Go Spurs! Go!
Woohoo.
This is what I like about the Spurs. They're so dependable, so "boring", you don't even need to cheer for them anymore. You know what they should do, they know what they should do, and they just do it. No fuss, no flash. They had a chance to close Utah out at home, and they did. Simple as that.
Their starting five didn't even have to play in the fourth quarter.
That's how dependable they are. That "boring".
*****
This is what I don't like about the Spurs. They're so dependable, so "boring", nobody wants to bet against me anymore.
My poor friends who were loyal to the Suns in the 2nd round bet against me. Because of their (misplaced) loyalty, I was able to collect--actually some of you guys still owe me. Don't think I've forgotten!--enough money to have my nails done and got two whiskeys out of the deal as well. Now that no one wants to bet against me and my dependable, "boring" Spurs, I have to pay for my own mani-pedi. Dammit.
But. We are going to the NBA Finals. Sue-weet.
*****
Speaking of friends, I just remebered this from the comments to my post a few weeks back:
mikael said...
the spurs over the suns? mas mabilis ba ang slo-mo kaysa fast-forward? kumain ka na ba? naka-drugs ka ba?
eight beers on this one. or eighty. putcha, dalawang daliri. matalo magpapakalbo. spurs over suns? kurt "secret weeeeeeeeeh-pon" thomas will make duncan a non-factor. marion on ginobili. and, uh, rex chapman on parker. have you seen chapman lately? he can go 5 miles per hour and can lift, like, forty-seven pounds.
this'll be over faster than you can say "poetry reading sa mag:net sa lunes." itaga mo sa bato.
Ahem. Kael, kelan ka magpapakalbo? Since I've yet to collect my eight (or eighty) beers, puwede ba buhok mo na lang? Let's just say that could be my version of the finals trophy. Hahahahahaha.
I'm only half-kidding.
*****
God, am I mean? No, don't answer that. I prefer cocky. Arrogant. Hell, even "heartless bitch" works for me. Sometimes.
*****
Here's a poem I wrote a few years back and saw again recently. I didn't know I used to sound like this. Or could write like this. Now I feel my poetry is just too short, too angry, too held-in. I don't know. Here it is:
Anticipation
I sidestep sleep with the help
of coffee and cigarettes.
The latter rationed to last
until exhaustion overtakes caffeine--
or snow falls
come the wee hours of the morning.
The sky is an uninterrupted grey
of dense clouds--a convex, bulging
surface of unimaginable weight
which I pray it will release soon.
The night is silent--
Pregnant.
Expecting.
And I, ever impatient, look
to the window periodically, continually--
wiping mist-turned-droplets
off the glass pane,
hoping to see
a sprinkle of white flakes--
not quite solid, not quite liquid--
or a mountain-head mantled in white.
Though all I see is darkness and stillness,
a quiet like a cat crouching--
muscles tensed and hackles raised;
though the smattering of fluorescent
lights through my window
mock me with snowflake patterns
as streetlights expand in the mist,
I pray that it comes.
In stingy spurts that won’t settle
or a heavy blanket that will stifle
everything except the morning sun.
*****
This was written in Japan, anticipating my first snow-fall. Which with my luck, was falsely reported by the weather bureau and didn't come until, like, 2 weeks later.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Sex sells. Sex kills. Sex change.
And this is the part of the story where we discover something big, and I mean big, about the author:
Drey is a tomboy.
No, I don't mean lesbian. I mean tomboy. But we'll get to the lesbian part sooner or later.
So here's what happened.
I got a text from a friend today. Here's the conversation:
Him: Who won Miss Universe?
Me: God, I don't know. But the Spurs won 91-79...
And it hits me. Am I supposed to know these things because I'm a girl? I had to text a gay friend to ask who won the pageant, as I found myself embarrassed not knowing.
I remember another gay friend's criteria for finding out if a guy is gay or not, and believe me, it is quite fool-proof:
1. Must know Miss Universe winners, current and until maybe 10 years back.
2. Must know Oscar winners in major categories, current and maybe until 5 years back.
3. I forget--but definitely nothing about knowing who won the NBA finals, current and maybe until 10 years back.
And I start to remember all sorts of things:
1. My Turnabout poem mentioned basketball, rock music and bicycles. You remember that really cheesy song a few years back about a Dad-daughter moment with something like butterfly kisses on her hair or something? Boy, that was totally alien to me.
2. I was talking to another guy once about boxing. Out of nowhere, he goes: "How do you know all these things? I feel like I'm talking to a guy here." What do you answer to that?
3. Doesn't help too that my nickname is Drey, which many people think is a guy's name. Not that Andrea is an improvement, especially if I finally get to go to Europe. Oh, and when I was applying to that scholarship in Japan, my professor kept addressing his correspondence to a Mr. A. Teran. That's my dad, man!
4. Oh yeah! In college, I had really short hair. Every time I'd enter the MacDonald's in Katipunan, shouts of Good Afternoon, Sir! would greet me. I turn around, nobody but moi.
5. Once I watched a Red Bull-San Miguel game at Araneta Center. I was rooting for San Miguel, but happened to sit near a bunch of Red Bull fans--98 percent male. Anyway, San Mig gets a bad call from the ref, and I scream--Tangina, ref, bulag ka ba?! All the guys were looking at me and everyone on that side was quiet--I think it was a deer-in-the-crosshairs moment there for a minute. Until one old guy shouts--Ref, patingin mo daw mata mo, sabi nya! I breathe the biggest sigh of relief ever.
So what now?
Conclusion: Drea isn't only not-Filipino-at-all. She's not even a girl!!! Wow, talk about a major crisis.
*****
Now for the interesting part.
***
(Note: For those of you who have read J.D. Salinger's For Esme--with Love and Squalor, you remember the "squalor" part of the story, where the initial narrator changes or is changed into somebody totally alien, unrecognizable, and from an I to a third person? Well, assume that shift before reading the story below.
And just to be sure, can a piece of creative non fiction be used as evidence in court? Lawyer friends, get back to me on this.)
***
Before my best friend left me for Japan, we went to gigs together. Whenever we meet anybody at a bar, first question they ask is, "Are you sisters?" When we answer no, they follow up immediately with, "Lovers, then?"
Once we were crazy enough to answer yes, and pretended to flirt with each other. Boy, was that a hit. This guy was almost drooling, asking if we could kiss in front of him. My best friend answers, "You can't afford it." He just kept begging most of the night.
