Man, I actually feel bad for James Harden here.  The (ludicrously belated) NBA Awards were a special event to celebrate greatness, and - despite being one of the most deserving attendees - he still managed to turn himself into the punchline.  We seemingly split hairs on the Russell Westbrook/James Harden MVP debate all year, and on the night when it would finally be put to rest the inevitable runner-up gave us a glimpse into why he should never be considered more than that. 

One of the highlights of the (long overdue) NBA Awards was listening to Russell Westbrook pour his heart out while thanking every single person that has ever even visited Oklahoma City as if he were trying to send a not-so-subliminal message to Kevin Durant.  Meanwhile, the guy who was two gift-wrapped rebounds per game away from dramatically enhancing the value of his resume was basically drooling on himself while interjecting his way through one of the the easiest questions ever asked of an NBA player. 

I mean, holy hell, could James Harden have done a better job reminding us of the things that have sabotaged his career recently?  Did you see that dumbfounded look on his face as he stared at Nicki Minaj's surgically enhanced bust like it was an illusion and blinking would have made it disappear forever?  I imagine that's the same vulnerability to high maintenance celebrities who have enough baggage to sink the Titanic and enough well known sexual partners to field a competitive sports team that had him wrapped around Khloe Kardashian pinky instead of picking up a single weight during the offseason. 

Those uhhh's and ummm's that quickly sent Drake into recovery mode might as well have been mind boggling passes that bounced helplessly into the front row because they were reminiscent of the same type of ineptitude that James Harden displayed the last time he was put on the spot.  Thank God he didn't win MVP or his acceptance speech would have made the "I like turtles" kid seem articulate. 

​There's not many things that can put the shackles on one of the most versatile scorers in NBA history, but prima donna pussy and playoff-like pressure sit alone at the top of that short list. 

The increasing suspense of not knowing what New Jersey was going to do with the number one overall pick probably added to the unmitigated glee I displayed while shamelessly downing a dozen beers in celebration of the selection of a teenager, so I suppose I can't be too upset.  Still, I wouldn't have hated having the peace of mind that Ray Shero apparently did for an entire week prior to officially adding the silky smooth Swiss kid to an organization that is in desperate need of his skill set.  After all those self prescribed panic attacks that become more and more frequent as that fateful Friday night drew closer, it's a retroactive relief to know that the Devils General Manager was emphatically clinging to a "Nico or bust" mentality.  Honestly - considering the track record of the executive that basically stocked the offensive pipeline of the franchise that just hoisted it's second Stanley Cup in as many seasons - that type of decisiveness only makes me feel more confident that the Devils made the right choice. 

Especially since they have a recently retired European with a little bit of time on his hands and a lot of experience being a creative, two-player who is new to the NHL...

Also, I will refuse to believe that Nico Hischier won't be in the NHL next year, at the very least until he's not in the NHL next year.  I have a sneaking suspicion that thought process parallels that of the people that matter the most...

Shero on possibility of @nicohischier playing in the #NHL next season: "We have a spot for him and we’ll go from there. "#N1CO

I suppose this doesn't come as much of a surprise.  I don't care how many opinions you get.  If even one medical professional - out of who knows how many - tells you that football could cost you your life then that's probably the doctor whose word you should heed. 

That said, the fact that Nick Fairley is making the smartest decision for himself and his family doesn't make this announcement any less sad and depressing.  The most disappointing aspect is that a guy who was just starting to fulfill the endless potential that got him drafted in the first round may never play another down of football again.  I can't imagine what he's going through knowing that he may be coming off his best season to date and potentially going straight into a forced retirement. 

From a much more cold-hearted perspective, this news has to considered proof positive that Murphy's Law gets called into action whenever the New Orleans Saints start shopping the free agency market.  For once, they did everything right this time around.  They let a talented player earn his money on a one year, "prove it" deal.  They gave him a reasonable contract that wouldn't handicap them going forward.  Annnnd a previously dormant/misdiagnosed heart condition almost immediately called the rest of his career into question before he even got to pull a black and gold jersey over his head one final time. 

