Wikipedia Rabbit Hole: Suspicious of Outsiders Edition

My mother died six weeks ago after a long struggle against Alzheimer's disease. In my clumsy efforts to connect with her in her final days, to show my love and care, I played folk music records and I read aloud to her.

I read from the Bible, from the Book of Common Prayer, and from an oral history of our ancestors in Appalachia in the 1700s and 1800s. All these texts were handy in her bedroom, her small private space at Assisted Living, with her clothes, the last couple of pieces of her furniture, a few family photos and paintings hanging on the walls. This room was where Mom died.

The CDs and CD player, I brought with me. God knows why I didn't do it much sooner. One CD I played was by Peter Paul & Mary, with whom I am pretty familiar--I used to play this album to my daughters when they were small. Another I played was a best-of compilation of the Kingston Trio, whom I remember Mom and Dad liking way back when I was a kid. I was fuzzy on their biographical details, and curious. So I consulted Wikipedia.

I learned they got their start in the San Francisco Bay area. That two of the original members grew up in Hawaii, playing ukeleles, hearing slack-key guitars. The third grew up in San Diego, the son of a naval officer who collected records along his travels, including calypso. The San Diego guy went to Menlo College with one of the Honolulu guys, that was how the group formed. "Kingston" is a Jamaica reference.

Unlike some of the New York crowd, the Kingston Trio were not folklorists nor purists of any stripe. They chose songs they could put across to a live audience in a rousing or beguiling way. Once the performance was over, the provenance of the song didn't matter to them. They lost a lawsuit over the song "Tom Dooley," which they called Traditional on the LP credits, and maybe it was but there was a recorded version that the boys heard and went to school on, or so the court thought. The song "Scotch and Soda" was given to them by the parents of a girl from Fresno whom one of the members was dating. The group tried to discover the song's authorship, but it remains a mystery. That Fresno girl's kid brother grew up to be the great baseball pitcher Tom Seaver.  

With songs such as "Shady Grove," the Kingston Trio also dipped into the stream of "Old World ballads" preserved in Appalachia and collected by song finders such as Cecil Sharp. Mr. Sharp's researches led him to Madison County, North Carolina during the World War I years. Sharp and his assistant Maud Karpeles spent several weeks with the Wallin family.

Sharp described Mitchell Wallin as a "bad singer" and a difficult fiddler to notate due to his penchant for improvisation, but considered his visit to Wallin and Sands "fruitful."^[2] Years later, Berzilla Wallin said many residents of Madison County were initially suspicious of Sharp, believing that his purpose in the area was to secretly map the region for the construction of a dam and reservoir (and thus require the evictions of hundreds of residents).^[2] Others thought Sharp was a German spy. Doug Wallin later said that his grandfather, Tom Wallin— who had become a devout Baptist and disapproved of singing any songs other than hymns— threatened to disown family members if they performed for Sharp.^[4] In spite of local skepticism, Madison County proved to be one of the more ballad-rich areas Sharp visited.

At first glance I found the suspicion that Sharp (an Englishman) was really a German spy to be far-fetched. But then I remembered that the nearby town of Hot Springs was the site of an enemy internment camp during WW1, so there were German speakers around who apparently were interested in assimilating into the community. The suspicion that Sharp was an agent of a malign corporation or malign government bureaucrats is not nearly so far-fetched. I'm also struck by the detail about devout Baptists hating secular music, so that singing itself became a sign of disloyalty. What a general atmosphere of suspicion seemed to exist in this county. 

It is worth noting that the entire Wallin family were descended from a man who was killed for his efforts to recruit Union support in the area during the Civil War. A long-simmering brew of violence, grief, secrecy, political passions, maybe even religious identity - all these things got expressed in a dedication to singing and passing along old songs. Among other ways, I'm sure. (Incidentally, pro-Union activities in western North Carolina are in the background of the Tom Dooley/Dula legend as well.)

Perhaps it is silly or disrespectful of me to refer to my mother's death in this essay. Maybe I should examine what I'm up to with these "rabbit hole" posts. Surely part of it is trying to find purpose in the hours I spend web-surfing, to justify myself. But I feel all of us construct meaning from scattered bits and pieces. Not always, but sometimes, I find the beginnings of a good story in these meandering trains of thought and the disparate themes I find lumped together in these "rabbit holes." 

