A few years ago I read a book titled "Blue Highways" by William Least-Heat Moon. The book is so good, in fact, that it would be a crime if I kept typing here instead of just supplying an excerpt. So, here it is, page one of the jam.
Page 1...
Beware thoughts that come in the night. They aren't turned properly; they come in askew, free of sense and restriction, deriving from the most remote of sources. Take the idea of February 17, a day of canceled expectations, the day I learned my job teaching English was finished because of declining enrollment at the college, the day I called my wife from whom I'd been separated for nine months to give her the news, the day she let slip about her "friend"-- Rick or Dick or Chick. Something like that.
That morning, before all the news started hitting the fan, Eddie Short Leaf, who worked a bottomland section of the Missouri River and plowed snow off campus sidewalks, told me if the deep cold didn't break soon the trees would freeze straight through and explode. Indeed.
That night, as I lay wondering whether I would get sleep or explosion, I got the idea instead. A man who couldn't make things go right could at least go. He could quit trying to get out of the way of life. Chuck routine. Live the real jeopardy of circumstance. It was a question of dignity.
The result: on March 19, the last night of winter, I again lay awake in the tangled bed, this time doubting the madness of just walking out on things, doubting the whole plan that would begin at daybreak--to set out on a long (equivalent to half the circumference of the earth), circular trip over the back roads of the United States. Following a circle would give a purpose--to come around again--where taking a straight line would not. And I was going to do it by living out of the back end of a truck. But how to begin a beginning?
A strange sound interrupted my tossing. I went to the window, the cold air against my eyes. At first I saw only starlight. Then they were there. Up in the March blackness, two entwined skeins of snow and blue geese honking north, an undulating W-shaped configuration across the deep sky, white bellies glowing eerily with the reflected light from town, necks stretched northward. Then another flock pulled by who knows what out of the south to breed and remake itself. A new season. Answer: begin by following spring as they did--darkly, with neck stuck out.
http://www.amazon.com/Blue-Highways-Journey-into-America/dp/0316353299
Friday, November 21, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Backwards is forwards?
Being that it was November 14, and I was in San Antonio, it can be said that it was a shockingly nice day outside. I had a feeling in my young-man's body that good things were happening all around and I decided to go for an afternoon jog. Now I had done this before, and I was hoping to make a habit out of it, but I was still fresh enough in the routine that it amped me up, gave me extra energy. I strapped on my athletic wear, put on my heart monitor so as to be able to keep track of my pulse, fired up the iPod and made my way out of the gate.
I ran down the street by fields full of grass swaying in the breeze, past apartment complexes with kids bouncing basketballs, over hills that kids raced to the top of on bikes and down streets named after famous movie stars of yesteryear. I went straight for a while, I turned right, I veered left, I stopped to catch my breathe while I waited for cars to pass. But onward, I had to push myself if I was going to get any better. I turned into a creek, and I kept going. I passed backyards with small quick dogs, yards with big, lumbering dogs and even yards that looked like they wouldn't be welcoming to dogs, perfect in their grooming.
I got to the edge of San Antonio and the grass stopped, I was entering Leon Valley, a suburb, and things were different. Where I had been running on grass next to a spillway, I was now running on a bulldozed path--perfect for joggers. It took me over a freshly built walking bridge, I could still smell the pine. I followed the path until it looked like there wouldn't be a path any longer, but alas, there was more. I edged by barriers marked with the letters "LVWM", which stood for Leon Valley Waste Management, and soon I was jogging behind the city maintenance hall. Tractors were all lined up, they were done working for the day and were now resting in the shade. I pushed on and came up behind the town hall and public library. Kids exited the library with backpacks full of books and got into their parents Escalades.
The day was still beautiful, and I was enjoying my jog until something happened suddenly. I was stopped dead in my tracks by some rustling in the bushes. I stood there, not knowing my heart rate could get any higher, until I realized what it was. I saw a flash of white and a streak of brown and realized it was just a couple of deer. For a moment I got happy and kept going farther, but then I got to a busy street and turned back.
The deer had done something to me. While they were utterly amazing with their natural beauty and sheer grace--bouncing between trees to get away from me, they also made me realize that I was encroaching on what little space they had left. And I, apparently, wasn't the only one.
I turned back, but things seemed different on the way home. I headed back by the library, the eager parents tugging on their snotty kids just so they could all get home and watch reality TV shows. I snaked through the same waste management site, tractors dripping oil onto the cement. I made my way down the crushed-gravel trail that now felt so hard on my ankles and knees. The new bridge was still there, and so were some of the unused nails--flung carelessly into the nearby grass.
