Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Bad Poetry about Unsigned Free Agents.

When the Brazilian Bomber Went Silent.

When the Brazilian Bomber went silent
There was no mourning
It was a logical conclusion to a career that
While stylistically poignant
Failed to leave permanent impacts

Speed that seemed illusionary (was he really there?)
And offensive skills that baffled
Eyes open wide, tunneling through the lane
No pass, just hoop.
No dime, just shoot.
Chewing a mouthguard like it was damn gum.

It's not like he was nothing
Surely he was something
He picked up some hardware, became a household name
Just like Rodney Rogers and Bobby Jackson before him.

But fifteen minutes is fleeting
And 7 seconds, even less.
Dynasties are difficult to construct
False kingdoms easily destruct
Alas; Phoenix's fleeting moment with the Suns
Was the Brazilian Bomber's as well.

So there will be no 21 gun salute in Toronto
And Indianapolis will focus on their wild Luck
Phoenix has long moved on
And we will too.
The Brazilian Bomber's day has come
And gone.


If I were GM.

If I were GM; the boss for a day
You'd bet I'd have everything my way
The owner wouldn't need to check my plans
He'd know his money was in very safe hands.

I'd immediately get to spending some tender
And tell all the haters: "I build contenders"
I'd be showered with praise and sheer adulation
I'd be the town's new managerial sensation

The team that I'd build wouldn't be all that good
It wouldn't play like a normal team norm'ly should
You see, my team would play with panache
Since every single player would have a moustache.

Marcus Camby's stache would be supremely fine
And Coach Mike's nose-y hair?  Simply divine.
Adam Morrison's comeback would start in my city
With his shot, and his 'stache, looking oh-so-pretty

But the power forward on my stacked-ass team
To help realize my impossible dream
Would 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 care
Do 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 galore
His reality show would rival Jersey Shore
And again, I don't care about his skills
I'd sign him purely to provide 'stachy thrills.

So c'mon Mark Cuban, holla at me J-Dolan
Guys, you really don't know what it'd mean
If you'd hire me to create your All-Moustache Team.


A Throwaway Limerick about Derek Fisher.

But now he's mostly just old
Though it's end of the line
As important as Horry?  Sold.


Doin' What He Did.

The worst part about dreaming about T-Mac
Is that it can't ever be happy.
Whether old or young, you're disappointed in the end.
You see young Tracy doin' what he did
Silky smooth J, finger-roll like Iceman
Losing every time it really mattered.
Then after that, it's just street clothes,
Hefty bricks from just inside the arc
And a hefty belly protruding through his jersey.
Why can't they age gracefully?
Why can't it ever just work out?

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