Growing up in Chicago, there are three teams I’m not allowed to like. There can be no rooting for the Pistons, the Knicks or the Pacers. This triumvirate were the biggest proponents of the Jordan Rules and basically were chok-full of a-holes and bird-like guys named Detlef during the ’80s and ’90s.

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Heat GM Pat Riley was undoubtedly pursuing Erick Dampier ever since it was apparent than Joel Anthony was going to spend the season getting tossed around by the opposition like the losing rooster in a cock fight. I mean, this old man has been wooed harder than the 70-year-old billionaires with profiles on eHarmony.

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Sometimes trades happen that you’re sure must have taken place because one of the GMs was having trouble with his fantasy team. And yes, of course franchise brass play fantasy basketball. How else do small market GMs expect to get their hands on guys like LeBron and ‘Melo?

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I was among those who eagerly awaited the inevitable moment this season when Steve Nash went down with some sort of old man injury so that Goran Dragic could be taken out of the garage and driven around like Cameron’s Ferrari in “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.” Sure as shootin’, Nash’s groin laid him low.

Please, blog, may I have some more?