'Lex
I've forgotten. According to the Python oeuvre, who is it that was "twice as sloshed as Schlegel"? Oh, well. I'm a lumberjack, and I don't care. Thank Jeremy for his kind regards and for summoning up the shade of Ricky Pierce, whom I'd inexcusably forgotten, but whose J coming off a screen was only a touch off the gold standard, which was, as you know, set forever by Vinnie Johnson with the Pistons. And, at the last, we must salute Charles Pierce himself, the greatest female impersonator of the late 20th century, who died last year, but with whom I am Googled inextricably in cyber-eternity. And no, dammit, I will not sing "Over the Rainbow."
Damn, that was a coach's game last night. Bodies everywhere, floor burns singing like strangled violins, manifestly incompetent officiating, particularly under the basket. And a free throw from Paul Pierce that looked like he was trying to toss a balloon into a corn silo. Did the noisy baccalaureates drown out Tony Battie's glorious, "Get that the FUCK outta here!" that the TNT microphones picked up after Battie—whom Dan Issel most memorably termed "El Busto" in Denver—swatted another of his five shots? I know we're all supposed to hate the immodesty that has come upon our NBA players these days, but that was some great stuff. As was Kenny Anderson's riff on Richard Jefferson in the postgame.
Shooting is such a strange thing, as we both know from our own respective inner two-guards. Some days, even the most average of rec league players simply cannot miss. (I can remember every single one of those days I've had, even shooting alone in the gym of the high school, where my dad was principal.) And, some days, Paul Pierce has the touch of a blacksmith. It's the closest thing basketball has to that Golf in the Kingdom stuff that sells so well on Father's Day.
As you know, the Youthful Genius and I have a long and tangled history, but I think there's a good deal to what you say about revising Rick Pitino's history with the Celtics. He did stir up the tired blood, that's for certain, and he does deserve some credit for putting the cast together. But he plainly had no idea what to do with these guys. He would fall in and out of love with players on a whim (Eric Williams), and he couldn't find a way to keep his ego out of the way long enough for the delicate chemistry of Pierce and Antoine Walker to develop. One thing he did do, he brought Leo Papile in to run the personnel side of things, and, as you know, Leo is my personal guide to the basketball demimonde. (During his days as a free-lance talent bird dog, Leo's phone number used to change so often that his card in my Rolodex looked like it belonged to the Hezbollah.) He's the one who put me onto the legendary Mouse McFadden, who stayed in basketball long enough to put an end to the actual 1987 Indiana Season on the Brink. When I asked him why no big schools recruited the Mouse, Leo replied, "Because his transcript looks like the outside of a subway car." What can you say about a guy who drives 40 miles out of his way just so he can visit Manual High in Peoria, and then so charms the coach at that famous basketball mill that the coach brings the marching band out of class to serenade him? Now, of course, Leo has business cards, stationery, and, allegedly, a desk. Basketball's house, if I may borrow from Scripture, has many mansions.
I'd have bought tickets to see you, lost in the north woods, dishless, surrounded by nothing but hockey fans. They travel in packs up there, you know, like wolves. Be careful lest you find yourself one-timed through the five-hole.
Zut, alors!
Pierce