The Last Days of the Oakland A's

The Athletics. The poor, unloved Athletics. After being evicted from Philadelphia, Kansas City and now, Oakland, baseball's homeless team must now content themselves with three years in a minor league ballpark in Sacramento until their (a-hem) next forever home is completed in Las Vegas, Nevada.

You may be familiar with their story. Or you may not. In the event you are not, let me fill you in.

One of baseball's original sixteen teams, the Athletics began life in Philadelphia. One of two teams in what was then the nation's third-largest city, they were managed by Connie Mack from the get-go. Despite his talents as a manager (and later as an owner), the Athletics endured a bi-polar existence that ping-ponged between championships and extended periods of last-place finishes.

Were they the supreme example of the sport as suggested by the WWI-era teams of Eddie Collins, Charles Bender and Eddie Plank, or as suggested by the 1915 team that struggled to 109 losses after a dire sell-off ?

Were they the imposing late-twenties and early-thirties teams of Al Simmons, Jimmie Foxx, Mickey Cochrane and Lefty Grove, or the abysmal, cash-strapped squads of the forties and fifties?

The details are unclear to me, but those hapless Athletics couldn't compete with the Phillies, (who posted losing records every year between 1918 and 1949 with one, sole exception—1932). If nothing else, it goes to show how deeply stressed the Athletic's finances had become. They couldn't even contend against the team that had been the worst in baseball for three consecutive decades.

By 1954 it had become clear Philadelphia wasn't big enough for both of them. The Athletics left for the green pastures of Kansas City, Missouri following the conclusion of the season. But despite a new city, new ballpark and new ownership, the Athletics continued to flounder. By 1967, their attendance was half of what it had been in 1955.

Unlike their wandering cousins, the Boston/Milwaukee/Atlanta Braves, they had yet to discover a permanent home. But in the spring of 1968, Oakland looked like a good bet.

California was fresh. Underdeveloped. Awash with opportunity. It had yet to morph into the most-populated and most-expensive state in the lower forty-eight. The cities by the bay might have even conjured up notions of a west coast New York City, where instead of the Yankees, Dodgers and Giants competing, the Athletics and those same Giants would vie for superiority in northern California.

It didn't take long for the Athletics to warm to California sunshine. A promising crop of young players emerged, among them Reggie Jackson, Sal Bando and Catfish Hunter. Within five years, they'd anchor baseball's newest dynasty; a battling bunch of mustachioed long-hairs with the reputation for being rugged non-conformists.

They were baseball's new breed, and like them or not they won three consecutive World Series, becoming the first team to do so since the 1951 Yankees. Only the 2000 Yankees have done it since.

But like Connie Mack's golden-era teams, circumstances didn't allow fans or players to enjoy that success.

They had been owned since 1960 by Charles Finley, a flamboyant Insurance executive. To his credit, he devised all sorts of promotions to induce the good citizens of Kansas City into attending Athletics games. From that standpoint, he resembled Bill Veeck.

But despite his non-traditional eye for promotion, he was strictly by-the-book when it came to paying his ballplayers. As a result, the team was rife with acrimony. Players fought for wages commensurate with their skill level and were met with fierce resistance.

Adding to the drama, Finley was a hands-on owner. He loved to meddle. Rosters were constantly re-shaped in accordance to his whims. Likewise, manager Dick Williams seemed constantly on the hot seat. Nope. George Steinbrenner had nothing on Finley.

After a fifth-straight division championship in 1975, the Boston Red Sox swept the Athletics 3 – 0 in the ALCS. It was over.

With Catfish Hunter completing his first season with the Yankees, his former teammates were likewise eager to move on. Reggie Jackson and Ken Holtzman were traded to the Baltimore Orioles. Joe Rudi was traded to the Red Sox. Sal Bando was granted free agency and signed with the Milwaukee Brewers. Bert Campaneris was granted free agency and signed with the Texas Rangers. Rollie Fingers and 1972 World Series hero Gene Tenace were also granted free agency and signed with the San Diego Padres. Vida Blue was traded to the Yankees.

Within a year of the 1975 division championship, the Oakland Athletics were unrecognizable. The sell-off had nothing on those Mack himself had been forced to make following the 1914 and 1932 seasons.

Even more ironically, another problem that had plagued the Athletics in Philadelphia reared its ugly head 2,879 miles to the west: where were the paying customers?

Even before seven-figure attendance counts became standard, the Athletics rarely led the league. They finished second in 1930 and '31, fielding a team of four Hall of Famers. And in Mack's first golden-era, the 1910 and '11 editions actually led the league. But more often than not, the Athletics were also-rans when it came to ticket-selling.

And that didn't change in Kansas City—or Oakland.

An uncle had gifted me with a subscription to Sports Illustrated while the Athletics were in the midst of their World Series threepeat, and it pointed out that their1974  attendance was eleventh out of the twelve teams in the American League. The year before it was eighth.

Why?

Whatever irritations and distractions Charlie Finley couldn't provide, playing for minuscule crowds did. While the crowds that showed for the Series were certainly enthusiastic, I have to feel they paled in comparison to the crowds they would have drawn in Chicago, Philadelphia or New York City. Detroit. Boston. And so on.

In Major League Baseball, only the Minnesota Twins and the Giants drew more-poorly than the singular team en route to a third-consecutive world championship.

There never existed a concentrated volley of criticism regarding the location of the Coliseum. Or the neighborhood in which it was located. Being a new arrival (as well as a world champion) in a sparkling, ten-year-old stadium should have been a recipe for success. But it wasn't.

Perhaps the most-plausible reason it wasn't was a general lack of interest.

San Francisco embraces the 49ers, the Giants and (more-recently) the Warriors pretty vigorously. Apart from the NFL Raiders, I'm not sure Oakland did the same with their teams. And I hasten to point out that even those beloved Raiders now play in Las Vegas.

As we have seen in Miami and Tampa Bay, perhaps Oakland was never an ideal home for a major league baseball team. Perhaps the Giants were enough. And as the succeeding fifty-years have shown, that brief period wasn't an outlier. When the Athletics played well, fans showed up (so to speak). When they didn't, fans stayed away.

They were one-hundred eighty degrees removed from the Chicago Cubs.

Add in a municipal government that seemed indifferent about either updating the Coliseum or building a new stadium and it led to an opportunist like John Fisher hijacking a team and skulking away like a snake oil salesman to the next municipality whose ego required a professional sports franchise.

All aided and abetted, of course, by Major League Baseball.

Watching the video of the Athletics last game in Oakland was heartbreaking. It existed outside of the confines of profit and loss statements. It existed outside of legal briefs and continuances and sheafs of confidential documents. It existed outside of empty texts from team management that only intended to relay the message “It's not our fault.”

The video contained people. Three-dimensional people who were there to share their joy and sorrow. To articulate the pain of losing a civic institution like a ballclub. They rejoiced in the commonality they had shared. They didn't talk about consumer panels or attorneys or securing public loans.

They talked about—gasp—baseball.

They talked about life, and how it happened in and around the Oakland Coliseum. They talked about friends and neighborhoods and communities. And how a greedy, selfish billionaire and an indefensible municipal government gave it to the city of Oakland—without so much as an offer to treat them to a dinner out.

Nobody could get nothing done. With one notable exception. (And the good citizens of Las Vegas are building him a brand new baseball stadium.)

My Joe Biden Confession

I was disappointed when the Democrats announced that Hillary Clinton would be facing-off against Donald Trump in the 2016 Presidential Election. But not because of any ill-feelings I have towards the former First Lady.

