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Matt Miller, an on-air NFL Draft analyst for ESPN, is presently recovering from, among other injuries, the emergency amputation of his left arm. Probably there are not too many kinds of trouble in Miller's life that measure up against that one. But trouble is waiting, and not very patiently: The Missouri Attorney General's office confirmed late last week that it is actively investigating Miller on consumer-protection grounds. In the time since he and his family mobilized public support around his injuries, Miller has been accused by dozens of aggrieved football fans of running scams in fantasy sports, career coaching, and charity fundraising. Miller posted to Twitter on June 23 that, a week earlier, he'd been involved in a serious road accident in Missouri. Friends of Miller's told local KOAM News that Miller was the driver of the more severely wrecked side of a two-vehicle collision on a state highway in Jasper County. On the afternoon of June 17, Miller's Ford Bronco reportedly crossed over the center line into westbound traffic and plowed into an oncoming semi-trailer, dealing shocking devastation to Miller's vehicle and body. Miller's family quickly established a GoFundMe campaign to raise $10,000 toward his medical expenses, and the campaign was promoted by several of Miller's high-profile ESPN colleagues. "As a result of the accident, I sustained significant injuries, including multiple fractures and broken ribs. I also underwent a life-saving amputation of my left arm," Miller wrote on Twitter. "While I have a long road ahead, I’m focused on my recovery and taking things one day at a time. Thank you for the overwhelming support, prayers and kind messages—they have meant so much to me and my family during this time."

Just a day after FIFA rescind Folarin Balogun's red-card suspension so that the USMNT striker could play against Belgium in Monday night's round of 16 match in Seattle, a decision that elicited reactions ranging from joyful to horrified depending on your rooting interests, the story keeps on rolling thanks to FIFA's innate FIFA-ness. On Monday, the Royal Belgian Football Association released a statement about the whole mess, which has raised the twin specters of corruption and incompetence. The RBFA's statement is a doozy. The association claims it learned of Balogun's un-suspension not from FIFA itself, but through the media reports coming from the tournament press on Sunday. Likely confused and certainly more than a little angry, the RBFA sent a letter to FIFA "requesting a copy of the decision, an explanation of the process that had been followed, and setting out its position regarding the applicable regulations." This is a reasonable request to make, and though FIFA failed to communicate to Belgium the results of their decision about Balogun prior to it leaking to the press, FIFA could have turned that into a minor oversight by simply sharing its reasoning with the RBFA. Not so fast, my friends! Because this is FIFA, things got very weird after Belgium sent that their request for clarity. The next part of the RBFA statement reads: As its only response, FIFA sent a letter to the RBFA stating that it considered this correspondence to constitute an appeal, that a judge had been appointed, and that the RBFA had only a few hours to complete that appeal. No information whatsoever was provided by FIFA.

If there could have been a story to rival England's Jordan Henderson getting yellow carded and then breaking his arm without actually playing, it would have been Brian Serven homering in the ninth inning of Marlins-Athletics to complete the comeback di tutti comebacks, and that's even allowing for the fact that England-Mexico at the Azteca was arguably a more momentous event than Marlins-Athletics no matter where it was played. That it was played in West Sacramento just added to the mutant beauty of a day in which the Marlins... ... got seven innings of perfect pitching from Eury Pérez and provided him with a seemingly insurmountable 8-0 lead.

Stay in line, and do our Monday crossword. This puzzle was constructed by Peggy Sue Marlin, and edited by Hoang-Kim Vu. Peggy Sue works in systems and data automation and enjoys golfing and DIY projects. She won her school spelling bee on the word "cheeseburger," then was eliminated at regionals on "asphyxiation." Her parents shared her disappointment, though they were secretly relieved she didn't know that word yet. Fortunately, dealing with that level of heartbreak at a young age prepared her perfectly for a lifetime of rooting for the Cubs. Defector crosswords, launched in partnership with our friends at AVCX, run every Monday. If you’re interested in submitting a puzzle to us, you can read our guidelines HERE. The AVCX, an independent puzzles and games outlet, invites you to subscribe, or sample the goods with a two-month free trial: "With an AVCX subscription, you get access to weekly themed and themeless crosswords, minis, cryptics, and trivia, by email or in your favorite app. We have no corporate overlord, and we publish top-flight stuff only. We also pay our people fairly, always. Check us out."

