by  Jack Kerwin  |  ydkjack1@gmail.com
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I got hooked.

Oh, it took a while. Just as it usually does for me when it comes to pop culture, especially with regard to the big screen or little screen.

Whatever is trendy or the talk of the proverbial town, I tend to avoid. Until I can’t anymore, because the little dribs and drabs of, say, whatever hot show or series eventually scroll across my “periph” somehow, in some way, tell me that, yeah, suck it up, bud, this is worthy of your time and a spot in your head space.

Such is the case with “Mare of Easttown,” the gem of HBO set in a supposedly fictitious small town outside of Philadelphia, that exposes the world to the Delaware County (Delco) accent made infamous by, ironically, the likes of people living near the real town of Easttown in neighboring Chester County.

Actually, it was a spoof on Mare done by Saturday Night Live titled “Murdur Durdur” that triggered my interest. The skit was so ridiculous, so over-the-top and, yet, so well done … it just got me thinking.

Then it got me researching, until I was fully invested in the show.

And now await, with bated breath, along with millions of others for tonight’s finale that is expected to answer oh, so many questions, including the most important of all: Who’s the killer?

Who is the dastardly individual that sent a town into complete upheaval by taking the life of a young single mom named Erin?

Without delving into all the plotlines, the pivots, the characters, the little details that have helped pave the way for Mare being a riveting crime story wrapped within the gritty reality of everyday life in this town, if not most towns, here is my take:

It’s not going to be someone playing a supporting role. Creator Brad Ingelsby’s work has been too good than to see it, at crunch time, turn into a Hail Mary option to fulfill the most critical answer to the series.

That being said, take the following off your killer options:

Dylan. Erin’s former boyfriend and current surrogate father for her infant son has been so slimy that he’s given d-bags a bad name, but, reality is, he isn’t listed as part of the main cast – so he’s out.

Billy. Yeah, sure, he’s the real father of Erin’s son as well as the self-nodding killer of her. Not buying it, and, again, reality is, he isn’t listed as part of the main cast – so he’s out.

Kenny, Ryan and Brianna. Erin’s father, cousin and arch enemy/attacker in the park, none of their potential rationales to be the murderer supersede the fact that none of them are part of the main cast.

That leaves, in my opinion, a handful of legit, primary-role candidates to consider:

John. At this point, the obvious choice, being the cheating husband, manipulative father, brother and son. To me, he’s too obvious and his mind-effing Billy, his younger sibling, into admitting things he more than likely didn’t do just doesn’t seem worthy of killer status for this series. Still …

Lori. John’s long-suffering wife and best friend of Mare, the detective in charge of uncovering the murderer, though, does. It would be a classic betrayal to her friend Mare if, say, she lied about so many things just to cover for her cheating husband, say, if he had fathered Erin’s child.

Richard. The dashing-but-down-to-earth writer who has chipped away a little at Mare’s stone-cold heart is the classic, “Hmmm, what about him” character to consider after the candidate list seems complete before someone asks if they were forgetting anyone. Put it this way, the dude is shady.

Siobhan. Mare’s daughter may be smart, resourceful and willing to right by people, especially in caring for her nephew after the death of her brother (and Mare’s son), Kevin, but she is tormented as well. The idea is floating out there that Erin broke Kevin’s heart before he committed suicide. Perhaps an axe to grind.

Father Dan. Deacon Mark has been the man of the cloth under siege all along in regard to the killing. But what of the superficially perfect cousin of Mare. He seems to be the only character in the series up to now without a flaw.

I like him for the crime. It’d be the perfect, final eye-opening twist in a series filled with them.

Father Dan is the killer. 

by  Jack Kerwin  |  ydkjack1@gmail.com
I do not shed a tear for athletes.
Professional athletes.

Ever.

Until today.

We’re talking a few dozen tears, too. If not a lot more.

When I saw a friend post something on Facebook about Kobe Bryant, that he just couldn’t “believe it” … I wondered what that meant. Had the guy gone astray from his marriage vows again? Was he considering a comeback? Did he delve into another aspect of the entertainment field and conquer it, too.?

