Over the past 12 months, I've somehow become an awful fantasy sports player. I'm hoping to simply chalk it up as a bad year, but things certainly couldn't be any worse than where they stand now.
After reaching the playoffs in all three of my fantasy sports in 2008 (football, baseball and basketball), I've really laid an egg in '09.
I'd like to blame most of it on injuries. My top two picks in fantasy basketball -- Kevin Garnett and Deron Williams -- battled injuries early in the season. And while Williams recovered and posted the kind of numbers that were expected, Garnett's physical woes lasted throughout the year. I knew I should have taken Dwight Howard. So, just like a NBA team battling to earn the most ping-pong balls for the draft lottery, I pretty much mailed it in for the last couple of months of the season. I was that far out of contention.
Fantasy baseball hasn't been much better. I thought my team was built great on paper:
C - Jorge Posada
1B - Carlos Delgado
2B - Brian Roberts
SS - Jimmy Rollins
3B - Aramis Ramirez
OF - Josh Hamilton
OF - Curtis Granderson
OF - Raul Ibanez
Util - Nate McLouth/Milton Bradley/Alex Rios
SP - CC Sabathia
SP - Yovani Gallardo
RP - Francisco Rodriguez
RP - Bobby Jenks
Yeah, looks good on paper, just like the 2009 Chicago Cubs. I'm going to again have to play the injury card a little, considering my corner infielders didn't last much more than a couple of weeks before landing on the shelf. Ramirez didn't get back until around the All-Star Break, while Delgado is still gone.
And why wasn't I told that Josh Hamilton fell off the fucking wagon in January? Sure, it may have been an isolated incident, and I shouldn't be one to blame a guy for having a few drinks, but it may have swayed my opinion of him a bit. Might not have burned a top 15 pick on him. Of course, Hamilton ended up spending some time on the DL too.
My top pick, Jimmy Rollins, just two years removed from an MVP season, was also a royal turd over the first couple of months. Who could have predicted that?
Anyway, so fantasy baseball is fucking done too. And, consistent with the rest of my 2009 performance, my new fantasy endeavor of English Premier League soccer has gotten off to a really bad start. For two weeks in a row to start the season, I've forgotten to register my team. Obviously this one is not of great priority.
But fantasy football can be the great redemption. My draft was this past week, and I'm ready to get things going. There was, of course, an early speedbump. Thanks to a shitty day at work Wednesday, I didn't have a chance to fine-tune my depth chart knowledge as much as I'd hoped, so by day's end I knew I was somewhat screwed for my 6:00pm draft. Therefore, it was time for a new strategy.
I arrived at the Fox and Hound armed with a pen and just one sheet of paper: a list of bye weeks for the 2009 NFL season. That was all I wanted. I'd rely otherwise only on the expertise between my ears. Here's the result, the projected starting lineup for the Galloping Ghosts in Week 1:
QB - Tony Romo
RB - Steve Slaton, Clinton Portis
WR - Chad Ochocinco, TJ Houshmandzadeh, Lee Evans
TE - Jeremy Shockey
K - Neil Rackers (Go Illinois)
D - San Diego
I'll admit that by the sixth round, my brother insisted on giving me a copy of one of his cheat sheets (only because he had an extra one), and there were a couple of occasions when I peeked at my buddy Dan's magazine. But I felt okay about what I'd done.
Other than my perhaps puzzling draft strategy, the night had the usual highlights/lowlights: My friend Dave brought way too much paperwork and got far too drunk, my brother shamelessly drafted a member of the Minnesota Vikings (as a rabid Bears' fan like myself, I always hope he'll have the same no-Vikings and no-Packers philosophy), and my friend Troy made an inappropriate comment about my mother.
Here's to what I hope is a 2009-saving football season.
Showing posts with label Basketball. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Basketball. Show all posts
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Game 8: An Anti-Climactic End and an Angry Note to the City
I may not always expect to win, but I certainly always want to and am willing to give it a try. So, for the second straight week, I was prepared to play, knowing that we were likely to get destroyed by the first-place Hickory Hoosiers.
Last week, of course, we arrived for our 9:30 game with no opponent on the other side of the floor. We didn't know until 9:30 sharp that the game was a forfeit, but we made the most of the open gym time by playing some three-on-three and went home with our rather thankless win. The warning came a little sooner this week.
Game 8: July 22 vs. Hickory Hoosiers
I received an email Wednesday evening stating that our game was again a forfeit. Woo-fucking-hoo, we win again. But what an anti-climactic end to the season. Honestly, as brutally as we probably would have beaten by this team -- seeing as they'd already beaten everyone else in the league -- even a horribly humbling loss might have felt better. Fuck, at least we would have gotten to play.
I responded to the Parks & Rec representative by email to let him know that some of our team would likely show up at our 8:30 timeslot so we can take advantage of our floor time as we had the previous week. I was none too fucking pleased Wednesday morning when the city responded to inform me that our floor time would be 9:30pm. So these assholes asked the teams that were scheduled for the 9:30 game if they could move up to 8:30 (that's a fucking no-brainer), and then our team, which had already been screwed by not being able to play an actual game, was given the unfavorable late time for our private open gym session. They clearly knew it was much less likely any of us would show up at that time. So I figured I should let them know.
Here's my response:
Thanks for letting me know, but I want you to know that I'm not at all happy about this. It seems to me that this move is motivated entirely by the idea of closing the gym/community center as quickly as possible, and I don't think that's fair to my team. When our 9:30 game was forfeited last week, my team stayed to practice against each other, and we were told by multiple employees at 10:00 that we needed to leave because that's when the center closed. Well, we would have been there longer than that had our game not been cancelled; likewise with tonight as well. The truth is that no one wants to stay any longer than necessary, and no one really wants to play at 9:30, but we paid for that court. We paid to play eight games and we're only getting six. I'm sure we'd be run out of the gym at 10:00 again tonight, too, so it's not as if we're getting the full court time we paid for.
It's unlikely anyone on my team will be willing to make the journey to the gym at 9:30 tonight simply to shoot around and/or hope that enough guys show up for a short pickup game. In reality, our season basically ends with the equivalent of a full team ejection, as none of us got to play the last two games of the season. We certainly did nothing to earn this sort of two-game suspension, and we are not very pleased about it. What exactly is the $10 forfeit fee intended to cover? In a fair world, it would seem most appropriate to direct that toward the team that got screwed out of playing (twice).
Since we were a winless team prior to these forfeits, you might think we wouldn't mind getting a couple of free wins. But in the spirit of competition, we all look forward to getting out to play each week. This is a terrible way for our season to end.
Steve
It took everything I had not to use profanity throughout that email, but I did my best to cling to some professionalism, which we clearly hadn't been shown. I obviously pushed the right buttons, though, because I'd received a voicemail on my work phone and cell phone from the league coordinator within 30 minutes. I never did call the prick back, and he's since responded by email to acknowledge that "forfeits are a problem" and he offered my team an hour of free open gym at a future date at a time of our choosing. Nice, I suppose, but small potatoes compared to two games that we were hosed out of. (FYI, two games are essentially worth $70 of our entry fee. That could pay for a few rounds of drinks for our team and is probably at least three times what it would normally cost to rent the gym for an hour.)
So that's where things end. With a fucking whimper.
Final Record: 2-6
SJI Contribution (based on my postgame recollections): 10.2 pts per game for the six games we actually played. Not bad for a hot-headed little turd like myself.
Next game: TBD. I'm currently searching for late summer/fall league availability. Considering our 2009 record to date is 5-13, with two of those wins via forfeit, let's hope I can do a better job of finding the right fit for our squad. Until then ...
Last week, of course, we arrived for our 9:30 game with no opponent on the other side of the floor. We didn't know until 9:30 sharp that the game was a forfeit, but we made the most of the open gym time by playing some three-on-three and went home with our rather thankless win. The warning came a little sooner this week.
Game 8: July 22 vs. Hickory Hoosiers
I received an email Wednesday evening stating that our game was again a forfeit. Woo-fucking-hoo, we win again. But what an anti-climactic end to the season. Honestly, as brutally as we probably would have beaten by this team -- seeing as they'd already beaten everyone else in the league -- even a horribly humbling loss might have felt better. Fuck, at least we would have gotten to play.
