The soul of professional cycling has been so warped and decayed by the doping culture of the past decade that there are serious questions about the sport’s future. After the bottom of the Austin Witch Trials, cycling needs a hero badly. Luckily for US cycling fans, 22-year-old prodigy Taylor Phinney might be ready to fill the role.
Since the Calgary Flames' C of Red in the 1986 Stanley Cup Playoffs, professional sports teams have tried to recreate the monochromatic frenzy that came with it. After last week's Nike-branded White-out party-where-a-basketball-game-broke-out in Miami, we may have finally Witnessed the sentiment behind it swallowed whole.
The NBA was a strange place in the late 1970s, if probably not quite as strange as the version depicted in 1979's gloriously batshit Jonathan Winters/Julius Erving vehicle The Fish That Saved Pittsburgh. Few things, really, could be much stranger.
Late-season games between teams at the bottom of the standings are never easy to get through. When the second-to-last Flames visited the last-place Avalanche, things got dull on the ice. Off the ice, they got really real. A play in verse seemed like the right way to figure out how things went down.
From conversations with obese nudists on an imaginary subway to needlessly worrying about what's going to happen when the best player in the league attaches himself permanently to your team , a lot goes through the head of a fan on draft day. Eventually you realize it's best to just enjoy the ride.
R.C. Buford is the NBA's best and most consistently successful front-office operative, and has been for a long time. He has also never won the NBA's Executive of the Year Award. There are a couple of ways to fix that.
The NBA's actual awards are nice enough, but also dull and subjective and mostly silly. Here are some subjective, mostly silly awards that don't actually exist. Pablo Prigioni, you've earned this one. Kevin Martin, come claim your sad ham.
In which horse racing gets dressed up, orders a drink, and places a big bet on itself at Kentucky's Keeneland, one of the sport's legendary tracks and a place where the sport never quite went into decline.