I, honestly, didn’t know what the deal was.

Then I did … and I pulled over in the midst of my driving.

Which is something else I never, ever do.

When the reality sunk in, and it sunk in fast, surprisingly, that Kobe, and his oldest child, Gianna, had died in a helicopter crash along with three others, I broke down. Completely.

Now, being an emotional-dirven sort, that may seem par for the course with someone such as myself. Only with me it isn’t. I get emotional. I get sad. I get mad. But I don’t break down. Ever.

Divorce.

Kids being born.

Life-saving surgery.

A complete breakdown never happened.

Until today.

Hey, I realize I’m in store for more. I’m well aware of what, or who, my true “kill shot” will be … If I don’t go first. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I know the whole deal.

But this was tough. This was gut-wrenching. This was heart-breaking.

The reason why, for me, is because Kobe, for as great as he was a basketball player, was beyond sports – far beyond – and that mattered to me.

Yo, the dude was only 41 … and, albeit almost shockingly, gracefully moving along in his post-NBA life, appearing primed to be productive in the sports world and beyond.

Ugh.

His greatness transcended the boundaries of stat sheets and wins and losses.

To me he was an uber-focused force of nature, his sole objective never taking a back seat to anything, or anyone … and, frankly, I know I could have followed that train of thinking much better throughout my life – as a friend, a son, a brother, a father, a writer and an editor.

If you ask me, he’s the best I’ve ever seen play. I won’t argue Jordan supporters or LeBron guys. Any “debates” from them are legit. All I can say is, if I have first pick in the all-time NBA Draft, I’m taking Kobe and I’m not even flinching.

I won’t deny that, as I sit in my car, staring at nothing in front of me for close to an hour after reality hit in late afternoon, it did hit me how silly it can be seen for me, an individual old enough to be Kobe’s incredibly pale uncle and father of three himself, to be broken up about, well, for me, “a kid.”

But I’ve been privy to lessons from each of my own to know that being older doesn’t necessarily give me the only set of keys into wisdom.

I think that’s what strikes me most about Kobe, or what did strike me most. His growth as a person. Because of his passion for his vocation, he didn’t seem to get as lost in the trappings of youth and fame that others did, and, yet, when he did, that only made him more human. Not in a sense of being more likable, but, rather, more relatable.

Much more so than, well, Michael or King James.

Frankly, I liked other athletes far more so than I liked Kobe. Their style, their personality, whatever it was, connected for me in a more positive fashion than anything I noticed with Kobe.

But respect … the kind when you step back and go, you know what, he’s the man. Always.

Get out of his way or feel his wrath … and admire it.

For me, that was Kobe. Only Kobe.

by  Jack Kerwin  |  ydkjack1@gmail.com
It's here.
My sports event of the year arrives earlier more than most, albeit a bit later than it used to …

New Year’s Day, as best it could, served as the ultimate setting to cap a college football season. Now, it’s typically the second Monday night in the new year, when the two survivors of the College Football Playoff semifinals square off. Before 70,000 or so in person and in front of a national-TV audience.

For me, it doesn’t get any better … unless you’re talking a midseason Saturday when the “classics” pile up faster than the kids’ Christmas wishes.

But, frankly, for me, this one’s a little … well, weird.

Am usually about enjoying a good game and not worrying about who wins. However, with Clemson and LSU going at it in the Superdome in New Orleans, kinda at a loss here.

Really don’t want to see either lose.

Why?

Being a college football junkie since, well, my father got me to look beyond native-following Penn State and check out Tony Dorsett, my heart opened up to the sport – the pomp, pageantry and history of it – and more than a few programs.
Chief among them … LSU and Clemson.

It is no wonder that both were considerations for me when it came time for matriculating somewhere after high school, but, alas, my choice was elsewhere. Twice.

That being said, since it doesn’t appear there will be any Temple vs. Illinois title tilt looming in the near future, the freedom to fully embrace schools, or teams, beyond my alma maters has been there.

