💥NEW: Stephen A. Smith: “I would give anything to be able to say something definitively in Karmelo Anthony’s defense. If there was a shred of innocence to the incident itself, I would say so. I don’t want to see another black young man going to jail.”
“But I don’t give a d*mn about what your race or ethnicity is. Just because you’re white and young doesn’t mean you deserve to be m*rdered. And just because you’re black and young … doesn’t give you a license to m*rder someone.”
“That’s what happened.”
Giving away a Myles Garrett jersey with the playoffs this weekend! Next year, you'll wear it at the #Browns stadium!
Must #Like and/or #Retweet this post. Must be FOLLOWING @CLEsportsTalk
"So... I am the meanest mom ever... Like... Ever.
Took the kids to Dairy Queen after dinner. They ordered their dessert choices and we waited about 5 minutes for them to call out our number. The young lady (maybe 17) handed each child their ice cream. Not one looked her in the eye. Not one said thank you. Not to her, not to me... So I waited. I counted to 10 in my head as they dug into their ice cream and the young lady just looked at me (probably because she thought I was hearing voices) and I watched as my children strolled out the door. I followed them outside where I calmly collected their ice creams and my kids watched in horror as I deposited them into the nearby garbage can. All 3 launched into mass hysteria. I waited. Quiet. Calm. When they realized I had something to say, they quieted down.
I explained that one day, if they were lucky, they would work a job like that young lady. And I would hope that people would see them. Really see them. Look them in the eye and say thank you. We are too old at 8/7/5 to move through our days without exercising manners and honestly basic human decency.
So today, I am the meanest mom in the world."
Written by Jaime Primak Sullivan
Giving away Myles Garrett jersey because he broke the record!
***LIKE and/or RETWEET THIS POST - Winner picked Monday Night
***MUST be Following @CLEsportsTalk
it's your last chance this season to win an authentic practice jersey!
hit us with a repost for your shot at bringing home a piece of our weekly routine 🔁
@Binary_Defense | #DawgPound
now's your chance to add a unique piece to your memorabilia collection!
hit us with a repost for a chance to win an authentic practice jersey
@Binary_Defense | #DawgPound
New: Fort Lauderdale Officer Caught on Camera Performing Chest Compressions in Middle of the Road
A Fort Lauderdale police officer was filmed performing chest compressions on a man in the middle of the street, working to stabilize him until paramedics arrived.
The witness who recorded the incident said the officer stayed at the scene, doing her best to help while waiting for emergency responders.
No news headlines to be found.
Just an officer stepping in when it mattered most to try and save this man’s life.
A message from a Kindergarten teacher:
After forty years in the classroom, my career ended with one small sentence from a six-year-old:
“My dad says people like you don’t matter anymore.”
No sneer. No malice. Just quiet honesty — the kind that cuts deeper because it’s innocent. He blinked, then added, “You don’t even have a TikTok.”
My name is Mrs. Clara Holt, and for four decades, I taught kindergarten in a small Denver suburb. Today, I stacked the last box on my desk and locked the door behind me.
When I started teaching in the early 1980s, it felt like a promise — a shared belief that what we did mattered. We weren’t rich, but we were valued. Parents brought warm cookies to parent nights. Kids gave you handmade cards with hearts that didn’t quite line up. Watching a child sound out their first sentence felt like magic.
But that world slowly slipped away. The job I once knew has been replaced by exhaustion, red tape, and a kind of loneliness I can’t quite describe.
My evenings used to be filled with construction paper, glitter, and glue sticks. Now they’re spent filling out digital reports to protect myself from angry emails or lawsuits. I’ve been yelled at by parents in front of twenty-five children — one filming me with his phone while I tried to calm another child mid-meltdown.
And the kids… they’ve changed too. Not by choice.
They arrive tired, anxious, overstimulated. Their tiny fingers know how to swipe a screen before they can hold a crayon. Some can’t make eye contact or wait in line. We’re expected to fix all of it — to patch the gaps, heal the trauma, teach the curriculum, and document every move — in six hours a day, with resources that barely fill a drawer.
The little reading corner I once built, full of soft beanbags and paper stars, was replaced by data charts and “learning metrics.” A young principal once told me, “Clara, maybe you’re too nurturing. The district wants measurable results.”
As if kindness were a weakness.
Still, I stayed. Because of the small, holy moments that no spreadsheet could measure —
a whisper of, “You remind me of my grandma.”
a shaky note that read, “I feel safe here.”
a quiet boy finally meeting my eyes and saying, “I read the whole page.”
Those tiny sparks were my reason to keep showing up.
But this last year broke something in me.
The aggression grew sharper. The laughter in the staff room turned to silence. The light went out of so many eyes. I watched brilliant teachers — my friends — vanish under the weight of burnout, their joy replaced by survival.
I felt myself fading too, like chalk on a board that’s been wiped one too many times.
So today, I began my goodbye. I pulled faded art off the walls and tucked thirty years of handmade cards into a single box. In the back of a drawer, I found a letter from a student from 1998:
“Thank you for loving me when I was hard to love.”
I sat on the floor and cried.
No party. No applause. Just a handshake from a young principal who called me “Ma’am” while checking his notifications.
I left my rocking chair behind, and my sticker box too. What I carried with me were the memories — the faces of hundreds of children who once trusted me enough to reach out their hands and learn. That can’t be uploaded. It can’t be measured. It can’t be replaced.
I miss when teachers were partners, not targets. When parents and educators worked side by side, not in opposition. When schools cared more about wonder than numbers.
So if you know a teacher — any teacher — thank them. Not with a mug or a gift card, but with your words. With your respect. With your understanding that behind every test score is a heart that cared enough to try.
Because in a world that often overlooks them, teachers are the ones who never forget our children.
Bad Bunny told Americans they had 4 months to learn Spanish if we wanted to understand the Super Bowl halftime show.
No thanks. We'll just have our own. Enjoy your low-rated halftime show.
the season's wrapped, but we just keep on giving 😉
want a chance to win this autographed parker messick jumbo baseball card?
- repost this
- follow us
winner will be dm’d friday, 10/10
must be able to pickup at classic auto group park!