Amidst all the nauseating accounts of Jerry Sandusky's actions and the uncovered allegations of Penn State's administrations lack of proactivite measures, many a Penn State grad or person with experience or perspective has been asked to express his or her sentiments regarding the case.
Former NBA center and Penn State grad John Amaechi appeared yesterday on ESPN's Highly Questionable with Dan LeBatard to share his disgust with Sandusky's actions and the manner with which Penn State's administrative hierarchy failed in dealing with it.
Besides being a very well spoken and eloquent individual, following his retirement in February, 2007, Amaechi became the first high-profile athlete from one of the 4 major North American leagues to announce that he is homosexual. He subsequently released an autobiography titled Man In The Middle and became a spokesman of sorts for inequalities in sport and the plight of the closeted homosexual in extremely heterosexual and homophobic environments. Needless to say, the guy is a class act whose sacrifices have paved the way for the next generation of educated and well-versed professional athletes.
The reason I'm posting this 6+ minute video and giving a brief account of John Amaechi's successes is because the sentiments he shared with Dan LeBatard are the most eloquent and sobering of opinions I've seen or read since this whole scandal unfurled not two weeks ago.
In this instance, eloquent seems like a bit of an understatement, but the point remains; Amaechi does well to separate where we should be directing our efforts and goodwill, and how easily people can become selfish in such times. I commend Amaechi for his opinions and hope that as many people as possible can as well in hopes of coming to grips with this disgusting scandal that will forever leave its black mark on college sports and the University of Penn State.
Showing posts with label NBA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NBA. Show all posts
Friday, November 18, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Colangelo Shows Balls, Drafts Jonas Valanciunas
Following the Raptors decision to draft 19-year old Jonas Valanciunas of Lithuania with the 5th pick in Thursday's nights NBA Draft, I was a skeptical as many a Raptor's fan.
Initially, the need for defense and a quick remedy to a succession of lacklustre seasons leaped to mind as a priority. In hindsight, my opinion of the pick has gone from mildly negative to unabashedly optimistic.
The fact of the matter is, North American-bred NBA players aren't exactly flocking to Toronto vis-a-vis trade or free agency; I'm not completely certain why, but they don't. In reality, the city's multiethnic community and emerging waterfront adjacent to the ACC would cater perfectly to many an NBA player if they only gave it a chance.
Problem is, the Raps cannot become a perennial playoff competitor by simply filling stop-gaps through free agency, they have to build a core of young players who actually want to play here.
Much of the criticism towards GM Bryan Colangelo is that Jonas is under contract to play with his club team in Lithuania for another season, and barring a miracle, will not suit up for the team until the 2011-12 season. Considering he's 19, 7 feet tall with a 7'4 wingspan and a 9'3 reach, I think we can wait a year.
Kudos to Colangelo for making a risky move, especially considering he just signed a 2-year contact extension with a club option for the third. Most GM's would have overreacted and drafted the best available athlete on the board ready to play next season.
Yes, Jose Calderon is a liability at the 1 and his back-up Jerryd Bayless is rubbish, but drafting UConn's Kemba Walker or Kentucky's Brandon Knight would not have provided a defined starting point guard, while Valanciunas might be the most talented player in the draft.
He will play defense in the blocks and be able to post-up any player in the league. He has the look of a star and seems elated to eventually join the Raptors.
Considering this year's draft was lacklustre at best, Colangelo may have drafted the best available player regardless of contractual obligations to his club in Europe. Say all you will about the Raps and their penchant for signing European players, but 6 of the first 7 picks of the draft were born outside of the United States. Perhaps Colangelo deserves more praise and a little less criticism. Only time will tell. Thanks for reading kids.
Initially, the need for defense and a quick remedy to a succession of lacklustre seasons leaped to mind as a priority. In hindsight, my opinion of the pick has gone from mildly negative to unabashedly optimistic.
The fact of the matter is, North American-bred NBA players aren't exactly flocking to Toronto vis-a-vis trade or free agency; I'm not completely certain why, but they don't. In reality, the city's multiethnic community and emerging waterfront adjacent to the ACC would cater perfectly to many an NBA player if they only gave it a chance.
Problem is, the Raps cannot become a perennial playoff competitor by simply filling stop-gaps through free agency, they have to build a core of young players who actually want to play here.
Much of the criticism towards GM Bryan Colangelo is that Jonas is under contract to play with his club team in Lithuania for another season, and barring a miracle, will not suit up for the team until the 2011-12 season. Considering he's 19, 7 feet tall with a 7'4 wingspan and a 9'3 reach, I think we can wait a year.
Kudos to Colangelo for making a risky move, especially considering he just signed a 2-year contact extension with a club option for the third. Most GM's would have overreacted and drafted the best available athlete on the board ready to play next season.
Yes, Jose Calderon is a liability at the 1 and his back-up Jerryd Bayless is rubbish, but drafting UConn's Kemba Walker or Kentucky's Brandon Knight would not have provided a defined starting point guard, while Valanciunas might be the most talented player in the draft.
He will play defense in the blocks and be able to post-up any player in the league. He has the look of a star and seems elated to eventually join the Raptors.
Considering this year's draft was lacklustre at best, Colangelo may have drafted the best available player regardless of contractual obligations to his club in Europe. Say all you will about the Raps and their penchant for signing European players, but 6 of the first 7 picks of the draft were born outside of the United States. Perhaps Colangelo deserves more praise and a little less criticism. Only time will tell. Thanks for reading kids.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
AU REVOIR LES ROIS DU SACRAMENTO - Sacramento Gets 1 More Shot
As it turns out, contrary to initial statements found on both this site and legitimate news outlets, the Sacramento Kings will not be moving to Anaheim next year.
They will play next season in Sacramento, with expectations being that the Maloof Ownership group will finalize the move to Anaheim sometime next year, depending on the state of the projected lockout as a result of the Collective Bargaining Agreement.
There are two primary reasons for the development;
Sacramento Mayor and former Phoenix Sun Kevin Johnson tirelessly canvassed local businesses and confirmed pledges of increased funding for the team. Now it is up to Johnson and local businesses to develop a means of funding the construction and maintenance of a new stadium.
"If we want to be a major league city, you have to have major league facilities" said Mayor Johnson following the news that the franchise would have another year in California's capital city.
Also, with the Lakers and Clippers already claiming Los Angeles as home, the proposed move to suburban Anaheim was met with opposition not only by their ownership groups, but by other owners who were opposed to the Maloofs sudden change of heart.
