NowLoop

At the start of this year, a seismic shift occurred in my life: The number of cats I saw regularly went from zero to three. First, my friend who lives three doors down from me adopted a sweet little menace off the streets of Rochester, N.Y. Her name is Clementine; she is a tuxedo cat, and approximately 8.5 pounds and 1 year old. Second, I made new friends who have two cats of their own: A tortico former mother named Guagua (or 瓜瓜, a cute way of saying melon or gourd in Chinese) who is perhaps the most perfect and angelic cat I have ever met, and a weird little man named Sesame. Our three protagonists are pictured below. Clementine (left), Guagua (center), and Sesame (right). Not to scale; though Sesame is, as previously mentioned, a "weird little man," he is physically huge. While I met Clementine first, my self-employment as cat tutor only started when I met Guagua and Sesame, and my friends told me that Guagua knew tricks. I had never before met a cat in real life who knew tricks. The trick-knowing cats I saw on various internet platforms appeared to me like unusually dignified and intelligent creatures, sometimes upsettingly purebred, and now Guagua—a normal cat from the streets of Philadelphia who does not have teeth—had proved herself part of that circle. She demonstrated her suite of tricks: sit, spin, paw, other paw, high-five, other high-five, down, and going wherever she was pointed. She was, it was clear to me, a genius, and also extremely food-motivated, which in animals tends to be related.

This past Saturday, Barcelona Femení met OL Lyonnes in the Champions League final and crushed them by a score of 4-0. The scoreline was a little misleading, but only a little. On one hand, the first half of the match tilted heavily in Lyon's favor. The French team put their Spanish counterparts to the sword, dominating Barça in a way no opponent has probably since Lyon won this very matchup four years ago. Only great penalty-box defending and heroics from Cata Coll in goal kept Lyon from getting the go-ahead goal they by all rights deserved. On the other hand, if the present moment of European club soccer, and arguably women's soccer as a whole, could rightfully be described as the Barcelona era, it's because the Blaugrana has more exceptional players than anyone else, players with long histories of coming up big in the difficult, decisive moments that separate victory from defeat. From the second half's outset, Barça looked like a different team, one better equipped to escape the man-to-man press that had stymied them so thoroughly in the first 45 minutes. Where Lyon earlier had had its chances to convert its run-of-play superiority into a scoreboard lead but let them go begging, Barça was ruthless. In the 55th minute Ewa Pajor put Barcelona ahead with the game's opening goal, and already it felt like the match had taken its final shape. A fatigued Lyon sought more open, direct attacks in an attempt to get back into the game, which only presented Barça more time and space in which to keep the ball and attack. Pajor struck again in the 69th minute, more or less putting the result out of Lyon's reach, and a pair of late strikes from Salma Paralluelo killed any chance of a comeback. The gaudy final scoreline might not have reflected the tension of the match, but did testify to the greater omnipotence this Barcelona team has demonstrated over and over for the better part of a decade now. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7yI9ng8Yp7A&t=1s&pp=ygUOYmFyY2Vsb25hIGx5b27SBwkJDQsBhyohjO8%3D

The deaths of NASCAR driver Kyle Busch and hockey player Claude Lemieux are chronologically circumstantial but linked in a broader sense by public reaction, which has run largely along the line of grudging admiration turning to fulsome admiration, not despite but because of all those grudges. They were highly and sometimes objectionably competitive men, and as such were held to be villains of a sort during their careers. In both cases, their brilliance became easier to acknowledge after the hesitations and qualifications related to all that were shocked back into perspective by their deaths. Busch died at age 41, allegedly due to sepsis caused by bacterial pneumonia. That shockingly untimely death ended a nearly two-decade run as the driver who most, in the words of fellow driver Ryan Blaney, "made you feel inadequate, and [made] you feel talentless because you see him do these things, and it’s like, ‘I don’t know how he does it. I really don’t understand it.’" He was the hardest of chargers, a man who suffered competitors sporadically and fools not at all; before he died, Busch could be equally commodious and disputatious depending on the day. This was the result of the work he'd done and had to do, and his general mood. If that is villainy, then the world is full of them. Lemieux was equally notable on the merits. Over 21 years in hockey he had compiled four Stanley Cups and 459 goals in combined regular seasons and playoffs; he ranked sixth overall in playoff goals with 80, and was regarded as one the game's elite defensive forwards. This was not what he was best known for, though. He was best known for the vicious hit he put on Detroit's Kris Draper that was so egregious—Lemieux checked Draper from behind into the boards during the 1996 Western Conference final, breaking Draper’s jaw, nose, and cheekbone—that it sparked not just a brawl in that game but a rivalry between the Red Wings and Lemieux's Colorado Avalanche that lasted until well after Lemieux left the Avs and the Wings had turned over their management and roster. ESPN made a documentary about the rivalry, back when documentaries were actually documents rather than self-preening projects. The sentence "You hated his guts until he was on your team" was invoked so often in Lemieux's case that, had it come with a price tag per use, his family would have enjoyed generational wealth through the remainder of this century.

