Author: News US

The WNBA world was rocked with shocking news when reports confirmed that Sandy Brondello, the elite coach of the New York Liberty, had been fired after another season of falling short of a championship.

Brondello, a seasoned tactician who guided the Liberty to back-to-back Finals appearances, was seen as one of the brightest coaching minds in the league. Her dismissal has sparked outrage from some fans, disbelief from others, and a wave of speculation about what comes next for the Liberty and the broader WNBA landscape.

In the middle of it all, the Indiana Fever and their rising superstar Caitlin Clark suddenly find themselves at the center of the conversation, with many now declaring that the time is ripe for them to take full advantage of the league’s shifting power dynamic.

Brondello’s firing didn’t come out of nowhere, but the timing was shocking. The Liberty had one of the deepest and most talented rosters in the league, boasting Breanna Stewart, Sabrina Ionescu, Jonquel Jones, and Courtney Vandersloot.

On paper, this was a superteam built to dominate. Yet despite their star-studded lineup, they repeatedly faltered when it mattered most, unable to topple the Las Vegas Aces or deliver on the championship expectations placed on them. Ownership and management were clearly unwilling to let another year pass without shaking things up, and Brondello became the first casualty.

For the Indiana Fever, this shake-up signals opportunity. The Fever, a young team anchored by Caitlin Clark and Aliyah Boston, have been making waves in the playoffs with fearless play and rapid growth.

While the Liberty now enter a period of transition with no clear direction, the Fever are rising at just the right moment. Clark’s electrifying play, combined with Mitchell’s scoring surge and Boston’s dominance in the paint, has positioned Indiana as the team of the future—and possibly even the team of the present.

Fans immediately took to social media after Brondello’s firing to draw comparisons between the crumbling of the Liberty’s superteam and the rise of Indiana. Many pointed out that while the Liberty assembled expensive veteran talent, the Fever have built around youth, energy, and natural chemistry.

“The Liberty bought their roster, but Indiana built theirs,” one fan tweeted, echoing the sentiment of thousands who believe the Fever represent the new face of the WNBA.

Caitlin Clark, of course, is at the heart of this conversation. Her rookie year has been a whirlwind of media attention, sold-out arenas, and highlight-reel moments. Now, with one of the league’s top rivals suddenly in disarray, her path to becoming the league’s defining superstar looks clearer than ever.

Analysts argue that the timing could not be better. “The Liberty’s collapse opens the door for a team like Indiana to step into the spotlight,” one ESPN commentator noted. “Clark has already proven she can carry the game to new heights. Now she and the Fever have a chance to take over completely.”

It isn’t just about opportunity on the court—it’s about the larger narrative. The Liberty’s stumble exposes the fragility of so-called “superteams,” while the Fever’s rise showcases the power of organic growth and homegrown stars.

This shift aligns perfectly with the league’s need to cultivate marketable new faces. For years, the WNBA has been searching for its breakout icon, and Caitlin Clark has delivered beyond anyone’s expectations. If the Liberty’s implosion clears the stage for Indiana, Clark’s ascension could become unstoppable.

Meanwhile, questions swirl about where the Liberty go from here. Do they rebuild around Sabrina Ionescu and Breanna Stewart with a new coach? Or does this firing indicate that ownership may pursue an even more drastic overhaul?

The uncertainty hanging over New York only strengthens the Fever’s position. As their rivals search for answers, Indiana is focused, cohesive, and hungry. That hunger was on full display in their playoff performances, where Clark’s leadership, Boston’s toughness, and Lexie Hull’s grit showed the Fever are no longer just a rebuilding team—they are legitimate contenders.

Some insiders believe that Brondello’s firing was less about her coaching and more about the league’s shifting priorities. With ratings, marketability, and fan engagement more important than ever, teams without strong postseason results are under enormous pressure.

The Liberty, despite their glitz and star power, failed to capture the imagination of casual fans in the same way Indiana has. The Fever’s underdog story, paired with Clark’s record-breaking popularity, has left fans more invested in Indiana than in New York’s high-profile roster. That reality may have forced Liberty leadership to pull the plug faster than they otherwise would have.

The WNBA, too, is watching closely. A league that has often been criticized for stagnant growth suddenly finds itself with the most talked-about rookie in sports. Every decision—from fines to officiating to marketing campaigns—seems tied back to Clark. Now, with the Liberty losing stability, it only strengthens the sense that this is Clark’s league to take.

If the Fever are to capitalize on this moment, they’ll need to stay locked in. They can’t afford to get caught up in the noise of Clark’s superstardom or the chaos swirling around other franchises.

Coach Stephanie White has preached composure and focus, and her leadership has been crucial in keeping the team grounded. This foundation will be the key to turning opportunity into reality.

The narrative surrounding the WNBA is shifting dramatically. The Liberty’s firing of Brondello isn’t just a coaching change—it’s a seismic moment that symbolizes the end of one era and the beginning of another. The so-called “superteam model” has cracked under pressure, while Indiana’s youthful, cohesive, and fearless approach has captured the hearts of fans everywhere.

Caitlin Clark and the Indiana Fever now face a golden opportunity. With their rivals scrambling, the stage is clear for them to establish themselves not just as playoff darlings, but as perennial contenders.

Clark’s rise, Boston’s dominance, and Mitchell’s steady veteran presence give the Fever the tools to build a dynasty. But more importantly, the Liberty’s downfall proves that what Indiana is building is stronger, more sustainable, and more in tune with what fans want to see.

As the dust settles on Brondello’s shocking firing, one thing is certain—the window of opportunity has opened wide for Caitlin Clark and the Fever. The Liberty’s collapse might just mark the moment Indiana’s rise turns into something unstoppable. For Fever fans, the message is clear: the time is now.

As Brett Goldstein sat down on The Drew Barrymore Show, pandemic earnestness in his eyes, he ventured into territory more personal than usual. People remember Goldstein for his dry wit as Roy Kent on Ted Lasso, for scripts he’s penned, for his unexpected vulnerabilities.