Just before we were about to leave, he tells me to hold out my hand. I do, and he places something in it before closing my hand into a fist. I ask him what it is, he answers, "Look later."
So I get into the cab after my best friend, and I open my palm. For being fake lesbians who will never, ever kiss--in front of guys or not, or for any amount of money (Wait... Hmmm.)--we were quite convincing, apparently. I was holding a fistful of pot.
Sweet.
Drey is a tomboy.
No, I don't mean lesbian. I mean tomboy. But we'll get to the lesbian part sooner or later.
So here's what happened.
I got a text from a friend today. Here's the conversation:
Him: Who won Miss Universe?
Me: God, I don't know. But the Spurs won 91-79...
And it hits me. Am I supposed to know these things because I'm a girl? I had to text a gay friend to ask who won the pageant, as I found myself embarrassed not knowing.
I remember another gay friend's criteria for finding out if a guy is gay or not, and believe me, it is quite fool-proof:
1. Must know Miss Universe winners, current and until maybe 10 years back.
2. Must know Oscar winners in major categories, current and maybe until 5 years back.
3. I forget--but definitely nothing about knowing who won the NBA finals, current and maybe until 10 years back.
And I start to remember all sorts of things:
1. My Turnabout poem mentioned basketball, rock music and bicycles. You remember that really cheesy song a few years back about a Dad-daughter moment with something like butterfly kisses on her hair or something? Boy, that was totally alien to me.
2. I was talking to another guy once about boxing. Out of nowhere, he goes: "How do you know all these things? I feel like I'm talking to a guy here." What do you answer to that?
3. Doesn't help too that my nickname is Drey, which many people think is a guy's name. Not that Andrea is an improvement, especially if I finally get to go to Europe. Oh, and when I was applying to that scholarship in Japan, my professor kept addressing his correspondence to a Mr. A. Teran. That's my dad, man!
4. Oh yeah! In college, I had really short hair. Every time I'd enter the MacDonald's in Katipunan, shouts of Good Afternoon, Sir! would greet me. I turn around, nobody but moi.
5. Once I watched a Red Bull-San Miguel game at Araneta Center. I was rooting for San Miguel, but happened to sit near a bunch of Red Bull fans--98 percent male. Anyway, San Mig gets a bad call from the ref, and I scream--Tangina, ref, bulag ka ba?! All the guys were looking at me and everyone on that side was quiet--I think it was a deer-in-the-crosshairs moment there for a minute. Until one old guy shouts--Ref, patingin mo daw mata mo, sabi nya! I breathe the biggest sigh of relief ever.
So what now?
Conclusion: Drea isn't only not-Filipino-at-all. She's not even a girl!!! Wow, talk about a major crisis.
*****
Now for the interesting part.
***
(Note: For those of you who have read J.D. Salinger's For Esme--with Love and Squalor, you remember the "squalor" part of the story, where the initial narrator changes or is changed into somebody totally alien, unrecognizable, and from an I to a third person? Well, assume that shift before reading the story below.
And just to be sure, can a piece of creative non fiction be used as evidence in court? Lawyer friends, get back to me on this.)
***
Before my best friend left me for Japan, we went to gigs together. Whenever we meet anybody at a bar, first question they ask is, "Are you sisters?" When we answer no, they follow up immediately with, "Lovers, then?"
Once we were crazy enough to answer yes, and pretended to flirt with each other. Boy, was that a hit. This guy was almost drooling, asking if we could kiss in front of him. My best friend answers, "You can't afford it." He just kept begging most of the night.
Just before we were about to leave, he tells me to hold out my hand. I do, and he places something in it before closing my hand into a fist. I ask him what it is, he answers, "Look later."
So I get into the cab after my best friend, and I open my palm. For being fake lesbians who will never, ever kiss--in front of guys or not, or for any amount of money (Wait... Hmmm.)--we were quite convincing, apparently. I was holding a fistful of pot.
Sweet.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Four Haiku: Summer
aaa1
Shimmering, a mirage
Over my path ahead,
The heat relentless.
Warm wet air alone
Embraces me at night.
It is almost cold.
Here, waters refuse
To turn to ice.
Fluid like memory of pain.
Suddenly, a crack
Sky opens with rain.
Shivering, I remember.
*****
Well, maybe it isn't completely free of the "relationship" tinge--what can you do, eh?
Shimmering, a mirage
Over my path ahead,
The heat relentless.
Warm wet air alone
Embraces me at night.
It is almost cold.
Here, waters refuse
To turn to ice.
Fluid like memory of pain.
Suddenly, a crack
Sky opens with rain.
Shivering, I remember.
*****
Well, maybe it isn't completely free of the "relationship" tinge--what can you do, eh?
Sunday, May 27, 2007
When it rains, it pours.
Dear colleagues,
Today I stand in front of you, honored to be invited to speak in front of so many I respect and admire, to present my new theory.
As we all know, the scientific method is simply a step-by-step procedure in answering questions. We gather data by observing the world around us, perhaps by noticing patterns or cause-and-effect relationships. Then we formulate hypotheses from these observations and then work on experiments to prove or disprove them.
This proposal I present today, however, is a product of observation alone--no experiments have been done yet--but its occurrence has been so consistent in the past few years, that I was actually quite perplexed to find that this theory has not been proposed before. I suppose, I would like to to ask for your help as well in verifying these observations. Ladies in the audience, I appeal to you specifically.
The paper I am presenting today is on a theory I like to call "Theory of Multiple Portions". Yes, yes--I have anticipated your objections--ladies and gentlemen, please hear me out. I know it sounds too much like The Law of Multiple Proportions or Dalton's Law as we like to call it, and it is for this reason alone that I have refused to even consider calling it "Dr. Drey's Theory" --although I have to admit, I wish to be remembered as its proponent. To top it all, it has something to do with chemistry as well--physical chemistry, as a matter of fact.
Now, let us get back to the topic at hand. This theory states simply that:
The only thing a girl needs to get laid, is to be already getting laid.
Gentlemen, please! Ladies, I see that I have your full attention. Now, ladies, I am sure you have noticed that unless we have steady partners, people expect us to be chaste--and chased I might add--and when we do choose to have some casual, recreational intercourse, the men expect us--with a certain dread of course, but expect us nonetheless--to act like some version of Glenn Close in that movie, Fatal Attraction.
(Just a side note: I have written a rather extensive paper on how that movie, Fatal Attraction, has fatally reduced women's chances of getting equal treatment as players in the field of sexual intercourse. This has been published in the 16 December 2006 issue of Nature Volume 666 Number 5243, should you like to read on it some more.)