There's just no around it.  This sucks for all parties involved.  It should be heavily emphasized that none the least of which is the player whose health has been compromised, but I'll be damned if it doesn't serve as a gut punch to the defensive depth of team that was depending on Nick Fairley to provide the pass rush that they sorely lack opposite Cam Jordan. 

TheComeback- The NFL recently launched a line of team designed license plates connecting the team to the state they play in.  Called the “State Pride License Plate” series, you can pay $29.99 to get the license plate for your favorite team superimposed with the state they play in for that fan who loves both their team and their state. 

Not every team is available but there is a selection of about nine teams including the Cowboys, Ravens and Falcons.  But there was one license plate in particular that had a rather glaring mistake.  The Washington Redskins, which refers to Washington D.C., had their license plate super imposed to the outline of Washington state, which is about 2,800 miles away. 

Because of the mistake, the NFL took down the wrong Washington plates and probably won’t be selling any of these.  But I don’t know why the NFL had to be so hasty in admitting they made a mistake.  I have to imagine there are a few Redskins fans in Washington state who would love to have this.  Mark them down to $10 and they might be able to sell some of them. 

--------

​Only the Lord and his morally compromised rival, Roger Goodell, could tell you how a multi-billion dollar brand could mass manufacture a product for public consumption, and not realize the laughable geographical mishap that it blatantly depicts until it was actually on sale.  That license plate - that was moronically and poetically a part of a "State Pride" promotion for a state that bordered an opposing coast - undoubtedly passed by several dozen sets of eyes that see nothing but dollar signs, and it still somehow made it to the online market place.  If that doesn't convince you that the NFL is successful despite itself then you're probably the same type of person that doesn't think racial sensitivity should be prioritized ahead of franchise history. 

In all honesty though, this would be a great way for the NFL to get rid of the 'Redskins' team name once and for all.  They should just continue to sabotage their own licensed merchandise until in-state sales drop and they can adequately make the argument that their bottom-line is being negatively effected by a polarizing affiliation with an antiquated, mildly offensive term for Native Americans.  Why stop at slapping the wrong state lines on a license plate?  They should start spelling 'Washington' wrong or tinkering with the already lifeless colors.  Really dig in on proving there is no money to be made with prejudice paraphernalia.  Of course, they could also just make that decision on their own and tell the biased, butt-hurt fans of a terribly-run organization to pound sand, but that wouldn't fit their modus operandi of being financially motivated at literally all non-monetary costs. 

“We’re building a team to win a Super Bowl,” Jordan said. “ We’re not building for the future.  It’s hard not to believe in our team.  We’re ready to win it now.” 

Plenty of teams feel like Super Bowl contenders entering a new season, but only one will be crowned the champion.  And although Jordan feels confident, he knows the way the Saints have played in recent years is not going to cut it. 

“Well, we finished the last three seasons 7-9 and our defense was in the mid-20s,” he said. “ That’s not where we want to be.  Last time we were a top-five defense we made the playoffs [2013, defense ranked fourth].  That’s what we want to be.” 

---------

​As much as I like hearing the Saints most accomplished and trustworthy defensive player speak confidently about his team's Super Bowl aspirations, I would be lying if I understood why it was even remotely newsworthy.  I know New Orleans has finished 7-9 in each of the last three seasons, but I hardly consider (potentially blind) optimism and faith from a proud professional athlete to be deserving of it's own headline.  I guess I am glad that Cam Jordan doesn't think his defense is still a complete sieve that is going to sabotage the final years of Drew Brees' illustrious career, but it would probably be a hell of a lot better for clicks if he did. 

