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This article originally appeared May 11 on The Small Bow. Early on Saturday mornings, Amy Wallace would be yanked out of bed by her big brother, David. He was determined not to miss the start of the cartoons. At their home in Urbana, Illinois, the siblings situated themselves in front of the television and waited for the color bars to turn to The Road Runner Show, David eager, impatient, full of energy. Eventually, he would splay out on the carpet and Amy would sit behind him on the couch. More than 50 years later, Amy is still haunted by the sensory experience of that couch. It was pea-green and scratchy, yet she dutifully—and gladly—sat there as part of their sibling ritual.   Their mother, Sally Foster, described the scene this way: Amy spent her mornings watching David watch TV. But that’s not quite right. 

Donald Trump was in China this week for a series of meetings with Chinese leader Xi Jinping. In order to cover the historic summit, major American broadcasters sent their newscasters overseas to broadcast from Beijing. Even the dolts from Fox News managed to get over there and commit a parking violation. Absent from the party, however, was beleaguered CBS Evening News anchor Tony Dokoupil, who at this point really seems to be cursed. "Right now, I'm just about 100 miles off the coast of mainland China," is how Dokoupil began Wednesday night's broadcast from the balcony of a hotel in Taipei, Taiwan. Tony was being kind to himself: Taipei may be very close to mainland China itself, but it is 1,000 miles away from Beijing, where all of the important stuff was happening. The reason Dokoupil was stuck on that hotel balcony is that CBS failed to secure a visa for its man. Semafor's Max Tani reported that as a result the network had to send Dokoupil to Taipei at the last minute. Not content with personally fucking with her handpicked anchor's teleprompter and crashing his show's ratings, CBS News editor-in-chief Bari Weiss now seems to have robbed the network of its ability to complete basic logistical tasks. Things didn't get better for Dokoupil once he got over to Taipei. Wednesday night's broadcast was brought to a strange and sudden end when Dokoupil's cameraman collapsed (CBS later released a statement saying the cameraman is OK):

Here's a little secret about elite performers: They're always working to get better at their craft. The example I tend to use is Patrick Redford, who hosts both the Nothing But Respect and Only If You Get Caught podcasts here at Defector, but who is also always in the lab. He blogs. He has a lucrative sideline in the canine protein supplement space. And this week, with the NBA playoffs at full tilt, he joined us on The Distraction. The grind never stops, although it sometimes takes an ad break. Both of Patrick's podcasts are really good, although we focused most of our conversation on Nothing But Respect, which has quickly carved out a unique space in the basketball discourse as a place for ball-knowers who do not work in the ball-knowing space to get some shots up. Nothing But Respect has surely hosted more Pitchfork Best New Music honorees than any other basketball podcast, and the show has become a refuge and resource for people who would otherwise be forced to keep their basketball sicko opinions to themselves.

When you lay out the chain of events that have led to Mark Vientos playing first base for the New York Mets every day, it becomes less surprising that the Mets have been one of the worst teams in baseball this season. During the winter, the organization made the decision, which will likely seem pretty smart in the long term but was highly unpopular in the moment, to let another team pay full price for Pete Alonso's next five seasons. To replace the franchise's all-time home run leader, the Mets signed Jorge Polanco, with an eye on moving him to first base. Vientos, along with fellow not-quite-busted corner infield prospect Brett Baty, was surely a trade candidate during the offseason, but wound up on the Opening Day roster as depth and a platoon-specific option at designated hitter. That those three have not recreated Alonso's (middling to poor) early production with the Orioles in the aggregate is not surprising, really. Polanco has been more of a designated hitter than a second baseman in recent seasons, and hurt more often than healthy for much of his career; he had never previously been a first baseman and will turn 33 in July. Baty is by far the superior fielder at first, and has looked competent with the glove wherever the team has asked him to stand, but could most politely be described as an enigmatic offensive contributor; Vientos is the most capable of hitting the ball over the fence. That Polanco could miss a bunch of games was always a possibility, and that is happening now: After a slow start, he was placed on the IL in mid-April with a bruised wrist and a debilitating and stubborn case of Achilles bursitis that has shown every indication of becoming a classic Mysterious Lingering Mets Ailment. Though he was cleared for baseball activities earlier this week, Polanco by all accounts cannot really do any of those baseball activities right now. "We need to get asymptomatic with the ankle and with the bursitis," Mets President of Baseball Operations David Stearns said on Tuesday. "We're not there yet." Where the Mets are instead is "extremely in last place," and with the second-fewest wins in the sport. More specifically, it has meant that Vientos, who would ordinarily not start for any first-place division team and would ideally not be asked to play defense at all, is holding down first base while Baty plays third; Bo Bichette, also signed to play a new position, has moved from third back to shortstop while Francisco Lindor continues what seems likely to be a prolonged recovery from another ominously vague lower-body injury.

