Ask BoL: The End is Truly the Beginning

Dear BoL: Stephon Marbury is the picture of all this is godless and wrong with the earth. fuck the celtics.

Ryan D. (cavs fan)

Ryan: Technicaly, this is not a question, but off I go anyway. I took a good, hard look at myself in the philosophical mirror yesterday and asked myself, truly, what I thought of Stephon Marbury in Celtics duds. Know what I thought? Nothing. Nothing at all. It's not that I can't muster up feelings for the dude-- positive or negative-- it's just that any team that hands themselves over to the will and wont of a championship must forever stare into the face of the void and have the void stare back. The only way for Eddie House to reamin a two-guard in the second unit was to have a ballhandler that was, apparently, not Gabe Pruitt.

Philosophically, Stephon Marbury is everything my dad hates-- the skills of a brilliant madman with the tattoos and resumes of a high-school gang member hanging out near a rec center. Sure, the requisite whitebred response is immediately, "Shit, man. That guy's an asshole." I've even said it in my day. But weeks ago, i said, while sober, that I'd be happy to have Marbury on the roster. Why? Becuase, at best, he is a Steve Blake kind of problem-solver off of the bench. If Rondo is the creative master of the first unit, then Marbury is the cordial host of an after-party-- dancing with all comers without making any mistakes as to who is with whom.

At worst, he is a failed experiment that is benched in the playoffs (see Cassell, Sam in LA) and the Celtics lose a few bucks and MAYBE a night's sleep. That's it. This isn't a trade for Jason Kidd two years removed from the finals, or getting an old, expensive Shaq on the fastest team alive. This isn't MJ coming back either. It's a backup point-guard on a roster of forwards and two-guards. How can this hurt? Sure, my dad is pissed, but I'm sure that if the Celtics get to the Finals, I'll be regaled with "Marbury really shook off his demons, didn't he?"

The purest form of basketball is still played with wonton disregard to who passes to whom or what happened in the timeouts. Deliver the ball to the right people to make shots. Period. Marbury can do that, becuase the people around him won't deal with failure. Except maybe Glen Davis. Am I selling my basketball soul? I say, quite the opposite. Steph's fall from grace was well documented, and now, Celts-willing, his first gainful steps will be too. His countenance may never overshadow his legacy, but it will add to the remarkable story that many can't seem to want to stop hearing.

I'll listen, Steph. I will. And I, for one, think it will be worth it.

Ask BoL-- a Primer

*Milton Bradley, circa 2001.

dear BoL -

i am concerned for myself. i feel so empty inside. last winter, i spent the days longingly staring out the window, hoping for the faintest glimmer of spring. maybe a robin scratching around after april showers for a worm? a little daffodil bulb peeking into the morning light? the transformation of brown depressing lawns into vibrant green up shoots? all of these are telltale signs of a baseball season on the horizon. last year i looked at schedules, thought about tickets, considered spring training. every day i scoured web sites for the latest in hot stove reports. looked at projections. but this year - i feel nothing. could it be that after all these years i have finally give the cubs all i had and realized there was no return on investment? i mean, seriously. people say "jake peavy," and i say, "meh." people say, "milton bradley," and i say, "fine." i feel like i've just woken up with a husband of 50 years and realized that i'm out of love with him. and if it's so easy to fall out of love, did i ever truly love him in the first place?

how can i spark the romance again?

Lost in Greensboro

Dearest Lost,
Consider the dust on the mantle. It's arrival at that destination took millions of years to process, incredible amounts of luck to arrive at that surface and only seconds to eliminate. The commonality of dust, of course is a given, but ponder: individual flakes of your skin-- overworked and overwrought-- escaped your body's complex system of checks and balances to gather in small clumps level with your eye. The difference between flaking off in the cold, sliding off with a glove, wiping off on a napkin after a lukewarm egg-and-cheese biscuit (enjoyed at your desk during work hours) or even being blown off by a mock kiss being blown to a friend and landing in this specific spot on said mantle is the difference between love and indifference. It takes but one solid moment-- a moment of combined luck and fatalism-- to begin a process thousands of years in the making. The dust landed there-- your dead skin-- by chance, yes, but it still landed.

In 2003 the speck of dust was Aaron Boone. In 2004, it was Dave Roberts. Two insignificant specks that forever changed the way I view baseball. They landed on the right mantle at the perfect time and clumped enough for me to see them. That's it. Whatever skill was necessary came down to some other event causing a cataclysm-- Pedro left in too long, Bill Mueller fighting off the best closer in history, etc. Baseball is the ultimate cause-and-effect scenario. You will be affected as I was, as we all shall be.

The crack of the bat may not stir you, but the manic drive of spring shall awaken you at some point. I promise.

Yours in Waiting,
BoL

Hey reader(s)-- send your letters to BoL! He'll respond, no foolin'! And it will be mock-poetic and pointless just like this one! Just write to repetitionisfailure@gmail.com for a response.