I think it's pretty obvious that the Saints believe their championship window is now.  It might just barely remain cracked open on the strength of a 'Hall Of Fame' arm, but it's no secret that every move that has been made with the immediate future in mind.  That is, unless you believe Adrian Peterson is going to touting the rock until his early 40's and Drew Brees is going to be the one handing it off to him from a wheelchair.  Whether the organization has done a good enough job in restocking the defense remains to be seen, but it should be evident that their primary focus over the offseason wasn't in building an 8-8 team that could continue to waste the talents of a top 3-5 player at the most important position.  I'm glad Cam Jordan knows that, but I find a bit disconcerting that literally anyone wouldn't. 

BallIsLife- Yes, four guys — Jason Williams, Corey Maggette, Kenyon Martin and Rashad McCants — all suffered injuries.  Yes, Allen Iverson looked more like Oprah Sideverson during his few minutes on the court.  But, how great was it to see White Chocolate, former #1 picks like The Oak Cliff Bully and one of the greatest and most influential players of all-time, Allen Iverson, lace up the sneakers and play in a NBA arena again?  A packed Barclays arena that probably has Brooklyn Nets owner Mikhail Prokhorov a little jealous.  A packed Barclays arena full of celebs (What’s up Whoopi), Nets (What’s up D’Angelo), rap legends (What’s up LL) and potential MVPs like James Harden — good to see he showed up for a Big (3) game. 

-----

Nostalgia is a funny thing, isn't it?  If you tug on enough sentimental heart strings then people are more likely to be blissfully ignorant to literally any and all problematic circumstances that could result from doing so. 

Admittedly, I knew a 3-on-3 league filled with the NBA's most lovable has-been's and never-was's wasn't going to produce an awe-inspiring brand of basketball, but - in the interest of reliving my youth - I absolutely ignored the issues that could arise from having 35-45 year old men engage in highly competitive athletics.  It took all of about 3 seconds for me to realize that four players going down to injury during one long day of physical exertion was less of a tragedy, and more of a foregone conclusion.  It's almost as if l yearned so badly to see my favorite players of yesteryear take the court for the first time in a long time that I completely forgot they are now a bunch of fathers that are years removed from putting multiple lifetimes of miles on their aging legs. 

Of course knees were buckling and backs were hitting the hardwood.  That was such an obvious consequence of former professional athletes trying desperately to recreate the type of moves they made famous when they were a decade younger and in better shape than almost anyone else on the planet.  I wish I had the foresight to tell the likes of Jason Williams, Corey Maggette, Kenyon Martin, and Rashad McCants that beforehand, but even I had my prognostic vision blurred by the fond memories of the hoop heroes of my childhood. 

It would be disingenuous of me to deny Justine Kish the credit she deserves here.  Granted, she didn't have all that many options, but not just anyone would have it in them to immediately own up to literally leaving it all - including her lunch - on the proverbial field.  The shit streak that served as the trail of previously digested breadcrumbs had a very obvious point of origin, but - as anyone that's gotten busted clogging a toilet that wasn't their own can attest - embracing your most shameful of bowel movements is more honorable than doing a crappy job hiding from them.  Hash-tagging herself as the guilty party wasn't at all necessary from a "who dunnit?"  standpoint, but laughing at herself could potential help her to recoup some of the dignity she left messily painted across the canvas. 

Unfortunately, I am not sure it can help recoup enough of that dignity to remain a threat in the UFC going forward.  In a combat sport in which success can at least partially be determined by intangibles such as intimidation and confidence, I don't know that soiling yourself in front of a crowd ever truly leaves the rearview.  I can't tell you I would have the sphincter strength to keep my crap to myself if I was getting the life (and sustenance) choked out of me.  However, I do know that being forcefully regressed to the defecation habits of an infant on live television would effect my performance in similar situations going forward.  Shit definitely happens, but it's probably best to avoid circumstances in which that saying has proven to become semantically accurate in the past.  I guess what I am really saying is...stool me once, shame on you; stool me twice, shame on me. 

