Bernstein: Nobody Cares About Your Fantasy Team
Enjoy. Have your annual draft party in your friend's basement man-cave, indulging in as many scotches, Swisher Sweets and nacho-cheese Bugles you desire.
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Enjoy. Have your annual draft party in your friend's basement man-cave, indulging in as many scotches, Swisher Sweets and nacho-cheese Bugles you desire.
It seems like Lance Briggs woke up, felt a twinge in his injured knee, flipped the calendar ahead to November to see his 31st birthday circled in red marker, and realized that he probably already has signed away his last chance at big money.
There's no easy way to say what I'm about to say, nor is there any pleasant way to talk about one of the worst diseases there is – one so excruciating and unfair, and so relentless.
Shocking, right? Another major college sports program is now reported to have funneled dirty money from dirty boosters to dirty kids to do dirty things.
Go away, Carlos, and take the whole act with you. Pack up all your stomping, snorting, outsized machismo and sell it somewhere else.
What the Bears appear to be thinking is this: our problems last year were only a matter of personnel, and we have better parts in better places. We can run this system the way it was meant to run, last year's struggles be damned.
When Ricketts and his siblings took over the Cubs, he knew he needed to make significant changes to the baseball business, and he was not shy about telling people close to him about his plans.
I was wrong. I told myself that I was enough of a fan of PGA golf that the absence of one of the best athletes of my lifetime would not affect my enjoyment of the sport.
It never felt right that a shaky offensive line seemed so desperate to retain a mediocre center.
I take my eyes off my screen for two minutes, and already I'm behind what's going on as the MLB trade deadline approaches, while the NFL is in the middle of its wacky, post-lockout farmers market.
In the same week that ratification of a new labor agreement is expected to occur, the news came yesterday that Cutler's high-profile engagement to reality-TV body Kristin Cavallari is over.
It has to be over for the current regime. Not just double-checked, monitored and supervised, but over.
Just look carefully at how the narrative has changed since the U.S. women's team blew the chance of a lifetime in a loss to a vastly inferior Japanese team in the World Cup final.
When NFL players decertified their union months ago, it was a cosmetic, procedural move to pave the way for antitrust litigation in an attempt to gain leverage against owners bent on grabbing a bigger share of the profits.
By gametime, I won't be surprised to see that Adam Dunn and Randy Wells have been added to the rosters. I was initially taken aback by Aramis Ramirez's decision yesterday to turn down an All-Star invitation, but now I'm with him.
I wish I knew which train was carrying the dirty bomb. Trust me, I'd have told you. Nuclear launch codes? Sure. Um…Tango, Echo, five, seven, Foxtrot, seven, niner? No? Can I try again?
Give a guy $56 million, watch him hit .171, and we all become tee-ball parents. "Yay, Adam! Adam got a hit! Honey, take a picture – did you bring your phone? I know, I'm low on battery, too…just take one…Great job, Adam!"
Every next thing we hear from the Cubs is crazier than the last.
You would almost have to do this on purpose, to screw it up so badly. It's hard to accomplish, really, when you consider how many other stupid, spoiled babies surrounded by parasitic enablers have successfully gamed the college system for one year.
They sure looked on top of things, that four-man panel in the Prudential Center in Newark last night, a tableau of expertise and awareness, presiding over the 2011 NBA draft with gravitas and control.
If we were really paying attention, we would have seen this coming.
We have a tendency in this town to look for scapegoats when things go badly for the home team. Ask Steve Bartman, Hue Hollins, Jerry Dybzinski, and the Gatorade-soaked glove of Leon Durham.
So Carlos Boozer is some combination of injured, old, slow, loud, expensive and bad. Fine.
If you're going to be called an "energy player," it means three things about you are true.
The only proper way to render what that was last night would be to have it painted in oil by Bruegel the Elder and hung in the Prado.
