…Like Breanna Stewart. Stewie told Owen Pence she was “detaching from judgment,” but she’s totally fine with Jason Sudeikis’s judgment that she deserves more MVP chatter (so am I). Sudeikis sat down with Stewie for The Hollywood Reporter, and, yes, they talked about, “Ted Lasso,”...gulp.  

The Kansas City Chiefs are “getting into the movie business,” according to Jake Kring-Schreifels of Front Office Sports (we honestly thought they already were). Regardless,  they aren’t the only sports franchise morphing into an entertainment enterprise. The Cubs, for example, are doing #BookTok and #RomanceTok. First in my bloodline to say sentences like this, by the way. 

Angel Reese won DPOY, but apparently, there is no defense against an overbooked arena. Should Reese and the Atlanta Dream advance to the WNBA Finals, their home games would directly conflict with a Sombr concert (he’s a singer, ask your cousins or kids — I don’t have the word count) and two Hawks games. Annie Costabile of The Athletic says that the Dream are working on a fix. This will be moot by next year, phew!  

They don’t win a ton, but the Northwestern Wildcats football team won over Josie Belfer, the assistant opinion editor at The Daily Northwestern. Belfer wrote about how  football surprisingly helped her mourn her guinea pig, Larry. And obviously, as Chris Vannini pointed out, the internet is mad for some reason. RIP Larry!  

Pope Leo XIV literally blessed the White Sox — no, litcherally — before the MLB postseason, and they haven’t lost a game since. Kathryn Xu of Defector wrote a lovely piece about whether the White Sox’s magical run should be chalked up to the Pope or joy itself (“Why not try to believe, if they've already gotten so far?” is a bar).

“How can you not be romantic about baseball?” Brad Pitt, playing A’s general manager Billy Beane, said in “Moneyball.” Or so I’m told — I’ve never seen it. Historically, I have never been a professional baseball person. I’ve been to games. I’ve eaten a Dodger dog, enjoyed a sunset at Citi Field, got rained out at Yankee Stadium, threw a few beers back at Coors Field, enjoyed the views at Oracle Park, and lived the suite life at T-Mobile Park. But I’ve never really felt any sense of kinship for, or attachment to, professional baseball players. I’ve been down YouTube rabbit holes that promised to convince me Babe Ruth was fake. Or Dominican. One of those conspiracy theories has its merits, and it’s not the one you think (or is it??). 

So, it’s not like baseball is completely foreign to me. I watch postseason college baseball, mostly because my alma mater is historically good. But recently, I enlisted as a card-carrying member of a small but mighty group of citizens called “San Diego Padres fans.” And as quickly as I was initiated, I experienced my first real baseball heartbreak. And I have to say, I’m not a fan of it. 

On Sunday night, on the very last pitch of the game — bottom of the ninth inning, two outs, full count, bases loaded, Pads (my Pads!) lead 3-2 — the Brewers walked them off. Note: this was only game two, it wasn’t even win or go home.

Anyway, I sat there stunned (alongside my husband, who has been a lifelong member of Padres Nation) and quiet for what felt like two whole minutes. Forget the surrender cobra, my arms were rendered immobile altogether. I’d never seen anything like it. Brad Pitt’s quote immediately echoed through my skull like a big rock falling down a deep dark cavern. That’s how I can NOT, in fact, be romantic about baseball. That sucked! 

It got me thinking about heartbreak in general. I was a child of divorce (my parents, of course, but mostly I’m referring to the original Pac-12). 

We’ve all endured heartbreak. Sometimes, at the hands of those closest to us: our parents, friends, partners. Other times, the heartbreak is rooted in something more abstract: a celebrity with whom you have a parasocial relationship confesses they hate a thing and you absolutely love that thing; you go back to a store to buy a shirt you regretted rejecting and it’s been sold (I will find you someday, shirt). 

