The Jim Brown statue outside First energy stadium in Cleveland Ohio. The sculptor, Robert Deming, used photos and input from Jim Brown himself to create the statue. Deming focused on capturing Brown's determined and tough persona, even down to details like his helmet and shoes. Brown himself specified that he wanted the statue to convey his toughness and determination, rather than grace or victory.
A photo of Leatherman (1885), a mysterious but gentle vagabond who walked the same 365-mile route around Connecticut and New York dressed in all leather for decades. The Leatherman was one of the most enigmatic figures of 19th-century America. Known for his stoic presence and head-to-toe leather outfit, he became a familiar sight to towns across Connecticut and New York. From the 1850s until his death in 1889, he walked a precise 365-mile loop every 34 days, sleeping in caves and rock shelters and rarely speaking more than a few words. Locals came to respect and care for him, leaving food out along his route and even allowing him to sleep in barns or outbuildings during bad weather. Despite numerous attempts to learn more about his identity, he never revealed his name or origins. Some believed he was a Frenchman, possibly suffering from trauma or exile. Others speculated he was a penitent pilgrim. When he died in 1889, he was buried in Ossining, New York. To this day, no one truly knows who the Leatherman was, but his legend continues to captivate historians and wanderers alike.
In 1988, what should have been a routine flight turned into one of the most harrowing aviation emergencies in history. Aloha Airlines Flight 243, a Boeing 737, was cruising over Hawaii when, without warning, a massive section of its upper fuselage ripped away mid-air. The roar of the wind replaced cabin chatter. Oxygen masks fell. And suddenly, passengers were staring at open sky where a ceiling had once been.
The explosive decompression was immediate and violent. A flight attendant, standing in the aisle at that crucial moment, was tragically swept out of the aircraft — the sole fatality in an incident that could have claimed many more. Around her, passengers clung to their seats, exposed to deafening wind, swirling debris, and the chilling reality of structural failure at 24,000 feet.
In the cockpit, Captain Robert Schornstheimer and First Officer Mimi Tompkins had only seconds to act. With the plane crippled and shaken by turbulence, they displayed extraordinary calm and precision. Against all odds, they controlled the wounded aircraft, communicating clearly with air traffic control and executing a descent and emergency landing in just 13 minutes.
The aircraft touched down safely in Maui — its roof torn off, its passengers terrified but alive. The structural failure was later traced to metal fatigue, triggering widespread reviews of aircraft maintenance protocols and inspection procedures around the world.
But beyond the investigation and the technical lessons, Flight 243 remains a story of human courage. Of a crew that refused to panic. Of passengers who held on. Of a pilot and co-pilot who steered a broken machine back to earth with nerves of steel.
And of a flight attendant who lost her life in the line of duty — still serving others when the sky itself gave way.
The legacy of Flight 243 endures not only in aviation safety reforms but in the simple, powerful truth it revealed: in the face of chaos, grace and courage can still take flight.
In 2016, Luke Aikens jumped out of an airplane at 25,000 feet without a parachute and landed in a net. It was broadcast live on Fox. He became the first person to successfully complete such a feat, which he named "Heaven Sent."
He wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t loud. But when Mike Webster stepped onto a football field, something unshakable took over—a quiet storm in shoulder pads. Blue-collar to the bone, forged in the hard winters of Tomahawk, Wisconsin, Webster was never supposed to be the face of a dynasty. And yet, there he was: helmet snug, eyes fixed, hands in the dirt, anchoring one of the greatest teams the NFL has ever seen.
He arrived in Pittsburgh in 1974, a 6-foot-1, 255-pound center out of Wisconsin with All-Big Ten honors and the academic smarts to match. Picked in the fifth round—125th overall—he didn’t come in with the flash of a first-rounder, but you could tell early on that this guy had something different. Not just grit. Not just strength. Something deeper. A discipline that didn’t crack, even under the weight of expectations.
