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Drama in the Bake Off tent reached fever pitch last night — and for once, it wasn’t about a soggy bottom. The latest Stand Up to Cancer celebrity special took an unexpected turn when beloved TV veteran Gloria Hunniford, 85, made a hasty exit during the show’s nail-biting finale. Talk about leaving viewers with a cliffhanger worthy of a Hollywood handshake.

The episode — already buzzing with anticipation due to Caroline Waldegrave’s debut as Dame Prue Leith’s replacement — served up a perfect storm of entertainment. Waldegrave, 72, brought her own flavor to the judging panel, proving there’s more than one way to complement Paul Hollywood’s steely-eyed technical critiques.

Between actor Jim Howick’s creative interpretations of classic bakes and comedian Jamali Maddix’s endearingly chaotic approach to measurements, the show maintained its characteristic charm. Model Ellie Goldstein’s infectious enthusiasm brightened the tent like a well-timed proving session. But Hunniford’s sudden departure cast a bittersweet shadow over the proceedings, with the ever-fabulous Noel Fielding stepping in to receive her final judgment — rather like an understudy saving opening night.

Yet sometimes the most touching Bake Off moments happen far from the infamous tent. Former contestant Laura dropped a bombshell sweeter than any of Paul’s favorite chocolate babkas: after a nine-year journey through infertility, she’s expecting. Her announcement — complete with ultrasound photos that could melt even the frostiest of hearts — sparked a cascade of congratulations from the Bake Off family.

“We honestly can’t believe our luck,” Laura shared, her joy practically leaping off the screen. Her path to parenthood reads like a particularly challenging technical challenge: unsuccessful IVF rounds, medical guidance to lose 14 stone, and enough emotional ups and downs to rival a temperamental soufflé.

The Bake Off community rallied around her announcement with characteristic warmth. Former champion John Whaite’s “Wahhhh this is amazing” captured the collective excitement, while Strictly Come Dancing’s Ellie Taylor went full caps-lock with “THRILLLLLLLED!” — because sometimes standard spelling just can’t contain that much joy.

Laura’s previous candor about fertility struggles touched many hearts. “The hardest thing I’ve ever gone through,” she’d said of the journey, making her triumph all the sweeter. It’s rather like those moments when a baker pulls something spectacular from the oven after hours of doubt and worry.

These intertwining narratives prove that Bake Off has evolved into something far richer than just another cooking show. Between the proving drawers and cooling racks, real human stories unfold like perfectly laminated pastry — layer upon layer of triumph, setback, and unexpected joy.

Co-host Alison Hammond’s sympathetic note about Gloria’s exit — “Such a shame that Gloria didn’t feel very well” — reminded viewers that even TV’s most controlled environment can’t completely separate itself from life’s unpredictability. Rather like baking itself: sometimes you follow the recipe to the letter, and still end up with surprises.

In the end, isn’t that what keeps us coming back to Bake Off? Not just the pristine bakes or the technical challenges, but those genuine moments of human experience that prove as unpredictable as a chocolate tempering challenge in midsummer.

Soccer has its magical moments, and Chicago just witnessed one for the history books — even if the scoreboard didn’t quite get the memo. On a brisk Sunday afternoon at Soldier Field, 62,358 fans (shattering the Fire’s previous attendance record) created an electric atmosphere that felt more Camp Nou than Midwest, all to catch a glimpse of the man they call La Pulga.

Lionel Messi, having twice left Chicago fans hanging with injury-related no-shows, finally graced the lakefront shrine. The result? A stubborn 0-0 draw that somehow managed to feel both anticlimactic and absolutely riveting.

Let’s be real — this wasn’t just another early-season MLS match. The sea of Inter Miami pink jerseys dotting the stands (and presumably flying off merchandise racks) told a different story. Here was American soccer’s new reality: a global icon, fresh off his eighth Ballon d’Or, playing in front of a crowd that would make most European clubs envious.

