All I have are options right now, streaking alongside me and making me look ponderous and dopey by comparison. This big blank page can’t burden us and I’m not going to let it. Not with a Sunday to make right.
There aren’t many of us here, just the blessed few that have subscribed (after moving some things around and explaining some stuff to the roommate) and the equally beatific curious parties that came over through Twitter. I’m going to look directly into the camera quite a bit during these programs, because I can’t help it and because you should expect it – how are you supposed to trust my tact, poise and reason when it comes to the NBA if I can’t be bothered to utilize any of those applications on Date Night?
There was no Date Night on Saturday, not for my wife and me at least, Genevee Dwyer long ago planned to keep me at extension’s length while performing at a hair stylist’s competition, a charity event for which Lawrence Funderburke anecdotes would be completely useless.
The kids – 15, 14 – had different interests. Dates, no money no ride no problem, Kelly said his game doesn’t start until nine and that it doesn’t hurt to ask, they had movies to be at and teenaged darting glances (delivered with all the assurances of an iPhone battery at one percent) to avoid.
After Old Man over here spied some shit he thought was less than chivalrous, I talked myself out of the sort of stern, showy asides I used to dot the lives of visiting teenaged boys with (“Hey. Never make a woman wait”). I didn’t call the young man back over, didn’t demand in front of God and Parking Lot that he take in one of my rare instances of eye contact, not after the two rear doors weakly clicked shut. They’re still closing them with kid wrists, Kelly.
Dropped two pair off at two different movie theaters after trying not to throw any more logs onto the fire of a Subaru teeming with kids that can spot 49 things to hate about themselves between the left and right nostril alone.
I’m 37, about the same age I once thought I’d think about marrying, let alone becoming a father (if that ever even happened). Here I’ve been, for a dozen years now with this team, and this doofus is lucky enough to be blissfully informed by these things every damn day.
It’s up to the doofus to make things stick, though, and not get left behind while stuck in front of the internet congratulating himself.
If there’s perspective to be found in there somewhere, even if I’m tossing it away on a life spent following people in shorts, then I’ve no choice but to find it. If you want in, to have a little fun with the guy whose style of progeria left him Prenaturally Dad sometime around the time he learned to ride his 10-speed bike, then The Second Arrangement is the show to subscribe to.
After a drive home spent talking basketball back to a nearly-wordless jazz track, I returned to the laptop in time to see Kenneth Faried fly in for an alley-oop on the break to cut the champs’ lead to only three, with a healthy chunk of game to stare through before the half.
This is my busman’s holiday. Saturday basketball is important, so I try to catch as much of it as I can. This presumes sanity, so this means we could be taking in full Behind the Boxscores on some Sunday mornings, coverage of lone or live games, single-game shoutouts mixed with Subaru nonsense, or you could just watch me disappear across the plains – trust that you’ll see, if not where, then at least why the next morning in your inbox.
If Kenneth Faried is dealt this year I would heartily encourage the backers of his next team to not act so self-aware – we know that you know that it’s not the (minimal) price your team paid in return for Faried, it’s just that coach will be expected to give him minutes, and that’s subtraction by addition.
Stranger projects have worked out, right? You better hope so, Next Team, with a year left on Kenneth’s contract after 2017-18. I suppose I’m less a fan of Faried than I am the fun the fan of a hopeless team can have between the trade deadline and when the bell finally rings in April, with a good guy in a new uniform jumping around.
Genevee won, that woman won second place in the hair show, as my imposter syndrome rages on.
A dozen years ago she was readying the new stylist equipment she had to borrow money to buy, sitting with me in my literal parents’ basement where I wrote for SI.com, fearful of the financial hit that she would take leaving the obvious long-term financial stability of her Hollywood Video gig in favor of a hair stylist job at JC Penney. I didn’t even know you could get a haircut at JC Penney’s. She had just divorced her first husband, was grinding through her day gig with a baby and a workingman’s baby in tow, and her new boyfriend lived in his parents’ basement.
Now she has her own place downtown with her name on it, it breaks even plus an old Corolla, and it’s going to support us for a bit while I learn to get these Behind the Boxscores out earlier and earlier in the day, as I attempt to become the first person to do this through Twitter. But we’re doing this, cheeks hurt from smiling I promise, dying to earn your ten bucks and (just as important to me) your time.
The Warriors ended up destroying Denver, it was over as soon as the second half sprung. It remains remarkable to watch (otherwise) good teams just fade in the face of what they expect Golden State is going to singe some eyebrows with.
Denver came out in the first and third quarters afraid throw a jab for fear that any daylight born out of aggression would allow the Warriors to pounce and, as you’d expect, the Warriors don’t really need an excuse to pounce. If you think that there is a chance that they’ll destroy you when you take chances, then what good does leaning on the ropes do?
I don’t read all the websites that I used to, but I am aware that Steve Kerr has been rather vocal about his team’s reliance on outside inspiration to move the sticks a bit, and the Warriors did well to act professionally out in Denver while this crackerjack in Indiana watched that first quarter in the parking lot of a movie theatre on his phone, knowing full well that Yahoo (who have been plenty generous) isn’t paying for his data anymore.
This is where the disposable season sings to me.
The Nuggets have to get this shit out of their system. The Warriors, meanwhile, need to remind us at our most distracted that they are the sort of team that you can feel comfortable with at the top of the standings.
As these Sundays move along, these emails will grow, highlighting some of the best of what I think is worth keeping you on your phone a little longer – written by myself and whoever else I think is worth our screen time. You’ve already gifted me with your minutes and patience and, in some cases, subscription money – if I could ask one more favor, it would be to pass the word of what we’re trying to do here around. I don’t have a big website to leech off of, Twitter carryover is nil, every bit of oxygen this place takes in will no doubt stoke the fire.
I really would like to build a community, one show and one email at a time, that allows for a little stretching room. It’s getting harder and harder to find places where you can take deep, full breaths; through some shared interests and continued good cheer, darlings, I really think we could be on to something here at The Second Arrangement.
Here are the Behind the Boxscores I wrote this week:
Also, here is a letter that I wrote to anyone that wants to read, detailing damn near everything you need to know about who I am, and what The Second Arrangement is.
As I’ve happily learned so far, through that letter, you can reach me if you want to talk about anything to do with quitting drinking, even if you just want to shoot the notion down. I’m around: KDonhoops at yahoo dot com.
As I Come Of Age
I used to think that it was only the Talking Heads had an appropriate song for every happy occasion, but that was before I started buying Pointer Sister records.
A whole lot of NBA to talk about Monday morning, I hope to see you here then.