In mere moments, my mates and I begin our season with a tip-off against the Phoenix Suns and their noted assassin, Goran Dragic.
The Slovenian's dread (yet oddly luminous) presence helps me put my memories of my ill-considered summer comments behind me. If I remember how much easier it is to remember what I would rather forget than remember, than remember what I would rather remember than forget, then I can’t forget how much easier it is to forget what I would rather remember than forget, than forget what I would rather forget than remember.
As my preseasonings have progressed, I have let my play do my speaking for me. And to be sure, my estadísticas have been most articulate!
As for myself, I don’t wish to prattle further about my earlier stated wish to return to España.
Yes, I dream of Barcelona, Madrid, and Mallorca nightly. Yes, I sometimes sit bolt-upright in bed speaking Catalan. But the trademark of a professional athlete is that he then returns to slumber without calling his agent and insisting on a trade.
So for the last time, I don’t want to talk about it!
But if I were to do so, I would say that it is not my task to inform the media of my every emotions. In the history of men, it is glorious action that provides all lessons for posterity. Do we need to know how El Cid felt when his conquest of Valencia was complete? Would it magnify the glory of Caesar to have a record of his sentiments when the assassins’ knives pierced his body?
Actually, that might be of interest! Nonetheless, emotions are but tricks of the devil, sent to tempt us into doubt. No man of sense (por ejemplo, Andre Miller) pays them heed, for they are a surrender to womanish sentiment that should be concealed from the media if they cannot be suppressed in the heart.
For I say, it is the task of every athlete —El Machetero included— to overcome our passions, not to trot them out in all their intensities for others to comment upon!
Americans are sometimes surprised to learn that the Communist Party is the third largest political party in Spain. Thus, I know many Communists! In fact, in Mallorca this summer, I chatted amiably with a local Communist while sunning at the beach.
“Rudy,” he asked me, “have you read Marx?”
To this I nodded and replied, “Yes, and I think it’s from the wicker chairs that the beach-goers sit upon.”
Photo by Ben Golliver
This brings to mind some of my other off-court shenanigans this summer. As is known, I have variously:
1.) Requested a release from the Portland Trail Blazers.
2.) Demanded a trade from the selfsame team.
3.) Been fined $75,000 by the NBA.
To explain myself, let me give an overview: In performing on the basketball courts, I play a function of vitality: I remake reality — embellishing or diminishing it— through the magic of my movements.
So it is OFF the parquets as well. The contradictions I pose are not mere gratuities — I purposely perform them to fill in the insufficiencies of life!
You see, when life is full and absolute, and citizens are committed to their destinies with an all-consuming faith, an athlete performs no real service at all.
But when the faith if the peoples is shattered by crisis, it is necessary to believe in SOMETHING. This season and last, I saw people grow uncertain about the world (and afterworld!) they inhabit. Thus, my mercurial actions were designed to unite Portland in one absolute and trusting vision together once again: Namely, that I am an untrustworthy rapscallion!
Where did I come by such a wayward notion? It is well you ask. I was enlisted to this cause by a player who is so Machiavellian, so diabolical, he makes Iago resemble a leader of the pre-schoolers. (Gaze upon his visage if you dare!)
And now that I have explained myself to you, can someone explain to ME why Pau Gasol and his mate Kobe Bryant were used to promote the FIBA World Championship?