Deadspin

The St. Paul Johnson High School’s varsity badminton team — 20 girls, almost all Hmong — is the winningest team in the school’s history.

For a decade, George Andrie played defensive end for the Dallas Cowboys as a member of the “Doomsday Defense.” Now, at age 78, despite the fact four different doctors agree that Andrie’s dementia is linked to his football career, the NFL has twice denied his settlement claim in a “maddening labyrinth” of a process beset by confusion and delays.

We know about the cheating and lying. But the story of how the greatest and most reviled American cyclist of all time ended up here isn’t that simple.

One hundred-plus miles. No marked route. No GPS. No trails. No sleep. Can you finish in under 60 hours?

A heartbreaking story on alcoholism and a superstar sports journalist. Jennifer Frey soon disappeared from the business, and died earlier this year.

Braun recounts his time pretending to work as a staff photographer for a fake neighborhood newspaper to gain up-close access to the Atlanta Braves.

An argument about why ESPN’s tactic of appealing to as many people as possible ensured that a “well-funded black-interest site written and edited by blacks” could never exist within the company.

A profile of the legendary Robert Christgau, who spent three decades as the Village Voice‘s rock critic.

A profile of LeBron James written in 2011 for Port, a men’s magazine, that was funded by Nike. Nike was unhappy with the profile and the story was killed, but appears now on Deadspin.

Memories of a childhood hero:

Before one game, early in the season, I stood out in right field during batting practice, arms folded. Tony walked over. “Want to toss?” he asked. Trembling with nervousness, I said, “Yeah,” and tried to act like this was nothing to me. My first toss went about 30 feet over his head. He laughed and ran after it. Second toss, only 15 feet over his head. He jogged over to me. “How are you holding that ball?” he asked. I showed him my grip. “Well hell, that’s all wrong.” A 10-second lesson, and we were good to go. He fired a rocket to me. I fielded it cleanly and threw it back using my new grip. This time only five feet overhead. He laughed again, harder this time. I got myself under control, and we threw for 10 minutes, just us. At one point I stopped, realizing that some kids were watching. They were watching me. They were watching me playing catch with Tony Gwynn. I could read their thoughts: “That kid is so lucky.” I was. On my way back to the clubhouse, one of the kids, some poor 6-year-old totally overcome by the moment, asked me for my autograph. I signed his program. Tony watched. He laughed the whole time.