Mom liked folk music. She grew up in Appalachia and had family roots there, including in the Carter Family's backyard, but more crucially, she was a college kid playing a ukelele and taking part in dormitory sing-alongs around 1960. Did Mom like the Carter Family or old-time ballad singing? I don't know, and I didn't think to ask her until it was too late. (The Alzheimer's, I mean. I had lots of questions in the last few years that she was unable to answer.) I know Mom liked the Kingston Trio and the Limeliters, two West Coast groups who today are viewed as somewhat cheesy. What do distinctions between cheesy, commercial, and "authentic" mean in the context of what we call American folk music, and so what?

Many people living with dementia develop a sense of isolation, even distrust. They sense that conversations are going on outside their hearing, decisions and plans are being made outside their view. Mom mostly trusted my brother and me, but I know there were times when she felt we were doing things against her wishes: selling her possessions, shuffling her off to a bleak living space. Partly due to sheer cognitive decline, and partly due to this siege mentality, basic communication became difficult. 

Mom's caregivers and fellow residents were sometimes able to break through, make a connection, just by using the words of a popular song: See you later, alligator / After a while, crocodile. Call and response.

I wanted Mom to hear my voice at the end. I wanted her to feel that she wasn't alone, that someone who knew and loved her was present. I had too many words, and no words. So I borrowed some words and rhythms, some familiar prayers and Bible verses read aloud, some folk songs played on the boom box, "If I Had a Hammer" and "Tom Dooley." Sometimes I sang along.

Photo: By Unknown author - Copied from The Kingston Trio website. Transferred from en.wikipedia to Commons by User:KCMO., CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15624481

Internet Rabbit Hole: A Bunch of College Bandits

I was reading something about far-right politics in Europe… 

Jean-Marie Le Pen died, didn’t he? Let me look it up... 

I used to know a guy named Jean-Marie; interesting name for a man. Who are other famous Jean-Maries on Wikipedia?... 

Jean-Marie Pfaff was a great Belgian goalkeeper of the 1970s, and only 5 foot 11… 

Wasn’t Shep Messing also relatively short?

That’s how I came to be reading about Shep Messing, former New York Cosmos goalkeeper whom I hadn’t thought about in many a year. His Wikipedia page linked to this 2015 piece in The Guardian, where Messing recounted his experience on the 1972 U.S. Olympic men’s soccer team.

It’s challenging to convey how impromptu and counter-cultural soccer was in this country when I was a kid. There were huge areas of the country that had never seen a soccer game. My family moved from Charleston, WV to the D.C. suburbs when I was in 3^rd grade. I’d never seen or heard of soccer, then suddenly it was something the kids played during recess, thanks to crude goals set up on the school grounds, and the leadership of a boy from Mexico and another from England (a benefit of living in the salad bowl of the Washington area).

The current state of U.S. soccer, which is still way behind the Western European nations, is so far advanced in coaching and development compared to my day. We were largely on our own. In the 1970s, it was hard to find an adult who knew enough about soccer to teach us anything. Most of my coaches were competent at organization and motivation, skills they probably gained in some other sport -- but ignorant about soccer technique or strategy.

It was huge to encounter a traveling youth team from Germany or Scotland or anywhere beyond our shores. I learned more playing one game against kids my age, raised in a real football culture, than in a year of listening to my American coach. An unfortunate psychological effect, for me at least, was that the moment I heard an opposing team speaking a foreign language, or even English with a foreign accent, I felt my team was in for an ass-kicking.

But there was such freedom in this marginal status! Such relief from expectations. Our parents, even if they showed up for the games, could hardly tell what was going on, if their child was doing well or poorly. The stoners and poets and other non-conformists played soccer in 1980.

This Shep Messing interview gets at what I mean.

There was no grand master plan in US soccer back then.

“It is so hard to compare eras and generations for US soccer,” Messing said. “You’re not talking about guys who were playing in a stable, professional league. This was really amateurs. So to go to play at Azteca against Mexico and to Jamaica and Trinidad and the Central American countries, we did not have that body of experience. Our experience was, in my case, Harvard-Yale or Harvard against Columbia. We had no preparation, nothing to prepare. It was brutal. But we didn’t have any pressure. We were a bunch of college bandits.”

Picture this: Messing hitchhiked from New York to St. Louis to attend the Olympic team tryouts!

