Game 2: The NBA Finals vs. Adam Sandler’s Nips

BOSTON — The NBA Finals began right under my nose. I completely missed Game 1, which probably worked out for the best. I would have been riding a high of excessive hometown pride and may have made a few stupid bets. Owing more money to unsavory con-men isn’t something I need—I already owe Verizon a few bucks, and those people have already cut off my internet connection at home. Momentarily, I considered contacting the American Civil Liberties Union. Maybe they could get a lawsuit going on my behalf, work the Net Neutrality angle, bring those bastards to their knees. This seemed like a great idea until I saw that letter from them on my desk, about a month or two old. Earlier in the year, I’d pledged and allowed them to charge ten bucks a month on my credit card. My card may or may not be maxed out, and now they’re sending nice letters asking for that money I promised them. God knows they’ll be sending a SWAT team of impressionable Emerson students armed with pens and clipboards to take me down.

There was also the issue of actually being able to watch the game. The swine at Comcast cut just about any channel that qualifies as cable, and the only place I thought I could watch the game was at a dive down the street. (Had I flipped through the five or six channels left, I would have learned ABC is broadcasting the Finals.) Naturally, I got completely twisted by the end of the game, and spirits were high with the Celtics’ victory. The “Beat LA” chant is decidedly not very creative, but those three rhythmic syllables sounded sweet at the end of the night as a gang of misanthropes chanted it on their way out the door.

Before I arrived, I resolved to take notes as the game went on. This was a workable idea during the first half. The second half was a different story. That’s when despair began to creep in as the Lakers burned the Celtics’ lead like it was a pile of Ed Hardy accessories. When I awoke the next morning, all I really had to show for my efforts in the second half past a few lines was a scrap of paper that inexplicably read “Adam Sandler’s nipples”. It looked like my handwriting. I don’t remember why I would have written it. Perhaps Evil Hank was attempting to pass a thought onto a more sober plane of existence. Was it an SNL skit I was trying to recall? Maybe it was cold out on the court when the cast of Grown Ups showed up? Or maybe the thought of Adam Sandler having nipples amuses me.

Regardless, the following is a little easier to discern:

Top right: scrap I used to write "Adam Sandler

Andy Garcia? Nice stache.

Jack Nicholson walking on court? Owns Staples arena?

Ray Allen with the three pointers. This year’s Dwyane Wade? Keep in mind, last NBA Finals games I saw was back when Shaq was on the Heat. Speak of the devil, there’s that tall bastard now. Shaqtus = no one touches it.

Shout defense all you want, you botoxed clowns. You’re still down 12.

Rob Lowe, Hillary [sic] Swank, Kevin Conolly, Leo DiCaprio

Kobe, how my ass taste? Three fouls, guy.

. . . and Ray Allen, two fouls. (Cut the shit!)

3 Seven for seven. Booyakasha.

Halftime in two. Really need to use the bathroom.

These Finals games get very foul-ey, eh?

Artest . . . surprised he hasn’t strangled anyone yet.

Nice play LAL #16 [Paul Gasol]. Fucker.

Seven for eight. Still not bad. That’s how you’ve got to play the game. Take risks. Take drugs. And when all else fails, make sure you pay off the refs.

Christ, Jackson, I need to use the bathroom. No more timeouts.

7/7 Ray Allen tied record of three pointers.

Kobe, I’ll see you in hell.

This was the end of the first half. The Celtics were up by a comfortable margin, and some admittedly stellar 11th hour playing from Kobe fucked that all up, setting the tone for most of the second half.

Sox lost to the O’s. Transitive law.

Stepped away for 20 minutes. Where’d the lead go?

There were a lot of fouls called for this game, and I was convinced the second half had mutated into a free throw contest. There was a close out of bounds call between Garnett and Gasol. Even with multiple replays and a plethora of angles, I couldn’t tell who touched the ball last. Depending on how closely you looked, it appeared Gasol touched the ball with his finger before it went out into the ether. Others looked like Garnett was practically making love to it with his hand. Call went to the the Celtics, and even if it was wrong the Celts earned their bit of umpiral karma. That game against the Magic was a goddamn travesty.

Everyone can agree that ball-touching occurred, just not about who did it.

There wasn’t much time left after that, but Gasol looked incensed for the remainder of the game—as if sharing a locker room with Kobe Bryant and Ron Artest wasn’t intolerable enough. There was a lot of talk about Ray Allen’s performance (perhaps anointing him as this year’s Dwyane Wade is both premature and ill-advised), but Rajon Rondo was no schlub, either.

Game 3 is tonight. Now that I know this is being broadcast on ABC, I may opt to grab a case of Magic Hat and stay at home tonight, figure out what the hell the deal is with Adam Sandler’s nipples.

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