"We spent 13 years and millions of dollars to try to get an arena built," Maloof said. "We don't have the answer. The mayor has the answers and we're willing and able to listen. He's got to have a plan. We never want to be untruthful to the fans of Sacramento. There is a sense of urgency, and that's up to Mayor Johnson and his political team."
Regardless, the move will likely take place next year and be sure to check bad news blog for a scathing review of the franchise.
Before I go, I want to briefly mention an idea and allow you guys to think about it. Should taxpayers really be responsible for the partial funding of an arena used for professional sports? Are these teams not owned by anglo fat cats in Italian suits who solely profit from the team? What is the difference between an NBA franchise and any other form of private business? If we don't pay for a new IBM factory or GM plant, regardless of the jobs it creates and the beneficial impact on the economy, why should be fund an arena.
This is the problem that faced the people of Seattle. A municipal referendum concluded that the city would not increase taxes to fund a replacement for the dated Key Arena. Instead, Starbucks owner and Seattle SuperSonics frontman Howard Schultz decided a move to Oklahoma and the nation's 48th largest television market would be a more promising fiscal venture, and with that, OKC got the Thunder and Seattle lost a franchise they wholeheartedly supported for years through winning seasons and hardship.
They will play next season in Sacramento, with expectations being that the Maloof Ownership group will finalize the move to Anaheim sometime next year, depending on the state of the projected lockout as a result of the Collective Bargaining Agreement.
There are two primary reasons for the development;
Sacramento Mayor and former Phoenix Sun Kevin Johnson tirelessly canvassed local businesses and confirmed pledges of increased funding for the team. Now it is up to Johnson and local businesses to develop a means of funding the construction and maintenance of a new stadium.
"If we want to be a major league city, you have to have major league facilities" said Mayor Johnson following the news that the franchise would have another year in California's capital city.
Also, with the Lakers and Clippers already claiming Los Angeles as home, the proposed move to suburban Anaheim was met with opposition not only by their ownership groups, but by other owners who were opposed to the Maloofs sudden change of heart.
"We spent 13 years and millions of dollars to try to get an arena built," Maloof said. "We don't have the answer. The mayor has the answers and we're willing and able to listen. He's got to have a plan. We never want to be untruthful to the fans of Sacramento. There is a sense of urgency, and that's up to Mayor Johnson and his political team."
Regardless, the move will likely take place next year and be sure to check bad news blog for a scathing review of the franchise.
Before I go, I want to briefly mention an idea and allow you guys to think about it. Should taxpayers really be responsible for the partial funding of an arena used for professional sports? Are these teams not owned by anglo fat cats in Italian suits who solely profit from the team? What is the difference between an NBA franchise and any other form of private business? If we don't pay for a new IBM factory or GM plant, regardless of the jobs it creates and the beneficial impact on the economy, why should be fund an arena.
This is the problem that faced the people of Seattle. A municipal referendum concluded that the city would not increase taxes to fund a replacement for the dated Key Arena. Instead, Starbucks owner and Seattle SuperSonics frontman Howard Schultz decided a move to Oklahoma and the nation's 48th largest television market would be a more promising fiscal venture, and with that, OKC got the Thunder and Seattle lost a franchise they wholeheartedly supported for years through winning seasons and hardship.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: Kendrick Perkins Is Cool-As-Fuck
Let me preface this delightful little piece by saying I TOLD YOU SO... Recall when I mentioned that the Perkins trade from Boston would totally crush the morale of the team? Well, I was right - the Celtics can barely beat Carmelo Anthony and 4 retards at home these days.
Anyways, this is an article by Alan Siegel, republished with permission from Deadspin.com. Here's hoping some of you feel the same warm and fuzzy sensations I did upon completion.
Fuckin' love me some Perk.
How These Two White Guys Wound Up In This Kendrick Perkins Family Photo
Alan Siegel — Like most white guys from suburban Boston, half-brothers Brian Johnson and Justin Tsouros had never hung out with an NBA player. So when they arrived at the condo in Waltham, Mass., one evening in the fall of 2007, they didn't quite know what to expect. The place was dark. The blinds were drawn. But they knocked, because, well, they were expected. A few silent moments passed before they heard rustling, looked up, and noticed a large eyeball staring at them through a window. Then the front door creaked open, revealing an empty foyer. Again, silence. Probably sensing the sheer incredulity of his guests, Kendrick Perkins, who'd been hiding in another room, came out smiling.
"I'm just fucking with you guys," Perk said in that deep Southeast Texas drawl. "Come in."
For the next four hours, they watched television, ate Funyuns, and talked about the Kevin Garnett trade and the upcoming season. Perk was still skeptical about the deal that sent his friend Al Jefferson to Minnesota for KG. Brian remembers Perk saying that the Celtics better win a title that year or else "they're gonna blame me." At the end of the night, Perk brought Brian and Justin into the kitchen and offered them some homemade spaghetti and meat sauce. For some reason, Perk didn't want them to eat in front of him. Instead, he shoveled single portions of pasta into plastic containers and instructed his new buddies to call him later, when they were finished with dinner. He wanted to know what they thought of his culinary skills. "But don't tell anyone," he said. "I don't want people to know that I do the cooking around here."
There were other gifts. Earlier, Justin — then a junior in high school — had eyed a life-sized cutout of Perk in his Boston Celtics uniform. Naturally, Perk told Justin to take it. Justin did, but not before his host had him prop up the cardboard doppelganger next to the real thing.
You ever wonder what it's like to befriend a good-but-not-great NBA player, to drift along in the wake of his semi-celebrity, to be, in a way, his very own Mars Blackmon? For Brian and Justin, at least, it was pleasantly, irresistibly, even delightfully banal. It was Funyuns and dinner in Tupperware and sleepovers, and it was playing Xbox as Ricky Davis with the real Ricky Davis just a few feet away. It was weird, in part because it was all so normal.
It was this:
"Damn," Perk said, eyeing the cutout. "I'm big. I must be scaring people sometimes."
The spaghetti, by the way, was delicious.
* * *
In the whole history of the NBA, I'd wager, few friendships have been as unlikely as the one that sprang up between Brian, Justin, and Perk. If you wanted to be fancy about it, I suppose you could say that it had something to do with the dawn of sports blogging and the simultaneous arrival in the NBA of Millennials like Perk, athletes who routinely broke the fourth wall that had traditionally separated them from fans. Mostly, though, I think Perk and Justin and Brian were three guys who were in on the same joke.
