About the Games, not to mention the games, and the people who play them
Some things you suspect, some things you guess and some things you just know.
All those socks, all those years, that got lost in all those driers have shown up as the Paris Olympics mascot.
Watching the Never-Will-Be-Bears play in the Hall of Fame Game was an insult to both fame and the game. The weather knew.
The White Sox don't have enough players on the abled list.
Pedro Grifol doesn't need a vote of confidence as much as he needs a bullpen.
Questioning a female Olympic boxer’s gender brings to mind something tennis player Rosie Casals once said: “If someone says it’s not feminine, I say bleep it.”
It may be about time for the Cubs to remove “World Champions” from their stationery.
Oh, dear. U.S. men’ s soccer is dead again.
Snoop Dogg at the Olympics is as goofy as it sounds.
Seeing Olympic weightlifters in tears is as touching as watching silver tarnish.
The White Sox are proving that it can get worse.
It takes a very special kind of pencil geek to admit being an “NBA draft expert.”
Simone Biles’ gymnastic achievements must make astrologers jealous.
The reason there are more dumb haircuts in basketball than in baseball is because basketball mirrors are too low.
Tennis on skates would be for the Stanley Davis Cup.
You know golf is the silliest game when a player is admired for having the biggest shoulder turn on tour. Not even break dancers are complimented on their ankle flex.
And speaking of break dancers, including such a street smart, anti-establishment activity in the Olympics is not only selling out, but also making skate boarders look tidy.
No one should be allowed to sing the national anthem who does not remember that it also belongs to me.
Track would get a lot more respect if runners didn’t just go in a straight line but carried a pizza or dodged arrows.
Flea market luggage is more dependable than the Cubs' bullpen.
Love and marriage, sex and violence, peanut butter and jelly, spit and polish, Williams and Odunze. You get the idea.
The most reliable cliche in the NBA, other than the worse a team plays, the louder its public-address system, is first coach fired, next coach of the Charlotte Hornets.
The only truth you can take away from this season’s White Sox attendance is the smaller the crowd, the less a baseball player scratches.
Gavin Sheets plays right field like a duck avoiding a lawn sprinkler.
Imagining sports dollars as real money is the first step towards lunacy.
Of all the things that come in threes — celebrity deaths, Greek columns, parimutuel results, Magi, outs in baseball, Plato’s dialogues — none is more subversive than the basketball 3-point field goal.
The best thing about hockey is no rainouts. The worst thing about hockey is no rainouts.
The chances of Texas defending its World Series title are about the same as pasta in a propeller.
A golf fan is anyone who considers Scott Scheffler’s score more important than his own.
If you connect the tattoos on LeBron James, you are a brave soul.
When a dog show outdraws auto racing, taste is not dead.
NFL training camp is too long for winners and too short for Chicago.
Finding enough help in the NFL draft to get the Bears to the Super Bowl is about as promising as finding a non-judgmental dentist.
Here’s the truth: hockey is pantomime war and then the red light comes on.
Every coach walks a thin line, but for now Billy Donovan has narrow feet.
Not only does Ryan Poles have to color outside the lines, he has to keep your crayon.
If any White Sox player ever gets a shoe deal, it will have to be a loafer.
With USC, UCLA, Oregon and Washington entering the Big Ten, Northwestern ought to take a hard look at intramurals.
If Craig Counsell was any more low key he’d have to slide under the door.
The fringe can be a cruel place. Expectations are there. And hope. And, ready or not, the Bears.