The Day All Money Talk Ends In Sports

No point in messing with joy on this day

For all my career, I’ve hung with the quaint stance that I would stop writing about money in a sport once the sport’s regular season started. “Play ball!’’ translates to “Shut up!’’ the instant the Big 162 re-commences. Opening NFL kickoffs close down all talk of caps and costs and cuts owing to money issues.

My theory is, money never hit a hanging curveball 400 feet. Money never led a two-minute touchdown drive. I refuse to allow money to taint my love of the games and the magic created by the people who play them.

I’ve never been someone who’d just as soon go to a Knothole game or a minor-league contest. Spend an afternoon at a D-3 football game? When I can watch the NFL on Sundays? Romantic notions only go so far. The love of the game? It depends on your definition.

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The players will tell you it’s not the money.

(Stop laughing hysterically.)

It’s what the money represents.

I understand this completely. So might anyone who has ever worked in a competitive business. If sports columnist A were making twice as much coin as I was, and I was considered every bit as good as he, you better believe I’d have been yelling about that.

I was also free to offer my services to the highest bidder from the day I started working. Athletes can’t say that. Those who decry the big bucks paid to jocks must also admit to enjoying a slice of hypocrisy. Unless, of course, they’d happily reject any millions headed their way.

As an aside, the notion of “worth’’ is equally mundane. A person or thing is worth what somebody is willing to pay. Jocks are commodities, no different on the open market than a toaster or a toothbrush. You might think your house is worth $1 million, but if no buyer believes it’s worth more than $350K, well, take the 350 and be glad about it.

Pay stubs matter as much as the pay itself. Dollars are statistics, too.

Another reason not to lose yourself in outrage and bitterness.

I like my outlook, naive as it might seem. No money talk once a season begins. It doesn’t seem realistic now. The money is just too pervasive. Boola-boola? No, my friends. Not anymore. Moola-moola. Seventeen-year-old millionaires who don’t shave or drink beer, tooling around in luxury rides. Not cool.

The money now is so vast, it’s comical. On Tuesday, the Baltimore Ravens put the “non-exclusive’’ franchise tag on Lamar Jackson. It only cost them $32 million. Had they slapped exclusivity on Lamar, their rent would have been something near $45 million for 12 months, no pets allowed. As it is, Jackson’s free to talk with any other club, and the Ravens are free to match any offer.

Last month, the San Diego Padres bought 11 years of Manny Machado for $350 million. That still put him behind Aaron Judge, whom the Yankees are leasing for the next nine years, at $360 million. Maybe Machado should be pissed off about that.

All this money, for people who don’t invent miracle drugs or build businesses that employ lots of people. All this, for folks who don’t think greatly or possess a social conscience capable of nudging hearts and minds for the good. All of it, for ballplayers.

In Perfect World, elementary school teachers would make $360 million for nine years of teaching reading and Aaron Judge would make minimum wage for scraping gum from the bellies of classroom desks.

It doesn’t work that way. So, we have two choices, and only two: (1) Stay mortally angry about it or (A), don’t.

Joe Burrow’s cash pile doesn’t affect my life in the slightest. Not having Joe Burrow to watch throw a football would. It would affect my life, by removing a little joy from the autumn equation. And I’m thinking no amount of zeroes is going to impact Joe Burrow as a person or a player. That’s all we as fans should be worried about.

So now, even as money, ridiculous money, obscene money, ugly money, is being tossed around like confetti at a championship parade, I’m not gonna spend a syllable talking about money, once a season starts. That horse has left the barn.

Now, then. . .

WHAT A CLOWN LOOKS LIKE. . .

Tucker Carlson is a price we pay for free speech. He stands for nothing. He’d be ashamed of his dynamic disingenuousness if he ever gave it a thought, which you have to feel he never does. He plays his audience for fools, he laughs at them all the way to the bank. He lies.

