DATELINE: The Empire Collapses
Many Patriot haters have waited 20 years for the moment. The parallel in history may be the Fall of the Roman Empire: the barbarians are at the gate, and Belichick and Brady are fleeing the chaos.
DATELINE: The Empire Collapses
Many Patriot haters have waited 20 years for the moment. The parallel in history may be the Fall of the Roman Empire: the barbarians are at the gate, and Belichick and Brady are fleeing the chaos.
DATELINE: Young Guns
The Boston Celtics have a problem: it is a nickname to be applied to their young tandem 30-points each in a game stars. We haven’t felt a giddy issue in the Celtic world since we heard Larry Bird isn’t walking through that door.
The Celtics are no longer looking to trade one or both: you can tell that from the new public relations spots in Boston that urge fans to vote them as teammates to the All-Star squad.
The big problem is their nickname: for past vainglorious stars like Bird and McHale or Russell and Heinsohn, nicknames were superfluous. But social media and youth must be served. Young fans want to label their new generation of superstars for the upcoming decade.
Originally Jalen Brown wanted to call themselves 7-11. Open all night, or something, but Jayson immediately changed his number from 11 to 0. Such are the results of testosterone and competition.
Jayson once said he would be Brown’s trainer for free if he no longer had an NBA career. His pay: a room in Jalen’s big house, which appalled Jalen.
Scary Terry Rozier thought they were simply two annoying youngsters.
They are not your average Batman and Robin.
To their teammates, they are simply JT and JB. And, they are a new version of Bird and McHale, who also never had nicknames, and also had a rather contentious intra-team rivalry: their mutual glue was Danny Ainge, which may be the same factor today.
When McHale scored 50 points one night, Bird said in laconic fashion, “It’s not enough,” and promptly went out and scored more points a week later, leaving McHale with a record setting for one week.
Some contend they have never seen Jayson pass the ball to Jalen. Perhaps that’s strictly a metaphor. They are two of the most unassuming, quiet, soft-spoken types you would ever meet. They are not flashy or overwhelming in any public way.
It’s difficult to come up with resonating naicknames for two who speak softly and carryi big balls.
We don’t like Triple Double 0-7, and we don’t like Green Jays.
They seem to accept Kid ‘n Play as something workable. They are too accommodating. We still don’t know who’s the kid sidekick.
DATELINE: No Free Lunch Anywhere?
This week we heard a comment that we stopped writing about sports because of “free agency.” Well, no, not exactly, though it is an appalling condition in society in general.
You have to understand that lack of loyalty and love of money is rampant across America, not just in basketball where Avery Bradley has signed up to re-join Rajon Rondo, and Kyrie Irving left the place he swore he would stay in front of a million fans.
We have seen “free agency” at work everywhere. If there had been DNA tests thirty years ago, we would have exercised free agency and gone to Harvard University to work as a professor: we have learned we are a descendant of Miles Standish and Massasoit (for whom Massachusetts was named). If we knew we had more Native American in us than Elizabeth Warren, we might even be running for President today.
We have seen free agency in the legal profession. The same lawyers who work for Donald Trump also work for Jeffrey Epstein. You go from billionaire to billionaire. Is it more money? Better opportunity? More challenges? It is not loyalty to a brand.
You might switch banks for better interest rates, or switch social media to be with different influencers.
In recent years we have experienced our primary care doctor whom we loved, move to the Sun Belt, where she said in her letter of departure to patients, there were “more opportunities.” To what? Cure cancer? Lower blood pressure? Deal with fewer insurance forms?
This year our dentist, who had a beautiful office and seemed happy, left for “more opportunities.” That likely means “more cavities to fill,” or “fewer teeth to pull,” or just where weather allows for fewer snow days.
Free agency is everywhere in society today, and it simply means people can go where they want, for whatever dumb reason strikes their limited fancy. We have an endemic pandemic epidemic of movers and shakers in sports, law, medicine, education, and politics.
Heaven help our society. We need a new prayer, and it must be time to move on from the Lord’s Prayer. Hell, no, I won’t go.
