Go to hell, Flip Saunders

By Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

I was outside in my yard last evening, yelling at this airplane that had the nerve to invade my airspace. After the commotion died down, I heard something familiar drifting from inside my cabin walls. I cautiously stepped toward the door and peeked inside, where the sound became more distinct.

Yes. There it was ... the sweet dulcet tones of Marv Albert. The NBA All-Star Game was on television.

Marv and I go way back. Hell, we became blood brothers simply by virtue of owning the same name. When I was sports editor at the New York Times, before I was fired for stealing carpet from the office, he and I hung out quite a bit. We'd golf together, race go-karts and even have lunch sometimes. But it was the nights that really seared Marv into my brain. He would throw some wild parties at his house on the Upper East Side. I recall one night with a goat, a yo-yo, a $6,000 an hour prostitute, a high school quarterback, a crate of tangerines and a bottle of Southern Comfort. I probably don't even need to tell you what happened.

OK, sure I do. Marv got the high school quarterback terribly drunk and accidentally hit him in the face with the yo-yo. Drunk and bleeding, the kid asked for help. I took a physiology class at Columbia and recalled that vitamin C stopped bleeding, so I shoved an unpeeled tangerine into the kid's mouth. He didn't seem to be getting better, so I just left him on the floor. Then I noticed that Marv was riding out into the front yard on a goat, stark naked and holding the bottle of Southern Comfort high above his head with his legs splayed. Waiting for him was the expensive hooker (her name was Twilight), who climbed onto the goat with Marv and made love to him. I still recall his bombastic shrieks of "YES!" piercing the night air like a dart thrown in a smokey bar.

And his voice last night in the cabin brought me warmth and excitement. I watched with enthusiasm as LeBron James, Tracy McGrady and Dwayne Wade galivanted about on the floor, alley-ooping and dunking and putting on a personal show for me. I clapped my hands and squealed like a delighted infant with shit in his diaper. There was so much action and enthusiasm on the floor -- it was good to watch basketball.

And then, East coach Flip Saunders substituted in four Pistons at the same time. And what the hell happened? The Pistons started RUNNING PLAYS. And playing defense. And hustling around on the floor, stopping West players from dunking.

Fuck off, Flip.

I watch the All-Star game so I can see grandiose spectacles of athleticism from the most lively and talented men on the entire planet. I don't watch it so I can see Chauncey Billups signal a play with his right hand and then hit Rip Hamilton WITH A BOUNCE PASS off a screen for a 15-foot jumper.

If I wanted to see that shit, I'd go watch the WNBA.

And poor Paul Pierce got stuck being the "fifth Piston" out on the floor last night. He didn't know any of the plays and was essentially the second male in a three-person porn scene -- just standing around, swiffering his shalayley and observing all the action.

So I'm pissed. I feel jilted, cheated and screwed. And I sure as hell will no longer endorse anything Pistons-related. Go to hell Motown. Go to hell Big Ben. Go to hell Red Wings. Go to hell Eminem. Go to hell Jerome Bettis. I used to admire them for their team basketball, but I'm now on the Fun Basketball Train.

Did I just say "fun" and "train" in the same phrase? Who am I, Curtis? Damn you Detroit, you've temporarily turned me into a gay man. And angry, dunk-deprived gay man. An angry, dunk-deprived who needs his Valium. Where is my Valium?

This really frosts my nuts.