I darted back into San Antonio, hoping the creek would cheer me up. But I now noticed all the graffiti on the cement. I went through the area as quickly as possible, but now the fenced-in dogs were barking and scratching. I wasn't sure if they were sounding-off because I was running by and they didn't want me there, or because I was going somewhere and they wanted to be free to join me.
I got back out on the streets named after men who were famous for being famous, but who were probably all dicks in their time anyway. I ran in front of the same apartment complexes and the kids bouncing balls were still there. This time though, instead of seeming happy to have a ball to bounce they seemed sad not to have a hoop to throw it through. I passed the fields that were near my gate, but all I could notice were the discarded bottles, cups and tires.
I punched in the security code and passed the fountain, waving at the maintenance man. I made my way up the stairs and shamefully turned off my iPod. I turned the key to open a dead-bolt that was designed to keep the world out, and made my way inside. I took off the shirt made of lightweight material, the fancy shoes that were supposed to support the arches of my feet, and the heart monitor meant to track workouts. I sat down in the recliner and the first thing I did was fire up the labtop I am using to type this as we speak.
When I am done I will depend on electricity to help me take a hot shower before I gas up my car and head to the Major Newspaper that I work at, which is owned by the William Randolph Hearst Corporation.
It seems as if there is no escaping "progress". Technology is thriving, and wilderness is dying. It seems like the only way to move forward is to move backwards, and this makes me feel sorry for the deer.
The funny thing is, should I feel sorry for the deer because they are running out of undeveloped land to run in, or because they don't have the internet and lack the ability to read this blog?
I ran down the street by fields full of grass swaying in the breeze, past apartment complexes with kids bouncing basketballs, over hills that kids raced to the top of on bikes and down streets named after famous movie stars of yesteryear. I went straight for a while, I turned right, I veered left, I stopped to catch my breathe while I waited for cars to pass. But onward, I had to push myself if I was going to get any better. I turned into a creek, and I kept going. I passed backyards with small quick dogs, yards with big, lumbering dogs and even yards that looked like they wouldn't be welcoming to dogs, perfect in their grooming.
I got to the edge of San Antonio and the grass stopped, I was entering Leon Valley, a suburb, and things were different. Where I had been running on grass next to a spillway, I was now running on a bulldozed path--perfect for joggers. It took me over a freshly built walking bridge, I could still smell the pine. I followed the path until it looked like there wouldn't be a path any longer, but alas, there was more. I edged by barriers marked with the letters "LVWM", which stood for Leon Valley Waste Management, and soon I was jogging behind the city maintenance hall. Tractors were all lined up, they were done working for the day and were now resting in the shade. I pushed on and came up behind the town hall and public library. Kids exited the library with backpacks full of books and got into their parents Escalades.
The day was still beautiful, and I was enjoying my jog until something happened suddenly. I was stopped dead in my tracks by some rustling in the bushes. I stood there, not knowing my heart rate could get any higher, until I realized what it was. I saw a flash of white and a streak of brown and realized it was just a couple of deer. For a moment I got happy and kept going farther, but then I got to a busy street and turned back.
The deer had done something to me. While they were utterly amazing with their natural beauty and sheer grace--bouncing between trees to get away from me, they also made me realize that I was encroaching on what little space they had left. And I, apparently, wasn't the only one.
I turned back, but things seemed different on the way home. I headed back by the library, the eager parents tugging on their snotty kids just so they could all get home and watch reality TV shows. I snaked through the same waste management site, tractors dripping oil onto the cement. I made my way down the crushed-gravel trail that now felt so hard on my ankles and knees. The new bridge was still there, and so were some of the unused nails--flung carelessly into the nearby grass.
I darted back into San Antonio, hoping the creek would cheer me up. But I now noticed all the graffiti on the cement. I went through the area as quickly as possible, but now the fenced-in dogs were barking and scratching. I wasn't sure if they were sounding-off because I was running by and they didn't want me there, or because I was going somewhere and they wanted to be free to join me.
I got back out on the streets named after men who were famous for being famous, but who were probably all dicks in their time anyway. I ran in front of the same apartment complexes and the kids bouncing balls were still there. This time though, instead of seeming happy to have a ball to bounce they seemed sad not to have a hoop to throw it through. I passed the fields that were near my gate, but all I could notice were the discarded bottles, cups and tires.