The match itself unfolded like a particularly tense episode of Ted Lasso, minus the goals but packed with drama. Chicago’s keeper Chris Brady — probably still pinching himself — pulled off a save against Messi in the fourth minute that’ll be making the rounds on social media for weeks. The Argentine wizard later struck the crossbar with one of those free kicks that usually end up as YouTube highlights, then proceeded to pepper the goal frame with near-misses that had the crowd gasping in collective anticipation.

But here’s the thing about the beautiful game — sometimes beauty lies in denial. Fire coach Gregg Berhalter, who’d acknowledged before kickoff that completely shutting down Messi was about as likely as Chicago going without wind, watched his defensive masterplan work to perfection. “Limiting the damage,” as he’d put it, turned out to be quite the understatement.

The Fire weren’t just there to play spoiler, though. Jonathan Bamba nearly wrote himself into local folklore with an 88th-minute chance that had goal written all over it — until Miami keeper Oscar Ustari decided to play party-pooper with a save that defied physics and probably several local ordinances.

For Inter Miami, recording their first goalless game of 2025 wasn’t exactly in the script. Javier Mascherano’s post-match comments about physical and mental fatigue felt less like excuses and more like the reality of a team carrying the weight of unprecedented expectations. After all, when you’ve got Messi and Suarez on your roster, drawing blank isn’t supposed to be part of the deal.

Yet somehow, the scoreline felt secondary to the spectacle. In a city that’s seen Michael Jordan defy gravity and Walter Payton break tackles, Messi’s mere presence created its own kind of sports magic. The mixture of Fire red and Miami pink in the stands wasn’t just a fashion statement — it was American soccer’s coming-of-age party in microcosm.

Both teams will take their point and run (Fire at 3-2-3, Miami at 4-0-3), but the real winner might be American soccer itself. When was the last time a goalless draw felt this significant? When did Soldier Field last buzz with this kind of soccer electricity?

Sometimes the beautiful game writes stories that transcend the score sheet. On this Sunday by Lake Michigan, Chicago didn’t just host a soccer match — it hosted a moment. The goals may have been missing, but the magic? That showed up right on schedule.

This past weekend served up an unlikely pairing of entertainment spectacles — one featuring a pop sensation’s triumphant return, the other promising an earth-shaking showdown between legendary behemoths.

Lizzo blazed back onto the Saturday Night Live stage, marking her fourth appearance in Studio 8H with the kind of swagger that’s become her trademark. The Grammy-winning artist, fresh from what she’s called a much-needed breather, delivered a powerhouse performance featuring tracks from her upcoming album “Love in Real Life.” Her choice of attire — a crop top emblazoned with “TARRIFIED” — sparked immediate social media buzz, with fans debating whether it carried deeper political undertones. (Remember when wardrobe choices didn’t launch a thousand think pieces?)

Meanwhile, in a delightfully bizarre twist that feels perfectly suited to 2025’s anything-goes entertainment landscape, Marvel Comics is cooking up what might be the most bonkers crossover since that time your chocolate ended up in someone else’s peanut butter. The House of Ideas is pitting the jade giant himself — the Incredible Hulk — against the King of Monsters in “Godzilla Destroys the Marvel Universe.”

Lizzo’s return to the spotlight (with Mad Men alum Jon Hamm handling hosting duties) comes at a fascinating moment. While she’s been dealing with legal drama from former backup dancers, her recent chat with Jay Shetty on his On Purpose podcast revealed something unexpected — her step back from the limelight wasn’t about dodging controversy. Rather, she’d planned this breather well in advance, calling it an exercise in “protecting my peace.” How refreshing: a celebrity timeout that isn’t damage control.

Speaking of damage… Marvel’s upcoming five-issue event series promises plenty of it. Penned by industry veteran Gerry Duggan with visuals by Javier Garrón, this isn’t just another mindless monster mash-up. The series, dropping right as Godzilla celebrates his 70th year of city-stomping shenanigans, has even gotten Toho International’s blessing. Their general manager, Kristin Parcell, seems downright giddy about this birthday bash.

