My Anti-Ode to Tim Duncan

Something needs to be said. I fear a 2005 NBA Finals rematch between Detroit and San Antonio. For fear of jinxing the Pistons, I at the least fear the Spurs making it to the finals this season. And if that happens, I will be forced to watch every game on mute to avoid hearing the announcers constant and (gasp) undeserved praise of Tim Duncan.
There, I said it. Undeserved and Tim Duncan in the same sentence. I realize this sentiment is not nearly as popular as the Tim Duncan: Greatest Power Forward in NBA history is but it is more accurate.
Have these people ever actually watched Tim Duncan play? Ever? Or do they read his stat line and assume he controlled the game?
First of all, I think Tim Duncan is a great player. I really do. But the Greatest Power Forward ever? Not even close.
Alright, he has won three NBA championships. Two of those were with David Robinson by his side, meaning he had to assert zero leadership on those two teams. (and deferred to Robinson in clutch situations). The other was in 2005 against my beloved Pistons. Okay, maybe I am biased because that loss hurt, but when someone really dominates my team, I'll admit it. Duncan did nothing of the sort. He single-handedly lost the Spurs game six in Detroit and looked as if someone had killed his puppy after the game. The leader of your team, even when he DOES blow it, should never ever ever look like someone killed his puppy during the final seconds of a game. (also tends to be a problem with LeBron but that is another topic for another post).
Now we have game seven in San Antonio. Now, if you only watched the highlights after the game, ESPN conveniently edited them to make it appear Duncan took the game over in the fourth quarter. What the conveniently spliced out were his countless missed shots and missed free throws with the game on the line. Sure the Spurs ended up winning but that had little to do with Duncan's alleged fourth quarter dominance.
I refuse to believe that the Greatest Power Forward in NBA history disappears when the game is on the line, can't hit a free throw when it matters, and displays less leadership qualities than I do. What I can't figure out is where all of this praise came from? I mean sure he is good and sure he is a really nice guy but has no one ever watched him play?
In conclusion, I will continue to be aggravated until Duncan finally retires and another overrated power forward comes along, or maybe a power forward will come along who puts up Duncan's numbers and doesn't disappear when it matters. But of course if that happens my aggravation will continue as everyone will compare him to Duncan when it should be obvious that he is Duncan's superior. I suppose I can always just permanently mute my tv.

Wednesday Edition of Out of my Tuesday Twilight Thinkin'

After a one week hiatus, everyone's favorite column is back! Yes that's right, I'm riding a blogging high right now after a week in which I have felt a ground swell (two people unrelated to me) have expressed their support for my blogging endeavors. I apologize for no Tuesday Twilight Thinkin' last week. I had things such as law school get in the way and then I planned on doing a Thursday special edition but things like trying to take my mind of law school (don't ever trust Bulgarian alcohol dear readers) got in the way.
The first round of March Madness every year is like when you first start dating some guy. After appetizers you think he might be the one, but by the time the check comes he has revealed he writes fan fiction for Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Holy Cross didn't pull of the upset and you know this isn't going to be the year you pick all the games correctly and you toss your bracket and Brides magazine in the trash until next March . . . I really hate tomato soup but I really love tomatoes and I feel ketcup is a necessary evil for providing lubrication for french fries . . . I hate puffy vests. They don't keep my arms warm and (I'm sorry to say if for you puffy vest fans out there) they are ugly. . .
Do sports announcers not know the word lanky? Why do they insist on referring to every lanky player as "really long"? . . . I don't like things at room temperature. Even rooms. . . How did curiosity kill the cat? In the billiard room, with a candlestick by curiosity's right hand man Mr. Green . . . I only got two spelling words wrong in my elementary school spelling test career (success and legendary, if you must know). The odd thing about that is I am not really a very good speller. It seems that all of my ambition and drive in life was used up at a very early age in practicing for spelling tests. . . Robin Williams: not funny. You disagree? Think to yourself when was the last time I laughed, really laughed, not awkward laugh like you do when your drunk uncle says something at Christmas dinner, at anything he did? The answer will not involve anything made in the last ten years . . .
Are there tall pickpockets? It seems that it would be difficult to make a living picking a pocket if you were 7 feet tall. Does the placement of the pocket on the person discriminate against tall pickpocketers?. . . It makes me anxious when I start watching a basketball game and I do not know which team is wearing which jersey. The idea that I may cheer when the wrong team scores paralyzes me with fear. . . The worst moment of my childhood: Baby Jessica's well rescue preempting the final episode of "Rags to Riches" . . . .

