Let’s begin today with pontificating on your Golden State Warriors. Or not.

The W’s are back in action after a six game All-Star break hiatus. Now the players, after sipping on Pina Coladas or spending hours in a Barca Lounger contemplating what needs to happen to right this ship, have to find a way to do it. The contemplating part was easy. Now we’ll see about the doing part.

Last year at this juncture the Warriors were in cruise mode with a record of 40-17. The playoffs were a lock and the feeling both on the team and in the stands was that, barring a rare miscommunication or running into a team that couldn’t miss a shot, the game was just another notch in the belt on the way to the playoffs.

This year their record at the break is a tepid 29-29. The starting lineup is the same one that took a plus-23 mark into the break last year. So what’s up?? Frankly, I was hoping you might know.

Yes, there have been injuries. Yes, there are more good teams in the league than in recent years. Yes, when he’s on the floor Steph Curry is maybe the most entertaining player this league has ever seen. (Apologies to Michael Jordan, LeBron James, Dr. J, Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, and about a hundred others I’m sure I’ll hear about)I loved the “win now” AND “win later” philosophy that seemed so well founded. Now, one of the biggest “win later” chips (James Wiseman) has been traded to Detroit for a “win now” 31-year-old who might not be able to play until the post-season (Gary Payton II).

The W’s still boast arguably the best starting five in the league when healthy. Yet, for some reason they can’t finish a game like they always have. When it’s time to step on an opponent’s throat, the Warriors are wearing Uggs. When it’s imperative to take care of the ball, the Warriors are handling it like it’s coated with olive oil. There’s not enough time to develop the “win laters” and yet the “win nows” need some help.

I don’t know what it is, but I keep harkening back to Draymond Green’s errant right hand to the jaw of Jordan Poole just before the real games began. Everything between the leader of the “win laters” and the heartbeat of the “win nows” seems to be just fine. But there’s something amiss with this team.

I don’t know what it is, and apparently they don’t either.

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I am now officially done with All-Star games. I don’t care what the sport is, the day of the All-Star game has gone the way of the two-handed set shot in basketball, the Eephus pitch in baseball, the Flying Wedge in football, and hockey goalies who don’t wear a mask.

This past weekend’s NBA All-Star game proved beyond doubt that any semblance of a high-level game of basketball does not exist when the teams are chosen on the day of the game by a system that we all used in grade school. “I’ll take the tall guy with the acne cream.”

This isn’t a basketball game; this is the Daytona 500 in short pants. When the game is 99-92 at halftime there’s nothing subtle about the fact that defense in this game is a rumor, nobody wants to get hurt, and the pace is such that every player in the game has his private jet revved up and ready to go about an hour after tipoff.

And the NFL Pro Bowl is just the same. We’re now down to a flag football game where the MVP is the guy who collects the most shiny red ribbons. The good news is, nobody gets hurt. Kind of like Mah-jongg.

As to baseball, it’s still an honor to be selected to the game. The problem is that nobody goes. There are more mysterious injuries just prior to All-Star week than there are in the mosh pit of a Metallica concert. Let’s just play that game on Zoom.

As to the NHL all-star game, the winning team members split a million dollars, courtesy of the league. That comes to a little less than $100,000 per man. Or, as an NBA all-star would say, “gas money for the jet.”

Be done with them all! And let’s just watch The Great British Bake Off.

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I leave you this week on a somber note. Baseball — and me personally — lost a great one last week when Tim McCarver passed away at the age of 81.

I got to know Timmy in the early 80’s when we were paired by HBO to do a season long baseball show called Race for the Pennant. We instantly hit it off. A common bond was that we both judged cities’ not for their baseball team, nor for their tourist highlights. We judged them on food and wine. So, we’d do the show from Kansas City if we felt like barbecue, Houston if we leaned toward Mexican cuisine, Chicago, New York, San Francisco, or LA for fine dining or Seattle for seafood. There was at least one spot in every city. And, everywhere we went, they knew Timmy.

Timmy was a storyteller, and his stories usually tended to play himself as the fool. He was a self-effacing guy, and inevitably he’d wind up laughing as hard as his audience at his own punch line.

He loved talking about running out to the mound to settle down the great — but cantankerous Bob Gibson. Tim says, “I got halfway out there and Gibson glared at me and yelled, ‘the only thing you know about pitching is that you can’t hit it.” Tim said that without a word, he simply spun around and walked back to home plate.

He loved regaling his audience with the tale of his hometown of Memphis naming its minor league ballpark “Tim McCarver Stadium.” Only to change it to AutoZone Park as soon as they got some sponsorship money.

Tim didn’t only speak with his mouth. He spoke with his whole face. When he told me what made him quit baseball as a player he scrunched up his eyes, his nose, and his brow and said through seething teeth, “I got traded for Jose Roque” (who played one undistinguished major league season). “That’s when I became a broadcaster,” he added.

And a damned good one.