Here’s where things get properly wild — the story’s forcing Marvel’s heroes to team up with their archenemies. When you’ve got the Fantastic Four, X-Men, Spider-Man, and the Avengers all admitting they’re not enough to handle a threat… well, that’s when you know things have gone properly sideways.

The timing of these two seemingly unrelated events feels oddly poetic. While Lizzo prepares to drop her fifth studio album (which she gleefully declared “DONE” on Instagram last month), Godzilla’s gearing up to stomp through not just Earth, but multiple dimensions — including the trippy Dark Dimension. Because why destroy one universe when you can wreck several?

In their own unique ways, both stories remind us why we love entertainment’s ability to surprise and delight. Whether it’s watching a pop star rise above the noise or seeing comic book heroes unite against a kaiju threat, these moments capture our imagination — one spectacular performance, one city-leveling battle at a time.

The music industry’s perpetual dance between stardom and obscurity played out in stark relief this weekend, offering a fascinating glimpse into fame’s delicate ecosystem. From SNL’s storied stage to a Hawaiian resort’s pristine shores, the contrast couldn’t have been more striking.

Lizzo, ever the revolutionary, stormed Studio 8H with the kind of confidence that’s become her trademark. There she was, electric guitar in hand — a calculated preview of her upcoming portrayal of Sister Rosetta Tharpe — delivering a medley that proved why she’s remained unshakeable despite last year’s legal storms. The unreleased “Don’t Make Me Love You” caught everyone off guard, though. Who’d have thought we’d hear Lizzo channeling pure ’80s power ballad energy? Yet somehow, it worked.

Meanwhile, American Idol’s latest chapter unfolded at Disney’s Aulani Resort. The Top 24 performed with that particular mix of desperation and hope that’s become the show’s signature. You couldn’t help but wonder if any of them knew about Caleb Johnson’s story — Season 13’s winner who’s become something of an industry cautionary tale.

Speaking of Johnson… His journey from Idol champion to relative obscurity reads like a Hollywood script nobody wanted to film. These days, he’s touring with Celebrating Meat Loaf, which isn’t terrible work if you can get it. But when you consider he shelled out $30,000 for an album he can’t even stream anymore (thanks to some particularly nasty label politics), well… it certainly puts things in perspective.

Back in Hawaii, though, magic was happening. Breanna absolutely owned Lauren Daigle’s “Still Rolling Stones.” It wasn’t just a performance — it was one of those rare moments when you forget you’re watching a competition show. The kind of raw authenticity that makes you believe in the power of music all over again.

Then there was Jamal Roberts. His take on Jelly Roll’s “Liar” didn’t just move the audience — it reduced the original artist to tears during rehearsal. That’s the thing about genuine talent: sometimes it blindsides you when you least expect it. Slater Nalley proved this point again with “Over the Rainbow.” Sure, it’s been done to death, but somehow this kid made it feel like we were all hearing it for the first time.

The weekend painted a peculiar picture of an industry that’s simultaneously evolving and eating its young. Here’s Lizzo, pushing boundaries and redefining her sound while maintaining her throne. And there’s Johnson, who can’t even access his own debut album. Somewhere in between, twenty-four dreamers in Hawaii are hoping they won’t become another statistic.

Perhaps that’s what makes music so endlessly fascinating. One moment you’re watching a superstar reinvent herself on national television, the next you’re witnessing raw talent take its first tentative steps toward fame. In an industry that’s notoriously fickle, that’s the only constant — change itself.

Hollywood’s recycling machine keeps churning — but wait, something’s different this time. Three major franchise revivals are actually showing signs of life in early 2025, proving that sometimes lightning can strike twice. Or thrice.

Let’s talk about the elephant in the room: Liam Neeson as Frank Drebin Jr. When this casting news first dropped, collective groans echoed across social media. Yet somehow, impossibly, the first teaser for the new Naked Gun has managed to silence the skeptics. There’s something delightfully absurd about watching the gravelly-voiced action star — now 71 — disguised as a schoolchild during a bank heist, delivering deadpan zingers with surprising finesse.

