This Would Have Been Acceptable in the 80's

Possibly the biggest sports news story for the last few years is the story about how a crooked NBA ref got caught and has been singing his ass off about how all these games that people have been crying about being rigged were, in fact, actually rigged. For some reason, this hasn't been on the front page of the news every day for the last year, but it should be. What matters more? That a guy might shoot himself up with drugs so he can be a more effective ball player, or the fact that, despite the drugging, the people who run the sport decide who wins and loses anyway?

I mean, knowing what you know about the NBA's officiating now and David Stern's clear "I could give a fuck" attitude about the fans' desire for some upfront house-cleaning, can you watch the Finals and think that the result will be anything other than a 7-game money machine? Knowing how little contempt Stern has held for obvious corruption (I'm looking at you, Clay Bennett of Oklahoma City), is there any remaining NBA fan that can sit by and talk themselves into accepting that the game they are watching isn't in the bag?

More importantly, it's Thursday, so shouldn't this post be another self-indulgent update on my rec basketball league? Of course it should, but obviously I'm stalling. I need a moment before I can go there.

Let me frame it. These are the facts that are most important about this week's game:

• We are playing the worst team in the league. Their players are best described as "special" and more accurately described as "probably missing a few recommended pieces of the human genetic code."
• Our team has 7 players. One injured himself carrying his purse on Monday so he was out. Another injured his arm playing another sport, but was ready to play. As of yesterday, our roster was 5 and a half men strong.
• We don't add alternates. Not because we don't need them, but because, historically, other guys on the team have indicated that they don't want to sacrifice minutes.
• In case bullet number one was too subtle, some of the people on the other team this week are retarded. And I don't mean that in the colloquial sense. True, full-on, tits-out retardation of human development.
• I knew this going into the game. And, having never lost a basketball game in my life to a retarded person, me and another guy on the team decided to pre-game at a local bar and enjoy a few libations.

Are you with me? You see where we stand? We roll up in the gym 5 and a half deep, 3 and a half of which were presumably completely sober. The other team is on the other side of the gym warming up. They're retarded, so... picture a bunch of retarded guys shooting around wearing knee braces. Try to stop laughing at them, because its rude.

My team isn't great. We're undermanned, undersobered, underskilled, underpracticed, underhealthy and, judging by our offensive plan from the last two games, possibly battling a mild case of retardation ourselves. But, we're looking across the room. We're seeing guys that are probably going to ride home together in one of those vans with the electric lift on the back. We're feeling good.

Let me do some more framing here:

• I don't know if you know me, but I'm not exactly Lance Armstrong. You're talking about a guy that writes a website about bacon, okay? Last week? I went to the grocery store, bought a pie, took it home and ate the pie. The whole pie. Chocolate merengue. I'm not pushing 230 or anything, but lord I'm not exactly Olympic.
• Minutes ago, I was just drinking beer. Good beer too. Not that Bud Light shit. And one of my teammates, who also enjoys the bounty of pie, was drinking that beer with me. My teammate is neither Shawn Kemp nor Vin Baker. This is a regular pie eating dude, drinking a beer. Or two.
• Okay, it was more than two beers. What are you, a cop? We like beer, we're grown men, and - hello? - we're playing basketball against Corky and his sister today.
• A basketball team requires five people on the court at one time, which means our bench was running one half a person deep. And last year, at the NBA Draft? I ate a couple of pizzas. Having people on the bench that I can point at and say, "Hey, give me a quick rest," or "I think your wife has a great rack.... oh shit, I'm drunk," to is only going to help.

A few minutes into the game, we're up 17 to 2. You may be asking yourself how a team of mostly retarded people managed to get 2 points? The ref whistled one of us for a phantom foul and put the guy on the line. I think he might have taken the over. The retards call time out.

We get together in our circle and enjoy the moment. Hey - we're winning. Sure, it's against the special team, but it still counts. And, at this point of the story... I notice something that... well... isn't good.

The special team's bench arrived sometime during the first few minutes of the game. I didn't know they even had a bench, but clearly, here they were. And their bench was 10 deep. Fifteen total guys on that team. And the genetic development of the guys on the bench was... er... significant to say the least.

This part of the story makes me sick, so I'm going to skip through it, but here are the highlights:

• Five fresh guys come in and apply a full court press. As a beer drinking man of dubious conditioning, this distresses me. My teammates are equally exhausted.
• Minutes later? Five fresh guys come in and keep up the hellacious press. My wife is in the crowd preparing her post-game speech about how hard we tried and how what's most important is that I had fun.
• Even more minutes later, my teammate and I are wondering if we ought to ice down our legs and go get more beer. Is it so hard to have more than 7 guys on a basketball team? Can I sublet my own minutes to a motherfucker? What happens when a team rolls out 15 guys and runs us up and down the court like a bag full of bitches?
• Let me reiterate here... I'm the guy that ate a whole pie. This isn't like Bruce Lee where you can throw 30 guys at me simultaneously and I'm just knocking them all out like I'm Asia Carrera. If you throw two guys at me, I'm gonna need some help.
• Is it my fault for drinking beer? Yes. I know that. Cop. But again... it's beer. Beer is delicious. The beer wasn't a problem when we were up 17 to 2. The beer was a problem when I didn't have anyone to spell me. Is it my fault for not being in better shape? Yes. I know that. But have you ever had chocolate merengue pie?

We lost by around 8.

Comments

[Art Vandelay]

It seems like every NBA fan for years has known about all of the things that Donaghy is saying but they don't care. They really don't. They'll complain about it but then be back acting like everythings completely legit the next day. I never got that. Also, if it was about $, how do you explain the Spurs who inexplicably nobody except me and Eva Longoria want to watch?

Your basketball game reminds me of the scene in Kill Bill where she goes to the palace to kill Lucy Liu and has to fight off a seemingly infinite amount of retards. I'm assuming she was sober though.

[Jeff]

I don't quite understand the make-up of the other team. Is this some kind of hustle? It sounds like their plan is to lull opponents into a false sense of security and then sneak their fully-functional bench players in at the last second.

[phil]

Vandelay, if only you and Eva watched them together...

[Jackie]

"Also, if it was about $, how do you explain the Spurs who inexplicably nobody except me and Eva Longoria want to watch?"

In addition, why mess with Yao when his presence is bringing in BILLIONS of fans who presumably could not give a shit about the NBA otherwise?

If I'm the NBA, I am hanging my hat firmly on that one.

[Art Vandelay]

In addition, why mess with Yao when his presence is bringing in BILLIONS of fans who presumably could not give a shit about the NBA otherwise?

You know...that's an even better point.

Of course, none of this is meant to imply that NBA officiating isn't completely horrid.

[Jack Klompus]

"Of course, none of this is meant to imply that NBA officiating isn't completely horrid."

Spot on. You could sit in front of the TV and only watch the ref and in less than 5 possessions spot a bad call out of the corner of your eye, from your own living room. And yet your're watching the ref watch the actual play in person, yet still make the wrong call. It almost makes me wonder if that's intentional, too. It provides a great cover either way.