Friday, March 28, 2008

My Tiny Little Beloved Mavericks Make Me Very Sad

I have been watching the Mavs but what can you say about a team that seems content with BARELY making the playoffs? The only positive I can take from the past month of Mavs games, oddly enough, comes from Dirk's injury. I take back any criticisms that I have leveled at the German Pattycake. Well, not really. But Dirk has been the only Mav that hasn't choked and folded at all in the past month. And with him out for the rest of the regular season, we are done. Sorry, I take that back. We are fully capable of beating the LA Clippers without Dirk. Congrats! Can we redo the Finals from two years ago with the current Miami Heat? That would be nice. But seriously, everyone in this town needs to send Dirk their warmest wishes and deepest condolences. Sorry for calling you Diet Choke on this blog once, dude. It was before I knew the true meaning of choke. Before I saw the second half of the Mavs-Denver game last night.

To quickly address the monstrosity that was last night's game, it's pretty hard to deal with the idea that I can watch the Mavs play a first quarter (and a slightly less impressive but still respectable second quarter) wherein they score 39 points and still be completely aware that they stand very little chance of actually winning. The Mavs team that played the first quarter of last night's game was a fluke. By the fourth quarter, it was a godsend if a pass ended up in the intended hands. It was a serendipitous miracle akin to all the planets aligning if a Mavs player got a shot that actually, I don't know, went in. So many passes just whizzing past confused and scared Mavs hands into the bench or the brick-holding general public. So many passes directly to the waiting hands of a Denver Nugget. So many chances for Carmello Anthony or AI to run down the court and make another crazy Sportscenter dunk. And as a side note to Josh Howard: when Avery gets a Technical, there is no need to get another one yourself on his behalf. I quit a job at a record store when I was 20 because they had the audacity to fire my highly lazy store manager boyfriend. I was 20 and stupid. What's your excuse, Josh?

You can call me a fair-weather blogger/fan if it makes your inner demons quiet down for a day or two but I don't really know what to say about this team. I have supported them (and will continue to grudgingly do so) for such a long time that I don't feel like flinging flaming bags of dog poo on their collective doorstep. But I can't find much silver lining. And I was raised told that if you can't say anything vaguely positive about your preferred hometown basketball franchise, stay off blogspot. It's an old Southern thing.

Now can we talk about Pacman Jones? My head nearly explodes at the thought of making the decision of who gets the harder reaming. Do I talk about Tony Romo's startling ability to continually find new and exciting ways to stoke my fires of hatred for him that burn deep inside me? His reissue Led Zep shirts? Those fucking baseball caps? His mere existence? Or do I delve into the character of a person that makes it rain at the expense of another man's ability to ever walk again? These dilemmas keep me up at night.

I guess it's a good thing that baseball alternately terrifies or bores me.

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