I responded to the Parks & Rec representative by email to let him know that some of our team would likely show up at our 8:30 timeslot so we can take advantage of our floor time as we had the previous week. I was none too fucking pleased Wednesday morning when the city responded to inform me that our floor time would be 9:30pm. So these assholes asked the teams that were scheduled for the 9:30 game if they could move up to 8:30 (that's a fucking no-brainer), and then our team, which had already been screwed by not being able to play an actual game, was given the unfavorable late time for our private open gym session. They clearly knew it was much less likely any of us would show up at that time. So I figured I should let them know.
Here's my response:
Thanks for letting me know, but I want you to know that I'm not at all happy about this. It seems to me that this move is motivated entirely by the idea of closing the gym/community center as quickly as possible, and I don't think that's fair to my team. When our 9:30 game was forfeited last week, my team stayed to practice against each other, and we were told by multiple employees at 10:00 that we needed to leave because that's when the center closed. Well, we would have been there longer than that had our game not been cancelled; likewise with tonight as well. The truth is that no one wants to stay any longer than necessary, and no one really wants to play at 9:30, but we paid for that court. We paid to play eight games and we're only getting six. I'm sure we'd be run out of the gym at 10:00 again tonight, too, so it's not as if we're getting the full court time we paid for.
It's unlikely anyone on my team will be willing to make the journey to the gym at 9:30 tonight simply to shoot around and/or hope that enough guys show up for a short pickup game. In reality, our season basically ends with the equivalent of a full team ejection, as none of us got to play the last two games of the season. We certainly did nothing to earn this sort of two-game suspension, and we are not very pleased about it. What exactly is the $10 forfeit fee intended to cover? In a fair world, it would seem most appropriate to direct that toward the team that got screwed out of playing (twice).
Since we were a winless team prior to these forfeits, you might think we wouldn't mind getting a couple of free wins. But in the spirit of competition, we all look forward to getting out to play each week. This is a terrible way for our season to end.
Steve
It took everything I had not to use profanity throughout that email, but I did my best to cling to some professionalism, which we clearly hadn't been shown. I obviously pushed the right buttons, though, because I'd received a voicemail on my work phone and cell phone from the league coordinator within 30 minutes. I never did call the prick back, and he's since responded by email to acknowledge that "forfeits are a problem" and he offered my team an hour of free open gym at a future date at a time of our choosing. Nice, I suppose, but small potatoes compared to two games that we were hosed out of. (FYI, two games are essentially worth $70 of our entry fee. That could pay for a few rounds of drinks for our team and is probably at least three times what it would normally cost to rent the gym for an hour.)
So that's where things end. With a fucking whimper.
Final Record: 2-6
SJI Contribution (based on my postgame recollections): 10.2 pts per game for the six games we actually played. Not bad for a hot-headed little turd like myself.
Next game: TBD. I'm currently searching for late summer/fall league availability. Considering our 2009 record to date is 5-13, with two of those wins via forfeit, let's hope I can do a better job of finding the right fit for our squad. Until then ...
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Game 7: An Upset for the Ages?!
Here's what I said to the wife of one of my teammates upon showing up at the gym last night: "For the first time in a long time, I'm really not looking forward to playing basketball tonight."
Our 0-6, relatively sorry excuse for a team was scheduled to take on an apparent juggernaut, the 6-0 Hickory Hoosiers. They've beaten everyone, including the teams that had beaten us by 50+. And it became apparent about an hour before tip-off that we were likely to only have six guys in our rotation; so not only were we sure to be getting our asses kicked, but it was going to happen with only one person to sub off the bench.
My entire day seemed to be an appropriate precursor to this late night massacre (9:30pm game time). I felt like shit for most of Wednesday. After about an hour of work, my recent on-again off-again symptoms of discomfort all came on at once: a bit of headache, a bit of abdominal pain and what seemed to be a bit of a fever to go along with the usual fatigue that's caused by my regular lack of sleep.
You know you're not right (at least I do) when you go to Burger King for lunch and not even that sounds good. It wasn't until 3:00pm that I finally forced myself to eat something. It didn't really do the trick then either.
Things didn't get much better after work. My wife convinced me it would be a good night to go out to eat as a family, which we rarely do. But what are the fucking odds that we'd end up at the same restaurant as my brother-in-law, the table right next to his, as he's out having a birthday dinner with his girlfriend? That insured that I was to be primarily ignored over the next 60 minutes or so. My wife was understandably more interested in talking to her brother, and his mere presence for some reason makes my kids think they don't have to listen to a fucking word their parents say. It was not a good night to be the child cop.
I also received a heavy dose of criticism (it was called 'bullshit' actually) for saying that I wasn't going to be ordering anything to eat or drink. I still wasn't feeling well, I'd just forced down a sandwich about three hours earlier, and I was going to be playing basketball a couple of hours later. It made sense. It probably saved us $20. What's the problem?
So after a couple more hours of running around with the family, it finally came time to head to the gym and take our beating.
Game 7: July 15 vs. Hickory Hoosiers
What I failed to say in the opening when I quoted my lack of motivation just before gametime was that only one side of the gym was populated. There were our six guys and our one fan, but no one else (other than the now-infamous scorekeeper).
The referees filed in a few minutes later, but once the clock hit exactly 9:30 I heard what I never expected to hear during this basketball season: "You guys win."
The vaunted Hickory Hoosiers didn't show, giving us a rather thankless win ... but a win nonetheless. Here's my theory: These guys close the season with two straight against us, so they've already beaten everyone else. All they need to do is win one of the last two to clinch the title. My guess is that these arrogant fucks who shouldn't even be in a C league anyway decided that they didn't want to strain one of their vagina muscles during an otherwise meaningless 9:30 game.
Our six players enjoyed the friendly competition of several games of three-on-three until we were kicked out of the gym. But I'm pretty sure the assholes from Hickory will show up next week to mop the floor with our asses, then take their championship shirts and ride off on their gay ponies.
Final Score: I don't know. It might be 1-0; it might be 100-0. As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I'm not sure of the forfeit rules. I only know that we win, mother fucker.
SJI Contribution (my postgame recollection of it): Zero, but only because there was no opening tip. I was clearing going to be on fire, as illustrated when I hit my first three shots in three-on-three (two 2s and a three).
Record: 1-6
Next game: July 22 vs. Hickory Hoosiers.
Our 0-6, relatively sorry excuse for a team was scheduled to take on an apparent juggernaut, the 6-0 Hickory Hoosiers. They've beaten everyone, including the teams that had beaten us by 50+. And it became apparent about an hour before tip-off that we were likely to only have six guys in our rotation; so not only were we sure to be getting our asses kicked, but it was going to happen with only one person to sub off the bench.
My entire day seemed to be an appropriate precursor to this late night massacre (9:30pm game time). I felt like shit for most of Wednesday. After about an hour of work, my recent on-again off-again symptoms of discomfort all came on at once: a bit of headache, a bit of abdominal pain and what seemed to be a bit of a fever to go along with the usual fatigue that's caused by my regular lack of sleep.
You know you're not right (at least I do) when you go to Burger King for lunch and not even that sounds good. It wasn't until 3:00pm that I finally forced myself to eat something. It didn't really do the trick then either.
Things didn't get much better after work. My wife convinced me it would be a good night to go out to eat as a family, which we rarely do. But what are the fucking odds that we'd end up at the same restaurant as my brother-in-law, the table right next to his, as he's out having a birthday dinner with his girlfriend? That insured that I was to be primarily ignored over the next 60 minutes or so. My wife was understandably more interested in talking to her brother, and his mere presence for some reason makes my kids think they don't have to listen to a fucking word their parents say. It was not a good night to be the child cop.
I also received a heavy dose of criticism (it was called 'bullshit' actually) for saying that I wasn't going to be ordering anything to eat or drink. I still wasn't feeling well, I'd just forced down a sandwich about three hours earlier, and I was going to be playing basketball a couple of hours later. It made sense. It probably saved us $20. What's the problem?
