Post-Post-Season Depression

I'm so conflicted, I love my wife, but I can't quit this African man - I need a good cry.

Know this about the Boneman, I love the Utah Jazz. When they win, it pleases me very much. When they lose, I can be pissy for several hours. Right now I'm struggling to keep all my personal relationships from falling apart and fantasizing about the plausibility of murdering a referee and getting away with it. Because the playoffs are nothing more than a sham with the winners picked in advance by the league based on which players and which team matchups will fetch the best TV audience and ultimately the most money. Obviously alot of money has to be spent on keeping everybody quiet. But they didn't pay me a dime and I'm here to expose the whole shameful hunk of cesspool flotsam.

It all became so painfully clear in the fourth quarter of game 4 in Utah that I can't imagine that it wasn't obvious and an embarrassment to even the most rabid Spurs fan. The refs essentially used their whistles the same way the gestapo used their machine guns and hobnail jackboots to grind the hope and light into the fetid brimstone. Their facial expressions as absent human emotion as a prison guard in the dankest dungeon of hell. Believe me if I could exaggerate this I would. I wish, trust me I wish to God I was some nutjob conspiracy loon, then none of this would have to be true. Just a fever dream of a heart beaten lover of the game, but I'm afraid every word is pure blue solid and true. Marlon Brando summed it up best with two simple words The Horror, The Horror.

And the Spurs they knew it, and they laughed. Did they care that I wasted practically every other night since last November watching fucking Jazz games. They laughed, "Ha ha, backed the wrong horse, huh Boneman. They laughed. Ordinarily I have a certain amount of respect for the Spurs. They go about their winning ways without a lot of hoop-la they weren't presently in league with the devil I might even describe them as classy. When you think about it where else would the Devil live? Have you ever been in San Antonio - it's hot as hell and has a mote. Home away from home. I wouldn't ordinarily point out that when Tim Duncan squinches his forehead his eyebrows overlap with his hairline, nor would I call attention to the fact that I believe that the reason they don't start Ginobli is so the television audience doesn't get a good chance to see the 666 birthmark on his calf. He always pulls up his socks before he shoots free throws and he never misses any of them, which is all the evidence I need to suspect that he's Satan's boy.

Classy? What was I thinkin' they're a bunch of thugs who turn into little ball-babies when a call doesn't go their way. And talk about floppers, Jeesh it's pathetic - while the Jazz are shooting layups before the game the Spurs are down at the other end practicing falling over backward, then rolling around pretending to've been poked in the eye, "is that you Grandpa, I, I can't see - Grandpa is that you?" Classy bunch. You watch one of these times Bowen is going to pat Duncan on the back and Tim'll go flying over backward flapping his arms then grab his eye. "Tim, yo get up it was just me - no I ain't your damn Grandpa, get up man we're on TV."

You see, I've been a loyal, faithful follower of the Utah Jazz since before Karl Malone could touch the rim. I even lived a good decade of my adult life in Southern California, but I remained true. I followed the Clippers just because they were no threat to the Jazz and because year in and year out, they prepared me for the sad inevitable. No one knows more poignantly the kind of annual heartache that comes with being a devoted fan of the Jazz. They talk about "Jazz Fever," well I've got Jazz Fever-blisters.

Year after year I get my hopes up, only to have them shithammered by the likes of these Mavericks or Suns, and all those other evil bastards--the Kings, and of course The Spurs. And who would have ever seen those three-point-shooting worshippers of Satan, the Warriors coming. Yet I bear these annual disappointments with a stoic calm because with each passing year, we creep ever closer to the glory that, God willing, will ultimately be ours to share. This post-season run has truly been a gift, even with our 11-1 start I don't think anybody was thinking conference finals. That would have just been the naive dreams of some sort of wide-eyed newcomer.

Yup, I've been riding the Jazz Bandwagon since Pistol Pete brought his smoking gun to Utah. I endured, but pretty much enjoyed the Adrian Dantley era, and I remember thinking there was no way that scrawny little Gonzagite was ever going to knock Ricky Green out of a job.

I've bourne witness to the freakish parade of "Big Men" that have posted-up wearing our colors. Gentle Ben Poquette, Billy Paultz, Mark Eaton--don't get me wrong, I've got a lot of respect for "Big Mark," but let's be honest, the guy was a fairy-tale giant in Reeboks.

And then Ostertag--he turned out to be the ultimate pipe dream. There were a couple years when he helped out some - it was like somebody finally sat him down and explained to him the advantages of being really big and tall. And there for a while when someone threw him the basketball, he didn't automatically drop-kick it into the crowd. It wasn't often that he dunked it with authority, but for a few years there he was at least keeping the ball in play.

Regardless how things turn out, one thing is for sure, Jerry Sloan should have been voted coach of the year. Anytime you take a team that doesn't make the Playoffs the previous year into the conference finals - never mind he's never won it before and he's the 3rd most winning coach in league history - what are they waiting for - the moon to turn to blood? In any case he's quite the piece of work, the man came wrapped a little too tight. He's so competitive that I wouldn't dare play a game of croquette with the man. "Whoa Jerry--take it easy, come on man he didn't know the rules, for God's sake put the mallet down--he's just a boy."

We've all had our faith tested this year; our late season vapor-lock that cost us home court against Houston was the kind of belly-drop that Jazz fans are all well accustomed to. But goodness, when Karilenko started crying after the first game in Houston I was ready to throw in the towel. It was like, "yo comerade we're paying you 80 million - chin up, potato-boy. Go block a couple shots y'knucklehead. That was one of the low points in franchise history, still as soon as we got that first win at home, I came rushing back with a big ol' heart full of forgiveness. Just like I'll come running back at the first sign of next year. There's always next year.