2-2 (or so I heard)

I was doing SO well.

To be fair, he did ask me if I wanted to know before he punched me in the teeny-tinys with the horrible news.

And I bit. Like a dirty, desperate drug addict, like the obnoxious Mohinder predictably whines every episode of “Heroes”…I needed to know.

Here’s the backstory: I had a league game tonight and PVR’d the game. Planned to come home after the game, shower, and watch a drubbing (I was half right). I even took extra precaution to avoid any ‘spoilers’: I didn’t answer calls or text messages during ‘game time’, didn’t listen to the radio on the way there, and planned to show up exactly on time so that I didn’t accidentally eavesdrop on someone talking about the game.

But when he asked me ‘how many are they down by now?’…well, I couldn’t pretend I didn’t hear the tone of decaying hope in his voice.

I erased the game when I got home. If I wanted to torture myself, I’d watch Ali Larter’s character in “Heroes”.

Because while the Ringers opened a can? of Whoop-Rump in the Havergal Upper Gym, the Raptors got Rump-Whooped in the Bradley Center.

If you’re reading this, you already know what went down in the Cream City, I don’t need to regurgitate the details.

My first instinct was to applaud myself once again for not betting on basketball games. My predictions consistently suck worse than the fake Irish accents on “Heroes”.

Next, I got angry for (what I hear was) the basketball-game equivalent of Hiro’s Japan storyline in “Heroes”. Cockamamie from tipoff to touchdown (means nothing, sounds good). But quickly the light shone down and I came to what I maintain is a healthy conclusion:

Gotta put it to rest. It was one of those freak games, like when your thirteen-year old brother miraculously beats you in 21 or that chess club geek who’s hair you torched with a Bunsen burner once tackles you during gym class and somehow breaks your collarbone and three ribs, and you lie there while beautiful Mischa Muller laughs at your misfortune. ?

Chalk it up to cosmic karma and move on to the next game. The Raptors will never play (what I hear was) as disgusting a game as they did, nor will the overrated Bucks play (what I hear was) a flawless 36 (apparently the 4th was back to some semblance of normalcy). I mean Desmond Mason, 8-8 at the half? Gimme a fucking break.
Tomorrow we’re back home against the Magic. Let’s focus on this. Because, as the great radio once said (“once” as in “tonight”, as I was driving home):

“Every season, there are 10 games you’re gonna blow the other team out of the water (like in Jersey), and there are 10 games you’re gonna wish you never laced up (like tonight). It’s the other 62 games that determine your season.”

Moving on…

P.S. The Bobcats are 2-1. The Dinosty flag flies at half-mast.

? This conversation will be the exact moment where my children shake their heads, convinced my generation was strange and wacky and generally pathetic.

? Not that that ever, ever happened. Ever.

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