I think it's important we set some axioms for discussion of Anaheim's Leo Carlsson signing an offer sheet with Philadelphia, because it helps a superficially mindblowing contract feel something closer to logical—both in that the Flyers were wise to offer it, and in that the Ducks would be fools not to match it. The first thing to be agreed upon is that Carlsson is very, very good: 21 years old, putting up better numbers every year, 67 points in his third season. Whether you think he's neared his ceiling already or whether you believe he's got much more room to grow, he's a great and valuable player right now, full stop. He'd be a 1C on something like 20–25 teams in the NHL, certainly on the Ducks or Flyers, and 1Cs don't come cheap. The second thing to agree on is that while the Flyers' offer of $18 million a year over five years sounds like a lot, it's going to be the new normal very soon. Kirill Kaprizov's $17M-per-year deal kicks in this year, and while Carlsson will briefly be the NHL's highest-paid player, it won't be for long. Cale Makar and Quinn Hughes should be up there within a year; I can't even conceive of what Nikita Kucherov is going to get. Salaries are up because the salary cap is up: The projected cap in 2027–28 will be exactly (and coincidentally?) $18 million higher than it was last season. By the end of his deal, Carlsson's salary will be roughly the same percentage of his team's cap that Auston Matthews's is today, and Toronto would do that again in a heartbeat. The third truism here is that draft picks are overrated. The Flyers would have to give the Ducks their next four first-round picks. With Philadelphia a young team on the rise, those probably won't be lottery picks. Go ahead and pick four guys drafted 17–32 in recent years—no really, try it—and you'll be highly unlikely to land anyone nearly as good as Leo Carlsson. You could argue that Philly's picks are more valuable as potential trade bait, and I'd agree with you, but again: Who is Philadelphia going to trade for that's better than Carlsson?

Soccer is not usually the sort of sport that causes its players to lose their voices. And yet there was Harry Kane, minutes after his 10-man England squad escaped The Azteca with a 3-2 win over Mexico, nearly unable to complete his post-match interview due to the hoarseness of his voice. It was an unusual thing to see, but befitting of the game Kane had just played, which was so strange, so dramatic, that it was easy to imagine most everyone who watched or played in it being left speechless. Too much is often made of the effects of home-field advantage in sports, but soccer is one where, in certain circumstances, the environment and crowd can have a material influence over what happens on the field. There's not really any other way to explain Mexico, a middling and often uninspiring international team in most circumstances, basically never losing when they play at The Azteca. It made sense, then, that so much of the pregame analysis was focused on how England would handle playing at altitude, in front of a ferocious crowd of 87,000, against a team that feels invincible whenever it steps into that particular stadium. I figured if England could make it to the first hydration break without wobbling too badly, they'd be in good position to slowly gain control of the match through their superior talent. Everything went according to plan for England. An early header from Raúl Jiménez that seemed destined for the bottom corner was palmed away by Jordan Pickford, and suddenly a half-hour had passed without Mexico gaining too much of a foothold. And then, in the span of two minutes, it seemed that Jude Bellingham had singlehandedly removed The Azteca's mystique. His head met a cross at the back post to make it 1-0 England in the 36th minute, and then in the 38th he was there to finish off a move that started with Mexico giving the ball away in its own end.

Perhaps I can at least thank Max Verstappen for the clarity. Before he ran his Red Bull car into the wall on the 49th of the Silverstone Circuit's 52 laps, the British Grand Prix was shaping up to be too exciting to be coherent. It got off to an uncharacteristically slow start, yes, to the point where I wrote "first half shocking processional for silverstone" in my notes and was prepared to place some blame on the sprint format for the ongoing viewership woes. But shortly after, as though the race heard my complaint, it became, as Silverstone always is, one of the best races of the season. Where to start? The feral drivers' parade and their little LEGO minicars? The Verstappen–Lewis Hamilton–George Russell three-way battle for P3? The absurd multiple pass-repass sequences from former teammates Hamilton and Russell during that sequence? Russell's poor luck with a slow puncture that took him out of the fight? What about the more one-sided squabble for the race win between Charles Leclerc in a Ferrari, who had never won at Silverstone, and Kimi Antonelli in a Mercedes, who was the quickest all weekend and set to win convincingly? And within that, what about Antonelli's frightening pace during the race, until it all unraveled when he ran over a curb and the vibrations broke his car and he fought retirement to try to squeeze out just one more point for the Drivers' Championship standings? Well, Verstappen dictated that it is most narratively compact to start at the end. After Antonelli's car had already given up, leaving Leclerc and Hamilton in a Ferrari 1-2, Verstappen pushed hard on new medium tires to try to close the gap to Hamilton ahead. On lap 49, he lost his car going into Stowe, and went into the gravel, drawing out the safety car. Verstappen was irate over the radio at his car, but in a more saddened, understated manner than previous rages. The last podium place went to Russell's Mercedes, improving his championship hopes.

