Philadelphia rookie Michael Carter-Williams weighed in on the situation:
"I just don't want anyone in this locker room feeling bad for themselves ... I think that's really important that we don't get down on ourselves and we just give up just because we have a certain amount of losses."
He's right. They should get down on itself and just give up because they just tied the league record for consecutive losses. Read more!
The good thing about finally getting yourself on the map is that people start to pay attention to you. The bad thing about finally getting yourself on the map is that people start to pay attention to you.
Steve Masiello, Manhattan College's head basketball coach, led his team to the NCAA Tournament this year, almost upsetting Louisville. Suddenly, people are paying attention to him. Except not for that.
You see, Masiello was up for the University of South Florida position but was eliminated from contention because the school requires a bachelor's degree. Masiello said he has one but apparently he doesn't. Oops. Now, Manhattan College has put him on leave until they figure this shit out - which they probably should have done before hiring him.
This probably would have been a lot less embarrassing for Masiello had he not been such a good coach. Of course, being that good of a coach may be what makes Manhattan College take him back.
If there's one thing a guy loves, it's when a girl keeps trying to contact him even after he's made it clear that it's over. So imagine how much more fun Jonathan Martin is enjoying the fact that Richie Incognito is still trying to stay in touch.
Because nothing says "this is reconcilable" like bullying allegations that led to a three-month suspension.
Not only did Incognito reach out to Martin on Monday, he did so in one of the most public ways possible: on Twitter. And honestly, it sounds like he really has a full grasp of reality. He told Martin that "shit got crazy but we held it together," and that there's "no hard feelings. Let's just move on :)"
The Holyoke, MA St. Patrick's Day Road Race is a tradition like no other. It's an event thrown by a fine Irishy-rooted city that combines athleticism and alcohol the likes of which even golfers have never seen. What started as a small, local 10k has grown to impressive numbers. Aside from attracting drunks all the way from the eastern part of the state, the race has drawn elite runners from all over the world. This is what people tell me, anyway, because I'm never anywhere near enough or fast enough to see them.
It's a race I've run every year except for the years that I haven't, and it's the hardest 6.2 miles I've ever run. The first half is set at various degrees of incline, followed by a mile and a half of downhill relief that really only F's you in the A when you realize that you have to finish out the race uphill. You can't even enjoy the beer stops.
Mile 3 takes a turn up a hill towards Holyoke Community College. It's a hill which, if running were a collegiate requirement, would render this school more elite than Harvard. I hit a personal low point on this hill, nearly punching out a man who was passing me while pushing his baby stroller. What a dick. The course designers must have decided on a course so vile that no one would ever want to run it ever, ever again.
But here I am, sitting in the pre-dawn light, ready to torture myself for another year. Maybe it's because I like to feel healthy. Maybe it's because the beer tastes better after a grueling physical challenge. Or maybe it's because I eventually want to prove my high school coach wrong: turns out I can run faster than a pregnant woman, sir. Regardless, the whole point is that I have chosen to finish out the day making my fellow Irishmen and fellow Massholes proud: in drenchéd, alcoholic pleasure.
Here's to solving all the world's problems by 2pm. Sláinte! Read more!
I've said it before and I'll say it again: whenever I'm feeling low, I can always count on my NCAA bracket to kick me in the chest and spit on my face. Yesterday's games set two records: one for the most overtimes in one round (four), and one for the most damaging to my lifespan. March Madness causes me nothing but stress. I've never won. I begin every April on anti-depressants. And yet I come back every year.
Thursday and Friday's Round of 64 is like taking that weekend away with a new significant other: you start out with the highest hopes, sometimes the most confidence that coitus is inevitable, and then halfway through the first night you start to wonder if you're dating an ax murderer. Sometimes the warning signs are subtle and can be overlooked. But sometimes the car ride works as a signal flare for trouble to come.
This year it's been a goddam signal flare. The small percentage of people who chose Dayton only did so because they went there. NC State should have won - its 12th-seed win wouldn't have even been considered and upset - and agree with me or not, probability dictates that in no way should Harvard have made it out of the Round of 64 again.
So at this point, it looks like my bracket wears tighty whities and black socks to bed, and calls his mother every two hours. But it's not totally a deal-breaker. I refuse to Seinfeld myself out of this one.
Only one of yesterday's losses was supposed to survive the next round, anyway. There is still hope.