Seems silly to use John Lennon lyrics in a Lakers post but it’s my blog and I’ll do what I want, whether it entails inventing a rumor about Slava going to the Rockets, linking Sasha to steroid use or invoking childhood memories about witches and such.
Yes, this post is swimming with links, reader beware. It’s a hybrid of sorts, part confessional and part crass opportunism. Actually, there probably won’t be any secrets revealed, I just liked the notion of confessional BB blogging when a friend mentioned it and I’m always happy to rip off somebody else’s terminology in order to fill space on a page.
Darius from FB&G was tweeting last night after the loss to the .385 Bucks, he being possessed of a fine analytical basketball mind as well as the helpful ability (in most cases) to talk fans off the ledge, or if they persist in being annoying, to kick them off it entirely. Darius didn’t see the point in extrapolating too much from a bad loss while I on the other hand, bemoaned speed bumps and drudgery, hoping writers would immediately sharpen their knives. The morning brought duller but more pressing concerns, like finding socks without holes on four hours sleep.
The day passed in various mundane ways, basketball was thought about obliquely but didn't come into focus until later when availed of an opportunity to catch up with the morning blogs, now afternoon and as I write, encroaching on evening, feeling no shame however at extending their shelf lives, they tumble blindly as they make their way across the universe.
Phillip Barnett at FB&G talks about being caught in a trap game.
Mark Medina at the LAT writes about warning signs, fender benders and flu.
Andy Kamenetsky at LOL remarks on the Buck’s unusual ease of winning.
Dexter Fishmore from SS&R says this is how you lose home court advantage.
I no longer live in Los Angeles. Although I took up transitory residence in Austin for the best of reasons, like anyone who’s spent time in and loved a place, there’s the missing part. I miss New England where I grew up and also spent some recent years. I don’t miss the nine-month relentless gray of the Cape peninsula however (the pilgrims described it as an inhospitable place before retreating and heading to Plymouth) and I’m not missing the current Pineapple Express that’s turning L.A. into a boggy lake. No wonder fans are in a funk.
Thoughts meander as I try to write, there’s a cat dashing around making odd guttural cries and my old dog’s staring at me with forlorn eyes, now at the stage of his life where he has the constant craving to go outside and share his own downpour with the world. I’m ignoring the fact that I’ve got a real work deadline, clicking links about Larry Brown getting the hell out of Dodge once more, restless curmudgeon. Plus, a barnburner of a game between the Spurs and Nuggets.
I think what’s gotten to some of us is that we’re used to winning, we’re greedy, petulant when losses poke their stubbled faces in. We like our championships served in a relentless flow of blue skies and sunshine, we don’t want the wind skirling down our collars, no need for rain sluicing gutters and dirty icy roads. Even far and away from Los Angeles we want to lose ourselves in transcendent stretches, the white noise and joy.
It got ugly there for a while, at least by our entitled standards. Back-to-back losses and harping posts pounded out and finally a road trip that took shape, wins coming all in a row and Andrew back, off the bench and not nearly full strength but back. And the team, home again in the southland wet and gray, a crowd happy to have their team back and a team that didn’t seem nearly so interested. Phoning it in would have been more eventful.
So yeah, I get it, one crappy loss doesn’t change the big picture and the sky’s not falling and the dam’s not cracking. Maybe it’ll light a fire going into the weekend, maybe Kobe will get that creature-from-Aliens thing going with his lower jaw and the Heat will end up as the revenge fucks of Christmas day. Maybe. They’re playing pretty good ball lately and I hate to admit it. Of even more concern are the Spurs on the 28th. Those guys are serious and while we look at the big picture, they look at us and see a bulls eye with .04 scrawled in the middle.
Breathe deeply and let it go. Plug in the lights on the tree. The temperature’s dropping outside, the dog’s looking at me hopefully with a tennis ball in his mouth. End with a song.