Robert Kraft Thinks You're Stupid

The New England Patriots, led by their Teflon owner, Bob Kraft, thought if they took the penalty the NFL bestowed upon them for their negligence in Deflategate, that Tom Brady's sins would be atoned for and the four-time Super Bowl champion quarterback would have his suspension tossed.

He'd play on while his two compatriots--Jaz and "The Deflator"--served his suspension for tampering with his tools of trade. Mr. Kraft, meanwhile would keep them locked in the dungeon while continuing to blow smoke at the media on Brady's behalf.

The Pats truly have had their way so long in the NFL, they actually believed they had the commish in Bobby's back pocket. They actually believed the (in)famous "Patriot Way" was the way of the NFL world. That Kraft, not Goodell, ran things and that Kraft, not Goodell, could bully his way into allowing his quarterback and head coach to behave like Veruca Salt and Violet Beauregarde while the rest of the league peered through the bars of Wonkaland and simply hoped for the best.

Kraft's statement against the NFL today was not a sentiment of naivete; it was another fib in a paper trail of PR lies. Why? Robert Kraft thinks you're stupid. That's why.

Stupid enough to think his QB routinely destroys cell phones (or, "phone device"), yet forgetting he turned in the previous one to the NFL fully intact. Stupid enough to believe "the Deflator" was a nickname for one of the co-perps for losing weight.

Stupid enough to believe Aaron Hernandez was simply misunderstood.

Statements are for the guilty. They hide behind the shield of legalities--even though Kraft, himself won't need to appear on Brady's behalf whenever this suit is heard--and refuse to take questions because that's when they lose control.

Or, precisely the time a bully tends to back off.

This case isn't about deflated footballs or PSI levels anymore.  It's about lies, coverups, refusals to cooperate, bad advice from attorneys, arrogance, oh, and a preponderance of evidence.

The Pats would have you believe in a court of law, there is no hard evidence Tom Brady knew his balls were being deflated behind his back.

And that's true. In court, they'd probably win this case.

In the NFL, however, the courts will only decide if Brady had a fair hearing. Evidence has as much place as no evidence.

The NFL is the private sector. And the law of Planet Football, collectively bargained, gives all the power to a dictator, much of it at the direction of the regretful Pats owner. Kraft and company took a gamble. They lost. They doubled-down. They lost again. And now they're headed to court.

Kraft's own Mr. Frankenstein has turned against him. It was only a matter of time.

Vandemonium

It was January 3, 1993. The  Buffalo Bills were at the height of their popularity, yet having lost consecutive Super Bowls, the team Bill Polian and Marv Levy had built from the wreckage of the Kay Stephenson-Hank Bullough years found itself in an unfamiliar position.

The previous Sunday night on ESPN, Buffalo had lost not only its shot at hosting a third straight Tour de Super Bowl in Orchard Park, but also lost quarterback Jim Kelly, linebacker Cornelius Bennett, and several others due to injury.

Rich Stadium was accustomed to hosting 80,200 fans ready for another January of football. However, fans had grown accustomed to the Bills hosting a divisional playoff game, two weekends after the final regular season game. A Wild Card game? You kidding? And nine days after Christmas? Against the same Houston Oilers who whooped them, 27-3 the week before?

Needless to say, after losing a Sunday nighter, the Bills only had three-and-half days to meet the NFL's strict blackout rule to have the game televised locally.

It was surely not going to happen. If you wanted to see the game, you'd need a buddy with a black box, or head to some  obscure bar with a satellite dish crazy enough to spread the word that they'd have the game.

Those who watched the game that day heard Charlie Jones and Todd Christensen. Two solid broadcasters, but neither having their fingers on the pulse of the WNY football fan. There was only one man whom had that responsibility and honor; and one whom more Bills fans in history needed to be their eyes and ears more than any other time--before, or since.

Van Miller called The Comeback. And it was his finest three-plus hours.

Despite the two other schmucks in the booth alongside him, who'd talk over him, who'd interrupt him, it was Van who kept Bills fans believing that this third Super Bowl run wasn't about to end prematurely.

It was the Dunkirk kid who sounded as like he had spent every minute of Malcolm Gladwell's documented ten-thousand hours rehearsing for the moments Western New Yorkers needed Van to be Van Gogh as much as they needed Frank Reich to be Jim Kelly; as much as they'd needed Kenny Davis to be Thurman Thomas.

