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Detroit Lions cornerback Terrion Arnold was arrested late Wednesday in Tampa, Fla., and charged with four counts of kidnapping and four counts of armed robbery. Jail records showed Arnold turned himself in and was booked in Hillsborough County's Orient Road Jail. Arnold's arrest is related to an ongoing criminal case in which six codefendants have been charged with assaulting and robbing three men in an apartment. According to court documents filed by Hillsborough prosecutors, the six codefendants—Arianna Del Valle, Jasmine Randazzo, Lyndell Hudson, Christion Williams, Boakai Hilton Jr., and Freddie Lee Hughes III—lured the alleged victims into an apartment because they believed the three were responsible for previously burglarizing an Airbnb that Arnold had rented in Largo, Fla. Once the three alleged victims were lured into the apartment, court documents said they were held at gunpoint, pistol-whipped, interrogated, and robbed. (The same record said, "There is no evidence that any of the victims are involved in the theft.") Arnold's Airbnb was burglarized twice, he told police, once in late January and again in early February. On Feb. 3, Arnold spoke with Largo police and reported property loss of more than $250,000, the Detroit Free Press reported. Arnold told officers that he suspected that two of the three men who were allegedly kidnapped and beaten were responsible for the Airbnb burglary, but investigators ultimately determined they were not involved.

On June 25, 1976, three and a half years after Roe v. Wade made abortion legal in the U.S., The Omen hit theaters. Most viewers remember the high-drama deaths—by impalement, decapitation, hanging—or the creepiness of Harvey Spencer Stephens’s young Damien, or Gregory Peck’s commanding gravitas. But I always remember poor Kathy.  Katherine Thorn (Lee Remick, making the most of a fairly thin role) is the wife of Robert Thorn, an American diplomat stationed in Rome and later made ambassador to Great Britain. She’s a good woman and a loving, supportive wife. In the movie’s opening scene, as Kathy languishes offscreen in postpartum recovery, a priest tells Robert that their baby only survived for a few moments after birth. Robert is wrecked, but he’s especially concerned for his wife: “I’m afraid it will kill her,” he says. “My god, she wanted a baby so much, for such a long time.”  The priest suggests a deeply unethical solution: The hospital has another baby, born that very night, whose mother died in childbirth. Robert can present the baby as their own, and Kathy never has to know. Robert hems and haws a bit, but ultimately agrees. In intention, this is done out of love. In practice, of course, it’s an act of unimaginable betrayal. 

It is easy to miss the Match Momentum graphic the Fox network stamps onto its World Cup broadcasts. The graph pops up only on rare occasion, wedged into the bottom-left corner, less than a third of the height and width of the screen. Often it appears only so briefly that the commentators never make a point to draw attention to it, or to try to explain what is happening within it. If advanced statistics have historically been created 1) to produce better metrics for match analysis and 2) for advertising, the Match Momentum graphic poses a new, intriguing third option: an advanced statistic simply for the sake of it. Forgive me for the extremely poor quality of this image, which is a phone picture of my laptop screen. I attempted to take a screenshot multiple times and suffered through unspeakable horrors. The "what" of Match Momentum is easier to grasp than the "why." It is a statistic provided by Stats Perform/Opta, a sports data and AI (presumably in the machine-learning sense) company, that provided a full explainer. The graphs can also be found on the stats pages of the BBC and FlashScore, presumably using Opta's model, though the BBC and the Fox broadcast, diverging from modern broadcast conventions, do not come along with a helpful plug for their source.

Given the circumstances, Iran has played extraordinary soccer in this year's World Cup, equalizing not once but twice with New Zealand in a 2-2 result, and displaying robust defense in a 0-0 draw with Belgium, as keeper Alireza Beiranvand made a save that should go down as one of the best of the tournament. The Iranian team has accomplished all of this despite being legally barred from staying in the United States to rest after their games; Donald Trump's administration has forced the squad to return to their training camp in Tijuana immediately afterward. One might expect that triumphing over these restrictive conditions would be cause for celebration among members of the diaspora community who have shown up to watch the games. So why, before their games against New Zealand and Belgium, was there a cascade of boos at the Iranian national anthem? Iranian-American demonstrators have shown up to the Iran men's national team's games not to protest FIFA's lack of action to protect the team, but to disavow the nation's very presence at the World Cup, and to cheer on their opponents. These protesters have accused the team of being agents of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, agents of the Ayatollah, agents of the Iranian regime in general. One protester who had purchased a ticket to the New Zealand-Iran game said that he and others would boo during the anthem, so that those voices "will reach all the way to Iran." Iranian monarchism, advocating the restoration of the Shah's rule in Tehran, has gone from functioning as a fringe movement to having substantial purchase with the Iranian diaspora over the past two decades. The movement's leader, the late Shah's son Reza Pahlavi, has become a stalwart advocate of military intervention in Iran especially within the past few years. His advocacy of war against his own country has been rewarded with attention by close Trump allies like Sen. Lindsey Graham, who was seen wearing a "Make Iran Great Again" hat while meeting with members of the Iranian diaspora and Israel's ambassador to the UN earlier this year.

