Gift, curse, more tire chronicles
Finally getting around to getting the aforementioned tire replaced. . .I'm sitting on floor of the bathroom at the Sears Autocenter.
Simmons's MVP/LVP column today was sparkling, joining his "Welcome Back Toine" opus as the only impressive thing he's written since the Sox won (or was the Cooperstown-as-pyramid masterstroke after then, too?). It's not that I don't like it when he's cheeky, or personal, or pop cultural, but when he takes it too far things fall apart. Without it, though, he's just another NBA columnist.
He's really the Stevie Francis of the sportswriting world. So great, yet so terrible, his brilliance being his tragic flaw. With AI, it's either a disaster or beyond reporach. Francis, and Simmons, are never far from the edge even as they do their best work.
And, in the same way that Francis could never be taken seriously as a top-tier guard, Simmons will always be a dark horse. If that's not too much to ask of a Hollywood-steeped fratboy with terrible taste in music, movies, and women.
Anyone who calls Ricky Davis "a revelation," though, can only ever be so far from my heart.