Huh, so it appears that I have been using the word "gullible" wrong for my entire life.  Who knew?  I mean, I thought "gullible" was a way to describe someone who can be easily coaxed into believing the unbelievable.  Apparently it just means that you don't need to see his signature on the paperwork to put two and two together when a 'Penske' truck pulls up in front of the house of a professional athlete who has spent the last 2-3 months telling everyone that will listen about his inevitable, impending move to Los Angeles.  Maybe Paul George is just covering his ass in case the Pacers stupidly decide to start the season with him on the roster, or maybe we all got tripped up by some tricky math.  Whatever the case may be, if I'm gullible for believing that PG-13 would take preemptive precautions in the relocation process then I just l learned that I have no idea what gullible means. 

I'm obviously no stranger to the concept of the media pushing convenient narratives in search of a story that may or may not be there.  Hell, I often do the same in search of some humor that may or may not be there.  Unfortunately for Paul George, this isn't a case of that happening.  Honestly, this is just a case of poor timing.  What are the odds that the neighbor of a disgruntled player whose name was swirling in the trade winds would unintentionally fan the flames of a media firestorm by cutting ties with their lovely lakefront property during the most mobile month of the NBA offseason?  Considering he's made himself the most available player to ever be a full year away from free agency, I would think he would understand the confusion that resulted from announcing his future plans of flying the coop while living right next to a 'For Sale' sign. 

They did it.  They actually did it.  The New Jersey Devils - yes, the very same franchise that outsiders love to blindly dismiss as "boring" - did what was once considered unthinkable.  The bucked the wisdom that seemed a little too conventional.  They looked a prototypical two-way center up and down, and decided the future pro with the excessively punchable face and the brittle bone structure (that damning scouting part was brought to you by the insufferability of the city he now plays in) wasn't their type.  They took a gamble on the highest of risers whose undeniably shorter resume did a better job jumping off the page.  I was pretty sure that's exactly what they were going to do, but - somehow - it still seems surreal given their history. 

The New Jersey Devils didn't just go with the more exciting, dynamic prospect, but they also managed to start fulfilling a creativity quota that was sorely lacking.  When building a team the wise decision isn't always the one that's going to be more successful in having the fans at the edge of their seats, but it is when your team is painfully porous offensively that they are more likely to have their fans standing hopelessly at the edge of a cliff.  Nolan Patrick might give New Jersey nightmares for the next decade, and Nico Hischier's game might end up having more holes than his homeland's most infamous diary product.  That's the risk you take when picking between two players who were in a dead heat while turning the final corner.  The reward - in this case - could be providing a blank canvas to a player who has the rare talent, endless drive, and room to grow into the most dangerous, versatile Swiss product since the army knife. 

The kid just "loves to hockey" (as seen below in his charmingly broken English, not mine) and Devils fans should be chomping at the bit to love watching him love hockey because he is already electrifyingly good at most facets of it...

Look, there's plenty of reasons to poke fun at Brian Windhorst.  For starters, the entirety of his successful career has become hinged on the tongue that he has firmly planted in LeBron James' tight little buttocks.  You want to laugh at him for occasionally falling asleep on the air then have at it, but to criticize him for accidentally updating his phone during his version of the Super Bowl is disingenuous at best and undeniably hypocritical at worst. 

Having fallen victim to an itchy texting finger when the pop-up that potentially serves as a temporary prison sentence to your ability to communicate, I refuse to do anything other than feel bad for the NBA insider who unintentionally locked himself outside during the NBA Draft.  That mistake is one that is so easy to make that I swear it was the last joke that Steve Jobs left this world.  I would honestly be surprised if he wasn't eternally laughing at every person anxiously staring at their screen after they frivolously smashed the wrong button to continue whatever meaningless, self absorbed narcissism they were partaking in at the time.  Considering it's a "smart" phone that bar sure recalibrates rather slowly once it's time for a update, so I have no choice but to think someone is fucking with us from beyond the grave. 

