Smiling, Greg showed me a site on his laptop and declaimed, “Season your admiration for a while, Spaniard, and listen with an attentive ear so that I may deliver this marvel to you. Behold, the poetry of Rashad McCants!”
Rashad McCants? I had detected no hints that the erstwhile Rocket was a man of letters in our previous matches. But his haughty on-court demeanor masks a poetic soul! For these are the lines he wrote in homage of a fellow player whom he has greatest admirations for:He came to me with open arms, like a hawk embracing his young,
and he fed me food out his mouth but I was starving for knowledge.
the type of knowledge that can’t be fed by hand or voice, but by heart.
so when he spoke he touched my soul, and my soul would smack me if I didn’t listen the words he spoke weren’t for the ears to hear.
because his words were real, it’s hard to hear the truth when lies are so loud.
I put my earphones on so I can hear nothing and see everything.
lies could never steal my attention when he…he…spoke.
The eyes never lie
and when he spoke he wore no glasses
he wanted me to see the truth, which was?
that everyone wears glasses to protect lies, truth? glasses? lies? sounds like earth, sounds like humans, sounds like America. but if that’s so where is he from?
not from here, he has no glasses! there was an aura, a light, a truth, about him.
special? never. different? maybe. human? impossible.
so I asked him one question to expect one answer.
when you walk and talk and teach how come everyone can stare at your light, your aura, your truth?
because we are the same.Can you guess the desired object of McCants' sentiments? No, not Khloe Kardashian, his one-time paramour and current spouse of Lamar Odom (above). Rather, McCants was speaking of Kevin Garnett!
Greg Oden foto from his selfsame blog.
Miller's image is now gone, for an anxiety has displaced it. Bad back or no, I am a Master of Expectations Carrying!
Me: You will be a starter this year?
Sergio: Well… this Tyreke Evans is slightly better than I had planned. But something nearly as auspicious!
Me: You will be his back-up?
Sergio: Perhaps, but no. To make pursuits of Spanish-speaking fans, the NBA’s officious “éne-bé-a” website is now functional.
Me (going on the mainline): I have Googled it! But why the curious spelling?
Sergio: A marketing Svengali assumed that this is how Spanish-speakers mouth the “NBA” acronym. Either that, or it is an obscure pig Latin reference.
Sergio: Do not be detoured from the magnificence of this development. Look, there are player profiles and special sales sections!
Me: Indeed… take a check out on the jerseys that are offered! There’s Gasol, of course—
Sergio: Ginobili… Calderon... hmm, perhaps we should go to another page—
Sergio: Yes, his most notable accomplishment has been breaking his arm while on an inflated ball. And now let us visit a different part of the site—
Me: Wait, neither of us are represented here!
Sergio: It seems to be an oversight, yes.
Me: The marketing Svengali says éne-bé-a, but I say he should be burning in perdición!
Sergio: Perhaps it is time for your back therapy. Do you have a large inflatable ball?
Me: How did you know? Thanks for the perspective —and the chortle— my friend.
Sergio: Adios from the best point guard in the éne-bé-a!
Me: Wait! You mean Andre Miller is there with you?
Sergio: Oh, the snap!
Q. Do you know why I enjoy partaking of three-point shots?
That said, I was mildly disappointed that none of my mates mention another of my on-court skills.
For satisfaction, I must turn to the merry members of Blazers Edge, two of whom write:By my count, there has never been a better dunker in the history of mankind. The most powerful, graceful, ferocious, Earth shattering dunks that have ever been seen. May God have mercy on our souls should a better dunker ever come around. That would be the final sign of the end times. We don’t deserve to be alive at the same time as such a dunker… we hardly deserve Rudy, after all. (Authored by Mortimer)My aunt had polio, whooping cough, lime disease and was paralyzed from the neck down… yet one fateful night I sat watching the Olympic gold medal game with her as Rudy Fernandez faked a crossover and took it towards the rim on Superman himself. As he rose towards the goal my Aunt suddenly stood up and raised her arms and shouted triumphantly at the television “YES!!! In your face Howard!!! In your FACE!!!” By the time Rudy had tomahawked it down on D. Howard’s grill she was completely cured. God bless Rudy Fernandez’s dunking ability. (Penned by MadN)
It is baseball.
Along with mates including Nicolas Batum and the rookie neophyte Dante Cunningham (below), I viewed the Los Angeles Dodgers engage in a playoff matching last week. It is no matter of exaggeration to say that all hell fell loose at Dodger Stadium that day. I could sense the hypnotic power of the event even as we settled into our suite. The mob below, clad in blue, exuded most palpable excitations. And from the opening ball-throwings, a story unfolded before me, a story cloaked as a mere athletic contest. There was a plot, villains, protagonists, climaxes, singalongs... and cotton candy!
The drama of this Dodgers' eventual victory was only slightly tarnished by the fact that their opponent is symbolized by a small, alert-looking red bird.
As the innings and outings progressed, I looked about the suite to gauge the reactions of my mates. To my amazed orbs, Batum was awash in ennui, and— what’s this? Rookie Dante Cunningham SLUMBERING beneath a towel?! This was most outrageous. Just as bullfighting is Spanish, baseball is all-American... and you would never find me asleep as the matador dances!
The Trail Blazers' trainer, Jay Jensen, chose to gently lift the towel and perch a tortilla chip in Cunningham's gaping maw. Other than a snore, no response from the rookie was forthcoming. And so I obtained a jalapeño pepper and, tangoing forward in the stylized manner of the matador, I removed the chip and placed the muy caliente pepper on the rookie’s unsuspecting tongue.
An inferno of Dante’s palate was lit ablaze, the rookie came to with a sputter and a snort, and the honor of the great American pastime was salvaged by a Spaniard armed with a Mexican pepper!
I made leafings through the book. “Chapters four and five are really good,” Joel remarked. “And it’s out of print, so don’t lose it.”
One point of difficulty for me is that due to my exaggerated slimness, I am not the finest screen setter. Thus, defenders seem to slip right past (and even through!) me.
While this sort of tactic might once have rubbed against my fine Mallorcan grain, it is part of my makeover. With my new defensiveness, the Trail Blazers’ opposition will know to bring packed lunches to our matches. For these events will not be occasions for picnicking!
This raised my concerns over Lyme disease. Are my mates carriers of this dread disease? Is it a matter of time and contagion before I also get the ticks?
Further, according to this news report is commencing a crackdown on handshaking. It could lead to a pandemic! The most sanitary greetings amongst players are chest bumpings and fist poundings. These methods are now being encouraged over clasping digits with another. Not only will this reduce any possible cases of H1N1, but it may also help eradicate the ticks.
Adición: Greg Oden has brought to my attention that “getting ticks” is parlance for “obtaining playing time.” This casts matters in a new light. Miller was asking how much playing time I could obtain with our seeming surfeit of small forwards.