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.

Mr. June

I got the idea for the Robert Horry as Mr. June reference from Michael Wilbon, columnist for the Washington Post, whose article today compared him to Reggie Jackson’s October heroics. Mr. June. I was on the phone last night with a friend and said, “that shot by Horry.” And I wondered how many times people have said that. I wasn’t banking on it, when he got the ball outside the arc. I was in a panic. I had been that way for four full quarters and all of overtime, as I watched the Spurs give away seven- and nine-point leads at the blink of an eye. As I watched them play pretty hideous basketball during the second half. And Tim Duncan. Jesus. I’m hoping he couldn’t sleep last night, just like I couldn’t. I hope the series ends tomorrow night, not because I’m tired of watching, but because I can’t handle this kind of stress. I don’t know how people can coach. But deep down, somewhere, I’m thoroughly enjoying it. The Spurs are a hard team to love, but love them since 1987 I have. Because I didn’t sleep last night, I wasn’t feeling well this morning and left work early. I took a rare four-hour nap when I got home and am hopefully still tired enough to sleep. The big pride weekend is coming up, and I’m not totally looking forward to it. I’m marching on Sunday with the butch-femme group so I can hang out with Cindy and her partner Yvette. The only reason. I’m thinking to make the time go by quicker of trying to get a date at every block. Maybe every other block. Or maybe I’ll just keep my blinders on. I’ve got to get girls out of my head for a while. They’re keeping me up at night. And not in the good way. After the game last night, I was considering becoming straight so I could marry Mr. June. My friend Kerry, the one making the film I’m gonna be in, is coming over Wednesday to check out my apartment to see about lighting and noise levels. She also asked if she could shoot me this weekend during pride to get some footage. I’m getting excited about this film prospect, but it hasn’t hit yet. I don’t think it will till I actually see myself on camera. What a fucking leo dream come true. The funny thing is she keeps asking if I’d mind if she gets extra footage of me. Um. No. I don’t. I’m gonna see about her putting my contact info during the credits. Or at least my status: perpetually single. Could be an interesting way to get a few dates. All right. To bed. And hopefully to sleep.

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.

That Was Some Painful Shit

During the second half, I was on the phone with my friend Shane (the guy, not the girl, for those of you who know my girl history), and at some point, with the television muted, I had to ask him what 97 minus 71 was. I had just returned to ABC after having to leave. I couldn’t watch. Instead I opted for Dirty Dancing on USA, muted though it was. It took me back to 14. I saw that movie in West Hollywood with my junior varsity basketball team. Coach Vasquez, the one we all made fun of for being a lesbo (if I didn’t join in they’d all find out about me….shameful….shameful). She had to explain the abortion laws to us during the movie. I had no idea what was going on. I only knew that I really wanted Jennifer Grey the way Patrick Swayze wanted her. I had a BMT sandwich from Subway that day, and as a result, was benched for consuming red meat. Vasquez was a piece of work. During pre-season, we killed a basketball team, much like the Pistons did to the Spurs tonight. I got a lot of playing time and scored 17 points. The scorekeeper, Holly I think, came up to me after the game and gave me the news of my double-digit, game-high performance. Then Vasquez came up to me. She was sure to congratulate me for a game well played. I was finally able to show her what I was capable of. But instead she told me not to expect to get that kind of playing time. I was just in the game a lot because they were a poor team. That instilled me with so much confidence, let me tell you. I made varsity the next year. Bitch. I didn’t feel bad anymore for dragging her whistle through the mud-soaked bathroom. So I can never watch Dirty Dancing without thinking of her. But that’s ok. Jennifer Grey trumps bad coaches any day. Tonight’s game. When I found out what 97-71 was (math takes me a while; especially when double figures are involved), I just started laughing. It just got funny. Boston’s leprachaun flew to Detroit tonight and hung out on the Spurs’ rim. I would hate to be in the locker room tonight. No, actually I would love it. I’m sure lockers where punched. Depression. Embarrassment. They may as well have walked onto the court and pulled their shorts down. Because Detroit shut them the fuck down, playing a near flawless game, replete with offense and defense. And most importantly, the will to win. It’s all tied up. Can’t wait for Sunday. Really. I can’t.

Pregame Thoughts

So let me get this straight. The Spurs blew out the first two games at home. Detroit returned the favor in its first chance at home. As I listen to these ABC guys before the game, tortured as the commentary is, I’m listening to the predictions that favor Detroit. How abominable the Spurs played on Tuesday. All of them. All of the articles I read today had the same tone. Despite a 2-1 Spurs lead, the media is favoring Detroit. Interesting. But only in one article did I see the point raised that no one else has really mentioned. Not even as a footnote. Although Duncan, et al. played sub-par games, they were ahead by one at the half. And it was tied with just over a minute to play in the third. And the Spurs played poor basketball. No one’s talking about that tonight, though. Interesting. Oh, wonderful. The American Idol 2005 is singing the national anthem. Nadia totally should have won. Let’s get on with this game.

