NowLoop

You may have heard that a giraffe named Gracie skipped town—"town" being the Cedar Hollow Ranch in Leakey, Texas. Gracie, who is estimated to be around 3 or 4 years old, had been living there since May. Gracie is a reticulated giraffe, a species known for their clean and geometric pattern of brown spots. The owner of the ranch, Vick Jones, told The New York Times that Gracie had wandered to a fenced corner of the ranch, which is nestled in a canyon, climbed a slab of rock to nibble on some trees, and then descended on the other side of the fence. From there she wandered in the Texas outback, oblivious that she had made headlines as a "runaway" and a "fugitive"—a giraffe "on the loose." Although she occasionally popped up on game cameras from private properties in the area, Gracie dodged the authorities for nearly two weeks, leading Sheriff Nathan Johnson to decree "In almost 30 years of being a lawman, this is my first escapee giraffe," per USA Today. There was a rush of AI-generated memes of Gracie enjoying the local sights. The giraffe was found four miles from the ranch after an extensive helicopter search, and Jones organized efforts to capture Gracie and return her to the ranch. Sheriff Johnson, upon sharing the news, reported that Gracie was found "fat and happy" and that "she had a 'catch me if you can, sucker' attitude." It is funny to think about a giraffe wandering through Texas, just as it is funny to think about the search for said giraffe—perhaps nature's most obvious animal—taking two weeks. Sheriff Johnson, to be sure, is having some fun in his press conferences, whether his jokes are landing or not. But, as Kenny Torrella smartly pointed out for Vox, the reasons a giraffe like Gracie was in Texas in the first place are not so funny.

On the morning of Game 1 of the NBA Finals, I received an email from the U.S. Semiquincentennial Commission (better known as “America250”) promoting the release of new commemorative apparel to mark the occasion. The shirt designs have little connection to the NBA Finals—“NBA” is nowhere to be found, and the only logo on it is America250’s—but somehow even less connection to the country’s birthday. One has a basketball going into a net, flanked by the phrase “Game seven grit and American spirit” on one side and “America 250” on the other. On another, “CHAMPIONS” cascades down the front, topped by the phrase “Victory Runs Deep.” What I can only assume is a now-middle-aged And1 guy streaks across the middle, gliding over the America250 logo and “2026 Finals.” There’s no real explanation why the entity responsible for planning a historic national anniversary is dropping unlicensed-looking hoops shirts. (America250 does actually have a formal partnership with Fanatics and every major pro sports league, so allow me to be the first person to ever write the sentence “This apparel would be better if Fanatics were involved.”) I wish I could tell you this was the dumbest 250th-anniversary memorabilia I’ve seen. Unfortunately, it’s not even close. This is formalwear by comparison. Semiquincentennial (think “half of five hundred”) merchandise has emerged slowly over the past 18 months—a shot glass here, a stuffed animal there. But just a few short days out from the Fourth of July, 250th-anniversary memorabilia is suddenly available pretty much everywhere I look.

The U.S. Supreme Court, in an opinion released Tuesday, voted 6-3 in support of two state laws that ban trans girls and women from playing women's sports at public schools and universities. The ruling applies directly to bans in two states—Idaho and West Virginia—while bolstering similar bans in more than two dozen others. Writing for the three votes against—all of which came from the court's liberal wing—Justice Sonia Sotomayor said that to the court's majority, "the facts do not matter, even though the consequences are serious." "Sports, of course, are often zero sum," Sotomayor wrote, "but the law need not and should not be."