I punched in the security code and passed the fountain, waving at the maintenance man. I made my way up the stairs and shamefully turned off my iPod. I turned the key to open a dead-bolt that was designed to keep the world out, and made my way inside. I took off the shirt made of lightweight material, the fancy shoes that were supposed to support the arches of my feet, and the heart monitor meant to track workouts. I sat down in the recliner and the first thing I did was fire up the labtop I am using to type this as we speak.
When I am done I will depend on electricity to help me take a hot shower before I gas up my car and head to the Major Newspaper that I work at, which is owned by the William Randolph Hearst Corporation.
It seems as if there is no escaping "progress". Technology is thriving, and wilderness is dying. It seems like the only way to move forward is to move backwards, and this makes me feel sorry for the deer.
The funny thing is, should I feel sorry for the deer because they are running out of undeveloped land to run in, or because they don't have the internet and lack the ability to read this blog?
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
New Life Smell
I just got my car washed for the first time in God knows how long. It’s funny how something as simple as running water and sponges over metal can alter appearances so drastically. In this case, water really did symbolize rebirth.
I like my car. In fact, I like it a lot and I think it is really fun to drive. However, when it is really dirty it seems like more of a nuisance to own. Little mechanical problems seem way more troubling, small blemishes stand out against the otherwise beautiful engineering and the eleven-year-old driving machine truly seems its age.
But after it gets a quick wash the slate seems to get cleaned, for lack of a better term. The small scratches and dings in the paint blend in, the odd rattles and clanks get drowned out by the throaty engine noise, the slower-than-normal start off the line at a red light seems quicker than ever and the interior smells less of sweaty hockey equipment and more of beautiful bare-chested women.
To make a long story short, whenever I wash my car it is almost as if I give it new life. This makes owning a car seem fun again, even if it hurts at the gas pump. I know this will happen any time I wash it, and the task is so simple once I get down to it, but the problem is I simply don’t wash the car enough. I don’t know why this is, but I have a few ideas.
First of all, I could simply just be too lazy to take care of the car that I purchased with designs of it taking care of me. I really don’t think this is the case all of the time, but it could certainly strike me on some occasions.
Maybe I don’t deem the hunk of metal, plastic, leather and rubber appropriate enough for me to spend time and money cleaning dirt off of it, when more dirt will just make its temporary home there as soon as I am done with the water hose and elbow grease. Once again, I don’t think this is the case either. I spent a considerable amount of time searching for the right car when I found this one, and then a considerable amount of money purchasing it. After that I have spent plenty of time, effort and money keeping it going and looking nice throughout the years, with small roadblocks now and then (namely a couple of hit and runs while it was parked.)
No, I think the real reason is that I get caught up in the day and age. There seems to always be too much to do and not enough time. Race here, race there, do this, do that… not enough time to take care of yourself and your things.
Well not anymore.
I have a lot more free time now than I have in God knows how long, and things are going to be taken care of.
I like my car. In fact, I like it a lot and I think it is really fun to drive. However, when it is really dirty it seems like more of a nuisance to own. Little mechanical problems seem way more troubling, small blemishes stand out against the otherwise beautiful engineering and the eleven-year-old driving machine truly seems its age.
But after it gets a quick wash the slate seems to get cleaned, for lack of a better term. The small scratches and dings in the paint blend in, the odd rattles and clanks get drowned out by the throaty engine noise, the slower-than-normal start off the line at a red light seems quicker than ever and the interior smells less of sweaty hockey equipment and more of beautiful bare-chested women.
To make a long story short, whenever I wash my car it is almost as if I give it new life. This makes owning a car seem fun again, even if it hurts at the gas pump. I know this will happen any time I wash it, and the task is so simple once I get down to it, but the problem is I simply don’t wash the car enough. I don’t know why this is, but I have a few ideas.
First of all, I could simply just be too lazy to take care of the car that I purchased with designs of it taking care of me. I really don’t think this is the case all of the time, but it could certainly strike me on some occasions.
Maybe I don’t deem the hunk of metal, plastic, leather and rubber appropriate enough for me to spend time and money cleaning dirt off of it, when more dirt will just make its temporary home there as soon as I am done with the water hose and elbow grease. Once again, I don’t think this is the case either. I spent a considerable amount of time searching for the right car when I found this one, and then a considerable amount of money purchasing it. After that I have spent plenty of time, effort and money keeping it going and looking nice throughout the years, with small roadblocks now and then (namely a couple of hit and runs while it was parked.)
No, I think the real reason is that I get caught up in the day and age. There seems to always be too much to do and not enough time. Race here, race there, do this, do that… not enough time to take care of yourself and your things.
Well not anymore.
I have a lot more free time now than I have in God knows how long, and things are going to be taken care of.
