I have never seen JB so shaken up as he was the other day.  Everything was completely normal when I walked in.  Jude Judy was on like normal.  His hands were covered in orange Cheetos residue like normal.  A slight hint of alcohol in the air did have me question whether I really wanted to stop by but I risked it anyway.  I didn’t get two feet in the door and the first thing he says is, “I can’t believe he’s dead.”  It was strange because I couldn’t tell what the emotion was.  He was definitely sad, angry too.  “How could they just… he’s dead.”  Oddly there was laughter in his voice.  He could tell I had no idea what he was talking about and he continued, “Bryan’s gone.”  I was saddened to hear the news but I had to stop him and tell him I didn’t know anyone named Bryan and NO I’m not going to shake your hand until you clean it off.  He explained to me about Family Guy and the dog dying and it all began to make sense.  Except for why he cared so much.  I watched the show enough to know there was a dog but until then I didn’t know the dog even had a name.  He could not accept this so he sat me down, muted the Judge, handed me the Cheetos, and began that days lesson in pop culture.

Please, blog, may I have some more?

As JB and I sit at our local Starbucks at 4 PM, him in a 2-piece flannel Carolina Panther outfit he just woke up in and me in only my usual loin cloth, we notice that there are some very odd looking people who drink coffee in the middle of the afternoon.  It isn’t just for yuppies and house wives anymore.  Middle schoolers walk in, talking about how badly they need their caffeine.  Really?  Was your long day of sleeping in class stressful?  More than anything, a coffee shop has become a place to be seen, and fortunately for us on this day, it was worth watching.  A couple of girls walk in, one on her phone talking, laughing and the other with a nasty scowl on her face.  She must have said something on the phone because all of a sudden the other girl starts yelling like a banshee and slapping the girls face as hard as she could.  In what I feel was an appropriate response, JB began his play-by-play a la Howard Cosell, “There’s another left by George he’s getting into Fraziers head.”  We all knew what was coming, “I think he hurt Joe Frazier, I think Joe is hurt!”  Right when JB was about to formulate that iconic saying, the girl on the phone delivers a thundering overhand right, dropping the aggressor and immediately ending the altercation.

Please, blog, may I have some more?

Have you ever sat back and thought, “What if I got a shot at the NBA when I was in my prime?  Everyone knows I average a double double in my men’s league, I tell them all the time.  I’m 6’7″ and can jump higher than even Steve the Electrician’s kid.  What if I got minutes against the best in the world?”  I know one Razzball writer who’s had that exact thought.  Usually after one too many crown and cokes.  Someone thanks him for helping them win their weekly match-up 7-2 and we go out and celebrate at the bar.  Well played sir.  Well Played.  This night gave us much more than just a terrible hangover.  It gave questionable decision making and a highly impaired thinking process.  At some yet still hazy point that night we began playing the fantasy ‘What If’ game, culminating in the question what if Nick Calathes started and got 36 minutes?  Wouldn’t he average 10 assists per game?  With that eureka moment I knew it was time to hail a cab and call it a night.  Obviously I was far too tired to think straight.  When I awoke the next day, thinking clearly once more, I decided to play the ‘What If’ game again.  This time with you as my live studio audience and hopefully with a more level head.  Would everyone please now fill out your name tag and be seated.  Because you may just be the next contestant on, ‘What… If… He Starrrrrtsss…’  And it’s a Go for the Theme Song.

Please, blog, may I have some more?

I’ve got a little story to tell you today.  I think I’ll call it a parable.  Here it goes…  A few days ago I was at the gas station and I was approached by a guy who claimed he couldn’t afford gas to get home.  If you have ever seen a meth addict in their 20’s it isn’t a pretty sight.  He was packing something into his cigarette and I didn’t stop to question what it was.  Was I a little disgusted, sure.  Would I be enabling him if I helped him with a couple of bucks for gas? Probably.  In the end I walked inside and payed $5 for him to have some gas.  He was incredibly grateful and I felt pretty good that I could help.  In the end sure I lost a couple of bucks but I was able to offer assistance and for me that was more important at that time.  This is how I see most fantasy teams.  Most managers see how many points a player is scoring and feel like they can’t be without it.  Meanwhile they regularly lose the assist category.  If we could all be a little less of a meth addict, I mean a points addict, and gain a few assists we usually find that we will win more categories, more frequently.

Please, blog, may I have some more?

There comes a time in every man’s life when he must admit defeat.  Like when your girlfriend demands to know why you can’t just remember to put the toilet seat down.  You can try to explain to her that the house is haunted and you would never be so inconsiderate.  From experience I must say its not as convincing as it sounds in your head.  The only correct response is to hang your head in shame and say, “I’m sorry”.  Older bench players like Mo Williams and Nate Robinson are my toilet seats.  I can’t seem to put them down and I will undoubtedly hang my head in shame when I do finally drop them.  Why not skip that uncomfortable feeling all together?  Why not take an unknown player who may blossom into a fantasy star?  Here are a couple of bigs that I believe will outperform players like Omer Asik (63% owned), Samuel Dalembert (52% owned), and Luis Scola (42% owned).

Please, blog, may I have some more?

A long time ago in a galaxy far far away…  Is that too cliché?  Yeah it is, but there’s a point.  You knew where it came from as soon as you read it.  You can hear the soundtrack playing in your head.  Well, now that I said it you can hear it.  There’s even a chance you might remember the first time you saw it.  That’s what drafting LeBron James feels like.  It’s a smell in the air, a taste in the back of your throat that tells you there’s something familiar here.  The nurturing feeling of resting against LeBron’s bosom.  Ahh…  Hold me LeBron.  That’s not what this series is going to be about.  This here is akin to trying to remember the first time you saw Spaceballs.  Sure it’s a classic, but we both know you weren’t in the right state of mind to remember the first time you watched any Mel Brooks movie.  Am I right or am I right?  I can hear your silence loud and clear.

Let’s all now jump into our Delorean, Phone Booth, Hot Tub or whatever your time machine of choice is and travel back to last October.  There was something with very large fantasy implications happening in Houston.  It was not the trade for James Harden.  I’m talking about the position battle at SF between Carlos Delfino and Chandler Parsons.  If you would have chosen wisely then you would have gotten the closest thing I can imagine to the fantasy holy grail.  A top 50 player at the low low cost of a free agent pick up, even in the deepest of leagues.  This will be my gift to you.  No, not this overpriced knockoff but the next best thing.

Please, blog, may I have some more?