As I spend the early part of the summer talking about the Tour de France with normal people (read: non-cycling fans), there's one thing that catches almost everyone off guard. I will outline the route and they'll say something like "What do you mean it starts in Barcelona?" as they adopt an expression that I imagine conveys skepticism about whether I know Barcelona is not in France, or that Louis XIV evacuated Catalonia following 1697's Peace of Ryswick. To those who haven't paid the closest attention, learning that "Tour" is subjective and "de France" is not entirely accurate is a useful entry point into learning about the joyful quirks of the world's biggest bike race. It will dawn on them that the route changes every year; as it turns out, figuring out why the organizers craft different races year after year will teach you a ton about the sport. It wasn't always like this. Riders in the Tour's earliest days circumscribed a hexagon within the edges of France's borders, beginning and ending in Paris. The Tour is still known as the Grand Boucle, or Big Loop, an appellation that used to be literal. Most of the early Tours were raced clockwise, and went the other way for the first time in 1913, a decade after the first Tour. Innovations were sparse and slow, and though the route was tweaked every year, its shape and rhythm was mostly the same. It wasn't until 1960 that organizers had a stage start in a different city than where the previous one ended, with riders taking the train south from Bordeaux to Mont de Marsan. From that point, the Loop began slowly distending, its shape becoming increasingly abstract.

Why would you watch Germany face World Cup elimination in a penalty shootout when you could watch two teams slow-motion walking toward the top of their divisions in the American League? Of course, I’m talking about the Cleveland Guardians vs. Texas Rangers thumb-wrestling match. Now that's appointment television! In Monday's marquee game, Cleveland's Parker Messick faced off against the Rangers' bullpen, with the bulk of the innings thrown by Chris Paddack, debuting with his third team this season. (This season, might I remind you, has just reached the halfway mark). After being designated for assignment by both the Marlins and the Reds, Paddack threw four innings and allowed two runs. His pitching was adequate, which is a word I think about a lot when these two teams are on the field. As for Messick, he also pitched ... fine. He struck out five and allowed four runs over 6.2 innings. The Rangers came away with the win, 6-3. The game was a collection of groundouts, aggressive base running, and runs eked out on singles. Watching this game, I began to think that maybe Ernie Clement really is the best player in the American League. It certainly isn't easy to find a worthy challenger.

Time for your weekly edition of the Defector Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. You can also read Drew over at SFGATE, and buy Drew’s books while you’re at it. Today, we're talking worst sports cities, Germany, deceptive cooking shows, and more. I'm back from vacation! I'm still technically at the beach, but there's no reason I can't knock out some work in the morning while everyone else in the family sleeps in. I'm always up at 7:00 a.m., whether I have the day off or not. Tis a blessing and a curse. Now let's all give it up for Brandy Jensen, who took the helm last week and guided the SS Funbag through the summer weather with a steady, calming hand. She's the best Brandy I know. The only Brandy I know, but that's neither here nor there.

The drama between Brandon Aiyuk and the San Francisco 49ers has been brewing for nearly a year. Since suffering a torn ACL and MCL in his right knee during the 2024 season, Aiyuk and his current team have been in a dispute over his rehabilitation. Last year, Aiyuk declined to attend offseason rehab sessions at the team's facility, thus negating parts of his contract. The Niners placed Aiyuk on the reserve/left team list this past December, after he stopped showing up to the facility. Aiyuk, who signed a four-year, $120 million deal before the 2024 season, is coming off a major injury and now has no guaranteed money left on his contract. With his spot on the reserve list, the Niners are in no rush to move him. Still, a breakup has looked inevitable for a while, especially to Aiyuk, who stayed silent on the matter until the June 1 salary cap deadline came and went. For the last couple weeks, the receiver has been posting videos and tweets both taunting the 49ers and teasing a desire to go to the Washington Commanders and reunite with former Arizona State teammate Jayden Daniels. But on Saturday, he released a video in which he explained his side of the situation with the 49ers ... sort of. https://youtu.be/tuHF73RLWv4?si=egyVP2wjKunmS0xQ

There are a million reasons why the World Cup is the greatest sporting event on Earth, and one of those reasons is that it's the rare setting in which soccer managers can be forced to eat some shit. American sports fans are spoiled by the traditional press conference. Yes, most press conferences are a waste of time and feature obsequious beat reporters lobbing easy questions at the coaches of the teams they cover, but there still exists in this country an impulse toward challenging a coach's thinking when the moment calls for it. If some bozo called for a field goal when he should have gone for it on fourth down, or left his starter out there too long, or drew up a horrible ATO with the game on the line, he's at least going to be asked to explain himself after the game. If we get lucky, he may even get pissed and start yelling. Mick Cronin moments are harder to come by for the European soccer fan. If you're a fan of a Premier League team, for example, the only times you get to hear the manager speak are during a mid-week press conference that largely exists to provide injury updates, and during a brief post-match interview that is conducted by a single questioner who often works for the team. This can be a maddening experience, especially if your team sucks and you want someone to ask the dingus running the show why he keeps insisting on trying to turn a slow-footed full back into a wingback.