CBS News Editor-in-Chief Bari Weiss is making big moves. This week, she declined to renew the contract of 60 Minutes correspondent Sharyn Alfonsi, whose report on the hellish conditions at the Centro de Confinamiento del Terrorismo prison in El Salvador was pulled off the air last December for not offering enough deference to the Trump administration; Alfonsi was one of three departures from the program. Weiss also installed Nick Bilton as the new executive producer of her network's flagship newsmagazine program. If you're having trouble remembering who Bilton is, that's because he's a specific type of dolt from a bygone era. There was a moment in the media industry in which one could build a lucrative career by being a guy with glasses and branding oneself as a tech reporter who "covers the intersection of technology and culture." Bilton spent many years executing this maneuver at The New York Times, where he edged out some stiff competition to briefly claim the title of the paper's worst columnist. His greatest hits include a column about the time he couldn't find a pen, and one about the cancer risks presented by wearable technology that was so factually fucked, it now contains a 203-word editor's note and a 98-word correction. Bilton eventually left the Times for Vanity Fair, where he got busy pretending like he was the one who'd owned the Theranos story and getting all googly-eyed over the Apple Vision Pro, which he promised was "taking us into the future, into a new era of computing." I guess technically the jury's still out on that one.

When the dead body of Timmy the humpback whale beached itself last week off the shores of the Danish island of Anholt, it was only a matter of time before Timmy would risk of the fate that befalls many a beached whale: https://twitter.com/achillghost/status/2058958519747887516 The residents of Anholt, per the BBC, have watched Timmy slowly balloon in size as its guts and stomach begin to decompose. Timmy's body, skin taut and distended by gases, now lolls around a sandbank a short distance from the beach and drifting in the shallow waves. As one German television channel aired a livestream of its dead body, the channel included the number of a suicide hotline.

With less than three minutes to play in the first half of Game 6 of the Western Conference Finals, San Antonio Spurs rookie Carter Bryant drove past Shai Gilgeous-Alexander and threw down a huge, nasty, two-handed dunk, pushing the Spurs' lead to 12 and sending the home crowd's decibel level into Krakatoan territory. When Devin Vassell immediately followed it at the other end by rejecting Chet Holmgren's point-blank dunk attempt and woofing in the dead-eyed noodleman's face about it, Thursday's game seemed on the verge of breaking open. It had been threatening to do that ever since the Spurs opened the night on a 9-2 run. The Oklahoma City Thunder reeled it back in, as they reliably do. Alex Caruso beat the shot clock with a three to salvage that possession, Gilgeous-Alexander hit a tough midrange shot and a pair of free throws, and Cason Wallace splashed a three. By the time the halftime buzzer sounded, San Antonio's lead instead was a manageable seven points. But the game had a pattern, one deeply unfavorable to the defending champs: The Thunder were grinding for every look they got, discombobulated and frantic, never more than a hair ahead of San Antonio's relentless ball pressure and warp-speed defensive rotations. Every basket they got felt like a completed Hail Mary. Meanwhile the Spurs were (relatively speaking) breezing through possessions, getting to their spots, running into threes off Oklahoma City's misses, muscling their way to the rim for tough, chesty interior buckets. It recalled Game 4 of last spring's East final, with the Thunder in the role of the scrambling New York Knicks and the Spurs as the Indiana Pacers: one team bailing water out of a rapidly leaking boat, the other team the ocean. Even the implacable Thunder can only stave off the ocean for so long. The teams traded buckets for the first few minutes of the third quarter, but Oklahoma City was in trouble. Three of their first four baskets of the half came via Isaiah Hartenstein's fuck-ass floater and a pair of tip-ins off misses, papering over aimless possessions. Sometimes this sort of thing amounts to a team staying afloat long enough to get the pumps running. Other times it is a sign that the boat is sinking.