A Clown Hierarchy: Not a Laughing Matter

"But I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night." I don't really think these commercials are funny but its not an awful ad campaign. Slightly clever, doesn't make me want to stab myself in the eye. In general, sort of seems like something Chandler Bing would have come up with when he worked in advertising for like what - three episodes?
Wikipedia describes this ad campaign as "humorous television commercials consisting of someone doing something they were not capable of doing, but then stating that they were actually capable due to the fact that they 'stayed at a Holiday Inn (Express) last night.'" Seems like an accurate description to me. The guy playing Jeopardy or performing some medical procedure can do it because he stayed at a Holiday Inn Express. It somehow made him smarter then he was before. Its sort of bothersome because the campaign relies on stereotypes of what is a "smart occupation" and what is a "stupid occupation." But I think most people agree that even if people on Jeopardy or doctors aren't smarter then other people they at least possess a special skill.
So yesterday I saw a Holiday Inn Express commercial with a Holiday Inn Express stayer filling in as a rodeo clown. The first thing I think is "does rodeo clown really require that much special knowledge or skill?" I mean, I guess keeping someone from getting gored is a skill but it kind of just seems like a survival instinct to me; however, I am willing to buy this is a skill.
BUT. . .
The rodeo clown tells the rodeoee (I don't know anything about the rodeo nor will I google it to find out if there is a proper term for the idiot on the bull) that he is actually with the birthday party, but don't worry "I stayed at a Holiday Inn Express last night." Did Holiday Inn just create a clown hierarchy? What is below birthday party clown? Street clown? Are mimes include in the hierarchy?
With this commercial Holiday Inn Express has fractured an already subjugated community. Rodeo clowns no longer associate with simple birthday party clowns and circus clowns feel they are the superiors of the rodeo clowns. Mimes are desperately trying to climb the clown hierarchy but keep finding themselves trapped in a box of prejudice. Just because they have a smile painted on doesn't mean a clown is always smiling on the inside. Maybe next time Holiday Inn thinks about using clowns in its ad campaign, it will be sensitive to the needs of the clown community and attempt to foster harmony instead of driving a stake through their already strained relationships.

Napping on a Warm Afternoon: A Bad Idea

I promised myself in September of 2005 and I would not nap when the weather was warm. It seems that cold weather allows both my body and mind to hibernate. But warm weather does something funny to me. As my body becomes restless and uncomfortable, so does my mind.
How do you know, you ask? Well, dear reader, the answer will disturb and puzzle you. It involves an extended dream about Heinrich Hilter (Hitler's brother) who led a gender segregated band of mole people. This civilization lived below an abandoned planned community from the 1950s and is discovered (I suppose, the dream ended too quickly) by a detective in the future (or a weird present time). The dream is complete with a post-apocalyptic golf tournament featuring Mike Tirico clad in an aluminum foil hat. If you really want to know more, please feel free to ask, I wrote it all down so the details will be with me till the end of time.
Moving on. I apparently did not learn my lesson as I decided to nap on this particularly warm afternoon.
Dream #1: I am Belle in Beauty and the Beast and am renacting the movie. Now this use to be my favorite movie as a child, so at one time this dream would very closely resemble what happened in the movie. Not so much now. What I remember is inserting the fact that the girl who broke the spell needed to be 16 (sort of creepy considering he was in his 30s) and my attempt to save Maurice involved me hiding under a bench. I have, to say the least, weird fears, but being stuck under a dungeon bench is never something I feared until today.
Dream #2: I downloaded software to turn my computer into a Mac. Once downloaded, windows kept popping up and I couldn't close any of them. I kept hitting the "x" but nothing happened! Then someone started g-chatting with me and I couldn't respond! Sure I realize this is not as scary as being stuck under a dungeon bench but I am never buying a Mac after this dream.
Dream #3: I am at my elementary/middle school. I have lots of dreams about my elementary school Creston. Most of them involve a firy, end of times sort of feel. Yes, we could spend time analyzing what this says about my childhood but instead I will move on to the current dream.
I am there in the library with a bunch of law students (all law students shall remain nameless for fear they read this blog, highly unlikely - I know, and will know that I dream about law students in general and them specifically. Plus, this way you can all try to figure out which law student you are in my dream. I bet you'll never guess . . . )
So, in the library they (I don't know who they is, very mysterious) make us all get into a circle and hold hands. On my left is some kid I don't know and on my right is Law Student 1. I am unable to hold hands with LS1 mainly because I am unable to thread my fingers through LS1's. Everyone in the circle is wondering what the hold up is and the mounting pressure is not helping me achieve the hand hold everyone wants. Luckily, everyone quickly becomes disinterested with this hand holding circle thing and starts to leave. I pick up my backpack and join them.
Now I am walking up the stairs with a bunch of female law students. We are all pushing and clawing our way to the top when one of the railings gives way. Two law students have fallen through.
LS2 and 3 are lying flat on their backs. Neither girl is dead, but an ambulance is still called. I am sent on a fruitless search to find two glasses of water. Nothing! The damn teachers did not refill the ice cube trays in the lounge and apparently it is really crucial that there be ice in this water.
I come back empty handed as both girls are being wheeled off and LS2 hands me about ten lacy dresses and asks me to dress up her giant paper doll for her. She then yells at me as I drop them all. Apparently the fall didn't knock the bitch out of her.
Off I go now to find the janitor because he has the elevator key with which we need to use in order to return the giant carts we have been using (for what I don't know). I descend into the evil boiler room heart of my elementary school carrying numerous cds and a shoe box. I finally find the janitor standing in front of a pit of fire and he tells me we can't use the elevator because he has it signed out for the day.
I get sort of bitchy (which now that I know the end of the dream I whole heartedly regret) and ask him to point me the way out. He points to a ladder going down. I explain that could not be the way out because I could have never climbed up that ladder holding cds and a shoebox. He assures me it is right and I stupidly trust evil, creepy janitor. I begin the descent down the elevator and drop half of the cds and the shoe box. As I reach the bottom of the ladder, I realize this is not the correct way out and I head back up the ladder. As I near the top the evil, toothless janitor stares down on me, laughing as he covers the exit with a manhole cover.
I am now officially scared of janitors, ladders, and boiler rooms.

