History is filled with depictions of hell, the worst possible plane of existence possible. Homer had Odysseus descend into the underworld, Dante wrote about his Inferno, and DraftExpress.com warned us that hell is, in fact, Cheick Samb's worst case scenario, something so horrible that mere words and the human imagination cannot truly describe it. But I'm here to tell you that they're all wrong.
Hell is the last eight minutes of last night's Kings-Knicks game.
I decided to give the game a check last night. Yes, there were magnificient college games on, but, shit, we were playing the Sacramento Kings. The worst team in the league, with a staggeringly awful 0-28 mark against the Eastern Conference. So, I figured we'd be up.
We were down 27, and the first thing I saw was Nate Robinson airballing a three. The crowd was steadily booing, and although the announcers were Mike Breen and Clyde Frazier, you could barely hear them over the constant gnashing of teeth and wailing.
I once wanted to start a blog chronicling garbage time NBA minutes. They're extraordinarily shitty, and fascinating, and I could write a book about it, but this is a recap, so I'll be brief. It's really freaky and demoralizing. Everybody just kind of stands around on d, and although there's no crowd and the game is over, the arena still plays the same stupid prompts every time somebody scores - "QUENTIIIIIIN RICHARDSON!" (pause) "Q!". So this is what I saw.
Chris Wilcox violently slammed home two alley-oops and took off near the free throw line on an explosive jam with about 8 seconds left. Nobody was impressed.
Cheick Samb and Wilcox played simultaneously, causing the stock of hidous braids - ticker: HDB - to rise 7 percent on the day, a lone bright spot when the rest of the market floundered. (I assume.)
For the Kings, Ike Diogu and the NBA's only part-ogre, Calvin Booth, were in, and weirding everybody out. Some people say that the sight of Calvin Booth will make a baby spontaneously cry. However, they won't cry long - Calvin will eat a whole baby in less than 13 seconds. Snakes can unhinge their jaws to swallow large food, but Calvin can actually unhinge his entire head, explaining his appearance.
The Knicks brought in Demetris Nichols with four minutes and Cheick Samb with three. I will profile what I saw of each.
Demetris Nichols, like any garbage time player should, gunned, chucking up four shots in as many minutes, hitting one of two off-balance Hughesian 20 footers, missing a three, and finishing on a nice drive. He knocked the ball away from penetrating dribblers once or twice, but I chalk this up to the fact that no dribbler with two minutes actually expects their defender to try and steal the ball.
Chieck Samb swatted the shit out of a shot on the way down with enough force to send it to the Knicks bench, where a mildly surprised Chris Wilcox caught it. I think if one team goes down by 20 points or more, certain rules, like goaltending, should be turned off. Also, teams should be arbitrarily awarded "Style Points" based on the diffciulty of the moves they make, until one team fills up the style meter, earning a "Gamebreaker".
Cheick looks funny running, which is what happens when your, you know, freakishly gigantic. He's awkward in pretty much every facet of the game, dribbling, shooting -- he chucked up a pretty gross 18 footer, as he is want to do - and on one possession, rebounded the ball at about rim height, bent over till his hands were about two feet above the floor, dribbled, and went back up with it, and, obviously, got partially blocked. He finished 0-2.
Breen: "That's Larry Hughes' first field goal of the night. He was 0-7 beforehand"
Frazier: "Poor shot selection tonight from Larry."
What, Clyde? Poor shot selection from Hughes? That's the least insightful statement in world history. That's not surprising. That's just nature. Like saying "Poor running selection from the lemmings tonight." I've decided that we can no longer be angry at Hughes' shot selection from night to night, or comment on it. It's a part of nature. It will never become better, or worse. Referencing The Wire is played out and shit, but I've decided that Larry Hughes is Snot Boogie.
Except instead of stealing the money every game of dice, he shoots. And he always will, never won't. And people have been beating the shit out of him every time he does it for his whole life. But there's nothing you can do about it besides killing benching him, and, like the guy says, you can't kill Larry Hughes. It's just Larry Hughes. He's going to shoot, and that's what he's going to do, and there's nothing we can do about it. This is America.
Like I said earlier, they keep doing that dumb stadium pump up shit up till the bitter end. And about two minutes to go, they played Michael Jackson, and Anthony Anderson - star of such works as "Hang Time", "Kangaroo Jack", "Malibu's Most Wanted", and, for some reason, "The Departed" - breakdanced from his courtyard seats with frightening results, busting out such moves as the moonwalk, the "twirl-on-your-back", a split, and quite possibly the running man. That's pretty much a summary of the game. I have no idea what the final score was, and I don't care. The point is, Anthony Anderson breakdanced on the sidelines, and a team with playoff aspirations last week decided it wasn't worth it anymore.
Anyway, I don't remember what the score was, and I don't particularly care.