Makes sense considering Heisman winner Billy Cannon’s legendary punt return against Ole Miss for LSU and Clemson’s Steve Fuller being an obvious NFL first-rounder in the pre-Fridge days were cemented in my soul long before attending college became a reality anyway.

Anyway, long story short … for me, we got, well, two of the best stories my college football following lifetime meeting up here, with neither quite being recognized for what they are:

Clemson as the best program in the country five years running now, and LSU as the best revival of a glorious past that most appear to have little knowledge about.

Not sure if it’s comical or sad that few grasp that Clemson isn’t this Johnny Come Lately program, having only emerged under Dabo Swinney in the last handful of years, or that LSU has more depth to it than just “oh, it’s an SEC school, so it has to be good.”

Yeah, Clemson has won two of the last three national titles. It also won another one back in 1981 with a squad the included a wide receiver (Perry Tuttle) that yours truly desperately wanted hometown Philadelphia Eagles to draft instead of Mike Quick.

LSU?  In addition to Cannon’s heroics pacing the way to a national crown in 1958, the Bayou Bengals finished No. 1 in 2003 and ’07.

In short, these programs’ histories stretch beyond Joe Burrow and Trevor Lawrence. Well beyond.

For most, fortunately their allegiances are more cut and dry.

Me? Push comes to shove, will pull for a good game and embrace whatever each team adds to its tradition, tonight and the evolution from it.

by  Jack Kerwin  |  ydkjack1@gmail.com
On its face, criticism is fine.
By definition, it is the act of analyzing and judging the merits and flaws of a certain thing or person. It is neither bound to being pro or con. But, rather, intended to offer an unbiased account that provided insight.

Perhaps to the point of sparking some serious growth or evolution by the subject matter, say, if it were an individual or even a team.

So, here we are at the end of another college football season, with the ultimate proving ground all prim and proper for Monday night’s national title game and all we’re getting is the same old drivel with criticism of Clemson.

No insight. No nothing.

The Tigers haven’t played anybody. Their conference is weak. The calls went their way.

Should they be fortunate enough – or, apparently, luck enough – to get by what has been an other-worldly LSU this season to win a second straight crown and third in four years to cap a five-year run with four title-game appearances, you can’t even be bothered any more with guessing what knock will be featured. You just know it is coming.

It old, tired and lame at this point.

Get some new material, will ya, Critique Crew …

Like, the Tigers are cheating somehow. Stealing signals, or benefitting from special pills that no one else has, or that Dabo Swinney’s connection to the big fella upstairs is just dadgum, flat-out unfair.

Something. Anything. Just drop the same old drivel.

Clemson is aware of its schedule, of the conference it represents, even the calls that aided its effort against Ohio State in the teams’ national semifinal tilt two weeks ago in Arizona.

It’s also aware that perception, even in national rankings, isn’t always accurate. The Tigers’ schedule wasn’t that bad (not for nothing, but their win over OSU trumps any victory LSU posted this season … by a lot), the ACC isn’t that bad and to suggest they hadn’t played a big-time quarterback before the Buckeyes’ Justin Fields is laughable.

Jamie Newman not only starred at Wake Forest this season, but he will provide an upgrade for the departing Jake Fromm as a grad transfer next fall at Georgia. North Carolina freshman Sam Howell simply had a better season in his first year than Clemson’s own Trevor Lawrence did in his last season.

Despite all the regurgitated flaws it supposedly has, Clemson somehow has …

• the nation’s best linebacker in Butkus Award winner Isaiah Williams
• the nation’s best coaching staff
• the nation’s longest winning streak at 29 games
• the nation’s best program, having surpassed Alabama by beating the Tide twice for national titles in the last three years

… and, frankly, for all the hardware bestowed upon Joe Burrow following his mind-boggling, Heisman Trophy-winning campaign for the Bayou Bengals, Clemson also has the better talent at quarterback tonight at the Superdome in New Orleans in Lawrence.