The first meeting actually happened a few years earlier, at an open practice for Celtics season ticket holders in September or October 2004. (Justin's father, a Boston attorney with close ties to the team, had purchased a package after the 2001-02 season.) Justin may have barely hit puberty by that point, but he was an uncommonly persistent fan boy. At a post-practice autograph session organized by the team, Justin complimented Perk's hook shot. The secret to it, Perk said, was that it was "au naturel."
"I'm just chillin'," Perk said when Justin, then a middle-schooler, asked how he was doing. "Just a squirrel trying to get his nut."
Justin was smitten — even if he had no idea what the expression meant — and so was Brian, who's 15 years Justin's senior. "When I heard he had a 9-6 standing reach, I said, ‘I love this guy,' before I even saw him," Brian says. Perk quickly became one of their favorite players, even though he barely saw the court his first two years as a pro. Justin changed his handle in the Celtic Nation forum to Perkisabeast after hearing an interview in which Perk expressed his desire "to be a beast" for Boston. By the end of the 2004-05 season, Justin and Brian were Perk's unofficial hype men.
At the time, Brian was working at a newspaper about 30 miles north of Boston. That's where I got to know him. I was a sportswriter. He was an NBA obsessive, but covered business. His time at the daily didn't end well. Management moved him, in addition to several other talented reporters who were part of a futile union organizing effort in late 2005, to the paper's satellite office in New Hampshire. When he quit in the spring of 2006, he figured his journalism career was over. He needed an outlet. That summer, while vacationing with family in Rhode Island, he found one. On a wave-less day at the beach, he and Justin conceived Perkisabeast.com. They began to build the site that afternoon.
Neither Brian nor Justin really had any idea what the new project would become. At first, it was a simple tribute. But they loved Perk. And Brian, for one, thought it would be funny to mythologize an unknown late-first-round pick, crafting for him a persona that was more Bill Brasky than Bill Russell. As it turns out, the real Beast was a hell of a lot more interesting than the made-up one. "We started this thing as jock sniffers," Brian tells me. "But the Perk we ended up knowing was much cooler than the one we created."
* * *
They wanted an interview with Perk, and, somehow, Justin managed to convince the Celtics' media relations staff that such a request from such a website wasn't totally ridiculous. In 2006, Brian and Justin were allowed to attend Celtics media day. Justin interviewed Perk with Brian's Palm Pilot, but the teenager was too damn short to get the thing even close to the 6-foot-10-inch man's face. Perk noticed and said, "You want me to do that?" And so the interview proceeded with the big guy holding the Palm Pilot as if it were a microphone.
Full sizeThe questions weren't typical, at least not for a soul-crushing pseudo-event like an NBA media day. Not that Perk seemed to mind.
Justin: What does Perk put on the stereo to impress the ladies?
Perk: Is my girl gonna hear this?
Justin: What do you put on to impress her?
Perk: Like you gotta kind of go the other way with them and put on like that old Beyonce, not this one that just came out, but the last one, that was jammin'. I like Beyonce so I'll put that on and you know all that stuff that she be singin' "I'll cater to you." Yeah that's my type of stuff.
Perk liked the idea of a digital shrine to his beastliness. It wasn't official, of course. "I don't know if he knew half the crap we did in there," Brian says, "but he didn't care." (It should be noted that Perk is a Beast had a habit of flaming other NBA blogs. Bethlehem Shoals of dearly departed FreeDarko once wrote that he "personally can't stand them." Brian says now that PIAB's thin skin was just part of its ethos.) Perk would later introduce Brian and Justin to his friends as the guys "from my website." Perk even gave Justin his cell phone number (it seemed to change every time Justin saw Perk). That season, Perk had Doc Rivers's assistant leave family passes for Justin, giving him access behind the curtain. After games, Justin would ask Perk a bunch of questions, then hand over the recorder to Brian, who transcribed the interviews and put them up on Perk is a Beast. Perk even suggested to Justin that they should hang out. At the end of Boston's putrid 2006-07 campaign, Perk gave Justin one of his size-19 Adidas high-tops.
* * *
That summer Justin phoned Perk — obsessively. At one point, Brian asked Justin how many times he'd called. "Ten," Justin responded. "This week." Garnett's arrival had them a little worried about future access to the team, and to Perk. Would it evaporate? Their fears subsided a bit when they got word that they were allowed at media day, again. They came prepared this time, churning out more on-camera interviews. Brian even made sure to bring along a limited edition Perk is a Beast onesie for Perk's newborn son, Kendrick Perkins II. (Perk later returned the favor by giving Brian, whose own son was born around the same time as Little Ken, an entire box of outgrown baby clothes.) Perk told Brian and Justin to come over later. That night they ate Funyuns and talked basketball for four hours.
Perk began to treat Justin as a sort of little brother. Every so often, he'd take Justin out to dinner after games. They'd go to Strega in Boston's North End. The first time, Justin was afraid to order too much — or too little. "Just get what I get," Perk told him. That turned out to be a two-pound lobster, fettuccine alfredo, and a whole chicken. Justin ate leftovers for days.
He looked up to Perk. They got their hair cut together. ("Give him the Pat Riley," Perk told the barber when his protégé sat down in the chair. The first thing Justin's mother said when she saw him afterward was, "Oh my god.") They talked about women. Once Perk invited Justin to sleep over. Justin had been away at college, and Perk just wanted to catch up. Still, Justin was shocked.
"Why not?" Perk said. "You're family."
* * *
All of a sudden, it seemed, Perk was more than a bit player. In 2007-08, his fifth season as a pro, he became Boston's enforcer. Still, Brian, a keen observer of all things Perk, knew that the big man didn't feel like his job was safe. This was, after all, someone who never had it easy.
When Perk was 5, his mother, Ercell Minix, was murdered at the beauty salon where she worked. He was a grown man before he met his father, Kenneth Perkins, who spent his son's childhood playing pro basketball overseas. Perk's grandparents raised him in Beaumont, Texas. Although he was a McDonald's All-American at Clifton J. Ozen High, he lasted until late in the first round of the 2003 NBA Draft. After the Memphis Grizzlies snagged him with the 27th overall pick, they traded him to the Celtics. Brian sensed that Perk hated the draft. It was just a reminder that he was replaceable.