A dark note: Messing recalls that he and his track-suited teammates used to hop the fence and skip the ID check when leaving the Olympic Village.to go out on the town in Munich. Observing them was the way the PLO terrorists saw the security weaknesses, and they donned track suits and hopped the fence to get into the village.

This interview was conducted by Michael Lewis, who I gather is not the Moneyball/Liar’s Poker guy, but oh my goodness, he has written a lot about U.S. soccer in the 1970s. I have not yet reached the bottom of this rabbit hole…

Dick Cheney

 

I have a friend (maybe you have such a friend too) who, for many years, anytime he hears of the untimely or sad death of a decent human being, has said as his standard response: “And Dick Cheney continues to walk the earth.”

Cheney died Monday, aged 84, his unbeating Wankel engine of a heart winding down at last.

My spiritual blogfather Atrios seems haunted these days by memories of the outrage he poured out, constantly and voluminously, during the Bush-Cheney years, to depressingly little effect. Here is his short post on Dick Cheney today:

Eschaton: We Will, In Fact, Be Greeted As Liberators

Dick Cheney, liberated from life, like countless Iraqis.

In hell, being shot in the face by his friends FOREVER.

I should give Atrios the last word. Like many others today, I am stewing over the bitter irony that living through the Bush-Cheney administration seemed to me like the horrifying low point, the bottom, of American political history. Looking around at 2025, civil society wise, I often feel I would go back to 2002 in a second. Since the rise of Trump, Dick Cheney and especially Dick’s daughter Liz Cheney earned praise (mostly from Democrats) and paid a real cost (from Republicans) as advocates for an earlier iteration of the Republican Party. Many hearts long for those days when we still believed in centrism and bipartisanship. They cry out, Bring back the Bushes and the Cheneys, Karl Rove and Bill Gates and Marc Andreesen, bad as they were. Take away Trump and Bannon and Elon and Zuckerberg.

We shouldn't trust that feeling. It’s not simply that things have gotten worse since the Dubya years, but that they’ve been revealed to be worse than we ever realized. The seeds of Trumpism were there long before Bush-Cheney were elected, and all of us, leaders and followers, have just been playing our parts in the always-unfolding cosmic farce. Or something. This post is both too short and too long; I should have given Atrios the last word.

To my friend and everyone else who held up Dick Cheney as the ultimate symbol of an unjust universe: We will have to come up with a new poster child. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble.

Maybe the images of the White House literally being torn down were what sent Dick across the rainbow bridge.

I went back and searched this blog to jog my memory of what I wrote about Cheney in closer-to-real time.

The Kids Today might not know: It was widely believed, from the moment Cheney was announced as the GOP running mate in 2000, that Dick Cheney was smarter and more capable than George W. Bush, his boss. Dubya was more charismatic and gave a livelier speech, but Dick was the adult in the room and much savvier about using the levers of power, both military and bureaucratic. Starting with the fact that Cheney was an old friend of Dubya's father, Cheney loomed over Bush in an odd, unprecedented way. Dick was the most powerful VP in history, until he wasn’t, until the scandals and failures associated with the War on Terror mounted up. Subsequent VPs have been problematic in different ways. Maybe the point here is that Vice President is a strange office, poorly defined, and when we overhaul our Federal constitution,* we should get rid of it. ( *and pigs fly)

I hadn't thought much about Valerie Plame and Scooter Libby in a long time, but I thought about them a lot in 2006-7. Plame was a CIA agent, an actual weapons expert, doing important and dangerous work. But she and her husband Joseph Wilson were sharing information that contradicted what Cheney was saying about Saddam Hussein and WMDs. When the facts contradicted the ideology, the facts had to be quashed. Somebody leaked Plame's identity to collaborators in the media in 2003; she was outed, discredited, her CIA career over. Cheney's chief of staff Scooter Libby took the fall, indicted in 2005 for perjury etc. and convicted in 2007. 

Then, and maybe my outrage was misplaced, but I was infuriated by the stream of politicians and media figures who argued that Scooter Libby mustn't go to prison. He's not a street thug but a leading member of the federal tribe, doing his job. All is fair in love, war, and national-security infighting. The relationship between Bush and Cheney was strained by this time, but Bush did his part by commuting Libby's prison sentence; Libby never served a day in the clink. Few of us think about Valerie Plame (who ran for Congress in 2020 and lost) or Scooter Libby (pardoned by Trump in 2018) anymore. But to me the throughline from 2007 to today is clear. We are paying for our erasure of white-collar crime. We have allowed our standards of truth and decency to erode calamitously. We do not recognize, cannot agree on, the difference between patriotism and treason.

