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As of publication, the New York Knicks maintain a 2-1 edge in the NBA Finals against the San Antonio Spurs. It's been an entertaining, nervous, and extremely high-level series, and this week on Nothing But Respect, Harry and I sought out two returning champions. Devon Walker, comedian and podcaster and generally very funny internet person, is a big Spurs fan; he expressed his loathing for the Oklahoma City Thunder, and discussed his optimism about his team's youngsters. Then, Will Menaker, co-host of the great Chapo Trap House, joined us to complain about Donald Trump and his cadre of evil scumbags fucking up the vibes, and made a case for Knicks fans to remain calm and level-headed. You can find Nothing But Respect in Apple Podcasts or whatever podcast app you use. Follow the show on Instagram, and contact the Broke Jumper Tip Line at (347) 380-6426. Thanks for listening!

If the AL Central is like an apartment building, then the Chicago White Sox spent the last few years as a shut-in neighbor with some smelly, unidentifiable substance leaking out from under their front door. It was best to stay as far away as possible. But after the first few months of the 2026 season, the windows have been cracked and the rooms aired out. If you come knock on the White Sox's door with an open mind, there's a good chance they'll welcome you in and give you an enjoyable evening in their company. And it won't smell nearly at all. The latest collision of "White Sox" and "happiness" came Tuesday night on the South Side, with the Atlanta Braves in town for the start of a three-game series. The Braves' garish, tasteless 45-21 record dwarfed the Sox's humble, earthy 34-31 mark, and Chicago was missing its thundering rookie slugger Munetaka Murakami to injury, so it wouldn't be fair to expect too much out of this meeting. But after Atlanta got out to an early 4-0 lead, the pitching tightened up and the Sox got the hits they needed to send it into extras. There was a two-run Miguel Vargas dong in the third, then a single/HBP/single combo in the fourth, and finally walk/single/single in the seventh. (This was a retro-themed local broadcast for the Sox, by the way, with old-fashioned graphics and Bob Costas of all people on the play-by-play call.) Atlanta got their run on their top of the 10th, and Raisel Iglesias, who entered this game with a 0.87 ERA, picked up the first two outs in the bottom half. But then Braden Montgomery, a right fielder making his MLB debut at a position where nine different starters have featured for Chicago this season, stepped up to the plate hoping to add to the RBI hit he'd earned in the fourth. The 23-year-old looked at a 90 mph meatball down the middle, and with the count 0-1, Iglesias tried to sneak that same thing by him again. Big mistake. Montgomery flicked the pitch into the left field corner, and on a warm Midwestern night its flight extended beyond the fence for the game-winning home run. That hit only goes yard in two out of 30 ballparks, but this is the only place that matters.

Recently while picking up a banh mi in my neighborhood, I found myself transfixed by a TV in the restaurant showing what I assumed was a nature documentary. At first the footage soothed: Gentle humpback whales sailing through hazy blue waters and killer whales gliding in packs under glacial ice. But the longer I waited for my banh mi, which was not very long at all, the more unsettling the video became. When a fleet of eight or so orcas moved in uncanny alignment under ice that looked a little too crystalline, I realized the video was AI, a realization that felt first bleak but then reassuring for my ability to detect such things. I was re-unsettled when the video then cut to footage that looked absolutely real. It was another humpback gliding through murky, sun-drizzled sea, its grizzled jaw scarred and encrusted with barnacles. When I suggested this footage might be real, I got into an argument with my friend, who insisted the entire video was AI. Surely it couldn't be. Because this whale looked real to me. The nature of my job means that friends and strangers will often show me videos of animals that stir in them feelings of awe, wonder, surprise, disgust, fear, loathing, or confusion. For years, this was a delight, a banquet of beautiful creatures personally curated for me. My Instagram DMs teemed with blue dragon sea slugs feasting on blue bottle jellyfish and the unreal, telescopic eyes of a strawberry conch. I loved learning about the new animals my friends had chanced upon: the female Boulenger's backpack frog, who carries her eggs on her back until they hatch into froglets, or the Yucatán casque-headed tree frog, whose bony head is large and almost like that of a duck. (Frogs starred in a lot of these videos for reasons that are unknown but pleasing to me, and a testament to the amphibians' universal good vibes.) I even appreciated the honorary creatures, such as the pulsing plasmodium of this slime mold, or this ceramic effigy vessel of a land crab. In the past few years, something shifted. At first the slop was sloppy. The animals had extra tentacles or anime eyes. They glitched as they moved. Sometimes they found themselves in surreal circumstances, such as in a video claiming to depict a giant squid being "cleaned and rescued" off the coast of California. But gradually, almost beyond my notice, the fake animals got more real. Their fur bristled. They scampered more naturally. The video quality got fuzzier, mimicking nature's often imperfect lighting conditions. But I was still able to spot them, or at least I thought I was. I began opening the links my friends sent me with an ambient dread, afraid of having to break the news that they'd been duped by AI, or afraid that I'd be duped, too.