That evening, he spoke about something that sounded almost surreal: a childhood memory so vivid that he said E.T. the Extra‑Terrestrial left him with symptoms he now likens to PTSD, starting as early as age three.

The statement stunned the audience, and left many reflecting on how deeply early impressions, even from films, can impact a child’s psyche.

He described how, at three, he must have caught E.T. on television or in a family viewing, though he doesn’t remember exactly when. What he does remember, he said, is the feeling of terror when the alien creature began to be pursued, the looming threat from the government in the movie, the sense that this being—innocent, wanting to go home—was being hunted.

For a toddler already sensitive to big noises or shadows, Goldstein said, these scenes didn’t just entertain—they unsettled. “I woke up crying,” he recalled. “Sometimes when my parents left me in the dark, I thought I’d see that government spaceship through the door.” His voice quavering, he admitted that the movie stayed with him longer than any toy or lullaby did.

By Goldstein’s account, these early imaginative fears didn’t necessarily cripple him, but they laid a foundation of anxiety. Loud noises, unknown darkness, separations—they triggered echoes of those movie scenes.

For years, he thought his reactions were just part of being a dramatic kid. It was only later, after reading about trauma, watching other people share similar early memories, that he could put a name to what he’d felt: post‑traumatic stress symptoms.

He clarified that he doesn’t believe the film itself caused PTSD in the clinical sense, and that other factors likely contributed. But the images, he said, “etched themselves into my brain” in ways he didn’t escape.

Goldstein’s revelation sparked a broader conversation on the show about how childhood is shaped by what we consume—what movies we watch, what stories we hear, what shadows flicker in our imagination just before sleep.

Drew Barrymore, current guest host, shared her own childhood movie experiences, acknowledging how some films scared her, but also how she saw them as rites of passage.

The two spoke about how many parents now try to gauge what media is appropriate for their kids, sometimes perhaps underestimating how vivid a young child’s imagination can be.

Mental health experts watching after the show weighed in. Many noted: what Goldstein described is not uncommon. Children exposed to frightening media without the scaffolding of explanation—without someone there to hold their hand and contextualize—can find their fears slipping into longer‑lasting anxieties.

While the diagnostic line for PTSD is careful and specific, the broad experience of lingering fear, nightmares, separation anxiety or hypervigilance can stem from early frightening experiences—media included.

One psychologist commenting to a media outlet said that in many cases, children don’t need to have experienced large traumas in the real world to carry scars—in some cases, fictional events amplified by imagination leave surprisingly real emotional marks.

Goldstein also spoke with humility: he was not trying to indict E.T. or Spielberg or anyone else. He emphasized his admiration for the film—that it’s a classic, that it moved people, that it still means a lot. What he was willing to consider, though, is how a film that shapes public culture can interact with a young mind in unexpected ways.

He discussed how parents in his childhood didn’t necessarily think twice about what their toddler was seeing on screen. It was not uncommon, he said, for him or his siblings to watch films that were beyond what they later understood, simply because there wasn’t much media awareness or content warning at the time.

The conversation turned to how Goldstein has tried to work through this over the years—through therapy, through art, through laughter. He credits comedy as a kind of healing: finding humor in fear, or making absurd what once triggered anxiety.

He also said that acting helps him channel those early intense emotions into controlled spaces. When playing a scene, he can draw on something similar and lean into it, but also step away from it. It’s a form of emotional muscle-building.

Audience reactions were mixed: some sympathized immediately, relating similar childhood fears, while others pushed back, wondering whether attributing childhood fear to a film was perhaps overstated.

Goldstein addressed that tension, saying he’s used to nuance: “It’s complicated,” he said. “It’s not that I blame E.T. for everything. It’s that I acknowledge how formative everything is—even fictional stories.”

What emerges from his story is more than a confession, it’s an invitation. An invitation to look back at what shaped us—even the shadows we thought we left behind. To consider what scared us, and how those fears morphed. To examine how, in our adulthood, our reactions—maybe to a loud noise, to night’s darkness, to abandonment—might have roots we didn’t expect.

By the end of the interview, Goldstein seemed lighter. There was catharsis in describing what he carried. He also offered gratitude—to his parents, who listened, even if they didn’t fully understand; to therapy, for helping; and to the stories, even scary ones, because they helped him see his emotional landscape more clearly.

The tale underscores how much early experiences matter. It also shows how celebrity confessions can help others feel less alone. Whether or not E.T. truly gave him clinical PTSD, Goldstein’s honesty opens up space for talking about childhood, imagination, fear, and growth.

In a culture that sometimes dismisses fear as childish, stories like his reclaim it as human. They remind us that trauma isn’t always big headline events—sometimes it’s quiet, lingering, woven between bedtime, shadows, and a movie’s flicker on the wall. And sometimes naming what scared us is part of what helps us find peace.

Kelsey Mitchell has been in the spotlight ever since she torched the Las Vegas Aces with a career-defining playoff performance, but her latest ESPN interview is what really has fans buzzing.

While the Indiana Fever star has long been praised for her consistency and veteran leadership, Mitchell’s candid comments about Caitlin Clark during the segment caught everyone off guard—and now the internet can’t stop talking about it.

During the sit-down, Mitchell was asked about how Clark’s presence has changed the dynamic of the Fever this season. Instead of giving a generic, polished answer, Mitchell got brutally honest. She admitted that at first, there were challenges in adjusting to the hype surrounding Clark.

“When Caitlin came in, the cameras, the attention—it was different for all of us,” Mitchell said. “But at the end of the day, she’s a competitor. She wants to win, and that’s what matters most.”

What shocked fans wasn’t the acknowledgment of growing pains—it was how openly Mitchell addressed the pressure that came with Clark’s arrival. She said the team had to “learn how to block out the noise” and “focus on basketball,” which many took as a rare behind-the-scenes glimpse of the adjustment period for both veterans and rookies.

Mitchell emphasized that while Clark brings “superstar energy,” the Fever’s recent playoff run has been about everyone stepping up, not just one player.

