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The original version of this article was published in The Nation on July 13. When I first heard the 2026 World Cup was about to begin, I barely paid attention. This was partially because of the timing—most matches this year have aired late at night in Gaza because of the time difference with the United States—but mostly because I couldn't imagine how anyone here would watch the games.

Many new species have been announced this week. There are new mites from Saudi Arabia and a new weevil from Japan. There are new midges from China and new spiders from Brazil and China. There is a new dragonfly from Vietnam, a new jewel beetle from Borneo, and a grasshopper from Ecuador. Each of these creatures is no doubt beautiful in their own right. And yet, none of them are monkeys. Seemingly every week science announces new midges, new spiders, new spineless hopping things that hadn't been described because they are so small and elusive. It is not every week that science announces an animal so big and charismatic and closely related to us. It is not every week that science announces a new monkey. New monkey! When you got under the covers last night, could you have imagined that just the next day that there would be a new monkey? When you placed your head upon your pillow and closed your eyes, did you have any inkling that, just around the corner, there would be a new monkey to know and love at a respectful distance? When you opened your bleary eyes this morning, could you have in your wildest dreams that you would, shortly after 2 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time, gain a greater understanding of the biological resplendence that abounds on our lush and precious planet? I have known about the monkey for around a week, which means I have had to actively restrain myself from telling everyone I know about the monkey, whose visage now graces the hallowed pages of this august website. I could not tell anyone about this monkey because of the rules of academic embargo, in which scientific papers are released to journalists a week or so before they actually publish so that we have the time to write up new stories that can be published as soon as the paper comes out. This means, by the time you are reading this, publications around the world will have published their own stories about the new monkey. Each will have its own merit, and many will be more serious than this one. But will they also have verve and gusto? Will they give the new monkey the flowers it deserves?

As an anxious and judgmental person whose standards for interpersonal etiquette and social niceties might best be described as Austenesque, I can confidently say: Every wedding is rife with social crimes. I’ve seen more than my share of dads make speeches about mawwiage, and I’ve seen a few chill brides set everyone in their vicinity tiptoeing (often rightly so), and I’ve watched whole tables full of relatives seethe about their placement. As far as I’m concerned, weddings encourage self-caricature. The wedding at the center of today’s gossip is no exception. We’ve got a backyard ceremony, some previously cordial neighbors, and a pair of grooms determined to make up for two years of social isolation with the celebration of a lifetime. Almost everyone is gay and almost everyone contributes to making this party (an) unforgettable (mess). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3BGCAIKDzdI

Taking care to avoid the team-picking system of our schoolyard memories, Lilah Maravi divided us into two sides of about 20. It was a pleasant Sunday in June—Father’s Day—and we had gathered at our usual spot for our Pride month game. After a spontaneous game of catch in a Brooklyn park in 2023, Lilah had started this monthly pickup series with a Field of Dreams-esque compulsion to get trans women together to play baseball. That might sound counterintuitive. Many of us were unathletic youths, and many of us make significant efforts to distance ourselves from an image of masculinity. Add in transphobic campaigns to exclude us from women’s and girls sports, and it leaves few opportunities for trans women to enjoy being on a field. It was going to be up to people like Lilah and her friends to make it possible for baseball to be for us. The first game, in April 2023 at East River Park, drew not quite enough players for two full teams. Since then, we’ve moved fields (I’m leaving out where and when exactly, but if you want to play with us, you can find us) and found that way more girls wanted to play baseball than we had expected. At least once a month from April to October, as many as 50 players take turns on the diamond as friends chat, cheer, and grill hot dogs on the sidelines.

Aliyah Boston's teammate drives so much of the American population insane that it's easy to forget her own talent for getting in other people's heads. Opposing bigs unravel next to her. Jonquel Jones, possibly the nicest and humblest athlete I've ever spoken to, revealed the limits of her patience two years ago when she tussled with Boston in the Indiana Fever's home opener. Expect a technical foul or two whenever Boston and Brittney Griner play. Remember Boston's playoff spat with Brionna Jones? These bigs might tell you their beef has to do with Boston's prodigious use of elbows in the post. Kelsey Plum's impression of her, done all in good fun at Unrivaled, involved a pair of violent oblique twists before the shot attempt.  There were no techs or flaring tempers Sunday night, but Boston's skill and physicality made A'ja Wilson the latest victim of a Boston brain boom. In the Fever's 109-75 beatdown of the Las Vegas Aces, Wilson had maybe the worst game of her season, finishing 9-of-23 from the field while Boston went 9-of-14. (Granted, Wilson's worst still looks like 20 points, 12 boards, and a couple of blocks.) Unable to get to her spots against Boston, the reigning MVP had to take more jumpers than she wanted. "Twenty-three shots I took—I was probably happy with two of them," Wilson said after the game. When head coach Becky Hammon yanked the starters with a little under five minutes to play, they'd only managed to score four points in the fourth quarter.