Full sizeBut then his career finally took off, and Brian and Justin were sitting shotgun. Perk is a Beast saw a jump in traffic as the championship season progressed. By then, Brian had sold an ad to Gold Rarities — High Quality PCGS & NGC Certified Coins at Competitive Prices! — the only sponsor the site has ever had.
After the Celtics clinched the title with a blowout win over the Lakers (a game in which Perk had held Pau Gasol to 11 points) the two brothers waited for a chance to see their guy. "You kept wondering when you would get big-timed," Brian says. It never happened. An hour and half after the buzzer sounded, Perk brought Brian and Justin backstage to join in on the celebration.
"That was the most incredible moment," Brian says. "There were no owners [around], just the players, the coaches and the trophy. Everybody was taking pictures with their families and the trophy. As a sports fan, you live to be a part of that."
All Brian wanted to do was say congratulations. Perk wasn't having it. "Y'all come back and get a picture taken." Brian and Justin posed in a big group shot and got to touch the Larry O'Brien trophy. "It was," Brian says, "the complete sports fantasy."
* * *
Perk married his girlfriend, Vanity Alpough, on July 25, 2009, near Houston. Brian and Justin, who was bound for Providence College that fall, were guests. They flew out a few days before the ceremony and showed up at Perk's house in The Woodlands, a posh planned community. Their luggage had been lost, and Brian wore an oversized white T-shirt he'd bought at a drug store. Justin was in a Star Wars shirt he'd worn on the plane.
They figured they'd be able to hang out, relax, and then crash at the hotel. They were wrong. As soon as Brian and Justin arrived, they were told to get ready for the bachelor party. "These white dudes are my boys from Boston," Perk explained to his assembled friends, among them Rajon Rondo. "They run Perk is a Beast," Perk said. "They're from out of town. They don't know how we do it." Justin and Brian soon found out how it was done. "We're [at a club] in downtown Houston, with a cavalcade of the hardest-looking dudes you've ever seen," Brian said. "Right behind Perk is Justin, in a Stormtrooper T-shirt and shorts."
Still, Perk and his friends made them feel comfortable. "I didn't spend a dollar," Brian said. By the time they got back to Perk's house the next morning, he'd been up 28 hours straight. He'd gotten his wallet stolen. He'd driven his rented Kia into a drainage ditch. It was as bizarre as it was exhilarating. Brian would later admit that he felt like an alien that weekend. His wife and young son were at home, and here he was at the wedding of an NBA player almost 10 years his junior. After the reception, Brian and Justin pulled up to Perk's driveway to find Stephen Jackson in his red Rolls Royce Phantom, blasting a song by late Houston rapper DJ Screw. Perk was in the middle of it all, singing every word.
The next day, when things had slowed considerably, Brian and Justin drove back to Perk's to hang out. While Perk, Rondo and Jackson sat playing cards, Brian took on his brother in a game of NBA 2K on Xbox. Justin picked the Clippers, who had one of his favorite players, fellow wedding guest Ricky Davis. Davis happened to be in the room. Video Game Ricky proceeded to drop 50 points on Brian. Every time Video Game Ricky scored, Actual Ricky did a little dance.
* * *
In February, Perk was deemed replaceable. The Celtics dealt him to the Thunder, a trade that may cost Boston a shot at another title. Brian was numb. "Thanks for the Perk love," Brian wrote from the Perk is a Beast Twitter account. "We're crushed. It's like the kid in almost famous when the band denies the story."
Maybe the relationship wasn't so strange, in the end. I put the question to ex-Celtics assistant coach Clifford Ray, Perk's mentor, a few months ago. Why did Perk trust those guys so completely? "They weren't after anything," Ray said.
That's not to say that Justin and Brian didn't get anything out of the friendship. "In a weird way," Brian says now, "Perk was my muse." Through Perk is a Beast, he'd appeared on Comcast's Celtics Now as a panelist. He'd gotten back into journalism, co-founding Mass Device, a Boston-based online publication. He also began hosting a weekly podcast with Ray.
On the dance floor at Perk's wedding, Brian thanked his muse. By that point the reception was wrapping up. Perk had shed his giant white tuxedo coat and was wearing a wife beater.
"You saved me," Brian remembers blurting out.
Perk looked confused.
"Huh?"
"You saved my career."
"Huh?"
And then, the Beast laughed.
Anyways, this is an article by Alan Siegel, republished with permission from Deadspin.com. Here's hoping some of you feel the same warm and fuzzy sensations I did upon completion.
Fuckin' love me some Perk.
How These Two White Guys Wound Up In This Kendrick Perkins Family Photo
Alan Siegel — Like most white guys from suburban Boston, half-brothers Brian Johnson and Justin Tsouros had never hung out with an NBA player. So when they arrived at the condo in Waltham, Mass., one evening in the fall of 2007, they didn't quite know what to expect. The place was dark. The blinds were drawn. But they knocked, because, well, they were expected. A few silent moments passed before they heard rustling, looked up, and noticed a large eyeball staring at them through a window. Then the front door creaked open, revealing an empty foyer. Again, silence. Probably sensing the sheer incredulity of his guests, Kendrick Perkins, who'd been hiding in another room, came out smiling.
"I'm just fucking with you guys," Perk said in that deep Southeast Texas drawl. "Come in."
For the next four hours, they watched television, ate Funyuns, and talked about the Kevin Garnett trade and the upcoming season. Perk was still skeptical about the deal that sent his friend Al Jefferson to Minnesota for KG. Brian remembers Perk saying that the Celtics better win a title that year or else "they're gonna blame me." At the end of the night, Perk brought Brian and Justin into the kitchen and offered them some homemade spaghetti and meat sauce. For some reason, Perk didn't want them to eat in front of him. Instead, he shoveled single portions of pasta into plastic containers and instructed his new buddies to call him later, when they were finished with dinner. He wanted to know what they thought of his culinary skills. "But don't tell anyone," he said. "I don't want people to know that I do the cooking around here."
There were other gifts. Earlier, Justin — then a junior in high school — had eyed a life-sized cutout of Perk in his Boston Celtics uniform. Naturally, Perk told Justin to take it. Justin did, but not before his host had him prop up the cardboard doppelganger next to the real thing.
You ever wonder what it's like to befriend a good-but-not-great NBA player, to drift along in the wake of his semi-celebrity, to be, in a way, his very own Mars Blackmon? For Brian and Justin, at least, it was pleasantly, irresistibly, even delightfully banal. It was Funyuns and dinner in Tupperware and sleepovers, and it was playing Xbox as Ricky Davis with the real Ricky Davis just a few feet away. It was weird, in part because it was all so normal.
