next five years.
With appendectomy, halitosis, and assorted ills, every kicker in the Patriot backfield has found himself unable to lift his leg to do more than pretend to be a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall for the holiday show.
Can a team go to the Super Bowl without a man with the kick-ass power to kick ass?
Julian Edelman may want to consider his role as slot receiver unfulfilled when word filters out that slot receiver and former Brady favorite Welker holds a record of sorts for kicking while catching.
So Julie may need to catch Welker while he can.
Practice makes perfect, but a full-blown rehearsal may be needed.
Can it be the Patriots are ready to lose every game for the remainder of the season? Can it be they will be out of the playoffs sooner than later?
Kick the Patriots in the scorecard and maybe they will wake up with their boots on.
DATELINE: End of an Era?
Football fans of the New England Patriots have asked what’s going on! Is it the zombie apocalypse? We have bad news beyond two feet of snow burying us.
After seeing Zachary Quinto discuss the fall of civilization and the end of empires on In Search of, has it come to the Patriots like the Rapa Nui and Mayans?
We can only add two cents, after ten books of blogs on the Patriots. No, it is not the apocalypse. It is more like the inevitable enemy of mankind: a bad case of the flu.
No expert dared to cite that nearly half of the team came down with the flu this week. The miracles of IV drips and antibiotics, and the prodding of Captain Bligh Belichick, made no man look at illness as an excuse.
There were two planes: one for the lepers who needed to avoid being cast out and cast off at 37,000 feet without a parachute. We can only imagine the Belichick cure-all.
We now have a view of the bleak future: based on the fact that on top of the plague, the Patriots have sent every decent receiver reeling out of Foxboro in a uniform of tar and feathers, with better contracts elsewhere.
Tom Brady is adrift and out to sea like the victim of an iceberg hitting the unsinkable Patriots. There was no room in the lifeboat for such a thing as Tom’s receiving corps.
Like the band on Titanic, the team played on while sinking with the franchise.
Can the Patriots recover? Not this year, and maybe not for another decade. This loss will hasten Tom’s departure to another team next year: one that will give him joy of playing for the few years he has left in this world of football.
As for the Patriots, the zombie apocalypse may be settling in at Foxboro. Remember the good old days when the Pats stunk up a storm? NO? Well, history is about to show you what it was like back before six Super Bowls, Brady & Belichick. Return with us now for the Keystone Kops aka Patriots.
It happened to the New York Yankees of the 1950s & 1960s, and now it is the Patriot turn of events.
DATELINE: APB FOR A&B (NOT ANTONIO)
Brady mask, life-size!
Tom Brady just lambasted the media for making up stories about his desire to leave New England. It’s just “hype,” according to TB12. It’s a bunch of horse pucky from people trying to make money off the Brady name and legacy.
You mean people like Robert Kraft? The NFL? ESPN? CBS? MNF? TNF? SNF? You mean corporate types like Under Armor?
Yes, we would concur that all of the above named are trying to make money off the TB12 brand—not to mention his trainer, his real estate agent, and sundry souvenir marketing gnomes.
It was the second assault and battery on the media by TB12 in a weak moment. Maybe his patience is wearing thin, but we aren’t sure why.
Deflategate never bugged him like rumors of leaving Bean-town half-baked if you want a dozen Super Bowl parades.
As for making money off Tom, we wish we could hook up to that choo-choo train, but the milk train doesn’t stop here anymore. Flora Tom Goforth is about to go forth. Just call us the Witch of Capri. Our name has once again been crossed off the guest list.
Of course, Tom—the man who hides the truth under a thickening layer of Botox—never directly responded to the notions counter item that he is selling his home and his contract is up after the season.
He did not give an answer that re-assured, like he wants to play in New England until the end of the line, or that he even hopesto be back in the area next year.
That hope was hung out to dry with his TV appearance that mocked his owner, beloved Kraft of massage fame. As Tom complained testily, you dastardly media are reading metaphors into fiction where similes will do.