We'll start with the most significant play of the 2026 MLB All-Star Game: a hit batsman. In the top of the third, with a man on first and the AL already leading 3-0, Tampa's Junior Caminero got smacked on the hand by a 98-mph pitch from St. Louis's Riley O’Brien. Caminero was replaced by a pinch runner as he left to get X-rays, and immediately the day's earlier news that the owners would try to force players to participate in the 2028 Olympics looked even more ridiculous. While Caminero's examination yielded relief, indicating he should be able to play for the Rays on Friday, the wait for that announcement dampened what was already an alternately dull and maudlin atmosphere in Philadelphia, where scores of empty seats were visible on the broadcast before the AL finished off their 4-0 win. Sometimes a baseball game just isn't exciting. That's always going to be an inherent risk. But Tuesday night didn't do itself any favors with its mid-game musical breaks, which made for an exhaustively self-serious affair. They stopped for a recording of Ray Charles's "America The Beautiful," which Jennifer Hudson had already performed in the pregame, then later broke for Boyz II Men to do “I’ll Be There” as part of Mastercard's anti-cancer ad, and still we had to sit through "God Bless America." America 250 is ostensibly a birthday party, but birthday parties are supposed to be upbeat and fun. It felt like MLB was throwing a wake. At least we'll always have the goofy incongruity of Ernie Clement, in a jersey that says "Toronto," signing a Declaration of Independence–looking document as part of the starting lineup announcements. Mary DeCicco/MLB Photos via Getty Images

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, Drew talks about danger.

Having sat with Spain's 2-0 victory over France in the World Cup semifinal for several hours now, I am left with an overwhelming sense of relief. Not because Spain won or France lost, but because the game's second goal was as beautiful as it was. Whether or not you watched the game, you need to do yourself a favor and watch this goal several more times before the day is done. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZBOIka9sXlQ

This past Friday in Vegas, while many players were in town for NBA Summer League action, Miami Heat big man Bam Adebayo got in some kind of fight with his recently departed teammate Tyler Herro. In last month's trade for Giannis Antetokounmpo, the Heat sent Herro to the Milwaukee Bucks, ending his seven-year stint alongside Adebayo. The fight between them took place in the morning, in a practice court at a hotel; later that day but before news broke of the fight, Herro said in an interview that "it's all love" with his former team. As with any event described by the NBA media, the details of this story took on many forms and involved many imperfect synonyms. So what exactly happened in last weekend's scuffle? That depends on who you ask. ESPN's Shams Charania, who broke the story, put it like this:

Lindsey Graham's sudden death has elicited plenty of nauseating remembrances from his colleagues in the Senate, none of whom seemed to be all that ashamed to speak and write warmly about a guy whose life's work was bigotry and warmongering. But no tribute has been as bone-chilling as the one offered up Monday night by Atlantic staff writer Ashley Parker. Here's how Parker decided to remember the man she used to cover while working for The New York Times: Like anyone who’s spent any time around politics, I have many Lindsey Graham stories. This is perhaps my favorite… I was covering Congress (Best! Beat! Ever!) for the NYT when the Mother Emanuel shooting happened in Charleston. It was summer, but I was wearing pants and a sweater that day because it was always SO freezing in the Capitol. Anyhow, news of the shooting came down, and the DC Bureau chief called me with an order: Get yourself to Charleston ASAP and glue yourself to Graham’s side. She wanted a piece on the senator grappling with the unimaginable. So I headed straight to the airport, arriving in Charleston with just my backpack and what I’d be wearing to work that day, and linked up with Graham. He had me meet him at a restaurant, where I told him I needed to shadow him for the next 48 hours. And he looked at me, with amused distaste, and said: “You are sticky. And you are icky. If you want to shadow me, go buy some nice new clothes—maybe a dress—and take a shower, and then we’ll talk.” (He was not wrong; I was sweaty and gross). So I drove to a local big box store, bought a dress (he seemed to have a strong preference for a dress), and spent the next few days with him, resulting in this piece (which, for reasons not worth getting into, ended up being fairly different than the original assignment).