In all honesty though, this kind of slip-up is what separates the Brian Windhorst's of the world from the Adrian Wojnarowski's of the world.  No way any true news-breaker is walking around without an 'Inspector Gadget' jacket full of WiFi-compatable devices when the game is on the line and time is of the essence.  If anything, the fact that LeBron's personal consultant was one inflated thumb away from being off the grid is proof positive that being so closely linked with 'The King' allows him the professional wiggle room that his desk chair doesn't. 

Whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm calling timeout.  I'm absolutely here for the character assassination of the Chicago Bulls front office, because - after having flipped Jimmy Butler for a return that would make 'Home Alone 3' seem worth the wait - they deserve even the most harshly worded of criticisms.  I just can't sit here and let the moral compass of the entire street pharmaceutical industry get dragged due South in an effort to comparatively make a dysfunctional organization look more incompetent.  I don't exactly run with any drug runners, but I'm not sure I agree with the implication that it's impossible to conveniently get your fix without the fix being in.  Travelle Gaines is in the inner circle of an NBA superstar so - despite being a personal trainer - he probably shouldn't be shedding light on his interactions with those pushing weight.  That said, I find it much more egregious that he lumped them all together as a "profession" while hinting that they are anywhere near as terrible at doing their job tactfully as the jackasses that are making Michael Jordan happy to be a part of the Hornets. 

In all seriousness, I think there might be some legitimacy to the claims of Travelle Gaines.  In most cases I would just assume this was a little self preservation on behalf of a client that probably didn't mind being moved, but it's the person doing the preserving that has me rethinking that notion.  We aren't talking about an agent or a business manager whose role is to maintain the reputation of a professional athlete.  We are talking about his trainer whose role is to maintain the core strength of a professional athlete.  You know you have truly fucked up as a franchise when you have indirectly offended a brick shithouse of a man into uncurling his kettle bells and loading up his Twitter fingers.  When your gym supervisor starts worrying more about how your career will be defined than your abdominals you know the man who threw a wrench into how things were supposed to work deserves to have his nobility questioned.  Especially when his defense of his shoddy hustle is reminiscent of that of a drug dealer...
​

You know what, I find it pretty difficult to fault Phil Jackson here.  Of course this alleged on-again, off-again snooze is fitting of the unrelenting executive incompetence/senility that he has displayed since arriving in New York.  Sure, it could soon be joined by him stubbornly/stupidly undoing the one thing he's actually done right since taking over the Knicks front office (trading Kristaps Porzingis).  However, if I were a 71 year old man with two fistfuls of championship rings to my name and very little incentive to turn around a broken franchise then I wouldn't bother staying awake to watch a 19 year old run up and down the court taking mildly contested jumpers either. 

The real problem here isn't that Phil Jackson's old ass is slipping in and out of daytime comas when he's supposed to be intently studying the pros and cons of prospective players.  The real problem is that a professional organization is still tasking him with doing so.  What does that crazy, possibly hallucinating son of a bitch have to do to get fired?  I'm pretty sure he's spent the last week combing the trade block while on 'shrooms.  You want me to blame the guy who has been dancing on the clouds with the sugar plum fairies and shit for his continued employment? 

This is on James Dolan.  Phil Jackson has all-but-begged to get shit canned.  So much so that now he's literally falling asleep on the job.  At some point, the employer has to take responsibility for the massive, repetitive fuck ups of the employee.  I think we past that point when Phil Jackson stepped to the mic and took a proverbial poop on the market value of Carmelo Anthony while in the midst of trying to trade him.  Am I supposed to be surprised that the doddering dumbass needed a little shut eye?  Sabotaging a sports franchise in a major market is exhausting work, and the guy who seems to be successfully doing so has basically been asking for someone to put his front office career to sleep for months now. 

With little more to prove to the college football programs on the field — he has an offer from essentially every powerhouse in America — it was what he wore while participating that grabbed headlines. 

