You simply cannot make international sports suck

It is a very weird time to watch international sports.

The sense of joy that pervaded the recently-completed Winter Olympics was tempered at the end by the reflexive need of America's current governing goon squad to make everything about them and thus also weird and sad. The upcoming men's World Cup–what should be a triumphant moment for the ever-growing base of soccer fans in the US–is clouded by the very-real threats posed to visiting fans by said regime's aggressive and capricious immigration-enforcement tactics, and by the news that one qualified national team will not attend because said regime started a war with their country.

My kids–big fans of both international sports and the city of Los Angeles–have been asking me if we can go to the 2028 Summer Olympics, and it's something I absolutely would've at least explored the cost and logistics of doing if I weren't quietly haunted by the thought "are we even going to have a 2028 Olympics here?"

To a degree, this isn't new.

Politics have long elbowed their way into international sports. Multiple Olympics in the '70s and '80s were disrupted by Cold War-era boycotts, and Nazi Germany famously hosted the 1936 Games (only to be shown up by Jesse Owens). Still, it's hard to deny that there's an especially dark cloud hanging over the world of international sports these days.

That is, until the games actually begin.

The World Baseball Classic is a weird event. It's awkwardly overlaid with Major League Baseball's spring training, and the competitors are a mix of super-teams from baseball-mad countries like the US, Japan and the Dominican Republic playing against Czech electricians and Italian-Americans playing under the flag of their distant ancestors. Star pitchers are on exceedingly-short leashes, and a few teams' rosters were gutted by insurance concerns. The abbreviated nature of the competition–four pool-play games and three single-elimination rounds–give undue weight to random occurrence and statistical noise.

And it's a BLAST.

I have loved every second of this year's WBC, from the blowout wins to the upset losses to the surprising beefs between MLB teammates. Major League Baseball has been burdened for most of its century and a half of existence by a dour sense that having fun is a crime and that "playing the right way" means keeping your head down, your mouth shut and your personality locked away behind false modesty and well-worn cliches.

There is no greater rebuttal to this than seeing Italy taking espresso shots after home runs, a sold-out Tokyo Dome rocking after a Japanese rout, or the Dominican Republic team's unbridled glee in steamrolling opponents.

You do not under any circumstances have to hand it to Major League Baseball or the WBCI–or FIFA, the IOC or any other international-sports governing body, for that matter. These organizations exist to primarily to extract profit and enable corruption. They are not why these events are so good; they simply aren't powerful enough to make hitting dingers for your country suck.

Frankly, it's a good reminder; the goons running the show don't define what being an American (or an Italian, Czech, Dominican, Brazilian or Brit) is all about.

The people themselves do, and it's a joy to see it.

Friends, it's Friday again at The Action Cookbook Newsletter.

The weather is all over the place this week, but baseball season is baseball season, and that means it's time for a Hot Dog Project. I've also got the reddest cocktail you've ever seen, some bona fide emo [citation needed], a well-laid trap of a book, pets and more!

Let's swing for the fences.

[eyes go completely black] HOT DOGS

I have made no secret of my fondness for silly kitchen gadgets.

Confessions of a Kitchen Gadget Obsessive

You want thingamabobs? I’ve got twenty!

The Action Cookbook NewsletterScott Hines

With grilling season approaching, I recently talked myself into another gadget purchase–the SLOTDOG, a tool that produces evenly-spaced crosscuts when pressed onto a hotdog before cooking. (This is not spon-con; rest assured I will find and buy gadgets wholly of my own volition.) I'd been eager to try it out, and decided to combine that effort with another craving rattling around the back of my head: I wanted to make my own bánh mì.

Once, I lived a short dog's-walk away from a superb bánh mì shop in Brooklyn, and their sandwiches were dinner once or twice a week. I don't have that luxury any more, and I miss them dearly.

It would be hard for me to get the meat exactly right; they used a traditional combination chả lụa sausage, ground pork and pâté that I could go mad trying to procure here in Kentucky. Instead, I'd steer into heresy, grilling up some slot-cut hot dogs and surrounding them with all the accoutrements of my long-lost sandwich love.

(The crusty-outside-soft-inside bread is also a tough one, but I simply went to a local Vietnamese bakery for that.)

Bánh Mì Hot Dogs

• crusty bánh mì rolls
• Pâté (I had brought a canned assortment back from France last summer; it wasn't exactly right but neither is a hot dog, so what the hell)
• slot-cut hot dog (I used Costco's 1/4-lb all-beef dogs, the same ones they serve in the cafe)
• Pickled Vegetables (see below)
• Cilantro
• Cucumber spears
• Kewpie mayonnaise
• Sriracha
• Sliced jalapeños
• Maggi seasoning

Pickled Vegetables

• 1 large carrot, grated into long strips
• an equal amount of daikon radish, grated into similar strips
• 1/2 cup rice vinegar
• 1/2 cup water
• 1/3 cup sugar
• 1 tablespoon salt

Bring the vinegar and water to a boil; whisk in the sugar and salt until dissolved. Pour over the carrot and daikon in a heat-safe vessel, cover and refrigerate.

This was not the sandwich of my Brooklyn dreams.

It was, however, exceptionally tasty–a damned good hot dog that did enough to scratch the sandwich itch and oh no I just waded into internet argument territory EJECT EJECT EJECT

Let's let that one lie and make a drink, hmm?

Don't stop livin' in the red

I always find myself in a weird spot when it comes to cocktails at this point in the year, and the weather isn't helping. It was nearly 80 earlier this week, and I was dressed for summer because the A/C hasn't been turned on in my office yet. It's supposed to dip below 20 next week. What do you do with that? Is it Spritz Season yet, or are we still in the Winter of our Brown Liquor?

The only play is to take on something truly odd, a drink for no particular season.