DATELINE: Hard Jobs
Tim Kennedy Unleashed
Tim Kennedy, formerly of Hunting Hitler as the go-to adventurer who investigated dangerous people, has gone a step beyond for a new Discovery series.
Hard to Kill is one of those “dangerous job” shows where some rank amateur tries his hand, without training, at doing something where you need a few years of experience to do the job right.
So, Tim Kennedy, former Green Beret, muscle-man, pushing forty years, is perfect as the guy being a man in a world of wussies. In the old days we called him a dare-devil, or simply foolhardy, or blithering idiot.
He shows guts and lack of brains at the same time.
In the first show, he tries his hand at “American bullfighter,” and it’s not what you expect. In the jargon of pop culture, this job is rodeo clown: the guy in clown makeup who distracts the rampaging bull from running over the fallen rider.
This is risky. Breaking bones is the easy way out. Jumping to the fence to escape the bull’s charge is not a good idea, as these pros tell Kennedy: you can be impaled on an immovable object (a fence slat).
Bulls run at 35mph and are reasonably adept at hitting their target. You can plainly see that the rodeo men take it seriously to protect their own—and sending out an untrained person is not only foolhardy, but unethical. Yet, the price of TV fame comes high, so to speak.
Kennedy is personable and overly energetic, but these kind of adventurers were the explorers of yesteryear. They may seem anachronistic today or suited only for TV derring-do.
DATELINE: Met Gala Stun Guns Again
Yes, right after the Kentucky Derby “and they’re off—” comes the notorious Met Gala in New York where the show horses and would-be celebrities fall all over themselves on the red carpet.
Yes, on the heels of the bizarre nature of Westworld’s second season comes Evan Rachel Wood, Kim Karadasian, and Elon Musk, on the red carpet.
Our favorite had to be Tom Brady, erstwhile ageless quarterback and his wife (the billionaire), looking like refugees from 1960s Gilligan’s Island. Indeed, you had to wonder if Jonathan Nolan had produced the glitzy extravaganza as a means to publicize his TV HBO weirdo series.
You can’t tell the androids from the guests.
What Tom Brady has had to do to cause his wife to agree to let him play for two more seasons? You have only to look at his outfit as the twosome cavorted with other Barbie and Ken dolls.
Yes, Tom is wearing nail polish. You can’t see the multi-colored nail polish on his feet. And he looks like he is storing botox in his cheeks. Yet, the rash comments that he and wife look like James Bond villains is a tad off-the-mark.
Tom is not auditioning to play Dr. No, nor Goldfinger. He is acting like a friendly Russian that would charm President Donald Trump, whose hair would have fit right in on the red carpet.
Tom and Giselle came across as Boris and Natasha, those 1960s spies who gave Bullwinkle Gronk and Julian the Flying Squirrel fits.
Halloween comes early. However, we did see Patriots owner Robert Kraft and his young Baby Mama. To our shock, Kraft was NOT wearing his blue collar/white shirt. He did have de rigueur tennis shoes with his tux.
You have to love insanity with money.
DATELINE: End of Season: Hell Freezes Over
Tom to Rescue?
For all those youngsters who are asking the old-timers, when was the last time the New England Patriots played in a Frostbite Falls condition on New Year’s Eve? We have no answer.
Our history books don’t go that far back. Our memory is a collective fog, frozen in time.
We have no doubt whatsoever that Tom Brady will be wearing his long underwear for today’s game against the Jets.
Tom has some specially made long-johns that the Navy SEALs wear when they dive. Let’s hope the Patriots don’t take a dive in the 0° temperatures. That’s 0, none, nil, nothing.
Baby, it’s cold outside.
We are sure Tom Brady would prefer to wear his UGGs boots this frigid afternoon, but those are not regulation NFL.
We believe he gave all his teammates UGGs boots for Christmas again this year. There’s not much thinking when you give a product you endorse as a gift. Tom’s big problem is finding UGGs in clodhopper sizes for all those king-size teammates.
Actually, we are looking forward to the toasty game in the late afternoon with the Celtics.
Though they play on the parquet floor covering hockey ice, it will be warm indoors. Even if some nitwit takes off his shirt in the Boston Garden, he will not be rushed to the hospital as will those fans at Foxboro’s frostbite falls stadium who inevitably will try the stunt.