She performed brilliantly in her role as Secretary of State and was a distinguished First Lady, suffering through her husband's infidelities with remarkable dignity.

No, my disappointment stemmed from a what I believe was a prefabricated agenda to serve the Democratic party. Not only would they be the first party to elect a Black president, but the first to elect a woman as well.

Instead of waiting to gauge the national mood and deciding on the best possible candidate for that particular election, Democrats decided to send Clinton into battle—regardless of her opponent.

Yes, there was a fair bit of arrogance in the assumption she would defeat whomever the Republicans ran against her. What's that old expression about counting your chickens?

As it turns out, Clinton was Trump's ideal opponent. Not only was she roundly despised by the GOP, but an issue involving e-mails she sent and received as Secretary of State played right into Trump's hands.

And a perfectly-timed announcement by the F.B.I. just days before the election cinched it.

Despite losing the popular vote by a count of nearly three-million, the orange-haired cretin ended up in the White House thanks to the electoral college.

Next election we were offered Joe Biden. He was a career politician and a longtime Senator from Delaware, yet I wasn't enthused. Nor were any of the Democrats I spoke with. This was the guy who was going to take down Trump and his obsessive-compulsive cult?

Eight years ago, I had rooted for Bernie Sanders. In 2020, it was Elizabeth Warren. Now I would have to choose between Trump and Biden. If I haven't already made it clear, I was under-whelmed.

I shouldn't have been.

It turns out that after four years of Trump's ignorance, arrogance and general fecklessness, Biden's grassroots, plain-as-day sensibility were just the cure Democrats had been looking for. (Modesty requires me to admit that at the time, I just knew his name wasn't 'Trump'.)

This time, Biden took the popular vote by seven-million and pummeled Trump in the electoral college. But despite the sound whipping, Trump's ego would not let him go gently into that dank, dark Republican night.

Nope. President Petulant displayed his rigorous ability to manipulate, stating before Election Day that if he didn't win, the election was 'stolen'.

How's that for covering your ass?

Despite getting the re-counts and investigations he demanded, guess what? He still lost. By 7,059,526 votes.

He carried the lie forward, as did the intellectually-disadvantaged folk who constitute his cult. Seeing a 'Trump Won' banner in 2023 was the saddest and most-pathetic example of voluntary stupidity I have ever seen.

Why not claim that water isn't actually wet? Or that Wendy's was selling nuclear arms to Libya?

Again, I have diverged from the original intent of this post. Joe Biden became president under very trying conditions, not unlike those of Barack Obama. Trump's non-intervention with the pandemic and its fallout created a crisis much worse than it needed to be.

But come to think of it, like anything that didn't directly affect billionaires, it was Trump's standard operating procedure. Like all Trump-centric criticism, it was a hoax. It's rigged. It's a witch-hunt. It's the product of radical left-wingers.

Sigh. Doesn't anyone like Donald?

But I warmed to Joe Biden. As bland and ego-less as he was, Biden settled the ship. He didn't appoint Trump-tards to every judicial opening. He didn't hand additional tax breaks to billionaires and their companies. He worked to maintain voter's rights and championed reproductive rights.

He decried the nation's runaway gun violence and worked to inhibit it.

Best of all, he didn't receive love letters from Kim Jong Un or pretend that Vladimir Putin was anything but what he is.

Yeah, his handling of immigration could have been better. And guilty or not, he was held responsible for inflation not returning to pre-pandemic norms. And let's not forget we're still sending weapons and money to Israel even after they have admitted to genocide.

But he has greatly restored America's position as a world leader and a tireless champion of democracy. That counts for something. Especially when your opposition seeks to destroy it.

And on July 21^st, he made a decision almost unfathomable in the politics of the twenty-first century. Owing to a poor debate performance three weeks earlier, he announced he was—for the good of the party—removing himself as a candidate for President of the United States.

Wait—you mean selflessness isn't dead?

Can you imagine Donald Trump doing the same thing? Even with a central nervous system suffused with fentanyl?

Of course not.

President Biden's acknowledgement of duty and responsibility happened in a city stuffed with preening egos and selfish power grabs.

“Wait. You're doing that because it's the right thing to do? Wow. You're setting a really bad example for the rest of us, bro.”

And so he was. 

Unburdened by the monstrous ego that controls his opponent, Biden took a step back, realized the momentousness of the occasion and realized he wasn't the best man for the job. Democrats are fortunate Donald Trump is incapable of making the same decision.

Thank you, Joe. You are truly a man amongst men.

Wither Caitlin Clark?

Can you stand another piece on Caitlin Clark? (Don't worry—if your answer is 'no' I completely understand.)

Ironically, that is part of the problem. You see, deserved or not, Ms. Clark is the most-heralded female basketball player to enter the WNBA in some time. And there has been much speculation as to why.

There are many potential reasons. First off, she's white. And secondly, she's heterosexual. In a league primarily made up of gay Black women, that makes her an outlier from the word go.

And when she shows up with a shoe contract and several corporate endorsements (as well as the cover of Time magazine), what I call the jealousy factor skyrockets upwards. It's very easy to imagine competing players thinking “I'll take that bitch down a notch or two.”

And many have. From her opening night struggles where she set a WNBA-record with 10 turnovers to a recent game versus the Chicago Sky in which guard Chennedy Carter administered an indefensible cheap shot to her, there appears to be a concerted effort to baptize Clark into the hard knocks world of professional basketball.

And adding to the drama is the fact that Clark is, yes, a trash-talker. Which is fine—as long as you can back it up.

Before a three-point contest during an NBA All-Star weekend, Larry Bird stood up in the locker room and faced his competition. “Which of you is going to finish second?” he asked. There was no response.

And just who won that three-point contest?

Guess.

However vigorous Clark's chutzpah, it has been tested. And will continue to be. At least until she demonstrates a Michael Jordan-like ability to shred her opponents and devour them.

To her credit, she has maintained a very marketable demeanor in public, appearing gracious, confident and in control. She has everything to gain and nothing to lose by ignoring her haters.

They will exist regardless of her career arc.

But this isn't the last of Caitlin's indignities. 2024 is an Olympic year, and the USA must assemble an Olympic team to participate. And the basketball neophytes who have recently descended on the WNBA have made their feelings clear: as the most popular player the league, isn't it Caitlin's birthright that she be named to the team?

Not quite.

While event-specific teams such as this may appear otherwise, the powers that be seek the best players for these teams, not the most-famous. And whatever her potential, Caitlin is not one of the premier point guards in the WNBA. She very well may be one day, but not today.

Struggle isn't new. Nor is it unusual. Ms. Clark is the latest in a long line of highly-talented athletes who made the jump from college to the pros and didn't find instant success.

But given her level-headed and focused approach, success is imminent. We (or rather, you) just needs to be patient.

The Shaq Attack, 2.0

I'm not sure it matters now, but I never came to terms with Shaquille O'Neal. His bruising physicality was in many ways a burden, as fellow players, coaches and NBA executives all saw in him the potential to be The Greatest Player Ever.

No pressure, right?

Without ever having had that kind of pronouncement bestowed upon me, it's hard to understand it fully. But I suspect it was a 24/7 cam of expectation.

And Shaq was pretty good. He led a young Orlando Magic team to the NBA Finals at the age of 22. After jumping ship to join the Los Angeles Lakers (why isn't that a cliche yet?), he and Kobe Bryant formed a powerful duo as the Lakers ran off three consecutive championships in '00, '01 and '02.