At first, he waited. He split time with veteran Ray Mansfield, played a little guard, did his duty on special teams. It was thankless work, but Mike never sulked. He just showed up. Every rep, every snap, every meeting—like a craftsman sharpening his tools in the shadows. Then, in the final game of the 1975 season, opportunity came knocking. He started—and never let go. What followed was nothing short of remarkable: 150 straight starts. A run that stretched until 1986, broken only by a dislocated elbow. He played through pain, silence, and a thousand invisible battles in the trenches.
Webster didn’t just play for the Steelers—he became their heartbeat. Over 15 seasons, he suited up for 220 games, more than any other player in team history. He wasn’t just dependable; he was dominant. An offensive captain for nine years. A man so physically imposing that in 1980, he won the NFL's Ironman competition, confirming what teammates had long whispered: Mike was the strongest man on the team.
He wasn’t the kind of guy who craved the spotlight. But when the light found him—when the moments grew big—Webster stood tall. He helped lead the Steelers to six AFC Championship games and four Super Bowl victories, anchoring a line that protected legends and built a dynasty. He earned seven All-Pro honors and made nine Pro Bowls, starting in five of them. Between 1978 and 1982, no center in the league commanded more respect.
In 1988, after nearly a decade and a half of holding the line in Pittsburgh, the Steelers let him go. It stung. But Webster wasn’t finished. The Kansas City Chiefs signed him—initially as a coach—but the fire inside hadn’t cooled. Within weeks, the 37-year-old warrior was back on the field, snapping the ball, calling protections, and starting all 16 games in 1989. He played one final season in 1990, closing the curtain on a staggering 17-year, 245-game NFL career.
There was no grand farewell, no Hollywood ending. Just a battered warrior walking off the field one last time, helmet in hand, heart still full.
Years later, stories would come out—about the toll it all took. About the man behind the mask. And Mike Webster's name would once again be on the lips of the football world—not just for his strength, but for his sacrifice. For being the kind of player who gave everything he had, every single snap.
Because that’s who Mike Webster was.
And maybe, that’s what football is really all about.
That video of the Holgate glacier caving above is similar to what caused the Lituya Bay mega tsunami in 1958 in Alaska. On July 9th, 1958, a magnitude 7.7 earthquake loosened 30.6 Million cubic feet of rocks from the nearby mountains into the Lituya Bay, rocks bigger than houses, generating a mega tsunami with a wave that reached 1,720 feet high. Five people were killed, thank goodness the population was scarce in that area or it would have killed a lot more. That 1,720 foot wave ripped huge trees out of the ground and tossed them like they were toothpicks.
These are the mug shots of two different men, Will West and William West. Neither of the two men were related. They were both sent to Leavenworth prison at the same time, in 1903, and after some confusion, the staff understood that they had two different prisoners with the exact same name, who looked exactly alike. They are part of the reason fingerprints are now used as identifications.
In 1863, Union soldier Jacob Miller of the 9th Indiana Infantry was shot in the forehead during the Battle of Chickamauga and mistakenly declared dead.
Despite the severe injury, his left eye dislodged and skull fractured, he regained consciousness, treated his wounds with a bandana, and crawled 15 miles to a field hospital.
Only part of the musket ball was removed, and the rest emerged years later. Miller had fought in multiple battles before Chickamauga and shared his story with a newspaper in 1911.
He lived with an unhealed wound until his death in 1917 at age 88, leaving behind a striking photo and an extraordinary tale of survival.
Comments
Love these muddy photos.
Barry Sanders and Jim Brown.
The Jim Brown statue outside First energy stadium in Cleveland Ohio. The sculptor, Robert Deming, used photos and input from Jim Brown himself to create the statue. Deming focused on capturing Brown's determined and tough persona, even down to details like his helmet and shoes. Brown himself specified that he wanted the statue to convey his toughness and determination, rather than grace or victory.