I was on a flight out of Minneapolis/St. Paul one day in October 2004, awaiting takeoff. The flight attendant came over the speaker, in an exasperated voice, telling us we were delayed because John Kerry's campaign plane was taking off and all other flights had to wait. (The passengers murmured their discontent.) A few minutes later, the pilot came on, saying that actually the problem was due to Dick Cheney's campaign plane. (Laughter and LOUD sounds of discontent from the passengers.) 

I learned the next day that in fact it was Kerry's plane. Was the pilot just fucking with us? Conducting a little poli sci experiment? Looking back, this incident probably caused me to overrate Kerry's chances and heightened my eventual disappointment. The fliers of Northwest Airlines that day were not a good proxy for the American voting populace.

Why the laughter, though? We were predisposed to believe it. Of course it was Dick Cheney: jumping the line, inconveniencing us lowly coach passengers, and lying about it to deflect blame. Bullying, arrogance, disinformation: hallmarks of the career of Dick Cheney.

Internet Rabbit Holes: More Steph Curry and Other Gym Rats

I was just listening to the sports podcast The Distraction, which mentioned Tommy Craggs, a writer I like and haven’t bumped into in a long while. Which led me to Craggs’s personal website, which led me to a piece he wrote in 2009 about my hero Steph Curry – a lovely little piece that nicely captures what Steph was at that moment. I don’t remember seeing this at the time it was written.

I wrote recently how remarkable and unlikely it was that Steph Curry fell through the cracks of the recruiting system to wind up at Davidson College in the first place. In 2009, the rules and norms of getting into the NCAA Tournament allowed Steph, a celebrated and charismatic player on a 26-win team, to fall through the cracks and not make it to March Madness. This was bad business all around, and proved to be an intolerable situation. It led Davidson to change its athletic conference. It led the NCAA to adopt its current jerry-rigged 68-team format. 

"Basketball hoop" by Steve A Johnson is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Tommy Craggs aptly describes Steph Curry's special sauce on the cusp of his 21st birthday, blending the humility of an underdog with the knowing swagger of an NBA's player's son. I remembered that Lebron James made a pilgrimage to see Steph in person and size him up. I forgot about the Loyola game, when Loyola double-teamed Steph for 94 feet and he responded by standing in the corner and letting his teammates play 4 on 3. 

What Craggs doesn’t say is that we’ll be seeing Steph Curry in the NBA next year, because at that moment, nobody was sure that we would. (A Deadspin headline at the time: "Is This The End of Stephen Curry?") I for one was relieved when Steph got drafted in the first round in '09 – I was paying close attention, and I wasn’t sure that was going to happen until close to draft day.

Steph is a magician with the ball – a great pure shooter with a great handle. This is a type of player that often doesn’t achieve superstar stature in the NBA. Craggs names several Steph Curry comps. Pete Maravich was the best of the type, and Pete was an All-Star and a scoring champion, but played mostly on losing teams and never sniffed an NBA Finals.

The story of Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf, born Chris Jackson, saddens me. His peers speak of Abdul-Rauf with awe, but like Maravich, his teams made only a small dent in the playoffs. His impact was marginal enough that he was vulnerable to getting blackballed for his religion and his politics. Colin Kaepernick could be described in similar terms.

Craggs’s anecdote about Rick Mount at the basketball camp reminded me: At my one basketball camp experience we attended a talk and ball-handling exhibition by Austin Lehmann. He was a former college player, too small for the pros, but for years he scratched out a living putting on clinics like this for kids, often accompanied by his older brother George. Austin Lehmann became an elementary school gym teacher who made the news for sinking (and documenting) 1 million free throws.  

There is a place in basketball for the gym rat, the solitary crank - for kids, be they stubborn or lonely or obsessive, who just like to practice their shooting. 

Steph As Comedian

 

With Steph Curry sidelined due to a hamstring injury, the Golden State Warriors bombed out of the NBA playoffs the other day. Curry being 37 years old, his chances to grab another brass ring may have run out. Patrick Redford took this occasion to publish a lovely piece at Defector about Steph.