But as we saw with the Jordan-era Bulls, success quickly became a game not played on a basketball court. Who was the better player? Who deserved most of the credit? Who was the leader the rest of the team turned to when things got tough?

These squabbles caught fire much quicker in L.A. than they did in Chicago, and the inevitable power struggle between O'Neal and Bryant led to the former leaving Lakerland after the 2003/04 season. That was also the last time Shaq n' Kobe went to the NBA Finals as teammates.

After exhausting the Laker front office with multiple injuries and escalating salary demands, O'Neal was jettisoned to the Miami Heat.

A stellar first season seemed to bode well for his stay in Miami, but before long the all-too-familiar foot/ankle/toe injuries set in. O'Neal managed to play just 59 and 40 games the next two seasons.

He managed a minor comeback in 2008/09 with the Phoenix Suns (playing in 75 games), but the end was clearly near. After a year each with the Cleveland Cavaliers and the Boston Celtics as a second-stringer, he retired.

In the end, O'Neal is a study in contradiction. While his athletic abilities were routinely described as “limitless”, those assessments did not take into account O'Neal's personality. Despite a public persona that was playful—almost childlike—he suffered ruptured relationships with scores of the people he played with and for.

And that's not even taking into account the media.

At the core of those disputes were O'Neal's outsized ego, petulance and a work ethic that frequently left coaches scratching their heads. Lakers' coach Phil Jackson even referred to him as “probably the only player I coached who wasn't a worker.”

Trapped between unlimited physical potential and a personality not hard-wired like Bill Russell's, Larry Bird's or Michael Jordan's, Shaq was almost doomed to fail. No matter how well he played, the perfection of infinity always lay ahead, untouched.

But Shaq's critics had their points. He struggled to hit half his free-throws, a fact which the opposition frequently exploited. And when properly motivated, he could be a monster on defense. Problem was, he wasn't always motivated.

He showed who he could be in the 2000/01 season and was deserving of the MVP trophy as a result. But he never reached those heights again. It appeared he was (gulp) satisfied. Bryant and assistant coach Tex Winter weren't shy about expressing their frustration.

O'Neal's pettiness was spotlighted when he publicly criticized those who elected Sun's guard Steve Nash to consecutive MVP trophies. Nash, a likeable guard who served as the engine for the team nicknamed 'The Solar Express', somehow stole the votes that, by right, were O'Neal's.

Sigh.

And O'Neal did it again recently, using the pulpit afforded him by cable TV's 'NBA on TNT'. Only this time, the thief was Denver Nuggets center Nikola Jokic, who was unfairly awarded his third MVP in four years.

Even more curiously, the two players he openly questioned happen to be white. It could be coincidence, and it could be something else. Not being a social media subscriber, I am ignorant of any opinions he might have offered on Black MVPs.

At any rate, this tempest is certainly interesting. Especially since Nash is a Hall of Famer and—barring a career-ending injury—Jokic will be as well.

It leaves me wondering: is O'Neal projecting his own disappointment over winning a single MVP award onto Nash and Jokic? Maybe he has regrets. Maybe he wishes he had done certain things differently.

If so, welcome to the club, Shaq. Nearly all of us have those thoughts at some point in our lives.

But at the age of fifty-two, I wish you could express those thoughts without besmirching the accomplishments of others.

Many people would say you have enjoyed a disproportionate share of life's gifts. It's a shame that largesse hasn't created in you an equally vigorous sense of graciousness.

You know, the way you were fawned over as a player.

Robbie Gould

Robbie Gould announced his retirement recently. To all but the most ardent NFL fans, that name likely means very little. But to those who follow the sport, Gould was one of the best place-kickers ever to play the game.

His talent might have been a little hard to see at first, being that Gould went un-drafted after a distinguished career with the Penn State Nittany Lions. Even moreso after being waived—twice—after two pre-camp visits with the New England Patriots and Baltimore Ravens.

In what must rank as the most cerebral insight ever experienced by Bears management, Gould was first located working for a construction company in Pennsylvania. He was then invited to a work-out at Halas Hall and subsequently signed to a contract shortly into the 2005 season.

If it even needs to be said, the Bears don't do things like that. Over the hill linemen? Sure. Inconsequential wide receivers? Of course. Dubious quarterbacks? In a heartbeat.

Hall of Fame quality place-kickers? Nope.

That low-profile introduction may have been a godsend, as no one outside of northeastern Illinois was paying much attention. But within eighteen months Gould was kicking in a Super Bowl and being named as a first-team All-Pro.

Yeah, he was pretty good. And he stayed that way for a long time. Long enough to retire as the tenth highest scoring player in NFL history. Given the Football Hall of Fame's reluctance to admit special teams performers, it may be a while before we see him inducted.

But that's on them. Not us.

After an awkward dismissal from the Bears on the eve of the 2016 season (supposedly, then-GM Ryan Pace felt the Bears' kicker was getting old and expensive), Gould signed with the New York Giants for a season. He then moved on to the San Francisco 49ers.

And on December 3, 2017 he had what must've been one of the greatest games of his life. Against the Bears—in Chicago—Gould kicked five field goals in a 15 – 14 49ers victory. (God how I'd love to kick five field goals against a former employer!)

And the equally-expensive kickers Pace replaced Gould with? Connor Barth—followed by Cody Parkey. Anyone still wondering why Pace no longer works as an NFL GM?

With a franchise more-appreciative of his singular talents, Gould went on to kick in two more Super Bowls. What's more, he did it without a posse. He did it without complaining how disrespected he was by his salary. He did it without telling every camera in the locker room how good he was.

As a former NBA point guard once observed, if you're as good as you say you are, you don't need to remind people of it every day.

Gould merely focused on his job and devoted himself to the performance of that job to a very high order. And despite the low-key demeanor, people noticed. At a time when the Bears were trying to mask their on-field mediocrity, team execs made it a point to talk about quality individuals filling quality rosters.

But when the cameras were turned off, the Bears unceremoniously dumped two of the best examples (running back Matt Forte was the other) they could ever hope to find. Which made me doubly happy for that 49ers-Bears game in 2017.

You might consider me a Bears fan after reading this post. Truth is, I realized the absolute state of their fecklessness before puberty even hit and abandoned them for the Dallas Cowboys. Which makes my regard for Robbie Gould still-more remarkable. 

Amid what were mostly unfavorable circumstances, Gould went about his work as if every game were a Super Bowl; as if nothing less than his best would suffice. He never told anyone about it. He just did it. Teammates noticed. Word got out. While physically-diminutive by NFL standards, Gould's reputation morphed into a Julius Peppers-sized giant.

He. Got. It. Done.

I forget who said 'Revenge is a dish best served cold', but know you were never cooler than you were with San Francisco, Mr. Gould. Congratulations.

 

The September Fade

No, it's not the latest hairstyle sported by Harry Styles as he tours the world. Nor is it the latest iteration of Donald's comb-over. Nope. The September Fade is the semi-annual collapse of the Chicago Cubs on the odd years they are actually in contention.

I've only been following the Cubs since 1968, so I'm hardly an expert. But they have an unpleasant habit of fading in September. Do I remember the jokes about the Cubs relocating to the Philippines and renaming themselves the Manila Folders?

Sadly, yes.

For purposes of juxtaposition, the 2016 Cubs followed up a sizzling August (22 – 6) with a stupendous September, going 17 – 10 as they wrapped up the NL Central division. The previous year, after having embraced the idea they were legitimate contenders, the Cubs also followed up a torrid August with an equally-torrid September (19 – 9), ending the year on an eight-game winning streak.