This expectation of women to act like raging lunatics after one night of sex has always fascinated men, and although I grant that they don't look forward to its realization in their own lives, there is a certain fantasizing that it happens at least once--a kind of validation, if you will.
How is this related to my theory? As women have evolved over the years after that movie, we have taken two options in response to it: (1) have sex only when we are in a monogamous relationship; (2) have sex like a man, i.e., one-night stands, fuck buddies, etc.
However, having "sex like a man" is not as easy for women as it sounds, especially in this country--am I right, ladies? Sadly, we have learned that, simply because a woman is open-minded about sex, it doesn't necessarily mean that the men are open-minded about these open-minded women. There is no direct proportionality to this relationship.
Therefore, women have come to understand that even though the choice of sex is up to them, it doesn't necessarily mean bed partners left and right of the equation. Thus, such common observations as, "When it rains, it pours" for the lucky ones, and the comfort of a book on the bedside for those who aren't--studies show that Liwayway Arceo's "Uhaw ang Tigang na Lupa" is a favorite among the unlucky group.
I suppose given this disparity--multiple portions or nothing at all--the next step should be to test hormonal reactions of women in the two groups. Questions like, "Does the lucky group give off more pheromones than the other?" arise. Of course since we are studying two groups which can be designated as ones and zeroes (strictly in terms of haves/have-nots, I mean), there would have to be two control groups as well to properly ascertain significant differences in the result. For these, I propose virgins as control for the zeroes and pros for the ones.
Of course, I am getting ahead of myself here. I understand that my purpose here today is simply to present this theory, and ultimately to ask for help in formulating an experimental method to test it.
Ladies and gentlemen--where have the men gone?--anyway, ladies, thank you for your kind attention.
*****
The text above is a transcript of Dr. Drey's speech and proposal presented to the Physical Chemistry: Modern Problems conference, 24 - 26 May 2007, in various venues in Quezon City, Philippines.
Today I stand in front of you, honored to be invited to speak in front of so many I respect and admire, to present my new theory.
As we all know, the scientific method is simply a step-by-step procedure in answering questions. We gather data by observing the world around us, perhaps by noticing patterns or cause-and-effect relationships. Then we formulate hypotheses from these observations and then work on experiments to prove or disprove them.
This proposal I present today, however, is a product of observation alone--no experiments have been done yet--but its occurrence has been so consistent in the past few years, that I was actually quite perplexed to find that this theory has not been proposed before. I suppose, I would like to to ask for your help as well in verifying these observations. Ladies in the audience, I appeal to you specifically.
The paper I am presenting today is on a theory I like to call "Theory of Multiple Portions". Yes, yes--I have anticipated your objections--ladies and gentlemen, please hear me out. I know it sounds too much like The Law of Multiple Proportions or Dalton's Law as we like to call it, and it is for this reason alone that I have refused to even consider calling it "Dr. Drey's Theory" --although I have to admit, I wish to be remembered as its proponent. To top it all, it has something to do with chemistry as well--physical chemistry, as a matter of fact.
Now, let us get back to the topic at hand. This theory states simply that:
The only thing a girl needs to get laid, is to be already getting laid.
Gentlemen, please! Ladies, I see that I have your full attention. Now, ladies, I am sure you have noticed that unless we have steady partners, people expect us to be chaste--and chased I might add--and when we do choose to have some casual, recreational intercourse, the men expect us--with a certain dread of course, but expect us nonetheless--to act like some version of Glenn Close in that movie, Fatal Attraction.
(Just a side note: I have written a rather extensive paper on how that movie, Fatal Attraction, has fatally reduced women's chances of getting equal treatment as players in the field of sexual intercourse. This has been published in the 16 December 2006 issue of Nature Volume 666 Number 5243, should you like to read on it some more.)
This expectation of women to act like raging lunatics after one night of sex has always fascinated men, and although I grant that they don't look forward to its realization in their own lives, there is a certain fantasizing that it happens at least once--a kind of validation, if you will.
How is this related to my theory? As women have evolved over the years after that movie, we have taken two options in response to it: (1) have sex only when we are in a monogamous relationship; (2) have sex like a man, i.e., one-night stands, fuck buddies, etc.
However, having "sex like a man" is not as easy for women as it sounds, especially in this country--am I right, ladies? Sadly, we have learned that, simply because a woman is open-minded about sex, it doesn't necessarily mean that the men are open-minded about these open-minded women. There is no direct proportionality to this relationship.
Therefore, women have come to understand that even though the choice of sex is up to them, it doesn't necessarily mean bed partners left and right of the equation. Thus, such common observations as, "When it rains, it pours" for the lucky ones, and the comfort of a book on the bedside for those who aren't--studies show that Liwayway Arceo's "Uhaw ang Tigang na Lupa" is a favorite among the unlucky group.
I suppose given this disparity--multiple portions or nothing at all--the next step should be to test hormonal reactions of women in the two groups. Questions like, "Does the lucky group give off more pheromones than the other?" arise. Of course since we are studying two groups which can be designated as ones and zeroes (strictly in terms of haves/have-nots, I mean), there would have to be two control groups as well to properly ascertain significant differences in the result. For these, I propose virgins as control for the zeroes and pros for the ones.
Of course, I am getting ahead of myself here. I understand that my purpose here today is simply to present this theory, and ultimately to ask for help in formulating an experimental method to test it.
Ladies and gentlemen--where have the men gone?--anyway, ladies, thank you for your kind attention.
*****
The text above is a transcript of Dr. Drey's speech and proposal presented to the Physical Chemistry: Modern Problems conference, 24 - 26 May 2007, in various venues in Quezon City, Philippines.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Happy Mondays never get me down.
Happy Mondays Poetry Nights in Mag:net Katipunan
Please come! No entrance fee, reading is from 7 to 930pm. Featured Readers are:
1. Khavn dela Cruz
Khavn is a two-time Palanca-winner, celebrated filmmaker, frontman of the bands Delakrus and The Brockas.
2. Edgar Samar
Egay is the recipient of the 2006 NCCA Writers Prize grant for the novel. A winner of Palanca awards, Egay has a book of poetry, Pag-aabang sa Kundiman, published by theateneo ORP.
3. Gabriela Lee
Gabby is a published poet and fictionist. She ispursuing her masters in the National University of Singapore (NUS). Her first collection of poems, Disturbing the Universe, was published through the NCCA's UBOD new authors' series.