It was this:
"Damn," Perk said, eyeing the cutout. "I'm big. I must be scaring people sometimes."
The spaghetti, by the way, was delicious.
* * *
In the whole history of the NBA, I'd wager, few friendships have been as unlikely as the one that sprang up between Brian, Justin, and Perk. If you wanted to be fancy about it, I suppose you could say that it had something to do with the dawn of sports blogging and the simultaneous arrival in the NBA of Millennials like Perk, athletes who routinely broke the fourth wall that had traditionally separated them from fans. Mostly, though, I think Perk and Justin and Brian were three guys who were in on the same joke.
The first meeting actually happened a few years earlier, at an open practice for Celtics season ticket holders in September or October 2004. (Justin's father, a Boston attorney with close ties to the team, had purchased a package after the 2001-02 season.) Justin may have barely hit puberty by that point, but he was an uncommonly persistent fan boy. At a post-practice autograph session organized by the team, Justin complimented Perk's hook shot. The secret to it, Perk said, was that it was "au naturel."
"I'm just chillin'," Perk said when Justin, then a middle-schooler, asked how he was doing. "Just a squirrel trying to get his nut."
Justin was smitten — even if he had no idea what the expression meant — and so was Brian, who's 15 years Justin's senior. "When I heard he had a 9-6 standing reach, I said, ‘I love this guy,' before I even saw him," Brian says. Perk quickly became one of their favorite players, even though he barely saw the court his first two years as a pro. Justin changed his handle in the Celtic Nation forum to Perkisabeast after hearing an interview in which Perk expressed his desire "to be a beast" for Boston. By the end of the 2004-05 season, Justin and Brian were Perk's unofficial hype men.
At the time, Brian was working at a newspaper about 30 miles north of Boston. That's where I got to know him. I was a sportswriter. He was an NBA obsessive, but covered business. His time at the daily didn't end well. Management moved him, in addition to several other talented reporters who were part of a futile union organizing effort in late 2005, to the paper's satellite office in New Hampshire. When he quit in the spring of 2006, he figured his journalism career was over. He needed an outlet. That summer, while vacationing with family in Rhode Island, he found one. On a wave-less day at the beach, he and Justin conceived Perkisabeast.com. They began to build the site that afternoon.
Neither Brian nor Justin really had any idea what the new project would become. At first, it was a simple tribute. But they loved Perk. And Brian, for one, thought it would be funny to mythologize an unknown late-first-round pick, crafting for him a persona that was more Bill Brasky than Bill Russell. As it turns out, the real Beast was a hell of a lot more interesting than the made-up one. "We started this thing as jock sniffers," Brian tells me. "But the Perk we ended up knowing was much cooler than the one we created."
* * *
They wanted an interview with Perk, and, somehow, Justin managed to convince the Celtics' media relations staff that such a request from such a website wasn't totally ridiculous. In 2006, Brian and Justin were allowed to attend Celtics media day. Justin interviewed Perk with Brian's Palm Pilot, but the teenager was too damn short to get the thing even close to the 6-foot-10-inch man's face. Perk noticed and said, "You want me to do that?" And so the interview proceeded with the big guy holding the Palm Pilot as if it were a microphone.
Full sizeThe questions weren't typical, at least not for a soul-crushing pseudo-event like an NBA media day. Not that Perk seemed to mind.
Justin: What does Perk put on the stereo to impress the ladies?
Perk: Is my girl gonna hear this?
Justin: What do you put on to impress her?
Perk: Like you gotta kind of go the other way with them and put on like that old Beyonce, not this one that just came out, but the last one, that was jammin'. I like Beyonce so I'll put that on and you know all that stuff that she be singin' "I'll cater to you." Yeah that's my type of stuff.
Perk liked the idea of a digital shrine to his beastliness. It wasn't official, of course. "I don't know if he knew half the crap we did in there," Brian says, "but he didn't care." (It should be noted that Perk is a Beast had a habit of flaming other NBA blogs. Bethlehem Shoals of dearly departed FreeDarko once wrote that he "personally can't stand them." Brian says now that PIAB's thin skin was just part of its ethos.) Perk would later introduce Brian and Justin to his friends as the guys "from my website." Perk even gave Justin his cell phone number (it seemed to change every time Justin saw Perk). That season, Perk had Doc Rivers's assistant leave family passes for Justin, giving him access behind the curtain. After games, Justin would ask Perk a bunch of questions, then hand over the recorder to Brian, who transcribed the interviews and put them up on Perk is a Beast. Perk even suggested to Justin that they should hang out. At the end of Boston's putrid 2006-07 campaign, Perk gave Justin one of his size-19 Adidas high-tops.
* * *
That summer Justin phoned Perk — obsessively. At one point, Brian asked Justin how many times he'd called. "Ten," Justin responded. "This week." Garnett's arrival had them a little worried about future access to the team, and to Perk. Would it evaporate? Their fears subsided a bit when they got word that they were allowed at media day, again. They came prepared this time, churning out more on-camera interviews. Brian even made sure to bring along a limited edition Perk is a Beast onesie for Perk's newborn son, Kendrick Perkins II. (Perk later returned the favor by giving Brian, whose own son was born around the same time as Little Ken, an entire box of outgrown baby clothes.) Perk told Brian and Justin to come over later. That night they ate Funyuns and talked basketball for four hours.
Perk began to treat Justin as a sort of little brother. Every so often, he'd take Justin out to dinner after games. They'd go to Strega in Boston's North End. The first time, Justin was afraid to order too much — or too little. "Just get what I get," Perk told him. That turned out to be a two-pound lobster, fettuccine alfredo, and a whole chicken. Justin ate leftovers for days.
He looked up to Perk. They got their hair cut together. ("Give him the Pat Riley," Perk told the barber when his protégé sat down in the chair. The first thing Justin's mother said when she saw him afterward was, "Oh my god.") They talked about women. Once Perk invited Justin to sleep over. Justin had been away at college, and Perk just wanted to catch up. Still, Justin was shocked.
"Why not?" Perk said. "You're family."
* * *
All of a sudden, it seemed, Perk was more than a bit player. In 2007-08, his fifth season as a pro, he became Boston's enforcer. Still, Brian, a keen observer of all things Perk, knew that the big man didn't feel like his job was safe. This was, after all, someone who never had it easy.
