Dear Basketball Diary,
Pardon the tear stained pages, it has been a rough few days. I try to keep the crying to my bedroom, the shower, long highway drives and bathroom stalls, but sometimes I am just too overcome. The whole office doesn’t know what to do with me weeping in my cube.
This is just like the time I didn’t get invited to the prom.
I had a great plan: witty lines, glittering smiles…a pink outfit. But, just like that fateful day in 2001 when I DIDN’T have a date cop a feel while trying to pin a corsage that I didn’t get onto the dress that I didn’t get to wear, Wednesday night ended in disappointment, heartbreak and chicken wings.
And I was gonna lay one on ya’ll bout how, though no good luck charm is perfect, it was pretty darn clear that the Nuggets do better when I am around. They are improved by my presence (if only figurative, over-the-airwaves-backwards presence). Then we were both going to laugh and I was going to add, “As most men are,” and then clench my teeth together and laugh with my nostrils flaring and jab you in the ribs with my elbow. It was gonna be priceless.
But no. I have been robbed. And I do consider this loss to the Bucks a larceny, a petty, petty larceny. Who are the Bucks anyway? If it weren’t for sometimes-flat-topped, horse-faced and grimacing but undeniably freaking good Brandon Jennings, would we even know who the Bucks were and where they came from? I know I’d hear Buck and think broncos and 6 pronged deer faces.
But for the time being, they are the team the Nuggets chased like jumpy amateurs for 2 hours Wednesday night, missing easy lay-ups, dishing out lazy D and forgetting, it seems, that if you are down in the second, you should make BOTH your frees. CoughBirdmanCoughCough.
Of course, in my desperate attempt to make a real, readable biz of this feeble little blog–and in my current and naggingly consistent poor, cableless state, the Bucks Nuggs showdown found me seated alone at a bar. A Redwings bar at that, but they have a good happy hour special. A chubby grey-haired thing in a stripey shirt feels the need to give commentary on the Nuggets’ controversial victory over the Bulls the night before. He has no problem with the white-knuckled hail Mary shot in the final tinypartofasecond but takes issue with the foul itself. I personally see the controversy as more like, should we have won when that shot was not in time? Or should we have won .39722123 seconds before that when time would’ve run out if not for the slow fingers of the hometown officials. The Bulls had to foul or eat an easy 2. Kirk Heinrich himself would’ve called it a foul. I know, he is a good Kansas boy, if a tall Lurch-y one. Shut your pie hole and get back to the puck, guy, some of us are here for TODAY’s game.
Some of us are here, at a bar, alone…again. Is there such a thing as becoming and NBAlcoholic? Could it be that, years from now, when I am all sallow and sagging, psoriatic, having lost love, loot and lively hood to the drink, I will look back and say, “I blame in on the NBA?” Nah, that won’t happen to me. I’m only gonna do meth once. I’m not going to end up like that guy. But, it does dawn on me that with all the money that I spend at bars feeding my need for sweaty athletes palming their balls, I might actually pay for a monthly cable hook up. I ponder this. But it would give me so much less material. I would no longer be able to conjure up the sexy and citeably credible image of a sad, drunk girl, shoveling Buffalo wings into her face like a little piggy (or a not so little one) and grunting with frustration as we waste yet another possession in a game against a young, spunky team that isn’t gonna let us get away with THAT. Melo, Chauncey, we are lookin at you.
The spirit was low, that is for sure. Wednesday’s game had me feeling like the Bucks had rode us hard and put us away wet. We did avoid a total spanking, and, on occasion, the Bucks seemed like they were gonna take a dip into the dark side. Halfway through the 2nd, a nameless Buckaneer (I couldn’t pay attention to the names I was so blinded by the hideous jerseys) threw a bounce pass that was straight out of my 4th grade four square championship. And, if my 4th grade memory serves, his behavior looked a lot like a temper tantrum. Or maybe he had some kinda elbow twitch. You know I don’t know jack about this game.
In the end, the highlight of the game for me was the fisticiffs I almost got into with a old gal at the bar who hadn’t a shine to my funfun game time antics. She and her other time-pudged and jeweled-shirted friends were having a little chat and gaping at the only gal at the sports watering hole to actually WATCH a sport. Naturally, the best choice was to catch her eye, pop a googly eye at her and drop my jaw like a bomb. I do so love mocking lesser-than me, middle aged, hater women.
She told me I was doing great, she loved me. I think she might have been facetious. But you know what they say, many a truth…
Anyhow, apologies for the delay in posting. It is worth noting that I have been so scatterbrained lately that yesterday I put my cellular telephone in the freezer. For two hours. Don’t even ask.
I do so hope you enjoyed the visit. Please, come again. Features and fun to follow. I may not be an athletic scholar, but I am a card. If you don’t agree, well…In the immortal words of Off The Record: Everyone in the world is an idiot, except me and you.