Outside the Aviary: "Baby Come Back"

Dear the NBA,

I know we haven’t spoken in some time. Here’s a quick update: I moved to New York City, I’m writing for several unread blogs, I grew what is considered a formidable beard, I’m failing at everything, and I’ve decided I want to patch things up.

Here’s the thing: I don’t mean for the latter of the update points to be something I try to slip by you. I know it's been a few years. I know I said some unruly and uncalled for things—hastily put together arguments do not a break-up make and I know this now—but I’ve realized the error of my ways. Give me a minute, would you?

Admittedly, there were many positive things about you I chose to ignore. You’ve always had an understated beauty about you. And sure, the Red Sox are spiraling farther from their elite status, the Redskins are winning on luck alone, and Hockey has fallen farther than the Christian Slater bandwagon membership, but I want you to know that I was always keeping an eye on you. I was just waiting for you to make a few changes—drop some of the dead weight, so to speak. I sound shallow, right? You must admit, though, your “Latrell Sprewell is a bona fide superstar years” were not your best. I was upset. I acted in haste. I said some things I didn’t mean—like defense, real speed, and the fast break are all dead—but I repent. Take me back. I promise that I am willing to change (much like you have).

It may have taken a Chris Paul, a new Rat Pack, and some Euro names, but I see the way you carry yourself now—like a sport with meaning again, and I want in. I promise to make informative arguments and watch entire games before voicing opinions on the new rules. I promise to be a better fan—a better man even. I’ll do the cooking and the cleaning. I’ll windex the television screen. I’ll even cheer for the Celtics as vehemently as I did when I watched Larry. Hell, I’ll even admit the new breed of athlete isn’t just different; it’s as good as the older breed—though still slightly contemptible in many ways. I didn’t mean that last crack. I’m sorry, baby.

I’ll prove it to you: I watched a Knicks game last night because it was ON. I’ve hated the Knicks since I can remember, but I like that Lee character. I like a member of the NY Knickerbockers. I admit it. There, you see? I’m a changed fan.

I know it will take time, but I’ve always loved you. I know I had a funny way of showing it (calling you a mockery of a league, and making “which ref’s turn is it to blow Shaq tonight?” jokes to start), but I just wanted something more from you. Now I realize I should've been more. Think about it, won’t you? Talk it over with your family. They always liked me.
I love that skirt. I love those shoes. I love the squeak they make when they slide step into the proper defensive position. I love you. Let me come back. I won’t disappoint you. I really won’t. Unless, of course, you don’t amend this silly “no talkback” rule just a little. That’s just stubborn. We can make it work, though. I’m willing to try. Seriously. I’m willing.

I just love you too much to let a good thing get away-- again.

Sincerely,
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