4. Raymond John de Borja
A member of Pinoy Poets, Emong was the youngest fellow in the 45th U.P. National Writers Workshop. His works have appeared in various literary publications, including Caracoa 2006.
5. Niccolo Vitug
Nikko was a fellow of the 44th National WritersWorkshop in Dumaguete, a former literature teacher in Silliman University, and was a former member of the Ateneo's Heights.
6. Mike Coroza
Isang batikang makata sa Filipino si Prof. Mike Coroza. He has won many awards in various categories of the Palanca. He hosts a radio show, Harana ng Puso, every sunday over at DWBR 104.3 FM.
7. Alex Gregorio
Alex is a member of High Chair and has published collection entitled, The Rosegun. He was a fellow of the Dumaguete National Writers Workshop.
8. Mookie Katigbak
Mookie won the first prize in the recent Philippines Free Press Literary Awards. She's won a Palanca for her poetry as well, and is a widely published author both here and abroad. She has an MFA from the New School University in NY.
9. JR Moll
JR is a science course graduate of the ateneo, an adopted member of the Thomasian Writers' Guild, and one of themost underrated poets in the country.
10. Lope Cui, Jr.
Lope is an up and coming poet who holds an MBA degree from the UP and a professor of Miriam College. He is the vocalist of rising new indie, slow-core band,Tabloid Lite.
11. Angelo Suárez
Gelo is a two-time Palanca winner for poetry, already with two collections from the UST press: The Nymph of MTV and else it was purely girls. He was a winner of the National Book Award and is currently working on his third book, Dissonant Umbrellas.
*****
Former featured readers who'll read include Mikael De Lara Co, Peachy Paderna, Jonar Sabilano, Arkaye Kierulf, and Rafael San Diego. Hosting the reading will be Joel Toledo and myself. Please come and support us. If you feel like reading for the open mic, bring 1 to 2 poems.
*****
And calling too, the people who owe me liquor money for not rooting for the Spurs! Hahaha! I'm collecting tonight. Thanks in advance for buying me drinks, you guys.
Please come! No entrance fee, reading is from 7 to 930pm. Featured Readers are:
1. Khavn dela Cruz
Khavn is a two-time Palanca-winner, celebrated filmmaker, frontman of the bands Delakrus and The Brockas.
2. Edgar Samar
Egay is the recipient of the 2006 NCCA Writers Prize grant for the novel. A winner of Palanca awards, Egay has a book of poetry, Pag-aabang sa Kundiman, published by theateneo ORP.
3. Gabriela Lee
Gabby is a published poet and fictionist. She ispursuing her masters in the National University of Singapore (NUS). Her first collection of poems, Disturbing the Universe, was published through the NCCA's UBOD new authors' series.
4. Raymond John de Borja
A member of Pinoy Poets, Emong was the youngest fellow in the 45th U.P. National Writers Workshop. His works have appeared in various literary publications, including Caracoa 2006.
5. Niccolo Vitug
Nikko was a fellow of the 44th National WritersWorkshop in Dumaguete, a former literature teacher in Silliman University, and was a former member of the Ateneo's Heights.
6. Mike Coroza
Isang batikang makata sa Filipino si Prof. Mike Coroza. He has won many awards in various categories of the Palanca. He hosts a radio show, Harana ng Puso, every sunday over at DWBR 104.3 FM.
7. Alex Gregorio
Alex is a member of High Chair and has published collection entitled, The Rosegun. He was a fellow of the Dumaguete National Writers Workshop.
8. Mookie Katigbak
Mookie won the first prize in the recent Philippines Free Press Literary Awards. She's won a Palanca for her poetry as well, and is a widely published author both here and abroad. She has an MFA from the New School University in NY.
9. JR Moll
JR is a science course graduate of the ateneo, an adopted member of the Thomasian Writers' Guild, and one of themost underrated poets in the country.
10. Lope Cui, Jr.
Lope is an up and coming poet who holds an MBA degree from the UP and a professor of Miriam College. He is the vocalist of rising new indie, slow-core band,Tabloid Lite.
11. Angelo Suárez
Gelo is a two-time Palanca winner for poetry, already with two collections from the UST press: The Nymph of MTV and else it was purely girls. He was a winner of the National Book Award and is currently working on his third book, Dissonant Umbrellas.
*****
Former featured readers who'll read include Mikael De Lara Co, Peachy Paderna, Jonar Sabilano, Arkaye Kierulf, and Rafael San Diego. Hosting the reading will be Joel Toledo and myself. Please come and support us. If you feel like reading for the open mic, bring 1 to 2 poems.
*****
And calling too, the people who owe me liquor money for not rooting for the Spurs! Hahaha! I'm collecting tonight. Thanks in advance for buying me drinks, you guys.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Who could resist?
Duncan is wildly underrated
By Bill Simmons
Page 2
Editor's note: This column appears in the May 18 issue of ESPN The Magazine.
My father visited me last weekend for two reasons: He wanted to see his granddaughter, and he wanted to finalize his will in case he drops in a heap after David Stern says these words: "The third pick of the 2007 draft goes to ... the Boston Celtics." At one point during Dad's visit, I was discussing possible column topics for the issue you're currently reading. Tim Duncan's name came up.
"Would you read a column about how underrated Tim Duncan is?" I asked.
Dad made a face. He played with his hair. He seemed confused. "A whole column on Tim Duncan?"
"You wouldn't read it?" I continued.
"I don't think so. I'd see the headline, skim the first two paragraphs and flip to the next article."
"Seriously? He's the best player of the past 10 years!"
"Nahhhhhhh," Dad maintained. "Nobody wants to read about Tim Duncan. He's not that interesting."
Duncan's prowess has been a sore subject with my dad and me since the 1997 lottery, when our beloved Celtics had a 36% chance to land the No. 1 pick, and San Antonio plucked it away. Helplessly, we've watched him carry the Spurs to three titles, a number that could have been five if not for Derek Fisher's miracle shot in 2004 and Manu Ginobili's stupid foul of Dirk Nowitzki last season. No Celtics fan can assess Duncan's career for more than .21 seconds without remembering he could have been ours. With the franchise facing another make-or-break Ping-Pong moment on May 22, it's safe to say that not getting Duncan set the Celtics back 10 years.
