LeBron or K.G.? Who do we dislike less? Good Men Picks takes its first hack at the NBA.
The biggest development of Super Bowl weekend was Good Men Picks correctly picking the game. In another secret column, we actually picked the correct outcome of every single play during the game, but refrained from publishing because it was over 80,000 words long. So, taking that into account, our record is now 5,016-20 … give or take 5,000 wins.
Now, we say goodbye to the NFL—for a while—and immerse ourselves in the NBA. We considered going with the Wizards-Cavaliers Toilet Bowl, but that was too depressing. So we’re going with the Heat-Celtics game on Sunday afternoon, which could be just as depressing if you’re not from Boston or Miami.
If I was writing this from a biased point of view—which, again, I am clearly not doing—it would be really hard to decide, because I strongly dislike both of these teams. Even though I went to school in Massachusetts, I didn’t meet a Celtics fan until they traded for Ray Allen and Kevin Garnett.
And Heat fans are even worse. There’s a nice little stat that puts this joke of a franchise into perspective:
Miami has retired two numbers in its brief history. Take a guess …
Alonzo Mourning? No.
Tim Hardaway? Try again.
Bimbo Coles? Unfortunately not. The two retired numbers are …
13 and 23.
Dan Marino and Michael Jordan.
A football player and a basketball player who never played for Miami.
Which makes complete sense until … actually, no. It makes absolutely no sense.
I’m trying to cut down on the number of readers who barf while reading this column, so I’m gonna stay away from all of that LeBron nonsense. But I will say one thing. He’s actually turned out to be an awful teammate and a completely selfish jerk on the court.
Seriously? Is it really worth two points to slam a ball into your teammate’s face, potentially concuss and surely humiliate him in front of the 16 Heat fans that are actually paying attention to the game?
But then there’s Kevin Garnett. Lately, he’s displayed an affinity for touching the crotchal regions of his opponents. Sure, I’ll admit it, I wasn’t above the occasional ball shot when I played soccer. But then again, I was a 5-foot-8, 150-pound pipsqueak who had to figure his way around corner kicks and balls in the air. Kevin Garnett is a 6-foot-11, 235-pound freak of an athlete. No excuses.
(Side note: One day I will write one of these without talking about soccer. I promise.)
First, Garnett gave Channing Frye a little love tap-tap-taparoo to the family jewels:
And then this. Be happy you can’t jump high enough to ever get elbowed in between the legs by a 7-footer. You are a sick, sick man, K.G.
Also, a few weeks back, a Lakers ball boy asked Mr. Garnett for his autograph, to which he responded, “You’ve got a better chance of catching bin Laden.” Here’s to that kid dedicating his life to detaining Osama bin Laden and proving K.G. wrong. Also, it’s not like autographs are worth that much anymore, buddy.
On top of that, the Celtics have begun mining their players’ organs for draft picks and future considerations.
No matter how hard I try, I just can’t bring myself to support that. We’re going with the Heat. I will now go light myself on fire.
—Photo nbacardDOTnet/Flickr; Chuck Burton/AP