So We Can All Be Free
I'm running around Portland, trying to play real reporter for SLAM. As much as I fancy myself the [insert fancy sports writing dilettante here] of NBA coverage, by the end of today I'll probably be better known as its Fran Drescher.
So in the interest of the pain inside me, and whatever pain I may cause others, here's a bunch of photos of Gerald Wallace as a kid. I would link to the Amir Johnson candids I put up earlier this season, but wait...THEY'RE GONE FOREVER. Seriously people with blogs (the textless, whip-smart elegance of TYI excluded), back up your images. That's what I'm doing here, and tacitly daring Flickr to do its worst.
And how could I not, when I have these to share with you. Some forms of community are bigger than social networkings reticulated bird-brain. We have the ether on our side. They have only mice and switchboards.
Oh, and if you think this shit is creepy or stalky, obviously you've never tried to write a book chapter about a fairly obscure NBA players. The woodwork falls to pieces and you stand in the presence of unlikely relics.
Anyone in the media room at tonight's game, holler at me. I look like space.