Director Akiva Schaffer (yeah, the Lonely Island guy) seems to get it. Really gets it. The original Naked Gun series wasn’t just about slapstick and one-liners — it was lightning in a bottle, that perfect blend of Leslie Nielsen’s stone-faced delivery and the Zucker-Abrahams-Zucker team’s rapid-fire absurdity.

Meanwhile, over in the world of prestige television, The Last of Us continues to prove that the “video game curse” was always more myth than reality. Season 2’s premiere (finally!) introduces Kaitlyn Dever’s Abby, and… well. For those who’ve played the games, you know what’s coming. For everyone else? Buckle up. The five-year time jump feels earned, and the evolved infected are genuinely terrifying. Strategic zombies? No thank you.

Speaking of evolution, The Handmaid’s Tale is wrapping things up with a triple-episode final season premiere that sends June to Alaska. Because apparently even dystopian drama needs a change of scenery sometimes. Elisabeth Moss continues to prove she can convey more emotion with a single glare than most actors manage in an entire monologue.

What’s fascinating about these three properties is how differently they’re approaching their source material. The Naked Gun is going the legacy sequel route (though calling it that feels weird when Neeson’s technically playing younger than his actual age). The Last of Us is showing remarkable restraint in its adaptation, proving that sometimes the best creative choice is knowing what not to change. And The Handmaid’s Tale? It’s been in uncharted waters since season 2, but somehow keeps finding its way back to Margaret Atwood’s thematic north star.

Seth MacFarlane’s involvement with the new Naked Gun initially raised eyebrows — his particular brand of referential humor seems miles away from the ZAZ team’s style. But early signs suggest he understands the assignment. The decision to acknowledge the original cast while moving forward feels… right.

Look, nobody’s saying Hollywood’s nostalgia obsession is healthy. But when creators actually understand what made the original properties special — whether it’s precise comic timing, emotional storytelling, or thematic resonance — maybe, just maybe, these revisits aren’t the creative bankruptcy everyone assumes they are.

Then again, ask again in six months. The proof’s always in the pudding — or in this case, the final product.

Time has a funny way of smoothing rough edges. Just ask Alex James, who’s watching history repeat itself from his Cotswolds farm – though this time with a gentler touch. The 56-year-old Blur bassist recently shared his thoughts on the upcoming Oasis reunion, and his words carried an unexpected warmth that would’ve seemed impossible during the heated Britpop wars of the ’90s.

“It’s wonderful,” James told The Sun, reflecting on the Gallagher brothers’ impending return after their 16-year silence. “It’s awful that most bands end up hating each other.” Coming from someone who weathered his own band’s storms – including Graham Coxon’s temporary exit in the early 2000s – the sentiment rings particularly true.

Meanwhile, the desert sands of Coachella 2025 shifted beneath an entirely different kind of musical revolution. Irish troublemakers Kneecap sparked an unlikely political moment when American festival-goers found themselves chanting “Margaret Thatcher is still dead” – before the livestream mysteriously went dark. Some things, it seems, still manage to raise eyebrows even in our supposedly shock-proof era.

But nothing could’ve prepared the festival crowd for Lady Gaga’s audacious reimagining of what a headline set could be. “I decided to build you an opera house in the desert,” she announced, before unleashing nearly two hours of theatrical genius that left jaws firmly planted in the sand. The performance unfolded in four acts plus bookends, each more ambitious than the last.

During “Abracadabra,” audiences witnessed Gaga’s metamorphosis from Victorian invalid to what could only be described as the satanic DJ of a medieval prison – the kind of creative leap that sounds absurd on paper but somehow made perfect sense in execution. Working alongside choreography virtuoso Parris Goebel, Gaga crafted something that transcended the typical festival spectacle.

The show’s emotional core emerged during an stripped-down “Shallow,” performed solo at a skull-adorned piano amid the crowd. The mainstage fell so silent you could’ve heard a guitar pick drop, before erupting into a unified chorus that had hardened festival veterans wiping away tears.