This song always knocks me on my a.., what a masterpiece.
A photo of Leatherman (1885), a mysterious but gentle vagabond who walked the same 365-mile route around Connecticut and New York dressed in all leather for decades. The Leatherman was one of the most enigmatic figures of 19th-century America. Known for his stoic presence and head-to-toe leather outfit, he became a familiar sight to towns across Connecticut and New York. From the 1850s until his death in 1889, he walked a precise 365-mile loop every 34 days, sleeping in caves and rock shelters and rarely speaking more than a few words. Locals came to respect and care for him, leaving food out along his route and even allowing him to sleep in barns or outbuildings during bad weather. Despite numerous attempts to learn more about his identity, he never revealed his name or origins. Some believed he was a Frenchman, possibly suffering from trauma or exile. Others speculated he was a penitent pilgrim. When he died in 1889, he was buried in Ossining, New York. To this day, no one truly knows who the Leatherman was, but his legend continues to captivate historians and wanderers alike.
In 1988, what should have been a routine flight turned into one of the most harrowing aviation emergencies in history. Aloha Airlines Flight 243, a Boeing 737, was cruising over Hawaii when, without warning, a massive section of its upper fuselage ripped away mid-air. The roar of the wind replaced cabin chatter. Oxygen masks fell. And suddenly, passengers were staring at open sky where a ceiling had once been.
The explosive decompression was immediate and violent. A flight attendant, standing in the aisle at that crucial moment, was tragically swept out of the aircraft — the sole fatality in an incident that could have claimed many more. Around her, passengers clung to their seats, exposed to deafening wind, swirling debris, and the chilling reality of structural failure at 24,000 feet.
In the cockpit, Captain Robert Schornstheimer and First Officer Mimi Tompkins had only seconds to act. With the plane crippled and shaken by turbulence, they displayed extraordinary calm and precision. Against all odds, they controlled the wounded aircraft, communicating clearly with air traffic control and executing a descent and emergency landing in just 13 minutes.
The aircraft touched down safely in Maui — its roof torn off, its passengers terrified but alive. The structural failure was later traced to metal fatigue, triggering widespread reviews of aircraft maintenance protocols and inspection procedures around the world.
But beyond the investigation and the technical lessons, Flight 243 remains a story of human courage. Of a crew that refused to panic. Of passengers who held on. Of a pilot and co-pilot who steered a broken machine back to earth with nerves of steel.
And of a flight attendant who lost her life in the line of duty — still serving others when the sky itself gave way.
The legacy of Flight 243 endures not only in aviation safety reforms but in the simple, powerful truth it revealed: in the face of chaos, grace and courage can still take flight.
So this is what it must have looked like in the air.
In 2016, Luke Aikens jumped out of an airplane at 25,000 feet without a parachute and landed in a net. It was broadcast live on Fox. He became the first person to successfully complete such a feat, which he named "Heaven Sent."
He wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t loud. But when Mike Webster stepped onto a football field, something unshakable took over—a quiet storm in shoulder pads. Blue-collar to the bone, forged in the hard winters of Tomahawk, Wisconsin, Webster was never supposed to be the face of a dynasty. And yet, there he was: helmet snug, eyes fixed, hands in the dirt, anchoring one of the greatest teams the NFL has ever seen.
He arrived in Pittsburgh in 1974, a 6-foot-1, 255-pound center out of Wisconsin with All-Big Ten honors and the academic smarts to match. Picked in the fifth round—125th overall—he didn’t come in with the flash of a first-rounder, but you could tell early on that this guy had something different. Not just grit. Not just strength. Something deeper. A discipline that didn’t crack, even under the weight of expectations.