So after a couple more hours of running around with the family, it finally came time to head to the gym and take our beating.
Game 7: July 15 vs. Hickory Hoosiers
What I failed to say in the opening when I quoted my lack of motivation just before gametime was that only one side of the gym was populated. There were our six guys and our one fan, but no one else (other than the now-infamous scorekeeper).
The referees filed in a few minutes later, but once the clock hit exactly 9:30 I heard what I never expected to hear during this basketball season: "You guys win."
The vaunted Hickory Hoosiers didn't show, giving us a rather thankless win ... but a win nonetheless. Here's my theory: These guys close the season with two straight against us, so they've already beaten everyone else. All they need to do is win one of the last two to clinch the title. My guess is that these arrogant fucks who shouldn't even be in a C league anyway decided that they didn't want to strain one of their vagina muscles during an otherwise meaningless 9:30 game.
Our six players enjoyed the friendly competition of several games of three-on-three until we were kicked out of the gym. But I'm pretty sure the assholes from Hickory will show up next week to mop the floor with our asses, then take their championship shirts and ride off on their gay ponies.
Final Score: I don't know. It might be 1-0; it might be 100-0. As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I'm not sure of the forfeit rules. I only know that we win, mother fucker.
SJI Contribution (my postgame recollection of it): Zero, but only because there was no opening tip. I was clearing going to be on fire, as illustrated when I hit my first three shots in three-on-three (two 2s and a three).
Record: 1-6
Next game: July 22 vs. Hickory Hoosiers.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Game 6: This Is Really a Fucking C League?
Call me stereotypical. Call me a racist. Whatever. But when my basketball team – a rag-tag roster of whiteys between the ages of 25 and 35 – is matched up against a primarily African-American team with no one appearing to be as old as 25, I know pretty quickly that we're going to be in deep shit. For Christ's sake, these guys were doing organized lay-up drills before the game. Give me a fucking break.
By the way, one of my teammates spoke with one of theirs during the game, and apparently several of these guys played together on a local community college team. Yeah, they should be playing in a fucking C league. These are the kinds of pussies who have fragile enough egos that they can't bear to actually have to compete with teams at a similar level to theirs week in and week out. If it lets them sleep better at night, so be it. Fucking cocks.
Game 6: July 8 vs. The T-Birds
On our best day, we’d have been lucky to compete with these guys, and it was clear even before the game started that this wasn’t going to be our team’s best day. We were without our best overall player, who was out due to a broken nose/suspension/previous obligation (you can choose which reason to which it should be assigned; all should be considered valid). Our second-most experienced player and probably second-best overall player, Spencer, was also out. So the odds were stacked against us even more.
The game’s first highlight came even before the opening tip, as the league’s not-so-friendly scorekeeper approached our team with the scoresheet for us to fill out our roster for the game. On the heels of my game-ending tirade last week – some of which was directed right at her – she clearly was trying to hand off the sheet to anyone but me. Unwilling to let her off so easy, I quickly stepped in to take the captain’s role, and I watched as she uncomfortably made all efforts to avoid eye contact and any sort of interaction with me. It was a rewarding experience.
Then came the tip, and it was over fairly shortly thereafter. For what it’s worth, the Fabulous Flaming T-Birds couldn’t really shoot for shit. But it obviously didn’t matter, in large part because each of them individually seemed to be blessed with more natural athleticism than our entire team combined. They were effective driving to the basket, they got a ton of transition opportunities, and their speed and length forced a ridiculous number of turnovers from our so-called offense.
I was fortunate enough to draw the defensive assignment of someone who was probably ten years younger and about three or four inches taller than me. I don’t shy away from that kind of shit, though, and I certainly wasn’t going to let the guy have anything easy. Quickly getting frustrated by my bullish 5’6” 155-pound frame, this simple young man predictably opted for a strategy outside of the rules. Every cut to the basket, every effort to get in position for the ball, every time the ball was sent up toward the glass, the guy was doing nothing but pushing, shoving and throwing elbows. I have the bruises on both arms, my ribs and my hip to show for it. Not that I’m complaining. I’m actually quite proud to have caused it. I was obviously doing something right. And, by the way, the douche didn’t score a fucking point on me for those first 20 minutes.
Of course, plenty of his other teammates did score, and we struggled to counter with any consistent offensive output. Halftime score: 46-15.
We switched to a 2-3 zone in the second half as our strategy for slicing into that 31-point deficit, and it paid off early as we forced a turnover on the Flaming Gaybirds’ first possession. (Though it should be noted that the errant pass toward the wide-open man on the baseline probably wasn’t caused by any defensive execution.) We did actually hold our opponents to fewer points in the second half than the first, but we hardly had the offensive firepower to ever make things remotely interesting.
I did my best and actually had probably my best offensive half of season, knocking down several threes and a couple of buckets inside the arc. Each of the threes I hit was right in the eye of the same brash T-Bird. I’m not one to take many contested shots, but these guys could make up ground in a hurry … and I don’t think this guy liked the fact that a majority of the points his team had allowed were splashed right in his fucking mug. He tried to get his revenge, which was clearly necessary as they nursed a 40+ point lead, by dunking on me in transition. But imagine my satisfaction as his attempted dunk clanked off the rim and landed about 25 feet from the basket. He really served fucking notice on that one, and I reacted with a loud cheer to let him know about it.
The game otherwise was seemingly winding down without incident, certainly no broken bones or outbursts similar to the previous two weeks. However, my frustrated friend from the first half resurfaced in the last minute of the game, as our zone defense evolved into a pick-up-whoever-you-can defense while these dicks continued to keep their foot on the gas with a now 50-point lead. Good ole #32 still felt the need to barrel through paint with shoves and elbows those last couple of possessions, and I couldn’t help but laugh and call him out on it. His response: “You wasn’t complaining about it when you was doing it the whole game too.” No shit, asshole, but this is the final minute of a fucking ridiculous blowout. In his defense, however, he hadn’t had a chance to mix it up with me for the previous 19 minutes of the half, so I guess his punk ass needed to try to send me off with a message … as if the final score wasn’t going to be enough.
Final Score: 83-30
SJI Contribution (my postgame recollection of it): 17 points on four 3s, two 2s and 1-2 from the line. Generally not a good thing when I guy like me scores half of the team’s points.
Record: 0-6
Next game: July 15 vs. Hickory Hoosiers. By the way, they’re 6-0. Should be a fucking doozy.
By the way, one of my teammates spoke with one of theirs during the game, and apparently several of these guys played together on a local community college team. Yeah, they should be playing in a fucking C league. These are the kinds of pussies who have fragile enough egos that they can't bear to actually have to compete with teams at a similar level to theirs week in and week out. If it lets them sleep better at night, so be it. Fucking cocks.
Game 6: July 8 vs. The T-Birds
On our best day, we’d have been lucky to compete with these guys, and it was clear even before the game started that this wasn’t going to be our team’s best day. We were without our best overall player, who was out due to a broken nose/suspension/previous obligation (you can choose which reason to which it should be assigned; all should be considered valid). Our second-most experienced player and probably second-best overall player, Spencer, was also out. So the odds were stacked against us even more.
The game’s first highlight came even before the opening tip, as the league’s not-so-friendly scorekeeper approached our team with the scoresheet for us to fill out our roster for the game. On the heels of my game-ending tirade last week – some of which was directed right at her – she clearly was trying to hand off the sheet to anyone but me. Unwilling to let her off so easy, I quickly stepped in to take the captain’s role, and I watched as she uncomfortably made all efforts to avoid eye contact and any sort of interaction with me. It was a rewarding experience.
Then came the tip, and it was over fairly shortly thereafter. For what it’s worth, the Fabulous Flaming T-Birds couldn’t really shoot for shit. But it obviously didn’t matter, in large part because each of them individually seemed to be blessed with more natural athleticism than our entire team combined. They were effective driving to the basket, they got a ton of transition opportunities, and their speed and length forced a ridiculous number of turnovers from our so-called offense.
