“Now, none of these men–”
“No one that you’re looking at is Branford Marsalis, Mick.”
“Okay.”
“These beautiful athletes before you are the cream of the crop, in terms of raw talent, work ethic, and Instagram followers. There’s a reason they call basketball the Sport of Kings. Also, one of the teams is named the Kings.”
“Gotcha. When’s the drum solo? Between the third and fourth quarters?”
“There is no multi-instrumentalist exploration into the fantastic world of rhythm that stretches back to our roots as humans, but there is a guy with a tee-shirt cannon.”
“Did you say free tee-shirts?”
“Mick, I’ll buy you any shirt you want.”
“I already yoinked the one I wanted! You made me put it back.”
“I did, yeah, because we were in the locker room and the shirt you yoinked was LeBron’s game jersey. Even if your kid’s the coach, you get tossed from the building for that kind of crap.”
“I liked that shirt. Anyway, who are these stripey fellows?”
“Those are the officials.”
“What do they do?”
“They officiate.”
“Which team are they on?”
“Whoever you’re rooting for, they’re on the other team.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“Basketball is both mind-meltingly complex and infantile in its simplicity. Much like the song Dark Star, the sport of basketball allows for an almost infinite amount of variation stemming from a limited set of rules.”
“Huh.”
“It’s a brain-fucker.”
“Sure. Do you see the Courvoisier guy?”
“There is no Courvoisier guy, Mick.”
“I thought you said we had good seats.”
Pure channelling of Walton on the dark star comment.
Every time I see a warriors game on the tube I recall that it’s the building where I saw the dead more times than any place else. At least thru the end of this season.