Time for your weekly edition of the Defector Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. And buy Drew’s book, The Night The Lights Went Out, while you’re at it. Today, we’re talking about country clubs, fixing your news diet, beard dandruff, and more.
Your letters:
Carl:
Mel Kiper completely lost his shit over Shedeur Sanders sliding in the draft, so much so that I’m genuinely wondering if it was sort of an “emperor has no clothes” moment for BIG DRAFT. Does his handling of this moment shake the faith of an average football fan when it comes to draft analysis? Or am I just high?
The average football fan knows to not take anything Mel says seriously. I love seeing Mel on TV every April, but he was outpaced as a draft analyst long ago by PFF, by consensus boards, and by younger anaylsts who flat out know more than he does. If you consumed any pre-draft content from the latter sources this offseason, you already knew that Shedeur Sanders was a deeply flawed prospect. He had a second-to-third round grade as a pure football prospect, and then tanked his own combine interviews because he figured that he was going Top 5 anyway. He also never had a college coach besides his dad, and openly dumped on his Colorado teammates in public. No team is gonna stake its long-term prospects on a guy like that, and they shouldn’t. I could do without the raft of “This young man needed a lesson in humility!” takes that came out after the weekend, but there were perfectly legit reasons that Sanders fell. Anyone who knows a lick of football knew it, too.
So when Mel Kiper, the guy who once pushed for Jimmy Clausen as a potential franchise savior, is like NFL teams have never evaluated quarterbacks as well as I have!, he’s telling on himself. As Matthew Coller noted, the vast majority of top-tier NFL starting QBs were drafted in the first or second round. Sometimes teams whiff on taking a QB that high, because that’s the nature of things. But they rarely let future stars fall too far, which is why Brock Purdy was as newsworthy a surprise as he was. It’s not the teams who are clueless. It’s Mel, and this past weekend was as good a sign as any that he should hang up the pompadour. Because his bullshit made for lousy television that no one wanted to watch.
MT:
After watching Rory choke then un-choke at Augusta a few weeks ago, I started thinking about which prestigious tournament I’d rather win: The Masters or Wimbledon. The Masters gives out a higher prize to the winner ($4.2 million vs. $3.4 million), but it’s been 25 years since an American man won at Wimbledon, which I think makes it a bigger deal and a bit more cool. I’d also rather spend a few weeks in London than a weekend in Georgia. What would you pick?
The setting is a real factor here. The town surrounding Augusta National is famous for being a shithole, whereas London is always a blast even if it’s 50 degrees with scattered showers every single day. And yet every time I watch The Masters, I find myself DYING to play that course, or even just walk it. I know all of the stagecraft and possible bird genocide that goes into making those 18 holes look the way they look, but I still want to check them out out, along with the rest of snob-ass Augusta National. This is because have country club blood running through my veins.
This will merit your derision, but not your surprise: my parents were country club folks my whole life, as were my mom’s parents. I’ve been to country clubs in Chicago, Minnesota, Florida, and Connecticut. I remember the swim coach at Tokeneke Club holding my head underwater to teach me a lesson (I was four). I remember batting tennis ball home runs while taking lessons at the Lafayette Club. And I still remember the dessert bar in my grandparents’ club lunchroom. They had slices of cheesecake and Napoleons sitting out that you could just grab, so I did. I spent a lot of summers at country clubs. I played golf with my dad at a country club. I have eaten in many a country club dining room, surrounded by country club bluehairs. I’ve also eaten at many a country club poolside snack bar, and would do so again if ever given the opportunity. I’ve been drunk at God knows how many country club weddings. Stick me inside any Bushwood and I’ll tell you, “This place is full of diseased shitbags,” while feeling utterly at home. I love me a good country club, and always have. You’ve seen the Chopped shirt. That’s the shirt of a country club kid, a boy who’s charged many a virgin pina colada to his parent’s club account.
All that said, I don’t belong to a country club myself right now. Word around my area is that annual rates at a good country club are $80,000 a year, and the rise of Trump has given country clubs an ugly public face that their policies have long justified. Country club people are my people, but I really do resent the majority of them. I can’t buy in all the way, certainly not at those sticker prices.