The USMNT was the talk of the soccer world in the aftermath of its triumph over Bosnia and Herzegovina last Wednesday. Most of the conversation was about the latest amazing U.S. performance in a tournament full of them, and the growing consensus that the Americans should be considered overwhelming favorites to go ahead and win the World Cup. However, a sizable portion of the discussion also centered on the referee's scandalous decision to show U.S. striker Folarin Balogun a totally unfair red card for an accidental challenge. The brave Americans were prepared to suffer this miscarriage of justice in dignified silence, and to face Belgium without Balogun. Thankfully, FIFA, an organization known for its commitment to fairness and ethics, stepped in on Sunday and suspended Balogun's one-game suspension. To a small, blinkered minority, FIFA's action smacks of favoritism and corruption. "What the hell!" you might hear one such person say, in a suspiciously French or Dutch accent. "They can't do that! The guy got a red card, he has to pay the price!" Ah, but surely this person will admit—or would admit, if they weren't blinded by impotent rage over the Americans' impending ticker-tape parade—that the initial call on the field was completely fraudulent, both on the merits and procedurally. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MuaS3jUAark

Expectation is everything. Considering the public transit price-gouging SNAFUs in New York New Jersey and Foxboro that dogged World Cup transit public relations prior to the event, some heat was taken off cities historically hostile to the concept of "public" and "transit," such as Los Angeles. Together, all three cities compose the "Doable But Miserable" tier of Aaron Gordon's breakdown of World Cup stadium transit access, which also elaborates on how the new Los Angeles stadium and its surrounding area, despite proximity to a great deal of transit options, fails to directly connect to many of the most convenient ones. Unlike New York New Jersey and Foxboro, however, Los Angeles was only charging $1.75 for direct service to and from the stadium. This posed some interesting questions. How easy and efficient would it actually be to take public transit—specifically the special shuttle service—in Los Angeles to a World Cup game? Would it be better or worse than "Secaucus Junction"? And so, amidst threats made by my beloved colleagues to force me try walking to the Meadowlands for journalism's sake, I fled to the West Coast to instead answer a question that was less likely to result in immediate death and/or severe bodily harm. Here was the situation: I was planning on going to, though not directly attending, the round-of-32 game between Spain and Austria in Inglewood. I was staying with a friend in her hotel room in downtown Los Angeles, right next to the Los Angeles Sparks' arena. This is one of the more transit-accessible locations in Los Angeles, with access to four separate Metro stops within a 15-minute walk. Without the direct shuttle, the commute from the hotel to the stadium would, in an ideal world sans traffic, take approximately 25 minutes by car, an hour by transit, and three hours and 40 minutes by foot. (This last point would not be relevant, if not for the fact that as my friend and I were breaking this down, we discovered that one could walk across the entirety of Munich in that same three-hour, 40-minute timeframe.)

BARCELONA — "Every swarm needs a face," declares the post announcing Visma-Lease a Bike's new bee mascot, "and every face needs a name." Confusing proclamations aside—the defining characteristic of a swarm is its facelessness—the opening stage of the 2026 Tour de France was one for the insects. As if to bless Visma for their honeycomb jerseys out of an oblique entomic solidarity, the swarm of cicadas nestled in the scrubby pines atop Montjuïc thrummed Jonas Vingegaard to victory on Saturday's Stage 1. The lanky Dane smashed the Côte du Stade Olympique to win a team time trial somewhat worthy of the name and don the yellow jersey for the first time in three years. The Tour is here, and it's off to the most fascinating possible start. The strangest thing about the Tour starting in Barcelona has nothing to do with the city's Spanishness but rather its size. The Tour is the biggest deal in almost every town, village, and city it graces, but Barcelona, like Paris, is big enough to have a city's worth of people with other stuff going on. You'd have little idea the world's biggest bike race was about to come to town for three days if you'd walked around and checked the vibes in Eixample, Ciutat Vella, or any of the other touristy parts of town on Friday. If pressed to say what major world sporting event was about to happen, and you'd done the necessary walking around, you might say an Argentina World Cup watch party. Anyone stepping foot into the KFC whose doors open up as if in enfilade out onto the Sagrada Familia is not going be bothered to put down a drumstick and walk up Montjuïc in the heat of the day. The toasted gaggles I saw out still flickering past 7 a.m. the next day aren't concerning themselves with such a morning sport. But the cicadas know. The Tour opened with a fascinating experiment, and an equally swarming Barcelona crowd greeted the race with enthusiasm, bravado, and bright pink faces, thanks to event security's confounding decision to take people's bottles of sunscreen at the start zone. I spent a chunk of the sweltering afternoon positioned about halfway up the final climb, thronged by fans, including, rather puzzlingly, a venerable old Dutch guy wearing an orange (?) Red Sox hat (??) sitting regally in a full-cushion armchair (???). Did he haul it up the mountain? Repurpose it from some local scrap heap? A nearby man helpfully pointed out that he was a big-shot sponsor, before proudly telling us that his son Tim Marsman was riding his first Tour in support of Mathieu van der Poel. Exclusionary VIP experiences are an inextricable part of the Tour, so I appreciate that even while this man was perched in a cushy, well-upholstered chair, he was doing so among the people.