I'm Sorry, Mr. Jones
Eagle eyes among you might have noticed the Hot Links over on the sidebar, a collection of miscellany which offers an unfettered view into my non-indierockallthetime life. Indeed, there is baseball, sandwiches, guitar and writing, all listed lovingly, all essential. Perhaps most important are the four Hot Links pertaining to another love of my life: professional basketball. Anyone who follows the NBA knows the thrill of springtime and the postseason, a thrill which, since I am away from the country, I must follow electronically. Luckily for me, the 82-game season has allowed ample time to develop a morning-after routine effective in catching me up on the previous night's happenings. Wake up, check scores, read the dime, watch the clips, free Darko: five requisite steps to feeling able to face the pending day.
Naturally, as the season goes on and playoffs begin, each morning's report becomes increasingly important. I could wake up, as today, and find a favorite team's story has ended, leaving me scrambling over myself to find out why, Marc Stein, why? Okay, why, B. Shoals, why? Admittedly, I'm hardly ever clueless over an elimination. They often follow the path of reason and its seeds, of course neither of which dictate fandom. There's something magical, innocent, in honestly believing my baby Bulls could take down Miami's patronizing sense of inurgency (not a word). That an allegiance to a team, small and starless, could overcome a seven-foot, 325-pound wall and a seed five spots lower. My consolation? Next year (seriously).
It's different, though, following a series like Indiana-New Jersey. An interesting matchup which doesn't interest me, if that makes sense. I couldn't have predicted with any more than, say, 60% confidence that the Nets would win, because it seemed evenly matched from the outset. If I was a fan of either team, though, it would have been different. But I watched from a more removed position, aloof and analytical. That's why, in a series represented by nothing more than six box scores, the most interesting thing I was left with was a curious musical connection. Fred Jones scored zero points last night, was named today "Thursday's Worst." His Pacers were eliminated from contention, the lights were shut off in the Conseco Fieldhouse and the team left with heads bowed. Or at least that's how I imagine it. I also imagine a cold, institutional voice emanating from the locker room walls, saying, "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, it's time." Just like what happened with the Fred Jones of Ben Folds lore. Fired, excused, whatever. It's too fitting. Okay, maybe the real Jones doesn't go home to a drugged wife and a burning house, but I imagine he's not feeling entirely different. Here's to Fred Jones, and irrelevancy, and the continued playoffs.
Naturally, as the season goes on and playoffs begin, each morning's report becomes increasingly important. I could wake up, as today, and find a favorite team's story has ended, leaving me scrambling over myself to find out why, Marc Stein, why? Okay, why, B. Shoals, why? Admittedly, I'm hardly ever clueless over an elimination. They often follow the path of reason and its seeds, of course neither of which dictate fandom. There's something magical, innocent, in honestly believing my baby Bulls could take down Miami's patronizing sense of inurgency (not a word). That an allegiance to a team, small and starless, could overcome a seven-foot, 325-pound wall and a seed five spots lower. My consolation? Next year (seriously).
It's different, though, following a series like Indiana-New Jersey. An interesting matchup which doesn't interest me, if that makes sense. I couldn't have predicted with any more than, say, 60% confidence that the Nets would win, because it seemed evenly matched from the outset. If I was a fan of either team, though, it would have been different. But I watched from a more removed position, aloof and analytical. That's why, in a series represented by nothing more than six box scores, the most interesting thing I was left with was a curious musical connection. Fred Jones scored zero points last night, was named today "Thursday's Worst." His Pacers were eliminated from contention, the lights were shut off in the Conseco Fieldhouse and the team left with heads bowed. Or at least that's how I imagine it. I also imagine a cold, institutional voice emanating from the locker room walls, saying, "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, it's time." Just like what happened with the Fred Jones of Ben Folds lore. Fired, excused, whatever. It's too fitting. Okay, maybe the real Jones doesn't go home to a drugged wife and a burning house, but I imagine he's not feeling entirely different. Here's to Fred Jones, and irrelevancy, and the continued playoffs.
***
Want real magic? Check out the kids rapping at Said the Gramophone.
by brian at 5/05/2006 05:56:00 AM
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