These parallel narratives – from James’s pastoral musings to Gaga’s desert opera – paint a portrait of an industry that refuses to sit still. As James preps Britpop Classical with the London Concert Orchestra and Gaga pushes live performance into uncharted territory, music’s ability to unite, provoke, and transform remains startlingly vital.

Perhaps that’s the weekend’s real lesson. Whether through the healing of ancient feuds or the creation of avant-garde spectacles in the California desert, music keeps finding new ways to move us – even if sometimes that means watching a pop star DJ for the damned while Victorian ghosts dance in the background.

In an age where streaming algorithms serve up endless playlists and AI-generated tunes flood our feeds, something genuinely extraordinary has emerged from the dusty corners of music history. A collection of lost Patsy Cline recordings has surfaced, offering an intimate peek into the evolution of country music’s most transformative voice. “Imagine That: The Lost Recordings (1954-1963)” doesn’t just add another chapter to Cline’s legacy — it rewrites the whole dang book.

The collection’s origin story reads like something straight out of a vintage record collector’s fever dream. These 48 tracks — including 15 never-before-heard gems — might have vanished into the ether if not for Leon Kagarise, a shy music enthusiast from Towson, Maryland. While other folks were probably watching I Love Lucy reruns, Kagarise spent his Saturday nights recording “Don Owens’s TV Jamboree” straight from his parents’ television set. Talk about dedication.

Here’s where it gets really interesting. These recordings capture Cline at various crossroads, including what historians believe to be her first-ever recording from 1954. George Hewitt, Cline discographer and co-producer, puts it perfectly: “These recordings are the treasured dreams I once had as a child.” In today’s world of perfectly polished productions and pitch-corrected vocals, there’s something magical about hearing the raw, unvarnished truth of an artist finding their voice.

The Washington, D.C. backdrop — not exactly Nashville West — adds a fascinating layer to the story. Post-war D.C. had somehow morphed into this unlikely country music haven, where Southern transplants created their own vibrant scene amid government buildings and power lunches. Donna Stoneman, a 91-year-old mandolin player who shared stages with Cline, remembers her as “rough and tough when she needed to be” but also “all woman, and… very generous.”

What’s truly remarkable about these recordings is how they showcase Cline’s versatility. One track, she’s trading playful banter with Don Owens like they’re old friends at a backyard barbecue. The next? She’s delivering a heart-wrenching version of “You Win Again” that would make Hank Williams himself do a double-take.

For Julie Fudge, Cline’s daughter — who was just 4 when her mother’s life was cut tragically short in that 1963 plane crash — these recordings are more than just historical artifacts. “It’s just so real,” she says, and there’s something particularly poignant about that observation in 2025, when so much of our entertainment feels manufactured and processed.

The influence of Cline’s boundary-pushing style reverberates through generations of artists. k.d. lang, contributing to the collection’s detailed booklet, describes an “otherworldly connection” to Cline’s work. She points to “the power and the projection she used — the bends in her notes, kind of like Johnny Hodges’s bends on the saxophone.” That longing, that aching quality? It’s there in every note.

Perhaps most striking is how Cline defied the rigid social and musical boundaries of her era. Whether performing in rhinestone-studded cowgirl outfits (lovingly sewn by her mother) or elegant evening gowns, her voice transcended easy categorization. Producer Zev Feldman nails it when he describes her as “an icon who really matters… to old-school country-music people, to the LGBTQ community, to roots-music people and also to people who may be familiar with only a few country artists.”

Sure, some of these recordings needed serious technical restoration — you can’t expect pristine quality from TV recordings made on home equipment in the 1950s. But even through the occasional crackle and pop, Cline’s magnetic presence shines through with an authenticity that feels almost alien in our hyper-processed musical landscape.