Oh, Tom, you coy boy.
DATELINE: Better to Receive than Deceive
If you listen to the experts in Boston sports, apart from us, you have learned this week that Tom Brady is greasing the skids to slide out of town at season’s end.
Tom knows which way the wind blows: and it is blowing westward toward the San Andreas fault, where Tom can shake the earth on his own terms.
We must agree with the details that Tom Brady is done in Boston, though the bigger picture may be smaller.
It seems that Tom has two reasons to leave: and they are Bill Belichick and Robert Kraft, both of whom have left him stranded without a receiving corps in an annual denuding of first-rate players. Whenever Tom finds someone to his liking, that player is sent packing for reasons usually salary-related.
And Tom remains among the lowest paid superstars at QB position. Taking a hit for the team has grown tiresome for Tom.
It may be that Tom wants to prove, finally, in his golden years, that it is he, not Belichick, who won six Super Bowls. If New England wants a seventh, he may provide it on the way out. The door may slam on someone’s ass—but it won’t be Tom. Bill Belichick will stay on. Perhaps Josh McDaniel, beloved Babe, will follow out west.
Tom can win two or three more Super Bowls playing for the Raiders in his hometown. Fifty may be the new retirement goal.
Then again, Tommy—and Belichick too—want to show they never needed the other to win the next SB. Unfortunately, they both do need each other—and only will a final separation prove it to them and to the world. Belichick will hold on until his son can become the new King of the Patriots coaching corps.
For New England fans it will be too late and a bitter pill. Tom doesn’t love you anymore.
In the meantime, Tom snipes at the Boston press—whom he has grown to dislike more than ever—and he and his best friend-trainer, the Svengali of TB12 methodology—have put their Massachusetts homes up for sale in prep for the next season in Oakland.
Yes, you can go home, Tom. And Boston was never home, even after 20 years of suffering through fame and fortune, bad weather and a hundred-fold of receivers.
DATELINE: Uncle Tom’s Cabin and White Rice
Racist Tom at Kentucky Derby
If being an old codger in the NFL isn’t enough to create mockery, now a humbug New England sex professor is accusing Brady of the canard of a can of worms: the racist card canard.
Every time we try to extricate our reputation of being a Tom Brady critic, the forces of New England sports pull us back into the maelstrom.
Our latest laugh riot opinion centers on a University of Rhode Island Gender Studies professor who has written that Brady’s appeal is to white nationalist-types and typos.
If you know academia, like we do as a former don of the academic mob, you know this sort of “professor” has used gender politics as his bread and butter with jam topping.
Brady, guilty of deflating footballs and playing when he should be in a rocking chair, has now incurred the wrath of some transplant transgender New Englander who hates sports and loves gender misidentification. This sensation-seeking pariah now has taken aim at Brady’s Trump-loving demeanor.
It seems back in 2015, Uncle Tom expressed support for Trump and kept a MAGA hat in plain view that incensed Chicagoans like Jussie Smollett.
Now Brady is accused of fostering racism on his Kentucky Derby trips with many friends (nearly all of whom are, uh-oh, white in a sport that has 66% black players). As a crypto-Nazi sort, Tom-boy is always kissing owner Robert Kraft (who is Jewish) and Julian Edelman (who is lesser Jewish).
You may want to overlook that Brady recently invited black icon Antonio Brown to live in his home where his young daughter and model wife also reside. We have to complain that this is surely a coverup of his racism, unless you want tenure at URI.
Prof. Kyle Kusz sounds like a mixed bag of a political windbag variety.
Throwing a log onto the racist Brady theory encourages racist supporters’ fire-down-below is a low-blow even for an academic in New England unless he already has tenure and loves death threats.
DATELINE: Sex Charged and Sex Charges
Move over, Stable Genius!
Just how dumb is Antonio Brown? Let’s count the ways.
We have read that he is returning to college classes (online, of course)—and we wish him well in learning because this guy is dumb as a rock.
