The setting: an upscale house in Kohler, Wisconsin. A little boy named Dusty enters and encounters his mom, Pag (it's an Irish name). She is unhappy.
Pag: Dusty, where have you been?
Dusty: I've been playing with some friends. It was really fun! In fact, I just came in here to get a drink, then I'm going back out to play with them again!
He moves toward the refrigerator, opens it, and gets a Gatorade. As he heads for the door, Pag stops him.
Pag: You're not going anywhere. You're grounded.
Dusty: Grounded? For what? For how long?
Pag: For two weeks. And you should know why I'm grounding you.
Dusty[lip quivering]: I ... I don't ...
Pag: Before you went out to play a few days ago, I posted a note on the garage stating where you couldn't go with your friends. One of them was a hazardous place, the dirt hills behind the bowling alley. That's where you went, and that's why you're in trouble.
Dusty: But ... but ... I didn't see any note. You didn't tell me about it. And it's not hazardous! It's just dirt! And if it's so hazardous, how come dozens of kids were playing there? And why did the Petroskeys move their weekly flea market there?
Pag: It was clearly posted.
Here they walk out to the garage. Taped to the side of it - the side facing the neighbor's fence, the side where nobody goes because there's only about 18 inches of space - is an index card with minuscule type which reads ...
Pag: "...furthermore, the dirt hills behind the bowling alley shall be off-limits, but only if the security cameras from the Conoco across 68th St. happen to place you unequivocally at the scene." Plus, your Uncle Walt knew these rules, and was out there watching over you.
Dusty: Yeah, I was going to ask about Uncle Walt. If he was out there and he knew I was breaking a rule, why didn't he tell me?
Pag: Because he can only tell you if you ask him first.
Dusty: So ... if I had known that I had to ask for help I didn't know I needed, I wouldn't be grounded?
Well, I told you - those Muslims are tough. Damn free will. Next to the platypus, it's been My biggest mistake.
I thought you didn't make mistakes, Father?
Everyone makes mistakes, Son. It's part of life. Speaking of which, remember how we were talking about how angry We get when athletes invoke Our names after wins, but never do it after losses? As if We actually cared about those games they play?
Yes, Father. I specifically remember talking about a young man named Tim Tebow.
Precisely, Son. We were fine with his outward praising of Us in college, but now that he's a pro, I've decided to show him and his Denver Broncos teammates that they should keep his deification to a minimum. Hopefully, I'll have rectified that mistake.
Throughout my life, my mother has had a hard time buying me gifts. When I was little it was no problem, because if it was a toy, I played with it. No big deal.
But once I got a bit older, my mother started buying me clothes. For birthdays, for Christmas - clothes. And they were never in style at that moment, or things I liked, or they didn't fit. Basically, I can't remember one single article of clothing my mother ever got me for a gift where I was like, "Sweet! I'm gonna look awesome in this!" And then I wore it, and it totally got me chicks.
Still, I knew my mother loved me. It was the thought that counts.
I feel the same way today as a Padre fan.
Yesterday new GM Jed Hoyer traded a pitching prospect (Wynn Pelzer) for the deteriorating corpse of Miguel Tejada. Ok, that might be a tad harsh. Sure, Miggy's only OPS-ing .670 this year, with just seven homers in 401 ABs. But he's still a veritable doubles machine, and should stand to drive in some runs if the guys ahead of him can get on base.
This move means that Chase Headley probably moves to the outfield, Everth Cabrera gets sent down, and Jerry Hairston gets a lot more time at short. Hoyer has said that Tejada might see some time at short, but I don't see it. He's too old, and many of the Padres' starters induce a lot of grounders. He should either play third or maybe second, but not short. Please. Part of this team's strength is their defense, and playing a 36-year-old at SS severely hampers that. (Unless you're dreamy and can go to your left, like Jeter!)
Is Miggy the same guy who won the 2002 AL MVP? Not even close. Is he as bad as his numbers this year? I'd like to think not. Would you put up good numbers on that Orioles team? Cal Ripken rolled over in his grave so much this year he ended up in China.