Sixty-two years after her passing, Patsy Cline continues to surprise us. These newly discovered recordings don’t just pad her catalog — they deepen our understanding of an artist who refused to be boxed in by genre, gender, or social class. As Feldman says — and he’s spot-on here — “There’s something everlasting about Patsy Cline — like Sinatra or Nat King Cole. Her music is so timeless and universal, and all you need to do is listen.”

Hollywood lost one of its most intriguing character actors last week — Nicky Katt, whose mercurial presence defined some of the most compelling indie films of the ’90s and 2000s, passed away at 54. The news hit particularly hard for those who remember when independent cinema wasn’t just a marketing label, but a genuine creative revolution.

His death was confirmed through John Sloss of Sloss Law, though (in a twist that seems oddly fitting for an actor who always kept audiences guessing) the details remain private. Katt’s departure feels like watching the credits roll on an era of filmmaking that wasn’t afraid to push boundaries and ruffle feathers.

Remember that moment in “Dazed and Confused” when Katt’s Clint Bruno first appeared on screen? That wasn’t just acting — it was a masterclass in creating genuine menace without chewing the scenery. God, they really don’t make high school bullies like that anymore, do they?

Steven Soderbergh — who had an almost supernatural ability to spot raw talent — gave Katt one of his most deliciously bizarre roles in “Full Frontal.” Playing an actor portraying Hitler in a play called “The Sound and the Fuhrer” (seriously, darlings, even ChatGPT couldn’t dream up something this wonderfully weird), Katt delivered what Soderbergh dubbed an “absolutely fearless” performance. And honey, he wasn’t just being nice.

What set Katt apart wasn’t just his acting chops — it was his brutal honesty about the industry. He once told the Los Angeles Times something that rings even truer in 2025: “There’s so much desperation in the air, in Los Angeles especially… Stanley Kubrick called the vibe in LA a ‘low-level malevolence.’ It eats away at you at some point.” Looking at today’s algorithmically-engineered content landscape, those words feel downright prophetic.

Television audiences might remember him best as Harry Senate in “Boston Public,” where he brought the same intensity that made him indie film’s secret weapon. Even his blink-and-you’ll-miss-it appearance on “Friends” (yes, that “Friends”) showed how he could elevate even the most mainstream material.

His final role — a 2018 guest spot on Hulu’s “Casual” — wasn’t exactly the grand finale such a career deserved. But maybe that’s fitting for an actor who always seemed more interested in the work than the applause. From “Boiler Room” to “Behind the Candelabra,” Katt brought an old-school dedication that’s becoming rarer than a Hollywood executive without a TikTok strategy.

In an industry increasingly obsessed with algorithms and engagement metrics, Katt represented something beautifully analog — an actor who treated his craft like a calling rather than a brand-building exercise. His passing doesn’t just mark the end of a remarkable career; it’s another farewell to an era when Hollywood still had the courage to be gloriously, unapologetically weird.

Hollywood’s latest war epic “Warfare” lands in theaters next week with enough technical swagger to make Michael Bay blush — though you won’t find any signature explosion porn here. Instead, this gritty collaboration between “Ex Machina” mastermind Alex Garland and former Navy SEAL Ray Mendoza strips away the usual cinematic bombast to deliver something far more unsettling: reality.

Set in 2006 Ramadi (remember those days?), the film tracks a SEAL team through what should’ve been just another surveillance op. Spoiler alert: it’s not. The mission spirals into a white-knuckle firefight that makes “Black Hawk Down” look like a garden party.

Rising star D’Pharaoh Woon-A-Tai — fresh off his indie darling streak — leads an ensemble that clearly didn’t phone this one in. The cast, including Will Poulter and that heartbreaker Noah Centineo (trading his rom-com charm for tactical gear), endured what sounds like the boot camp from hell. Mendoza, bless his militant heart, actually had these A-listers maintaining military hierarchy even during coffee runs. Imagine sending your production assistant through a chain of command just to fetch a latte — Hollywood’s never seen anything quite like it.

But here’s where things get interesting, darlings. While the film’s technical precision is absolutely breathtaking — they’ve done something revolutionary with the sound design that’ll have audiophiles weeping into their $1000 headphones — there’s an elephant in the war room that needs addressing.

