This is our birth; we need our voice and our voice is needed by the multitudes. They don't know us, but there was also a time when no one knew Wu. Or Barack. Welcome to Jamrock.
We've started this blog because, to be honest, that's what people our age (almost-mid-20s) do to feel productive. We get home from our semi-creative 9-to-5s and, over drinks, discuss nonsense ideas. Then, those of us who are egotistical enough to believe that "people would think this is funny" put it on the Internet. Well, they talk about putting it on the Internet. But we're finally following through and getting this little breakfast nook of a Website rocking, bloody marys and all.
And now we're about to nudge the snowball down the hill, picking up speed, mass, lost mittens and dirt. Maybe even a small animal or a latch-key kid. Hopefully we'll lose control at some point, in the same revelatory, masochistic way you do after four beers and two shots of anything other than whiskey.
But first, understand this: We know mountains about the NBA. The mountains we know about the League can move mountains. Our knowledge will suffocate you, believe you me. It's unforgiving, unrelenting and fast. It is Chris Paul meets Captain America times a volcano.
But to us, knowledge is not the main attraction; it's the sideshow, a burden. We're just not all that interested in what we know. Or what you know. Or what is fact and what is not fact and what is just plain made up. Our relationship with knowledge is akin to a young Vince's relationship to on-court talent: We've been blessed with an abundance of something that is secondary to our true aspirations.
What we're most interested in are the narratives—the one constant that distances the NBA from any other sport that white people like; the one professional league where personalities are as visible as the tattoos. And in our effort to force our square-pegged notions of the L into the round holes of actuality, we may sand away corners of truth and fact. Here, anecdotal evidence is gospel and any unruly facts are simply speed bumps (and we own a bulldozer).
How will it look and operate? Whoa, why don't you let us worry about that, chico? It may be ugly, but sort of effective like Camby's elbow jumper. It might be graceful, beautiful and shallow like a Gil (RIP) three from 35 feet out circa 2006. It may shotgun people and drive drunk like Jayson Williams or expand minds like McGrady's trip to Africa.
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Hey: We are LeBron playing point-center. We are Don Nelson and his press conference Bud Light. We are the mixtape Weezy and a business, man. We are a Rondo stat line against the Timberwolves in December. We are Jack's wasted life. We're talking about practice. We are here.
And we have no regard for human life.