Friday, August 22, 2008
The Shit?
Yes. This is the video that you all need to watch.
I could try a play on words or a pun about feeling like #2 because this is a video to a Blur song, and Blur's most famous song is titled "Song 2," but thats D-U-M dumb. I could try and say something like "In the end, even after feeling like #2, everybody finds someone," but that would be cliche.
Life is better when it is random.
P.S. Stay put until the end.
">
"Good Song" by Blur
I could try a play on words or a pun about feeling like #2 because this is a video to a Blur song, and Blur's most famous song is titled "Song 2," but thats D-U-M dumb. I could try and say something like "In the end, even after feeling like #2, everybody finds someone," but that would be cliche.
Life is better when it is random.
P.S. Stay put until the end.
">
"Good Song" by Blur
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Interesting morning.
I had an interesting morning. I use the word interesting on purpose, because it wasn't good and it wasn't bad. It was different, but as far as being classified on a pro/con spectrum it is right smack dab in the middle.
Of course, before this morning, I was taking part in yesterday's night--where all this began anyway. I was working on some work stuff at home, I took a nap, I played with my dog and I drank a large sum of Dr. Pepper. I mean I was driving the shit into myself, getting ripped to the tits on caffeine. I didn't do it on purpose of course, that would be stupid. If there were any basis of comparison, say... any southerner who drinks a normal amount of soda or other caffeinated beverages, it wouldn't have seemed like much. So I digress.
The point is, it was enough to throw me for a loop and leave me feeling a little jittery. It led me down the dark and winding road of questionable decisions that is nighttime. At 3 a.m. I found myself wide awake and staring at the ceiling, which is something I do on occasion. My brain was racing and I knew for a fact there was no way my eyes would be feeling heavy, atleast not anytime soon.
The prospect of staying awake all night suddenly seemed like a good idea, as it used to so often in college when living was more care-free. The problem looming was not simply a class--that would probably start no earlier than noon-- it was my job. I needed to go, and I needed to be functional.
The decision was made. I would stay awake and IHOP would serve me breakfast.
Times like these do something special to me. These are times in the morning when I shouldn't still be awake, early stages of delirium are approaching and my senses feel eerily tuned in. For some reason, I become extraordinarily functional when in this physical-state. Maybe it's just me, maybe most people can't do this sort of thing. Maybe I have conditioned myself -- over time -- to know that I have a reserve tank, allowing me to run full-bore for a few hours in order to survive whatever it is that I stayed up for in the first place. I know if this kind of thing was more habitual, functionality would not be the case, but 2 or 3 times a year has proven to be within reason. Either way, the extended hours were refreshing.
I got to work at 5:15 a.m., a full 5 hours earlier than normal, and got all of my work done. I left the office at 11 a.m., which is normally just an hour into my shift. I walked outside and the sun hit me right in the face, reminding me that other things still had a schedule to keep. I got to my car and I pulled out of the lot. Cars were going by on the highway, but none of the people in them knew what I had done so far. These people were all in the middle of their own mornings.
So as I sped up to get to the on ramp I looked around, noticing that I felt like I was in a scene from a movie. I could picture the camera going from a first-person view of me on the road, looking out of the windshield, to an overhead cam that elevated out of my sunroof. As I merged into traffic the camera would already be amongst the clouds with the birds, the whole city in view. Soon the state and the country would follow until the Earth was just another round ball of life rolling around on a slippery surface.
Then as I got closer to home I could feel my reserves running out, and I knew I was about to sleep for a good majority of the day.
That is another interesting feeling altogether.
Of course, before this morning, I was taking part in yesterday's night--where all this began anyway. I was working on some work stuff at home, I took a nap, I played with my dog and I drank a large sum of Dr. Pepper. I mean I was driving the shit into myself, getting ripped to the tits on caffeine. I didn't do it on purpose of course, that would be stupid. If there were any basis of comparison, say... any southerner who drinks a normal amount of soda or other caffeinated beverages, it wouldn't have seemed like much. So I digress.
The point is, it was enough to throw me for a loop and leave me feeling a little jittery. It led me down the dark and winding road of questionable decisions that is nighttime. At 3 a.m. I found myself wide awake and staring at the ceiling, which is something I do on occasion. My brain was racing and I knew for a fact there was no way my eyes would be feeling heavy, atleast not anytime soon.
The prospect of staying awake all night suddenly seemed like a good idea, as it used to so often in college when living was more care-free. The problem looming was not simply a class--that would probably start no earlier than noon-- it was my job. I needed to go, and I needed to be functional.