But I’ll gladly visit a country club, be it here or overseas. Because tennis is a country club sport too, of course. It also happens to be the more rewarding, though more punishing, physical endeavor. Tennis is theater. You walk out onto the stage, bare your soul in front of a hushed crowd, and then hear them lustily applaud you once the performance is over. You take a bow, people bring you flowers, Bud Collins smiles at you from a fluffy white cloud hanging above … it’s a whole thing. It’s emotional because tennis is so emotional. Every serve attempt is a miniature panic attack. Every extended rally is a war. That’s why every Wimbledon champ—probably except for Novak Djokovic, who feels nothing—breaks down in tears after they’ve won. If I ever won that shit, I’d cry until they had to bring out the Palace Guards to drag me off of the court. I’d suck up every last drop of catharsis and then go nap for 57 hours. From a purely athletic standpoint, that’s the more satisfying tourney to win.
But it’s not terribly relaxing, and I am geared for maximum chill the moment I pull up to any clubhouse front door. If I played in The Masters, I’d probably enjoy a club sandwich with Jim Nantz at the turn, such is my blatant moral hypocrisy. Then I’d walk back nine with big ol’ shit-eating grin on my face. Multiply that ebullience 100 times over if I happen to possess a six-shot lead heading to the 18th tee. I played golf with my dad until my back gave out, so all of my golfing memories are inexorably tied my memories of him, which is impossible for me to ignore here. I’ll take The Masters, plus one of those peach ice cream sandwiches. This answer was too long.
Michael:
At your current age, what division of children’s baseball could you best compete in?
I would fuck your kid up in teeball, Michael. I might whiff on a few swings, because I’m just that shitty of a ball player. But once I make contact? Have fun running down a moonshot that lands in traffic, Junior.
Nicholas:
Let’s say you’re in an apocalyptic situation, zombies or what have you. You find yourself holed up in a candy shop. You don’t really have other supplies like weapons, and you have no other food. But the candy shop is secure. For the foreseeable future, it’s your fortress. You have modern fare, classics, bulk candy, weird neon sour stuff, and lots of soda. The works. The question is, how do you ration your food stores? How do you plan your meals both for longevity and nutrition?
What about weaponry? Is the candy store my only source of weaponry? Am I trying to fight off walkers with a novelty-size Toblerone and nothing else? Because in that case, I’m a fucking dead man and I’m not gonna budget for longevity. I’m just gonna burn through all of the dark chocolate, glazed apricots, and peanut butter cups until I’m zombie food. I’ll die, but at least I’ll die fat.
But let’s assume that I have some firearms on me, plus backroom supplies like wrenches and forklifts to defend myself. In that case … I’m still eating all of my favorite shit first. Dark chocolate is good for you anyway (I read a study!), and I’m not gonna stave off renal failure by eating gummy worms only on Wednesday. Pleasure must remain my mission.
By the way, if there ever really is a zombie invasion, I’m gonna bite the zombies and see if that turns them human. You never saw Rick Grimes try that shit now, did you? The zombies would be completely shook by my strategy. They’d all be like, You hear about this guy? He’s trying to eat OUR brains! He can’t do that! Call the manager!
Jonathan:
What’s the most fun person to share fandom with? My son is finally in on one of my favorite teams and it’s a blast, maybe even more fun than playoff games with my wife.
Your mistress, or your new 24-year-old girlfriend/publicist.
I wish I had a serious answer for you, but no one else in my inner circle is a Vikings diehard. I have never known the sort of companionship you speak of. Too bad for my family because our roster is now fucking LOADED. Daddy gets all of the Tost champagne come Super Bowl Sunday!
HALFTIME!
Michael:
I was at a very low level soccer game a few weeks ago and it was a lot of fun to watch not-great soccer. It got me thinking, what are best sports to watch with bad players? Bad football is really tricky to watch, bad baseball is actually fun because the ball will get into play instead of being three true outcomes’d to death. Assume bad pros, not like elementary schoolers.
Race car drivin’! I’d rather be bludgeoned with a hammer than attend another NASCAR race, but some podunk, back-circuit figure-eight racin’? In the mud? With only tricked-out El Caminos? Fuck yeah, I’m all about that. I can’t watch bad players competing in sports I usually follow (that means no UFL), but I’ll gladly saddle up for some amateur racing, pro wrestling, and/or boxing. When a lack of skill could end up killing you, that’s A+ entertainment for me, the paying customer. Shoutout to minor league baseball, too. You go to a AA game for low prices and chill atmosphere, but sometimes you end up getting a 6-5 barnburner to go with.