None of which makes him unusual at Fox News. Or anywhere else, maybe, though we now have Fox’s lying as a matter of public record.

The Dominion Voter Systems lawsuit against Fox has revealed the network to be a soul-less, conscience-free messenger of purposeful deceit, which is a fancy way to say Fox News lies like a rug. Carlson is its poster-liar.

This isn’t even about aligning a media monolith with a political party or a particular politician. It’s about inventing facts to fatten the bottom line. Fox would sell democracy straight down the river if the money were good enough. Wait. It’s doing that already.

Carlson told an associate he “hated” Donald Trump “passionately. We are very, very close to being able to ignore Trump most nights,” Carlson said in a text on Jan. 4 2021, two days before the Capitol riot. “I truly can’t wait.”

This week, he has been airing footage of the riot, given to him by House Speaker Kevin McCarthy in the name of “transparency.’’ Carlson’s take?

“Peaceful chaos. These were not insurrectionists. They were sightseers.” Feed that MAGA base red meat, lest they emigrate to Newsmax.

Funny. That doesn’t sound like the guy who said this, Jan. 4, 2021:

“What (Trump) is good at is destroying things. He’s the undisputed world champion of that. He could easily destroy us if we play it wrong.”

And sorry, you can’t separate Trump from the rioters. You can’t say you hate Trump in private while defending him publicly. Unless, I guess, you want to be like Tucker.

It’s all a game to him. It’s all about the stock price. Free speech also includes freedom to lie, and to manipulate your worshipping flock. If you’re willing to pay a price for it.

SO-O-O-O. . . Anyone else tired of hearing that word at the front of every response to a question?

What’s the weather today?

“So-o-o-o, it’s going to rain pineapples and car parts. . .’’

It started maybe five years ago. Now it’s epidemic. It’s this generation’s “you know.’’ Or, worse, this year’s “like’’. Everyone has said “like’’ for decades.

It’s, like, annoying, you know?

NORSE UP! They made the Madness for the 4th time, with their W over Cleveland State in the Horizon League title game. Four toonamint appearancees in 10 years in D-1 is highly impressive, given the challenges faced by any program making the jump from D-2.

Darrin Horn, and John Brannen before him, have succeeded in building a program, not simply a hot team of the moment. This is incredibly hard, given the competition regionally for talent. You try competing with UC, Xavier, UK, Ville, Indiana, Ohio State et cetera as the new kid.

You might suggest the Norse really aren’t in those footlights. I’d say the effort in getting there is monumental. And slowly but surely, it’s working. They beat UC this year. Now, they’re back in the dance.

WILY COYOTES. The neighborhood e-mail chain reports a large coyote has been spotted a few streets from my castle. I responded immediately the way we all do: I Googled it.

Do coyotes attack small dogs?

They most assuredly do. Not often unprovoked, though, and almost never with a human present.

You have a coyote issue? How do you deal?

They’re supposedly prevalent these days. I’ve seen exactly one, ever, and I walk Crazy Chester in the woods almost every day. The dude was across the Little Miami, on the riverbank, staring at me, seemingly more curious than evil.

Coyote stories, please.

TUNE O’ THE DAY. . . Pop and rock: Is there a difference?

Yeah. Definitely.

I used to argue with people who chose between Beatles and Stones, suggesting it was apples and oranges. The Beatles were pop, the Stones were rock. Sweeping generalization, sure. But nobody in This Space is going to suggest Rubber Soul had much in common with Exile on Main Street. Mick never recorded a song like Michelle.

If he sang Maxwell’s Silver Hammer, Keef would shoot him.

Rock or pop depends on my mood. Pop gets me through the day. Rock works best as adrenaline. Open highway, top down? Give me Chuck Berry-influenced rock. Cutting the grass, earbuds in? How ‘bout Raspberries? (Sorry, kids. Lookemup, if you want to. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.)

Here, to me, is a pop masterpiece, performed by Eric Carmen and his Cleveland sidekicks.