ACY
The thread killa strikes again *formerly Quagmire*
Posted by Paul Shirley: March 23, 2005, 1:20 a.m., Charlotte, NC
It is a good thing I have the trainers and other support staff around to keep me sane. I do not know what it says about me, but I have very few lifelong friends that are former teammates. On the other hand, my e-mail address list is riddled with the names of athletic trainers, strength coaches, and managers from my various stops along the way. I am not sure why; it could be because most basketball players have an inherent inability to laugh at themselves and are most of the time more worried about their appearance than most anything else.
After today’s shoot-around, I found my way to the weight room in our hotel and met Erik Phillips, our strength coach, so that he could make a futile attempt at sculpting my body to Olympiad standards. As we walked into the room, Erik pointed out that none other than one Magic Johnson was sharing our space. He was riding a stationary bike, listening to headphones and watching a television mounted on the wall in front of him. We did not really know what to do with this information, so we minded our business and got to the task at hand. Toward the end of the work-out, we were joined by assistant trainer Mike Elliott, who was in a self-improvement mode as well. Soon after Mike burst onto the scene, we changed the channel of the television nearest us to the same one being viewed by Big Earv (and I mean Big: regarding the progression of HIV, someone must have been misleading us back in high school health class). He was watching a program that was counting down the NBA’s greatest finishes, or something of the like. Just as we got the channel changed, things got interesting as they began recounting Game 4 of the 1987 NBA Finals. While I finished some lat pull downs, Magic hit the famous running hook that helped win the series for the Lakers. The three of us were struck by the strange situation in which we found ourselves. Mike, fortunately, came up with a suggestion. “Someone should go over there and say, ‘Hey Magic. Nice shot.’” Because the gauntlet had been thrown down, Erik was almost without recourse. It took him a couple of minutes, but he did it, and it was hilarious, just as we expected. See, these are my kind of people. Not afraid to make asses of themselves in the interest of low-brow comedy. (By the way, after Erik took one for the comedic team, we all wandered over and chatted with Mr. Johnson. He was gracious, kind, and charming, just like everyone says. I did notice that, when I introduced myself, he did not tell me his name. I, of course, know his name—the above paragraph would have been difficult to write without that knowledge. I do not know, however, what I am supposed to call him now. Magic? Seems a bit odd. Earvin? Seems a bit forced. It will be a dilemma that haunts me. Anyway, we talked for five minutes about nothing of consequence and then went our separate ways.)
We beat the Hawks tonight and now have our 50th win under our belt. Not bad. I would like to say the mark was set on a game filled with poetic basketball and a high level of play. But if I did, I would be lying, and would be betraying the very little credibility I do have. Saying the Hawks are a bad basketball team is like saying that living in Beirut would be exciting—true, but not really the whole story. The Hawks are really, really bad. Such a collection of mismatched players has rarely been foisted upon the NBA in recent years, methinks. It is almost as if someone picked the group completely at random. There were balls being bounced off teammates’ faces, passes thrown to no one in particular and, in general, very little coherent basketball at all. At one point, the Hawks actually entered an airball as their shot of choice on three straight possessions.
A couple of things stood out tonight, not the least of which was the usual raucous crowd in Atlanta. By raucous I mean, of course, almost nonexistent. How can a team in the fifth or sixth or seventh-largest city in the US (I need a fact-checker, 1:30 a.m. is not the time to be doing research) not ever fill the arena? I played very briefly for the Hawks two years ago—preseason and a 10-day contract during the year—and tonight was as full as I have ever seen it. There were maybe 6000 people in attendance. Jimmy Jackson said it best before the game. “Watch out,” he warned, “there are a bunch of fans dressed up like seats out there tonight.”
I had several Gun In Mouth Moments tonight—most of them caused by some bad nicknames. Gun In Mouth Moments (GIMM’s) are defined as points in my life when, if I were carrying a gun at the time, I would have to consider putting it in my mouth and ending it all so as to avoid dealing with the further downward spiral of our culture. The first GIMM arrived with the announcement of the starting line-ups. Here’s the deal: When, after 60 games, the team being announced has a winning percentage hovering around the same area as most pitchers’ batting averages, it loses the right to a grand entrance. No more dance team, no more theme song, no more dimming the lights. The players just walk onto the court and play the game. That’s it. The Hawks did not agree to my deal. They had an over-produced introduction on the big screen, an actual hawk that flew down from the rafters, and even a catch-phrase—something like, “The Spirit Lies Within.” Make it stop. My other GIMM's occurred each time either of the Hawks’ rookie Josh’s was announced for scoring a basket. Apparently, someone decided that saying Josh Smith or Josh Childress was just not going to be sufficient. So instead, each time Josh Smith scores, the crowd is treated to, “J-Smooth for two.” When it is Childress, out comes, “J-Chill with the assist.” An analysis of this situation that does not include profanity escapes me, so I will not even try. Good night.