Talk about pandemonium or "Fandemonium?" How about Van-demonium?

No, Van Miller never got to call a Bills Super Bowl victory. But that's up to football players to deliver.

Steve Christie punched Van's Super Bowl championship. Like perfect games in baseball, they come from nowhere and end in magical fashion where we look back at every nuance where it could have ended, but didn't.

It could have ended the week before, had the Bills won that Sunday night.

It could have ended if Kevin Gilbride, the beleaguered Oilers offensive coordinator, had decided to run instead of shoot with a four-touchdown-plus lead.

It could have ended if the officials had noticed Don Beebe stepping out-of-bounds on his famous touchdown catch.

It could have ended if enough fans had decided to buy tickets, lifting the blackout.

In the end, a Sunday night loss, a short sellout window, and a 32-point deficit were all just the esil, the canvas, the brushes, and the paint for Van to go to work that otherwise crappy Sunday afternoon.

And who says it has to be baseball to be a perfect game? It can come from nowhere, when you don't even realize everything is right where you want it.

All the circumstances were wrong, but the Buffalo Bills made it right that day. Yet, was Van Miller who directed the near four-hour drama, bringing it to our minds' eyes the one day television couldn't come through.

Thank you, Van. We never turned the dial and we never stopped believing that day.

Many broadcasters will tell you the hardest part of the job is when the game is lopsided and you need to keep people tuned-in.

It was the Van-demonium pumping through the speakers as our hearts pumped through our chests that wouldn't let us turn the game off.

Not bad for a guy who started practicing in Dunkirk, N.Y. talking into a garden hose.

Frank Reich worked a miracle. Andre Reed was resurrected. Kenneth Davis and Don Beebe found the end zone and Nate Odomes and Steve Christie each found the ball.

And it was Van Miller who captured it all.

Thank you, Van. For that one game, let alone the many others, this fan is eternally grateful his father didn't take him to bars, nor believed in black boxes.

Vandemonium

It was January 3, 1993. The  Buffalo Bills were at the height of their popularity, yet having lost consecutive Super Bowls, the team Bill Polian and Marv Levy had built from the wreckage of the Kay Stephenson-Hank Bullough years found itself in an unfamiliar position.

The previous Sunday night on ESPN, Buffalo had lost not only its shot at hosting a third straight Tour de Super Bowl in Orchard Park, but also lost quarterback Jim Kelly, linebacker Cornelius Bennett, and several others due to injury.

Rich Stadium was accustomed to hosting 80,200 fans ready for another January of football. However, fans had grown accustomed to the Bills hosting a divisional playoff game, two weekends after the final regular season game. A Wild Card game? You kidding? And nine days after Christmas? Against the same Houston Oilers who whooped them, 27-3 the week before?

Needless to say, after losing a Sunday nighter, the Bills only had three-and-half days to meet the NFL's strict blackout rule to have the game televised locally.

It was surely not going to happen. If you wanted to see the game, you'd need a buddy with a black box, or head to some  obscure bar with a satellite dish crazy enough to spread the word that they'd have the game.

Those who watched the game that day heard Charlie Jones and Todd Christensen. Two solid broadcasters, but neither having their fingers on the pulse of the WNY football fan. There was only one man whom had that responsibility and honor; and one whom more Bills fans in history needed to be their eyes and ears more than any other time--before, or since.

Van Miller called The Comeback. And it was his finest three-plus hours.

Despite the two other schmucks in the booth alongside him, who'd talk over him, who'd interrupt him, it was Van who kept Bills fans believing that this third Super Bowl run wasn't about to end prematurely.

It was the Dunkirk kid who sounded as like he had spent every minute of Malcolm Gladwell's documented ten-thousand hours rehearsing for the moments Western New Yorkers needed a Michaelangelo as much as they needed Frank Reich to be Jim Kelly; as much as they'd needed Kenny Davis to be Thurman Thomas.

Talk about pandemonium or "Fandemonium?" How about Van-demonium?

No, Van Miller never got to call a Bills Super Bowl victory. But that's up to football players to deliver.

Steve Christie punched Van's Super Bowl championship. Like perfect games in baseball, they come from nowhere and end in magical fashion where we look back at every nuance where it could have ended, but didn't.

It could have ended the week before, had the Bills won that Sunday night.

