Bread City Basketball

You aint even big, dig?
And if i see you up in here,
I’ma have like 500 wolves on you, and that’s mmwwwah!!!!!
That’s word to everything.

Since television signals never disintegrate but travel indefinitely through space, they might, in time and over distance, be received by alien intelligence.

Scottie Pippen wants to come back to the NBA.

“It’s something I’ve been thinking about for the last three months,” Pippen said last week. “I’m moving good. I feel pretty fast and you don’t forget the game. I watch and see so many young guys who don’t know how to run a team and I feel I could help someone.” The 41 year-old Pippen went on to claim that he was in the best shape of his life.

The whole situation reminds me of one of the greatest basketball short stories of all time, “What Ever Happened to Frank Snake Church?” by Sherman Alexie, excerpted below.

“I’m only forty years old,” Frank said.

He bounced the ball between his legs, around his back, thump, thump, between his legs, around his back, thump, thump , again and again, thump, thump, faster and faster, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

“Basketball years are like dog years,” Preacher said. “You’re truly about two hundred and ninety-nine years old.”

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

“I’m still a player,” Frank said. “I’m still playing good and hard.”

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

“But why are you still playing so hard?” Preacher asked. “What are you truing to prove? You keep trying to get all those years back, right? You’re trying to time-machine it, trying to alternate-universe it, but one of these days, you’re going to come down wrong on one of your arthritic knees, and it will be over. What will you do then? You’ve bet your whole life on basketball, and playground basketball at that, and what do you have to show for it? Look at you. You’re not some sixteen-year-old gangster trying to play your way out of the ghetto. You ain’t even some reservation warrior boy trying to shoot your way off the reservation and into some white-collar job at Microsoft Ice Cream. You’re just Frank the Pretty Good Shooter for an Old Fart. Nobody’s looking to recruit you. Nobody’s going to draft you. Ain’t no university alumni lining up to financially corrupt your naive ass. Ain’t no pretty little Caucasian cheerleaders looking to bed you down in room seven of the Delta Delta Delta house. Ain’t no ESPN putting you in the Plays of the Day. You ain’t as cool as the other side of the pillow. You’re hot and sweaty, like an orthopedic support. You’re one lonely Chuck Taylor high-top rotting in the ten-cent pile at Goodwill. Your game is old and ugly and misguided, like the Salem witch trials. You’re committing injustice every time you step on the court. I think I’m going to organize a march against your ancient ass. I’m going to boycott you. I’m going to boycott your corporate sponsors. But wait, you ain’t got any corporate sponsors, unless Nike has come out with a shoe called Tired Old Bastard. So why don’t you just give up the full-court game and the half-court game and enjoy the fruitful retirement of shooting a few basketballs and drinking a few glasses of lemonade.”

Frank stopped bouncing the ball an threw it hard at Preacher, who easily caught it and laughed.

“Man oh man,” Preacher said. “I’m getting to you, ain’t I? I’m hurting your ballplaying heart, ain’t I?”

Can you believe that John Tesh wrote the old NBA on NBC music, probably the most triumphant jam of the century? You just can’t listen to this without wanting to dunk all over the Los Angeles Clippers.

“I want to be a Knick. I want to die a Knick. If I ever was to be cremated, I want my ashes sprinkled on the top of the Garden.” - Stephon Marbury

OUT OF THE WAY CITY DANCERS, IT’S OVER! PARDON MY BACK!

Members of the Las Vegas All-Star Dance Team bite in to the “Vivacious Vegas Sandwich” during a naming ceremony at the Carnegie Deli in Las Vegas.

When I look at this picture everything starts moving in slow motion.

My man Pat Riley is looking mad grizzled, like he’s about to take on the whole NYPD himself, hip surgery be damned. Who can trust a cop who don’t take money, know what I’m saying? All he needs is that Just For Men, and it’s a lock.

People might say, “Why is Ron Artest talking about murder and killing in his rhymes?” Sometimes you feel a certain way and you just have to get it off your chest. None of my rhymes are irresponsible as far as bringing up murder, guns and drugs for no reason. There’s always logic behind it. -Ron Artest, 2/7/07