(You will excuse me for not mentioning that after taking the season series from the New York Mets 7 – 0, they disappeared against them in the National League Championship Series, falling four games to none.)

Even after a slow start in 2017, they caught fire in late-summer, going 16 – 8 in July, 17 – 12 in August and 19 – 9 in—you guessed it—September. In 2018 they managed a still-impressive 16 – 12 record, tying the Milwaukee Brewers for the division lead. (Naturally, they lost game one-hundred sixty-three at home to those same Brewers, managing just three hits in a 3 – 1 loss.)

Following that defeat, the Cubs went on to lose another game—also at home—in a one-game wild card series to the 1927 New York Yank...er, I mean the 2018 Colorado Rockies. The score was 2 – 1, but at least the Cubs totaled six hits.

In a manner of speaking, the immediate future began in 2019. In what was widely seen as a make-it-or-break-it year for Maddon and company, the Cubs played well, ending August with a 73 – 62 record, in second-place just 2.5 games behind the St. Louis Cardinals.

But do you remember September?

The Cubs crashed, going 11 – 16 and losing ten out of their last twelve games (which included a season-high nine-game losing streak).

So, yeah. This isn't new.

Most famously there was 1969. After enjoying a five to nine game divisional lead from mid-May through Labor Day, the Cubs went on to lose seventeen of twenty-five games that September, which included a season-high eight-game losing streak. It was enough to subvert a very healthy divisional lead to the point where the Cubs stood eight games behind the New York Mets by season's end.

In an era where only division winners were invited to participate in the post-season, it was a brutal end to a campaign that had success-starved Cub fans rekindling their belief in Santa Claus.

I hate the Mets to this day. And I always will.

2008. The Cubs were cruising along at a 100-win pace when September struck. They enjoyed a division lead that grew to 10.5 games by the 22^nd, despite the Cubs suffering through what was easily the worst month of the season (12 – 12).

It was perhaps fortunate that September had just thirty days.

The good news was that the ninety-seven win Cubs were opening the divisional playoffs against the 84 – 78 Los Angeles Dodgers, who not only held the worst won-loss record of any of the MLB post-season combatants, but the worst road record of any of the five National League post-season entrants.

To Cub fans who hasn't yet surrendered their innocence, this was a sign from God that the Cubs were headed to the World Series. To those of us who had lost our virginity some time ago, this pairing merited only a reserved and distant “Hmmm.”

The Cubs wasted no time in snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, losing game one 7 – 2 and game two 10 – 3 at Wrigley—to the second-worst road team in the playoffs. I didn't even bother checking the score for game three. Didn't need to. I knew instinctively they had once again found the cloud in the silver lining.

Unlike other Cubs teams that had suffered a difficult September, the 2008 squad distinguished itself because it had also experienced a difficult October, something the 1984, 1989 and 2003 clubs were also familiar with.

Yes, for the masochistic Cub fan, it was a season to remember.

2023 didn't plumb those depths, but managed to hold several peculiar qualities all its own.

First off, you should know the Cubs held the third-best run differential in the National League for the majority of the season. Their pythagorean won-lost record was 90 – 72, a full seven games above their actual record.

This was going to be a continuation of the second-half success last year's team enjoyed. And with new additions like Cody Bellinger and Dansby Swanson plus the return of Kyle Hendricks, why wouldn't it be?

Read on, dear reader. Read on.

So what went wrong? The Cubs punched well below their weight. They ran notoriously hot and cold. Slumps and injuries held an all-access pass to their locker room.

Jameson Taillon and Drew Smyly appeared in April to be decent-quality fourth and fifth starters, but that didn't quite happen. Taillon's first half was a disaster, and Smyly never got untracked and was relegated to the bullpen.

However good Marcus Stroman was in the first half (and he was Cy Young-nominee good), he tailed off during the Cubs' visit to London and never recovered. (A cartilage-injury to his ribs helped ensure he wouldn't.)

Hendricks arrived in June and was a great help. But the Cubs couldn't score when Hendricks was on the mound. Ten of his twenty-four starts resulted in a no decision, and what usually happened on those occasions was that the bullpen would extend to the opposition the generosity Hendricks himself refused to.

That left Justin Steele. The new guy in town had a breakthrough year and was a deserved candidate for the Cy Young trophy until a couple of late-season starts went south.

Then there was the bullpen. It was a bullpen-by-committee kind of deal, with Adbert Alzolay emerging as the eventual closer. And for the majority of the year he was quite good. But his calendar contained a 'September' too, and he was sidelined at the most critical time of the year.

There were lots and lots of blown save opportunities in September, something that doesn't align well with post-season play. Over the last thirty days, only the Atlanta Braves and Kansas City Royals created more save opportunities (thirteen) than the Cubs' dozen. The Cubs could only convert four.

There's no telling what those eight blown saves (defined as a lead lost in the eighth or ninth inning) did to the club's psyche. But the position players weren't without blame as slumps coursed through the lineup in a highly-democratic fashion.

Swanson, the Cubs big free-agent signing, had a good year defensively but his offensive production was on the weak side. Specifically, he hit just .184 in August (OPS of .662) and .236 in September—not the numbers you're expecting from a triple-digit signing.

Seiya Suzuki rebounded nicely at the end of the year, but could only manage a batting average of .177 in June (with a slugging percentage of .228 and an OPS of .475) and .240 in July (with a less-bad slugging percentage of .350 and an OPS of .660).

Even Bellinger slumped, hitting .226 in May and .250 in June with slugging percentages of .300 each month. But a month-long knee injury hit him in mid-May, so..

He also tailed-off in September.

The lasting picture I have of the 2023 Cubs is that there always seemed to be someone on the IL and/or enmeshed in a deep slump. Suffering from a lack of depth, this was a club that could not afford to be hamstrung by a starting pitcher or positional player or bullpen closer struggling. And yet it was—repeatedly.

The powers that be maintain the Cubs weren't supposed to be contending for a playoff slot, which helps not one iota in picking up the pieces of this broken season. That wasn't the point! They were contending. And they choked.

On the other hand, the Dodgers, Atlanta Braves and Baltimore Orioles won 305 games between them. The Orioles and Dodgers were swept by teams that won (respectively) 90 and 84 games.

(Just for fun, I'll add the 99-win Tampa Bay Rays, who were swept in the wild card round by a 90-win team, also.)

The Braves will likely bow out of their series tonight to a team that also won 90. That's four teams—all substantially better than the Cubs—who went 1 – 11 in October.

Maybe that's the reason we keep watching—the immutable and unexplainable mysteries of sport.

Yeah, There's an App for That

Map My Walk (a free app offered by athletic apparel manufacturer Under Armour) came into my life via a sibling, who advised installing it when she heard my complaints that my phone's stopwatch wasn't quite the tool it promised to be.

Map My Walk was ready, willing and able. It could (and did) record my entire workout. Given the pitiable performance of the aforementioned stopwatch, it was a huge and welcome blessing. “You mean it stays on the entire time? Not just for, like, twelve minutes? Wow!”

Life was good. Calories burned, steps taken, the distance covered and the time it took to do so were all faithfully recorded and stored. Sure, there were days when Under Armour would encourage you to “upgrade”, rendering the app unavailable to anyone who didn't wish to. But it was just a single workout. The app was back to normal the next day.

I don't remember the first time a problem reared its ugly head, but this year they have become almost routine.

First off, I begin and end my walk at fixed points. In other words, I begin and end my walks at the exact same place every day. And yet Map My Walk has computed the distance traveled as anywhere between 2.22 and 2.29 miles.