The most maddening moments the New York Liberty have to offer are not the bad ones—not the turnovers, the biffed layups, the “just vibes” possessions on offense—but the moments here and there when things click and the whole team starts to play well. Those flashes of competence suggest there’s a switch that can be flipped for these nominal championship contenders. The maddening part is how rarely the Liberty seem inclined to flip it.  If we learned anything from their 84-74 win over the Phoenix Mercury on Wednesday, it’s that booing can flip the switch. A usually forgiving Brooklyn crowd started to grumble when the home team came out of halftime looking lifeless. It worked! The Liberty’s full-court press forced nine Mercury turnovers in the quarter, and they ended the third on a 23-0 run. It was enough to snap their three-game losing streak and bring them back to .500 on the season.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VyiImT6Wg54

When we first had New Yorker staff writer and bestselling author David Grann on the podcast back in 2023, Drew and I mostly asked him the sort of things that we would ask one of our heroes when he happened to be out there promoting a new book. We had a good conversation about that book and his process as a writer, but the real surprise of the episode came at the end, when Grann revealed that he was a true sicko of a Knicks fan. It's one thing to talk to one of your favorite writers about writing, and quite another to talk to that writer about Eddie Lee Wilkins. We made a note that we'd have him back on someday to spend a whole episode talking about the Knicks, at some point when they were playing well enough to warrant a whole episode of their own. Well, about that: "The world is shit," the author of Killers of the Flower Moon and The Lost City of Z said early in our interview, "but the Knicks are great." We focused mostly on the last part of that, and much of the episode is given over to a somewhat giddy discussion of whether one of the NBA's most reliably tragicomic franchises really has figured something out, and whether they actually have a shot against whichever juggernaut escapes the Western Conference Finals. Grann does know ball, but he also knows the Knicks well enough to know that this moment of cheering for a juiceful and flourishing team is a pretty severe outlier.

Going into Roland-Garros, there was clear consensus: The greatest threat to Jannik Sinner was the Sun itself. It's the type of snappy one-liner that gets slung on the TV broadcast a dozen times a day, but it wound up prescient as the No. 1 seed melted down Thursday in a stupefying second-round loss to Juan Manuel Cerundolo. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Spv9oa4rwUQ Outside of celestial bodies, the top men's player wasn't slated to face much of a threat at the clay Slam. His rival Carlos Alcaraz had recently announced that he would sit out the summer to recover from a wrist injury. Part-time tennis player Novak Djokovic had barely clocked in for work since his impressive win over Sinner in Australia in January. In the meantime, Sinner had regained the No. 1 ranking, stomped the tour, and racked up records. When he arrived in Paris, he was winding down one of the best clay seasons in tennis history, having swept the three Masters titles, a feat previously achieved by only Rafael Nadal. Along the way, Sinner dropped only one set. Zooming out slightly further, Sinner had strung together six Masters titles in a row, which had never been done. He became the second player to complete the full set of nine Masters trophies, and he accomplished it seven years faster than Djokovic. I could bore you with even more, but I'll leave you with this simple number: Sinner had a 30-match win streak heading into his second-round match at Roland-Garros. I expected that number to extend to 36, and for him to lift the title that brutally eluded him by just one point last season.

James Wood is a pretty good leadoff hitter. Rookie Nationals manager Blake Butera, a disturbingly young fellow who looks like he should be one of the nine guys in this video, moved Wood to the top of Washington's lineup back in the spring, gradually swapping the places of Wood and former leadoff guy C.J. Abrams, who is now Washington's regular cleanup hitter. Wood is good at leadoff stuff: He leads the National League in walks and on-base percentage, and has successfully stolen 10 bags in 11 tries. Because he gets on base a lot, and because Abrams is thriving behind him, Wood leads the majors pretty comfortably in runs scored. The Nationals, in fact, lead all MLB teams in runs. All you care about is dingers. Wah wah wah, show me the dingers, you are wailing, smacking your sippy cup onto your tray table and shooting milk everywhere. Dingers are only one part of the game! Fine, here's a dinger: https://bsky.app/profile/nationals.com/post/3mms3clnza22y