Redford points us to a highlight video of Steph dissecting the Houston Rockets in the Warriors’ first-round series. In his signature fashion, Curry mixes impossibly long 3-point jumpers with tantalizing floaters that are enabled by the threat of the long 3’s.

That is rude, ingenious, and above all funny. An important thing about Steph Curry: He is foremost a comedian. His possessions have the structure of a joke, with setups, misdirections, and punchlines. 

This is the beautiful observation I want to bookmark: Steph-as-comedian.

I can add, for anyone who needs reminding, that Steph entered the NBA from Davidson College. Come to think of it, Steph playing his college ball at Davidson is a comical twist in his story. Davidson was not his Plan A, to say the least. It was an absurd collective blunder by all the major college hoops powers to allow Steph to wind up in the Southern Conference hinterlands. Somehow Plan B worked.

It is difficult to describe how Davidson people feel at having Steph Curry come into our lives and being entitled to root for him. We never dreamed our school would produce a world-famous sports star. And then to have him be such a fine person and loyal advocate for the school—it’s too much. We love Steph, and, amazingly, he loves us back, for giving him a longshot chance. Davidson’s love for Steph has the quality of unbidden laughter, of being surprised by joy.

Redford goes on:

As he explained in Court of Gold, Netflix's Olympic basketball documentary, the sense of freedom [Curry] plays with is only possible because he's made his peace with losing. He seems like someone who loves winning more than he hates losing, the opposite of how Michael Jordan and his sour peers ordered things and probably different from how his eternal foil, LeBron James, relates to losing.

Last year I wrote about Jerry West that he was more characterized by the hatred of losing than the love of winning. His playing career resembled a grim crusade, piling wounds upon indignities in pursuit of validation. West finally earned that moment of glory and seeming redemption, but did it truly redeem all the sour years?

Steph is different. He’s been doubted so many times during his career as being too small, too injury-prone, not a true point guard, and more. People seem to have forgotten that he was The Underdog for so long, and the essence of being The Underdog is that the possibility if not likelihood of losing is ever-present. Steph Curry is sublimely conscious of the unlikeliness of his own story--even now, when so many others have forgotten it and treat the Warriors like a presumptive Finals contender. Unburdened by outside expectations (although they are there), Steph is free to accept joy when and where he finds it. It’s all gravy.

 Photo by Keith Allison via Flicker and Wikimedia Commons. CC-BY-SA 4.0

Internet Rabbit Holes: Grudging Respect Edition

Chet Lemon died the other day; he was a very good major league outfielder during my youth and young adulthood, and was the center fielder on the 1984 world champion Detroit Tigers team. I re-read what Bill James said about Lemon in his New Historical Baseball Abstract: a player with some valuable qualities, notably defense and the ability to get on base, along with some flaws. Chet was good enough to hold down a starting job in the American League for 14+ years. This makes him the 48th best center fielder of all time in Bill James's book. 

An aside: A lot gets said and written about multi-championship sports dynasties, the Jordan-era Bulls or the Brady-era Patriots. Some of my favorite sports stories are of teams that hang around on the fringes of greatness for a number of years, and are only able to get it together for one season, break through and win a title. The '84 Tigers are a great example. They were a juggernaut for that one year; I think they started the season 35-5, and their winning the World Series became a default assumption which they made good on. That team had two (borderline) Hall of Fame players, Alan Trammell and Jack Morris. Around these two perennial stars were several other tenured members who were good but flawed: Lance Parrish, Willie Hernandez, Chet Lemon, Kirk Gibson. In 1984, everything went right; the strengths were accented, the flaws were obscured. The team cohered, everyone stayed healthy and sharp, and they steamrolled all comers. That is a more inspiring and relatable story than anything involving the Yankees. Here, incidentally, is a 1985 LA Times column about all the things that went wrong on the field for the Tigers that after-year. We learn that Chet Lemon inspired Lou Whitaker to join the Jehovah's Witnesses.

Anyway, the rabbit hole I followed started with the news about Chet Lemon, then my turning to Bill James to read about him. I then Googled "bill james new historical baseball abstract," I guess in hopes that the full text of it is available online. Answer: no, not for free. The links that popped up included some reviews of the Abstract, including one by Dan McLaughlin, aka The Baseball Crank, with whom I was vaguely familiar: he is a conservative pundit of the type I normally avoid. 