Out of My Tuesday Twilight Thinkin'

I realize that it is probably not twilight, but it is Tuesday and cut my some slack I am in the middle of a 48 hour take-home exam. Also, I am not sure I know when twilight is. If you, dear reader, know when twilight is please do not tell me. I would like for twilight to remain a mysterious, mythical thing much like a unicorn or Mischa Barton . . .
Do you know Dennis Hopper has eight movies in production in the next two years? Well, now you do . . . I think the phrase "shower curtain" could become the poor man's "cellar door". . . I miss the Denver Nuggets old uniforms. . . I sometimes get mad when I am watching a sporting event and I realize that the athlete is younger than me. My anger is only going to increase as my age does. That fact worries me and my blood pressure. . . I am worried that because I am not watching "American Idol" this season that I have breached my contract with pop culture. It has provided for me, raised me, and given me the best times of my life and all it asked in return is that I buy an US Weekly now and again and watch "American Idol" once every few weeks. Will pop culture understand and allow me to pay it back this summer by watching this year's edition of "Rock Star: Supernova," "Big Brother," and some MTV reality series? . . .
I was embarrassingly old when I started to watch "Lambchop". . . Just like riding a bike, you say. I can only assume that phrase means something I will never learn how to do even though everyone else knows how to. . . As of late, Bill Walton's commentary is starting to sound a little, uh . . . homosexual (not that there is anything wrong with that). A few weeks ago, he said Dwayne Wade had the body of a Greek god and last week he salivated over the fine specimen that is some big white guy I can't remember. . .On a related note, I sometimes wish ESPN.com allowed me to search NBA players based on physical characteristics. I know he was a dopey white guy with a crew cut, I just can't remember what team he plays for . . .
Mark Ortega was the champion of season three of "American Gladiators." I sometimes wonder if me, twin brother Dave, and Mark Ortega's family are the only people who remember that. I'm actually sort of worried his family might not even remember. . . I would do anything to play Dazzler, the disco superhero who first appeared in the 1980s, in a movie. If George Clooney was directing it, I would sell my first born, both kidneys, and allow my memory to be erased for science to get that role. . . Would the Loch Ness monster get invited to a dragon convention with Puff, Beowolf's dragon, and well actually those are the only two dragons I can think of. Puff and Beowolf's dragon don't really have a choice of whether to invite the Loch Ness monster. If they don't expand convention membership it is gonna be just the two of them in a Vegas hotel room trying to figure out what to do with the dead stripper. . .
I really like foods with crusts. . . Do I think that Trajan Langdon looks like a cute Husky dog only because he is from Alaska? I'm worried that this could be offensive. On another, Langdon related note, for all you fans out there. he is currently playing in basketball in Russia. I miss him. I wonder if he misses me. . . If I were a punctuation mark I would most definitely like to be a dash, but I fear I would be a comma or worse yet, the right parentheses. . . .