By the way, not to go all Simmons on you, but the advent of legalized sports gambling has created an enormous opportunity for shitty underground sports. Let’s say I rented out the local war memorial arena and stationed a legal bookie in every section. Then I brought in a few ex-NBA slobs to play HORSE against one another. Hell, they don’t even have to be ex-pros. They can just be dudes I found at the local Y. Then I make them face off at center court while the bookies take cash/Apple Pay bets from all of the rabid drunks who paid $3 for a ticket to get in. We can even stage unsanctioned bare-knuckle fights in the cellar of that arena! And at halftime, Team Flipcup, again with betting. These are degenerate gamblers we’re talking about. They’ll bet on anything, so let’s give them everything. I’ll make BILLIONS! Who says no, besides everyone?!
William:
Should I cancel my subscription to the New York Times? I’ve barely read the thing since last summer, but I have a grandfathered rate that’s quite affordable. On the one hand the publication drives me insane, and the other I don’t know where to get news from anymore. Defector can only deliver so much content.
The New York Times? SPEAKING OF COUNTRY CLUBS HEYOOOOOOOOOOO! If you barely read the Times anymore, then it’s not justifying the low cost you’re paying. If you buy something you don’t want just because it’s on sale, then you haven’t made out all that well. It’d be one thing if you still really liked reading that paper (or, much more likely these days, playing their games app), but you don’t. The problem is that you think that the Times is, by default, the only major news source left for you to get breaking news from. THAT’S HOW THEY GITCHA, William. You can get news elsewhere, I swear. The problem is that you want one-stop shopping for your news, which is how outlets like the Times have come to dominate the market entirely. To skirt that issue, you’re going to modify your news diet.
This is a formidable task, because most Americans have truly awful news diets. Thanks to social media, they consume way too much news than they can process, and much of it is either junk news from the likes of Newsmax, or luxury news from the Times et al. that’s fancier but, in many ways, larded with just as many empty calories. This is how you brain ends up tired and out of shape. You’re gonna have to cut back on news and, at the same time, vary what kind of news you consume.
I know I had to. After Trump won reelection, I realized that I had to change my own news consumption if I had any hope of surviving with my wits intact. Before then, I’d overindulged on doom tweets and daily hate-reads from the Times opinion section, and it left me hostile, anxious, and miserable. So I cut back. I only read the news in the morning now, when I’m fresh and ready to absorb the blow. I don’t spend a long time on it. I just read the front page of the WaPo, but rarely click on any links. Then I also check out the Wired and ProPublica front pages if I need more information than I already have. Once I get my top lines, I feel the sting and then get on with my day, because the news is not my life.
After that, I manage my afternoon news intake fastidiously. I nuked my Twitter, I don’t follow any news/politics accounts on Bluesky. That’s all football, art, or stupid shit. If Defector posts some kickass essay by Tom Scocca about current affairs, I save it as a tab on my phone and then read it when I’m ready. I also have my wife dropping Mom Facts on me about the news as a matter of routine (“You heard about what happened in Ohio, right?” “No.”), so that keeps me informed in digestible servings through the rest of the day. And I never watch cable news unless a bomb has gone off. That’s enough news. That keeps me full, but not bloated.
As for the Times, I never read it anymore unless it’s an article by one of the writers there I like (David Marchese, Kyle Buchanan, Jamelle Bouie). I got rid of the NYT bookmark on my Chrome and now only use that company’s games app, where I play all of their games without a subscription (I’m bad at the real crossword and I don’t like Spelling Bee, so this isn’t a big sacrifice on my part). I do not miss having the Times in my life, and I’d wager that you wouldn’t either if you’re still a subscriber.
That’s the important part of all this. I can’t tell you how to ethically consume news, or any other product, because pretty much every big corporation is evil and shitty. Short of moving to a desert island, there’s no way to live in the modern world without betraying your values here and there. Knowing that, the best way to manage your consumption is to whittle it down to the things that you really, truly like. I use Uber because it’s easy, but not Lyft because it’s Peter Thiel. I eat at Chick-Fil-A, but only when no one else is with me. I don’t order physical products from Amazon unless I absolutely have to. I have no Meta accounts but will leave Gmail only when I’m dead. I lobby for public transport but own two cars (one is a hybrid! Go me!). And I hate the streamers but have subs for nearly all of them because I love TV, movies, and sports. In other words, I use the evil people when it suits my ends, not theirs. That’s about the best I can do. After that, I just try to survive and thrive, because that’s the one thing they don’t want any of us to do.
(NOTE: After Trump was re-inaugurated, I may or may not have popped a gummy and told the rest my colleagues that this was a golden opportunity for Defector to become THE definitive independent news source for people who can’t stomach the Times or the Washington Post anymore. Instead of having 40,000-plus subscribers, we could become a central hub for the Second Resistance and acquire 40 million subscribers in the process. When I was told that such an effort would “require hundreds of millions of dollars in capital” and that “we’d end up jobless quickly if it failed,” I scaled back my proposal a touch. I only want four million subs now. I think that’s doable.)