So I investigated Mr. Crank a bit. I was reminded that nerds-writing-about-baseball is a niche populated by quite a few conservative pundits: some decent writers like George Will, some hacks like Rich Lowry and Michael Brendan Dougherty. A vaguely disturbing realization for this nerd-writing-about-baseball. Yet Dan McLaughlin writes clearly and sensibly on aspects of baseball that are right up my alley. I feel I need to bookmark this piece about baseball's winningest pitchers, counting games won in the minor leagues and Negro leagues as well as the AL and NL. I also ran across McLaughlin's recent comment on the newly-elected Pope, an even-handed plea to conservatives, Catholic and otherwise, to give Leo XIV a chance.

Why the conservative-baseball axis? Off the top: Baseball history is steeped in traditionalism and nostalgia and American exceptionalism. It is also a protected space for talking about race. In my brief survey of his work I find McLaughlin making admiring references to Jackie Robinson and Moses Fleetwood Walker, Satchel Paige and Don Newcombe. To say these men were worthy players who faced injustice are broadly uncontroversial positions, yet they are an implied rebuke to the anti-woke philistinism of the Trumpers. Moreover, baseball seems to be an approved lighter-side to break up the relentless culture war fighting and ideological boundary-policing that right-wing punditry requires. If anyone ever needed an afternoon off in the bleachers, it's guys like NRO writers.

Superb Owl

 

It’s been 16 years – time for a Super Bowl post. I don’t watch much football in recent years, but I generally succumb to the NFL conference championships and the Super Bowl.

I also make exceptions for getting together with my father to watch the West Virginia Mountaineers, despite the travesty of WVU joining the Big 12 Conference, which turned out to be one of the early signposts along college sports’ highway to hell.

In 2019 I watched Jalen Hurts, as quarterback at Oklahoma, comprehensively take apart the West Virginia defense. He did it with his legs and he did it with his arm. I gather a big goal of Hurts’s 5^th year season at Oklahoma was to demonstrate that he had the arm to be an NFL quarterback. Goal accomplished. The memory of Hurts’s dominance in that game stayed with me, and I’ve halfway kept an eye on him since. 

Pro football is different than college football, and it doesn’t shock me when a great college football player turns out not to be the right fit for the NFL. But I really enjoy watching a quarterback use his legs. I hate the notion that every team needs a big strong pocket passer – a view that is less universal, but far from dead; a Carson Wentz still gets more love from Mel Kiper and more chances to win a starting job than a Jalen Hurts. Also, it raises my hackles every time a young black QB comes along and has a ton of nay-sayers, including ones who urge a position change, usually to receiver or safety. Hey, the 1960s called and wants its take back.

These things bias me in favor of Lamar Jackson and Jalen Hurts (and now “too skinny” Jayden Daniels. The pundits seemed to be trying to exile him to Canada). I hope each of them gets to lift the Lombardi Trophy before they are done. People sneer a bit at Hurts because he doesn’t throw the artistic deep ball that some other QBs throw. He’s a football player, he wins with his legs and his toughness and his improvisational gifts. He may have trouble making All-Pro rosters or winning MVPs because his individual stats may not dazzle. A QB like that can steal a Super Bowl now and then.

The better NFL teams and, more definitely, the great QBs of my childhood, Stabler and Staubach and Griese and Bradshaw, had distinguishable personalities. The younger crop coming along now have a more pleasing variety than the Tom Brady generation. I am ready to move on from the Mannings, from Roethlisberger, from Brady, from Aaron Rodgers.

So I can’t lose in tonight’s matchup, because Patrick Mahomes is unique and wonderful in his own right. I’ve admired Mahomes, still just age 29, for many of the same reasons I admire Hurts. He was somewhat unsung coming out of college, and he was never a mechanically perfect automaton in the pocket. I love his improvisations, with his legs and with unorthodox throws, backhanded and left-handed and falling down and what have you. I also admire Andy Reid, who’s claimed his due respect later in his career. For the longest time he was viewed as a second-tier head coach, fatally flawed in his game management skills – good enough to get you to the playoffs, maybe even to the Super Bowl, but never good enough to win it.

But I think I’d like to see Hurts take the trophy from Mahomes, and for Nick Sirianni to answer his detractors the way Andy Reid has.