Bundle up all you Minutemen. The time has come to freeze your derrière off.
DATELINE: Mysterious World of Cat Fishing
If you haven’t heard of cat-fishing, you are out of touch with today’s Internet.
Former Boston Celtic Ray Allen is giving us a crash course in something to do with scams, sexual harassment, and online game players.
He is now counter-suing a young man who pretended to be a woman (actually several women) and lured Mr. Allen into online relationships.
It appears there is more than meets the eye to your online pickup lines.
Allen allegedly started stalking his tweeter. Well, how can you stalk a man who pretends to be a woman without finding out that the stalk is off-kilter?
In the world of retired sports stars with time on their hands, you discover that it was a two-way stalking. The young deceiver may have had incriminating evidence and was a threat to reveal it to the family of Mr. Allen.
This gives new meaning to the term “on the down-low.” Yes, sports fans, in the world of sexual stalking, being on the DL is not always the disabled list.
We might wonder if former movie star (He Got Game) and 3-point champ Allen was light in his sneakers when he took all those jump shots.
We recall vividly his inexplicable feud with Rajon Rondo when they were on their championship NBA treadmill nearly a decade ago.
All the Celtics teammates blackballed Mr. Allen when he jumped ship for an NBA ring on another team. Perhaps teammates already were separating themselves from the DL list.
So, Ray’s best defense is now that he was cat-fished, the colorful term to describe a sexual peccadillo.
DATELINE: Here We Go Again, Hopefully
Nouveau Celtics: Hayward and Irving, Alphabetically
After a long hiatus, we returned to watching The Boston Celtics again.
They do look rather exciting this season, which may take the sting off the stink of the Patriots.
On top of that, the Celtics don’t take a knee during the national anthem. They may be more interested in making the Celtics great again, not making Trump look good.
There is a new big three in town. Kyrie Irving surprises us by being find less sour than we remembered him on the Cleveland team, and Gordon Hayward is far more muscular than we remembered him on the Utah team. Combine them with our new old favorite Al Horford, and we feel like Bird, McHale, and Parrish, have just walked through that door. Well, Bird has returned: oh, wait, it’s Jabari Bird, not Larry.
Or perhaps we see a new version of Garnett, Pierce, and Ray Allen, if only they provide us with such soap opera drama.
Indeed, 2/3 of the Celtics roster is totally new. We couldn’t recognize anyone. Trader Danny Ainge has brought back only four young players, but even they look like Celtics of the future. We refer to Jaylen Brown, the new number seven, and Jayson Tatum, the new big zero. Red Sox star Mookie Betts showed up to jump-start the inter-sports support.
These youngsters seem to be taking the places of memories we have of Rajon Rondeau and Avery Bradley.
The best came from announcer and Hall of Famer, always amusing, 83-year-old Tommy Heinsohn. He said he had seen the new center, bullish Aron Baynes in the shower, and he represented the big continent of Australia in sheer size.
Heavens, can things be looking up from Down Under?
DATELINE: Hold the Stephone, Fans
In New England, Tom Brady is the GOAT, and this week Stephon Gilmore is the goat. He only wishes he were the scapegoat, which implies a false guilt.
There is a big difference between champs and chumps—and that means you, Gilmore.
Brady brought the team back from a two-touchdown disadvantage to tie the game with minutes left. It looked like the scenario for another miraculous victory.
Then, Gilmore put his hands in the face of Panther, thus ending a stop that would have returned the ball to Tom for another score.
What will be will be. Let’s sing along with Doris Day.
Gilmore makes $65 million dollars to be caught doing bonehead plays. He later said it was failure to communicate that was to blame, as if his Cool Hand Luke play would play in New England.
Gilmore is no Paul Newman, though he has a choke-hold on failure to communicate.
The Patriots, who made 16 kneeling players put a hand to their heart and stand with a hand on the shoulder of the next fellow, lost again. It may be the loss of the Super Bowl flashed before our eyes.
Even the Jets won on his day—and perhaps winning the division is not a lock after all. Tom Brady has been knocked down more in four games this season than in the previous five years combined.
So far, he has not been concussed.
