No.122: Today, Twenty-Nine Teams R.I.P.


There used to be rules to this thing. 
Codes of conduct. 
Oh how far man has fallen.
One day, my kids will learn
that this was no legend.

This is a tale of greed.
A Tale of Too Many Weapons.
This is the end of civilized warfare.
This is a tale of questions:

What is a man, 
if not mere bones, flesh, and finish lines
void of self-respect and dignity?
I mean,
how self-doubting and character-deficient must one be
to pledge allegiance
to the regime that laid waste to his own city?

I guess, in the end, survival is the only major key.
I guess champions are only as real as their bling.

But I think Jerry West would disagree.

'Cause I mean,
what's a ring to a bandwagon-built team?
How much heat do you need to beat the king?
A bay of uzis it seems.
But was it really a win if you needed
Curry, KT, Boogie, KD, Iggy, and Draymond Green?

Get your trophy, yea?
You brought an RPG to a pistol fight.
Clap for yourselves, yea?
'Cause those are the only claps you'll hear
when the gods of the game
etch in stone what happened here,
on July 2nd, 2018, 
under Adam Silva's sleepy watch.

They'll say I'm sippin’ haterade.
But at least I still know what it means
to break a sweat.
At least I still care.

--No. 122: Today Twenty-Nine Teams R.I.P.

P.S. Pour one for the east. For the ones with the real tears. I hope they remember you. These are dark times indeed.


Cover Photo by Craig Philbrick on Unsplash