At approximately 11 pm on Dec. 13, 2025, I thought I’d lost it all. I found myself at the Williamsburg location of Barcade—a combination bar and vintage arcade—for my j-school’s end-of-semester party. No particular part of me wanted to spend the night in Williamsburg or at an arcade, let alone both at once. But I needed to make more friends at school. Recently, after a professor offered me some advice, she recommended I also consult my “j-school besties.” When I thought to myself, “Girl, that’s you,” I realized I had a problem. Thus, Barcade, along with pleasantries about the upcoming winter break, travel plans, and holiday traditions. When someone asked if I wanted to grab a drink, I offered a friendly “Yes!” and ordered a Sam Adams “Just The Haze” non-alcoholic IPA.  It tasted so good—so IPA-like—that I thought the bartender accidentally served me alcohol, less than a month away from my one year sober anniversary. Bready fizz pooled at the back of my throat while I considered how upset to feel about 337 days of hard work gone in an instant—at a locale named Barcade, of all places. Does an accidental sip count as a relapse? I turned to the bartender, who saw the look of alarm in my eyes and immediately anticipated my concern. “It’s really good right? Almost tastes too much like the real thing?”

On Dec. 5, 2025, FIFA President Gianni Infantino presented Donald Trump with the inaugural FIFA Peace Prize, nominally for Trump's "tireless efforts to bring people together in a spirit of peace." I found myself less interested in the cynicism of placating Trump with the sort of bribe one would bestow upon a recalcitrant 10-year-old—nobody considers FIFA the imprimatur of global peace—and more interested in the physical award itself. The FIFA statue is a miniature of a hulking bronze sculpture, on display at the UN, entitled Thoughts and Desires. It offers a hackneyed and vacuous statement of connectivity, depicting five bronze hands reaching up to touch a globe. The viewer is supposed to see the statue and think, Wow, people are important on the planet, and be moved. OK. It was made by Azerbaijani artists Salhab Mammadov and Ali Ibadullayev, who occupy presumably cushy propagandizer roles in the repressive, brutal Azerbaijani state under dictator Ilham Aliyev. The bulk of Mammadov and Ibadullayev's work is tied to the glorification of their national project, a mission the FIFA statue is coherent with, if less overtly. This particular duo helping this particular international corruption syndicate–slash–soccer concern with honoring this particular villain tells one part of the story of what is commonly understood as sportswashing; the other part of the story is told by the fact that their sculpture is hideous. What is sportswashing? In general usage, it refers to actions undertaken by malign organizations (usually though not exclusively repressive governments) in an attempt to cleanse their international reputations—blighted by things like genocide, the kidnapping and imprisonment of journalists, or gangster-state rapacity—through the sponsorship of sports. It's like giving a dog their heartworm pill wrapped in peanut butter: The pill is, for example, a willingness to hear both sides of the debate about executing teenagers who criticize the Saudi government, and the peanut butter is Formula 1 racing. Though prominent examples of the practice can be found throughout international sporting history—we're 90 years out from the 1936 Hitler Olympics—the term only came into prominence in the last decade, first in reference to the Azerbaijan state using the 2015 European Games (among other international events) to launder its increasingly concerning reputation.

The Stanley Cup Final is, to use the industry term, drunk off its ass. Not one game, not one occurrence has seemed to follow logically from what came before it. Goals are plentiful. Goalkeeping is optional. Leads are temporary, and possibly even cursed: Each of the four games has seen multi-goal leads evaporate. (Empirically, the only sure thing is to go up four; that lead will disappear too, but you'll get it back in overtime.) Is it good hockey? It's hockey, that's for sure. Is it fun hockey? "Not really," said Carolina coach Rod Brind'Amour. "It's pretty stressful." Brind'Amour's Canes beat the Golden Knights 5-3 in yet another thriller Tuesday to even things up at two games apiece, and there are vanishingly few narrative constants in this series to cling to outside of inconstancy itself. One has been that Carter Hart has been playing like Carter Shart, becoming the first goalie in history to give up at least four goals in each of the first four games of a Final. Another has been Jordan Staal turning back the clock and playing like it's 2008. Those are teasers for the rest of this blog. Game 4's drama started even before puck drop, with the news that Frederik Andersen, who has started every game in net for Carolina, wouldn't even dress. Brandon Bussi, who played in relief in Game 3, got the start, with Pyotr Kochetkov backing him up. There's speculation that Andersen is hurt, but that wouldn't have to be disclosed since he was a scratch, so who knows; he also did give up four goals in one period. Brind'Amour insisted Andersen just needed a break. It would become a moot point if Bussi, the 27-year-old rookie, could claim the crease with a statement game. That's not quite what happened. Bussi would allow a trio of Vegas goals, largely against the run of play, but then he would tighten up as the Golden Knights brought the house in the third. Mixed results. Brind'Amour wouldn't tip his hand for Game 5's starter.