The decision was made. I would stay awake and IHOP would serve me breakfast.
Times like these do something special to me. These are times in the morning when I shouldn't still be awake, early stages of delirium are approaching and my senses feel eerily tuned in. For some reason, I become extraordinarily functional when in this physical-state. Maybe it's just me, maybe most people can't do this sort of thing. Maybe I have conditioned myself -- over time -- to know that I have a reserve tank, allowing me to run full-bore for a few hours in order to survive whatever it is that I stayed up for in the first place. I know if this kind of thing was more habitual, functionality would not be the case, but 2 or 3 times a year has proven to be within reason. Either way, the extended hours were refreshing.
I got to work at 5:15 a.m., a full 5 hours earlier than normal, and got all of my work done. I left the office at 11 a.m., which is normally just an hour into my shift. I walked outside and the sun hit me right in the face, reminding me that other things still had a schedule to keep. I got to my car and I pulled out of the lot. Cars were going by on the highway, but none of the people in them knew what I had done so far. These people were all in the middle of their own mornings.
So as I sped up to get to the on ramp I looked around, noticing that I felt like I was in a scene from a movie. I could picture the camera going from a first-person view of me on the road, looking out of the windshield, to an overhead cam that elevated out of my sunroof. As I merged into traffic the camera would already be amongst the clouds with the birds, the whole city in view. Soon the state and the country would follow until the Earth was just another round ball of life rolling around on a slippery surface.
Then as I got closer to home I could feel my reserves running out, and I knew I was about to sleep for a good majority of the day.
That is another interesting feeling altogether.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Hindsight revelations.
It has been a few days since the Boston Celtics defeated the LA Lakers in Game 6 of the NBA Finals. While I am always happy to see the culmination of a season and everything it represents, the end of basketball is always hard for me. This means that there are no sports currently in season that I enjoy watching. In fact, nothing exciting happens until late August or September.
But anyway, that is not what I am here to talk about. As the title of this post may suggest, I have something that I can easily look backward into the past and examine. It takes no skill to do what I am about to do, so read at your own risk.
Take the Dallas Mavericks team, pre-Jason Kidd trade, and compare them to the World Champion Boston Celtics. The position-by-position breakdown is stunningly similar.
I'll start with the coaches. Not that this matters, but both coaches had not won a Championship (before this year.) When the Mavs lost in the Finals to the Miami Heat a theory was thrown around that it was possible that Avery Johnson was simply out-coached by the veteran coach, Pat Riley. This time around, many people were saying that Coach Rivers would be outcoached by the man with all the Championship rings, Phil Jackson. Not only that, but both have nicknames that suggest the respected rank they hold over their players, Avery "The General" Johnson and Glenn "Doc" Rivers.
Point Guard- Rajon Rondo and Devin Harris are pretty similar players. Both have world class speed on the court, play excellent defense and penetrate the lane in order to get shots for the players on their teams with a better stroke. I'll let either of them drive the lane and take lay-ups all day, but I'd prefer they rack up assists.
Shooting Guard- Ray Allen and Jason Terry have two of the prettiest shots in the game. Granted, Ray Allen will probably be a Hall of Famer and Jason Terry won't, but you don't want to leave either of these players open. Both can handle the ball if they have to play in the One spot, both can create space for themselves, and both are adequate on the defensive end of the floor.
Small Forward/Guard- Paul Pierce and Josh Howard. This is the one place in the comparison where I give it up to Boston. This is far and away the most uneven position when it comes to comparison. Paul Pierce was a mad-man in the playoffs, and the regular season. I feel like Josh Howard has it in him to be a good player like Pierce, but he doesn't have the drive right now. Pierce was constantly taking control of the game, driving hard to the basket, getting fouled and playing excellent defense on Kobe. Howard seemed to digress over the years to a jump-shooter, a more athletic Keith Van Horn. He has shown flashes of excellence when he is driving to the boards, but it seems like that inner-fire has died down. He needs to be more of a slasher and less of a post-up player.
Power Forward- Kevin Garnett and Dirk Nowitzki are arguably the best big men in the game, barring the center position. Both players have excellent range, good ball smarts, solid defense, and both manage to get to the foul line when it seems to matter most. Garnett is a more athletic and has now quieted his critics that dogged on him because he had never won on this level. Dirk still has that against him, critics claim that he gets soft when it matters most. (Maybe he did, but he was the only superstar on the team when his team was in the finals, Garnett had the comfort of being part of the Big Three.)