I was fortunate enough to draw the defensive assignment of someone who was probably ten years younger and about three or four inches taller than me. I don’t shy away from that kind of shit, though, and I certainly wasn’t going to let the guy have anything easy. Quickly getting frustrated by my bullish 5’6” 155-pound frame, this simple young man predictably opted for a strategy outside of the rules. Every cut to the basket, every effort to get in position for the ball, every time the ball was sent up toward the glass, the guy was doing nothing but pushing, shoving and throwing elbows. I have the bruises on both arms, my ribs and my hip to show for it. Not that I’m complaining. I’m actually quite proud to have caused it. I was obviously doing something right. And, by the way, the douche didn’t score a fucking point on me for those first 20 minutes.
Of course, plenty of his other teammates did score, and we struggled to counter with any consistent offensive output. Halftime score: 46-15.
We switched to a 2-3 zone in the second half as our strategy for slicing into that 31-point deficit, and it paid off early as we forced a turnover on the Flaming Gaybirds’ first possession. (Though it should be noted that the errant pass toward the wide-open man on the baseline probably wasn’t caused by any defensive execution.) We did actually hold our opponents to fewer points in the second half than the first, but we hardly had the offensive firepower to ever make things remotely interesting.
I did my best and actually had probably my best offensive half of season, knocking down several threes and a couple of buckets inside the arc. Each of the threes I hit was right in the eye of the same brash T-Bird. I’m not one to take many contested shots, but these guys could make up ground in a hurry … and I don’t think this guy liked the fact that a majority of the points his team had allowed were splashed right in his fucking mug. He tried to get his revenge, which was clearly necessary as they nursed a 40+ point lead, by dunking on me in transition. But imagine my satisfaction as his attempted dunk clanked off the rim and landed about 25 feet from the basket. He really served fucking notice on that one, and I reacted with a loud cheer to let him know about it.
The game otherwise was seemingly winding down without incident, certainly no broken bones or outbursts similar to the previous two weeks. However, my frustrated friend from the first half resurfaced in the last minute of the game, as our zone defense evolved into a pick-up-whoever-you-can defense while these dicks continued to keep their foot on the gas with a now 50-point lead. Good ole #32 still felt the need to barrel through paint with shoves and elbows those last couple of possessions, and I couldn’t help but laugh and call him out on it. His response: “You wasn’t complaining about it when you was doing it the whole game too.” No shit, asshole, but this is the final minute of a fucking ridiculous blowout. In his defense, however, he hadn’t had a chance to mix it up with me for the previous 19 minutes of the half, so I guess his punk ass needed to try to send me off with a message … as if the final score wasn’t going to be enough.
Final Score: 83-30
SJI Contribution (my postgame recollection of it): 17 points on four 3s, two 2s and 1-2 from the line. Generally not a good thing when I guy like me scores half of the team’s points.
Record: 0-6
Next game: July 15 vs. Hickory Hoosiers. By the way, they’re 6-0. Should be a fucking doozy.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Game 5: Blood, Sweat and Swears
As foolishly competitive as I am, I've still come to accept the fact that we're probably not going to win a game in this basketball league. Halfway through the schedule, we were a completely imperfect 0-4, and the combined records of our remaining opponents was 13-3. But, again, the aforementioned foolish competitiveness ensures that my team won't go down without some fight.
Game 5: July 1 vs. Anger Management
When I got home from work Wednesday, I found my wife locked in the bathroom with a can of paint (for painting, not sniffing) while our children ran relatively amok. And that was basically the state of my existence for the next couple of hours leading up to basketball. In fact, it actually made me late leaving for the game. Also complicating my arrival at the gym was the realization along the way that my gym bag contained only one shoe. Add six minutes to my ETA.
The game had started by the time I arrived, and we were already in a 16-3 hole. As annoyed as I was by that, I was further disgusted by the mere sight of our opponents. Their nine-man/boy rotation seemed to include an age range of about 16 to 35. They also brought along a fan base of probably a dozen, some aged in single-digit years and others well into the mid-life category. There seemed to be a loud cheer with every basket, every rebound, every fucking step these clowns would take. I had a feeling that by game's end I'd be ready to chuck a loose ball in their direction too.
Once I got onto the floor, it was fairly clear there was nothing we could do. I shit you not, they must have hit ten or 12 shots in a row, whether contested or uncontested. And many of them touched several parts of the rim before falling through the net. As if they didn't have enough of an advantage in overall skill, every loose ball, every bounce and every call seemed to be in their favor.
There was one particular shaggy, whiny bitch who was getting pretty well manhandled under the glass by our own Mr. Peterson, who's easily our best and most experienced player. Pete knows how to play the game the right way and knows how to push people around the right way. His man was crying about getting "cleared out" several times, so I guess there shouldn't have been much surprise late in the first half when Pete emerged from the trenches with blood falling from his nose. It was a cheap shot that our black-shirted queer of an opponent clearly meant to take, apparently not comforted enough by the fact that his team held a slim 27-point lead at the time. What did come as a surprise was that personal and technical fouls were charged to my teammate, the one who'd been bloodied. The ref clarified that he'd seen them both going at it, but shouldn't that mean that a double foul or double technical was more appropriate?
So imagine Pete's reaction, while holding a blood-soaked towel to his face, learning that he'd been the one assessed the technical. I thought it was reasonable enough for him to stick his middle finger in the official's face and yell "Fuck you!" He knew he'd be tossed, and he had to leave to go to the hospital anyway. In my book, he exited like a fucking man.
After probably a ten-minute delay for the otherwise worthless scorekeeper to clean up the blood splatter, Anger Management took its four free throws and the ball, and the first half rather quietly wound down. Halftime score: 48-20.
Frustration grew in the second half as the flow of the game continued just as it started. Our douchy opponents put on a pretty good show for their douchy fans, knocking down shots with rather remarkable consistency and easily collecting rebounds off of our repeated misfires. As usual, our offensive inefficiency also gave up a ridiculous number of transition opportunities. But to our credit (I think), we don't make a habit of giving up easy layups. We physically contested just about everything we could, so foul trouble was a problem. It doesn't help, of course, that the officials call what they think they see rather than what actually occurs. It continually amazes me that these worthless fucks make so little effort to get into position to make the right calls. How much can these fucking losers be getting paid? I'd really like to know that.
Anyway, I think there were about three minutes left in the game when I was whistled for my fifth foul, and it was another questionable one. Trust me, I know when I'm getting my money's worth on a foul, and this wasn't one of those occasions. But when a bigger guy is taking the ball to the rim on a 5'6" 155 lb. lad like myself, who do you think is going to get the benefit of the call? I asked the dumbass ref what I did, and he said, "You were holding him." That wouldn't have even been the right call to make. If anything, I could have seen him thinking I hacked the guy's arm, but a hold? Jesus, what a fucking joke. Just like last week when the worst and laziest ref ever called me for a hold on a guy who I was merely pushing. Semantics, I guess.
Regardless, I wasn't going down without a little more chirping as I made the long walk toward our bench, I loudly announced the fact that it was my fifth fucking foul, and that I had to come out ... and that I didn't want to be on the floor any fucking longer for that bullshit anyway, etc. By the time I reached the scorer's table, that dumb bitch hit the horn and said, "That's it! This game is over!" Perhaps the first game ever called due to excessive profanity. She told me that's why it was called and that this was a family environment. Yeah, a family environment that had witnessed a broken nose and a broken leg over the past two weeks. Fans should come at their own risk, and it's not our fault these fucking opponents had a couple of queers on their roster who weren't even legal adults. I had a solid urge to give that bitch the Peterson treatment with a big "F you" and a middle finger, but I instead just grabbed my shit and got off the court. Then I went to a nearby bar with my brother, downed four gin-and-tonics in about in hour and went home. Happy Fourth of July weekend.
Final Score: I have no fucking clue. We were down by a LOT when that final horn sounded though.
SJI Contribution (my postgame recollection of it): Zero. I honestly don't think I scored a fucking point, which would be appropriate if this game goes down as a forfeit (which it might). In most leagues, forfeits go in the books as a 1-0 or 2-0 score, unless you're in a league where total points are used as a tiebreaker; some of those have forfeit scores of 100-0. Anyway, I sucked in this game.
Record: 0-5
Next game: July 8 vs. T-Birds.