None of the above is to say that Clemson is a sure bet to beat its fellow Tigers. Indeed, LSU is a championship-worthy opponent … and anything can happen in a one-game situation.

What it is saying, however, is to let go of the old-school silliness that refuses to accept change and recognize that Clemson has been elite – and, bonus, incredibly entertaining – the entire time you’ve been knocking it since showing the nerve to challenge, and beat, the likes of ’Bama, Ohio State, Oklahoma and Notre Dame when it mattered.

Maybe throw in a little pro with the con if that list of conquered includes this edition of LSU, too, after Monday night. 

by  Jack Kerwin  |  ydkjack1@gmail.com

Am sold.

Completely.

Oh, not on his arm strength. Not on his accuracy. Not on being some other-worldly talent bequeathed that ever-popular, but often-unfulfilled title of “franchise quarterback.”

For me, now, Carson Wentz is beyond that.

In this, arguably the Eagles’ worst season since his arrival in 2016, Wentz has emerged from the pie-in-the-sky clouds created by his ardent supporters and become a real, viable pro at his profession’s most critical position, capable of carrying his team to greater heights than they, or anyone else, might think possible because he – gasp – has put his faith in him.

Considering the ranks around him for the most part since this past summer, that has been one helluva leap.

Well, hello, maturity and true leadership. You are not part of Wentz’s repertoire.

Frankly, it is the growth he has shown in those aspects that has very comfy with the Birds’ postseason prospects, even as they limp into the new year with a 9-7 record greatly aided by four-game win streak against tissue-soft competition to close the 2019 regular season.

In short, am sold now that Wentz can get them past Seattle on Sunday night and take them on to bigger and better things not just this year, but beyond.

Because he changed. He gave up trying to do everything on his own, and on his own terms. He saw the club crumbling around due to injury and ineffectiveness, and instead of going full-bore into control-freak, me-Thanos mode at a time where it would seem most natural for him to do so, Wentz opened up and let everyone around him in.

To share the load … and the recognition.

In the past, something like the emergence of Miles Sanders as a real threat running the ball would have been met with less carries as Wentz audibled as much as possible to pass plays, warranted or not.

It’s not just Sanders, or Dallas Goedert, though, that Wentz has given his trust. Those guys, as high draft picks the past couple years, were expected to be productive pros. But the likes of Greg Ward and Boston Scott – who?!! – weren’t even in the “relevant” plans, never mind key cogs in coach Doug Pederson’s wildest dreams.

Wentz has given all the greatest gift of all: opportunity.

In return, he has been rewarded with all of them making the most of each.

It has been extraordinary to watch.

For me, Wentz’s evolution hit me not with some 60-yard strike or Houdini act to escape a sack, but, rather, with a simple gesture to a teammate – a teammate perhaps not quite sure of himself in that certain situation.

It was third-and-four at the Eagles’ 37. Just 3:44 remaining in regulation and trailing the Giants by seven at the Linc. Wentz hadn’t played particularly well up to that point; in fact, he had been outperformed by his counterpart, ageless non-wonder Eli Manning, by a pretty wide margin in the first half. He also hadn’t received much juice from those around him.

Didn’t matter. As the team broke the huddle, with the Birds’ season hanging in the balance thanks to the previous week’s loss at lowly Miami putting them at 5-7, Wentz’s intended target J.J. Arcega-Whiteside seemed a tad timid heading to the line of scrimmage … and Wentz, in uber-cool and confident fashion sidled up next to him, gave him a little tap on the helmet, a knowing smile and what appeared to be a wink.

Now, wink or not, that was a wonderful display of confidence in himself and his receiver that Wentz gave Arcega-Whiteside.

Seconds later, they connected on a 22-yard hookup that paved the way to a game-tying touchdown (and PAT) en route to an overtime victory, then wins against Washington, Dallas and, finally, the Giants to get to this point.

In the postseason, with Wentz at the helm.
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Am sold, and excited about the possibilities.