When you bite the hand that feeds you, it could be considered stupid.
When Brown attacks owner Robert Kraft, ridiculing in a tweet about Kraft’s still-pending misdemeanor investigation and prosecution, we have to figure this guy knows nothing about the law.
You cannot equate consensual sex with a prostitute (if it happened) with violent sex (rape) with a non-consensual victim—and you certainly cannot equate compounding the crime with threats of violence against another woman accuser, or the media messenger. Brown would shoot the messenger.
Brown cites the rape charges or allegations against Big Ben of the Steelers and dull Sharpe (formerly of the Broncos & NBC), for whom nothing was even proven in nearly a decade.
Brown’s case is as fresh as today’s garbage out in the smelly rubbish bin. Yes, he stinketh.
The Patriots may now recoil at paying $9million to Brown as a signing bonus because he withheld damaging information—and created new problems even while in the New England uniform. He played one game and practiced for nearly two weeks. For that he earned more than most people earn in a year or two (over $150,000).
He wants millions he claims he is owed.
If Kraft refuses to sign a check and uses his vast legal counsellor network to fight this for years to come, Brown may receive the money as part of his Social Security income. That’s a wait of about 30 years.
We suspect he will never make it that far. People like Brown never go the distance and come to unpleasant ends, blown up metaphorically in the ultimate act of self-destruction. It happens to terrorists, and it happens to idiots.
DATELINE: Bounty Hunters Come Cheap in DR
Bargain Basement Killers!
The price on David Ortiz’s head was reportedly only $6000 to be divided up by a dozen conspirator killers. Then, the number went up: no, not the bounty, but the number of plotters splitting the ante. The latest count from the Dominican Republic is there are ten co-conspirators. It’s almost like a county fair of killers. A few are still at large.
We are on our way to a baker’s dozen.
Maybe your money goes a lot farther in the Dominican Republic economy. If that cheap lifestyle is driving Americans to move to that crime-ridden country, they are living a cheapskate rich lifestyle.
We thought that assassination of Julius Caesar was a shoddy affair, but 2000 years later the attack on Ortiz is even more carnival-like. Instead of a forum, or even Fenway Park, Ortiz was shot in the back, a la Jesse James, in an outdoor bistro atmosphere.
No motive has been given for the crime. We cringe at the speculation. And none of it enhances Ortiz’s reputation as a moral paragon.
Friends now say that Ortiz counted on the general public to protect him from dangerous gang members or gangsters.
The best laid plans belong to mice, not men. No one could stop the bullet with Big Papi’s name on it.
If you think witness identification is a deterrent to crime, you have only to see killers blithely walk up to the large Ortiz and put the gun at gall bladder height. They did not care who saw them, or if they would be known.
What we have here is the polar opposite of the Aaron Hernandez case.
The motorcycle get-away driver was inept too. He skidded into the crowd, giving a mob the courage to beat him up. He professes to be a Big Papi fan.
Heavens, imagine what might have happened if the motorcycle driver had been a Yankee fan.
We come back to the low-ball price on Ortiz’s head. This was not the work of a head-hunter, but of a world where life is not only cheap, but it is on sale to anyone with a credit card limit under $8000. The killers planned to share the amount at a payoff of $1000 each, but as the number goes up, the slice of the pie drops to crumbs for a murder.
DATELINE: Horsey Set?
Mr. Ed for President!
In the United States of America, there is only one horse who can talk—and Mr. Ed likely has plenty to add to the recent spectacle of horse flesh known as the Kentucky Derby.
This annual bettor event is used by swells for preening and promenading all for the better. Tom Brady was there with a plethora of former backup quarterbacks and some of his other sycophantic friends. It was a Trump supporters’ extravaganza.
However, Maximum Security stole the show and may be now in lock-down if not in harness in his solitary stall. He was disqualified for cheating.
We suspect the horse sense only applied to his jockey, but the action of judges to take the one-third of the Crown away from the pretender to the Derby has left big bettors throwing their hats in the ring for a fifteen-round fight.