Then came the quote that exploded across social media. “Caitlin’s great, but she’s not saving us—she’s with us,” Mitchell said firmly. That line resonated with fans and analysts alike, sparking debates about how the narrative around the Fever has been painted by mainstream media.

Many outlets have been criticized for portraying the team as a one-woman show, when in reality, Mitchell, Aliyah Boston, Lexie Hull, and others have been crucial to Indiana’s success.

Twitter quickly lit up, with fans praising Mitchell for standing her ground and making sure her teammates got the recognition they deserve. One fan wrote, “Kelsey Mitchell just said what every Fever fan has been thinking—the media needs to stop acting like it’s Caitlin vs. the world. This is a TEAM.”

Others, however, twisted the comment into potential shade toward Clark, though Mitchell clarified during the interview that there’s “nothing but respect” between them.

The interview also showed a more personal side of Mitchell, who admitted that she’s “grown a lot” since Caitlin’s arrival. She talked about how Clark’s intensity has challenged her to raise her own game and how the two often push each other in practice.

ESPN analysts noted this was the first time Mitchell had been so open about the inner workings of the Fever’s locker room, which may explain why the conversation has gained so much traction.

For Clark’s part, she has often praised Mitchell as “the steady hand” of the team, someone she looks up to for guidance as she navigates her rookie season. Fans are now pointing to this mutual respect as proof that the Fever’s success isn’t just about one superstar, but about a group of players finding their chemistry at the right time.

Still, Mitchell’s bold statement—“she’s with us, not saving us”—is likely to live on as one of the most replayed quotes of the playoffs. It’s not only a reminder of how hard the Fever’s veterans have worked to get back to contention, but also a subtle challenge to the narrative that Indiana rises and falls on Caitlin Clark’s shoulders alone.

Now, as the Fever prepare for the rest of their postseason battle, this viral interview may do more than just stir debate. It might light a fire under the entire roster, uniting them around the message that they’re more than just a headline team—they’re a force to be reckoned with.

Simon Baker is often recognized for his laid-back charm and piercing blue eyes, familiar to fans of The Mentalist as the intuitive and enigmatic Patrick Jane. But behind the polished on-screen persona lies a man who values simplicity, privacy, and most importantly—family.

In a rare, candid interview, the Australian actor opened up about what life looks like beyond the spotlight, and how fatherhood, partnership, and staying grounded have shaped his identity more than any role he’s ever played.

For someone whose career has spanned three decades, Baker has managed to maintain a surprisingly low profile. Unlike many of his Hollywood peers, he’s not a tabloid regular or a social media fixture.

That’s intentional. “I’ve never been drawn to the fame part of acting,” he admits. “The work is what excites me—the stories, the characters—but everything else around it? That’s never been my scene.”

At the heart of that desire for privacy is his family. Baker shares three children with ex-wife Rebecca Rigg, also an actor, and though the couple quietly separated in 2020 after 29 years of marriage, he speaks with deep respect and affection for the life they built together.

“Rebecca and I raised our kids away from a lot of the noise,” he says. “We wanted them to have a childhood that wasn’t dictated by where the cameras were.”

Baker and Rigg raised their children—Stella, Claude, and Harry—between Los Angeles and their native Australia, often choosing to live in more rural settings where the family could grow up close to nature.

“I think there’s something very grounding about being outdoors,” Baker reflects. “You’re reminded of how small you are in the best way. My kids grew up with sand between their toes and dirt under their fingernails, and that’s exactly how we wanted it.”

His voice softens when talking about his children, all now young adults forging their own paths. His daughter Stella has even followed in his footsteps, landing roles in television and carving out her own acting career.

“I didn’t push her toward it. In fact, I probably discouraged it a little at first,” he says with a smile. “Not because I didn’t believe in her, but because I know how tough this industry can be. But she’s got her own fire, her own vision—and that makes me really proud.”

Fatherhood, he says, has been the most transformative experience of his life. “It changed everything—the way I see the world, the way I make decisions. You stop being the center of your own universe. That’s humbling. And it’s necessary.”

Even at the height of his fame during The Mentalist‘s seven-season run, Baker prioritized being present at home. “I’d finish long days on set and go straight into dad mode—school lunches, homework help, soccer games.

It wasn’t always easy, but those were the moments that mattered most.” He laughs recalling nights of pacing the floor with a crying baby in his arms, or mornings where he burned toast while trying to get everyone out the door on time. “It’s not glamorous, but it’s real. And real is what I’ve always cared about.”

Despite his preference for staying out of the limelight, Baker isn’t afraid to talk about the challenges he’s faced in balancing work and family. There were sacrifices—missed birthdays, long stretches on location—and moments of doubt.

“You question yourself. Am I doing enough? Am I doing it right? But then your kid hugs you or laughs at your terrible dad joke, and you realize, okay, maybe I’m not failing entirely.”

He also credits his upbringing in Australia for instilling the values that have carried him through fatherhood. Raised in a working-class family, Baker learned early on the importance of resilience, humility, and loyalty. “My mum was a single parent for a while, and she worked hard—really hard—to give us a good life. Watching her showed me what strength looks like.”

Though his own marriage eventually came to an end, Baker speaks about the transition with thoughtfulness rather than regret. “Relationships evolve. Sometimes they change shape, and that’s okay.

What matters is that there’s still love, still respect—especially when kids are involved. Rebecca and I will always be connected by the family we created. That’s not something time or circumstance can erase.”

He’s also found healing and growth in solitude and nature since the separation. Spending more time in Australia, surfing, hiking, and working on smaller film projects has allowed him to reconnect with himself.

“There’s a clarity that comes when you step away from the noise. It’s helped me appreciate the small things again—making breakfast, reading a book, watching the tide come in. Those moments are where life really happens.”

While Baker remains selective about his acting projects, he’s recently ventured into directing and producing as well—opting for stories that reflect his personal values and interests. “I’m drawn to stories that are honest, a little raw. Not perfect. Just like life.”

