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.