When Perk was 5, his mother, Ercell Minix, was murdered at the beauty salon where she worked. He was a grown man before he met his father, Kenneth Perkins, who spent his son's childhood playing pro basketball overseas. Perk's grandparents raised him in Beaumont, Texas. Although he was a McDonald's All-American at Clifton J. Ozen High, he lasted until late in the first round of the 2003 NBA Draft. After the Memphis Grizzlies snagged him with the 27th overall pick, they traded him to the Celtics. Brian sensed that Perk hated the draft. It was just a reminder that he was replaceable.
Full sizeBut then his career finally took off, and Brian and Justin were sitting shotgun. Perk is a Beast saw a jump in traffic as the championship season progressed. By then, Brian had sold an ad to Gold Rarities — High Quality PCGS & NGC Certified Coins at Competitive Prices! — the only sponsor the site has ever had.
After the Celtics clinched the title with a blowout win over the Lakers (a game in which Perk had held Pau Gasol to 11 points) the two brothers waited for a chance to see their guy. "You kept wondering when you would get big-timed," Brian says. It never happened. An hour and half after the buzzer sounded, Perk brought Brian and Justin backstage to join in on the celebration.
"That was the most incredible moment," Brian says. "There were no owners [around], just the players, the coaches and the trophy. Everybody was taking pictures with their families and the trophy. As a sports fan, you live to be a part of that."
All Brian wanted to do was say congratulations. Perk wasn't having it. "Y'all come back and get a picture taken." Brian and Justin posed in a big group shot and got to touch the Larry O'Brien trophy. "It was," Brian says, "the complete sports fantasy."
* * *
Perk married his girlfriend, Vanity Alpough, on July 25, 2009, near Houston. Brian and Justin, who was bound for Providence College that fall, were guests. They flew out a few days before the ceremony and showed up at Perk's house in The Woodlands, a posh planned community. Their luggage had been lost, and Brian wore an oversized white T-shirt he'd bought at a drug store. Justin was in a Star Wars shirt he'd worn on the plane.
They figured they'd be able to hang out, relax, and then crash at the hotel. They were wrong. As soon as Brian and Justin arrived, they were told to get ready for the bachelor party. "These white dudes are my boys from Boston," Perk explained to his assembled friends, among them Rajon Rondo. "They run Perk is a Beast," Perk said. "They're from out of town. They don't know how we do it." Justin and Brian soon found out how it was done. "We're [at a club] in downtown Houston, with a cavalcade of the hardest-looking dudes you've ever seen," Brian said. "Right behind Perk is Justin, in a Stormtrooper T-shirt and shorts."
Still, Perk and his friends made them feel comfortable. "I didn't spend a dollar," Brian said. By the time they got back to Perk's house the next morning, he'd been up 28 hours straight. He'd gotten his wallet stolen. He'd driven his rented Kia into a drainage ditch. It was as bizarre as it was exhilarating. Brian would later admit that he felt like an alien that weekend. His wife and young son were at home, and here he was at the wedding of an NBA player almost 10 years his junior. After the reception, Brian and Justin pulled up to Perk's driveway to find Stephen Jackson in his red Rolls Royce Phantom, blasting a song by late Houston rapper DJ Screw. Perk was in the middle of it all, singing every word.
The next day, when things had slowed considerably, Brian and Justin drove back to Perk's to hang out. While Perk, Rondo and Jackson sat playing cards, Brian took on his brother in a game of NBA 2K on Xbox. Justin picked the Clippers, who had one of his favorite players, fellow wedding guest Ricky Davis. Davis happened to be in the room. Video Game Ricky proceeded to drop 50 points on Brian. Every time Video Game Ricky scored, Actual Ricky did a little dance.
* * *
In February, Perk was deemed replaceable. The Celtics dealt him to the Thunder, a trade that may cost Boston a shot at another title. Brian was numb. "Thanks for the Perk love," Brian wrote from the Perk is a Beast Twitter account. "We're crushed. It's like the kid in almost famous when the band denies the story."
Maybe the relationship wasn't so strange, in the end. I put the question to ex-Celtics assistant coach Clifford Ray, Perk's mentor, a few months ago. Why did Perk trust those guys so completely? "They weren't after anything," Ray said.
That's not to say that Justin and Brian didn't get anything out of the friendship. "In a weird way," Brian says now, "Perk was my muse." Through Perk is a Beast, he'd appeared on Comcast's Celtics Now as a panelist. He'd gotten back into journalism, co-founding Mass Device, a Boston-based online publication. He also began hosting a weekly podcast with Ray.
On the dance floor at Perk's wedding, Brian thanked his muse. By that point the reception was wrapping up. Perk had shed his giant white tuxedo coat and was wearing a wife beater.
"You saved me," Brian remembers blurting out.
Perk looked confused.
"Huh?"
"You saved my career."
"Huh?"
And then, the Beast laughed.
Friday, April 15, 2011
AU REVOIR LES ROIS DU SACRAMENTO
While it's hardly a sacrament to move an NBA franchise (see what I did there?), I must say, today I'm feeling sorry for the people of Sacramento.
Sure, I felt bad when the city of Seattle voted against using tax dollars to replace the Key Arena, thus having the Supersonics moved to Oklahoma City, the country's 48th largest television market. However, they also have the Seahawks and Mariners to support. The Mariners have Ichiro Suzuki, arguably the best hitter of our generation and the Seahawks play in the NFL's worst division, giving prosperity to the fans with the beckoning call of each NFL season.
Sacramento has nothing.
The Colts left Baltimore in the middle of the night to the anguish of its fervent supporters. Years later, they returned as the Ravens, and despite the loss, the city had a period of adequacy at the hands of the Orioles that helped fill the void. Baltimore recovered; sure the Orioles blow, but the Ravens won a Super Bowl and have proved to be an iconic representation of a gritty, blue-collar town. Plus, Baltimore has The Wire - the best television show ever created takes place on the streets of B-More. Shout outs to McNulty and Bunk. You too Omar and Snoop. Anyways, where were we?
Sacramento has nothing.
The Kings ownership group, led by the two aloof Maloof Brothers who also own the Palms casino in Vegas, want to move the team to Orange County/ Anaheim for the 2011-12 season in hopes of generating more revenue from the multinational companies in the area. Apparently Sacramento cannot support its own club, or so the Maloofs say.
