Courtesy of RaptorsForum member: •LX•
The long wait is starting to come to a close. It’s time to make a decision. It’s time to face the truth. Now I’m not talking about who is going to be the 10th man in a 9-man rotation. I’m not talking about whether Andrea should take long walks along the Rideau in order to regain his sense of balance with nature. I’m talking about my marriage to one of the great 5’2” driveway freethrow shooters.
My wife doesn’t follow all the off-season moves and news all too closely. It was my great idea to let her know about the new hi-def scoreboard at the ACC. I wanted to start getting her warmed up for another season in the cheap seats - get a little anticipation building. And then she drops the bomb that I’ve been carefully avoiding.
“Whoa - Carlos is going to light that baby up!”
There was no going back now. There was no way to protect her, or myself. I pictured this thing playing out in one of two ways. It could very well move along in Bergmanesque fashion, where she turns icy cold, staring out into the void, questioning my ability to be a man in her journal, and inevitably jumping off the Scarborough Bluffs and crushing her skull on the rocks below. Or it could go a route more Fassbinder-like, where she breaks down immediately, wailing and flinging her fists, before we both collapse on the floor and roll around until we finally subdue our shared physical passions. Of course Fassbinder was gay, so I can’t really trust his take on women, as much as I’d like to. No - at the very least I’m expecting the silent treatment when I finally spill the beans.
“Um, my dear dear little one - there’s something you need to know. It’s about Carlos.”
“Why so serious? You act like he cut all his hair off or something.”
I just cut right into it. No sense in delaying any longer. “He’s not going to be on the team this year. He’s gone to Russia. Moscow or something.”
“CARLOOOOOOOOSSSSS! Noooooo! It is too cold for him there.”
“It’s pretty cold here you know.”
“And who is going to be there for him? I can’t believe you’re just telling me this now. How long have you known? And what else have you been holding back? I suppose you’re going to tell me that Jorge has gone off to Moscow too.”
“What!?! How absurd! How blatantly fucking absurd! How the hell is Sam going to deal with all the rest of those pansies that he’s got left?”
“Well, we do a have a new big guy. He’s pretty tough. Got tattoos. Muscles. Jermaine O’Neal - you remember him? He can play some good D and that should come in handy. Maybe even more than all the shots Carlos could toss up.”
“Don’t even go there! Jermaine the guy with the funny-shaped head? That’s going to help me forget about the silly, sly smirk? The hair? The beautiful hair?”
“Well they ought to win a bunch more with any luck.”
“You think they’ll win games?”
“Yeah yeah. I think they stand a good chance to make some real noise this season.”
“That’s nice. That’s great. But need I remind you, that you thought the big twist on Big Brother this year was going to turn out to be that all the contestants were actually men. I’ll admit that Renny could pass as an old-style drag queen, and that there was something about April that just screamed sex-change procedure, but c’mon. You. Don’t. Know. SHIT!”
And so begins the silent treatment. It turns out that there’s a distinct possibility that following the ice-cold staring into the void, and the scribbling in her journal (Thinning hair! No silly smirk! No balls!), she could very well forego jumping off the Bluffs, and push me off of them instead. It’s a long way down from up in the cheap seats too. I will have to be very careful. And Jermaine better come through for me, or it could be a very long year. Sam and Colangelo won’t know the half of it.