Game 5: July 1 vs. Anger Management
When I got home from work Wednesday, I found my wife locked in the bathroom with a can of paint (for painting, not sniffing) while our children ran relatively amok. And that was basically the state of my existence for the next couple of hours leading up to basketball. In fact, it actually made me late leaving for the game. Also complicating my arrival at the gym was the realization along the way that my gym bag contained only one shoe. Add six minutes to my ETA.
The game had started by the time I arrived, and we were already in a 16-3 hole. As annoyed as I was by that, I was further disgusted by the mere sight of our opponents. Their nine-man/boy rotation seemed to include an age range of about 16 to 35. They also brought along a fan base of probably a dozen, some aged in single-digit years and others well into the mid-life category. There seemed to be a loud cheer with every basket, every rebound, every fucking step these clowns would take. I had a feeling that by game's end I'd be ready to chuck a loose ball in their direction too.
Once I got onto the floor, it was fairly clear there was nothing we could do. I shit you not, they must have hit ten or 12 shots in a row, whether contested or uncontested. And many of them touched several parts of the rim before falling through the net. As if they didn't have enough of an advantage in overall skill, every loose ball, every bounce and every call seemed to be in their favor.
There was one particular shaggy, whiny bitch who was getting pretty well manhandled under the glass by our own Mr. Peterson, who's easily our best and most experienced player. Pete knows how to play the game the right way and knows how to push people around the right way. His man was crying about getting "cleared out" several times, so I guess there shouldn't have been much surprise late in the first half when Pete emerged from the trenches with blood falling from his nose. It was a cheap shot that our black-shirted queer of an opponent clearly meant to take, apparently not comforted enough by the fact that his team held a slim 27-point lead at the time. What did come as a surprise was that personal and technical fouls were charged to my teammate, the one who'd been bloodied. The ref clarified that he'd seen them both going at it, but shouldn't that mean that a double foul or double technical was more appropriate?
So imagine Pete's reaction, while holding a blood-soaked towel to his face, learning that he'd been the one assessed the technical. I thought it was reasonable enough for him to stick his middle finger in the official's face and yell "Fuck you!" He knew he'd be tossed, and he had to leave to go to the hospital anyway. In my book, he exited like a fucking man.
After probably a ten-minute delay for the otherwise worthless scorekeeper to clean up the blood splatter, Anger Management took its four free throws and the ball, and the first half rather quietly wound down. Halftime score: 48-20.
Frustration grew in the second half as the flow of the game continued just as it started. Our douchy opponents put on a pretty good show for their douchy fans, knocking down shots with rather remarkable consistency and easily collecting rebounds off of our repeated misfires. As usual, our offensive inefficiency also gave up a ridiculous number of transition opportunities. But to our credit (I think), we don't make a habit of giving up easy layups. We physically contested just about everything we could, so foul trouble was a problem. It doesn't help, of course, that the officials call what they think they see rather than what actually occurs. It continually amazes me that these worthless fucks make so little effort to get into position to make the right calls. How much can these fucking losers be getting paid? I'd really like to know that.
Anyway, I think there were about three minutes left in the game when I was whistled for my fifth foul, and it was another questionable one. Trust me, I know when I'm getting my money's worth on a foul, and this wasn't one of those occasions. But when a bigger guy is taking the ball to the rim on a 5'6" 155 lb. lad like myself, who do you think is going to get the benefit of the call? I asked the dumbass ref what I did, and he said, "You were holding him." That wouldn't have even been the right call to make. If anything, I could have seen him thinking I hacked the guy's arm, but a hold? Jesus, what a fucking joke. Just like last week when the worst and laziest ref ever called me for a hold on a guy who I was merely pushing. Semantics, I guess.
Regardless, I wasn't going down without a little more chirping as I made the long walk toward our bench, I loudly announced the fact that it was my fifth fucking foul, and that I had to come out ... and that I didn't want to be on the floor any fucking longer for that bullshit anyway, etc. By the time I reached the scorer's table, that dumb bitch hit the horn and said, "That's it! This game is over!" Perhaps the first game ever called due to excessive profanity. She told me that's why it was called and that this was a family environment. Yeah, a family environment that had witnessed a broken nose and a broken leg over the past two weeks. Fans should come at their own risk, and it's not our fault these fucking opponents had a couple of queers on their roster who weren't even legal adults. I had a solid urge to give that bitch the Peterson treatment with a big "F you" and a middle finger, but I instead just grabbed my shit and got off the court. Then I went to a nearby bar with my brother, downed four gin-and-tonics in about in hour and went home. Happy Fourth of July weekend.
Final Score: I have no fucking clue. We were down by a LOT when that final horn sounded though.
SJI Contribution (my postgame recollection of it): Zero. I honestly don't think I scored a fucking point, which would be appropriate if this game goes down as a forfeit (which it might). In most leagues, forfeits go in the books as a 1-0 or 2-0 score, unless you're in a league where total points are used as a tiebreaker; some of those have forfeit scores of 100-0. Anyway, I sucked in this game.
Record: 0-5
Next game: July 8 vs. T-Birds.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Game 4: A New Low
A new low for several reasons, and I find it awfully hard to believe that I'll be able to continue my basketball diary much longer if our struggles continue at the current ridiculous rate.
Game 4: June 24 vs. Fast Break
Things got off to an annoying start even before the tip-off. With severe storms rolling through the Kansas City area, we got a condescending lesson in meteorology from the $8 per hour scorekeeper, who informed us that we'd need to go to the community center's basement in the event of a tornado warning (although she actually initially said we'd have to do so if there was a tornado watch or warning; here in the our part of the country, there seem to be tornado watches at least once a week throughout the spring and summer, so her knowledge of these scenarios was clearly not as firm as she'd like to think).
Anyway, I really think we came out and played well for the first 10+ minutes. It was low scoring and pretty back-and-forth, as we played solid defense and were uncharacteristically patient on offense. Then, with about six minutes left in the half, some dude on the other team had to go and break his leg. We were down 16-11 at the time (I told you it was low scoring).
I didn't keep track of how long it took to resume the action; I'm guessing it was 15-20 minutes before they strapped him into the stretcher and wheeled him off the court. It was then that the pressure clearly was on us. You can't say that too often about a winless team, so I should explain. Our opponent had no subs on their bench, so they had to run with four guys the rest of the way. That's right -- we had a one-man advantage the rest of the way.
Fast Break decided the best way to combat the 4-on-5 situation was to contradict their name. They slowly walked the ball up the floor each possession, and they seemed to follow the Norman Dale basketball philosophy of passing the ball a minimum number of times before being allowed to shoot. Predictably, against our rag-tag collection of players, it worked. By halftime, their lead had been extended. We trailed 26-17.
The second half was painful. The four-man defense consistently lagged, daring us to shoot open jumpers. We obliged and justified the strategy by converting a ridiculously low percentage. I take a large part of the blame, as I felt as uncomfortable with my release as I had since our winter league began in January. I'd guess I was about 2-for-12 from the field. Fast Break's four-man offense, meanwhile, continued to be effectively patient, often getting the ball to a surprisingly skilled, thick big man on the post. The touch on his baseline turnaround made me fucking sick.
And it wasn't just our ineptitude that was setting me off. The officials, one in particular, were abhorrent. This old jerk-off literally wasn't watching the action on several occasions as obvious fouls or violations occurred. The worst was what should have been the easiest travelling call in the book, as one of our opponents slipped and fell on the floor with the ball, slid several feet and got back up without the whistle blowing. After having popped off on this worthless fuck of a referee a couple of times already, it was this occasion that almost got me tossed from the game. His partner actually ordered me to go to the other end of the floor, and it was there that he said he didn't want to hear another word from me. Especially with the game no longer in doubt, I was REALLY close to telling the bastard to shove his head up his fucking ass, but I knew this was the type of asshole who would have gone straight to an ejection rather than simply slapping me with a technical foul. An ejection means an automatic one-game suspension in this league too, so I somehow restrained ... but it still pisses me off just to think of it.
So the clock wound down relatively harmlessly after that, and we exited the court into a stormy summer night with not even our pride remaining. Salt in the wound: I returned home to a house without electricity, which wasn't restored until about 6:00am Thursday.