SAN FRANCISCO — Stuffed with dumplings, walking off the 22 bus past my neurologists' office and across Third Street up to the Golden State Valkyries' arena with the sun at our backs, I told my friend that the first thing he needed to know about the Chicago Sky is that they were a clown organization. These were not serious people. We were going to roll them. Though the Sky had signed a bunch of veterans and traded for one of the realest hoopers in the WNBA, they had also done an astonishing amount of losing on the margins. Olivia Miles, the coolest player in college hoops, was suiting up for the Minnesota Lynx instead of the Sky. The two expansion teams, one of whom was about to secure the first win in team history that night, fleeced Chicago for second-round picks in exchange for not taking any of the young players they were about to cut anyway. Had Golden State also made a strange draft-night move? Sure, but it had earned the benefit of the doubt, because it is a smart organization that knows how to conduct itself. As I warned of the Valks' questionable depth in the middle and detailed the steep competency gradient among WNBA ownership, I grew even more confident that my first trip to Ballhalla this season to be a glorious one.

In a move that could shake up the entire league, Pittsburgh and Boston have agreed on a deadline deal: Frankie for Little Joe, straight up. From insider Apedam Schefter: Pittsburgh Zoo & Aquarium is set to trade gorillas with Boston’s Franklin Park Zoo. Frankie, Pittsburgh’s 7-year-old male western lowland gorilla, will head to Boston, and in exchange, Boston will send 33-year-old Little Joe the silverback back to Pittsburgh, according to the zoo. Insider Elliotte Treedman noted that Pittsburgh has been looking for a wily vet for a while. This is a bold, win-now move: It's not clear how much Little Joe has left in the tank, but Pittsburgh's window isn't going to stay open forever. Little Joe is also known around the league as an excellent locker-room presence, picking nits off his teammates like it's going out of style.

You probably do this, too: When an interesting basketball game is getting down to the end, you look at the scoreboard, you see which team is leading, and you try to figure what score that team can get to that the other cannot. I usually do it right around the five-minute mark of the fourth quarter. Watching Wednesday night's Game 5 between the Cleveland Cavaliers and the Detroit Pistons, I hit upon my number with 3:57 to go. The Pistons were sitting on 100 points following a Daniss Jenkins and-one layup. Donovan Mitchell was ice-cold; James Harden absolutely could not create space for comfortable shots; Evan Mobley was sort of valiantly hurling himself into turnovers and wild off-balance floaters. The Cavaliers, sloppy and fading, were at 91. It's my own little Elam Ending: What is the score that only the Pistons can get to? Could the Cavaliers make it to 106 points? It had taken them 2,643 seconds to score 91 points. Could they realistically score 15 points in the remaining 237 seconds? No, probably not, not without a miracle. Could the Pistons, meanwhile, pull six measly points out of somewhere between five and 12 possessions? Consider the likelihood of free throws. Consider the likelihood of intentional fouls. Consider that no one on the Cavs had figured out a reliable way of stopping Cade Cunningham from getting wherever he needed to go. My number, with 237 seconds left on the clock in Game 5, and with the home Pistons leading 100–91, was 106. This was not bold, nor is it high-level basketball analysis. It's not meant to be either: It's just a fun way to watch the end of a basketball game, and without pressure to be bold, you can have the satisfaction of never really being wrong. The Cavaliers charged pretty well in the closing minutes of regulation, but not before first seeming to boot the game away. Max Strus buried a clutch three, but then the Pistons got an offensive rebound and a pitch out to Tobias Harris in the corner for a comfortable three-pointer, which he buried. The lead was back to nine points, but, more relevant to my formula, the Pistons now had 103 points, with three full minutes to produce just three more points. They can't lose!

Earlier this spring, when I saw the trailer for The Sheep Detectives, I had what I have come to understand is a universal experience. When I watched Hugh Jackman, a kindly shepherd named George, read murder mysteries to his impressively realistic animated flock of sheep, I found this premise odd but charming. When I learned that George was murdered, his flock suddenly tasked with solving the crime, I found this baffling. When I saw Emma Thompson play a snappily dressed estate lawyer who reveals George's enormous fortune, I wondered how on earth someone convinced her to be in this movie. When I saw one sheep tell another sheep that he was, in fact, "a sheep detective," I found this turn of phrase ridiculous. When I saw the movie's title, The Sheep Detectives, appear onscreen, I had to laugh. What a fake-sounding title for a fake-looking movie, I thought, smugly, before watching my feature presentation, a movie about a girl who uploads her consciousness into a beaver. And yet The Sheep Detectives never left my mind. Sometimes, as I was walking down the street, the phrase would burble up—sheep detectives!—and I would chuckle. When a friend asked if I wanted to watch a movie together, I suggested The Sheep Detectives, only slightly as a bit, and then found myself genuinely sad when my suggestion was politely rejected and we went, instead, for a walk. And then the rumors began, meaning multiple Instagram stories from distant acquaintances posting about how they had sobbed during none other than .... The Sheep Detectives. Someone offered to go with me to The Sheep Detectives out of pity, I think, because I kept bringing it up, and so this week I found myself in a 2 p.m. screening along with a smattering of retirees. I emerged two hours later with bleary red eyes and the knowledge that I had, as many others had before me, underestimated The Sheep Detectives. The wool had been lifted from my third eye: The Sheep Detectives is a marvelous movie. Emma Thompson would never have lent her formidable talent to anything less! Before you ask: Does The Sheep Detectives accurately represent what it means to be a sheep? Not really. But this is not its remit. The movie is not about sheep; the movie is about sheep detectives, and I believe it represents this phenomenon ably.