“I decided to wear the shirt because I wanted to bring attention to the epidemic of blacks being killed at an alarming rate,” Tyreke told Ohio State site Eleven Warriors. “ What we would like to do is have people talk about these issues to reduce the murder rate of African-Americans.” 

“The shirt was created to bring light into the everyday problems that blacks face between police and black-on-black crimes,” Malik told Eleven Warriors. “ The shirt exemplifies a voice that we have but may not be heard.  So why not have people see it? 

“We need to come together as a unit and stop coming after our own people,” he added. “ We have to work together.”  He also tweeted out support for his younger brother. 

Tyreke pointed to “a lack of parenting, community policing and valuing education” as issues that surround crime, and he took time to thank his own family, coaches and teachers for their positive impact on him. 

---------

I don't really feel all that compelled to discuss - in detail - the actual message here.  Regardless of how often you think fatal police interactions are racially motivated, I think we can all agree that African Americans definitely shouldn't have to aspire to stay alive despite their skin color.  I can't possibly relate to how hopeless black people must feel as officer after officer has walked free of conviction - often with blood of their own firmly on the hands of those compensated to protect them.  However, I can certainly understand why they feel threatened enough to promote a cause that seems to simply read as a plea for a human right as basic as equal treatment under the law.  What Tyreke Smith said with his chest is an indisputable sign of the growing level of concern in his community, and it uses a little bit of shock value to paint a disheartening picture that every person should feel inclined to study as free from bias as possible. 

That said, how about the balls on this kid to show up to Ohio State wearing that shirt?  I know there are kids with varying levels of skill that these camps, but you have to be supremely confident that you'll be a sack machine at the next level to believe that you have "I can make a fairly aggressive racial statement before I'm enrolled and no one is going to say shit" talent.  Let's put it this way...there are no two star linebackers that are still waiting on an offer showing up to a powerhouse program with what can unfortunately be considered a polarizing prayer for equality emboldened across their shirt.  The message is powerful, but apparently so is the teenage messenger that knows he's easily good enough to get away with potentially stepping on some toes. 

Well, if I didn't know why ESPN fired their long tenured, incredibly reliable hockey staff before then I sure as shit do now.  You can doubt the legitimacy of this completely uneducated guess, but you can't tell me that Pierre LeBrun or Scott Burnside would have went along with the company mission statement by trolling for clicks and/or subscriptions this shamelessly.  I suppose as argument could be made for axing all of their actual NHL insiders due to a lack of financial incentive, but - if this mock(ery) of a draft is any indication - then the pursuit of spreading stupidity in hopes of picking up traction has to make the list of reasons why as well. 

This shit stirring that's being (poorly) disguised as a knowledgable prediction stands a flat zero percent chance of coming to fruition.  If the New Jersey Devils take Cale Makar they will no longer have the first overall pick, and if they have the first overall pick they aren't using it on Cale Makar.  Those aren't opinions.  They are facts.  Though I tend to doubt that he will, the possibility that Ray Shero trades down absolutely exists.  If he does get crazy then the highly touted defenseman with a wealth of offensive ability, a very generous/premature Erik Karlsson comparison working in his favor, and a whole hell of a lot of developing to do becomes an option.  If not, one of either Nico Hischier (oh please, oh please, oh please) or Nolan Patrick will be manning the face-off dot for the Devils sooner rather than later.  Corey Pronman may say otherwise, but any moderately trustworthy hockey writer wouldn't dare.  Unfortunately, none of those are currently employed by ESPN. 

