Okay, the WNBA sucks, it's true. But you have to understand, it's the one thing keeping my family together. Let me explain. My mother, who somehow in in 1970 didn't find herself participating in a women's basketball league, is an addict. She drives to Sparks games two and a half hours away on the regular and takes half-days to do so with the rest of the family. (I have better things to do, like watch Mean Girls and pretend I'm not. Pants optional. I've said too much.)
The thing is, she knows who the backup power forward for the Sparks is and when she stares at Sue Bird, it's because she's thrown it into traffic. This is the same woman who looked at my Ramones shirt and asked "Is that a band?", the same woman who asked during my stay in Vegas last month if I was visiting Studio 51 (after being surprised my friends and I got a hotel room; she assumed in the middle of August we were going to sleep in a car as part of some experiment to know what a rotisserie chicken felt like) and got upset when I admitted I was walking the Strip drunk (drunk ONLY!).
So it comes down to this, Bill: there's either a WNBA or a corpse in this house within a month of it shutting down. And considering my mom's the one who was a Black Panther (because all that rage had to go somewhere when the Detroit Shock had yet to exist), I don't like my odds.
I'm just saying, is all.
This post brought to you BAH: "Ace Of Spades" by Motorhead
1 comment:
Another man recognizes the brilliance of Gilliard.
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