And such a princely structure!
First off, let me eternally apologize for any lives scarred by my curt behavior following the first of the two virtually identical games that showed on ESPN last night. I have made no secret of the fact that I want the Cavs to win as badly as I've ever wanted anything in my accumulated time on earth, solely because of the apocalyptic fever that would result from James/Wade. At least as far as I was concerned, the intrinsic truth of basketball relations would now lead things in that direction; yesterday afternoon, I had that same feeling as when I realize that I've passed over something titanic in a record shop, and have to endure the formality of waiting for it to open up the next day. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized: I most certainly do want the Pistons making it hard for the The Man Who Would Be. Contrary to what some of our commentors (is it "commentators?" is this an exclusively FreeDarko issue?) may think, I don't want the entire league to be overrun by players whose great acts give me tingles. In fact, our gospel of style and mowing attitude is meaningless without its great counter-weights; without a test of FD's empirical merit, we might as well just be advocating all out And1-dom.
For everything bad I have said about the Spurs, Pistons, who in these playoffs are seeming more than ever like Riverwalk Midwest, they sure do a lot to make my appreciation of this league beat a little faster. Without their vaguely diabolical need to taunt much of what I hold dear, it would mean nothing to believe as I do; without them standing tall as implacable monuments to sacrilege, the exploits of our brave upstarts would be nothing more than entitlement's feet upon cake. It's no accident that I rejoice in the Pistons' losing touch with their regular season zeal, and gladly welcome the Suns into the fold of villinary. I seek not to insult this great sport, but to ensure that the very finite bunch that I choose to elevate above all others can be matched by worthy opponents—entities that play backwards and set my teeth on edge, such that ideology is never merely incidental to the rendering of wins and losses. I don't shit on certain teams and athletes because I lack respect for them. No, it is because I seek to make them as indestructible as those to whom I feel attached. If my criticism of them strikes you as petty, I swing low not out of cowardice but to avoid damaging the perfect visage of hate I have fashioned for them to wear!!!!!
The theory in this is transparent, and if you've all along believed me more concerned with hatred than goodness, it is because the two cleaveth not in my take on the the Assocation. As I prepare, sorely and wretchedly, for Sunday, I must consider the possibility that ultimate disappointment will but strengthen the joy within me.