For all its masterful authenticity (and honey, it’s authentic), “Warfare” stumbles into that same old trap that’s plagued war films since forever: it’s telling an Iraqi story through a distinctly American lens. Sure, the tactical details are flawless, but the local population might as well be set dressing in their own narrative.

Let’s be real — it’s 2025, and we’re still unpacking the mess that was the Iraq War. While Garland and Mendoza have crafted a technical tour de force, running a tight 95 minutes without a single wasted frame, one can’t help but wonder if we’re ready for another American-centric view of a conflict that claimed hundreds of thousands of Iraqi lives.

The film’s approach to combat sequences is nothing short of revolutionary. Gone are the dramatic orchestral swells and Hollywood’s favorite fake bullet sounds (you know the ones). Instead, Mendoza insisted on raw, authentic audio that’ll have veterans nodding in grim recognition. It’s visceral, it’s intense, and it’s absolutely not for the faint of heart.

“Warfare” sits somewhere between “The Hurt Locker’s” nerve-shredding tension and “American Sniper’s” technical precision — though it’s arguably more ambitious than either. Whether that ambition translates into meaningful cinema or just really expensive military cosplay… well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?

Mark your calendars for April 11th, when “Warfare” kicks down theater doors nationwide. Just don’t expect any easy answers about America’s military legacy — this film’s too busy perfecting its tactical reload animations to worry about those pesky moral complexities.

A devastating drunk driving incident in Riverside Thursday night serves as yet another grim reminder that some lessons, no matter how often repeated, seem destined for tragic replays. Around 9:30 p.m., what should have been a routine drive home turned fatal when a pickup truck hauling a horse trailer made an ill-fated turn on Washington Street.

The driver of that pickup — 32-year-old Daniel Dubois from Norco — crossed paths with an oncoming Volkswagen in a collision that left one family forever changed. The Volkswagen’s driver, a 46-year-old whose name hasn’t been released (pending that dreaded notification to family members), died at the scene. Dubois? He wound up in handcuffs after hospital staff connected the dots on his condition.

Speaking of dots that aren’t quite connecting — the Chicago Cubs and their defensive whiz Pete Crow-Armstrong have hit the pause button on extension talks. Those whispers about a $75 million deal? Pure speculation, apparently. The 23-year-old center fielder, who turned heads with a .670 OPS last season, remains under team control through 2030 — though that hasn’t stopped both sides from testing the waters this spring.

Baseball insiders suggest it’s just smart business to explore options, even when the odds of striking a deal seem about as likely as finding a parking spot at Wrigley on game day. The front office and Crow-Armstrong’s representatives have been dancing around numbers since spring training kicked off, but sometimes these talks need to simmer on the back burner for a while.

Meanwhile, up in Boston, the Red Sox can’t catch a break. Their promising arm Richard Fitts left Saturday’s White Sox matchup with shoulder issues — right after dealing five scoreless innings, no less. Talk about timing. The Sox were nursing a 2-0 lead when Fitts departed, only to watch it dissolve into a 3-2 loss.

“He’s going to Boston tomorrow,” Red Sox skipper Alex Cora said, mastering the art of understated concern. “We’ll see where we’re at. He’s going to get an MRI on Monday and we’ll go from there.” With Lucas Giolito and Brayan Bello already running rehab laps in Triple-A Worcester, Fitts’s 13 strikeouts and 3.18 ERA through three starts had been a bright spot in an increasingly cloudy rotation picture.

The Sox might need to get creative with their pitching solutions — and fast. Baseball has a funny way of testing depth charts just when they seem most vulnerable. Perhaps it’s time to dust off those emergency starter plans gathering cobwebs in Cora’s office.

These three storylines — each distinct yet somehow connected by the thread of human decision-making — remind us that split-second choices, whether behind the wheel or behind the negotiating table, carry weight far beyond their immediate moment. Some decisions leave permanent scars; others just leave us wondering what might have been.