In a strange, excessively fleeting way, I actually feel bad for Jon Merrill.  I'm not going to pretend that I wasn't relieved to learn that he was Vegas' selection from the grab bag of barely mediocre misfits that the New Jersey Devils left unprotected.  That said, those acting like the optimal scenario was to lose a young defensemen who unquestionably improved (though that is saying very, very little) throughout the course of a season in which he wasn't even in the 'Top 3' of blue line liabilities are simply stuck in the past.  I'd be lying if I said my initial reaction to finding out the guy who spent his sophomore and junior seasons getting put on a leash and toe-dragged around his own zone on seemingly nightly walks was no longer with New Jersey was one of disappointment.  However, I'm self aware enough to know that's not as much of an indictment of his late season performance as much as it is an indictment of how quickly my PTSD was triggered every time he touched the puck. 

The truth of the matter is that Jon Merrill turned himself into a punching bag for pissed off fans (myself occasionally included) that would rather continue to beat the barely breathing horse no matter how many signs of life it started to show.  In essence, he was the guy that gets caught cheating towards the beginning of the relationship and couldn't recover despite changing his ways for the better.  Every little thing he did wrong in a Devils uniform was going to get eviscerated simply because it reminded people of the big things he used to do wrong on a regular basis. 

For that reason, a separation was probably necessary.  However, let's not go dancing in the streets because defenseless team lost a 25 year old who appeared to potentially be coming around.  In no way am I saying that a decent third pairing defenseman (at best) was a foundational piece of the rebuild, but he is unquestionably a brick that now needs replacing.  I'm glad that brick wasn't named Beau Bennett, but I would have been slightly happier if it had carried a $5 million dollar cap for the next two seasons...if you catch my drift. 

Let me start by saying that I am fully aware that the chances of Kevin Durant sitting around lining up letters in an effort to thank all worthy parties that helped him achieve the title that he preemptively won a year ago are slimmer than his stature.  The last few sentences may have been a word-for-word quote, but the top was more than likely put together by some lazy intern with the personality of Klay Thompson. 

That said, it is exactly the type of thing I would expect from someone that suffers as badly from a lack of swag as Kevin Durant.  For instance, if KD were just a "diehard", bandwagon Warriors fan instead of their Finals MVP he would be the kid sitting in the crowd, proudly hoisting a sign that haphazardly spelled out E-S-P-N via the middle letters of some stupid, hackneyed slogan that he probably made up himself as if it were the most clever thing ever assembled. 

I immediately cringed when I saw that full page ad from the 'San Francisco Chronicle'.  I don't exactly think it's a coincidence that that very same expression mirrors the one I make when Kevin Durant tries to intimidatingly thump his chest after a made three, or gets snarky with the media that has been kissing his bony ass since he's came into the league.  He may have a well deserved championship pedigree and a historic finals appearance under his belt, but - in my eyes - he'll always be just enough of a boob for the possibility of piss poor acronymity to exist. 

Oh baby!  Talk about versatility!  Not only is Marcel Dionne an NHL legend with over 700 career goals and some proverbial lakefront property in the NHL 'Hall Of Fame', but apparently he's also taken the crown as the king of improv!  Seriously, someone get this guy a a guest spot on 'Curb Your Enthusiasm'.  You thought he was unpredictable on the ice?  Well, just wait until you get him off the script!  Anyway, I don't know whose line it is, but I do know that the former Kings' great just put it to shame with a compliment so creative and clever that it froze an Olympic Gold medalist into nothing more than a forced grin and a painstaking chuckle...

"Look at those legs!" 

Genius!  A stunning combination of wit and charm!  Nothing livens up an already awkward interaction quite like some good, old fashioned objectification!  An old, excuse me...legendary...white guy straying from an agreed upon dialogue to openly ogle at the physical features of an attractive, accomplished woman who is young enough to be his granddaughter?!  Straight up pointing at the skirt of a proud athlete that just recently decided to take the pedestal and carry the torch in the "who the fuck are you to talk about my body" movement?  Seems like a great way to endear yourself to your co-presenter if you ask me! 

I suppose you could argue that it wasn't entirely appropriate, but I'll be damned if it wasn't inevitable given their demographics.  Let's look on the bright side, at least this time Aly Raisman can't complain that she was unfairly judged, because - objectively speaking - those stems could split skulls...whether a retired hockey player whose age lends itself to uncomfortable commentary gawked at them on stage or not. 

