Thursday, April 05, 2007

A Sad, Sad Day

Goodbye, my love.

You may not remember me. As a callow sportswriter in college, I was too busy getting drunk, high and laid to put any real effort into my columns. Instead of coming to watch you and a damn good little basketball team, I would take bong hits out of a three-footer and drink a sixer of Fat Tire washed down with some Goldschlager. Then I would proceed to mail-in a piece about Bobby Knight or the Broncos before having a heated NHL '96 battle with my roommate. It was college, and I was on my own for the first time.

I could've had total access to you. I could've ran with you at practice, given you a pasty, plodding 6'5" body to drive by and whip passes around. Then I could've written about it, and got even more people to come to the games.

But I didn't.

I wrote a column about one game, where you got ahead of Air Force 36-1. Remember how the crowd would stand until the opposing team scored? We stood for eight minutes. You took the opening tip and whipped a Magic-worthy pass to Katie Cronin for a layup. On and on you went, dribbling behind your back, zipping off no-look dimes, hitting runners, floaters, jumpers. To this day I don't know what's prettier - you or your game.

And now you're gone.

When I moved to New York, one of the first things I wanted to do was write a story about you. Maybe meet you at practice, play a fierce game of H-O-R-S-E, take a walk, get a pretzel. Spreading mustard on it and talking about the benefits of the box-and-one, our eyes would lock - you'd reach up and wipe a glob off the corner of my mouth - and it would be over. I don't know why, but I thought our alma mater, our love of hoops and dogs, and our small-town sensibilities would spark something deeper, something real. It wouldn't matter that I wasn't rich or famous or that you would make probably quadruple what I did (at least). What matters is that we would have finally been together.

No longer.

You've been traded to San Antonio. Now when I find myself walking in front of Madison Square Garden - or anywhere else in the city, for that matter - that minuscule (really, really, really minuscule) hope of randomly bumping into you will be gone.

Just like you.

Farewell Becky Hammon, my sweet.

P.S. Watch out for that zone trap.


Anonymous said...


Are you sure you won't get a restraining order slapped to your glut for stalking?

KZ said...

Hi, I'm a freelance journalist doing a story about fan reactions to the Hammon trade. If you'd like to comment on it please email me at Thanks!

Phony Gwynn said...

It's called humor, "anonymous." Look it up.

The Ball said...

NHL '96 ruled!!! And you are so gracious for calling it a battle...