Final score: 42-26
SJI contribution (my postgame recollection of it): 6 points on two 3s.
Record: 0-4
Next game: July 1 vs. Anger Management (and, no, that's not a class I've been ordered to take)
Game 4: June 24 vs. Fast Break
Things got off to an annoying start even before the tip-off. With severe storms rolling through the Kansas City area, we got a condescending lesson in meteorology from the $8 per hour scorekeeper, who informed us that we'd need to go to the community center's basement in the event of a tornado warning (although she actually initially said we'd have to do so if there was a tornado watch or warning; here in the our part of the country, there seem to be tornado watches at least once a week throughout the spring and summer, so her knowledge of these scenarios was clearly not as firm as she'd like to think).
Anyway, I really think we came out and played well for the first 10+ minutes. It was low scoring and pretty back-and-forth, as we played solid defense and were uncharacteristically patient on offense. Then, with about six minutes left in the half, some dude on the other team had to go and break his leg. We were down 16-11 at the time (I told you it was low scoring).
I didn't keep track of how long it took to resume the action; I'm guessing it was 15-20 minutes before they strapped him into the stretcher and wheeled him off the court. It was then that the pressure clearly was on us. You can't say that too often about a winless team, so I should explain. Our opponent had no subs on their bench, so they had to run with four guys the rest of the way. That's right -- we had a one-man advantage the rest of the way.
Fast Break decided the best way to combat the 4-on-5 situation was to contradict their name. They slowly walked the ball up the floor each possession, and they seemed to follow the Norman Dale basketball philosophy of passing the ball a minimum number of times before being allowed to shoot. Predictably, against our rag-tag collection of players, it worked. By halftime, their lead had been extended. We trailed 26-17.
The second half was painful. The four-man defense consistently lagged, daring us to shoot open jumpers. We obliged and justified the strategy by converting a ridiculously low percentage. I take a large part of the blame, as I felt as uncomfortable with my release as I had since our winter league began in January. I'd guess I was about 2-for-12 from the field. Fast Break's four-man offense, meanwhile, continued to be effectively patient, often getting the ball to a surprisingly skilled, thick big man on the post. The touch on his baseline turnaround made me fucking sick.
And it wasn't just our ineptitude that was setting me off. The officials, one in particular, were abhorrent. This old jerk-off literally wasn't watching the action on several occasions as obvious fouls or violations occurred. The worst was what should have been the easiest travelling call in the book, as one of our opponents slipped and fell on the floor with the ball, slid several feet and got back up without the whistle blowing. After having popped off on this worthless fuck of a referee a couple of times already, it was this occasion that almost got me tossed from the game. His partner actually ordered me to go to the other end of the floor, and it was there that he said he didn't want to hear another word from me. Especially with the game no longer in doubt, I was REALLY close to telling the bastard to shove his head up his fucking ass, but I knew this was the type of asshole who would have gone straight to an ejection rather than simply slapping me with a technical foul. An ejection means an automatic one-game suspension in this league too, so I somehow restrained ... but it still pisses me off just to think of it.
So the clock wound down relatively harmlessly after that, and we exited the court into a stormy summer night with not even our pride remaining. Salt in the wound: I returned home to a house without electricity, which wasn't restored until about 6:00am Thursday.
Final score: 42-26
SJI contribution (my postgame recollection of it): 6 points on two 3s.
Record: 0-4
Next game: July 1 vs. Anger Management (and, no, that's not a class I've been ordered to take)
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Game 3: Running Into a Buzzsaw
The exploits of my C-league recreational basketball team, continued ...
Game 3: June 17 vs. American Century
It's actually a little difficult for me to say that we ran into a buzzsaw in Game 3 of our summer basketball league. I mean it's not like our opponents were physically imposing or overwhelmingly athletic. Then again, when you begin a game on the ass end of a 21-0 run, it's pretty safe to say that you're getting your nuts chopped off.
So there's not much else that needs to be said. We got routinely beaten up and down the floor, we turned the ball over a lot, and we didn't make many shots. I believe the halftime score was 42-17, which isn't really too bad considering we were down by 21 before we'd even gotten on the scoreboard.
The second half was almost an identical whoopin'. No real details are necessary. I got fouled going to the basket in the final few seconds and, thanks to the running clock, I got to shoot my two free throws after the buzzer sounded and with no one else on the line. There may never have been two more meaningless points in the history of basketball.
Final score: 83-33, I swear to fucking god.
SJI contribution (my postgame recollection of it): 11 points -- three 3s and 2-2 from the line. I could have scored 50 and it wouldn't have been enough on this freaking night.
Record: 0-3
Next game: June 24 vs. Fast Break
Game 3: June 17 vs. American Century
It's actually a little difficult for me to say that we ran into a buzzsaw in Game 3 of our summer basketball league. I mean it's not like our opponents were physically imposing or overwhelmingly athletic. Then again, when you begin a game on the ass end of a 21-0 run, it's pretty safe to say that you're getting your nuts chopped off.
So there's not much else that needs to be said. We got routinely beaten up and down the floor, we turned the ball over a lot, and we didn't make many shots. I believe the halftime score was 42-17, which isn't really too bad considering we were down by 21 before we'd even gotten on the scoreboard.
The second half was almost an identical whoopin'. No real details are necessary. I got fouled going to the basket in the final few seconds and, thanks to the running clock, I got to shoot my two free throws after the buzzer sounded and with no one else on the line. There may never have been two more meaningless points in the history of basketball.
Final score: 83-33, I swear to fucking god.
SJI contribution (my postgame recollection of it): 11 points -- three 3s and 2-2 from the line. I could have scored 50 and it wouldn't have been enough on this freaking night.
Record: 0-3
Next game: June 24 vs. Fast Break
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Game 2: Worse Than the First
The exploits of my C-league recreational basketball team, continued ...
Game 2: June 10 vs. The Fighting Artichokes
Team Johnny's came out of the gate hot again, this time with a 9-0 start to open the game. Just as in Game 1, this blogger helped the cause with an early bucket in transition and a three. By controlling the glass on the defensive end and getting some second-chance baskets off of our own misses, we kept a fairly solid working margin throughout the half. The star, despite a calf strain that temporarily put him on the sideline, was my blogging friend Mr. Peterson. Well on his way to a double-double after the first 20 minutes. Halftime score: 22-14.
Unlike the season opener, we maintained momentum into the second half. We were quicker to the ball, knocked down a few shots and continued to hold a considerable rebounding advantage. My shifty little ass had gotten to the rim a few times for layups and also earned a couple of trips to the line for my efforts. After hitting two free throws with just under 5:00 to play, Johnny's held a seemingly comfortable 38-24 lead.
That's when things drastically changed. Our clearly inferior opponents started hitting shots and started pressing -- a lethal combination. (For those needing a University of Illinois reference, think 2007 NCAA first round vs. Virginia Tech -- double-digit lead quickly erased as non-ballhandlers such as Brian Randle, Warren Carter and Rich McBride committed repeated turnovers.) We seemed to turn it over almost every trip those last few minutes. And when we did break the press, it was like a mad dash to get the ball to the rim as quickly as possible rather than to keep the floor spread and take some time off the clock. I take some of the blame for committing one of the turnovers, but moreso for not getting to the ball enough. Maybe it's my ego, but I think we'd have been better off if I'd have brought it up the floor every time.
Still, we hit most of our free throws when fouled and seemed to control our own destiny in the closing seconds. But a three with under ten seconds left cut the lead to one, 44-43. That's a situation when I want the ball, and I got it. Fouled with 3.6 left, I was able to almost put the game on ice. Knocked down both to make it a three-point game, 46-43. The smart money says to foul before the shot in that situation, and that's what was briefly discussed. But somehow a Fighting Artichoke was allowed to slip behind his man, catch a high-arcing 65-foot pass, turn and shoot a relatively uncontested three at the buzzer. Nothing but net. You've got to be fucking kidding me.
After inexplicably being outscored 22-8 over the final 4+ minutes of regulation, I don't even want to talk about the extra session.