Maybe it’s time for Jimmy G to go out and take one for the team, giving Tom a rest until the rest of his goats can be herded into a semblance of a victorious unit.
Rocket scientist Matt Patricia has had another nuclear warhead blow up on the Launchpad.
Swami Bill Belichick looks like a man who actually has dyspepsia this season.
DATELINE: Trump’s Magical Misdirections
The NFL anthem protest is a tempest in a teapot. Trump is dealing with more Teapot Dome tempests than any president since Warren G. Harding.
You might think there is no possible resolution to the knee-jerk reaction of Donald Trump to NFL protesting players. Forget them not: Basketball of the NBA is on the horizon where the lives of black players matter big.
When Trump notes that NFL owners are afraid of their plantation slaves, we are reminded that such a mentality was quite prevalent in the early 19th century among cotton-picking businessmen. Like any good magician, Trump is misdirecting his audience away from his sleight of hand, like a Mississippi riverboat charlatan.
So, the NFL has called in team captains and owners for a meeting of the minds. Fear is a great equalizer.
Roger Goodell met on Thursday with Devin McCourty and Matthew Slater, two New England Patriot leaders—and with owner Robert Kraft. Tom Brady seems to have taken a powder with his MAGA hat.
Powers that be may well be worried over the few knuckleheads who have burned their team jerseys with blow torches and have sworn never to watch another football game.
We don’t believe it. These followers of social media are like junkyard dogs, barking up a storm, but in the heady days of Super Bowl hype, we feel they will find their mettle melted.
Perhaps football Sunday should be immune from politics and inflammatory rhetoric. Fat chance with the Lord of the Flies Donald Trump tweeting out with presidential flair and Dumbo abandon.
Arm-in-arm, solidarity against racism would seem to be a no-brainer, though some conservatives feel the venue is inappropriate. Yet, their message is lost in a blinding white-out storm.
Anticipated more than victory may be the pre-game anthem, a place in America where black men have risen to fame and fortune while the majority of their peers face daily worry that a stray bullet may end their black and bleak lives.
If Russian agents exploited ‘Black Lives Matter’ to win a national election for the Lord of the Flies, you can bet your bottom dollar that, as that Fenway Park sign told a few weeks back, racism is as American as football and baseball, not to mention basketball.
DATELINE: LeBron James as Laura Palmer, Trump as D.B. Cooper
Chicken or egg? We can’t figure out if the Trump Administration has prepared us for the new series Twin Peaks, or whether Twin Peaks has prepared us for the continuing weirdness of the Trump presidency.
When we see President Trump putting his hands on a glowing orb, we know there is a conspiracy of billionaires to control the world. Of course, it is merely a futuristic ribbon-cutting scene from the most recent Star Wars movie. Either that, or it is opening a gateway to an alternate universe, like the plots of Twin Peaks.
By the same token, we feel as if watching the Cleveland Cavaliers with the Boston Celtics is like knitting by Madame Defarge while royalty is having their heads chopped off.
On Twin Peaks, agent DB Cooper has returned to the northwest after disappearing for 25 years. That David Lynch has such a sense of humor. So far, McLachlan has not rubbed any glowing orbs, but has kissed dead Laura Palmer (Cheryl Lee).
On the Celtics, little Cousin IT (Isaiah Thomas) and AB (Avery Bradley) are from the same neck of the woods in Washington state which happens to be the setting for Twin Peaks. It could explain a lot about how the Celtics are playing like Laura Palmer’s body wrapped in plastic.
Even stranger, we were amazed to see Kyle McLachlan and Sheryl Lee looking just like they stepped out of a 1990s TV show. It becomes even more amazing when David Lynch has to inject a phrase at the end of every episode of the show that the episode is dedicated to the memory of one of the cast members who is now dead. We mean really really dead dead, like the log lady Catherine Coulson and the FBI agent played by Miguel Ferrer.
As for the dead Celtics, they are merely playing in an alternate universe, sort of like Twin Peaks 25 years later. If there is a glowing orb in the NBA, they better start rubbing it now. Lebron is no Laura Palmer.
DATELINE: Tom Brady to Carpool to Work?
