I get on the scale every morning. This a.m. when I checked the number of exactly how much avoirdupois I’ve shed, my immediate thought: “Grif’s number. It’s a good sign on game day.”
Similar crazed behavior is epidemic in Prestonsburg, the Pennyrile and out Preston Street.
Such is the nature of our obsession this holiest of Fridays.
You gettin’ much work done today? Didn’t think so.
I just went for a long jog, hoping to calm my spilkes.1 Did it work, you might ask? Of course, not. My leg’s churning as I write at redline RPM.
In this dark and bloody ground where basketball is religion, today is Christmas, Easter, Passover, Rosh Hashonah, Chanukah, Kwanza, Vesak, Ganesh Chathurti, Ramadan, Valentine’s Day, Boxing Day, Thanksgiving, and Earth Day all rolled into one.
It is also Groundhog Day, in that the outcome shall affect the serenity and well being — or lack thereof — of fans for the rest of the annum.
More winter? Spring is here? Talk to me after the final buzzer sounds.
From this point until tipoff, it’s really not about who is hitting treys, who is foul trouble, who is going to unexectedly step up, which coach has the better plan, which team has the better execution. What it’s about between now and tipoff is taking it a minute a a time, and hoping you don’t run into the back of the car in front of you at a stoplight.
But, other than all that, hey, I’m doin’ fine.
— Seedy K