Two NFL players were arrested in recent days as part of domestic violence criminal cases. On Monday night, Rams offensive lineman Alaric Jackson was arrested in Los Angeles on suspicion of felony domestic violence, first reported by NBC4. Earlier on Monday, Broncos outside linebacker Jonathon Cooper entered a plea of not guilty in a Colorado court after he was charged with misdemeanor domestic violence. Jackson was arrested at his San Fernando Valley home, NBC4 reported. Police sources told the TV station that Jackson and a woman got in a verbal fight and, when Jackson believed the woman was recording him, he tried to take her phone out of her hand. Per NBC4, "investigators said the woman had scratch marks on her arms." The Los Angeles district attorney's office told the Los Angeles Times it was reviewing the Jackson case. Jackson previously was suspended for two games in 2024 for a violation of the NFL's personal conduct policy. At the time, no specifics were given by the league or team about the nature of the violation. A year later, a woman sued Jackson saying he had filmed her without her consent while they were having sex. In her lawsuit, the woman said she told the NFL what happened. The case was dismissed with prejudice at the request of the woman and Jackson.

The World Cup is continuing to suck, and here’s the latest reason why: CBP goons denied referee Omar Artan entry into the U.S., where he was set to become the first-ever Somali to officiate a World Cup game. Artan arrived in Miami on Saturday to attend a mandatory training hub for the tournament’s 140 officials. (Because all on-pitch refs have to stay at the base in Florida, he can’t just go to Canada or Mexico to officiate matches.) Instead of allowing him through, however, immigration officials interrogated Artan for 11 hours before locking him in a holding cell for several more. Then they put him on a flight to Istanbul without providing a reason for his denied entry. Since then, CBP cited vague “vetting concerns” in an official statement. As a result, Artan will not fulfill what he says is “the biggest dream” of his life at the 2026 World Cup, despite the Confederation of African Football naming him as their top male official last year. FIFA regards Artan like they do most of the fans, players, and professionals who populate their World Cup: They could not give less of a shit about him. They deferred responsibility for his detention and ejection to “host country immigration processes” which the organization is “not involved in.” Artan is out, and they will not lift a finger to challenge that.

Blocks of "frozen zones" established by NYPD barricades. Roaming cops and security forces corralling people onto the sidewalk or standing around like an unspoken threat. Leaders' allusions to potential danger so they can justify the militarized spectacle they have set up on the street. The husk of the community that was building up where the police now stand. Game 3 of the NBA Finals really took me back to my college days. What I hope remains the lowest point of my life came the morning after the raid on Hind's Hall at Columbia University. On April 30, 2024, I ran from the SRG officers that had stormed onto my college campus to unleash brutal force on students both inside and outside the gates. Afterward, I waited until the early morning on the sidewalk of 1 Police Plaza for my friends to be released, and I sat with fellow students trying to make sense of what we had experienced. When I emerged from the subway at 116th that morning, I was greeted by the same barricades, the same police officers, the same lines of cop cars down my block as the night before. As if the previous night never happened. What started as an extravagant use of force became a normal part of student life. I had to swipe an ID to get into the gates of campus, leave for class earlier so as not to get stuck in security lines, sign in out-of-town guests just so we could sit on the steps, and keep lists of ways to sneak onto campus if I didn’t want to be tracked by ID swipes and security cameras. I couldn't walk across Columbia's brick paths without the eerie, disturbing awareness that I was being watched.

It's almost time for the World Cup. Before the tournament, we'll be previewing each of the top 15 teams by FIFA rankings that made the tournament. Why the top 15? Because that's how many we needed to do in order for the USMNT to make the cut. You can read all of our previews here. Over the last eight years or so, no team has been better than England at establishing a gap between the anticipation created by the overabundance of talent on its rosters and the excitement created by actually watching that roster play soccer. The results have been fitting: a loss in the semifinals at the 2018 World Cup, losses in the final at the Euros in 2020 and 2024, and a quarterfinals flameout at the 2022 World Cup. If you're an England fan, or just someone who wants to see great soccer players do cool stuff, the Three Lions' performances in those tournaments would have really ground your gears. One of the most talent-rich countries in the world set aside concepts like "attacking" and "having fun" to deploy a cagier, more structured style that is meant to be more suited to international competitions. All that strategy has yielded so far is underachievement that is also shit to watch.