By MONTE DUTTON

Slapdash observations from a weekend of watching sports and being American:

One of my enduring nitpicks with NASCAR telecasters is their misleading comments on road courses and short tracks. A car slows for a flat turn. The car behind closes in because it doesn’t have to slow until later. The first car gets back in the gas and pulls away because the trailing car has to get through the turn before it can accelerate again.

The experts in the booth have to know this.

I haven’t listened too much to NASCAR on the radio lately, but I’m confident the hype is worse. The listener can’t see for himself. Or herself.

Because the Boston Red Sox have thus far been horrible — and because the grandson of my all-time favorite player is with the Atlanta Braves — I watched the Braves play the Mets on TV Sunday. The game was conveniently rain-delayed, I got to watch Pato O’Ward win the Indy-car race at Md-Ohio.

Mike Yastrzemski is a solid journeyman outfielder. He’s not The Great Eight. He wears 18.

The Red Sox have been my favorite since my old man told me tall tales of watching Ted Williams play. I’ve rooted for the San Francisco Giants since the greatest player of all-time, the late Willie Mays, homered in the first big-league game I ever attended. I like the Braves. I respect the Braves, but I’d rather watch a game on TV at Fenway Park than be there at most parks.

I’m starting to look forward for the balance to return after the World Cup ends. I like it, though, and not just when the USA is cavorting about.

America Version 2026 is more aggressive than any representative of the Red, White & Blue I’ve ever watched. Previous incarnations, in my view, played not to lose. Worldwide, futbol is a working-class sport. Many of the teams — Bosnia & Herzegovina, Croatia, Paraguay — are as tough as longshoremen. American futbol could benefit from the chips on those teams’ shoulders.

Basketball is over. The World Cup is getting there. I’m tired of flops, grimaces and drama kings. That goes for you, too, Mr. President.

This is a world championship, one that is only contested every four years. The entire latter half of England’s 3-2 victory over Mexico reminded me of a never-ending ice-hockey power play. Mexico kept on attacking, and England kept on holding on for dear life. Both distinguished themselves and their countries.

It made me think of Dunkirk.

Monday morning found me quickly losing my quaint idealism.

Can our president leave nothing alone? I went to sleep thinking justice had been served. I awakened to the realization that strings had been pulled.

He just “inquired.” He “made a call.” Is there any doubt, had the USA won, that he would have taken all the credit?

I’m accustomed to shady dealings. I wrote about NASCAR for 20 years.

Could I cover the World Cup? Sure. The hardest part would be remembering the names. At this stage, that’s a growing weakness. My hard drive is full. I need more disk space.

It’s a great time to watch sports on TV for Furman graduates. I knew Brad Faxon and Dottie Pepper when I was there. They were both real good at golf and they’re even better talking about it. i’ve never met Clint Dempsey, who was starring for the Paladins while I was touring the country with all the NASCAR gypsies, but he’s a colorful part of the World Cup coverage.

Wellpilgrim.com takes its name from John Wayne, who liked the phrase, and the Kris Kristofferson song “The Pilgrim: Chapter 33, Hang on, Hopper.” The title of the site comes from my favorite song, Michael Burton’s “Nightrider’s Lament.”

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