This isn't a C.C. Sabathia-type move, but it's a move. It adds a little pop to the lineup and announces that the Padres are buyers. Buyers! Man, that feels good to type.
Plus, San Diego's pretty close to Mexico. They got cheap pharmacies down there, right?
LeBron James’ Decision: An Exploration in Rock and Roll songs from Chapel Hill in the 90’s
Mentally, I am exhausted. I went to the woods and removed myself from civilization for a few days and came back to two jobs, overwhelming debt, an overarching sense that I am not doing anything well in my life and 14-16 hours days. Also, I came back to New York City as the go-to for a lot of my friends for “Where’s LeBron going?” talk. I’m a basketball guy. I know this. I love this. But there is only one way for me to describe to non-basketball fans how the LeBron decision affects fans in the contending cities: be as obscure as humanly possible.
So, here, non-basketball fans. This is what tonight means, as described by 90s-00s rock groups localized in the greater Chapel Hill, NC area.
LeBron spurns Cleveland:
Small (23): Steal Some Candy
Cleveland has been both a blessing and a curse for LeBron. He grew up in Ohio, has been the most beloved athlete in Cleveland (until tonight, possibly) and gave hope to a grouping of the most troubled fans ever to grace American major sports. Still, he was unable to escape his friends, focus on basketball and basketball alone, and every problem was magnified by the Cleveland populace’s rightfully-placed negativity. Thus, Small’s anthemic, driving rocker: “It’s been a couple days and I get the feeling/It’s just another sign I’ve stayed too long/ Pieces of the puzzle keep disappearing/ It’s always been a matter of what went wrong.”
LeBron stays in Cleveland:
Archers of Loaf: Underachievers March and Fight Song
Cleveland’s underdog mentality, despite not getting a championship quite yet, can finally rest a little easier. This is the time to dance and play guitars and smile at one another despite hardship. You see, if LeBron stays, Cleveland is a relevant state in the basketball-- and American sports-- union. This is their chance to hale it all. The name of this song says it all and the lyrics reflect a city with a lighthearted sigh decompressing their quickened hearts. Plus, screw the major markets. YEAH, FIGHT THE MAN. “Doomed to fall/ Smashing their evil empire up against the wall/ All for one/ One for all/ ‘Til their done with free space...” Can’t really get closer to the explanation than that.
LeBron chooses the Knicks:
Polvo: Right the Relation
Polvo wrote this song, very obviously, about their breakup when they were at the top of their collective game. “I killed my creation/ to right the relation...” This is LeBron’s thinking, if he chooses NYC. I know I left Cleveland. AI loved them, but I had to find other means; other money; other outlets. LeBron in New York makes no sense to me, but for his megalomaniacal brand-driven mindset? There’s no better course than to make the history he was destined to. Sure, Polvo’s decision was a little more ,low-key, but dramatics have little to do with an passionate choice. It’s about the moment.
LeBron spurns the Knicks:
Superchunk: Water Wings
Um, these might do:
“Was it worth the wait/ Was that the wall where you marked off the date?”
“...the wings/ Made of wax/ Made of water/ He was too dumb to accept the offer/ He was too smart”
“She pointed at the black cloud in the sky/ She said that’s what happens when you’re learning to fly/ She said with you it is no use/ Why do you try?”
LeBron chooses the Heat:
Raymond Brake: New Wave Dream
This song’s music is really what describes the mood of this move. The idea of watching Chris Bosh, LeBron and Dwayne Wade was a feverish 4 AM dream (yes, I woke up/stayed awake to see them play) in 2008’s Olympic Games. The prevailing rumor is that these gentlemen planned to play together all along. If this is true, the mathy/stop-start pacing belie the basketball fans idea of the move. On one hand, we get to see an amazing sight. On the other hand, we all know the drama surrounding each player’s decision was an underhanded and ridiculous ploy for attention. As the warbling vocals and guitar layers wash over us, the basketball fan doesn’t really know what to do with all of the new, shiny toys laying under the trees. Also at play? the fact that this band was largely ignored unless you lived in the area. Really, only Miami fans are truly excited to see this. The rest of us a cringing-- even if only just a little bit.
