Kobe

A while back, Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I were snoring our way through an extremely boring episode of The Hills a few nights ago, when he noticed in the Boston Herald that Kobe Bryant wanted to be traded again.

"Hey, I got an idea."

"Hit me Norwegian Sweet Cheeks."

"You and me are worth like a combined $750 million. What if we offered him money to play for us?"

"Our rec league team?"

"Yeah. We could pay him like $50 mill."

"That's a lot, even for us. I'm worth less than you."

"I'll pitch in more."

His agent wouldn't hear our phone calls. But that got our gears working. Why hadn't we thought of this sooner? Sure, we couldn't get a Kobe, but we could get some cusp talent that's playing for peanuts overseas. We went on the Internet and looked up some names. We were getting excited.

Then our Chinese showed up. We took a break to eat, only to succumb to the dreaded food coma. I woke up drooling with my head on Mads' chest. It was kind of embarrassing.

Magic Lock up the Eastern Conference Before Season Starts

Despite the major moves by the Celtics and Heat bringing in Kevin Garnett and Penny Hardaway respectively, it looks like the Magic are making a big push to solidify their position as the East's best with their signing today of former Colgate standout Adonal Foyle.

In lieu of getting a chance to talk to Bill Walton, I had Mads, my Norwegian companion, who does a killer Walton impersonation, discuss the impact this will have on the East.

"Adonal Foyle is the best big man since Hakeem. Other than maybe Shaq or Mark Blount, no one can touch Foyle's post presence. I don't see how any team in the Eastern Conference can stop the Magic's dominance."

Sir Ian McKellen was wholly unimpressed.

"Why must you guys always pick on my man Mark Blount?"

"Mark Blount is the greatest force the basketball court has ever seen. He's the greatest center since Tony Battie."

Bill Walton

30 years ago today, Bill Walton led the Portland Trailblazers to their only NBA championship. As a seven-year old, I watched the game on tape delay.

One thing I'll always remember is Mads' impersonation of Walton. It was so perfect, it never got old. I once got a copy of the games from that series, and I hired Bob Costas to do play-by-play while Mads did his Walton at a party I threw. It was pure genius.

"Bill Walton is the greatest center in the game of basketball today," he said after Walton hit a jumper. "He might be the best center since Marc Blount."

I wondered what Mads was doing at that moment. I missed him. I picked up my phone, went to dial, then stopped and hung it up. Maybe it was for the best. There was a knock at the door. I was excited. Could it be him?

No, it was just Bill Walton.

"What are you doing this afternoon?" He said.

"You wanna go catch that new Pirates movie?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Mayor McCheese: The McFundamental

With the Spurs in the NBA Finals going for their fourth title in the post-Jordan Era, I thought it'd be nice to talk about our new sandwich, the McFundamental. In the tradition of the McJordan and the Big 33, burgers made in honor of Michael Jordan and Larry Bird respectively, we released the McFundamental for Spurs power forward Tim Duncan. It's a hamburger with ketchup, mustard, onions, and two pickles on it.

In order to pay special tribute to Tim Duncan's under appreciated success, especially with all the Lebron hype, you can't order the McFundamental by name, but have to ask for a "hamburger". If you ask for the McFundamental, the kids working behind the counter will act like they don't know what you're talking about.

I don't know about you, but with my Bulls out of it, I'll be rooting for Tim Duncan and Robert Horry to lead the Spurs to victory against the Cavs.

Wings Hauser Sighting

I was watching some 90210 on SOAPNet. It was the episodes where Dylan needed to get his money back from the family that scammed him. Those, of course, have Wings Hauser in them.

So I stop by the Ramrod after to see some friends, and what do you know, there's Wings at the bar. I went to shake his hand, but he was ranting and raving about something.

"I know a rule's a rule," he said. "But God damn it! You can't suspend Amare for a game, it taints the series!"

Everyone around him looked scared. He grabbed a skinny gay guy by his oversized polo shirt collar.

"The Spurs were the one who should be punished! Horry's the one who threw the hip check!"

I wondered if I should call the cops. But that was unnecessary. At that same moment, David Stern walked into the bar.