Center- Kendrick Perkins/P.J. Brown and Erick Dampier/ DeSagana Diop. This is called the Five Spot, and thats exactly what it is to both offenses here, the fifth option. This position is not here to score points, it is there to be big in the lane. All these players are big and have fouls to give up, they are also good at setting up screens for the high-scoring forwards on both teams.
Bench- I'm not really sure who gets the nod here. The top player off the bench, Jerry Stackhouse for Dallas and James Posey for Boston, is good on both teams and can come in and add powerful offense. After that I suppose Boston gets the nod with Eddie House, Sam Cassell and even Leon Powe, where Dallas would come with Marquis Daniels, Keith Van Horn and then players like Adrian Griffin and Josh Powell.
Anyway, like I said, I don't know where I am going with this post, except I guess to point out that the loss to Miami was a huge collapse when we had the perfect roster to clinch. Now, unfortunately, we don't.
Peace, Love and Draft Picks.
-Sam
(One more thing worth pointing out-- Celtics Assistant Coach Clifford Ray went to the University of Oklahoma.)
But anyway, that is not what I am here to talk about. As the title of this post may suggest, I have something that I can easily look backward into the past and examine. It takes no skill to do what I am about to do, so read at your own risk.
Take the Dallas Mavericks team, pre-Jason Kidd trade, and compare them to the World Champion Boston Celtics. The position-by-position breakdown is stunningly similar.
I'll start with the coaches. Not that this matters, but both coaches had not won a Championship (before this year.) When the Mavs lost in the Finals to the Miami Heat a theory was thrown around that it was possible that Avery Johnson was simply out-coached by the veteran coach, Pat Riley. This time around, many people were saying that Coach Rivers would be outcoached by the man with all the Championship rings, Phil Jackson. Not only that, but both have nicknames that suggest the respected rank they hold over their players, Avery "The General" Johnson and Glenn "Doc" Rivers.
Point Guard- Rajon Rondo and Devin Harris are pretty similar players. Both have world class speed on the court, play excellent defense and penetrate the lane in order to get shots for the players on their teams with a better stroke. I'll let either of them drive the lane and take lay-ups all day, but I'd prefer they rack up assists.
Shooting Guard- Ray Allen and Jason Terry have two of the prettiest shots in the game. Granted, Ray Allen will probably be a Hall of Famer and Jason Terry won't, but you don't want to leave either of these players open. Both can handle the ball if they have to play in the One spot, both can create space for themselves, and both are adequate on the defensive end of the floor.
Small Forward/Guard- Paul Pierce and Josh Howard. This is the one place in the comparison where I give it up to Boston. This is far and away the most uneven position when it comes to comparison. Paul Pierce was a mad-man in the playoffs, and the regular season. I feel like Josh Howard has it in him to be a good player like Pierce, but he doesn't have the drive right now. Pierce was constantly taking control of the game, driving hard to the basket, getting fouled and playing excellent defense on Kobe. Howard seemed to digress over the years to a jump-shooter, a more athletic Keith Van Horn. He has shown flashes of excellence when he is driving to the boards, but it seems like that inner-fire has died down. He needs to be more of a slasher and less of a post-up player.
Power Forward- Kevin Garnett and Dirk Nowitzki are arguably the best big men in the game, barring the center position. Both players have excellent range, good ball smarts, solid defense, and both manage to get to the foul line when it seems to matter most. Garnett is a more athletic and has now quieted his critics that dogged on him because he had never won on this level. Dirk still has that against him, critics claim that he gets soft when it matters most. (Maybe he did, but he was the only superstar on the team when his team was in the finals, Garnett had the comfort of being part of the Big Three.)
Center- Kendrick Perkins/P.J. Brown and Erick Dampier/ DeSagana Diop. This is called the Five Spot, and thats exactly what it is to both offenses here, the fifth option. This position is not here to score points, it is there to be big in the lane. All these players are big and have fouls to give up, they are also good at setting up screens for the high-scoring forwards on both teams.
Bench- I'm not really sure who gets the nod here. The top player off the bench, Jerry Stackhouse for Dallas and James Posey for Boston, is good on both teams and can come in and add powerful offense. After that I suppose Boston gets the nod with Eddie House, Sam Cassell and even Leon Powe, where Dallas would come with Marquis Daniels, Keith Van Horn and then players like Adrian Griffin and Josh Powell.
Anyway, like I said, I don't know where I am going with this post, except I guess to point out that the loss to Miami was a huge collapse when we had the perfect roster to clinch. Now, unfortunately, we don't.
Peace, Love and Draft Picks.