Huh?

Then there's the pause button. This is supposedly a courtesy offered the user who needs to temporarily suspend the timer to either tighten a shoelace, chat with a friend, pick-up after their dog, etc. It is also employed at the finish of the end-user's walk.

The problem is that it only works about two-thirds of the time. “Look! I've hit pause a dozen times and the clock is still ticking! Wow!” The concept of 'pause' is, at these times, purely theoretical. As is the idea of obtaining an accurate and reliable record of your walk.

Left unattended, the clock will run until your phone's battery is drained. (On a personal note, I advise avoiding this outcome whenever possible.) To prevent battery failure, continue to press the pause button. While doing so may provoke long-term cartilage and/or nerve damage, it can be justified in the event your phone's battery survives.

Turning off the phone is another option.

So the pause button has decided to work today. Quickly press the new button (hold to finish) that should appear just to the left of the pause button. Keep it pressed until the red minute hand has completed its cycle.

(I should take a moment to salute the hold to finish button. It is the lone function on Map My Walk that has performed as intended.)

Okay.

With the data from the walk now secure, you no doubt want to save it for future reference. And here's where we encounter the first glitch seen continuously for seven consecutive days.

Go ahead—press save workout. Where once your record was installed in Map My Walk's file, it has recently greeted me with the message stating there has been an error. If I wait fifteen minutes and attempt it again, it will work.

The facts of your walk can then be moved into your file.

But yesterday, there was no appeasing the save workout beast. It refused, time after time, to save my workout. And naturally, there was no relevant help on the app's site. I suppose I should take some solace from the fact I wasn't asked to upgrade.

With no other solution in sight, I decided on the tried and true reboot. Delete the app. Re-install the app. It saved the workout the save workout button refused to. In my innocence, I thought I had fixed/restored/enabled Map My Walk. Dare to dream!

This morning, Map My Walk again refused to save my workout. Deleting and reinstalling the app made not a whit of difference. Most of my fingers are presently unusable.

It's been fun, Map My Walk.

Goodbye.

This and That

On April 24, 2023, the Green Bay Packers announced the trade of quarterback Aaron Rodgers to the New York Jets. Given the reaction by Bear fans, it was as if their team had just won the first springtime Super Bowl in NFL history.

Of course, considering how little they have to cheer, it could almost be tolerated—if not quite understood.

Yes, Rodgers went 25-5 against the Bears over his career, rendering his infamous “I own you!” comment a fair catch with both feet firmly in bounds. But it must be pointed out he had nothing to do with the parade of mediocrity that has emanated from Halas Hall for the last three decades.

That, my friends, is the exclusive property of the McCaskey family.

And while Bear fans merrily predict an MVP for Justin Fields and a divisional title for the team, the sober among us take care to point out that while the team has improved in many important areas, it has not in others.

Take, for example, the offensive line. Aside from first-round draft choice Darnell Wright, the line is essentially unchanged. Also unchanged is the fact that the majority of projected starters have spent the balance of training camp injured.

Foremost among those are injury-prone 2021 second-round pick Tevin Jenkins and 2023 first-rounder Wright.

I know no one chooses to be injured, but I'm wondering how the Bears continually select such delicate specimens at what might be the game's most physically-demanding position. And did I mention that in terms of O-line injuries, this is a sequel to last year's camp?

The Bears regularly pay lip service to the idea they are eager to see Fields develop into a full-fledged NFL quarterback. And yet by placing him behind one of the worst offensive lines in the league, how can this ever happen?

Fields was the most-sacked quarterback in the NFL last year. And for someone as mobile as Fields, that speaks volumes.

But in the same breath, critics point out he holds on to the ball too long. Hmmm. Playing behind an NCAA division II offensive line, with a modestly-productive tight end and a number-one wide receiver who would rank third on most NFL depth charts, is that sack total really due to the fact he holds on to the ball too long?

Or that there is no one to throw to?

The Bears appear to have addressed the WR question with the signing of D.J. Moore, who by all accounts is an NFL-quality wideout. But he better get open in a hurry, because Fields is still operating behind an O-line made of Kleenex.

Sorry Bears' fans, but I'll consider their season a success if they can just double last year's win total.

Much has been made of Aaron Rodgers' move to New York City. I'll admit the Jets have some promise, with a young, talented defense and an offense made more than functional with the addition of Rodgers, Dalvin Cook and a couple of ex-Packer receivers.

But before we anoint them World Champions, I think we need to consider a few things.

Yes, Rodgers' Packers dominated the NFC Central. But the AFC East is not the NFC Central—especially as currently configured. Put another way, the Jets are not going to run over the Buffalo Bills, Miami Dolphins and New England Patriots the way the Packers once did the Bears, Minnesota Vikings and Detroit Lions.

Point two: Rodgers has extracted more mileage from glittering regular season play than any quarterback I can think of. I mean, between Labor Day and New Year's he's one of the best ever to play the game. No doubt about that.

But despite going to the post-season in eleven of Rodgers' fifteen season as a starter, the Packers played in but a single Super Bowl. That's half the number Eli Manning enjoyed with the New York Giants. And equal to the number Nick Foles availed himself of with the Philadelphia Eagles.

It gets worse.

There's the Packers' 5-9 post-season record since that lone Super Bowl. (Which includes going 0 for 4 in conference championship games.) At the risk of being charged with arson, I will add that just six of those post-season games were played outside of Green Bay, and that the Pack won just one of them.

Iron-willed champion? Only between September and January, kids.

The prima donna-slash-attention-whore will face an ocean of distractions in New York City. At the same time, he'll be graduating—at the age of thirty-nine—from a sandbox to a shark tank in terms of division and conference play.

By December he'll be dreaming of those days in Soldier Field when he could claim “I own you!”

One of the all-time greats?

I'm thinking only with an asterisk.

Huh?

I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner. In the wake of the NFL's decades-long infatuation with the quarterback-is-everything aesthetic, the running back has become the first position to be financially devalued.

Witness the struggles of Jonathan Taylor, Saquon Barkley, Josh Jacobs and Dalvin Cook to get paid relative to their production. Cook was released by the Minnesota Vikings rather than extend a contract to him. Barkley was burdened with the franchise tag before agreeing to a contract stuffed with incentives.

While under contract, Taylor has been rebuffed in his attempt to either receive an extension or be traded. Colts' owner Jim Irsay refuses to do either and appears prepared to let Taylor sit out the season.

Like Barkley, Jacobs has also been assigned the franchise tag but refuses to sign. In lieu of an extension or a trade, he also appears ready to sit out the season.

From a competition standpoint, neither the Indianapolis Colts, New York Giants, Las Vegas Raiders or Minnesota Vikings are in a position that allows them to get tough with their running backs.

Despite their gaudy record, last year's Vikings were the first team to post a dozen-plus wins and be outscored. Translated, that means they won small and lost large. With the trade of WR Adam Thielen and the release of Cook, the Vikings appear poised for a minor-key rebuild. Especially when you consider that veteran QB Kirk Cousins is in the final year of his contract.

Have the Vikings considered how the loss of Thielen, Cook and potentially Cousins will impact the career arc of their talented young WR Justin Jefferson? Probably not.

After five seasons of non-competitive football, the Giants—fueled by the emergence of QB Daniel Jones and a healthy season from Barkley—won, burnished by a wild card road victory over Minnesota.

It was entirely cringe-worthy that the front office chose this moment to put the screws to Barkley. Yes, he missed the vast majority of 2020 with a torn ACL, and his comeback a year later wasn't the stuff dreams are made of. But Barkley persevered and returned to form last year.