Imagine a horse cheating in 21st century American sport known for gambling, and he did not even take a steroid.
Now the Cheater-in-Chief has taken again to Twitter to explain his view of the universe. He hasn’t much else to do except bet on losers.
In America the only talking horse is Mr. Ed. But, when it comes to blowhards, the white horse’s ass is speaking again in 140 characters from the White House, no country estate.
You have to understand how a cheater and liar can be indignant when someone does not win after cheating or lying. If you are looking for a premonition of the 2020 presidential election, you may gulp hard at the attitude of the White House wannabe returnee.
Maximum Security lived up or down to his name, and the Country Horse is Country House, an offense to someone in the White House.
Of course, as you might expect, Mr. Trump cannot even spell “Kentuky,” a state he hopes to carry in the next election. His semi-literate tweets may once again prove that his father bribed some college to give the horse’s end a degree, but that’s a horse of a different color.
DATELINE: Patriots in Munchkinland
Something has happened to the New England Patriots in the past month. You may not be in Kansas, but it sure doesn’t look like New England.
Less than kind Patriot-haters might say the rats are leaving the sinking ship. Whatever your thoughts, the good ship SS Belichick is listing badly after hitting an iceberg in the Super Bowl.
Key players have opted to leave in free agency—and teammates remaining are wishing them good luck and happy voyage, almost as if they are envious.
Foremost among the congratulations on social media are coming from Tom Brady and Gronk.
Gronk still has not dispelled rumors he is going Hollywood on New England, and Tom Brady dropped a hint that he is a man of his convictions in his TV autobiography series—and he appears to have switched convictions in mid-stream.
Life begins at 40—but not in Foxboro.
These key Patriots (Nate Solder, Amendola, Butler, Lewis, and who knows who else) have talked among teammates. If you don’t realize that, you don’t know what’s happening.
It’s like a bad Bob Dylan song: the mattress is now balancing precariously on Bill Belichick’s head. Someone is ready to drop a house on Wicked Witchy Belichick. His former coaches and underlings are picking up the pieces Belichick has shed. And they are happy to have them.
During the season, opposing players attacked the Foxboro as being as unpleasant under the control of Ebenezer Scrooge Belichick before any ghosts haunted him. It was worse than Hieronymus Bosch’s depiction of Hell.
We see the end as coming in a whimper, not a bang. Brady and Gronk are packing their bags, and everyone else is cashing in their chips.
Oh, my. Lions and Tigers and Bears, oh my. The gold brick road is leading to ruination for the Kraft family of marshmallows.
DATELINE: The Way in Boston
When you say the word “racism,” in Boston, you better smile, pardner.
Yes, the birds of a feather are in a snit over the name change on Jersey Street. It was once called Yawkey Way in honor of the Hall of Fame owner of the Boston Red Sox. He died in 1976, and the city of Boston, found it in its heart to name the little bypass in front of Fenway Park after its Southern gentleman, Tom, who tried to buy a World Series in the 1930s by hiring the best players. He failed.
The Colonel, as it were, in baseball, a game for white gentlemen, as it was once called.
Yes, right in Boston, you had an owner who was never truly part of Boston. He never showed up until after the season started and then sat in his high-above-field box like Nero.
He was instrumental in keeping the Red Sox lily white until Pumpsie Green showed up to sit on the bench for a few seasons. He was used as a pinch-runner most of the time. The Sox were the last team in the majors to sign a black man to play.
Race, if it was in the forefront of that Georgian peach, Yawkey’s mind, was never to advance civil rights of black people. He made Ty Cobb look progressive.
The Yawkey Way is not to be confused with the Patriot Way, under an owner who is the epitome of billionaires in Boston.
Uncle Tom Yawkey kept it white for as long as he could.
We have a memory of attending a Red Sox game in the early 1960s when the only black face we saw in the stands was Bill Russell of the champion Celtics. The Red Sox were never world champs under Yawkey.