ESPN: Making Paul Haggis Look Like He Understands Race Issues

Those of you who have been around me long enough know that one of my favorite things to rant about is race. Especially race and sports followed closely by Paul Haggis' misconception of race and King Kong and racism. This rant falls in the first category (don't worry everyone, you will get to read long posts on both of the other issues as well).
Bill Parcells retired from coaching recently. Now I am not a big Bill Parcells fan, I think he is overrated and even if he wasn't always overrated is significantly past his prime at this point. It was sort of great watching him coach this past season when you could tell he just didn't care or just didn't know what to do. He just stood on the sidelines with a sort of jolly grimace on his face, as if to say "Yeah this is painful for me but its a helluva lot more painful for Jerry Jones." ESPN announced today that Bill Parcells would be joining its NFL broadcast team . . . . wait for it . . . . . . . waiting still . . . . . . . . .
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
You have to be joking, right? ESPN is hiring Bill Parcells. Bill Parcells. The same Bill Parcells who in June 2004 made a very racist comment concerning the Japanese. (You can read it here as I will refrain from quoting it). The NFL did not so much as fine him, finding that he prefaced the statement by saying "no disrespect to the Orientals." I wouldn't even get started on his use of the word "orientals" (a rug is oriental not a person!) but somehow him acknowledging that his statement was offensive made it somehow better. Am I missing some leap in logic here? Or did the NFL just not want to say what we all know is true: its major demographic is not Asian so we are not all that concerned with offending them.
Not even a year early the same ESPN that is hiring Parcells fired Rush Limbaugh for stating that the media was building Donovan McNabb up because they wanted to see a black quarterback do well. Now I do not agree with this statement by any stretch of the imagination. First of all, if this were a true statement about the media wanting to see a black quarterback succeed it is not true that McNabb has not earned such accolades (for someone who may fit media build-up without actual success see Michael Vick). Second, the statement is ill informed and really the question that needs to be asked is "So what?" The NFL obviously has problems with African Americans in leadership roles and the quarterback position is no different (also there is the problem that the quarterback has not traditionally been the most athletic player on the field - that was the receiver or running back. Of course this builds on the stereotypical notion that African American athletes are faster and stronger than their more intellectual white counterpart. So much wrong with all of that . . . head going to explode . . . moving on)
Good for the media is my response to Limbaugh if his statement were accurate. I fail to see the problem with the media highlighting the success of an African American quarterback in the hopes that the NFL and football in general will shed some of its lingering racial stereotypes. ESPN's response to Limbaugh was to fire him (a great decision even without the McNabb comment. Limbaugh was awful and he knew so little about football it made me weep into my dry cereal every Sunday morning).
Whether you agree with ESPN's decision here is not really the point. The point is ESPN set the bar high. It said we will not tolerate racism or anything than can be construed as racism by any of our broadcasters. I applauded its stance than and severely criticism the company today for backing down on the stance with the hiring of Parcells. ESPN is sending the same message the NFL sent three years earlier: if you don't make up a good portion of our audience, we do not care. Now the reason for the Limbaugh firing of years prior becomes clear. It had nothing to do with a strong stance on a social ill that pervades the world of sports; all it had to do with was money. Seems that perhaps sports is color blind when the only color it sees is green.

