Dead!

Good thing those Spurs are done. They won't be a threat anymore. Their dynasty is over. Just walk away from the body. Take a breather. Relax. Heck, jump in the shower. You're safe now.

No More Finger Wags

I've only been watching this game for a few years, but twice already I've witnessed extremely disheartening occurrences. I was watching live when the career of Alonzo Mourning ended with a blown knee under the basket, and I was watching last night when the career of Dikembe Mutombo ended in a similar manner.

As professional athletes, there is an understanding that you are putting your career on the line every time you clock in. Your body let's you do the amazing things that you do, but by doing them, you could cause harm that will reduce or remove that very ability. It's a risky way to make a living. Knowing that these men acknowledge and accept that risk does not make it any less tragic when the gamble goes in the wrong direction. Mutombo was playing the game at an age that most guys have already stopped. He wasn't doing it because he wanted more money and he wasn't doing it because he felt that his career was somehow incomplete in achievement. He was playing because he loved the game. He was playing because that's who he was.

Like Mourning, Mutombo has used the money he's earned to help many people less fortunate than himself, and I have no doubt that he will continue to do so with even greater dedication now. In the grand scheme of things, that part of his life will have more positive impact on the world than smacking a ball and shaking his finger in denial ever could.

But we'll all miss that finger wag.

Da Bulls

Just a few short words about Monday night before Tuesday night begins. The Bulls could have won, and I put the loss on their coach. Besides poorly choosing his time-outs, and besides allowing John Salmons a few too many minutes on the floor, Vinny Del Negro missed his chance to deliver a crippling blow to the Celtics. Coming out of halftime, Perkins and Davis both had three fouls. These guys had been killing the bulls with offensive rebounds and elbow jumpers. Rajon Rondo had turned an ankle and was still nursing the pain to start the quarter. If the Bulls had driven the ball right at the Celtics, they probably would have gotten the Celtic bigs in even worse foul trouble, and probably would have gotten Rondo yanked off the floor for not being able to move defensively. Instead, the Bulls stayed outside and launched tentative jump shots until Rondo felt better and the clock had restored a cushion of safety to Perkins and Davis. If I saw this, Vinny sure as hell should have. Bad, bad coaching. I'm going to let it slide as a rookie-coaching flub, but I wouldn't want to spend the summer in Chicago if my name was Del Negro.

Also, Tony Parker is the shit.

Well Played

All season, I've been not believing the hype surrounding Derrick Rose (I think I only saw one or two Bulls game all year). Effective today, I have to give respect. Rose played the game like a true champion. I now heart Derrick Rose.

NBA Dramatique: Mourn the Fallen

Pestilence.  The Plague of Paralysis.  This is the price of being deemed unworthy.  The Prize is aware, and knows it is pursued, and will only allow a worthy suitor to possess it.  Every season of war brings a day when all are judged by the Prize.  The conflict changes.  The Plague separates the weak from the worthy.

On the Western sea, a small boat floats aimlessly in still water.  The sailors accepted their fate some time ago, recognizing that they had little prepared or planned for combat, and were not equipped to threaten any foe.  

The Barony was a complete mockery,  failing in its initial hopes of supplanting the dominance of the Western Banner.  A sharper contrast could hardly have been imagined.  The Master and his Assassin had demonstrated overwhelming dominance of the entire region.  The Barony had demonstrated incompetence and weakness at nearly every turn.

Kw-Uhnx-Wa had faltered, but not truly failed.  It was never believed that this technology masquerading as religion would capture the Prize.  The true goal of the displaced force was to grow, to develop, to continue a transformation from what was to what will be.  They are not there yet.  But the wings of the Thunder Bird will grow, and fly again, and cast a shadow on the wars of days yet to come.

The Totemic Tribes gathered again in the neutral territory just as they had before the war began.  No boastful proclamations were made this time.  No torches were raised.  No tribe had set itself above any of the others, and all had failed to rise to the level worthiness.  There were many injured warriors.  Had the Reptile, the Bear, the Wolf, and the Stag all found dissatisfaction with their followers?  Were the gods punishing the tribes for some transgression not rectified?  The Pestilence would allow them time to ponder, and pray, and hope for redemption.

Elsewhere, the Superhero and the old General watched another year fall off of the calendar without new glory.  They found no need for words.  No need to summarize or eulogize the war nor the army that now slept against its will.  They simply walked away from one another, without animosity, and with a mutual and ingrained understanding of the steps to take when the Plague had lifted.

The Family was embarrassed.  Their plans had not been well executed.  Some of them maybe talked a little too much before they had done anything.  People outside of the Family were questioning the wisdom of the Don.  At the very least, they had taken a step back in reputation.  At worst, they blew their chances of luring King James into the fold.   But at best, the embarrassment will make the Family eager to restore their rep.  That could make them dangerous.

The sun was setting behind the tall rows of corn.  Miller looked out the window from the booth at which he sat, trying not to admit to himself that he had been waiting since the sun was high in the sky above.  He had already eaten, drank coffee until he lost count of the refills, and looked at his watch probably once for each loose granule of sugar that had spilled upon the table.  He asbsent-mindedly toyed with a spoon and folded pink packets of sweetener.  He sighed.  His friend was not going to show up.  He knew when he sat down six hours earlier that it was a possibility.  Now it was certain.  The Legend would not be seen today.  Miller thought back to the day many months ago when he tried to lift his friend's spirits.  Today, he had only hoped to say he was sorry.

Monta looked at the fat man.  Disgusting, he thought, as he watched the bloated fool fall on his back.  He was naked except for his white underwear and clutched a jug of beer that was nearly empty.  He was trying to sing some unintelligible song and was probably only a few minutes from passing out and vomiting in his sleep.  Mad Jack approached Monta as if to speak, but could not take his eyes off of the pathetic display from their chief.  "I know one thing" said Monta.  "I was clearly not the problem."  Then silence and stillness seized them all.

Dazzlin' D'Antoni had locked the jet packs and the rest of the high-speed gadgets away in the chrome trailer.  He had given some consideration to moving on, finding yet another town to ply his trade.  It wasn't going to happen though.  He hadn't done a lot that would be recognized as helpful for these guys of the 7th Second Chance, but he had one accomplishment that he felt proud of.  He was still here, but the Clown was gone forever.

Nothing at all had gone well.  Almost every spell cast failed.  Arenas had sat out almost every encounter, and Grand Mage Edd was banished.  The library was in shambles.  The Chamber had been desecrated by army after army.    The bonds between the Sorcerers would need much work to be strengthened again, but that work would not be able to begin for some time.

In a way, the dead always sleep.  Though these corpses had tendency to be more animated, their repose would be extended for longer than they had grown accustomed.  He had not had the resolve to do it sooner, but the necromancer was once again presented the opportunity to burn these maggot-ridden bodies into nothingness.  The difference this time was that he had far longer to grow comfortable with such an idea.

*****