At first, he waited. He split time with veteran Ray Mansfield, played a little guard, did his duty on special teams. It was thankless work, but Mike never sulked. He just showed up. Every rep, every snap, every meeting—like a craftsman sharpening his tools in the shadows. Then, in the final game of the 1975 season, opportunity came knocking. He started—and never let go. What followed was nothing short of remarkable: 150 straight starts. A run that stretched until 1986, broken only by a dislocated elbow. He played through pain, silence, and a thousand invisible battles in the trenches.
Webster didn’t just play for the Steelers—he became their heartbeat. Over 15 seasons, he suited up for 220 games, more than any other player in team history. He wasn’t just dependable; he was dominant. An offensive captain for nine years. A man so physically imposing that in 1980, he won the NFL's Ironman competition, confirming what teammates had long whispered: Mike was the strongest man on the team.
He wasn’t the kind of guy who craved the spotlight. But when the light found him—when the moments grew big—Webster stood tall. He helped lead the Steelers to six AFC Championship games and four Super Bowl victories, anchoring a line that protected legends and built a dynasty. He earned seven All-Pro honors and made nine Pro Bowls, starting in five of them. Between 1978 and 1982, no center in the league commanded more respect.
In 1988, after nearly a decade and a half of holding the line in Pittsburgh, the Steelers let him go. It stung. But Webster wasn’t finished. The Kansas City Chiefs signed him—initially as a coach—but the fire inside hadn’t cooled. Within weeks, the 37-year-old warrior was back on the field, snapping the ball, calling protections, and starting all 16 games in 1989. He played one final season in 1990, closing the curtain on a staggering 17-year, 245-game NFL career.
There was no grand farewell, no Hollywood ending. Just a battered warrior walking off the field one last time, helmet in hand, heart still full.
Years later, stories would come out—about the toll it all took. About the man behind the mask. And Mike Webster's name would once again be on the lips of the football world—not just for his strength, but for his sacrifice. For being the kind of player who gave everything he had, every single snap.
Because that’s who Mike Webster was.
And maybe, that’s what football is really all about.
Mike Webster was a beast.
Just ran across this one on Youtube from 1989.........
"When they can't find anything wrong with you, they create it!"
most conspicuous aspect of that play -- no laundry
make a hit like that in 2025 and it's a 2nd degree felony
you'll never be able to outrun a bad diet
Right! And "Taunting" to boot!
"When they can't find anything wrong with you, they create it!"
😭😭
Man, this was fun!
That video of the Holgate glacier caving above is similar to what caused the Lituya Bay mega tsunami in 1958 in Alaska. On July 9th, 1958, a magnitude 7.7 earthquake loosened 30.6 Million cubic feet of rocks from the nearby mountains into the Lituya Bay, rocks bigger than houses, generating a mega tsunami with a wave that reached 1,720 feet high. Five people were killed, thank goodness the population was scarce in that area or it would have killed a lot more. That 1,720 foot wave ripped huge trees out of the ground and tossed them like they were toothpicks.
Overhead view of Lituya Bay.
The size of the Lituya Bay wave.
These are the mug shots of two different men, Will West and William West. Neither of the two men were related. They were both sent to Leavenworth prison at the same time, in 1903, and after some confusion, the staff understood that they had two different prisoners with the exact same name, who looked exactly alike. They are part of the reason fingerprints are now used as identifications.
A tune from my childhood that I'm very fond of.
In 1863, Union soldier Jacob Miller of the 9th Indiana Infantry was shot in the forehead during the Battle of Chickamauga and mistakenly declared dead.
Despite the severe injury, his left eye dislodged and skull fractured, he regained consciousness, treated his wounds with a bandana, and crawled 15 miles to a field hospital.
Only part of the musket ball was removed, and the rest emerged years later. Miller had fought in multiple battles before Chickamauga and shared his story with a newspaper in 1911.
He lived with an unhealed wound until his death in 1917 at age 88, leaving behind a striking photo and an extraordinary tale of survival.
Couldn't figure out how to post the actual video but here's the link.
"When they can't find anything wrong with you, they create it!"
That was a doozy! 👍