Things I am Afraid of: Charcoal Sketches of People in Bathtubs

I am a rather jumpy, skittish person. I wasn't always this way. I use to be brave until about the age of six when I had a dream that my house was robbed (the robbers came to the front door and rang the doorbell. I am not clear to this day why exactly my family let them in . . . ) . After that dream I couldn't sleep facing my sliding glass door for fear robbers would enter it.
If this wasn't enough to make a small girl terrified of life, I made the mistake of reading a book called The Girl in the Box when I was in third grade. The book is about a girl who gets kidnapped and thrown into a basement with her typewriter. (The book ends and you never find out if you she gets out). That made me pretty much terrified to get the mail by myself till I was about . . . ummm . . . twenty-fiveish.
Anyway, those incidents combined with a general fear of the unknown and a distinct lack of a thrill-seeking gene have made me afraid of a variety of things ranging from the common everyday to the obscure. This is the first post in a (never-ending) series in which I will explore my fears. This is not meant to be therapeutic but rather an attempt to explain away my crazy.
Charcoal sketches in general are sort of haunting. There is something about the lines in charcoal drawings that creep me out. They aren't black, but they aren't grey (perhaps this is where the color charcoal comes from . . . ) they are just sort of an awful mix of black and grey. And the edges are blurry. I don't mind a blurry edge here or there but I don't like everything to be smudged into each other. I want some definition.
Also, when ever we had to do charcoal drawings in grade school, the charcoal will get all over our clothes and hands and floor. Everything you touched would have charcoal on it and it was hard to wash off. I was like Lady Macbeth in my elementary school bathroom. There is something completely disturbing about an eight year-old scrubbing her clothes at a sink that is unusually low to the ground while she mutters curses at the charcoal .
So charcoal used as an artistic medium, as a general rule, is just altogether disturbing. The eeriness of charcoal people combined with the super creepy feel of an ill-defined charcoal sketched bathtub is just enough to send me running for the door. I don't know that I have ever seen a charcoal sketch of a person in a bathtub when the person did not have crazy hair and creepy dead eyes. (I searched the Internet for an example but apparently charcoal sketches of people in bathtubs are not in vogue right now . . .). And the bathtub is always one of those claw-foot ones (which is another fear to be discussed later on in the series). There is something animalistic about such tubs and for some reason charcoal artists always like to exaggerate the feet so they look as if they could grab the person who just walked into the bathroom. I'm afraid of being grabbed by a bathtub, I'll admit it.
Getting back to the person now. They always seem to look as if they just came out of the drain of the bathtub and no matter what way you slice it a person coming out of a bathtub drain is scary (you don't even have to be as crazy as me to think that). There is something about their disheveled appearance that makes them look like they might eat babies or bit the heads of crows (also another fear of mine, crows not people who bite the heads of crows.)
In conclusion, it is the combination of the ill-defined charcoal lines, claw-foot tub, and crazy drain person combined with the fact that all of this can be hidden from me by a shower curtain which can be thrown open at any time while I am either washing my hands or using the toilet that terrifies me. No one should ever have to worry that all this horror lurks behind an innocent vinyl shower curtain. If I can trust anything in this world, it should be a shower curtain and now thanks to charcoal artists and their bathtub sketches I don't even have that.

Out of My Tuesday Twilight Thinkin'

When I was in middle school and high school, my brother EJ and I use to go to Red Hot Inn every Monday to get fried eggs, hash browns, toast, and maybe a piece of pie. (This was before I realized that eggs contain too much egg flavoring for their own good). While there we would read the entertainment sections of several different news papers, including the Detroit Free Press. The DFP had a columnist (and perhaps still does) name Bob Talbert who ever Monday would write his column "Out of My Monday Mornin' Mind." The column basically contained his random thoughts for the week such as "need to go to the super market today and buy eggs . . . so what is a Spice Girl anyway . . . kids don't read enough these days. . ." I am not the journalistic genius that Bob Talbert is so I only hope my imitation is half as incoherent as his.
Why are there not more graphic sports injuries? Off hand I can only think of three injuries that make me cringe . . . Is it possible that no man will make me as happy as George Clooney makes me . . . Cameron Diaz's childhood nickname was Skeletor . . . Harnessing my random thoughts is more difficult than one would thing . . . One time I saw a vulture in real life (well, actually in the zoo, does that count as real life or is it a blend of reality and caged fiction?) and it looked identical to the vulture in Disney's Robin Hood except that he wasn't wearing a helmet or carrying a cross bow. . .
A paragraph break for your reading convenience . . . The idea of a dress with pockets makes me happy, although I would actively avoid purchasing one . . .Why is it that everyone looks good in black and white photographs but me? . . . 50% of the interviews I have had in 2007 I have mentioned the movie Legally Blonde . . . It seems unfair that everyone (I am not sure who this everyone includes) knows Babylon gods but not their (superior) Sumerian predecessors . . . Birds and giants are terrifying. As a general rule I am suspicious of anything that can crap on me from overhead . . . I have no opinion of Cate Blanchett except that I hate her . . . Dressing room clothing limits make me nervous. If I want to try on twenty things I should be able to try them all on without having to swap out items . . .
I think cold cuts, lettuce, and tomato sandwiched in between two slices of cold pizza is the most disgusting thing in the world. If I had been on that season of the Apprentice, I would have begged Donald to fire me rather than sample that monstrosity. . . Thinly sliced turkey is as a general rule disgusting . . . Because American Gladiators is no longer on the air, I have no incentive to work out. . . When you can hear someone blowing their nose on the other side of a wall perhaps they are blowing just a bit too hard . . . Do you think that King Midas and the Emperor (from the Emperor's New Clothes) were contemporaries? I like the idea of them meeting to sign a treaty or whatever it is foreign leaders do (I actually don't have any idea). When they go to sign the treat, the Emperor attempts to reach into his imaginary coat pocket for a pen but than King Midas says "No, I have one" but when he touches the pen the pen and the ink turn to gold and is no good for treaty signing. Let's just face it, a treaty between King Midas and the Emperor is just never going to get signed. . .