Okay fine, it's probably more than likely complete bullshit that is the direct product of nothing more than one teenager's poorly recorded revisionist history. 

Whatever the case may be, the long awaited, much anticipated, previously forbidden fruit of 'The Process' has apparently been trusting it since before one man first decided to let his career die on behalf of the sins of Philadelphia's professional basketball franchise.  That's got to count for something, even if that "something" is just a largely fabricated tale to tell the kids as they watch the number of Sam Hinkie's immaculate conception (Markelle Fultz) get raised to rafters of the 'Wells Fargo Center'.  Somehow, that eerily ironic story of questionable truth required more of an honest effort than the 76er's have put into winning games since 2013, so the city might as well embrace it as fact as they face the one daunting opponent their team has been actively avoiding all these years - expectations. 

Look, it would be easy to say that Kevin Bieksa doesn't believe that the numbers tell the whole story because his numbers tell a story that - depending on perspective - would fall under the genre of 'horror' or 'comedy', but put yourself in his shoes for a second.  How would you like people spreading fictional, critical narratives about your poor play by supporting them with quantifiable arguments that don't take into account all that super important stuff that you're good at it that just so happens to be immeasurable? 

Has anyone else pondered whether the statistics of which all these hockey mathematicians are speaking have been tainted?  Some say that numbers never lie, but what about when the sample size is small and insignificant?  Like, for instance, the entirety of 82 games (+playoffs)?  Is a season's worth of data detailing all the predominantly bad things that happened during every single second he spent on the ice supposed to be considered proof of Kevin Bieksa's struggles or something?  Is that really what we are implying here? 

HOGWASH!  The Ducks' fans that wish their third pairing defenseman didn't have a no trade clause might pray for the day he becomes addition by subtraction, but the brainiacs that support their theory with indefinite division and multiplication should put aside their arithmetic and focus on the real "calculated" issue at hand...manipulation. 

TheComeback- Faced with the decision between walking with his high school classmates at his high school graduation and playing in a game against an MLS rival, 18-year-old Tyler Adams had a unique choice to make that many could only dream of making.  Despite a high school graduation being a once in a lifetime milestone achievement, Adams will be available for the Red Bulls this Saturday. 

It was not a decision Adams took lightly. 

“Having the opportunity to walk across that stage with all the friends that I started elementary school with, to miss something like that is tough,” Adams said in a story from NJ.com. “ But I know that I have a path that I want to cement for myself, and that’s going to be coming from one of these games like this.”------ 

I can't say that I know much about MLS soccer, but I do know this - Tyler Adams has absolutely earned the diploma that he will be too busy playing a professional sport to receive in person.  Nothing proves a person's level of intelligence quite like knowing when to tell white lies, and that's exactly what he did by stating that skipping his high school graduation was a tough decision.  Credit to him for saying exactly what his parents wanted to hear, but at no point was enduring far too many familiar, monotonous speeches while waiting far too long just to walk across a goddamn stage in front of people he undoubtedly can't wait to forget about a legitimate threat to his playing status. 

Never mind the fact that a high school diploma is the bare minimum in terms of lifetime milestones, because the opportunity to stunt on every one of his classmates by forcing them to talk about the actual lifetime milestone he was elsewhere achieving is an opportunity that would have had him absent regardless of their schedule.  You know what's better than walking with the friends that you started elementary school with?  Reminding them that - relative to you - they are all losers.  Tyler Adams isn't skipping some symbolic stroll into adulthood because one game during his rookie season is going to cement his legacy.  He's skipping it because ever person that asks "where's Ty?"  will spark another conversation about how Ty is killin' the game.  Well, that and playing soccer is far more entertaining than trying to fight of a nap while listening to a bunch of teachers that are desperate for second hand pride try to convince you that not getting held back in high school is actually impressive.