Looking ahead, he says he’s excited to see where the next chapter leads—not just professionally, but personally. “My kids are grown now. They don’t need me in the same way, but they still call, they still come home. That means the world. My role has changed, but the love hasn’t.”

He pauses, smiling quietly, before adding, “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that family isn’t just about biology or marriage. It’s about showing up, again and again, in the ways that matter.”

Whether it’s through his performances on screen or his reflections off it, Simon Baker continues to bring a quiet authenticity to everything he does. He’s not chasing headlines or applause.

He’s just living—a little more quietly now, perhaps, but no less meaningfully. And in doing so, he reminds us that even in the most public of lives, the most important stories are often the ones happening at home.

As Brett Goldstein sat down on The Drew Barrymore Show, pandemic earnestness in his eyes, he ventured into territory more personal than usual. People remember Goldstein for his dry wit as Roy Kent on Ted Lasso, for scripts he’s penned, for his unexpected vulnerabilities.

That evening, he spoke about something that sounded almost surreal: a childhood memory so vivid that he said E.T. the Extra‑Terrestrial left him with symptoms he now likens to PTSD, starting as early as age three.

The statement stunned the audience, and left many reflecting on how deeply early impressions, even from films, can impact a child’s psyche.

He described how, at three, he must have caught E.T. on television or in a family viewing, though he doesn’t remember exactly when. What he does remember, he said, is the feeling of terror when the alien creature began to be pursued, the looming threat from the government in the movie, the sense that this being—innocent, wanting to go home—was being hunted.

For a toddler already sensitive to big noises or shadows, Goldstein said, these scenes didn’t just entertain—they unsettled. “I woke up crying,” he recalled. “Sometimes when my parents left me in the dark, I thought I’d see that government spaceship through the door.” His voice quavering, he admitted that the movie stayed with him longer than any toy or lullaby did.

By Goldstein’s account, these early imaginative fears didn’t necessarily cripple him, but they laid a foundation of anxiety. Loud noises, unknown darkness, separations—they triggered echoes of those movie scenes.

For years, he thought his reactions were just part of being a dramatic kid. It was only later, after reading about trauma, watching other people share similar early memories, that he could put a name to what he’d felt: post‑traumatic stress symptoms.

He clarified that he doesn’t believe the film itself caused PTSD in the clinical sense, and that other factors likely contributed. But the images, he said, “etched themselves into my brain” in ways he didn’t escape.

Goldstein’s revelation sparked a broader conversation on the show about how childhood is shaped by what we consume—what movies we watch, what stories we hear, what shadows flicker in our imagination just before sleep.

Drew Barrymore, current guest host, shared her own childhood movie experiences, acknowledging how some films scared her, but also how she saw them as rites of passage.

The two spoke about how many parents now try to gauge what media is appropriate for their kids, sometimes perhaps underestimating how vivid a young child’s imagination can be.

Mental health experts watching after the show weighed in. Many noted: what Goldstein described is not uncommon. Children exposed to frightening media without the scaffolding of explanation—without someone there to hold their hand and contextualize—can find their fears slipping into longer‑lasting anxieties.

While the diagnostic line for PTSD is careful and specific, the broad experience of lingering fear, nightmares, separation anxiety or hypervigilance can stem from early frightening experiences—media included.

One psychologist commenting to a media outlet said that in many cases, children don’t need to have experienced large traumas in the real world to carry scars—in some cases, fictional events amplified by imagination leave surprisingly real emotional marks.

Goldstein also spoke with humility: he was not trying to indict E.T. or Spielberg or anyone else. He emphasized his admiration for the film—that it’s a classic, that it moved people, that it still means a lot. What he was willing to consider, though, is how a film that shapes public culture can interact with a young mind in unexpected ways.

He discussed how parents in his childhood didn’t necessarily think twice about what their toddler was seeing on screen. It was not uncommon, he said, for him or his siblings to watch films that were beyond what they later understood, simply because there wasn’t much media awareness or content warning at the time.

The conversation turned to how Goldstein has tried to work through this over the years—through therapy, through art, through laughter. He credits comedy as a kind of healing: finding humor in fear, or making absurd what once triggered anxiety.

He also said that acting helps him channel those early intense emotions into controlled spaces. When playing a scene, he can draw on something similar and lean into it, but also step away from it. It’s a form of emotional muscle-building.

Audience reactions were mixed: some sympathized immediately, relating similar childhood fears, while others pushed back, wondering whether attributing childhood fear to a film was perhaps overstated.

Goldstein addressed that tension, saying he’s used to nuance: “It’s complicated,” he said. “It’s not that I blame E.T. for everything. It’s that I acknowledge how formative everything is—even fictional stories.”

What emerges from his story is more than a confession, it’s an invitation. An invitation to look back at what shaped us—even the shadows we thought we left behind. To consider what scared us, and how those fears morphed. To examine how, in our adulthood, our reactions—maybe to a loud noise, to night’s darkness, to abandonment—might have roots we didn’t expect.

By the end of the interview, Goldstein seemed lighter. There was catharsis in describing what he carried. He also offered gratitude—to his parents, who listened, even if they didn’t fully understand; to therapy, for helping; and to the stories, even scary ones, because they helped him see his emotional landscape more clearly.

The tale underscores how much early experiences matter. It also shows how celebrity confessions can help others feel less alone. Whether or not E.T. truly gave him clinical PTSD, Goldstein’s honesty opens up space for talking about childhood, imagination, fear, and growth.

In a culture that sometimes dismisses fear as childish, stories like his reclaim it as human. They remind us that trauma isn’t always big headline events—sometimes it’s quiet, lingering, woven between bedtime, shadows, and a movie’s flicker on the wall. And sometimes naming what scared us is part of what helps us find peace.

Simon Baker is often recognized for his laid-back charm and piercing blue eyes, familiar to fans of The Mentalist as the intuitive and enigmatic Patrick Jane. But behind the polished on-screen persona lies a man who values simplicity, privacy, and most importantly—family.

