Here’s why cancer should wear a cup

I have a friend—insomuch as a 70-year-old man might consider me a “friend.” We’ll call my friend Greg. A few years back, when Greg was a spry, mid-60s shithead—and I say that with the utmost reverence—we’d do battle in Wednesday morning 1-on-1 hoops at the YMCA. That’s no hyperbole or purple prose. Greg would, very simply, beat the snot out of me. Despite my being three…

A Time to Chill

The neon septuagenerian toddler who holds in his minuscule hands all of our lives and livelihoods—the gold-plated con man Donald J. Trump—today stood in front of cameras to gurgle and fester yet again. My faith in humanity, already tentative, is bent to its breaking point whenever the Great Dullard takes to a podium to publicly spew his frat-boy invective and inanities while we fail…

About Last Night: Russ the Impaler

Corey Brewer had one job. In his defense, when the Thunder took the ball under their own basket leading Houston 103-100 with 7.1 seconds left in last night’s game at Oklahoma City, sticking Russell Westbrook wasn’t technically Brewer’s job. But after a Domantas Sabonis down screen released Westbrook from Trevor Ariza at the weak-side elbow, the unfortunate task of switching to cover the NBA’s resident Weapon…

About Last Night: Bulls’ ball pressure

Cover sports far and wide enough, for long enough—say, from amateur roller hockey to world-class prizefights—and you soon figure out that less is said, either publicly or privately, the higher up the food chain you climb. A high school freshman tennis star would happily offer up mom and dad’s AmEx number for a picture in the local paper, whereas an NFL quarterback guards the identity of his…

The Cubs couldn’t help themselves—but then they did

Sloppy, stupid, bumbling and bedraggled, last night was as Chicago Cubs as Chicago Cubs gets. It was a parade of near-ineptitude, dragged out by the elements and a sheer ignorance of the elemental. It was dumb and silly and spiteful of all its best intentions. Except for the ending. In between brief moments of thoughtless and rote productivity, the players…

It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Five things I love about the start of the 2015-16 NBA season: 1.  The immortal Al Jefferson. Smarter folks than I have written more cogently on the greatly exaggerated death of NBA post play, so I’ll just say this: Al Jefferson rocks. Perimeter shooting? A vertical jump that clears a MacBook? Screw ‘em. Big Al doesn’t need your newfangled…