There’s something about competition where the elements are involved. (Tell me true, I know you never click away from a football game, played in a snow storm.)
And the rain that played havoc with the Louisville NCAA tourney regional, as well as many others, added to the drama of Kentucky vs. Louisville to advance in the post season.
WDRB columnist Eric Crawford was on top of his considerable game with this marvelous column about Sunday night’s battle at Third & Central, and those wet fans who stuck it out to the end.
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The NBA Finals have all the makings of great theater.
The San Antonio Spurs are on the cusp of old and in the way. For a year, they’ve been carrying the heartache of their unlikely meltdown in the waning seconds of last year’s Game 6, when the title was within their obviously not so tight grasp. They coulda woulda shoulda, but didn’t.
The Miami Heat are going for a threepeat, in their fourth Finals appearance in a row, the most since, I dunno, since the Fort Wayne Zollner Pistons fell to Dolph Schayes and the Syracuse Nats.1
Tim Duncan, the quietest superstar, well, ever, is so pumped, he actually went kinda Joe Namath, saying the riverwalkers are going to git ‘er done this season. To which proclamation, which can hardly be categorized as smack talk, LeBron, looking to get fired up, went Michael Jordon paranoid.
“They must hate us,” said The World’s Greatest Player. Or something to that effect.
I want 7 games. Because, well, it’s more hoops than 6, 5 or 4 games, and when this one’s done, we hoopaholics are SOL until late autumn.
And I want San Antonio to win. Not because I hate the Heat, but because the Spurs play such an elegant, unassuming game. You know they play “the way the game is supposed to be played.”
Plus I love how coach Greg Popovich, apparently a pretty funny guy, never ceases to express his dismay at those in game interviews he and his fellow coaches must suffer thanks to league fiat.
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The Spurs are the antithesis of Lance Stephenson, the talented, but not nearly as talented as he thinks, Indiana Pacer free agent.
The term “head case” is tossed around way too often.
Lance Stephenson, he’s a head case.
That He Who Would Dub Himself “Born Ready” shall be making, what $4, $5, $6 mill/ year (or more) to skulk around the court, dribble too much, and annoy his teammates is just not right.2
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He’s lost two straight — something rarely tolerated by the boys gobbling up full racks at Dreamland BBQ — but was just awarded a new contract for a penny or two under $7 million/ year.
That, my friends, is a lotta cabbage.
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Just wanted to remind you, because I know most of you have but a passing, hopefully curious interest.
I did have an interesting conversation last night, with my pal Bob, a fortysomething soccer fan. We talk Premier League all the time.
And he loves U of L, but when asked, admitted he paid little attention to the baseball this past weekend. “I don’t follow baseball much,” said he.
During our conversation, he asked whether a baseball manager (or coach) can make as many pitching changes during the game as he wants? Which query seems pretty elemental to any baseball fan. But, coming from a soccer fan, made sense to me.3
What I extrapolated from that is this. Interest in soccer in this country is definitely on the rise. Fellows like Bob grew up, playing the beautiful game, not Little League.
It’s about time.
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And, last but not least in the category, “Sports Events You Could Care Less About,” the Stanley Cup Finals begin this week.
New York Rangers vs. Los Angeles Kings, for those of you, keeping score at home.
I would have preferred Canadiens vs. Black Hawks. Two Original Six squads, plus one would have been from north of the border.
Instead, we get NY vs. L A, for the first time in a major pro sports final since . . . well, I’d tell you but I think The World Wide Leader has copyrighted its scrawl, so you’ll have to look there.
— Seedy K