Articles

Andy Murray is, after a long and difficult rise, a Wimbledon champion. We can only guess at what it was he figured out that allowed him to get there. That's a champion's prerogative, and seems especially right in this case.

Marion Bartoli doesn't look or act much like the sort of tennis player who winds up being a Wimbledon Champion. All of which made her jittery, redemptive Wimbledon win that much more fun to watch.

Even the most loathsome of truly great players can merit a winsome backward glance once their skills atrophy; Roy Halladay, the stand-up dude who issued a public apology to Phillies fans for sucking, is far from loathsome. He is also, it seems, pretty much gone.

Bill Simmons started a beef with Doc Rivers on very vague grounds and out of a very ESPN impulse. It was squashed just a few days later. He's figuring this TV thing out fast.

Nairo Quintana is the second-youngest rider and only South American in the peloton at the Tour de France. He's also the race's most fascinating unknown, and the closest thing cycling has to the paradigm-smashing multidimensional weirdness of Russell Westbrook.

Matt Harvey has done everything a baseball fans could've hoped for and more in his brief and brilliant time with the Mets. Don't we at least owe him a nickname?

In his first move as GM of the Philadelphia 76ers, Sam Hinkie traded a comparatively affordable young star just coming into his prime for a couple of draft picks. Hinkie has his reasons, and they're better than they may seem at the moment.

Skee-Ball originated on boardwalks, and has become component shorthand for a certain type of contemporary hipster caricature. It is, however, alive and well as a sport, and the fourth annual BEEB—the Super Bowl of skee-ball—was proof that it's a good deal more interesting and vital than any caricature.

My t-shirt was soaked in sweat and my hands were covered in axle grease, but I couldn’t resist the urge to check on the Stanley Cup celebrations via Twitter. I read reports of smashed storefronts and packs of marauding bros in Lincoln Park and Wrigleyville as I walked up the quiet, tree-lined streets of Beverly. The only celebration I witnessed was the dog barking like a maniac. He does that every time I come home, Stanley Cup or no Stanley Cup.

No wrestling organization leverages the yet-unfulfilled dreams of their competitors for more entertainment value than Pro Wrestling Guerilla, and none of its independent contractors deliver more than Kevin Steen, “Mr. Wrestling.” He's a 250-pound Canadian, part lumberjack and part bear, with a knack for safely dropping guys on their heads and complex suplexes. And he really, really wants this.