-Sam
(One more thing worth pointing out-- Celtics Assistant Coach Clifford Ray went to the University of Oklahoma.)
Monday, May 5, 2008
I apoligize if you read this entire post.
As a sportswriter there are times when you just simply cannot be a fan. It doesn’t matter what team you are covering. It could be a team you used to play for or a team that your son is quarterbacking--you have to put all fandom aside and look at the facts.
Well, I am a fan of the Stars, and I love their success in the postseason so far. But, when I start being honest with myself I feel like the end is near.
There was nothing that scared me about the Anaheim Ducks or the San Jose Sharks, minus one player on each team (Teemu Selanne and Joe Thornton, respectively), but the Red Wings have plenty of pieces that look scary. Datsyuk and Zetterberg are a given, they are world-class players, but when people like Franzen step up with two (TWO!) hattricks in one series, it causes problems. Granted, the Colorado team that the Wings faced in the semi-finals was severely depleted and probably would have been swept by any of the other six teams in the playoffs, but the Red Wings didn't win the President's Trophy this year in the regular season by just beating depleted teams. In fact, the fact that Detroit faced an easy opponent in the previous series can only mean it's collective legs are fresher (especially after the Stars just participated in the 8th longest game in NHL history).
So far, the Stars have won both of their series with a 4-2 record after starting out on the road. That means that they won at home during Game 6 in each series. That's nice.
One six can be a good thing. Like a 6-pack for example, what a treat. Or the age six. You are now probably in first grade if things are going right, one step out of kindergarten (where no one takes you seriously), but not quite into the harder subjects like multiplication.
Six is the smallest 'composite number' because its divisors are 1, 2 and 3. Also, since the sum of 1, 2 and 3 is six, that means it’s a perfect number. You don't get another perfect number until 28, and well, there just aren't that many games in a playoff series so who cares about 28.
Speaking of composite's numbers... A lot of the sticks hockey players use today, including the one Brenden Morrow used to score the game winning goal last night, are made up of composite materials. Two main ingredients are Kevlar, which is more known for being in bulletproof vests, and carbon. Why is this important? What is carbon's atomic number? Six!
Enjoy music? Well, there are six strings on that guitar used in your favorite solo. How about "The Twelve Days of Christmas"? I don't know (or care) about your opinion, but for my money "Six geese a-laying" sounds like the best option.
Sports? Before that extra point is attempted, each touchdown is worth six points. The amount of hockey players on the ice per team, including the goalie is of course six. The member of each baseball team who is generally considered the best athlete, or best defensive player, is the shortstop. Six represents the shortstop on positional charts. Ever heard of the Original Six in ice hockey? Toronto, Chicago, Montreal, New York, Boston and Detroit.
Like bacon? Me too. Unfortunately I can't think of anything the number six has to do with bacon unless I capitalize the B. Yup, the six degrees of Kevin Bacon.
Not to mention, six definitely has the best Latin prefix. *
Okay, well, I've rambled enough about 6. The point was that in the first series with Anaheim, whom I might add was the defending Stanley Cup Champion, we won in Game 6. This was huge because Dallas finally won a playoff series and got out the first round. In the second match up, we also won in Game 6, giving us two Game 6 victories.
How cool is 66? It's pretty cool, but not as great as beating the reigning champ.
For starters, it’s not a perfect number like six, but it IS a multiple of a perfect number, so at least its semiperfect.
Look up the atomic number 66. Dysprosium. Yawn. But hey, at least 66 represents an element.
The Green Bay Packers had a famous linebacker by the name of Ray Nitschke, who of course wore the number 66, played for 15 seasons, and ended his career in 1972. Another cool thing about that; the last player to wear the number 66 for the Packers before it was retired in 1983 was offensive tackle Larry Pfohl, who you wouldn't recall. Remember pro wrestler Lex Luger though? Yeah. Same guy.
1966, or '66, happens to be the year that England not only hosted, but also won the world cup. And we know how crazy they are about their soccer (football).
John Steinbeck was pretty respected, and he calls Route 66 the "Mother Road".
Well, here we go. On Thursday the third series begins for the Stars, and I have a feeling they will lose in Game 6. It'll be a 4-2 series win for the Red Wings. It'll add the third six to my stupid analogy, putting the final touch on "The Number of the Beast". Those damn Red Wings will celebrate with their 'Western Conference Champions' hats on our home ice while they parade around in the red (Devil!) sweaters.
But now that I think back on where my head was at when I started this post I realize... sometimes as a person I have to put all the sportswriterdom aside and be a damn fan.