In a rare, candid interview, the Australian actor opened up about what life looks like beyond the spotlight, and how fatherhood, partnership, and staying grounded have shaped his identity more than any role he’s ever played.

For someone whose career has spanned three decades, Baker has managed to maintain a surprisingly low profile. Unlike many of his Hollywood peers, he’s not a tabloid regular or a social media fixture.

That’s intentional. “I’ve never been drawn to the fame part of acting,” he admits. “The work is what excites me—the stories, the characters—but everything else around it? That’s never been my scene.”

At the heart of that desire for privacy is his family. Baker shares three children with ex-wife Rebecca Rigg, also an actor, and though the couple quietly separated in 2020 after 29 years of marriage, he speaks with deep respect and affection for the life they built together.

“Rebecca and I raised our kids away from a lot of the noise,” he says. “We wanted them to have a childhood that wasn’t dictated by where the cameras were.”

Baker and Rigg raised their children—Stella, Claude, and Harry—between Los Angeles and their native Australia, often choosing to live in more rural settings where the family could grow up close to nature.

“I think there’s something very grounding about being outdoors,” Baker reflects. “You’re reminded of how small you are in the best way. My kids grew up with sand between their toes and dirt under their fingernails, and that’s exactly how we wanted it.”

His voice softens when talking about his children, all now young adults forging their own paths. His daughter Stella has even followed in his footsteps, landing roles in television and carving out her own acting career.

“I didn’t push her toward it. In fact, I probably discouraged it a little at first,” he says with a smile. “Not because I didn’t believe in her, but because I know how tough this industry can be. But she’s got her own fire, her own vision—and that makes me really proud.”

Fatherhood, he says, has been the most transformative experience of his life. “It changed everything—the way I see the world, the way I make decisions. You stop being the center of your own universe. That’s humbling. And it’s necessary.”

Even at the height of his fame during The Mentalist‘s seven-season run, Baker prioritized being present at home. “I’d finish long days on set and go straight into dad mode—school lunches, homework help, soccer games.

It wasn’t always easy, but those were the moments that mattered most.” He laughs recalling nights of pacing the floor with a crying baby in his arms, or mornings where he burned toast while trying to get everyone out the door on time. “It’s not glamorous, but it’s real. And real is what I’ve always cared about.”

Despite his preference for staying out of the limelight, Baker isn’t afraid to talk about the challenges he’s faced in balancing work and family. There were sacrifices—missed birthdays, long stretches on location—and moments of doubt.

“You question yourself. Am I doing enough? Am I doing it right? But then your kid hugs you or laughs at your terrible dad joke, and you realize, okay, maybe I’m not failing entirely.”

He also credits his upbringing in Australia for instilling the values that have carried him through fatherhood. Raised in a working-class family, Baker learned early on the importance of resilience, humility, and loyalty. “My mum was a single parent for a while, and she worked hard—really hard—to give us a good life. Watching her showed me what strength looks like.”

Though his own marriage eventually came to an end, Baker speaks about the transition with thoughtfulness rather than regret. “Relationships evolve. Sometimes they change shape, and that’s okay.

What matters is that there’s still love, still respect—especially when kids are involved. Rebecca and I will always be connected by the family we created. That’s not something time or circumstance can erase.”

He’s also found healing and growth in solitude and nature since the separation. Spending more time in Australia, surfing, hiking, and working on smaller film projects has allowed him to reconnect with himself.

“There’s a clarity that comes when you step away from the noise. It’s helped me appreciate the small things again—making breakfast, reading a book, watching the tide come in. Those moments are where life really happens.”

While Baker remains selective about his acting projects, he’s recently ventured into directing and producing as well—opting for stories that reflect his personal values and interests. “I’m drawn to stories that are honest, a little raw. Not perfect. Just like life.”

Looking ahead, he says he’s excited to see where the next chapter leads—not just professionally, but personally. “My kids are grown now. They don’t need me in the same way, but they still call, they still come home. That means the world. My role has changed, but the love hasn’t.”

He pauses, smiling quietly, before adding, “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that family isn’t just about biology or marriage. It’s about showing up, again and again, in the ways that matter.”

Whether it’s through his performances on screen or his reflections off it, Simon Baker continues to bring a quiet authenticity to everything he does. He’s not chasing headlines or applause.

He’s just living—a little more quietly now, perhaps, but no less meaningfully. And in doing so, he reminds us that even in the most public of lives, the most important stories are often the ones happening at home.

In a night filled with jaw-dropping performances on The Voice, one audition stood out for both its musical finesse and dramatic flair.

Twenty‑three‑year‑old Max Cooper III delivered a rendition of Mike Posner’s “Cooler Than Me” that earned him the rare honor of a four‑chair turn, propelling him into the spotlight and forcing the coaches into a fierce pitch war.

From the moment Max took the stage, there was something distinctive in his delivery. He began at the piano, playing an arpeggiated intro that felt jazz‑inflected and intimate rather than bombastic.

That contrast proved to be a strategic choice, allowing his voice to emerge not as an echo of the original but as its own interpretation. Immediately, Reba McEntire spun her chair, impressed by the musicality and tone. Snoop Dogg followed, and then Niall Horan and Michael Bublé turned, completing the four‑chair sweep.

Once all four coaches had turned, the room’s energy shifted. Snoop complimented the subtlety of Max’s first lines, admitting he was hooked before the chorus. Reba praised how his voice “grows and grows and grows” throughout the performance.

Niall echoed appreciation for his tonal control and phrasing. But the curveball came when Max shared that the very first song he ever performed was Michael Bublé’s “I Just Haven’t Met You Yet”—a moment of personal connection that silenced the competition.

That revelation led Bublé to step out of his chair and join Max onstage in an impromptu duet of the song. The audience joined in, turning the moment into a celebratory singalong. The chemistry crackled: Max on piano, Bublé leading the vocals, and the coaches watching in delight.