That took work. Sorry Joe Schoen, but Barkley deserves his cash. This was not the time to toy with a vital piece of the puzzle.

Circumstances are different for the Colts and Raiders. Since the sudden retirement of Andrew Luck just before the 2019 season, the Colts have employed a revolving cast of quarterbacks.

Only Philip Rivers jelled with the team, leading the Colts to an 11-5 record in 2020. Neither Matt Ryan, Carson Wentz nor Jacoby Brissett could sustain a pulse, and that was with Taylor. Aside from saving on payroll, I can't imagine what the rebuilding Colts feel they'd accomplish without him.

While the Raiders had stability at quarterback, their performance was routinely mediocre. Like the Colts, they apparently regard their running back's requests as inconsequential. Maybe they have a Brown/Payton/Henry hybrid they're keeping secret?

Given the Colts and Raiders middling status, why don't they unload Taylor and Jacobs? If we can assume each is worth so little, surely any return they'd receive in a trade would be welcome compensation?

On the other hand, perhaps this is exactly the kind of decision-making which has kept each franchise on the fringes of NFL. Maybe that's just how they roll.

Taking a step back to assess the bigger picture, the exponential rise in quarterback salaries plays a huge role in this scenario. When teams devote such an enormous percentage of payroll to a single player, the only conceivable result is that less will be available to everyone else.

Standing squarely in the corner they painted themselves into, GMs must assign hard values to the remaining twenty-three positions required to field a football team. Given the executive-level mania for passing, it has been decided that running backs are unproductive. And their salaries must reflect that.

They're not an investment. They're an expense.

If you say so.

I'm hoping this is the inevitable consequence of the passing-is-all fashion currently besotting the NFL.

Like it or not, moving the football is best accomplished by using the run to offset the pass and using the pass to offset the run. It keeps your opponent off-balance. It's similar to a baseball manager bringing in a series of relievers with contrasting styles that keep hitters on edge—if not outright confused.

Football games featuring teams with one-dimensional offenses are unimaginably tedious. They suck all the nuance and strategy that have evolved over the past 100 years from the game. They reduce the game to something that belongs in an eighties video game arcade. Can we call it Day-Glo football?

(I have even heard of grown men venturing into basements looking for laundry to fold rather than subject themselves to such punishment.)

I'm pretty sure that is not what the NFL had in mind when it negotiated its latest multi-billion-dollar TV contract.

But this isn't just about running backs. They're just the first position to be officially devalued . It could've been (and may still be) cornerbacks, offensive tackles, edge rushers, etc. Who will be next and accused of effectively stealing money from quarterbacks?

Have the people who determine such things considered the long-term effects on the game? It's viability? Is the future of the NFL a 50-million-dollar-a-year quarterback surrounded by a bunch of sixth-round schmucks and walk-ons?

I'm reminded of fifties-rocker Chuck Berry, who refused to employ a full-time band behind him. You know; too expensive. Too much trouble. He'd go from gig to gig solo, backed by whatever band was available—and cheap.

While it might have made a certain kind of business sense, I wasn't the only one who saw in it a profound disregard for his music—and his fans. I don't see any differently as the next generation of the NFL takes shape right before our eyes.

How ironic would it be if Chuck Berry and the NFL ended up in the same place?

Major League Ennui

Chicago is just one of four municipalities (soon to be three) to host a pair of major league baseball teams. To cities without even a single franchise, this—at first blush—appears to be an enviable concentration of wealth.

And at first glance, it is. Doubles the chances of hosting a championship. Of having a contending team in a late-season pennant race. Two sets of athletes performing otherworldly feats in the rarefied strata of major league baseball.

Or so you'd think.

We've had a pair of baseball teams in town for a very, very long time. Way longer than Los Angeles, Philadelphia, Boston and the Bay Area (municipalities that, at one point or another, enjoyed the services of multiple MLB baseball teams). In fact, only New York City can compare. (But remember: the Yankees had NYC to themselves from the time the Giants and Dodgers departed for the West coast until the birth of the Mets in 1962.)

So, yeah. Chicago has been a two-MLB town longer than anybody.

But as any local baseball fan will admit, a lot of good it's done. From the end of World War One (November 11, 1918) through today (July 4, 2023), Chicago has celebrated just two World Series victories. Two. In what is nearly 105 years.

Sure, the White Sox ended the third-longest title drought in the history of professional sports in 2005. And the Cubs famously ended the longest back in 2016. But that's it. Put another way, it's as many as the Houston Astros have amassed since 2017.

As we know so well in Chicago, two teams doubles the odds. What we frequently forget is that it doubles the odds for everything. Good and bad. Not just of winning championships (although that would be nice), but of sucking. Being uncompetitive. Playing listless, uninspired ball in front of some of the most-expensive seats in Major League Baseball.

White Sox fans are in their second season of hair-shirt torment since the fall of the 2021 AL Central champions in the first round of the playoffs. To their fan's immeasurable relief, the team finally jettisoned Tony LaRussa, which helped not one iota. While he should be credited with keeping the team afloat despite the parade to the IL, his successors have fared no better.

However unwilling and disorganized the 2022 team appeared, the 2023 version is far worse. For the White Sox merely to equal last season's .500 mark, they will have to win 44 of their remaining 76 games, which equates to a 93-win pace over a full season.

Additionally, the parade to the IL has not stopped. Every week, another player suffers an injury that keeps him out for weeks, if not months. Those that remain more or less healthy underperform—spectacularly. Tim Anderson? Dylan Cease? Yoan Moncada? Michael Kopech? Eloy Jimenez? All were exceptionally-rated prospects. None have fulfilled their potential.

The team's leading light is Luis Robert, Jr. Named to the American League all-star squad last week, he appears on track to play in 100 games for the first time in his four-year career.

This is probably a good time to mention that the White Sox do lead the league in something, though. They have suffered the largest drop-off in average attendance in Major League Baseball.

The return of pre-pandemic congestion is partly to blame, I'm sure. As is the reconstruction of the Kennedy Expressway. But it appears White Sox fans know a bad thing when they see it.

Ever-hopeful Cub fans were anticipating this season as the team actually competed in the second half of 2022. With the return of arms like Kyle Hendricks, Marcus Stroman, Drew Smyly and Justin Steele and newly-added players like Dansby Swanson and Cody Bellinger, the Cubs just had to be better.

Didn't they?

Yes and no. Are we talking about the team that took two out of three from the Tampa Bay Rays in May? Or the team that has lost seven out of eight to the likes of St. Louis, Cleveland, Philadelphia and Milwaukee?

Like it or not, the Cubs are telling us who they are. We just need to listen.

TJ Maxx used to call itself “a new store everyday.” The Cubs could do likewise. They are the personification of 'win some, lose some.' But in the end, that means they're not very good. Not in the context of a 162-game MLB schedule, anyway.

Relief pitching has been, to be kind, inconsistent. When it functions as intended, the Cubs can make use of their starter's quality outings and post a save. When it doesn't, it sends the Cubs to agonizing losses. I haven't examined the data, but I'd wager next week's pay check the Cubs have surrendered more runs in innings six through nine than innings one through five.

In one and two run games, the Cubs are 11-21. In games in which they score between one and three runs, they're 8-26. Yet they possess the biggest run differential in the division. So they're either winning 7-2 or losing 3-2.