Patrick Radden Keefe is interested in blockbuster stories. He once told The New Yorker’s Critics at Large podcast that he wasn’t a fan of “true crime.” Instead, he often writes about fraud, gangsters, scammers, and high-powered lawyers. He’s the bad boy at the legacy magazine, the Anthony Bourdain of journalism, whom he coincidentally profiled in 2017, a year before his death. In another recent interview for the magazine, Keefe discussed his interest in the moral gymnastics people do to justify their actions. His previous book of collected essays was titled Rogues. His critically acclaimed book about the Troubles, Say Nothing, was adapted into a daring series by Hulu. While London Falling, his newest book-length work of investigative nonfiction, has already been optioned by A24, it is somewhat of a departure for him. There are the requisite fraudsters, scammers, gangsters, and a few high-powered lawyers, but at its heart, this is the true story of one particular crime.  Keefe’s work is often described as propulsive or novelistic, carefully balancing his primary narrative with just the right amount of historical context. London Falling explores the mysterious death of Zac Brettler, a teenager who—unbeknownst to his family—was leading a double life. Brettler, an upper middle-class kid from a respectable family, had been posing as the child of a Russian oligarch and got mixed up with some very frightening people. It’s a gripping tale of crime, grief, deceit, and the glittering darkness of the River Thames. After Zac’s body is discovered face down in the mud, his mother Rachelle and father Matthew begin a desperate investigation to uncover the truth about both his death and his life. It’s a moving story about family that runs parallel to the colonial history of London. The influence of wealth slowly warps Zac’s desires as he desperately tries to climb the social ladder of London’s elite private schools and slippery club owners who flirt with Russian mobsters and financial frauds. In this illicit world, everyone’s a possible mark. Zac seems to think he could wield his street smarts and natural wit to ingratiate himself into a scene of foreign investments and backroom deals. His parents did not seem to suspect the full extent of their child’s "materialistic" yearning or his desire for the “adrenaline of the fast life.” Or, as Keefe puts it, “Zac was coming of age not just in a city that was drunk on foreign lucre but in an era of social media.” Even Keefe’s algorithm begins displaying real estate while he conducts research for the book.  “In the twentieth century, power announced itself,” Keefe wrote in Empire of Pain. But eventually a new kind of wealth preferred the model of quiet luxury. The Sacklers were careful to control how their wealth was publicized, slowly becoming embraced in London and the art world globally. The city is still open to taking cash from those who show up with it. This is how Zac seemed to infiltrate the world of Verinder Sharma and Akbar Shamji: He claimed to be the son of an untraceable Russian oligarch. Of course, in order to hide his lie, Zac had to keep changing his story, even as his two new friends started to bug him for money.

The Washington Post remains in the midst of its weird, cheap transformation into the world's most boring conservative newsletter. This is happening at the behest of owner Jeff Bezos, who decided that he was tired of owning one of the most storied newspapers in America, and instead wanted to publish something much dumber and worse. You can see Bezos's priorities most clearly in his gutting of the paper's workforce and the revamping of its opinion section, which has proclaimed that its mission is to celebrate and defend "personal liberties and free markets," which is something like the opposite of "stuff you can't get anywhere else." As a result of that pivot, the section routinely publishes some of the worst writing in the country—dull, lazy, artless, and familiar. That section now also has a podcast, which really aims to test that format's ability to create parasocial bonds with the audience. The podcast is called Make It Make Sense, and it appears to have been born out of the following pitch: What if we put three losers in a room and recorded them complaining about things nobody else cares about? Plenty of representative clips can be found on the show's official Bluesky account, which has 27 followers as of this writing. Here's one where the hosts, in 2026, sit around and get kind of worked up about school closures during the COVID-19 pandemic: https://bsky.app/profile/themimsshow.bsky.social/post/3mlm7bvfdb22o