It could have ended if Kevin Gilbride, the beleaguered Oilers offensive coordinator, had decided to run instead of shoot with a four-touchdown-plus lead.

It could have ended if the officials had noticed Don Beebe stepping out-of-bounds on his famous touchdown catch.

It could have ended if enough fans had decided to buy tickets, lifting the blackout.

In the end, a Sunday night loss, a short sellout window, and a 32-point deficit were all just the esil, the canvas, the brushes, and the paint for Van to go to work that otherwise crappy Sunday afternoon.

And who says it has to be baseball to be a perfect game? It can come from nowhere, when you don't even realize everything is right where you want it.

All the circumstances were wrong, but the Buffalo Bills made it right that day. Yet, was Van Miller who directed the near four-hour drama, bringing it to our minds' eyes the one day television couldn't come through.

Thank you, Van. We never turned the dial and we never stopped believing that day.

Many broadcasters will tell you the hardest part of the job is when the game is lopsided and you need to keep people tuned-in.

It was the Van-demonium pumping through the speakers as our hearts pumped through our chests that wouldn't let us turn the game off.

Not bad for a guy who started practicing in Dunkirk, N.Y. talking into a garden hose.

Frank Reich worked a miracle. Andre Reed was resurrected. Kenneth Davis and Don Beebe found the end zone and Nate Odomes and Steve Christie each found the ball.

And it was Van Miller who captured it all.

Thank you, Van. For that one game, let alone the many others, this fan is eternally grateful his father didn't take him to bars, nor believed in black boxes.

Hit-and-Run

Having been off all week from doing radio on 95.7 ESPN with Scott Pitoniak doesn't mean the opinion machine has stopped.

Here are some more thoughts:

DeAndre Jordan: No, the NBA doesn't need to fix its rules about the negotiation period before free agency. In the NFL, the league knows guys are working deals long before the designated signing period. The only difference is the NBA acknowledges it and allows a courting session.Teams change their minds on players all the time and ship them off. Coaches change their minds on teams. However, you don't give your team your word and then flip like Big Pussy in The Sopranos. The Dallas Mavericks made their plans with one of the NBA's worst free throw shooters in mind. If it weren't for JJ Reddick's most significant play since his Duke days--going on the radio and grading the Clippers an F- --perhaps Jordan would be working for Mark Cuban instead of Steve Ballmer.

Cuban should be livid. Jordan is a coward. But the Clippers regrouped with enough time on the clock and gave Twitter a refresher from the typical troll-baiting occurring from basements around the country.

These things happen. The Clippers' prodigal son was and is allowed to change his mind. He should have been a man about it instead of the guy who is scared to go to the stripe when opposing defenses need to foul their way back in the fourth quarter. But free agency doesn't need a change.

Manhood and etiquette do.

Greg Hardy: Could the NFL be setting us up for Tom Brady just paying a massive fine in lieu of a suspension and blaming it on inaccuracies in the Wells Report they commissioned, or reducing the suspension because that's the face-saving mechanism we've all been groomed for during this Goodell-Kraft-Sake-of-the-NFL peace-brokering mission?

Bet on the latter, but don't be surprised by the former if it happens, too. At the end of the day, the NFL's advertisers proved the commissioner's job was safe, by threatening but never pulling their dollars. Love him or hate him, unless he becomes Bill Cosby, he's the boss as long as he wants to be.

As far as Hardy goes, apparently being found guilty of domestic violence to the point of guns is just as punishable as smoking weed for fun or pain, or using PEDs, but just a wee bit worse than smoking ganja operating a vehicle (Leveon Bell), or driving with K2 in the car (Marcell Dareus) and washing it down down the road with a drag race crash on McKinley Parkway in Orchard Park with a teammate.

Oh that's right. Hardy's witness no-showed his appeal hearing so none of that guilty stuff holds anymore, huh?

And you thought no-show jobs only existed in mob shows.

Jack Eichel will wear number 15. Now Buffalo Sabres fans can safely buy expensive sweaters of the guy whom GM Tim Murray and countless fans expect to "bring (the Sabres) to new heights."

While Jack (we can call him Jack, right?) humbly said (or did he "state"?) he was just hoping to make the team, he also told reporters during the combine he felt he was the best player in the draft.

No pressure, Jack. They're all counting on you.

But knowing what we know, the most pressure will come from the guy appearing in the dressing room mirror.

It's finally fun to watch Buffalo hockey again .