After the performance and coach pitches, Max made his choice: he selected Michael Bublé as his coach. His decision felt almost inevitable given their shared musical moment and personal connection.

What makes this audition remarkable is not only the technical mastery but also the narrative arc. Max’s artistic choices subtly reshaped “Cooler Than Me” from its contemporary pop roots into something more nuanced—inflected with jazz phrasing, dynamic control, and a confidence that allowed each note to land meaningfully.

The performance built gradually, layering emotional depth as it progressed. The coaches responded not just to vocal power, but to musical intelligence and vulnerability.

Moreover, Max’s backstory added emotional weight. Learning piano by ear from a young age—self-taught by mimicking his sister’s playing—he revealed a path of passion and persistence. By tying his origin to Bublé’s music, Max bridged past and present in a way that resonated with coaches and viewers alike.

Beyond the emotional resonance, the four‑chair turn itself is a powerful indicator of consensus—rare in The Voice blind auditions. It signals that all coaches agreed on his potential and that he had captivated them on multiple levels: tone, delivery, originality, and stage presence. It’s a statement of artistic promise that sets a high bar for the ensuing rounds.

As Max embarks on his journey under Bublé’s mentorship, expectations will now be elevated. He’s no longer just an audition clip; he’s a contender. But his blind audition performance suggests he’s ready. He showed he can reinterpret a well-known song, command attention through intimacy, and make personal connections that transcend the stage.

For the coaches, that moment is just the beginning of a creative dialogue. Bublé will likely push Max further into finding his voice—not simply as an imitator but a genuine artist. The collaborative duet was an auspicious start; now the mentorship begins in earnest.

This audition also offers a reminder of what The Voice at its best can deliver: moments when talent, storytelling, and human connection intersect. It’s not just about hitting notes or wowing audiences with high drama. It’s about individuals bringing their histories, choices, passions—and having a way to express those through music.

In the weeks ahead, viewers will watch Max’s progression through Battles, Knockouts, and beyond. Will he lean more jazz, or swing back toward pop? Will he lean into vulnerability, or build more confidence in showmanship? The foundation is strong: a four‑chair turn, a coach who’s already invested, and a beginning that balances technical skill with emotional truth.

Already, clips of his performance are circulating online. Fans are praising the reinterpretation, the nuance, and the courage of a young singer willing to step into the spotlight with intention. He’s become part of this season’s conversation, and for good reason.

Tonight’s audition was a standout not only within The Voice’s season, but as an example of how a chosen song, an intimate arrangement, and a personal touch can transform a familiar tune into something fresh. Max Cooper III’s “Cooler Than Me” isn’t just a cover. It’s his introduction—and if this is any indication, it’s just the start of something compelling.

Ellen DeGeneres has long been a queen of daytime laughter, with a career built on making people smile, dance, and—more often than not—laugh until they cry. Even after stepping away from her iconic talk show in 2022, Ellen’s wit and sense of humor remain intact.

In her most recent online special, she returned to what she does best: reacting to the internet’s most bizarre, unexpected, and downright hilarious viral videos. The result? Classic Ellen—dry humor, spot-on timing, and that unmistakable sparkle in her eye.

The special, streamed via her YouTube channel and Instagram Live, was a nod to the segments that made The Ellen DeGeneres Show a staple in daytime television. Fans around the world tuned in not only for the humor but for the nostalgia of watching Ellen do what she does best—observe the world with a slightly raised eyebrow and a heart ready to laugh.

Dressed in a cozy sweatshirt and seated casually on a couch in what appeared to be her California home, Ellen immediately set the tone with her trademark self-deprecation.

“I figured it’s time I weigh in on the stuff people are watching instead of me now,” she quipped. “Let’s see what you all think is funny without a studio audience clapping on cue.”

She began with a clip of a toddler attempting to catch a frog in the backyard—only to fall backward into a kiddie pool in dramatic slow motion. Ellen burst into laughter. “I don’t know who’s more surprised: the kid, the frog, or the internet,” she said between chuckles.

“This is why toddlers should come with airbags.” The video, which had racked up over 12 million views on TikTok, was a prime example of what Ellen calls “the comedy of chaos”—moments so accidental and pure, they couldn’t be scripted if you tried.

Next came the ever-popular genre of pets behaving badly. A clip featuring a Labrador who had somehow locked itself in the bathroom and was attempting to unlock the door with a plunger drew a long pause from Ellen, who watched with exaggerated concern.

“This is either the beginning of a Pixar movie or the end of civilization,” she said. “Either way, I want this dog as my new assistant.” She followed up with a cat that appeared to be playing the piano—badly. “That cat is clearly classically trained,” Ellen deadpanned. “In chaos.”

Ellen’s commentary wasn’t just about delivering punchlines; it was also an affectionate celebration of internet culture and how ordinary people—and their animals—become global stars overnight. She reflected on how much the online world had changed since her show first began.

“When I started The Ellen Show, YouTube was still new. Now, it’s basically the new cable. People don’t just send funny home videos to a show—they upload them, tag them, and hope the algorithm is kind,” she said. “It’s democratized comedy. Anyone can go viral, whether you’re doing backflips or accidentally running into a sliding glass door.”

One standout video featured an older man attempting to use virtual reality goggles for the first time, wildly flailing around in what appeared to be a quiet retirement community living room.

“This is what happens when grandparents meet the metaverse,” Ellen said, unable to contain her laughter. “This poor guy thinks he’s fighting a dragon but probably just destroyed a ficus plant.”

The man’s granddaughter, off-camera, could be heard laughing uncontrollably—something Ellen pointed out as the true joy of the video. “That laugh is what makes it. The connection, the love, the generational confusion—it’s all beautiful.”

The segment also highlighted a few of Ellen’s longtime fans who submitted their own videos specifically for the event. One memorable submission came from a woman attempting a TikTok dance challenge in her living room, only to be knocked over by her overly enthusiastic golden retriever.

Ellen replayed the moment in slow motion, narrating it like a nature documentary. “Here we see the suburban human in her natural habitat, attempting a ritual dance of the youth, interrupted by the sacred canine guardian of the household.”