But what did we really miss besides a slew of 58-win seasons and a few titles? Well, the chance to follow the most consistent superstar in recent NBA history, for starters. Duncan's averages from his first year (21.1 ppg, 11.9 rpg, 2.7 apg, 2.5 bpg, 55% shooting, 39.1 mpg, 2,967,840 USD*) are nearly identical to those of his just completed 10th (20.0 ppg, 10.6 rpg, 3.4 apg, 2.4 bpg, 55% shooting, 34.1 mpg, 17,429,672 USD* ). His placid demeanor hasn't changed even a little; he looks exactly the same. His trademark 15-foot banker off the glass hasn't changed. Nearly 900 regular-season and playoff games have worn down his legs a little but not much, and he's made up for the erosion with an ever-expanding hoops IQ. If there's a major difference between the 1998 Duncan and the 2007 Duncan, it's his defense. He's gotten better and better as the years have passed, not just as a help defender but as an overall communicator.
Whenever I watch the Spurs in person, that's the first thing I notice: how well they talk on defense. It's a friendly, competitive chatter, like five buddies maintaining a running dialogue at a blackjack table as they try to figure out ways to bust the dealer. Duncan is the hub of it all, the oversize big brother who looks out for everyone else. During breaks in the action, you can always count on him to throw an arm around a teammate before dispensing advice or to wave everyone over for an impromptu pep talk. He's their defensive anchor, smartest player, emotional leader, crunch-time scorer and most competitive gamer, one of those rare superstars who simply can't be measured by statistics alone. Fifty years from now, some stat geek will crunch numbers from Duncan's era and come to the conclusion that Kevin Garnett was just as good. And he'll be wrong. No NBA team that featured a healthy Duncan would have missed the playoffs for three straight years. It's an impossibility.
Now ...
I'm not a fan of the whole overrated/underrated thing. With so many TV and radio shows, columnists, bloggers and educated sports fans around, it's nearly impossible for anything to be rated improperly anymore. Everyone is constantly searching for fresh topics to dissect, so could anything slip under the radar at this point? Think back to when Duncan entered the league: The web was still rounding into shape, sportswriters weren't screaming at each other on TV, radio hosts were confined to talking about their local teams and everyone read their local columnists. That's it. Ten years later, a hyperactive sports world means that, if anything, underrated players (like Ben Wallace, for instance) quickly become overrated because everyone spends so much time discussing how underrated they are. Well, I say Tim Duncan is underrated. You know what else? He's wildly underrated.
Assuming the Spurs win the 2007 title and Duncan captures his fourth Finals MVP award (both decent bets), his first professional decade will have concluded with four rings, two regular-season MVP awards and nine first-team All-NBA nods. His best teammates have been David Robinson (who turned 33 in Duncan's rookie year), Manu Ginobili (never a top-15 player) and Tony Parker (ditto). In fact, Duncan has never played for a dominant team; the Spurs have never had quite enough talent to roll through the league. Trapped at the top of the standings, they've been forced to rely on others' failed lottery picks, foreign rookies, journeymen and head cases with baggage. Zoom through San Antonio's past 10 rosters on basketball-reference.com some time. You'll be shocked. Tim Duncan has never played on a great basketball team. Not once.
So how can he remain underrated? For one thing, he's always had a little too much Pete Sampras in him. Even last month, when Joey Crawford tossed Duncan for laughing on the bench, everyone seemed most shocked that Duncan was the guy involved. It was like watching an AP history teacher flip out on an honors student who never speaks in class. Duncan certainly doesn't have Shaq's sense of humor, Kobe's singular intensity, KG's menacing demeanor, LeBron's jaw-dropping athleticism, Wade's knack for self-promotion, Nash's fan-friendly skills or even Dirk's fist pump. If there's a defining Duncan quality, it's the way he bulges his eyes in disbelief after every call that goes against him, a grating habit that was old about five years ago. The other "problem" has been his steadfast consistency. If you keep banging out great seasons with none standing out more than any other, who's going to notice?
There's a precedent for this: Once upon a time, Harrison Ford pumped out monster hits for 15 solid years before everyone suddenly noticed, "Wait a second, Harrison Ford is unquestionably the biggest movie star of his generation!" From 1977 to 1992, Ford starred in three Star Wars movies, three Indiana Jones movies, Blade Runner, Working Girl, Witness, Presumed Innocent and Patriot Games ... but it wasn't until he carried The Fugitive that everyone realized he was more bankable than Stallone, Reynolds, Eastwood, Cruise, Costner, Schwarzenegger and every other competitor from that time. As with Duncan, we didn't know much about Ford outside of his work. As with Duncan, there wasn't anything inherently interesting about him. But Ford always delivered the goods and, eventually, we appreciated him for it.
I think we'll say the same about Duncan someday. Over the past 10 years, he's been overshadowed by Kobe and Shaq, LeBron and Wade, Nash and Kidd, Nowitzki and KG, even C-Webb and Iverson ... and yet, Tim Duncan was better than all of them.
Just wait, he'll have his Fugitive moment. It's coming. Maybe even next month.
*****
*PS. Salary data my own input. Obviously, not everything is identical, or underrated. From basketball-reference.com. Hehe.
*****
2-1 Spurs. Game 4 in San Antonio. See you Tuesday. As Tim Duncan said, some "comments" were said between games, but, we'll talk about that some other time.
*****
Yun lang po. Bow.
By Bill Simmons
Page 2
Editor's note: This column appears in the May 18 issue of ESPN The Magazine.
My father visited me last weekend for two reasons: He wanted to see his granddaughter, and he wanted to finalize his will in case he drops in a heap after David Stern says these words: "The third pick of the 2007 draft goes to ... the Boston Celtics." At one point during Dad's visit, I was discussing possible column topics for the issue you're currently reading. Tim Duncan's name came up.
"Would you read a column about how underrated Tim Duncan is?" I asked.
Dad made a face. He played with his hair. He seemed confused. "A whole column on Tim Duncan?"
"You wouldn't read it?" I continued.
"I don't think so. I'd see the headline, skim the first two paragraphs and flip to the next article."
"Seriously? He's the best player of the past 10 years!"
"Nahhhhhhh," Dad maintained. "Nobody wants to read about Tim Duncan. He's not that interesting."
Duncan's prowess has been a sore subject with my dad and me since the 1997 lottery, when our beloved Celtics had a 36% chance to land the No. 1 pick, and San Antonio plucked it away. Helplessly, we've watched him carry the Spurs to three titles, a number that could have been five if not for Derek Fisher's miracle shot in 2004 and Manu Ginobili's stupid foul of Dirk Nowitzki last season. No Celtics fan can assess Duncan's career for more than .21 seconds without remembering he could have been ours. With the franchise facing another make-or-break Ping-Pong moment on May 22, it's safe to say that not getting Duncan set the Celtics back 10 years.
