It had been an uneventful day. Rainy, cold -- colder than most late-April afternoons. I had already watched my self-sworn allotment of NBA basketball, a somber affair that saw yet again a first-round dismissal of the Timberwolves. A native-born Hoosier and Pacer fan, I was nonetheless saddened. I would watch no more basketball this day.
But other forces took control of me, moved me, forced me back to the TV. No!, I cried, NOT THIS! I knew, as all pro basketball faithful knew, the outcome of game three of this tripleheader before the tip-off. I would not be party to this sacrilege of sport, this heinous fabrication of all that is sacred on the hardwood!
But my hand reached for the remote, and the game played out before me, and -- as if to spite my defiance -- Portland put itself in position to win! Could this be happening? Would the vaunted league- and officials-favored Lakers falter in prime time? Would the Blazers buck this monkey off their backs?
Alas, t'was not to be. Ney, 'twill ne'er be, as long as there are phantom fouls to be called and big-name players to market.
John Head
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jhead@postbulletin.com
