So how do you think Buddy Ryan and God are getting along?

I wonder what Buddy Ryan said to St. Peter at the Pearly Gates after passing on to the next life today at 82.

Whatever it was, I’d wager that it was defiantly defensive.

And unapologetic.

Ryan was not a polite man. I don’t know if he was religious, but he sure as hell was no church mouse.

Buddy was all about the B’s.

Buddy Ball.

Bounty Bowl.

Body Bags.











Buddy never won a Super Bowl as head coach of the Eagles. Hell, he never even won a playoff game in three tries with the Birds, going just 43-35-1 overall while entertaining the media, enchanting the lunch bucket blue collars and feuding with then owner Norman Braman and then Cowboys coach Jimmy Johnson.

But Philly fans loved his swagger and his ferocious defenses that pounded people with jackhammer percussion.

Buddy was a mediocre head coach but a great defensive coordinator, helping Joe Namath win a Super Bowl with the Jets and winning another Super Bowl with the Bears while exchanging daily F You’s with head coach Mike Ditka.

Hard to imagine Buddy being a genteel angel strumming a harp in heaven.

Brexit means an exit to retiring in Hawaii

OK, the British finally have paid us back for kicking their red-coated butts in 1776.

Brexit is screwing our 401k retirement accounts.

Global markets sold off for a second straight day on Monday and major U.S. stock indexes for two straight business days dropped like a grand piano from a 93rd floor high-rise window.

Now every American retiree who can still breathe while sucking in his gut suddenly is looking for work as an underwear model.

I did extra cardio and ab work today in case Jockey solicits my services.

What’s your strategy?

King James crowns the Cavs

Thank God and Stephen A. Smith (I get the two confused at times) that Game 7 of the NBA Finals stacked up in the pantheon of all-time classics.

A pillar of encompassing skill and will, LeBron James delivered on a vow to his home state and brought the Cavs back from the brink as they became the first team to rally from a 3-1 Finals deficit, beating the defending champion Golden State Warriors 93-89 Sunday night to end a 52-year major sports championship drought in Cleveland.

I guess Cleveland no longer is the armpit of America.

Obama fires back; says Trump’s yapping is helping ISIS

Ah, yes! The purple poetry of politics certainly can send eyes skittering off into the corners.

By turns mocking, frustrated and angry, President Obama Tuesday unleashed a blistering denunciation of Donald Trump, arguing that his rhetoric about Muslims betrays American values and risks helping al-Qaida and ISIS.

Obama’s remarks came a day after Trump charged that the president’s refusal to blame attacks like the mass shooting in Orlando on “radical Islam” proved he placed political correctness above the need to keep Americans safe.

The president dismissed Trump’s argument as partisan “yapping,” “a political talking point” and “loose talk and sloppiness” that shows ignorance about how to fight ISIS.

Trump obviously has a talent for provocation.

Riling up Obama can be a challenge because he normally is as placid as an idyllic pond.

Not this time. Obama came out swinging with fire in his heart and lightning on his lips.

I guess the prez does indeed have a pulse.

Muhammad Ali: A man among men but always a kid at heart

Of course, the whole world knows that Muhammad Ali in his prime was an incandescent fighter — a poet in the ring blessed with extraordinary foot and hand speed, reflexes, artistry and an iron will.

Boxing is a physical dialogue between bodies and Ali was the master of that conversation. A heavyweight who fought like a lightweight.

I was privileged as a young sportswriter to spend nearly a decade covering and hanging out with Ali at his Deer Lake, PA training camp.

Heck, we even playfully sparred once. Rest assured, the few light punches I managed to land hardly contributed to the volume of punches that eventually did him in at age 74.

Ego was the fuel in his engine. He not only proclaimed again and again that he was The Greatest, he believed it. Until time and exile poached his skills, his enormous ego made him invincible in the ring.

The Ali who fought Frazier and Foreman was a shell of his former self and the Ali who was humbled by Holmes was already diminished by the onset of Parkinson’s and further depleted by popping thyroid pills like they were Tic Tacs.

Yes, Ali once had the magnificent body and the good looks of a movie star. In fact that beautiful face likely has been photographed more times than anybody’s. But what I will remember the most about Ali in his private moments was he was the eternal kid at heart, a devilish prankster.

That he could remain so amidst the tumult of being a culturally significant lightening rod always amazed me.

By the way, Ali was not the deep intellect or philosopher some have credited him with being. But he could articulate with the best of them, which gave the impression his words carried more weight than they did.

And he had a notorious sweet tooth. Nothing could make the most famous man in the world more happy than a piece of pie.

Finally, he was a pretty good magician.

Which punctuates the childish mischief and sense of wonder he never lost.

Rest in peace, champ.