LeBron spurns the Heat:
Superchunk: Driveway to Driveway
This is pretty self-explanatory. The Heat already got more relevant. They got two big names, kept their superstar, and have been walking around in a haze for the last two or three days. Nice feeling, but once the hangover comes on, you realize that you spent a lot of money for a better-than-average team.
LeBron chooses the Bulls:
Squirrel Nut Zippers- Meant to Be
As an NBA fan, this is the choice I love the most. “All the time/ I’m finding ways to make things fall in line/ I know/ How tricky things can be... Listen here/ Some things are meant to be.” The Bulls have everything LeBron needs: major media outlet, money, a solid team ready to compete, a new big name, Michael Jordan’s legacy and a chance to win immediately. LeBron has everything the Bulls need (explained by the fact that he is the best player in the game right now). Unless you have a rooting interest in Cleveland, this is the move you root for if you love good basketball. This is the move you love more than you love your own teams’ chances. This is the move that makes you nod respectively and look forward to seeing a great team. those don’t always come along, and this is our chance to see one. This isn’t three big names and a slough of small contracts/filler. This is one great player, young talent and a dream of a championship. This is what we want.
LeBron spurns the Bulls:
Since Michael Jordan left, this is the general milieu. Mistakes, regret, good players floating in and out of the uniform, but nothing permanent, nothing that can compare to the high of those championships. “All of my friends have floated away/ Connect the valley to the astral plane.” Yeah, they’ll have a good team, but the (second) best player may have floated away with all their championship dreams.
So, there you have it. Each team with a real shot (The New Jersey Nets and the LA Clippers were mercifully left off this list) and the song that best describes them from a town that never really caught on. Not bad after being removed from civilization for a week. The only regret is that so many bands never made the list since the youtubes are a little more modern than their run in the 90s. Sorry, Spatula. Maybe when Carmelo Anthony makes his decision.
Oh, and for those of you bored with the whole fucking thing?
Sleepytime Trio: Not Without My (Swimmies)
No, they weren't from NC originally, but fuck it. This shit destroys.
Once, I was taller than the sky. And now I am lower than Christ's nails. And nothing ever seems to matter until it does. And wanting to believe is more than what it is.
I digress from a point I haven't made. A month ago, I lost $2,650 in a craigslist scam. Lost everything I had and way more. Nothing good has happened since October of last year and it all culminated with my bank calling me and reporting me to a collection agency despite my pleas to live a normal life. And the Celtics were me. No, sports aren't some beautiful metaphor for life, but they are this one time. This one time, the team that played lesser basketball for most of the time won and this once the guy that just wants something good to happen-- just wants someone to believe in him and pay him for something he loves-- lost.
No, this isn't a lament for Celtics fans. We've had enough championships. No, this isn't an anti-Lakers rhetoric piece, they deserved it. Thing is, everyone deserves it. This guy I know, he works in a pizza shop and his coworker's father died and loved the Lakers. And this guy I met, he was a big Derek Fisher fan because his daughter had cancer too. And this other guy, his mother was wearing a Celtic jersey the day of her open-heart surgery. And me, I am at the end of my rope. I am bereft of feeling. I got a letter from a collection agency I didn't know in June. And instead of breaking down (see, it was a different agency that wanted money I didn't actually know I owed), I laid down on my floor and laughed. The previous night, the Celtics had blown out the Magic.
I am a man who knows bad news. I practice for it. I practiced telling my family my dad died. He was sick but recovered. I am the man who will break bad news. I am the man my family leans on and will continue to. I want to be the last man to whine about the trivialities of life. This once, though, I got selfish. Just once. Even with a -$2000 bank account, even facing homelessness, I smiled at my friends and told them I couldn't afford a beer. I was just there to support their engagement or their birthday or what have you. I saw them at their happiest and put on the brave face. I always want to do that. I just want to do that, forever.