But what did we really miss besides a slew of 58-win seasons and a few titles? Well, the chance to follow the most consistent superstar in recent NBA history, for starters. Duncan's averages from his first year (21.1 ppg, 11.9 rpg, 2.7 apg, 2.5 bpg, 55% shooting, 39.1 mpg, 2,967,840 USD*) are nearly identical to those of his just completed 10th (20.0 ppg, 10.6 rpg, 3.4 apg, 2.4 bpg, 55% shooting, 34.1 mpg, 17,429,672 USD* ). His placid demeanor hasn't changed even a little; he looks exactly the same. His trademark 15-foot banker off the glass hasn't changed. Nearly 900 regular-season and playoff games have worn down his legs a little but not much, and he's made up for the erosion with an ever-expanding hoops IQ. If there's a major difference between the 1998 Duncan and the 2007 Duncan, it's his defense. He's gotten better and better as the years have passed, not just as a help defender but as an overall communicator.
Whenever I watch the Spurs in person, that's the first thing I notice: how well they talk on defense. It's a friendly, competitive chatter, like five buddies maintaining a running dialogue at a blackjack table as they try to figure out ways to bust the dealer. Duncan is the hub of it all, the oversize big brother who looks out for everyone else. During breaks in the action, you can always count on him to throw an arm around a teammate before dispensing advice or to wave everyone over for an impromptu pep talk. He's their defensive anchor, smartest player, emotional leader, crunch-time scorer and most competitive gamer, one of those rare superstars who simply can't be measured by statistics alone. Fifty years from now, some stat geek will crunch numbers from Duncan's era and come to the conclusion that Kevin Garnett was just as good. And he'll be wrong. No NBA team that featured a healthy Duncan would have missed the playoffs for three straight years. It's an impossibility.
Now ...
I'm not a fan of the whole overrated/underrated thing. With so many TV and radio shows, columnists, bloggers and educated sports fans around, it's nearly impossible for anything to be rated improperly anymore. Everyone is constantly searching for fresh topics to dissect, so could anything slip under the radar at this point? Think back to when Duncan entered the league: The web was still rounding into shape, sportswriters weren't screaming at each other on TV, radio hosts were confined to talking about their local teams and everyone read their local columnists. That's it. Ten years later, a hyperactive sports world means that, if anything, underrated players (like Ben Wallace, for instance) quickly become overrated because everyone spends so much time discussing how underrated they are. Well, I say Tim Duncan is underrated. You know what else? He's wildly underrated.
Assuming the Spurs win the 2007 title and Duncan captures his fourth Finals MVP award (both decent bets), his first professional decade will have concluded with four rings, two regular-season MVP awards and nine first-team All-NBA nods. His best teammates have been David Robinson (who turned 33 in Duncan's rookie year), Manu Ginobili (never a top-15 player) and Tony Parker (ditto). In fact, Duncan has never played for a dominant team; the Spurs have never had quite enough talent to roll through the league. Trapped at the top of the standings, they've been forced to rely on others' failed lottery picks, foreign rookies, journeymen and head cases with baggage. Zoom through San Antonio's past 10 rosters on basketball-reference.com some time. You'll be shocked. Tim Duncan has never played on a great basketball team. Not once.
So how can he remain underrated? For one thing, he's always had a little too much Pete Sampras in him. Even last month, when Joey Crawford tossed Duncan for laughing on the bench, everyone seemed most shocked that Duncan was the guy involved. It was like watching an AP history teacher flip out on an honors student who never speaks in class. Duncan certainly doesn't have Shaq's sense of humor, Kobe's singular intensity, KG's menacing demeanor, LeBron's jaw-dropping athleticism, Wade's knack for self-promotion, Nash's fan-friendly skills or even Dirk's fist pump. If there's a defining Duncan quality, it's the way he bulges his eyes in disbelief after every call that goes against him, a grating habit that was old about five years ago. The other "problem" has been his steadfast consistency. If you keep banging out great seasons with none standing out more than any other, who's going to notice?
There's a precedent for this: Once upon a time, Harrison Ford pumped out monster hits for 15 solid years before everyone suddenly noticed, "Wait a second, Harrison Ford is unquestionably the biggest movie star of his generation!" From 1977 to 1992, Ford starred in three Star Wars movies, three Indiana Jones movies, Blade Runner, Working Girl, Witness, Presumed Innocent and Patriot Games ... but it wasn't until he carried The Fugitive that everyone realized he was more bankable than Stallone, Reynolds, Eastwood, Cruise, Costner, Schwarzenegger and every other competitor from that time. As with Duncan, we didn't know much about Ford outside of his work. As with Duncan, there wasn't anything inherently interesting about him. But Ford always delivered the goods and, eventually, we appreciated him for it.
I think we'll say the same about Duncan someday. Over the past 10 years, he's been overshadowed by Kobe and Shaq, LeBron and Wade, Nash and Kidd, Nowitzki and KG, even C-Webb and Iverson ... and yet, Tim Duncan was better than all of them.
Just wait, he'll have his Fugitive moment. It's coming. Maybe even next month.
*****
*PS. Salary data my own input. Obviously, not everything is identical, or underrated. From basketball-reference.com. Hehe.
*****
2-1 Spurs. Game 4 in San Antonio. See you Tuesday. As Tim Duncan said, some "comments" were said between games, but, we'll talk about that some other time.
*****
Yun lang po. Bow.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Imagine this.
Libra (Sept. 23–Oct. 22)
I'd love to see you puff up your chest and take dominant control of a situation. I'm picturing you—perhaps dressed in black leather and wielding a whip—barking commands and dishing out consequences for others' mistakes. You're probably laughing at me, though, because you know even better than I do that this just ain't your style. You tend to opt for more diplomatic, polite, nonconfrontational methods. However, I hope that even if you forgo the black leather, you'll consider being more direct and forceful this week. The situation requires it, since tact and gentle reminders won't get the job done.
*****
So politeness just won't cut it anymore, huh? Well then, hand me my whip, boy-o. It's time to get things cracking. Whup-pack!
