Tag Archives: The Ham

Kareem Abdul Jabber

A Photo of My Old Mom

An Old Photo of Abdul Jabbar


You can see the resemblance, right? That isn’t all they have in common. They’re both famous. They’re both Hall of Fame NBA players. Ok, that’s not true, but that’s not really my mom, either.

But what IS true is that Kareem Abdul Jabbar speaks on NPR, and my mom listens to NPR. That makes her a qualified commentator, doesn’t it? My mom (whose likeness does resemble this one in that she is pretty, brunette, has a toothy smile and just screams pro-sports fan) gets to hear all about my life. All about it. Triple how much I ramble about myself here and you may have a drop in the bucket of how much I jabber at my mother. So, naturally, I felt the need to share with her the greatest news in the world!:
Today’s a good day for lying, no?
But what I did tell her was that I was actually at the sold out Lakers/Nuggets game at the Pepsi Center Friday night. Being less than dedicated fans (evident in the infrequent blogging), we missed the line-up-at-dawn opportunity to snag 5 dolla tickets the day of the game and were left looking at single seats for nearly 50 bones, standing room only tickets, or sad mugs and mugs of beer at a bar. Luckily, The Ham manned up and we went for the SRO and stood for more than two hours in the handicapped aisle behind all the wheelchairs. Now, this carries the risk of sore feet and the horrific possibility that I will spill an entire beer on a cripple (This nearly happened, actually, my clumsiness is nearly a handicap of its own, these days.), but you’re nearly on the court, the bathrooms and concessions are but a few gallops away and you get to stash your stuff under a wheelchair. Pret-ty sweet.
CBG: It was so fun, even though we had to stand, we didn’t mind.
Mama: Because you could spin the people in front of you around during the game?
But seriously, being at a live game, especially one where my team is executing a team as vile as the Lakers, exorcising a bitter loss in the semi-finals last year and solidifying our status as a team to reckon with. The stadium was thundering. For all the Benedict Arnold Laker fans in Denver who showed up decked in their garish purple and gold (are there were loads), we sure rattled the roof offa that center.
M: I think they have a chance this year.
CBG: What? Who?
M: The Lakers.
CBG: What? Are you directly quoting Kareem Abdul Jabbar?
M: He thinks they have a chance.
CBG: Of course they do, Mom, they’re the Lakers, they’re defending champs. But Kobe didn’t even play in the fourth.
M: And who does he play for?
CBG: The Lakers, mom.
And indeed, KAJ does think they Lakers are in good standing to repeat. But you can’t believe everything Kareem Abdul Jabbar tells you, even if he is well-spoken and one of the greatest players of all time and diagnosed with leukemia. (We’re rooting for you KAJ, BTW.)

He may have a pretty face, but it masks the face of a devil!

In case you all are even less impressive Nuggets fans than myself, I will go ahead and tell you: we ran the Lakers’ asses off, we came after them, picked their asses up and handed them back to ’em. That nasty man Kobe didn’t even make an appearance in the 4th, taking a seat with the rest of the Laker starters for a nice leisurely ride along the bench while we served it up to their second string.

Noting that the Lakers loss last year on our longest playoff run since I have been around (born?) is fuel for the Nuggets’ fire, George Karl gave this quote to NBA.com, “‘Everybody got a taste of the wine or the food that we all like,’ Denver coach George Karl said. ‘It’s a special taste.'” Oh, George, you are so articulate. I couldn’t have said it better myself.

But it was not just the fearsome intensity with which we brought the game that got us there Friday night, nor the lingering absence of Pau Gasol for the Lakers but a back-to-himself showing on the part of J.R., whom the hometown welcomed like a war hero/sexy vampire heart-throb and a massive performance by our fabulous and personal favorite for Rookie of the Year, Ty Lawson. Less-than-tall Ty has proven to be one of the greatest catches of the rookie batch, chasing after preternaturally good and undeniably unattractive Brandon Jennings (who slammed down 55 points in one game over the weekend, if the message hadn’t been clear enough already) with a fantastic performance and a dunk–Lawson is 5’10? 5’11?–that got my up on my feet. Oh, wait…I was already on my feet. But as you can imagine, this is where the beer entertained spilling on the aging lady in front of me.