Or, sports break your heart. College football has broken my heart more times than I could count. The NBA has always been Heartbreak City for me. I anticipate being heartbroken by the WNBA in a few short days. There are entire cities, nay, states, walking around with open bleeding hearts because their teams stink. It’s an unfortunate time to live in Philadelphia. Or LA. Or Michigan (the losses are one thing but the group chat drama is a whole other type of heartbreak).

Watching a baseball game feels like listening to this song on the new Phoebe Bridgers album, called “I Can’t Wait.” The song is all about an obsessive and anxious need for some moment to be here. There’s no reason to stress, you’re only listening to a song (watching a guy throw a ball every 20 seconds). Yet, there is a discomfort in the negative space. The pacing is a little too fast, then too slow. It’s never quite right. And then, suddenly, there’s an intentionally clunky whirlpool of a climax that you weren’t really ready for and bam, it’s over. The Padres lost, and the Phoebe song is over. 

And I know what I’m describing is all bad, especially because I’m using language as colorful (and intellectual) as “it sucked!” But I don’t actually mean it’s all bad. Because as someone who has experienced a plethora of heartbreak, I understand their purpose. 

A heart breaks so it can be put back together again in the most divine and miraculous way. The Padres taught me caring a lot about MLB means heartbreak, but watching a dripped-out Fernando Tatis Jr. bat flip is pretty exhilarating, too. I lost the Pac-12 as it once was, and Jesse Legree and Braden Atkinson have reminded me what it is to love. 

Because the pendulum always swings. Things are never just good or just bad. After not winning a playoff series in over 20 years, the White Sox have been dominant. (By the way, if the White Sox win it all after the Nova Knicks championship, I suggest you all get baptized ASAP). 

One thing I’ve learned in my quest to understand baseball culture is that the fans are more miserable than in any other sports — something I have the utmost respect for. A search for “I hate baseball” on Twitter gives thousands of results. It seems that hating the sport is the most important part of loving it. Which reminds me of another pop culture reference — one of my favorites. 

“The Last Black Man in San Francisco” is a film about a man trying to save a Victorian house he believes his grandpa built. And this particular scene, and others, explains that hatred so many fans feel. Hating on something from the outside, just to be a hater, leaves you clean and sterile. You didn’t risk anything, and you won’t lose anything. But loving something so much you allow yourself to hate it? That requires you getting your hands dirty, being in the trenches. You have to put yourself out there to get to that place. To let yourself believe in love.

And now I think I understand the heartbreak of baseball. Maybe I can even get on board enough to feel Manny Machado or Jackson Merrill or Mason Miller put it back together again. But if you still hate baseball, here’s a cat for you. 

If you were wondering, the “F” in “NFL” stands for “Who The F Is Playing The Super Bowl Halftime Show?”

My colleagues spent their afternoon discussing who they thought it might be in Slack (meanwhile I was over here working, heroically recovering from the flu…). Someone says it will be Bey and Jay all the way, and another colleague agrees. Someone suggests Taylor Swift, because her fame is unrelenting — hard to disagree there.

My plea for a Dua Lipa halftime show constantly falls on deaf ears. Even if we bring the ocean to SoFi, and she does a headstand on a paddleboard? I plead. No one cares. Miley’s album kind of bombed, and we’re still waiting on a proper follow up to “Bangerz,” let’s be honest. 

So we’re tracking a week late. But what’s the holdup? The social team thinks they cracked the case here. And I have to admit, I think they broke this one wide open. Basically: 

• The performer has always been announced on a Sunday since Apple took it over (RIP Pepsi), and it’s never been announced after September 28 (until now). 

• ESPN (a Disney property) is hosting the MNF game on October 12 (next week). This game is being played at SoFI, as is the Super Bowl.

• The day after that MNF game, “Dancing with the Stars” (on ABC, another Disney property) is having a special Super Bowl Themed Night.

• Ipso facto, they will announce the performer during the Sunday night game and use that artist’s songs for “DWTS.” 

It’s been 50 Cent voice many men, many many many many men, in the past few years. So you’d think they’d want a woman, but in my experience we don’t care about that stuff anymore. My personal final ruling is: Harry Styles! Ugh no wait, Justin Bieber. AH.