Matt Cain's perfection, R.A. Dickey's inspiring imperfection, a tasteful collection of erotica edited by Joaquin Arias, and a kitchen device called The Bixler that needs to be recalled, and quickly, before someone gets hurt.
No-hitters, curvaceous relief pitchers, the apocalyptic appetizer-swarm of the late-'90s Cleveland Indians. The horror. The horror.
The Miami Heat went into the Big Three era looking for all the world as if they were ready to turn the game and business of basketball on its head. Instead, they've become something much more prickly, small, joyless and familiar. Where's the fun in that?