Bad Poetry about Unsigned Free Agents.
When the Brazilian Bomber Went Silent.
When the Brazilian Bomber went silentThere was no mourningIt was a logical conclusion to a career thatWhile stylistically poignantFailed to leave permanent impacts
Speed that seemed illusionary (was he really there?)And offensive skills that baffledEyes open wide, tunneling through the laneNo pass, just hoop.No dime, just shoot.Chewing a mouthguard like it was damn gum.
It's not like he was nothingSurely he was somethingThe bloggers loved himThe journalists bought in as wellHe picked up some hardware, became a household nameJust like Rodney Rogers and Bobby Jackson before him.
But fifteen minutes is fleetingAnd 7 seconds, even less.Dynasties are difficult to constructFalse kingdoms easily destructAlas; Phoenix's fleeting moment with the SunsWas the Brazilian Bomber's as well.
So there will be no 21 gun salute in TorontoAnd Indianapolis will focus on their wild LuckPhoenix has long moved onAnd we will too.The Brazilian Bomber's day has comeAnd gone.
If I were GM.
If I were GM; the boss for a dayYou'd bet I'd have everything my wayThe owner wouldn't need to check my plansHe'd know his money was in very safe hands.
I'd immediately get to spending some tenderAnd tell all the haters: "I build contenders"I'd be showered with praise and sheer adulationI'd be the town's new managerial sensation
The team that I'd build wouldn't be all that goodIt wouldn't play like a normal team norm'ly shouldYou see, my team would play with panacheSince every single player would have a moustache.
Marcus Camby's stache would be supremely fineAnd Coach Mike's nose-y hair? Simply divine.Adam Morrison's comeback would start in my cityWith his shot, and his 'stache, looking oh-so-pretty
But the power forward on my stacked-ass teamTo help realize my impossible dreamWould be the one I'd choose to dominate the ball:The Anthony Tolliver, the 'stachiest of them all.
How much can I pay him? 7 years, $40 billion?An autographed copy of Tolkien's Silmarillion?We gotta get this guy's stache on my squad.No way anyone now thinks I'm a fraud.
Sure he can't play; I don't really careDo you see his nose? The corresponding hair?Dude can play a variety of roles.Porn star. Crooked cop. Violator of paroles.
He'd be on every billboard, on TVs galoreHis reality show would rival Jersey ShoreAnd again, I don't care about his skillsI'd sign him purely to provide 'stachy thrills.
So c'mon Mark Cuban, holla at me J-DolanHow bout you, strangely 'stached Michael JordanGuys, you really don't know what it'd meanIf you'd hire me to create your All-Moustache Team.
A Throwaway Limerick about Derek Fisher.
He once wore purple and goldBut now he's mostly just oldThough it's end of the lineWe had memorable times.As important as Horry? Sold.
Doin' What He Did.
The worst part about dreaming about T-MacIs that it can't ever be happy.Whether old or young, you're disappointed in the end.You see young Tracy doin' what he didSilky smooth J, finger-roll like IcemanLosing every time it really mattered.Then after that, it's just street clothes,Hefty bricks from just inside the arcAnd a hefty belly protruding through his jersey.Why do the funnest ones fall so hard?Why can't they age gracefully?Why can't it ever just work out?