Final score: 56-51 in OT
SJI contribution (my postgame recollection of it): 13 points -- 4 FG (one 3) and 4-5 from the line. Not enough for a W.
Record: 0-2
Next game: June 17 vs. American Century
Game 2: June 10 vs. The Fighting Artichokes
Team Johnny's came out of the gate hot again, this time with a 9-0 start to open the game. Just as in Game 1, this blogger helped the cause with an early bucket in transition and a three. By controlling the glass on the defensive end and getting some second-chance baskets off of our own misses, we kept a fairly solid working margin throughout the half. The star, despite a calf strain that temporarily put him on the sideline, was my blogging friend Mr. Peterson. Well on his way to a double-double after the first 20 minutes. Halftime score: 22-14.
Unlike the season opener, we maintained momentum into the second half. We were quicker to the ball, knocked down a few shots and continued to hold a considerable rebounding advantage. My shifty little ass had gotten to the rim a few times for layups and also earned a couple of trips to the line for my efforts. After hitting two free throws with just under 5:00 to play, Johnny's held a seemingly comfortable 38-24 lead.
That's when things drastically changed. Our clearly inferior opponents started hitting shots and started pressing -- a lethal combination. (For those needing a University of Illinois reference, think 2007 NCAA first round vs. Virginia Tech -- double-digit lead quickly erased as non-ballhandlers such as Brian Randle, Warren Carter and Rich McBride committed repeated turnovers.) We seemed to turn it over almost every trip those last few minutes. And when we did break the press, it was like a mad dash to get the ball to the rim as quickly as possible rather than to keep the floor spread and take some time off the clock. I take some of the blame for committing one of the turnovers, but moreso for not getting to the ball enough. Maybe it's my ego, but I think we'd have been better off if I'd have brought it up the floor every time.
Still, we hit most of our free throws when fouled and seemed to control our own destiny in the closing seconds. But a three with under ten seconds left cut the lead to one, 44-43. That's a situation when I want the ball, and I got it. Fouled with 3.6 left, I was able to almost put the game on ice. Knocked down both to make it a three-point game, 46-43. The smart money says to foul before the shot in that situation, and that's what was briefly discussed. But somehow a Fighting Artichoke was allowed to slip behind his man, catch a high-arcing 65-foot pass, turn and shoot a relatively uncontested three at the buzzer. Nothing but net. You've got to be fucking kidding me.
After inexplicably being outscored 22-8 over the final 4+ minutes of regulation, I don't even want to talk about the extra session.
Final score: 56-51 in OT
SJI contribution (my postgame recollection of it): 13 points -- 4 FG (one 3) and 4-5 from the line. Not enough for a W.
Record: 0-2
Next game: June 17 vs. American Century
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Orlando Magic: The Pick of the GOP
When I turn to ESPN or any other seemingly reliable sports outlet, I'm looking for scores, injury updates, fantasy news, etc. I'm sure as hell not expecting or wanting to see any bullshit about this guy.
But that's just what I got yesterday when ESPNews felt it appropriate to crawl the "news" that President Obama predicted an L.A. Lakers' NBA Finals win in six games. So what if the douche correctly picked North Carolina in his NCAA bracket back in March. (By the way, accidentally stumbling across the sight of Obama and Andy Katz together pondering the 65-team field was one of the more troubling things I've seen this year. More than 15 seconds of that would have likely caused me to jump off my fucking roof.)
Anyway, I'm taking the Magic in six, and I'm hoping my Republican friends will join me. I'm with Superman.
But that's just what I got yesterday when ESPNews felt it appropriate to crawl the "news" that President Obama predicted an L.A. Lakers' NBA Finals win in six games. So what if the douche correctly picked North Carolina in his NCAA bracket back in March. (By the way, accidentally stumbling across the sight of Obama and Andy Katz together pondering the 65-team field was one of the more troubling things I've seen this year. More than 15 seconds of that would have likely caused me to jump off my fucking roof.)
Anyway, I'm taking the Magic in six, and I'm hoping my Republican friends will join me. I'm with Superman.
Game 1: For Starters, We're Losers
Perhaps I should have known it was a bad sign that the first game of our new basketball season fell on a day when I also had to visit my dentist and my mechanic. But regardless of my disappointment, I've decided to entertain myself by chronicling the eight-game season through this creative outlet.
Game 1: Wednesday, June 3 vs. Cobra Kai
The Spring/Summer iteration of our recreational basketball team hit the hardwoods in lovely Overland Park, KS, last night with tempered expectations after a 3-7 winter performance in the Merriam, KS, 4-on-4 league. But after a hot start, up 13-3 after the first five minutes, we felt good. Yours truly -- one who's always willing to do a little chest thumping -- hit a couple of early threes to help lead the charge, and I felt strong throughout the night. But what plagued us in our last league also reared its head in our new league. Defensive breakdowns on the perimeter led to too many open shots, left the interior scrambling, thus opening up the opportunity for easy offensive boards and put-backs. Our early ten-point lead shrunk to four at the half, 32-28.
More of the same in the second half as the lead changed hands after a few minutes. Over the first ten minutes of the half, we mustered just four points. That was enough to seal the fate of Johnny's (that's our team name, sponsored by a local tavern chain for whom one of my teammates was a General Manager ... until this week. Shit, there's another bad omen I should have spotted heading into Game 1: Wearing shirts promoting an entity with whom we no longer had an affiliation.).
Final score: 54-44
SJI contribution (A friend told me during our winter basketball session that it was surprising that I didn't keep track of how many points I score in each game. Translation: I'm perceived as a selfish bastard. So in my weekly postgame recaps, I'm going to try to remember how much I contributed to the cause.): 14 points -- four 3s and one bucket from the paint. Not enough to start us with a W.
Record: 0-1
Next game: June 10 vs. The Fighting Artichokes
Game 1: Wednesday, June 3 vs. Cobra Kai
The Spring/Summer iteration of our recreational basketball team hit the hardwoods in lovely Overland Park, KS, last night with tempered expectations after a 3-7 winter performance in the Merriam, KS, 4-on-4 league. But after a hot start, up 13-3 after the first five minutes, we felt good. Yours truly -- one who's always willing to do a little chest thumping -- hit a couple of early threes to help lead the charge, and I felt strong throughout the night. But what plagued us in our last league also reared its head in our new league. Defensive breakdowns on the perimeter led to too many open shots, left the interior scrambling, thus opening up the opportunity for easy offensive boards and put-backs. Our early ten-point lead shrunk to four at the half, 32-28.
More of the same in the second half as the lead changed hands after a few minutes. Over the first ten minutes of the half, we mustered just four points. That was enough to seal the fate of Johnny's (that's our team name, sponsored by a local tavern chain for whom one of my teammates was a General Manager ... until this week. Shit, there's another bad omen I should have spotted heading into Game 1: Wearing shirts promoting an entity with whom we no longer had an affiliation.).
Final score: 54-44
SJI contribution (A friend told me during our winter basketball session that it was surprising that I didn't keep track of how many points I score in each game. Translation: I'm perceived as a selfish bastard. So in my weekly postgame recaps, I'm going to try to remember how much I contributed to the cause.): 14 points -- four 3s and one bucket from the paint. Not enough to start us with a W.
Record: 0-1
Next game: June 10 vs. The Fighting Artichokes
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Losing the Anti-Hype Battle Again to Lebron
As I've said before, I'm not one for hype. That's why I never thought I'd be pulling for someone like Lebron James. He had enough going for him that I didn't need to put any of my energy behind him. But I officially became a Lebron fan a few years back when he almost single-handedly carried the Cavs into the NBA Finals, and what he's done since hasn't changed my mind. (And I'm not just talking about the State Farm commercial in which Lebron does the Kid N' Play dance.)
Watching the end of Game 2 Friday night was one of the many occasions when my wife's understanding of my sports fandom proved to be lacking. She wondered why I cared so much to be watching the game when I had no allegiance to either team. Let's just say it's a good thing I didn't lose the argument. With Hedo Turkoglu poised to be the Rashard Lewis of Game 2 by scoring five points in the last minute, I was stunned that the Magic found themselves a tick away from a 2-0 lead heading home.