Let's go Stars, prove me wrong why don'tcha? After all, you have given me no real reason to doubt you so far.
Peace, love and one of the most successful American hockey teams vs. the most successful American hockey player.
-Sam
*Sex
Well, I am a fan of the Stars, and I love their success in the postseason so far. But, when I start being honest with myself I feel like the end is near.
There was nothing that scared me about the Anaheim Ducks or the San Jose Sharks, minus one player on each team (Teemu Selanne and Joe Thornton, respectively), but the Red Wings have plenty of pieces that look scary. Datsyuk and Zetterberg are a given, they are world-class players, but when people like Franzen step up with two (TWO!) hattricks in one series, it causes problems. Granted, the Colorado team that the Wings faced in the semi-finals was severely depleted and probably would have been swept by any of the other six teams in the playoffs, but the Red Wings didn't win the President's Trophy this year in the regular season by just beating depleted teams. In fact, the fact that Detroit faced an easy opponent in the previous series can only mean it's collective legs are fresher (especially after the Stars just participated in the 8th longest game in NHL history).
So far, the Stars have won both of their series with a 4-2 record after starting out on the road. That means that they won at home during Game 6 in each series. That's nice.
One six can be a good thing. Like a 6-pack for example, what a treat. Or the age six. You are now probably in first grade if things are going right, one step out of kindergarten (where no one takes you seriously), but not quite into the harder subjects like multiplication.
Six is the smallest 'composite number' because its divisors are 1, 2 and 3. Also, since the sum of 1, 2 and 3 is six, that means it’s a perfect number. You don't get another perfect number until 28, and well, there just aren't that many games in a playoff series so who cares about 28.
Speaking of composite's numbers... A lot of the sticks hockey players use today, including the one Brenden Morrow used to score the game winning goal last night, are made up of composite materials. Two main ingredients are Kevlar, which is more known for being in bulletproof vests, and carbon. Why is this important? What is carbon's atomic number? Six!
Enjoy music? Well, there are six strings on that guitar used in your favorite solo. How about "The Twelve Days of Christmas"? I don't know (or care) about your opinion, but for my money "Six geese a-laying" sounds like the best option.
Sports? Before that extra point is attempted, each touchdown is worth six points. The amount of hockey players on the ice per team, including the goalie is of course six. The member of each baseball team who is generally considered the best athlete, or best defensive player, is the shortstop. Six represents the shortstop on positional charts. Ever heard of the Original Six in ice hockey? Toronto, Chicago, Montreal, New York, Boston and Detroit.
Like bacon? Me too. Unfortunately I can't think of anything the number six has to do with bacon unless I capitalize the B. Yup, the six degrees of Kevin Bacon.
Not to mention, six definitely has the best Latin prefix. *
Okay, well, I've rambled enough about 6. The point was that in the first series with Anaheim, whom I might add was the defending Stanley Cup Champion, we won in Game 6. This was huge because Dallas finally won a playoff series and got out the first round. In the second match up, we also won in Game 6, giving us two Game 6 victories.
How cool is 66? It's pretty cool, but not as great as beating the reigning champ.
For starters, it’s not a perfect number like six, but it IS a multiple of a perfect number, so at least its semiperfect.
Look up the atomic number 66. Dysprosium. Yawn. But hey, at least 66 represents an element.
The Green Bay Packers had a famous linebacker by the name of Ray Nitschke, who of course wore the number 66, played for 15 seasons, and ended his career in 1972. Another cool thing about that; the last player to wear the number 66 for the Packers before it was retired in 1983 was offensive tackle Larry Pfohl, who you wouldn't recall. Remember pro wrestler Lex Luger though? Yeah. Same guy.
1966, or '66, happens to be the year that England not only hosted, but also won the world cup. And we know how crazy they are about their soccer (football).
John Steinbeck was pretty respected, and he calls Route 66 the "Mother Road".
Well, here we go. On Thursday the third series begins for the Stars, and I have a feeling they will lose in Game 6. It'll be a 4-2 series win for the Red Wings. It'll add the third six to my stupid analogy, putting the final touch on "The Number of the Beast". Those damn Red Wings will celebrate with their 'Western Conference Champions' hats on our home ice while they parade around in the red (Devil!) sweaters.
But now that I think back on where my head was at when I started this post I realize... sometimes as a person I have to put all the sportswriterdom aside and be a damn fan.
Let's go Stars, prove me wrong why don'tcha? After all, you have given me no real reason to doubt you so far.
Peace, love and one of the most successful American hockey teams vs. the most successful American hockey player.
-Sam
*Sex
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