The city of Sacramento stood behind their Kings, who were transplant themselves, last moving from Kansas City to the capital of California, helping launch the careers of Chris Webber, Hedo Turkoglu, Mike Bibby, Gerald Wallace, Peja Stojakovic and many others.
During the 1990's, ARCO Arena in Sacramento was the most challenging place for opposing teams to play. Especially the Lakers, who despite the best efforts of C-Web and the gang, were always a sobering reminder of sorts to the Kings and conspiracy theorists who believed the playoffs were rigged to benefit the larger market teams and television ratings for the Finals.
Don't believe me? Think I'm blowing smoke up ye asses?
Think again.
Recall a few years back, when ex-NBA referee Tim Donaghy (no relation to Jack) was imprisoned for fixing games and betting on their results? That Irish bastard was a crook and a thief, his actions forever tarnishing the legacy of the NBA.
Do I have any evidence to support this?
You better believe it. Let's go back in time to the 2002 Western Conference Semifinals. Unfortunately, the video below does not have an embedding option, so you'll have to click on the link. Please watch it in its entirety, it is really well done.
2002 WESTERN CONFERENCE FINALS - KINGS GET SCREWED
Was my claim of trickery that blasphemous? How the fuck was that a foul on Mike Bibby? Shaq could have sexually assaulted Vlade Divac's first born court side without penalty.
Let's face it. Chris Webber ran the fucking series and Vlade got hacked more in the lane than those poor boys in Jeffrey Dahmer's basement. And all the while, Tim Donaghy and Dick (Knick) Bavetta stood-by, blowing their whistles like they had a quota to meet.
Seriously? That buzzer shot at the 4:37 mark was well after the clock. Talk about a miscarriage of justice.
* Why "Knick" Bavetta?... find the link on the right to the game when Bavetta pretty much sealed a win for the New York Knicks and an undeserving loss for the Raptors.
Understand one thing - for the announcers to find fault in the officiating and point it out on national television, there must be something wrong (8:25 mark). Dismiss whatever buffoonery escapes the mouth of Bill Walton, he's an ex-Laker and a moron to boot.
And with that, the Lakers were off to dismantle the Nets and win another championship. The Kings were never the same, and today, nearly 9 years later, they are likely without an NBA franchise.
Sure, I felt bad when the city of Seattle voted against using tax dollars to replace the Key Arena, thus having the Supersonics moved to Oklahoma City, the country's 48th largest television market. However, they also have the Seahawks and Mariners to support. The Mariners have Ichiro Suzuki, arguably the best hitter of our generation and the Seahawks play in the NFL's worst division, giving prosperity to the fans with the beckoning call of each NFL season.
Sacramento has nothing.
The Colts left Baltimore in the middle of the night to the anguish of its fervent supporters. Years later, they returned as the Ravens, and despite the loss, the city had a period of adequacy at the hands of the Orioles that helped fill the void. Baltimore recovered; sure the Orioles blow, but the Ravens won a Super Bowl and have proved to be an iconic representation of a gritty, blue-collar town. Plus, Baltimore has The Wire - the best television show ever created takes place on the streets of B-More. Shout outs to McNulty and Bunk. You too Omar and Snoop. Anyways, where were we?
Sacramento has nothing.
The Kings ownership group, led by the two aloof Maloof Brothers who also own the Palms casino in Vegas, want to move the team to Orange County/ Anaheim for the 2011-12 season in hopes of generating more revenue from the multinational companies in the area. Apparently Sacramento cannot support its own club, or so the Maloofs say.
The city of Sacramento stood behind their Kings, who were transplant themselves, last moving from Kansas City to the capital of California, helping launch the careers of Chris Webber, Hedo Turkoglu, Mike Bibby, Gerald Wallace, Peja Stojakovic and many others.
During the 1990's, ARCO Arena in Sacramento was the most challenging place for opposing teams to play. Especially the Lakers, who despite the best efforts of C-Web and the gang, were always a sobering reminder of sorts to the Kings and conspiracy theorists who believed the playoffs were rigged to benefit the larger market teams and television ratings for the Finals.
Don't believe me? Think I'm blowing smoke up ye asses?
Think again.
Recall a few years back, when ex-NBA referee Tim Donaghy (no relation to Jack) was imprisoned for fixing games and betting on their results? That Irish bastard was a crook and a thief, his actions forever tarnishing the legacy of the NBA.
Do I have any evidence to support this?
You better believe it. Let's go back in time to the 2002 Western Conference Semifinals. Unfortunately, the video below does not have an embedding option, so you'll have to click on the link. Please watch it in its entirety, it is really well done.
2002 WESTERN CONFERENCE FINALS - KINGS GET SCREWED
Was my claim of trickery that blasphemous? How the fuck was that a foul on Mike Bibby? Shaq could have sexually assaulted Vlade Divac's first born court side without penalty.
Let's face it. Chris Webber ran the fucking series and Vlade got hacked more in the lane than those poor boys in Jeffrey Dahmer's basement. And all the while, Tim Donaghy and Dick (Knick) Bavetta stood-by, blowing their whistles like they had a quota to meet.
Seriously? That buzzer shot at the 4:37 mark was well after the clock. Talk about a miscarriage of justice.
* Why "Knick" Bavetta?... find the link on the right to the game when Bavetta pretty much sealed a win for the New York Knicks and an undeserving loss for the Raptors.
Understand one thing - for the announcers to find fault in the officiating and point it out on national television, there must be something wrong (8:25 mark). Dismiss whatever buffoonery escapes the mouth of Bill Walton, he's an ex-Laker and a moron to boot.
And with that, the Lakers were off to dismantle the Nets and win another championship. The Kings were never the same, and today, nearly 9 years later, they are likely without an NBA franchise.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: Interpretations of Rules
Greetings loyal fans;
Today, I would like to focus on something that I've mentioned here once before - the inconsistent interpretation of rules by officials in the NBA.
Yes, today will be another post about sports, a post with a lighthearted approach - my apologies to all those who are enamoured with reading about the prevalence of concussions or grammatical and syntax errors.
One of the problems with the NBA is the consistency with which some calls are made, and others are not. The charge/block call has become such a marginal decision that it's as subjective as asking somebody what their favourite film is.
Since the elimination of hand checks in the late 90's/early 00's, the emphasis has been put on offense, and more often than not, the benefit of the doubt goes towards the player with the ball. I imagine Commissioner David Stern's logic is that fans will stop showing-up in droves to watch a team of defensive stoppers like the Grizzlies' Shane Battier and Tony Allen, but would arrive court side an hour early at half-mast for a team of shooters like the Golden State Warriors, who couldn't spell the word if you gave them a DE followed by a FENCE.