Just when you thought it was safe to drive to work during the early morning commute, you learn that Tom Brady is having a custom-made Aston-Martin fitted to his own design specifications.
This sort of transportation transcends the Mini-Cooper and even our own BMW. Aston Martin will pay Brady some unspecified amount to endorse their low-budget $212,000 cars (options extra).
This certainly makes Peyton Manning’s pizza deal of a lifetime of pepperoni look like anchovies under glass.
In a world of have nots and Trump-level billionaires, Tom Brady is casting his lot with the X-press Way of La Dolce Vita. He will not be allowed to commute to Foxboro from Brookline in the express lane unless he carpools with Julie E.
We don’t see that happening. Julian Edelman lives in Foxboro, not toney Brookline.
A friend of ours met Tom some years ago when he was not far removed from being a sixth round draft pick.
He and my friend met at one of those Cape Cod charity events when Tom watched as our friend had his red MB SLK 320 roof slide into the back seat.
Tom was agog, and said: “I need to get one of those.”
How times have changed.
He can now afford three of those Mercedes to one Aston Martin DB 11. When Tom pushes a button on his new A-M, the entire car folds into the back seat.
And we were going to tell him to buy Aaron Hernandez’s used assassin 4-Runner Deathmobile SUV for sentimental reasons. He’s outdone us again.
DATELINE: More Fake News or Inflate-gate
Tom Brady’s wife, Gisele Bundchen, has just hammered the quarterback with the Madden curse. If you don’t have enemies, your wife may be just as good as a substitute.
Maybe bachelorette Julian Edelman knows something he should have explained to Tom.
With supermodel Giselle’s announcement of Tom’s unreported and secret concussions over the years, she has made more trouble for him than actual concussions.
There’s nothing worse than a latent headache. You can bet the NFL will now subpoena Brady and hire a special researcher.
Before the new 2017 season begins, Tom will be under investigation for covering up medical injuries. Will we learn that he has a private Russian doctor recommended by President Trump? Has the FBI enough agents to send a few to locate Tom Brady’s secret medical file?
Since Roger Goodell has seen the light of brain disease associated with football, he now has more reason than ever to stop Tom Brady’s career dead in its tracks. There’s nothing more exciting for Goodell than to beat a dead horse. His favorite derby nag is Tom Brady.
We are now convinced that Tom Brady’s showboating by smashing a mirror and walking under a ladder were signs of concussive behavior. He had brain lock.
If this is not the same as a Madden Curse, this scandal will do until a good one comes along.
Tom and his representatives are not issuing a statement. The Patriots are not issuing a statement. Bill Belichick is not issuing a statement.
Tom’s only comments today: he wished LeBron James and Isaiah Thomas good luck in their playoff extravaganza. It was Big Papi sitting courtside, not Tom Brady. Tom will have another day in court.
Tom will have to hide from the press about as much as former FBI Director James Comey. Questions abound and rebound.
DATELINE: Move Over, Watergate and Deflategate
Not tonight, dear. He has a headache.
Like his friend Donald Trump, Tom Brady has a big headache.
No, it isn’t James Comey. It’s Tom’s wife, Giselle Bundchen. The superstar model gave an interview in which she announced Tom had a concussion this past season on the road to the Super Bowl.
In fact, she said he had many concussions over the years. Uh-oh.
This was news to the NFL and Roger Goodell as well as the Players Union. There are rules about medical reports and who can play if he is concussed.
Goodell never ducks an issue like concussions, and now Giselle has given him another shot at Tom’s head.
You know there is trouble when the doctor who was played by Will Smith and blew the whistle on concussions in the NFL has called Giselle heroic.
Tom may have another word for her. We may now see who wears the pants on the runway at Tom’s house.
Trump could fire Comey, but Tom may be up the creek with Giselle and her half-billion-dollar bank account. The Patriots are staying mum on Tom’s children’s mum, but we know that Jose Baez will be the first to offer his services if Concussion-gate gets messy.
We think Julian Edelman may have to recuse himself, and we aren’t sure if Bill Belichick will be subpoenaed to appear before Congress.
The Patriots may need to ask for a second opinion before the man with the Fountain of Youth admits he has feet of clay.