It is a good thing I have the trainers and other support staff around to keep me sane. I do not know what it says about me, but I have very few lifelong friends that are former teammates. On the other hand, my e-mail address list is riddled with the names of athletic trainers, strength coaches, and managers from my various stops along the way. I am not sure why; it could be because most basketball players have an inherent inability to laugh at themselves and are most of the time more worried about their appearance than most anything else.
After today’s shoot-around, I found my way to the weight room in our hotel and met Erik Phillips, our strength coach, so that he could make a futile attempt at sculpting my body to Olympiad standards. As we walked into the room, Erik pointed out that none other than one Magic Johnson was sharing our space. He was riding a stationary bike, listening to headphones and watching a television mounted on the wall in front of him. We did not really know what to do with this information, so we minded our business and got to the task at hand. Toward the end of the work-out, we were joined by assistant trainer Mike Elliott, who was in a self-improvement mode as well. Soon after Mike burst onto the scene, we changed the channel of the television nearest us to the same one being viewed by Big Earv (and I mean Big: regarding the progression of HIV, someone must have been misleading us back in high school health class). He was watching a program that was counting down the NBA’s greatest finishes, or something of the like. Just as we got the channel changed, things got interesting as they began recounting Game 4 of the 1987 NBA Finals. While I finished some lat pull downs, Magic hit the famous running hook that helped win the series for the Lakers. The three of us were struck by the strange situation in which we found ourselves. Mike, fortunately, came up with a suggestion. “Someone should go over there and say, ‘Hey Magic. Nice shot.’” Because the gauntlet had been thrown down, Erik was almost without recourse. It took him a couple of minutes, but he did it, and it was hilarious, just as we expected. See, these are my kind of people. Not afraid to make asses of themselves in the interest of low-brow comedy. (By the way, after Erik took one for the comedic team, we all wandered over and chatted with Mr. Johnson. He was gracious, kind, and charming, just like everyone says. I did notice that, when I introduced myself, he did not tell me his name. I, of course, know his name—the above paragraph would have been difficult to write without that knowledge. I do not know, however, what I am supposed to call him now. Magic? Seems a bit odd. Earvin? Seems a bit forced. It will be a dilemma that haunts me. Anyway, we talked for five minutes about nothing of consequence and then went our separate ways.)
We beat the Hawks tonight and now have our 50th win under our belt. Not bad. I would like to say the mark was set on a game filled with poetic basketball and a high level of play. But if I did, I would be lying, and would be betraying the very little credibility I do have. Saying the Hawks are a bad basketball team is like saying that living in Beirut would be exciting—true, but not really the whole story. The Hawks are really, really bad. Such a collection of mismatched players has rarely been foisted upon the NBA in recent years, methinks. It is almost as if someone picked the group completely at random. There were balls being bounced off teammates’ faces, passes thrown to no one in particular and, in general, very little coherent basketball at all. At one point, the Hawks actually entered an airball as their shot of choice on three straight possessions.
A couple of things stood out tonight, not the least of which was the usual raucous crowd in Atlanta. By raucous I mean, of course, almost nonexistent. How can a team in the fifth or sixth or seventh-largest city in the US (I need a fact-checker, 1:30 a.m. is not the time to be doing research) not ever fill the arena? I played very briefly for the Hawks two years ago—preseason and a 10-day contract during the year—and tonight was as full as I have ever seen it. There were maybe 6000 people in attendance. Jimmy Jackson said it best before the game. “Watch out,” he warned, “there are a bunch of fans dressed up like seats out there tonight.”
I had several Gun In Mouth Moments tonight—most of them caused by some bad nicknames. Gun In Mouth Moments (GIMM’s) are defined as points in my life when, if I were carrying a gun at the time, I would have to consider putting it in my mouth and ending it all so as to avoid dealing with the further downward spiral of our culture. The first GIMM arrived with the announcement of the starting line-ups. Here’s the deal: When, after 60 games, the team being announced has a winning percentage hovering around the same area as most pitchers’ batting averages, it loses the right to a grand entrance. No more dance team, no more theme song, no more dimming the lights. The players just walk onto the court and play the game. That’s it. The Hawks did not agree to my deal. They had an over-produced introduction on the big screen, an actual hawk that flew down from the rafters, and even a catch-phrase—something like, “The Spirit Lies Within.” Make it stop. My other GIMM's occurred each time either of the Hawks’ rookie Josh’s was announced for scoring a basket. Apparently, someone decided that saying Josh Smith or Josh Childress was just not going to be sufficient. So instead, each time Josh Smith scores, the crowd is treated to, “J-Smooth for two.” When it is Childress, out comes, “J-Chill with the assist.” An analysis of this situation that does not include profanity escapes me, so I will not even try. Good night.