Ouch, Indeed

If you’da told me at the start of the game that San Antonio was gonna suffer a 17-point loss, I woulda said you were crazy. Well, I’m crazy. The second-half debacle of no rebounding, poor field-goaling, poor defense, etc. gave way to the home-team ambush. So there have now been three games and three blowouts. I’m not sure what that says about either team. Detroit broke down in the first two. And San Antonio never broke through tonight. That they were up by one at the half says that they were just playing “defensively,” and not in a good way. It was bound to happen. And Thursday will be interesting. And I must say, Ben Wallace is fun to watch. Period. And I’m not so sure how I feel about the Dukes of Hazzard movie. Jessica Simpson is an ok substitute for Catherine Bach, I suppose. For now. When I was a kid, that show was a huge part of my life. Every day, I longed for Friday when I could pretend to fly through the sky in an unfortunately confederate flagged car, being just like Bo and Luke. Well, I thought Bo was cooler, so I wanted to be like him, although I’d want to wear Luke’s blue shirt. And then there was Daisy Duke. Whew. One Friday afternoon when I was about five or so, my mom and Tan and I went to a Walgreen’s-type store. Could have been K-mart. I don’t remember. I was minding my own business walking up and down aisle after aisle. And I happened upon a bin of watermelon candy. Watermelon candy to me, for some reason, was forbidden. I had only had it a few times, but it was such a delectable taste to my young palette that I just had to have it. And I knew no one would buy it for me. So I lifted some. Stole a couple of pieces right out of the bin. All I had to do was wait till I was in the confines of my bedroom to stick it in my mouth and enjoy that mouth-watering tasted. But I wasn’t so smart. Immediately upon taking my seat in the car, I unwrapped my first piece and shoved it in. “What do you have in your mouth?” my mother asked. “Nothing,” I said, hoping that my inability to form whole words wouldn’t tip her off. Not considering that, if the flavor bursts in my mouth, then its odor certainly fills the car. They nailed me. Grounded. No Dukes of Hazzard that night. I never stole again. Going to sleep with the Spurs’ loss in my head.

Fired Up!

It’s coming up on game time, and though I’m nervous, I’m quite excited. Detroit’s hoppin’ pissed — the Pissedons, if you will (sorry) — and they’re gonna come the hell out. ABC’s Michelle Tafoya made it a point to mention the L.A. series last year. They all remember it. And that’s a nice damn suit, Stuart Scott. Whew. Note to self: go buy a green shirt tomorrow. So I’m just gonna sit back and watch this little thing. I’ll be back a little later, win or lose….

Whoa Nelly!

ESPN.com. Is there a picture of any of the Spurs on the homepage tonight? Is there a picture of Bruce Bowen mid-three-point shot? How about of Robert Horry sneaking in after a Spurs’ field goal to steal an inbounds pass? Or of Manu Ginobli flying out of bounds to save a possession, which turned into three points? A Tim Duncan rebound. A Tony Parker pass through the key to a driving Ginobli? They can all be caught, these pictures. And perhaps they were. But none are on display tonight on ESPN.com. Ok, then. Let’s get on with it. I don’t wanna hear another word about the Spurs being boring. Never. Ever. Every day, I go to my personalized Google ‘San Antonio Spurs’ news and I read countless articles talkin’ about ‘this is gonna be a boring series’; ‘two defensive teams playing each other in the finals can only be good for the seven or so fundamentalists out there.’ Enough. This San Antonio Spurs team, though they arrived twenty-seven years ago and have been blessed by the likes of George Gervin, David Robinson (true love right there), and Sean Elliott, and now Timmy, Manu, and Tony, is finally being recognized. They’re making shit happen. Period. Cutting through the key practically untouched, hitting (thankfully!) from the line, from beyond the arc, blocking shots, chasing loose balls out of bounds, stealin’, fakin’….Winning. The thing is, they’ve been doing it all along. Boring nothing. ‘It’s a must-win for the Spurs tonight,’ they say (yes, even David); ‘Detroit had to do this or do that’; ‘Detroit just fell apart; they were lax.’ How about giving the Spurs props for beating four games to one a Denver team that was hitting during the stretch; a Seattle team four games to two (I think) that was right up there with Phoenix and San Antonio throughout the season for the top spot; and a Phoenix team four games to one that, well, that was the best team in the league and featured the league’s MVP? And now? Up two games to none against the defending champs. Fifteen- and twenty-one point victories, respectively. I want to hear some Spurs props. I wanna hear from the Spurs players. I wanna see quote after quote from my Google news page tomorrow from Pop and Timmy, et al. And I don’t wanna hear excuses about ‘I didn’t get any good shots…it wasn’t Bowen’s defense at all.’ You’re right, Rip. It wasn’t Bowen at all. The silent stopper, the defensive specialist who chose back in college to specialize on this end of the court. He had nothin’ to do with it. I think your vision might be a little cloudy from the sweat pooling in your mask. So the boys are gonna fly to Detroit, with the knowledge that they blew a 2-0 lead last year against the Lakers in the second round. They’re going into a place that, according to Bill Walton (SHUT UP!), is the one place in all of sports that is the hardest to play for a visiting team. As respectful sportsmen do, they’re going to go in there and play as though they’re down by two rather than up. They’re going to understand that Detroit will be out for blood, unhappy with their output thus far and unwilling to be embarrassed again. They’ll just go in there and be the Spurs. They will walk into the Palace with the respect that they have for Detroit and its game. For the game. I hope the press give some of that respect back to a team that deserves it.