*****
I had a fight with my Dad last night. And though this was not our first, it was the first over the phone and with me yelling to high heaven. The thing is, it wasn't even between us, but between me and someone else. Suffice it to say, I'd been quiet too long, she's being a bitchy little coward, and my dad thought he could still ride to our rescue. And yes, this is my side of the story, so fuck off.
After that 100-decibel shouting match on a very cheap 10-peso unlimited PLDT-to-Smart long-distance phonecall, I blew my nose and wiped my face, took out a cigarette (My Dad had told me to stop smoking. Again.) and slammed the door on my way out. Went to join some friends for a drink despite being mad enough to walk through the middle of the road and to hell with the traffic (and despite the fact that my nose was red and my eyes puffy). Three hours later I had spent more than I wanted to on alcohol, but I was numb=happy.
*****
Alone, Looking for Blossoms Along the River
Tu Fu
The sorrow of riverside blossoms inexplicable,
And nowhere to complain -- I've gone half crazy.
I look up our southern neighbor. But my friend in wine
Gone ten days drinking. I find only an empty bed.
A thick frenzy of blossoms shrouding the riverside,
I stroll, listing dangerously, in full fear of spring.
Poems, wine -- even this profusely driven, I endure.
Arrangements for this old, white-haired man can wait.
A deep river, two or three houses in bamboo quiet,
And such goings on: red blossoms glaring with white!
Among spring's vociferous glories, I too have my place:
With a lovely wine, bidding life's affairs bon voyage.
Looking east to Shao, its smoke filled with blossoms,
I admire that stately Po-hua wineshop even more.
To empty golden wine cups, calling such beautiful
Dancing girls to embroidered mats -- who could bear it?
East of the river, before Abbot Huang's grave,
Spring is a frail splendor among gentle breezes.
In this crush of peach blossoms opening ownerless,
Shall I treasure light reds, or treasure them dark?
At Madame Huang's house, blossoms fill the paths:
Thousands, tens of thousands haul the branches down.
And butterflies linger playfully -- an unbroken
Dance floating to songs orioles sing at their ease.
I don't so love blossoms I want to die. I'm afraid,
Once they are gone, of old age still more impetuous.
And they scatter gladly, by the branchful. Let's talk
Things over, little buds -- open delicately, sparingly.
*****
Now I want to be a Chinese poet. Or write Japanese haikus for that matter. Listen to this for example--
Nothing in the voice
Of the cicada intimates
How soon it will die.
Isn't that magnificent? I don't want to write about relationships anymore. I'm sick of that shit. As Teddy says in J.D. Salinger's Teddy, "[Poets are] always sticking their emotions in things that have no emotions." He quoted that haiku, too.
*****
As for taking the weather personally--especially our weather of late--don't. My mom says our daily afternoon rains is caused by the DA's cloud-seeding efforts to help counter drought. So you see, the rain isn't sad because you're sad. It's man-made rain made to help man in these hard times made by man. As for that sadness you're feeling, let me guess. Perhaps it's caused--on the whole or partially--by the realization that the world doesn't revolve around you after all. And you know what, it really doesn't. So might as well take everything as it is--artificial rain and all.
I'd love to see you puff up your chest and take dominant control of a situation. I'm picturing you—perhaps dressed in black leather and wielding a whip—barking commands and dishing out consequences for others' mistakes. You're probably laughing at me, though, because you know even better than I do that this just ain't your style. You tend to opt for more diplomatic, polite, nonconfrontational methods. However, I hope that even if you forgo the black leather, you'll consider being more direct and forceful this week. The situation requires it, since tact and gentle reminders won't get the job done.
*****
So politeness just won't cut it anymore, huh? Well then, hand me my whip, boy-o. It's time to get things cracking. Whup-pack!
*****
I had a fight with my Dad last night. And though this was not our first, it was the first over the phone and with me yelling to high heaven. The thing is, it wasn't even between us, but between me and someone else. Suffice it to say, I'd been quiet too long, she's being a bitchy little coward, and my dad thought he could still ride to our rescue. And yes, this is my side of the story, so fuck off.
After that 100-decibel shouting match on a very cheap 10-peso unlimited PLDT-to-Smart long-distance phonecall, I blew my nose and wiped my face, took out a cigarette (My Dad had told me to stop smoking. Again.) and slammed the door on my way out. Went to join some friends for a drink despite being mad enough to walk through the middle of the road and to hell with the traffic (and despite the fact that my nose was red and my eyes puffy). Three hours later I had spent more than I wanted to on alcohol, but I was numb=happy.
*****
Alone, Looking for Blossoms Along the River
Tu Fu
The sorrow of riverside blossoms inexplicable,
And nowhere to complain -- I've gone half crazy.
I look up our southern neighbor. But my friend in wine
Gone ten days drinking. I find only an empty bed.
A thick frenzy of blossoms shrouding the riverside,
I stroll, listing dangerously, in full fear of spring.
Poems, wine -- even this profusely driven, I endure.
Arrangements for this old, white-haired man can wait.
A deep river, two or three houses in bamboo quiet,
And such goings on: red blossoms glaring with white!
Among spring's vociferous glories, I too have my place:
With a lovely wine, bidding life's affairs bon voyage.
Looking east to Shao, its smoke filled with blossoms,
I admire that stately Po-hua wineshop even more.
To empty golden wine cups, calling such beautiful
Dancing girls to embroidered mats -- who could bear it?
East of the river, before Abbot Huang's grave,
Spring is a frail splendor among gentle breezes.
In this crush of peach blossoms opening ownerless,
Shall I treasure light reds, or treasure them dark?
At Madame Huang's house, blossoms fill the paths:
Thousands, tens of thousands haul the branches down.
And butterflies linger playfully -- an unbroken
Dance floating to songs orioles sing at their ease.
I don't so love blossoms I want to die. I'm afraid,
Once they are gone, of old age still more impetuous.
And they scatter gladly, by the branchful. Let's talk
Things over, little buds -- open delicately, sparingly.
*****
Now I want to be a Chinese poet. Or write Japanese haikus for that matter. Listen to this for example--
Nothing in the voice
Of the cicada intimates
How soon it will die.
Isn't that magnificent? I don't want to write about relationships anymore. I'm sick of that shit. As Teddy says in J.D. Salinger's Teddy, "[Poets are] always sticking their emotions in things that have no emotions." He quoted that haiku, too.