Hustlin' Only Hurts the Hair

Two things I have found out about myself in recent years: Homeless men gravitate towards me and schizophrenics want to stab me with a shiv. Luckily, I encountered the first this morning and not the second (but the day is young . . .).
Homeless man, I will call him Sanders, gets off the bus and heads over to the Greyhound station where I am waiting outside for office to open. There is a group of five of us waiting outside and with the addition of Sanders that makes six. Sanders makes a bee line for me and begins to tell me about his girlfriend, an ex-nurse, who is abusing prescription drugs. Unfortunately for the man who had been pacing up and down the side walk, Sanders decision to talk to me is impeding his pacing. He now has to pace back and forth in a four foot square.
While Pacey keeps looking angrily in Sanders direction, Sanders continues his life story. Apparently, he has some sort of hustlin' turf war with his barber. I'm not sure what they are hustlin' but I am fairly certain it involves cans (he kept talking about his barber taking his cans and getting nickels and dimes for them). However, the real issue is not the hustlin' turf war but the fact that Sanders' barber because of the turf war now refuse to cut Sanders' hair. And Sanders, based not on my own judgment (he was wearing a hat) but on his own admission, hasn't gotten a decent hair cut in months.
"Why can't we just put things aside for a hair cut, man?" Sanders asked me. "We hustlin' but its a hair cut. Why can't we just get along for the hair? I mean its hair, man. Think about it. Whose you hurtin'?"
You're only hurting the hair, man. Only the hair.

A Broken Heart and A Broken Ankle

Ask me the greatest moment of my childhood and my answer without hesitation will be the 1992 NCAA East Regional Final game between Duke and Kentucky. That was the day I fell in love with a gangly Duke sophomore who had a flat-top (Fresh Prince style). Ordinarly, I would have fallen in love with Christian Laettner, the leader of the team, but I had been told by my brother's friend that he was gay (I found out years later this was untrue). I figured no point in loving someone who would not love me back (wise for a third grader) and turned my affection to Grant Hill.
In 1994, the Detroit Pistons drafted my love and I knew than we would be together forever. I would go to Duke to be a sports broadcaster and he would come back for a game and would fall hopelessly in love with me. His mother, a lawyer and Hillary Clinton's college roommate, would adore me and take me in as the daughter she never had. His father, former Dallas Cowboy running back, would dote on me and marvel at my sports knowledge.
This dream was dashed in the summer of 2000. As I prepared to leave for college, Grant prepared to rip my heart out with his decision to join the Orlando Magic.
Eight good years we had together!! Jerseys, posters, dolls, cards, videos! All of it worthless. The Grant Hill for MVP campaign I waged for the 1996-1997 apparently was not enough for him. All my unwavering support through the rough playoff campaigns when he all but disappeared was forgotten as he walked out the door.
After that I gave up the NBA. The idea of seeing him in another uniform was just too heart breaking. Little did I know I would not have to see him in another uniform often as his arrival in Orlando was plagued with injury after injury. No longer would Grant Hill's name be whispered in the same sentence as Michael Jordan. Instead he joined the likes of Harold Miner and Anfernee Hardaway as those who never lived up to their "Next Jordan" labels.
I saw Grant last night for the first time in years; he was in an Orlando jersey. He looked well, and played alright but I can't say that it didn't hurt. However, it hurt a lot less knowing he had also been miserable since the break-up.
A broken heart for a broken ankle, almost seems like a fair trade-off.

Without Me

This Blog was created with you, dear reader, in mind. I, try as I might, am not omnipresent and thus, can not be there for you at every moment of every day. My failure in this area has caused me many sleepless nights. What if you need to know something about the 1993 Phoenix Suns, American Gladiators, or eating cereal dry and I am not around? I would hate to think that you would have to go with out such information or that you might have to *gasp* look it up!
Fear not kind reader, I am now available 24 hours a day, seven days a week.
Welcome to Unbought Stuffed Dogs, the blog that will fill the void left in your life when I leave the room.