***
I turned off my phone for the Finals. It is still off. I don't want to turn it on ever again. I can't face this news. No more bad news. Please. I am Napoleon facing his last stand, but with the news there will be more of them. I am news of bad weather for the weekend. I am the day off spent doing laundry, standing in line for the DMV, or talking to a creditor when there are better things to be doing.
I know, sports are dumb. They are pointless displays of jingoism, determinism and overall pointlessness to the societal need. I know. I am a smart man who reads books, writes poems and wants your approval. But just once, I needed something and it failed. I'm not mad or even really disappointed. To be honest, the Celtics floated above the waves, dug hard into the Earth, made lives better, while I am in flux and make my friends' lives harder by asking for couches, demand their love, make them believe in me despite my obvious flaws. I am the man that asks more than they have and the Celtics are the ones that demand more of themselves. They are better men than me because when I learned I was less than my task, I stared at my future like a gun. They gave their all and I have complained for fouls.
I should have been thrilled that the Celtics made the finals. I'm sorry I wasn't. I am sorry that I wanted more. I am sorry that I wanted more money. I am sorry I wanted to write “Zagat Reviews” (the aforementioned con was centered through them) to finally achieve my goal: to have people care that I wrote something. I am sorry that I went outside my means. Please, though, I don't want to be sorry that I cared about something trivial. It was just that, for once,. I got to talk about something people cared about. They wanted to hear me talk about basketball. For once, the 2650 reasons I had to hate humanity melted away.
I feel fantastic for Laker fans. I do. The serenity that comes to the survivors, the champions, the idea that nothing feels better than believing, the idea that the Lakers' fans finally got theirs over the Celtics-- I get it. I really do. It's just that, the idea of belief is hard to grasp when no one believes in you. And now, at my lowest point, I needed more than distraction. I needed belief. And I had it for three fleeting quarters of some basketball game. Now, I am back to where I was: languid against the face of defeat. I am the man I knew I would be when I was fifteen; the once and future failure. And so are the Celtics. At least, though, they believed. I am not sure I do. The two are not mutually exclusive, belief and failure, except maybe this once. Believe in what you want, but basketball is my one ideal. And it failed me. I am a victim, and I will continue to be one, but it is a part of loving sports. It is also a part of believing in people. For me, at least, sports has paid off once in awhile. Faith, for the most part has not. Such is life.
Today is Sunday, May 9 and, unless you were hatched, a pretty important day. It's Mother's Day, and you should call your mother and express your disdain for her bringing into this horrible, terrible world. There's no unemployment in the womb, you know?
But today is also special for me, personally. Today, a man turns half a century. Fifty years old. This man was instrumental in making the greatest game on Earth fun for a little boy. He gave me my internet handle. And today, he makes me feel really, really old.
Most of you know Tony Gwynn as the - umm - very rotund baseball coach at San Diego State, and sometimes color analyst at TBS. Sure, he's a legend in San Diego, but to many he's a nasally voiced island of a man. That's too bad, because in actuality he was a lithe, 56-base-stealing point guard who still holds the SDSU all-time assist record. He was drafted by both the Padres and the San Diego Clippers (now in Los Angeles) on the same day.
When I met him and got his autograph at Coors Field a few days before his birthday in 1996, I wished him a happy birthday and told him I was going to bring him a card, but I forgot it. He stopped signing his name, looked up, and smiled.
Tony Gwynn didn't hit a lot of home runs. He never won a World Series. But he was my favorite baseball player, and he'll be that when he's 50, 80, or 500. He was - and is - a badass. And that's the truth.
Because we only update it once or twice a week. On a good week. But you know what? We've got lives, man. Big, hairy, beautiful lives that involve loving, and drinking, and cursing, and laughing, and screwing, and falling down, and shooting hoops on mild winter days, and getting threatened by a team of Puerto Ricans in the South Bronx because a couple changeups strayed inside and grazed their jerseys, and staring out the window and wondering when the canary of destiny is going to land on our lap so we may pet its sweet, ruffled feathers before it flies away. Sometimes, sports are our canary. Other times it's a buzzard with herpes and a paternity suit. Either way, we sit at the windowsill, patiently waiting.
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