Monday, June 03, 2013

Oh, the inanity

Q: Are there cities other than Detroit that can regularly contend for the coveted Unhinged 1A Sports Prose trophy?
A: Yes.
Q: What would be some examples?
A: Listen and attend:

This Miami Heat team is so great.

So very, very great.

I’m not talking about how the Heat is playing at the moment, which is decidedly less than great.

I’m talking about all the delightful, terrifying crazy they’ve given us for three years now.

And what did it sound like at about the same point (craziness!) in 2011? "With each ebb and flow of this turbulent playoff riptide, Heat fans have been caught in an emotional tempest, flying high with every win, and burning with anger upon every defeat"? Yeah, that one. But back to the present:

Everything somehow keeps escalating, which seems impossible given the dizzying, difficult-to-breathe heights we’ve already experienced. One victory ago, it felt like everything was coming together; one loss later, it feels like everything is falling apart. Perspective? It gets swallowed whole by emotion now, like a T-Rex eating a Teacup Maltese.

Uh, OK.

Game 7 tonight. Best thing in sports. In a building that will bounce and sway with the odd combination of joy and terror. In the world of fun and games, things don’t get any BIGGER than this.

This feels awful. This feels wonderful. Wonder-awful? Never mind finding this anywhere else in entertainment. There isn’t very much in life that feels quite like this yo-yoing of feelings from day to day, not unless you are in a passionate relationship with a crazy person, and you swing wildly from the fights to the making up. It is hard to live here, in the extremes, for extended periods. It is exhausting, no matter the result you get. You can’t sleep because you are wired from a triumph. You can’t sleep because you toss and turn with haunting after a loss. Your work suffers. You suffer. Isn’t it great?

Go enjoy the whole thing. It's, um, definitely wonder-awful.

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Anonymous Gene Pitney said...

It hurts to be in love. But you wonder who's in love. Our scribe? Or the reader who can plow through such fields of purple prose.

8:30 AM, June 05, 2013  

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