Love and basketball in Seattle
While my father was dying, he and I talked basketball. Three days before he died, my father still had enough will and character left to deride Kobe Bryant for being a rotten smallpox wound on the game of basketball.
"I know," I said. "I can't stand him."
That meant I love you, Dad.
"I still can't believe they traded Shaq instead of Kobe."
That meant I love you, too, Son.
Of course, no matter how much I hate Kobe, I still love to watch him play. He's a ferocious poet on the court. And I most especially love to watch him lose.
I am a holistic basketball fan.
I love the wins and losses. I love the spectacular assists and idiotic turnovers. I love the poetry of teamwork and the pornography of jump shots taken too early in the shot clock.
Pisay 98 Blog
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