Awesome Lawson (for UNC..barf)

He is small but mighty and I love him despite his attachments to UNC, a natural-born enemy to the Jayhawk, though some coaches like to think that the people they abandoned in Lawrence have forgiven them. Come on, Roy. So you conflicted with some people at KU? So you dad and your sister were in poor health in NC? Wah wah, some things are bigger than ourselves. This is BASKETBALL we are talking here!

Where is the sarcasm font when you need one?
But, really, in the spirit of my two favorite teams being pitted against two defending champions in two boiling rivalries (one long-standing and one only growing–we’re lookin at you, Jackson) I look forward to the opportunity to face off again against both UNC and the Lakers (not facing the Nuggets again till February), possibly challenge them in post-season play and maybe, just maybe, bring to life last year’s dream of a home-made T-shirt that shows Kobe’s creepy face and reads “Where’s the beef?” Or, “Beef, it’s what’s for dinner!” Or is that too abstruse for the NBA?
Anyhow, tonight showdowns on both the fronts: Kansas v. Memphis, a game that we will surely not deliver with a 36-pt slaying as we did with Hofstra Friday night, and the Raptors at the Nuggets, a game that, if history repeats itself, is destined to be a whooping.

 Only down side? NBA at 7, NCAA at 8, GWD at 8. So much round ball, so little time. What’s a Celebrity Ball Girl to do?


Like It’s The Very First Time


Not This Time, Bull-er-oo

So, it’s official. I matter. I am important. Shiny and important. And not just to all of the adoring fans and melting groupies that know me in real life either. I don’t even notice their drool anymore. No, this time my influence has stretched to affect some people whose own importance matters to me.

I matter to the Denver Nuggets.

Now, now, before all the eye-rolling, superstition-slapping, positive-thinking poo-pooing begins, let me just say. I had been a failing fan and a below-par blogger (note: this is my FIRST basketblog, 8 games into the season, for shame) for the last days and weeks, missing the two games before this Nail Biting Action (NBA, for short–baddum-ching!). I had managed to watch at least part of all the prior match-ups and the Mile High guys had come out on top. With me missing, the momentum was shot. Consider Tuesday night my triumphant return and that for the Nuggies, even if only by a hair.

It felt good to be back, and I know my boys could feel it, too. They get my vibe.

And let me be upfront about this: vibe is what I got. As a part of my inaugral blog, it seems only natural that mention the mission of said useless, anonymous internet blabber: to talk about basketball, the men who play it, the fans who witness it, the friends who support it and inform it, the family who loves or hates it, and the girl who likes it. That would be me. I dig the roundball. Don’t let this be confused for having anything prescient, insightful or even technically correct to offer. This is strictly for fun, should not be considered direct advice, should not be the basis of any argument, should not be followed to the letter and should not be tried at home.

Naturally, this means that this particular girl ball will mean the Nuggets and–though fairly enough, this blog will have far more NBA chatter, as there is just more NBArtifacts floating around on the interwebs, on the airwaves and in my personal circle–the Kansas Jayhawks. If you find that biased and unfair. You’re right. Go cry to your own local blogger, we here at SheBall do not give a shit. I watch what I want and say what I will. You will have to find the focused and detailed analysis of the hairstyles and tattoos on the Knicks players somewhere else. Though it should be stated that we also do not advise you give a shit about the Knicks.

So here’s to you Creepy Architect Guy, I AM going to report on a game that I, as you so debonairly put it, I know nothing about. I’m crushed you left without asking for my phone number, but if you would like Booze Hound’s (you did seem awfully keen on him), I would be happy to give it to you. That way you can stick him in a hole in your basement and spray him with a hose. I encourage it. 

But back to the Bulls. Tuesday night’s game was one of mixed emotions for me. I laughed, I cried, I sat alone 2.2 feet from a big screen TV with no sound, and I screeched like a banshee, frightening all The Geeks Who Drink And Do Not Like Basketball. I mean really, is it so hard to believe that one girl could take incredible pride on naming Alberto Gonzalez on the visual “Serial Killers” round AND loves sporting events? Sheesh. And to think I really thought that, after the miraculous Nugg win and all (and the random and fortuituous SMS from Lurlene that read “Sloth Love Chunk” and thence became our team name), we would break our weekly 8th place barrier and rock the shit outta trivia. Instead, it was our worst week ever. However, as some small solace, let me say that we made the photo gallery for last week, when we still reigned great at eighth: Say Cheese! Just try and guess which smiling face, bedenimed crotch or kicky leg is me, sports fans.