We all know what happened next. I jumped off the freaking couch when Lebron's rainbow three rattled in and, as usual, I couldn't help but wonder what it would have been like to have been in that arena. Unreal.
But I'm a bit troubled by the last two days worth of comparisons between Friday night's shot and Michael Jordan's classic game-winner 20 years ago over Craig Ehlo. The thing is, Jordan's wasn't just a game-winner; it was a series-winner. If it didn't go in, the Bulls were going home -- not for the next game, but for the entire offseason. Sure, if Lebron's shot didn't go in then you could almost seal the Cavs' fate, having dropped the first two games of the series on their home floor. But they would have still been alive to fight on.
I don't care that Jordan's was a first-round series ... and that it was only basically a free-throw line jumper ... or that there were three seconds on the clock when he got the ball rather than just one. His shot sent his opponents packing.
Now if the Cavs rally to win this series and go on to the NBA title, then you can say that the shot probably saved the season. And that's when you can say it wasn't just "the shot," it was "The Shot." Either way, Lebron still has some work to do.
Watching the end of Game 2 Friday night was one of the many occasions when my wife's understanding of my sports fandom proved to be lacking. She wondered why I cared so much to be watching the game when I had no allegiance to either team. Let's just say it's a good thing I didn't lose the argument. With Hedo Turkoglu poised to be the Rashard Lewis of Game 2 by scoring five points in the last minute, I was stunned that the Magic found themselves a tick away from a 2-0 lead heading home.
We all know what happened next. I jumped off the freaking couch when Lebron's rainbow three rattled in and, as usual, I couldn't help but wonder what it would have been like to have been in that arena. Unreal.
But I'm a bit troubled by the last two days worth of comparisons between Friday night's shot and Michael Jordan's classic game-winner 20 years ago over Craig Ehlo. The thing is, Jordan's wasn't just a game-winner; it was a series-winner. If it didn't go in, the Bulls were going home -- not for the next game, but for the entire offseason. Sure, if Lebron's shot didn't go in then you could almost seal the Cavs' fate, having dropped the first two games of the series on their home floor. But they would have still been alive to fight on.
I don't care that Jordan's was a first-round series ... and that it was only basically a free-throw line jumper ... or that there were three seconds on the clock when he got the ball rather than just one. His shot sent his opponents packing.
Now if the Cavs rally to win this series and go on to the NBA title, then you can say that the shot probably saved the season. And that's when you can say it wasn't just "the shot," it was "The Shot." Either way, Lebron still has some work to do.
Monday, May 11, 2009
A Few Random Thoughts After Being Pissed on by Wii Fit
No disrespect to that software geniuses who invented the Nintendo Wii or Wii Fit, in particular; however, my Wii Fit experience is off to a very inauspicious start.
The box was just cracked open today, one day after my wife received Wii Fit as a Mothers' Day gift from my mom. Today's task was simply to get started, setting up profiles for my wife and myself. Now I'm not at all the one who's vigilant about getting started on this. Within the last year, I've dropped almost 20 pounds to get down to my desired Super Welterweight/Middleweight frame in the low 150s. Standing a mere 5'6", I tend to think I do okay for myself. Apparently, Wii Fit doesn't agree.
After simply standing on this board for a few seconds and performing a couple of balancing tests, I was told my fitness level was ideal for a 36-year-old. The fucking audacity. No offense to those of age 36, but that's four years older than I am. I'll be damned to stand around and have someone - even a damn machine - tell me I'm not in good shape for according to my years.
I do some strength and resistance training several days a week, and I probably jog a total of 10-15 miles peer week. Is that good for nothing?
Pricks.
The glory in being wrong. So I was only 30 points off in my prediction yesterday of Game 4 of the NBA Western Conference semifinals. Rather than the 18-point Lakers' victory that I projected, it was the Rockets who cruised to a 12-point win (and it wasn't nearly that close). But I have no problem being so far off on this one. First of all, who didn't think the Lakers would win? Secondly, who really wouldn't want this series to stretch as long as possible. I find it ridiculous to think that Houston can win another game in L.A., but I can keep my fingers crossed that Artest will be ready to pop one of the Lakers into the first row at some point in the next few days.
Confession: I actually want the Lakers to win. Those who know me well can tell you that two of my least favorite things in life are hype and populism. (Guess who I didn't vote for in the Presidential Election last November?) That's why it's highly improbable to think that I'd actually be pulling for the much-desired Lakers-Cavs matchup in the NBA Finals. I'm sorry, though, I just think it's something I need to see. The Lakers are the best team in the West, the Cavs are the best in the East; Kobe's the best player in the West, LeBron is the best player in the East. Let's get this done. It's good for the league, good for basketball in general, good for TV, and it's good enough for me. Just this once, I'm buying the hype and I'm voting with the masses.
My wife is right about this kid shit. My wife runs a daycare out of our home, at its peak with as many as eight children under our small roof. This is personally significant to me in many ways, but perhaps none moreso than on days like today, when I stay home from work. My wonderful 16-month-old son, Lukas, rolled over this morning with a temperature of 103. Rather than closing the daycare, inconveniencing the other parents and forcing my wife to burn one of her contracted sick days, I volunteered to stay home and quarantine myself with the sick child. That decision was made over 12 hours ago, and I'm officially ready to get out of the fucking house. My only fresh air salvation today has been a 10-minute walk with my dog, and I'm just about ready for a 10-hour trip to my favorite watering hole.
She's right, this stuff isn't easy. Much respect.
The box was just cracked open today, one day after my wife received Wii Fit as a Mothers' Day gift from my mom. Today's task was simply to get started, setting up profiles for my wife and myself. Now I'm not at all the one who's vigilant about getting started on this. Within the last year, I've dropped almost 20 pounds to get down to my desired Super Welterweight/Middleweight frame in the low 150s. Standing a mere 5'6", I tend to think I do okay for myself. Apparently, Wii Fit doesn't agree.
After simply standing on this board for a few seconds and performing a couple of balancing tests, I was told my fitness level was ideal for a 36-year-old. The fucking audacity. No offense to those of age 36, but that's four years older than I am. I'll be damned to stand around and have someone - even a damn machine - tell me I'm not in good shape for according to my years.
I do some strength and resistance training several days a week, and I probably jog a total of 10-15 miles peer week. Is that good for nothing?
Pricks.
The glory in being wrong. So I was only 30 points off in my prediction yesterday of Game 4 of the NBA Western Conference semifinals. Rather than the 18-point Lakers' victory that I projected, it was the Rockets who cruised to a 12-point win (and it wasn't nearly that close). But I have no problem being so far off on this one. First of all, who didn't think the Lakers would win? Secondly, who really wouldn't want this series to stretch as long as possible. I find it ridiculous to think that Houston can win another game in L.A., but I can keep my fingers crossed that Artest will be ready to pop one of the Lakers into the first row at some point in the next few days.
Confession: I actually want the Lakers to win. Those who know me well can tell you that two of my least favorite things in life are hype and populism. (Guess who I didn't vote for in the Presidential Election last November?) That's why it's highly improbable to think that I'd actually be pulling for the much-desired Lakers-Cavs matchup in the NBA Finals. I'm sorry, though, I just think it's something I need to see. The Lakers are the best team in the West, the Cavs are the best in the East; Kobe's the best player in the West, LeBron is the best player in the East. Let's get this done. It's good for the league, good for basketball in general, good for TV, and it's good enough for me. Just this once, I'm buying the hype and I'm voting with the masses.
My wife is right about this kid shit. My wife runs a daycare out of our home, at its peak with as many as eight children under our small roof. This is personally significant to me in many ways, but perhaps none moreso than on days like today, when I stay home from work. My wonderful 16-month-old son, Lukas, rolled over this morning with a temperature of 103. Rather than closing the daycare, inconveniencing the other parents and forcing my wife to burn one of her contracted sick days, I volunteered to stay home and quarantine myself with the sick child. That decision was made over 12 hours ago, and I'm officially ready to get out of the fucking house. My only fresh air salvation today has been a 10-minute walk with my dog, and I'm just about ready for a 10-hour trip to my favorite watering hole.
She's right, this stuff isn't easy. Much respect.
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