A Sweet Thing

The third quarter is only three minutes old, and as I changed my clothes it hit me: I know who is going to win this game, this series, this championship. I have never seen the Spurs play as badly as they’re playing tonight. Never. The collective effort by the starting five lacks heart, drive and energy. Listening to Hubie Brown minute after minute getting a hard on over the Pistons isn’t helping, either. But why would he have anything nice to say about the Spurs? There isn’t anything to say. At least not yet, with 6:18 left in the third quarter. But wait… Tim Duncan just completed a rare three-point play, finished off by an even rarer made free throw. And Manu Ginobli just drove to the basket and scored a seemingly easy lay-up — the kind he did during Games 1 and 2. This offensive output completes a 7-0 run by the Spurs. In the last 30 seconds, they have shown more desire to win this thing than they did during the entire last four games… I’m reading an amazing book. Poisonwood Bible. Barbara Kingsolver conducts a clinic in writing with her prose. In voice. Dialogue. Description. The tastes, smells, heat, pace of Africa proliferate each sequence. When I read it on the train, I have to be careful not to miss my stop. Similarly, when I read in the minutes before work in front of my building over coffee and a clove, I have to be careful not to be late. It was in this space yesterday morning when a woman nervously approached me. “Do you have a light? I’m sorry to interrupt your concentration.” “Sure,” I said, reaching into my pocket to retrieve my lighter, which was lost among my pocket fodder. “Have you ever read Poisonwood Bible?” “What’s that?” She was digging through one of her two bags for something while she waited for me, hoping to avoid the interaction I had just initiated. “Poisonwood Bible.” “Oh. Poison- yes. Barbara Kinglover.” “Solver,” I said under my breath but loud enough to register my correction with the literary universe. “Yeah, that’s a great one,” she said moving toward the light I put in front of her cigarette. “I’ve read a few of hers. Bean Tree and- yeah, she’s a great writer. Thanks for the light.” “Sure. Take care.” The third quarter was amazing. Duncan came out of his coma with bank shots and free throws and blocked shots and …. Up by two at the beginning of the fourth. I was in a daze all day yesterday. I hadn’t slept much. Four hours at most. But I made it through the day, reading, reading, reading. And I read some more. Kingsolver. Engrossed, I was, on the train, ignoring the uninterested commuters, the stop announcements. And it was in this Kingsolver daze I walked the two blocks to my house. As I crossed Fifth Ave. and Union St., I noticed a car — a Honda or Toyota (they’re all the same to me now since leaving the car culture of California). It was hanging out in the lane a bit, though not an excruciating amount. But it was enough to block traffic in the event of a two-lane congestion going opposite directions. It looked abandoned, because the glare of the light off the windows concealed the heads of the three women inside. As I passed the car, I wondered why they weren’t making any effort to move it. One more step and I took my headphones off and walked toward the car. “Do you need me to help you push this out of the way?” They looked at each other confusedly and then said that would be nice of me. “Ok.” I walked around the back of the car and over to the driver’s seat. “I’m gonna need you to get out of the car,” I said to all three in no particular direction. The driver didn’t move much; she only looked at me waiting for her special instructions. Tim Duncan shoots from the perimeter with a finesse like he’s been shooting from there since birth. A Detroit bucket soon gives way to a Ginobli three. With 2:46 left in the fourth quarter, the Spurs are sitting with their biggest lead of the game. “I’m gonna need you to put the car in neutral and release the parking break if it’s set.” She obeyed and then sat there. “And I’m gonna need you to get out of the car.” With the car now void of the women’s weight, I bent over, pack on my back, and with one hand on the steering wheel and one on the dash, I pushed the car slowly the four feet it needed to go to be out of the way. I turned to look at the back of the car and the three women were standing behind it, although I couldn’t tell if they were helping. “Is that good? Is it out of the way?” “Yeah.” They all looked at each other and then at the curb to try to contribute to my good deed. “That should be ok.” “Does it need to be closer?” “No, that’s fine.” 1:50 left in the fourth quarter. Spurs up by six. Charge on Rip. 1:31 left. The SBC Center is loud. Hubie Brown is still talking about the Pistons and he now ranks right up there with Bill Walton in my book of commentators that should be muted. The women got back in the car. The driver, on her way back down to her seat, took a glance at my chest to see what sex she was dealing with. “Thank you.” “No problem. Have a good night.” Can the Spurs maintain this lead? Will Tim make these freethrows? One made. One missed. 1:01 remaining. My stomach is in my throat. It’s churning the way it churns when a girl says, “I can’t do this anymore.” My hands are shaking. I have to pace. “Get a stop.” BRUCEBOWENBLOCKSTHETHREEMANUGINOBLISCORESALAYUP!!!!!!! Nice shot, Rasheed. Four-point lead. 22.1 seconds. Manu freethrow. Five-point lead. Manu freethrow. Six-point lead. I gotta pace. 18 seconds… The Spurs found themselves after the beginning of the third quarter tonight. They found the game, their game, which they lost somewhere on the flight to Detroit last week. Horry freethrows made. Eight-point lead. Ginobli runnin’ away. Seven seconds left. Fouled. One freethrow. Pop is pissed! Two freethrows. IT’S OVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And to the sound of Queen, the Spurs are being pounded lightly with confetti. And there’s David Robinson. It’s over. It’s over. I can breathe again. Thank you, San Antonio. I’ve loved you since I was 14. I’ll love you till I die.