But, again, I digress. (Get used to it, distraction and meaningless amusement is my bread and butta.) So, there I sat 13 inches from the fuzzy Park Tavern low-D cable, swilling cheap crappy beer, furiously thumbing notes into my smartphone and wishing to heck that there was someone with me to give a J.R. high five. I missed that angry little man. So what if he killed his friend driving recklessly? Surely a 7-game penalty is sufficient penance for vehicular manslaughter. Right. Right? But in all seriousness, I love the little man’s tattooed visage and his clutch jump. There is just one little problem. It seemed Smith’s shootin hand was just a little rusty. He didn’t have that normal J.R.–or is it Earl?–flair that I have come to expect. I mean, where was the jersey tugging? The big balls dance? But we can’t hold it against the man too much, his first game back played in a thundering United Center after 2 consecutive losses. I know that one of my favorite players will come back to his glittery, 3-point shootin, crazy car-drivin’ self in no time.

To better my mood further? Carter no starter. I don’t have any hate for the dopey-eyed point gaurd. But I have to say: the useless turd is just NOT Nuggets caliber. Instead, I was pleased and plum when our rockin’ rookie Arron Afflalo got to bring all his b-ball skills right from the jump, straight outta Compton. I am wooed by our strong freshman-year boys, confident that the future of the Nuggets may hold the kind of talent that we have in the present: beautiful, young, ball-handlin’ talent. If ya know what I mean.

But for all the good signage, the 10 pt. lead at the quarter, it seemed that those darn Chicago ballers were gonna bully us to the last. Initially, the Bulls’ tight, fast-paced offense looked like it would get the better of us. Now I don’t know bunk about basketball plays, but I know those boys had that ball dinging around the Nuggs like pinball wizards. But we respond well to pressure, we kept it up, pulled away…fell back…pulled ahead…

And we all know how it ended. Rockin’ Mole tells me, in his expert b-ball opinion, that the play should’ve ended after the sandbagged freethrow–and in his defense, I have since read that, on average, a rebound recovery takes .5 seconds–but I didn’t know this at the time. I didn’t know shit at the time except that I was surrounded by nerds completely oblivious to the Mario Chalmers-esque miracle shot that might have ruined my theory that it is my presence and fandom that makes or breaks games for this Denver team. The Ham and I shrieked (I think he may have dropped a double-digit-decible F bomb or two, actually) and sat down, dejected at the table that we thought would witness one sad, unbelievable loss. (It did, later, as we achieved the lowest score in trivia in recent Abullah Ab-Don’t-Lah history, but that’s another story.) It appears, after three hundred and twenty-four view of The Shot, that, indeed, our friend Williams Miller couldn’t get his hands off his balls before the buzzer. And thank goodness, those Bulls fans were rattling like Chicago itself was riding on the game. Then their faces fell, as the reality of their impending slavery to Denver Superiority set in. Thank goodness for slow-mo instant replay, right, Derrick Rose? You might be good, but time is on our side. That is what you get for showing so much perfectly scultped side-boob Joakim Noah. Everyone elses jerseys fit snugly over their man-breasts, why can’t yours? Geez, what do you think the NBA is? Cheap entertainment? Fast-paced aggression and an excuse to shake smooth skin at eager audience members? No, sir. Not this sport.

Lastly, I will leave my adoring someday-to-be readers with a photo montage I like to call: Flustered and Harried: Hair Don’ts According to the NBA. Even YOU can pull this euro-mullet-hawk hybrid, Birdman, you silly rabbit. Trim it up. Salmons, what were you THINKING with that long goatee?! One fierce jump ball rumble and boyfriend gonna get that face-pube snagged…Ouch! Andrei…really? REALLY? And Dirk? ‘Nough said, you shaggy bastard. You may LIKE to date trashy criminals, but you don’t have to LOOK like one. Sheesh.

Chauncey, I love you, but don’t think that ratty facial hair slipped past me. You appear to have eluded the photography cameras and I am not allowed to upload video. You’re safe. For now.