Florida State: Maybe the program should take a year off and just watch tape of the Ray Rice incident. Over and over.

Ken Stabler: Had he retired sooner he may have been Hall-of-Famer. Yet, there are guys whom millenials have never heard of who are voted in every year. How is Stabler left out? While we're at it, why is Tom Flores left out? Guess coaching as many Super Bowl championships as Vince Lombardi doesn't mean what it used to mean.

The British Open may suck without Rory.

And Tiger.

Nine Finger Salute

"Your father lost a finger doing that."

Jason Pierre Paul has a lot of 'splainin' to do. Too bad the Giants don't need to hear it.

Sure, it'll make a great story. But the Jeff Foxworthy kind. Not the Ronnie Lott kind.

Something about crowds and fireworks that bring out the child in men and reduce a Giant who can execute the most algebraic of gameplans to the that guy who dumbs himself onto YouTube.

But he doesn't owe anyone anything. These things happen.

It could've been worse; hear about the 22 year-old who used his head as launching pad?

JPP is a reminder to all of us that we often forget to think before we tell someone to hold our beer and "watch this!"

A missing finger is a break. A missing hand and his career is over.

And you thought that $14 million offer sheet was the biggest loss.

Kinda shows where our value is, doesn't it?

Cup Runneth Over?

Soccer isn't taking over. But it has taken hold.

So, now what?

The winners? International soccer, which will continue to draw the best American male soccer players to play overseas.

The winners? The MLS, for soccer novices who'll jump on the bandwagon and not know any differently. Well, if they can find it.

The winners? Abby Wambach, who can now ascend into soccer heaven with the missing jewelry that's eluded her.

The winners? Fox, who earned higher ratings than its Bumgarner-fueled Game Seven of the World Series just over a full-term pregnancy ago.

The winners? Hope Solo, whose defense (read: teammates, the back four) helped earn her second pair of Golden Gloves since her last family reunion.

The losers? The rest of women's soccer.

Let's face it: unless there's a celebratory tourstop coming to a pitch near you, there's really no clamoring for more women's soccer in the US.

Sorry to spoil the parade, but usually moments like this weekend lead to bigger and better things. Instead, maybe we should use this time to think about what might have been because there's nowhere to go but Rio.

Soccer fans know where to find their fixes--the Premier League, and every European and South American organization that rivals it.

The best soccer players in the world aren't playing in the US. And while the best women are playing here, nobody is watching.

World Cup soccer is huge. Huge like the Olympics once were. And once it's over, Americans who love the sport will find it on their own time and place. And while the MLS isn't exactly overtaking SportsCenter, games are sold out in its respective cities.  However, the same cannot be said for the women's game, which struggles for viability on a city-to-city basis.

This isn't a shot at Team USA's accomplishments or the longterm viability of a sport that continues to grow among millenials.

It's just the sad truth: if you really enjoyed what you watched on Sunday, and throughout the Cup, you're gonna have to either wait for the Olympics, or look for other variations of it.

Soccer is here to stay. But it's not taking over. It's fun, but our best athletes aren't playing it. It's patriotic, but it's not local. It's quick, but it's evolution is prehistoric. It's growing quickly, but not that we're seeing networks fighting over the rights for the MLS or English soccer.  Yes, baseball stadiums are selling out for soccer games, but for showcases. Eighty-one home games a year vs. One. Or a dozen. Geez, place your bets. Even the Kentucky Derby sells out, but 81 derbies a year wouldn't.

Want another example? Sahlen's Stadium sold out when Team USA did it's Tomato Can tour after winning gold in London three years ago, and the year before for a WPSL game where Abby Wambach, and other World Cup stars, didn't even play. Wambach then signs with the WNY Flash, and suddenly the novelty wore off and attendance dwindled.

Let's keep all of this in perspective, shall we? This isn't a pro-soccer vs. anti-soccer piece. The numbers were huge. Now, what does women's soccer do with all this momentum?

Get ready for the Olympics? Those are 13 months away.

Give the WPSL a boost? Why? So these stars can leave their teams again a year from now?

Men's soccer? They'll capitalize overseas just like Toyota and Nissan made out on Cash for Clunkers.

Sunday was a great day for Carli Lloyd, for Abby Wambach, for American soccer, for soccer fans and for everyone else looking for more excuses to blow off fireworks the night before everyone headed back to work this morning.

Now what?