*****
As for taking the weather personally--especially our weather of late--don't. My mom says our daily afternoon rains is caused by the DA's cloud-seeding efforts to help counter drought. So you see, the rain isn't sad because you're sad. It's man-made rain made to help man in these hard times made by man. As for that sadness you're feeling, let me guess. Perhaps it's caused--on the whole or partially--by the realization that the world doesn't revolve around you after all. And you know what, it really doesn't. So might as well take everything as it is--artificial rain and all.
Friday, May 04, 2007
No contest!
Golden State 111, Dallas 86
What can I say, except "No contest"? With a deficit as long as Dirk's chin and as wide as Jerry Stackhouse's forehead, well, Dirk's chinny-chin-chin said it better, "...this season is pretty much over."
You guys might be asking why I don't like Dallas a lot. It can't be because I love the Spurs, because--Mark Cuban's money-making, rivalry-mongering insults aside--there really is no bad blood between the two Texas teams. I don't have anything against Dirk either, except I can't deny that his chinny-chin-chin (and yes, that's how I'll refer to it from now on) is a bit longish and Jerry Stackhouse does look like a Neanderthal. But wait...
Flashback. Last year. Playoffs 2nd round. Spurs vs. Mavs. Game 5. Jason Terry punched Michael Finley in the balls--and I don't mean basketballs. Yep, now I remember why I hate Dallas. I mean why I really hate them.
I won't even mention that Mark Cuban--especially with this new The-playoffs-is-so-intense-I-don't-have-time-to-shave-and-Look! -My-hair-is-turning-grey! look--looks like something I'd mop the floor of the Oracle Arena with. (Count how many "look"s were in that sentence.)
So, where was I? Oh, right. No fuckin' contest.
What can I say, except "No contest"? With a deficit as long as Dirk's chin and as wide as Jerry Stackhouse's forehead, well, Dirk's chinny-chin-chin said it better, "...this season is pretty much over."
You guys might be asking why I don't like Dallas a lot. It can't be because I love the Spurs, because--Mark Cuban's money-making, rivalry-mongering insults aside--there really is no bad blood between the two Texas teams. I don't have anything against Dirk either, except I can't deny that his chinny-chin-chin (and yes, that's how I'll refer to it from now on) is a bit longish and Jerry Stackhouse does look like a Neanderthal. But wait...
Flashback. Last year. Playoffs 2nd round. Spurs vs. Mavs. Game 5. Jason Terry punched Michael Finley in the balls--and I don't mean basketballs. Yep, now I remember why I hate Dallas. I mean why I really hate them.
I won't even mention that Mark Cuban--especially with this new The-playoffs-is-so-intense-I-don't-have-time-to-shave-and-Look! -My-hair-is-turning-grey! look--looks like something I'd mop the floor of the Oracle Arena with. (Count how many "look"s were in that sentence.)
So, where was I? Oh, right. No fuckin' contest.
Fight Night
Because it's the NBA Playoffs (Go Spurs! Go!), and there's that Dela Hoya-Mayweather, Jr. fight on Sunday. And of course, elections are nearing in the Philippines--
It's time to count the score.
It's time to count the score.
- In a few minutes is Game 6 of the Mavs-GSW matchup that nobody expected to come out the way it has. But then again, playoff season is the time for surprises. As one GSW fan says about the Mavs' last minute win in Game 5, "Wow Dirk, wow. By the hair of your chinny-chin-chin you escaped." As for me, I'll be having another lunch-out I can't afford just so I can catch Baron Davis and his Warriors send Dirk--chinny-chin-chin and all--packing home. SCORE: GSW fan 1, Dirk 0
- I am not a boxing fan, so I may have gotten my facts wrong--or it could be one of those stranger-than-fiction things. Floyd, Sr. once trained Oscar dela Hoya. And is only now siding on his son's corner for this fight-of-a-lifetime/money-making-venture. And only because Dela Hoya refused to pay him $2M for training. Wow. Talk about fatherly love. SCORE: Oscar $23M, Floyd, Jr. $10M, Floyd, Sr. 0, Freddie Roach $1.3M
- I thought Ilonggos had enough to be embarrassed about with Miriam Santiago and her awful accent, hair, pretensions, etc. Who knew that good ol' Raul could actually dethrone her and take the "brain-damaged" (si-raul-o) title for himself? I haven't been home to Iloilo in quite some time, but the food there has always been excellent. But maybe it's time we have the DOH check for mad cow or red tide or just plain "foot-in-mouth" disease--because Raul, Sr. is foaming at the mouth, Raul, Jr. is Iloilo's congressman, and I see Miriam on TV again these days. SCORE: Miriam +1, Raul, Jr. 0, Raul, Sr. -100,000
- It's always been nice walking around the Katipunan area, but now it's entertaining too, what with crazy jingles from people running for office. There's Banal with his "Banal-Banal-Banal. Banal-sa-Konsehal." to the tune of that old folksong or something that's used in old computer game tunes (Helpful, Drey. Very helpful.) and Wency Lagumbay's adaptation of the "Aaaaaah-awitin mo, at isasayaw ko" by VST&Co or whatever that Eat Bulaga bunch was called before one became a senator, and the others, well... But what topped it all was Pichay's slogan and poster. When I first read his "Pichay: Itanim sa Senado" slogan, I wasn't sure if it was stupid or brilliant. But when I noticed that the poster background actually had a drawing of a pechay, well, that fuckin' killed me. SCORE: Pichay 1, Pechay 0
- I was walking along Katipunan one day, deaf to the world for the Rolling Stones screaming in my ear, when a street kid tapped me on my elbow. Thinking I knew what he wanted, I shook my head No-I-don't-have-money and continued walking. He stuck with me for a block or so, and all the time he was tapping my arm, and I was saying no. Finally I took off my earphones in exasperation, and for the first time, heard the kid ask, "Ate, anong oras na po?" SCORE: Kid 1, Andrea 0
And so, life goes on. Or, "That's life," as someone famously put it. Now, let's talk basketball.
Joey Crawford, for all his "suspended indefinitely" crap, has actually achieved something for that Dallas-Phoenix rivalry people are hoping for in the Western Conference Finals. The Spurs in losing that last game to the Mavs in regular season stayed in the #3 spot, and now will be facing Phoenix early morning Monday for their first game of the second round. What all these people forgot is that the Spurs can easily win against the Suns when they have control of the game's pace, and--no this has to be in all caps--AND, IT MIGHT NOT EVEN BE DALLAS WAITING FOR EITHER TEAM AT THE OTHER END. NYAHAHAHAHAHAHA! or, [Insert Evil Laughter here.]
And there, my friends, is the rub.
It can't get any better than this.
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