Free-agent starter Jameson Taillon has been a disaster. The Cubs are 2-12 in games he starts. His E.R.A. is 6.93. I mean, that kind of generosity belongs in a sleigh and a red velvet suit. On the rare occasion Taillon makes a quality start, the Cubs are 2-1. But with three quality starts in fourteen opportunities, well, not even Tom Ricketts has that kind of money.

But the Cubs' woes extend far beyond Taillon.

The Cubs have a big problem hitting with men on base. Or more specifically, with runners in scoring position. And they have for a while. Their .225 batting average ranks 28^th. Their .300 on-base percentage ranks 25^th. Their 14 home runs rank 26^th.

See a picture forming?

While otherwise respectably talented, the Cubs morph into the Oakland A's with runners in scoring position. They get really nervous. They mostly crumble. In a game where scoring more runs than the opposition is fairly critical to the outcome, is it any wonder the Cubs are 38 – 45?

Would a regimen of Viagra fix that? How about Shohei Ohtani?

Exacerbating local fan's sense of doom is that both Chicago entries play in the worst division in their respective league. This generates questions. Questions like “If the _____________ can't compete in the weakest division in the _________________ League, how bad are they really?”

At least in the case of the White Sox, I suspect we don't want to know. The Cubs? Depends on the day. They give 'unpredictable' a bad name.

Worse, management doesn't seem to have a clue. Sox GM Rick Hahn doesn't appear to be in any hurry to move on from their failed prospects, whatever their underachievement. But it's hard to know for sure because he's been very, very quiet.

Across town, Cubs' president Jed Hoyer appears as flummoxed as the rest of us when queried about whether the Cubs will be buyers or sellers come August 1^st. I'll say this: it's fairly difficult to imagine them embarking on the kind of run that would position them as a contender.

While Chicagoans can blame the wildfires burning in Ontario and Quebec for the poor air quality and visibility, our baseball teams have no such option. They're likely wishing the smoke was a little thicker.

 

Our Media-Induced Day of Mourning

Let it commence. Let the horror and the sadness and the outrage congeal. Let them seep through our bodies at will. Let us wallow in the unjustness and the horror of it all. Let us question the uncaring and selfish God who allowed this to happen.

Yes, the Los Angeles Lakers have been swept and summarily dismissed from the NBA post-season.

As inconceivable as it seems, the undefeated Lakers were swept by a godless, eighth-seeded team not from Los Angeles, who went 41 – 41 or something. (I don't know—and who cares, anyway?) But they are most certainly not the Lakers. Their shorts aren't even yellow!

The Lakers' 2022/23 campaign was a wire-to-wire thrill ride as they demolished one opponent after another. They constituted a league all by themselves! They deigned to play in the NBA only because a more-celestial option wasn't available.

If you contest any of these facts, you need only to consult the media reports. The Lakers were pre-ordained for greatness. As illustrated by their undefeated season, they had no competition! LeBron James could play with four third-graders and win a title by himself!

And then the post-season began. After slaughtering the Memphis Grizzlies and the Golden State Warriors in consecutive four-game sweeps, they faced off against the legacy-free team not from Los Angeles.

Only four games left until the NBA Finals!

The media remained agog as the Lakers triumphed over both their previous opponents, decisively triumphing in what now amounted to ninety consecutive games! 'Unprecedented' hardly seemed sufficient.

Given their dominance, it wasn't long before the conspiracy theories began. The Lakers were using fans to referee their games. The Lakers supplied unknown substances to the opposition's best players, rendering them unable to play. On and on they went.

The media attempted to refute these groundless accusations. They repeated their mantra endlessly. “They're the Lakers! They're the Lakers! They're the Lakers! They are the face of destiny!”

They went on to name all five starters to the All-NBA Team. Likewise the All-Defensive team. They attempted to name each Laker Rookie of the Year, but for unknown reasons this was not allowed to proceed.

Yes, more indisputable proof that everyone hates the Lakers.

Then the Lakers lost game one of the Western Conference Finals. The outrage was tangible. The media cried and cried. “They would have won that game except for...” I don't believe anyone with a grain or two of sentience would call it journalism.

Collectively, these reports were a rant from a spoiled child. A child upset that, despite their pronouncements, the Lakers could lose. In particular to a rag tag bunch of heathens not from Los Angeles. Oh, the indignity!

And then it happened after game two. And again after game three. Depending on the account, it was sometimes difficult to ascertain who the Lakers' opponent was. The media's wailing over their beloved Lakers was insufferable.

And after last night, you can well imagine. While it is difficult to confirm who will be representing the Western Conference in the NBA Finals, finding out who will not is easier than spending money. In other words, win or lose—the story is the Lakers.

I wear my disdain for them (and their fans) with everlasting pride.

Business Ethics, 2023 Version

Once upon a time, we used to make stuff. Manufacturing employed engineers and machine operators and truck drivers and office clerks and accountants. It was a Gibraltar-sized chunk of American middle-class stability.

But then we got smart. Really smart.

We sent our manufacturing infrastructure to Asia and outsourced the distribution. That freed-up a great many employees, who were unceremoniously terminated. As stock prices soared, we looked for still more things to divest ourselves of.

It wasn't long before we were little more than a post office box on the Isle of Man, a leased boardroom in a Manhattan skyscraper and plants scattered throughout Asia. We were Forbes magazine's business of the future.

A model of ruthless efficiency.

Business could now milk a cow and receive an urn full of cream in return.

But as profits and their margins spiral upwards in an unbroken trajectory, who is paying for this? Who's going to get the bill?

Someone must be, surely.

As employer's profit margins explode, businesses are enjoying the succulent fruit that comes from being let off the leash of regulation and oversight. The Citizen's United decision remains the high-water mark of this cancerous trend.

(Unless we're counting Donald Trump's three-billion-dollar bribe to the nation's billionaires and their companies, of course.)

This is the environment in which Moderna CEO Stephane Bancel, after having created one of three vaccines that successfully resisted COVID, decided to increase the cost per dose from the $26.36 the U.S. government was paying to $130.

Fair enough, right? His people did the work and spent the time to figure this thing out. They should rightfully profit for their work.

Shouldn't they?

Yes, Bancel's employees did a good bit of heavy lifting. But let's not forget they received an enormous amount of money from people completely unrelated to Moderna.

Depending on your level of cynicism, you may already know where this is going. For the rest of you, I'll lay it bare here: You paid for the COVID vaccine's research and development. One point seven billion dollars of American taxpayer money was handed over to Moderna (and Pifzer) to devise such a thing.

That's right. It was on your dime.

But those nineteen-billion-dollars in profit? Oh, yeah. About that. Um, that's not for you. That's for us because we “made” it. You just paid for it.

Public expense for private profit. I wonder what will our next great idea will be.

This is how far off the rails we are. This is a new low in exploitation and ghoulishness. And let me guess—these firms feel they should get a tax-break on those profits for their unwavering commitment to the American people, too.

Anyone have an air-sickness bag?

But with a conservative Supreme Court and a Republican majority in the House, feeling this monstrosity develop and take shape is quite easily done. Even while Republicans seek to gut Social Security and Medicare (that's right Marjorie Taylor-Greene!) as excessive entitlements, the American public can, in essence, be put to work for a behemoth like Moderna without so much as a cent in compensation.

Failing that, is expecting Moderna to return the funds that subsidized their research hoping for too much?

Given one party's affinity for labeling the policies of another as “creeping socialism”, I wonder how we can possibly compare something like social security or MediCare to a nineteen-billion-dollar private slush fund.

They don't fit in the same universe much less a shared government building.

Use the term 'business ethics' in a conversation and you're as likely to encounter a blank expression as one weary with disappointment and resignation. Can you choose which person is better informed?