"Wings, I'm not sure what you're complaining about. Amare knows the rule. If you leave the bench during an altercation, it's one game."

"But your series will be decided by undeserved suspensions."

"Now you stop it. If those suspensions impact the series, it'll be Amare's fault, because he knew the rule, and he broke it. Don't be glib."

"I'm sorry, you're right..."

Wings went over and hugged him. I felt my pulse slow considerably. It was going to be a nice afternoon after all.

Suburban Streetball Assassin

Matty the Mainer was in town the other day with Good Times, his two-year old son that he erroneously adopted from the Cote d'Ivoire. He had a bruise under his left eye and some scrapes on his elbows. Matty, not his kid.

"What the hell did you do?" I said.

"Well, remember when I told you that I've stopped playing Ball in urban areas because I can't really be me: a slashing five-foot-seven two-guard?"

I did remember that, and it was true. One time I watched him play a half-court four-on-four game, where he compiled 6 points, 8 boards, 7 dimes, and 2 steals, while covering the shortest guy on the other team, a dude six-feet tall. A slightly undersized center who played Div II college Ball that was on his team got all the credit for their win, but Matty definitely did all the dirty work.

"So what was your solution?"

"Upper class neighborhoods."

"You beat up on rich guys?"

"You bet. They look at me and think that at my height, I'm the one guy they've gotta be better than. I can lose them all day with my up-fake, break their ankles with a simple hesitation dribble, and I straight kill them with my deceptive speed to the hoop. Not only that, but these low-rent business cats don't know how to block out. I find the nearest slightly doughy guy whose balding and rocking the knee brace, and I pop him in the gut with my forearm."

"So if you're so dominant, why the battle wounds?"

"The shiner came when I ducked a steal attempt. The guy's hand was at my cheek level, and I just plowed through it. The elbow scrapes came from when I took a charge; the guy felt so bad he knocked me over, he stopped in front of me every time after that to avoid another collision."

Good Times got a hold of the lemon I was putting in my tea, and he bit it and made a funny face.
"I know, Good Times, that's what I think of your daddy too."

Ringers

Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I play in a local rec basketball league. It's not a big thing, just a little three-on-three half-court type thing. In addition to Mads and me, there were two girls on our team: my neighbor Jody, and her friend Steff, who played college ball at BU.

Our first opponent was a group from MIT. I figured we'd have this in the bag, but when I saw them, I wasn't so sure. They were all real big: two twin white guys that stood about 6'8", and two twin women that were like 6'2". To give you an idea, Mads and I are about 6' even, and we're the tallest people on our team. I thought something was weird, though, when I noticed the guys looked just like Data from Star Trek. I found out later that the girls looked like Tasha Yar, another character from Star Trek, but I didn't notice at the time.

They shot for first possession, and one of the Data guys hit it, so they started with the ball. One Data guy started it behind the arc, and I covered him, while one of the chicks was out on the wing with Jody covering her, and the other Data guy was down on the block, covered by Mads. He went to dribble, and I took the ball from him immediately, dished it to Jody, who hit an easy lay-up. They got the ball again (no make-it take-it, unfortunately). I went to swat the ball out of the guy's hands, and I took his left hand off, revealing frayed wires and sparks. Without missing a beat, he used his right hand to dish the ball in the post to the other guy, who was stuffed viciously by Mads as he turned to shoot. The ball went back in his face, knocking his eye out.

That's when Mads lost it. He referred to them as abominations of nature, punched the guy's head clean off, and then grabbed a folding chair from the sidelines with the intent of destroying the machines. Two nerdy guys with MIT shirts on ran on to the court, trying to protect their inventions. I hit one of them with a solid open field tackle, knocking the wind out of him. The other one made it to Mads, and tried to wrestle the chair out of his hands. Mads, an avowed atheist, was now claiming his rampage in the name of God. The referee had called in the police, and they shot Mads with a taser and pepper spray. They almost arrested him too, but I took them aside, explained the situation, and being good God-fearing Americans, they understood. Jody and I brought Mads home, promising not to cause anymore trouble. Aye, aye, officer.