Midway through the special, Ellen paused to reflect on why people are drawn to this kind of content in the first place. “Laughter is connective,” she said. “It’s not just about a funny video—it’s about seeing something unexpected and sharing it.

It’s about realizing that everyone, everywhere, is a little bit ridiculous.” She noted that during her talk show days, some of her favorite moments weren’t the celebrity interviews or the elaborate games—they were the home videos sent in by fans that showed slices of everyday life. “There’s something so honest about a grandma falling off a hoverboard,” she said. “It’s the purest form of comedy.”

She closed the special with a series of themed “supercuts,” including “Dogs Who Don’t Understand Glass Doors,” “People Who Thought They Could Jump Higher,” and “Kids Saying the Darndest, Weirdest, Possibly Haunted Things.”

Each one was met with Ellen’s signature expressions: a mix of amusement, mock horror, and genuine delight. “I’m telling you, kids these days sound like they’ve been reincarnated five times already,” she joked. “One of them said ‘the shadows speak to me’—no thank you, goodbye, next video.”

As the stream came to an end, Ellen thanked her audience for continuing to support her even after her daytime reign concluded. “You don’t need a big stage to make people laugh,” she said warmly.

“Sometimes all it takes is a phone, a moment, and a very confused raccoon in a kitchen.” She promised to do more of these “reaction sessions” in the future, hinting that fans might soon be able to vote on categories or even submit their own commentary.

Reaction from fans was immediate and enthusiastic. Social media lit up with clips from the special, favorite quotes, and requests for more. “This is the Ellen I missed,” one viewer tweeted. “Witty, sharp, and making me laugh until I snort.” Another wrote, “She needs a whole show just reacting to TikTok. I’d watch every single episode.”

Though her days on the big studio set may be behind her, Ellen’s ability to find joy in everyday silliness remains as sharp as ever. By reacting to the same videos the world is watching, she’s tapped back into the core of her appeal—relatable laughter, unfiltered fun, and the comforting sense that even in the chaos of the internet, there’s always something to smile about.

And, of course, if a dog dancing in a tutu while someone falls off a hoverboard can bring us all together for a laugh? That’s a win in Ellen’s book.

In a night filled with jaw-dropping performances on The Voice, one audition stood out for both its musical finesse and dramatic flair.

Twenty‑three‑year‑old Max Cooper III delivered a rendition of Mike Posner’s “Cooler Than Me” that earned him the rare honor of a four‑chair turn, propelling him into the spotlight and forcing the coaches into a fierce pitch war.

From the moment Max took the stage, there was something distinctive in his delivery. He began at the piano, playing an arpeggiated intro that felt jazz‑inflected and intimate rather than bombastic.

That contrast proved to be a strategic choice, allowing his voice to emerge not as an echo of the original but as its own interpretation. Immediately, Reba McEntire spun her chair, impressed by the musicality and tone. Snoop Dogg followed, and then Niall Horan and Michael Bublé turned, completing the four‑chair sweep.

Once all four coaches had turned, the room’s energy shifted. Snoop complimented the subtlety of Max’s first lines, admitting he was hooked before the chorus. Reba praised how his voice “grows and grows and grows” throughout the performance.

Niall echoed appreciation for his tonal control and phrasing. But the curveball came when Max shared that the very first song he ever performed was Michael Bublé’s “I Just Haven’t Met You Yet”—a moment of personal connection that silenced the competition.

That revelation led Bublé to step out of his chair and join Max onstage in an impromptu duet of the song. The audience joined in, turning the moment into a celebratory singalong. The chemistry crackled: Max on piano, Bublé leading the vocals, and the coaches watching in delight.

After the performance and coach pitches, Max made his choice: he selected Michael Bublé as his coach. His decision felt almost inevitable given their shared musical moment and personal connection.

What makes this audition remarkable is not only the technical mastery but also the narrative arc. Max’s artistic choices subtly reshaped “Cooler Than Me” from its contemporary pop roots into something more nuanced—inflected with jazz phrasing, dynamic control, and a confidence that allowed each note to land meaningfully.

The performance built gradually, layering emotional depth as it progressed. The coaches responded not just to vocal power, but to musical intelligence and vulnerability.

Moreover, Max’s backstory added emotional weight. Learning piano by ear from a young age—self-taught by mimicking his sister’s playing—he revealed a path of passion and persistence. By tying his origin to Bublé’s music, Max bridged past and present in a way that resonated with coaches and viewers alike.

Beyond the emotional resonance, the four‑chair turn itself is a powerful indicator of consensus—rare in The Voice blind auditions. It signals that all coaches agreed on his potential and that he had captivated them on multiple levels: tone, delivery, originality, and stage presence. It’s a statement of artistic promise that sets a high bar for the ensuing rounds.

As Max embarks on his journey under Bublé’s mentorship, expectations will now be elevated. He’s no longer just an audition clip; he’s a contender. But his blind audition performance suggests he’s ready. He showed he can reinterpret a well-known song, command attention through intimacy, and make personal connections that transcend the stage.

For the coaches, that moment is just the beginning of a creative dialogue. Bublé will likely push Max further into finding his voice—not simply as an imitator but a genuine artist. The collaborative duet was an auspicious start; now the mentorship begins in earnest.

This audition also offers a reminder of what The Voice at its best can deliver: moments when talent, storytelling, and human connection intersect. It’s not just about hitting notes or wowing audiences with high drama. It’s about individuals bringing their histories, choices, passions—and having a way to express those through music.

In the weeks ahead, viewers will watch Max’s progression through Battles, Knockouts, and beyond. Will he lean more jazz, or swing back toward pop? Will he lean into vulnerability, or build more confidence in showmanship? The foundation is strong: a four‑chair turn, a coach who’s already invested, and a beginning that balances technical skill with emotional truth.

Already, clips of his performance are circulating online. Fans are praising the reinterpretation, the nuance, and the courage of a young singer willing to step into the spotlight with intention. He’s become part of this season’s conversation, and for good reason.