When the game ended with another hideous Sox loss, I was behind Russell who was tall, silent, and dignified. Why was he there? Perhaps to see the second black Sox player, pitcher Earl Wilson. That is lost to memory, but Russell was the tallest man leaving the box seats. No one spoke to him, and we walked out of the park—and he went in one direction and I, the other way on then Jersey Street.
Wilson was later traded several weeks after complaining about racism to the Boston media.
We saw Russell at several games over that year, while Yawkey sat high above, looking down. In those days, celebrities did not join Colonel Yawkey in his perch, certainly not a black man.
We think now Russell showed up to make a point: he loved baseball and hated racism. He was the only black face in the crowd.
Imagine: 30,000 seats filled with white fans, and one black man.
And now there is a hulla-baseballoo because Boston wants to dump Yawkey Way in a place where black players were jeered just last season by racial taunts. The present owners want to change the name of Yawkey Way back Jersey Street.
It’s still Yawkey Way, no matter what you call it.
DATELINE: Penknife Mightier than the Sword
Now read all your favorite blogs for the year in one handy location: your tablet, your smartphone, or your computer.
Now available, The Loser’s Edition.
Normally we compile a book of annual snide comments about the winner of the Super Bowl, but this year we change horses in the fourth quarter.
Now you can trace the sour grapes of Malcolm Butler up to the sacking by Coach Belichick in the final hours!
Now you can see the complete reviews and reactions to Tom Brady’s reality TV series and all its deadly fallout!
Now you can learn how Trump has poisoned the Patriot well of victory!
Now you can find the fake news about Gronk’s Hollywood career!
Now you cannot find much about Julian Edelman, but he still shows up on the pages now and then!
Now you can see how the Yalta Peace Talks between Kraft, Belichick, and Brady really came about and really went nowhere!
Now available on Amazon, cheap price, cheap words, cheap ideas!
Recommended for smart readers always!
DATELINE: Belichick’s Horror Tale
Episode: Boris Eliminates Moose
Did Bill Belichick lose his marbles in Minnesota?
Have we just witnessed a Pats’ version of Nightmare on Patriot Row?
Conspiracy theorists have emerged that HC Bill Belichick deliberately sabotaged his own team to lose the Super Bowl. What kind of point was he making in benching his best defensive safety in favor of lesser players?
Did he undermine his own coach Matt Patricia by denying him the player he wanted? Did he punish Patricia for jumping ship to accept another job in Detroit?
Did players in the locker room express anger and disdain for Belichick’s unreasonable punishment of Malcolm Butler?
Why have retired players or former players expressed shock at the strategy of the Great Hoodie?
Has the furor and disdain between Tom Brady and Belichick reached the point where Tom can play one of the best games ever as a quarterback and be forced to swallow hard?
Did Belichick make a point to ownership that forced him to trade away his QB of the future, Jimmy G, and keep a 40-year old who has defied his training staff?
Is Bill Belichick forcing the Patriots to make a Hobson’s Choice, which centers on whether they should fire the head coach for insubordination?
What kind of media feeding frenzy is possible over this, as facts emerge that there was mutiny in the locker room before game—which showed itself in Malcolm Butler crying on the sidelines?
Egad, is this any way to end a season? To end a year of hard work? What politics has undermined the New England Patriots ultimately from winning a sixth Super Bowl under Belichick and with Tom Brady?
DATELINE: Countdown to Madness
We almost decided not to tell the story of the Patriots this year.
You may have not noticed, but since 2011, we have been putting out an annual, and sometimes twice-yearly book of collected observations, based on our hither and yon blog.
So, we thought we ought to skip this year: there would never be another Super Bowl run like the last one.
How lucky we stayed the course. How wrong we were.
If we had not done this year’s catalogue, we’d have missed ten big stories. Here they are, ascending or descending, it doesn’t matter.
What a season. What a year. And, the Super Bowl is still ahead.