A Basketball Story

I was lying in bed, lamenting tonight’s Spurs’ loss, and I wondered if it was healthy to feel so bad after your team loses. Perhaps “so bad” is a bit dramatic. But, yeah, there’s a little lump in my throat. I placated myself momentarily by realizing that’s probably healthier than the perpetual pursuit of unavailable women. But that’s a story I’ve told too many times. And it’s not the one I want to tell tonight.

I tried to remember, while lying in bed, how I felt after Lakers’ losses in the 1980s. I couldn’t remember any reactions specifically. I only remember jumping up and down on the sofa when they defeated the Celtics during whichever year. And then I remembered 1985…I think it was. And Cheryl Miller and USC. I loved Cheryl Miller. And not the way I love girls now. I wanted to be her. I wanted her last name. I wanted to go to USC on a full basketball scholarship. I wanted to excel at basketball just like she did. I lulled myself to sleep just about every night imagining what I would look like in a USC uniform.
The dreams didn’t stop at USC. I wanted to play in the Olympics in 1992. I figured I could do it. I would have had one year under my belt at USC and would have been gold-medal primed. So when the opportunity came when I was 12 to participate in a girls’ basketball clinic at USC, I jumped. I begged. I had to go. I had to meet her. I thought that if she saw me play, she would promise me that scholarship. So I went, nervous as possible, and lined up with all the other girls who had my dreams. Rhonda Windham and Cynthia Cooper were also there, both players on that magnificent team, which won two titles. Windham talked to me, told me to start over again on the dribble. My nerves prevented me from being able to concentrate on something I wouldn’t be good at until high school. Before the clinic was over, I was called to a group by one of the coordinators. I was chosen to play at halftime of a women’s USC-UCLA women’s basketball game at the Sports Arena. I got through somehow. I got Cheryl Miller’s and Rhonda Windham’s autograhps on my size 10 (men’s) Reeboks. I was well on my way. The game wasn’t as memorable. I was uncomfortable in the shirt, because, as I saw it, it was small enough to fit a large doll. Way too small for my large 12-year-old frame. Self-consciousness abounded, but I managed to score some points. I think. And I heard I was on the news. The whole thing smacked of USC and Cheryl Miller. Trojan blood flowed through my veins. I couldn’t be happier. That year, they made it to the finals. The game was to be played on Easter Sunday. Unfortunately, I had to go to church. But I was able to make it back in time. I plopped down in front of the television, excitedly, to watch my team give Linda Sharp and her Texas team a thrashing. It didn’t turn out that way, though. USC lost. And it was Cheryl Miller’s last game. I couldn’t believe it. As the tears fell from my eyes, I somehow knew my dream ended with that loss. Of course, at the time I wasn’t to know that my abysmal SAT score and lack of talent were actually the culprits that shattered my USC basketball dream. The loss devastated me. But as I got over that one, I’ll get over tonight’s. I didn’t cry tonight. I don’t do that anymore. But it sure sucked ass. Yeah. Thursday. Here’s to basketball. And here’s to Cheryl Miller.

That’s it for Tonight

What a night. Thursday’s gonna suck. I can’t believe how much a Spurs’ loss can push my heart into my throat. Clench every muscle in my body. I don’t remember the last time I had to deal with a Game 7 situation. Lakers-Celtics? The only other time I really cared. I’m pissed. The Spurs played ugly in the second two quarters of this game. And give it to Detroit. As practically every sports writer said, they play best when their backs are up against the wall. Unfortunately, the Spurs never pulled their heads out of their asses after Game 3. And now Hubie Brown is talking about how great Detroit has done. It’s very interesting to me how the Spurs, who those same sports writers say are a team with character, all of a sudden become this annoying group of folks who really don’t deserve to win. It’s Detroit now who needs the support of the people and deserves this championship. I’m annoyed. At some point in the fourth quarter tonight, the silver and black rolled over and handed practically every offensive and defensive rebound and possession to Detroit. So what’s the answer? A lot of stress for me on Thursday. A prayer, perhaps. But I don’t pray. For Manu to stop turning the ball over in the paint. For Tim Duncan to make a freethrow. For all of them to get a rebound. To start making baskets. It’s gonna be quite a night. Game 7. This is far from the sweep I had hoped it would be.

I Can’t Handle This

Loving the Spurs is a hard thing to do. Down by two in Game 5 with two minutes to go. Not cool. The good news: they’re playing like shit in the second half. I won’t be around at the end of the game for much-anticipated analysis (c’mon, my old neighbor, you know you love it). I’ve written only three sentences for an article I’m working on. Due tomorrow. Sometimes it takes the inspiration of a Sunday night (or a next-day deadline) to get going on it.

Loving it a Little Too Live

I’ve got the paper to do and a move to get through and what am I doing? Watching basketball. I don’t think I’ve ever paid such close attention to the NBA playoffs as I have this year. It’s a bad time.

I haven’t signed up for cable yet for my new house, so maybe that’s a good thing. But I will be missing the season finales Boston Public, West Wing, Friends, Will & Grace, and ER. Sucks. And the playoffs. Maybe it’s a good thing. Another thing I’m doing instead of my paper is looking for a decent Spurs hat. I can’t find one. I may have to hit the NBA store here. I may actually have to shop offline. I’m not happy about it. Not that I have a whole lot of money for such stuff, but I’m still in mourning over the loss of my other Spurs hat. It’s been about four years now but there are just some things one can’t get over. I don’t think I’ll ever have another hat like that one.