Please, God, Book II

Now that two of my esteemed colleagues have broken the world wide ice on this e-shrine to all things whatever the hell we feel like, I feel compelled to add my own two cents. And being that it's April and I'm in Phoenix, my inaugural Basketblog shall belong to none other than my beloved/endlessly frustrating Phoenix Suns.

Let me preface this rant by saying that, much like my good friend and fellow Cubs fan Senator Bandercrombie, I too remain hopeful in the face of adversity. As it stands right now, the Suns are down 2-0 to the Godless cowfuckers known as the San Antonio Spurs, a position that is neither enviable nor encouraging. Lesser fans may fold under this kind of intense pressure-by-association, but I remain confident that my team's first NBA championship in their storied 40-year history is not lost. At least not yet.

Okay, let's start with the bad news. That Game 1 was a heartbreaker. We had a slew of opportunities to put the defending champs on their asses right out of the gate, but thanks to some critical mistakes down the stretch and more than a few Texas-sized miracles (Timmy D for 3? I feel like I'm taking crazy pills!), we blew it. My newfound optimism kept my head held high, though; it took 40 points from Duncan and 2 overtimes just to edge us out by two. As my viewing partner said after apologizing to the family I'd been offending for the last 3+ hours, nobody won that game. The Spurs just happened to be ahead when time ran out. That's bullshit, of course, because somebody did win that game, and it wasn't Phoenix. But the sentiment was nice.

Game 2 was a much different, much more infuriating story. I'll start with Boris Diaw. On any other team (like, say, a hockey one) Boris would be a great first option in critical late-game situations. But the last time I checked, Steve Nash, Amare Stoudemire and Shaquille O'Neal are all still members of the Phoenix Suns. Eligible members no less; Stat & Shaq combined for a scant 7 fouls, a virtual cause for celebration unto itself. So why the hell did we run four consecutive plays late in the fourth quarter for 3-D? To piss me off, that's why. Memo to the Suns' coaching staff: height is only an advantage if the player in question isn't a pussy. Write that down.

I'll give B-Diddy a pass on this one, though, as he was somehow out-mediocred by two--TWO!--much more integral puzzle pieces: Grant Hill and Leandro Barbosa. Going a combined 0 for 8 in 44 minutes, Mr. Glass and the Brazilian BitchTit managed to make Boris Diaw look like Wilt Chamberlain. If they continue to pull no-shows the rest of this series, we're effed. The Grant Hill injury was inevitable; the guy hasn't played a full season since he left Duke, where I'm pretty sure he pulled a calf muscle during his Psych final. But LB putting up a goose egg? Totally unexpected. And completely unacceptable.

But that's all overwith now. Tonight's a new night. And in 72 hours, this series will be all tied up, and I'll be chomping at the bit for Game 5's tip-off in San Antone. Or I'll be sobbing uncontrollably. One of the two.