Time for your weekly edition of the Defector Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. Today, we're talking money, U2, lasagna, and more. Hello! I'm happy to be back guest-hosting the Funbag while Drew is off. Let's get to it. Adam:

I spent 11 summers at sleepaway camp, first as a camper and then, once I turned 17, as a counselor. Every year around this time, I get nostalgic for the days that moved along to the soundtrack of 2000s pop and Dean Friedman songs, and the freedom of a world where the greatest authority is some guy in his early 30s named Neil whom everyone ignored. I have found only one solution to assuage my yearning for the blue skies and green hills of the Finger Lakes: watching movies where a bunch of teens living in cabins get absolutely slaughtered.  From Friday the 13th to watching the trailer for Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma on a loop until it's reached feature length—every era, every iteration, every final girl—I've seen probably every summer camp slasher at this point. I've seen Bruce Springsteen's little sister drown a girl in an outhouse (Sleepaway Camp II: Unhappy Campers). I've seen Sadie Sink get hacked up by an axe and then, in a miraculous testament to the powers of first-aid training, be resurrected through CPR (Fear Street Part Two: 1978). I’ve seen George Costanza as a horny teenager (The Burning), which was perhaps the most horrifying moment of them all.  I have lived a million of those classic, less harrowing slasher moments as well. I've smoked a joint in the woods before walking alone in the dark, climbed through an overgrown trail after midnight to a part of the camp that hadn't been used in decades, and been briefly stranded at night in the middle of a rural New York town after my friend's car broke down. I bought a picture of a random man at an antique store, to trick my campers into thinking he was a local ghost. I had a habit of sneaking out of my own tent to spend the night with my boyfriend, and sneaking back in the morning. Such is the beauty of summer camp: mix the freedom of self-discovery with the perils of minimal supervision. Put a bunch of horny teenagers in charge. Throw in a ghost story around a campfire, and you've got yourself a horror movie. 

Welcome back to Minor Dilemmas, where a member of Defector's Parents Council will answer your questions on surviving family life. Have a question? Email us at minordilemmas@defector.com. This week, Albert answers a question about kids and lying.

Technically, the Chicago Sky are not the worst team in the WNBA right now by record; that honor would belong to either of the teams with one fewer win, the Connecticut Sun or the Seattle Storm. But after Monday's WNBA slate, which featured the Sky's 92-63 loss to the Sun, and Seattle's much more competitive 112-110 loss to the Dallas Wings, the distinction feels like one without a difference. What do you call a team that loses to the worst team in the WNBA by 29 points? The Sky have been bad for the better part of four years now, but for a hopeful sliver of this summer, they weren't. Last year's roster had been overhauled, the bad vibes cast aside by trades and free agency. If the big picture was a little hazy, the names weren't: A trade for Rickea Jackson quickly filled the star vacuum left by trading Angel Reese; veteran free agents Skylar Diggins and Natasha Cloud gave the team some needed depth at point guard; signing Azurá Stevens promised more spacing for Kamilla Cardoso. Their season began with four straight games on the road; they returned to Chicago an impressive 3-1, with wins against the contending Valkyries and Lynx. Still, the homecoming was bittersweet. Minutes into the final game of the road trip in Minnesota, Jackson had torn her ACL. The Sky did rally to win that game, even down their leading scorer. They've won just one of their 12 games since.  This is the Chicago Sky's story at its simplest: a promising team aimless without its star, derailed by plain misfortune. It might well be the story that grants general manager Jeff Pagliocca and head coach Tyler Marsh more time in their jobs. But every night the Sky play, it gets harder to believe the story is true. In the history of basketball, you will find many good teams that have sustained good play in the absence of a top scorer. Often the reason those teams are good is because they are not so otherwise flawed as to immediately be felled by one player’s absence.

The San Francisco Giants have permission from Major League Baseball to wear Pride-themed gear. This was explained by commissioner Rob Manfred in a recent letter to Josh Hawley, the Republican senator from Missouri. The Giants and Dodgers have a special exemption: Other teams have only the 12 league-wide special uniform events, but these two teams can print and wear (and, of course, sell) Pride gear. It is the responsibility of the Giants, as a condition of their special exemption, to "speak to the players to make sure they [are] comfortable with the apparel," and to make it clear that they are not required to wear it. Here is how the Giants and MLB intend to dart out from under the towering victimhood of Hawley and the hordes of deranged evangelical bigots that he represents: According to Manfred, what happened on June 12, when three Giants pitchers scrawled Bible verses onto their Pride caps and were subsequently scolded by the league office, was a simple and innocent miscommunication. "Unfortunately," Manfred said, "this year the Giants communication with players was inadequate and not clear." This won't survive very close scrutiny. For one thing, all three of the offending players—Landen Roupp, JT Brubaker, and Ryan Walker—were on the Giants last season. For another, this was not a spur of the moment thing, undertaken in the confusion of unclear expectations: Giants players told the San Francisco Chronicle last week that there "were conversations in the days and weeks leading up to the Giants' Pride Night" about how exactly the small group of dissenters would protest the event. Finally, per the same Chronicle report, none of the three players who were scolded by MLB for writing on their Pride caps felt pressured by the team to wear them in the first place. They knew they had the option to wear normal caps—Sam Hentges, the fourth Giants pitcher to protest the event, wore a standard team cap and kept it unmarked—but wanted to make a statement.

In 2018, I became convinced that flamenco had South Asian origins. I hadn’t listened to much flamenco, if any at all, until my roommate Jake introduced me to Rosalía. I watched her dance—using her feet to strike the ground, making an instrument of her body, raising her arms in intricate flourishes—and I thought … I’ve seen this before. It looked so Indian to me.  Jake and I used to argue about it whenever we watched her music videos, which means we argued about it constantly. Me: “Romani people are from Rajasthan, and there is no flamenco without Romani people!” Him: “Bitch, you can’t even spell flamenco.” We didn’t go anywhere without first downing black cherry White Claws and watching the “Con Altura” music video, mimicking her stomps on the brown carpet of our living room. I think I still have the whole thing memorized. Even though Rosalía experienced success early in her career—her debut album was beloved by critics—it took some time for pop fans to catch up. I remember going to Lollapalooza in 2019 and begging my high school friend to ditch a white rapper named “Yung Gravy” and come with me to catch Rosalía instead. She did, and she thanked me afterward.