I can.

 

Da Bulls

Ah. The agony of being a sports fan. The agony of trades not made. Under-performing athletes. The spectre of career-ending injuries. And the simple fact of athletes whose playing style does not mesh.

So much can—and does—go wrong.

When Bulls' president of operations Arturas Karnisovas and general manager Marc Eversley teamed up to extract the Bulls from the pit of manure left by the disastrous regime of John Paxson and Garfield Forman, Bulls fans were made glad.

No more Jim Boylens, right?

The duo certainly got off to a great start, hiring a proven winner in coach Billy Donovan. They made a decisive trade, unloading injury-prone Wendell Carter Jr. for the established (and talented) Nikola Vucevic.

Finally, Zach LaVine had a co-scorer on the court with him. This was truly disturbing.

Over the summer of 2021, they signed free-agent DeMar DeRozan. Signed gritty free-agent point guard Alex Caruso. And traded for another point guard, the do everything Lonzo Ball.

All of a sudden, the Bulls were a legitimate NBA team. For the first-half of the 2021/22 season, the Bulls were number-one in the Eastern Conference. While the element of surprise no doubt aided their cause, they were legitimate. They won.

But then Ball injured his knee in mid-January. And he hasn't played since. Reports are scarce, but Ball can't even run at full-speed. He has trouble climbing stairs. An injury so common that it didn't set off a single alarm now appears to be the end of a very promising career.

I can't claim to have been aware of his critical importance to that team at that point, but without him the Bulls disappeared. They floundered. It is apparent he was the motor that made everything happen.

Over a year later, the largely unchanged team has a gaping hole at point guard. Their interior defense is softer than room temperature butter. And rugged strong forward Javonte Green hasn't played in a month.

They routinely get out shot at the three-point line and find ways to lose, even when the opposition's best player (or players) are on the bench. Or are no longer with the team, as evidenced by the Bulls' gruesome eleven-point loss to the Brooklyn Nets, who were without two guys named Kyrie Irving and Kevin Durant.

Yep. They did that. And have been all season long.

It is clear to all within the city that the Bulls' talent as individuals outweighs their talent as a group. They don't jibe. There is very little flow. And that pesky absence of defense doesn't go away.

Which is why frustrated Bulls fans looked forward to the recent NBA trading deadline. It was a chance to address the yawning holes on this team. But as one of just two teams not to make a single move, it is clear that Karnisovas and Eversley don't see anything wrong.

Perhaps they look at the NBA standings upside-down?

With an expiring contract, Vucevic is free to walk in free-agency. And their sole chance to recoup something from his acquisition walks along with him. Other players with sizeable trade value also remain with the team.

Why?

I don't have a bone with any player on the Bulls. My view is that they're a solid group of individuals who largely act like grown-ups. Taken by themselves, they're all talented basketball players. But they just

don't.

Fit.

Kudos to Karnisovas and Eversley for single-handedly lifting the Bulls from the malaise of the GarPax era. But they should also be able to see this team isn't working. They need to swallow their pride and admit as much and make the tough decisions that could restore this team to contention.

But they did nothing. N-O-T-H-I-N-G.

There's a hoary old cliche which says sometimes the best trades are the ones you don't make. But that doesn't apply here. Not even close.

Just a year ago the Bulls' future looked shiny. Today? Well, the Cubs and White Sox spring training camps open in just a few weeks.

Hope springs eternal.

Loss

The most morose example of change being the only constant I can offer is death. Yes, death. And as the features of my mortality become ever-clearer, it's only natural that I take note of those taking their leave. Particularly those who, by virtue of their work as a musician, actor or as a writer, indelibly shaped my life and attitudes.

Musicians seem to have been particularly hard-hit lately, with music-makers known and sadly unknown having passed. Loretta Lynn. Mimi Parker. Jeff Beck. Tom Verlaine. Jerry Lee Lewis. Christine McVie. David Crosby. Hamish Kilgour.

I can't say I was a giant fan of all of them, but as with any good work, their talents survived both fashion and time. Not an easy thing to do.

Take Christine McVie. Amid the 24/7 drama surrounding Fleetwood Mac in the late-seventies, McVie seemed a low-key and fairly grounded personality in the maelstrom that surrounded the band. Yet her singing and keyboard work were essential ingredients in their success.

Next to the vocal histrionics of band-mate Stevie Nicks, her plaintive, erstwhile vocals took on a powerful appeal. She reminded me of the teammate you didn't know you missed until they were gone.

Parker and Kilgour weren't huge stars, but each contributed immeasurably to their band's sound. Imagine “Words” (my favorite Low song) without her. Or “Anything Could Happen” without Hamish. It's difficult.

Tom Verlaine wasn't a star, either. Like Parker and Kilgour, he tended towards the cult artist end of things. While critically renowned, Television wasn't on everyone's lips, even in the musical hot bed of 1977. But those who knew, knew. His knotted, asymmetrical guitar work contrasted brilliantly with band mate Richard Lloyd, and their music was merely unforgettable.

After Television imploded, he went on to a solo career and recorded much that is deserving of your time.

I came to Loretta Lynn late, even having seen Coal Miner's Daughter back in the day. In the nineteen-sixties, she was scoring hits by recording feminist anthems before the vast majority of us even knew what feminism was. Even more miraculously, she was having them on country and western radio.

Yep. To paraphrase an old Panasonic tagline, Lynn was just slightly ahead of her time.

(For a lighthearted counter-weight to that weighty significance, check the duet she sang with Conway Twitty “You're the Reason Our Kids are Ugly”)

I was aware of David Crosby before I knew who he was. The Byrds had a great run of singles in the mid-sixties, and “Eight Miles High” was a ground breaker. And Crosby, just entering the zenith of his career, played a large part in it.

But the first-generation Byrds were splintering, and there didn't seem to be a part for Crosby in the new C&W edition.

Timing is everything goes a popular expression. And Crosby served as proof, encountering two other blokes also in-between-bands. Graham Nash, ex-of the Hollies and Stephen Stills, a former Buffalo Springfield, needed gigs.

Somewhere along the line, the trio realized “Why not create our own gig?” And so Crosby, Stills & Nash were born. Decry their politics, their embrace of the hippie ethos or the epic, ego-driven battles they suffered, some great music came out of those three.

Jeff Beck first excited my hormones way back in the nineteen-sixties via his work in the Yardbirds. I wasn't privy to the internal politics going on within the band, but his work on songs like “Over Under Sideways Down” left an indelible impression.

As I grew and learned more about the music quickly becoming an obsession, I discovered the Clapton-Beck-Page succession that happened within the Yardbirds. Furthermore, the guy who really moved me was a guy named Jeff Beck.

And just as I was learning a re-appreciation of his work, his was embarking on a solo career that would yield the most-definitive work of his career.

Blow By Blow and Wired remain two of my favorite examples of fusion, a genre that has sadly fallen on hard times and even suffered critical dismissal. But I point our that musicians as esteemed as Herbie Hancock and Miles Davis weren't too proud to investigate it, recording some of the best, most invigorating music of their careers.

So there.

What can one say about Jerry Lee Lewis in 2023? He was one of rock and roll's most- dangerous personalities at a time when rock and roll itself was considered a viable societal threat. Yes, the tightly-wound conformity of the nineteen-fifties was deeply afraid.

Not that Jerry Lee couldn't play. Au contraire, my friend. Mr. Lewis could play the ivory out of a piano's keys without breaking a sweat. In that first storm of rock and roll, he was a force of nature.

As were all of them.