Popped basketball on court this morning, size 14 shoe mark on burst rubber. This arena is afraid of me. I have seen its true face. The courts are extended 3-point lines and the 3-point lines are full of fouls and when the markers rub off, all the shots will be worth 2-points. The accumulated fouls of all their goal tending and traveling will gather up about their stats and all the Mings and Nowitskis will look up and shout ‘I’m open!’ And I’ll look down, and whisper ‘no.’ They had a chance, all of them. They could have followed in the giant footsteps of good men like Dennis Rodman, or Kobe Bryant. Decent men, who believed in a day’s game for a day’s pay. Instead they followed the, also giant, footsteps of white boys and college athletes and didn’t realize the trail led out of bounds until it was too late. Don’t tell me they didn’t have a chance. Now the whole world is in overtime, staring at the free throw line, all those Lakers fans and Mavericks fans and all of their girlfriends, and all of a sudden nobody can laugh at my inability to make a free throw.
The Celtics and the Rockets will look up and shout, “Save us”
And I’ll whisper, “No”