Dai dai. Ikou. Dale, allez, let's go. So says Shakira in the chorus of the 2026 official World Cup song "Dai Dai," in which she links up with Burna Boy to express the same sentiment in five different languages. Why find the universal in the specific when you can attempt to recreate the magic of your 2010 World Cup hit "Waka Waka" by finding the universal in the universal? “No one's getting tired, I know/‘Cause you got that fire, ayo,” indeed. One Italian sportswriter described the lyrics of "Dai Dai" as “so generic they reach an almost spiritual level of abstraction,” and compared listening to “contemplating a geometric shape.” It’s a tragedy that “No matter black, white, or beige/Chola or Orient made” was already featured in another anthem, and so could not be included in “Dai Dai.” The feeling, though, is the same. At one point in the song, Shakira sings the names of various iconic players: Pelé, Maradona, Maldini, Romário. What better way to celebrate the spirit of the tournament than with a list of those who, yes, have definitely played the game of soccer! She repeats the trick by listing a bunch of the participating countries, like a drunk uncle who hasn’t prepared a wedding speech and resorts to naming all the places people have traveled from to attend. “We got Wilmington, Delaware, in the house tonight! Thanks for coming all this way!” As always, even supposedly apolitical World Cup choices are rife with politics; Shakira would never sing “Iran” in the song, despite its supple rhyming potential.  The utter unremarkability, the total insipidness of "Dai Dai" got me thinking about the genre of World Cup songs: Has it always been this bad? Here’s the answer, in a brief history of the music of the men’s World Cup.

In 2011, a Princeton Borough police officer gave me a public urination ticket as I was on my way to go drinking. I went home with someone that night and forgot about the ticket in my crumpled pants pocket. Weeks later I paid it off in a panic, hours before my delinquency would have added me to a New Jersey sex offender registry. For no particular reason, I was reminded about that while watching a femme top squat over a girl lying across a storm drain in the courtyard of a Holiday Inn in central Jersey. It took her a little while to find her stream, but she got there. While I’ve had interesting desires all the way back to my days furtively printing Final Fantasy fetish erotica off the family Epson, I’ve only been in the queer leather world for a few years now. Like many trans folks, turning myself into a girl destabilized my sense of my desires for the better. Cocksucking, anal bottoming, violence: These have become fixtures in my sex life, where before they were fantasies punctuated by shame spirals. But becoming what a good chunk of your country views as a pervert freak is a good way to force yourself to consider whether you might actually be a pervert freak. This is how I became one of 1,100 other pervert freaks converging on a Holiday Inn over a long April weekend for the 40th International Ms. Leather and 27th International Ms. Bootblack, a leatherdyke convention and celebration of kink and community. My first thought rolling up to the low and liminal three-story office park hotel we’re taking over is, Wow, look at all those dykes. Dykes behind registration desks, verifying COVID rapid test results, directing other dykes with luggage carts spilling over with duffels, hardshell Pelican cases, and sporting goods bags filled with what cannot be sporting goods. Dykes I know and don’t. Boy dykes and girl dykes and men who used to be dykes and dykes who used to be men, innumerable shades of exuberant faggotry, with canes and wheelchairs and mobility aids, some in leather vests dense with pins and patches, some in titleholder sashes, some in sweats and full beats. They embrace in many-way hugs and scream upon seeing each other, like sophomores back from summer. Across the parking lot, a pair of hoss-type white guys in performance basics are practicing golf swings. They’re there for hours, swinging and swinging in a perverse durational scene.