Tonight’s audition was a standout not only within The Voice’s season, but as an example of how a chosen song, an intimate arrangement, and a personal touch can transform a familiar tune into something fresh. Max Cooper III’s “Cooler Than Me” isn’t just a cover. It’s his introduction—and if this is any indication, it’s just the start of something compelling.

Ellen DeGeneres has long been a queen of daytime laughter, with a career built on making people smile, dance, and—more often than not—laugh until they cry. Even after stepping away from her iconic talk show in 2022, Ellen’s wit and sense of humor remain intact.

In her most recent online special, she returned to what she does best: reacting to the internet’s most bizarre, unexpected, and downright hilarious viral videos. The result? Classic Ellen—dry humor, spot-on timing, and that unmistakable sparkle in her eye.

The special, streamed via her YouTube channel and Instagram Live, was a nod to the segments that made The Ellen DeGeneres Show a staple in daytime television. Fans around the world tuned in not only for the humor but for the nostalgia of watching Ellen do what she does best—observe the world with a slightly raised eyebrow and a heart ready to laugh.

Dressed in a cozy sweatshirt and seated casually on a couch in what appeared to be her California home, Ellen immediately set the tone with her trademark self-deprecation.

“I figured it’s time I weigh in on the stuff people are watching instead of me now,” she quipped. “Let’s see what you all think is funny without a studio audience clapping on cue.”

She began with a clip of a toddler attempting to catch a frog in the backyard—only to fall backward into a kiddie pool in dramatic slow motion. Ellen burst into laughter. “I don’t know who’s more surprised: the kid, the frog, or the internet,” she said between chuckles.

“This is why toddlers should come with airbags.” The video, which had racked up over 12 million views on TikTok, was a prime example of what Ellen calls “the comedy of chaos”—moments so accidental and pure, they couldn’t be scripted if you tried.

Next came the ever-popular genre of pets behaving badly. A clip featuring a Labrador who had somehow locked itself in the bathroom and was attempting to unlock the door with a plunger drew a long pause from Ellen, who watched with exaggerated concern.

“This is either the beginning of a Pixar movie or the end of civilization,” she said. “Either way, I want this dog as my new assistant.” She followed up with a cat that appeared to be playing the piano—badly. “That cat is clearly classically trained,” Ellen deadpanned. “In chaos.”

Ellen’s commentary wasn’t just about delivering punchlines; it was also an affectionate celebration of internet culture and how ordinary people—and their animals—become global stars overnight. She reflected on how much the online world had changed since her show first began.

“When I started The Ellen Show, YouTube was still new. Now, it’s basically the new cable. People don’t just send funny home videos to a show—they upload them, tag them, and hope the algorithm is kind,” she said. “It’s democratized comedy. Anyone can go viral, whether you’re doing backflips or accidentally running into a sliding glass door.”

One standout video featured an older man attempting to use virtual reality goggles for the first time, wildly flailing around in what appeared to be a quiet retirement community living room.

“This is what happens when grandparents meet the metaverse,” Ellen said, unable to contain her laughter. “This poor guy thinks he’s fighting a dragon but probably just destroyed a ficus plant.”

The man’s granddaughter, off-camera, could be heard laughing uncontrollably—something Ellen pointed out as the true joy of the video. “That laugh is what makes it. The connection, the love, the generational confusion—it’s all beautiful.”

The segment also highlighted a few of Ellen’s longtime fans who submitted their own videos specifically for the event. One memorable submission came from a woman attempting a TikTok dance challenge in her living room, only to be knocked over by her overly enthusiastic golden retriever.

Ellen replayed the moment in slow motion, narrating it like a nature documentary. “Here we see the suburban human in her natural habitat, attempting a ritual dance of the youth, interrupted by the sacred canine guardian of the household.”

Midway through the special, Ellen paused to reflect on why people are drawn to this kind of content in the first place. “Laughter is connective,” she said. “It’s not just about a funny video—it’s about seeing something unexpected and sharing it.

It’s about realizing that everyone, everywhere, is a little bit ridiculous.” She noted that during her talk show days, some of her favorite moments weren’t the celebrity interviews or the elaborate games—they were the home videos sent in by fans that showed slices of everyday life. “There’s something so honest about a grandma falling off a hoverboard,” she said. “It’s the purest form of comedy.”

She closed the special with a series of themed “supercuts,” including “Dogs Who Don’t Understand Glass Doors,” “People Who Thought They Could Jump Higher,” and “Kids Saying the Darndest, Weirdest, Possibly Haunted Things.”

Each one was met with Ellen’s signature expressions: a mix of amusement, mock horror, and genuine delight. “I’m telling you, kids these days sound like they’ve been reincarnated five times already,” she joked. “One of them said ‘the shadows speak to me’—no thank you, goodbye, next video.”

As the stream came to an end, Ellen thanked her audience for continuing to support her even after her daytime reign concluded. “You don’t need a big stage to make people laugh,” she said warmly.

“Sometimes all it takes is a phone, a moment, and a very confused raccoon in a kitchen.” She promised to do more of these “reaction sessions” in the future, hinting that fans might soon be able to vote on categories or even submit their own commentary.

Reaction from fans was immediate and enthusiastic. Social media lit up with clips from the special, favorite quotes, and requests for more. “This is the Ellen I missed,” one viewer tweeted. “Witty, sharp, and making me laugh until I snort.” Another wrote, “She needs a whole show just reacting to TikTok. I’d watch every single episode.”

Though her days on the big studio set may be behind her, Ellen’s ability to find joy in everyday silliness remains as sharp as ever. By reacting to the same videos the world is watching, she’s tapped back into the core of her appeal—relatable laughter, unfiltered fun, and the comforting sense that even in the chaos of the internet, there’s always something to smile about.

And, of course, if a dog dancing in a tutu while someone falls off a hoverboard can bring us all together for a laugh? That’s a win in Ellen’s book.