Michael:
What the hell am I supposed to do about facial hair dandruff? This hadn’t been a problem for me ever until like a month ago. I haven’t changed shampoos, I haven’t changed my daily grooming habits, and then out of nowhere it’s all over my beard and mustache. I can’t shave because I’ve had this look forever, and I look like I’m 20 if I go clean shaven. Please help.
Oh no, you’ll look 20 if you shave? That’s such a … tragedy? I know I’d hate to look 28 years younger. My wife wouldn’t touch me if she saw me that way!
I kid. I can’t grow attractive facial hair to save my life, but I understand what a kickass beard means to those who can. I’ve also had scalp dandruff and only got rid of it by, at the advice of my dermatologist, cycling through various dandruff shampoos every day. Lemme show what I mean by taking you into my shower (don’t try anything; I’m not that kind of boy). I have three different shampoos in there, each with a different active ingredient: Selsun Blue, Nizoral, and Head & Shoulders. After I’ve used one of them, I turn the next bottle over sideways to designate it for the tomorrow’s wash. This system has kept my hair dandruff-free for years now. Our commenters may have better advice, but I’m wagering that you can get similar results by shampooing your facial hair in the same manner. Just be prepared for sticker shock when you buy that Nizoral. You’d think they make it from fucking diamonds, it costs so much.
Jed:
I was listening to the radio the other day and “Blaze Of Glory” by Jon Bon Jovi came on. It got me thinking about the movie it comes from, Young Guns 2. It is not a movie with any sort of pop culture resonance on its own, and nobody ever talks about it in high regard. And yet, it has achieved a sort of immortality because of the hit song from its soundtrack. I was trying to think of another movie as mediocre and forgettable as Young Guns 2 somehow keeping its head above water so many decades later. Does Young Guns 2 have the greatest gap between a movie’s quality and its lasting impact in the world?
Jed, you have severely overestimated the cultural impact of both Young Guns 2 and of Jon Bon Jovi’s initial foray into country music superstardom. That is not an immortal movie. I know because I watched the first Young Guns 50 times and know the screenplay by heart. I saw Young Guns 2 one time and then never again. Neither did anyone else, save for maybe Nathaniel Hackett. I don’t even see that movie rebroadcast on TNT, it’s that inessential a film.
Meantime, the opening riff from “Blaze of Glory” still rattles around in my head from time to time, but that’s not because it’s always being played in present day stadiums and grocery stores. It’s because my memory has its priorities all wrong. That song is dead as shit in 2025. Also, keep in mind that the 1990s were a prime stretch in history for shitty movies with blockbuster soundtracks, with The Bodyguard being the foremost example. So let’s forget that we had any of this conversation.
Conor:
Do you think Donald Trump has ever actually watched a full game of football? Sure he’s been to a bunch of games and tried to buy that USFL team that one time, but do you think he has watched a full game of football from start whistle to end whistle, without goofing off or going to the buffet table? He doesn’t seem like the guy to have the attention span to watch all three to four hours of an NFL game.
OK, but who does? Even during a playoff game, I’ll hit a buffet table if one is within eyeshot. I don’t have turbo-charged ADHD like our beloved president does, but I get distracted like every other modern fan. Live sports are the most popular second screen content in America right now, and will remain so. Football is no exception.
All that is to say that yeah, I think Trump has watched a football game and knows the rules to it. He knows the rules to golf (not that he follows them), so assuming he knows the football basics isn’t a huge leap of faith. Also, Trump loves famous people, especially if he’s golfed with them. So if you don’t think he’ll watch every Eagles games this fall to cheer on his “very close friend” Saquon Barkley, you’re forgetting what an intensely devoted starfucker the man is.
Email of the week!
Beau:
In January I attended the Giants Fantasy Camp in Arizona. One of the former players there was Dave Dravecky. He’s a really nice guy who will make the occasional one-armed man joke. The next to last day of camp he gave a locker room talk where he talked about the struggles of accepting that this is his life. He talked about the night of his injury and his teammates sitting with him in his hotel room. When he reached into his pocket to pull out a baseball, the last baseball his left arm ever threw, the whole room of middle aged men was in tears. A fan in Montreal noticed that ball rolling towards the dugout, and convinced a batboy to give it to him while the whole of Olympic Stadium was looking on in shock at Dravecky lying on the ground. The fan later mailed the ball to Dravecky.
Awwwww.