Which reminds me, David Stern is a brilliant man and a genius in sales. He could sell a fence to his next door neighbour if need be.
Anywho - where was I?
A hierarchy in the NBA exists where a veteran like Dwyane Wade can penetrate and always expect a foul to be called in his favour, while a rookie or fringe player will have that same call whistled against him. Michael Jordan thrived on this double standard.
One rule that I wish was more consistently enforced is the 10-second violation for foul shooters. According to NBA rules, once the player is handed the ball by the referee whilst standing at the charity stripe, he has 10 seconds to shoot his free throw.
Orlando's talismanic centre Dwight Howard has been called on it a few times, but nonetheless, not consistently enough to dissuade him from continuing the practice of setting-up shop at the line and spending 15 seconds to mentally prepare himself for a brick.
During the Christmas Day matinee tilt between Howard's underachieving Magic and the Boston Celtics, it seems Paul Pierce was aware of this rules infraction, and like myself, wanted to take a proactive stance concerning it - watch Pierce at the :43 second mark:
I'm as surprised that Howard didn't chuck the ball in Pierce's direction as I am that Glen "Big Baby" Davis didn't crack his trademark sheepish grin while standing on the line and witnessing P-Squares' actions.
Further, it seems the rest of the league has caught on, and even Bobcats rookie Gerlad Henderson had the cohones to point out Howard's obvious rules infraction to an official on Wednesday night:
Damn I love the NBA and the subtle displays by some of its players.
Today, I would like to focus on something that I've mentioned here once before - the inconsistent interpretation of rules by officials in the NBA.
Yes, today will be another post about sports, a post with a lighthearted approach - my apologies to all those who are enamoured with reading about the prevalence of concussions or grammatical and syntax errors.
One of the problems with the NBA is the consistency with which some calls are made, and others are not. The charge/block call has become such a marginal decision that it's as subjective as asking somebody what their favourite film is.
Since the elimination of hand checks in the late 90's/early 00's, the emphasis has been put on offense, and more often than not, the benefit of the doubt goes towards the player with the ball. I imagine Commissioner David Stern's logic is that fans will stop showing-up in droves to watch a team of defensive stoppers like the Grizzlies' Shane Battier and Tony Allen, but would arrive court side an hour early at half-mast for a team of shooters like the Golden State Warriors, who couldn't spell the word if you gave them a DE followed by a FENCE.
Which reminds me, David Stern is a brilliant man and a genius in sales. He could sell a fence to his next door neighbour if need be.
Anywho - where was I?
A hierarchy in the NBA exists where a veteran like Dwyane Wade can penetrate and always expect a foul to be called in his favour, while a rookie or fringe player will have that same call whistled against him. Michael Jordan thrived on this double standard.
One rule that I wish was more consistently enforced is the 10-second violation for foul shooters. According to NBA rules, once the player is handed the ball by the referee whilst standing at the charity stripe, he has 10 seconds to shoot his free throw.
Orlando's talismanic centre Dwight Howard has been called on it a few times, but nonetheless, not consistently enough to dissuade him from continuing the practice of setting-up shop at the line and spending 15 seconds to mentally prepare himself for a brick.
During the Christmas Day matinee tilt between Howard's underachieving Magic and the Boston Celtics, it seems Paul Pierce was aware of this rules infraction, and like myself, wanted to take a proactive stance concerning it - watch Pierce at the :43 second mark:
I'm as surprised that Howard didn't chuck the ball in Pierce's direction as I am that Glen "Big Baby" Davis didn't crack his trademark sheepish grin while standing on the line and witnessing P-Squares' actions.
Further, it seems the rest of the league has caught on, and even Bobcats rookie Gerlad Henderson had the cohones to point out Howard's obvious rules infraction to an official on Wednesday night:
Damn I love the NBA and the subtle displays by some of its players.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: Everybody Fails
Late last night, whilst flipping channels in the 400's, toggling between French football, a kayak fishing program and the Nuggets at Jazz, understandably, I was feeling a little down.
It's just after 1am and I'm in the company of a border collie who needs a bath and a few empty bottles of Burning River Pale Ale from Cleveland that need a recycling box. The Nuggets are up 5 following Aaron Afflalo's 3-pointer and I have just lost my job, a pointless form of employment meant only as a means of paying the bills and supporting my fandom of Japanese Anime porn and Teen-Vampire fiction.
I could care less about the job itself, because it does as much for my career as sticking my dick in a paper shredder, but I have never been fired before so it's easy to see why on a Thursday night at 1am, watching sports all alone in a dimly-lit basement, I've had better moments.
Then Jazz forward Andrei Kirilenko did this;
...and in one brief moment, I am reminded that everybody is human and everybody makes mistakes.
Sure, AK-47 makes millions of dollars annually and has a Russian bride who publicly allows him to bed 1 woman each year they are married because she understands the trappings of life on the road. He's tall and white and lives in Utah. Life sounds perfect, yet, in but a moment, Andrei botched a possible game-tying shot that couldn't have been easier if given a ladder.
But it's just a game, and a job is just a job.
His life could be worse.
And so could mine.
It's just after 1am and I'm in the company of a border collie who needs a bath and a few empty bottles of Burning River Pale Ale from Cleveland that need a recycling box. The Nuggets are up 5 following Aaron Afflalo's 3-pointer and I have just lost my job, a pointless form of employment meant only as a means of paying the bills and supporting my fandom of Japanese Anime porn and Teen-Vampire fiction.
I could care less about the job itself, because it does as much for my career as sticking my dick in a paper shredder, but I have never been fired before so it's easy to see why on a Thursday night at 1am, watching sports all alone in a dimly-lit basement, I've had better moments.
Then Jazz forward Andrei Kirilenko did this;
...and in one brief moment, I am reminded that everybody is human and everybody makes mistakes.
Sure, AK-47 makes millions of dollars annually and has a Russian bride who publicly allows him to bed 1 woman each year they are married because she understands the trappings of life on the road. He's tall and white and lives in Utah. Life sounds perfect, yet, in but a moment, Andrei botched a possible game-tying shot that couldn't have been easier if given a ladder.
But it's just a game, and a job is just a job.
His life could be worse.
And so could mine.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)