CLOUMN: It’s not just a game, it’s the Jazz
I have issues right now. About 101 issues.
My heart is palpitating, my adrenaline is juiced to the max and sadistic thoughts about the Los Angeles Lakers are drumming incessantly in my head. I’m not worried about anthrax, neither am I fretting about any bridges collapsing from malevolent terrorist mischief. Moreover, I haven’t lost any sleep over bad guys dropping a nuke on the opening ceremonies of the Olympics, either.
Nevertheless, I do worry about the Utah Jazz having a crappy season. You see, the geriatric mélange lost to the Lakers, 105 to 101. I am slightly chaffed because of this defeat. Sure, it’s the start of the season and there will be better moments. However, this loss drops the Jazz to oh-and-two, and I’m a bit panicked. In fact, anxious, nervous and deathly afraid would fit better.
I know it’s incredibly trite and superficial to base my entire self-esteem, outlook, emotion and day-by-day activities on whether the Jazz win or lose, but I can’t help being magnetized by the drama that is Stockton-to-Malone, a rag-tag group of aging vets, young washouts, one Russian rifle, a crumpet-eating Brit and an accused rapist. Folks, in short, Oct. 30 marked the start of my annual Jazz euphoria and my life is about to go to pot. Just ask my wife. She’s lived through “Jazz Fever” for six years.
My troubles originated in 1987 when the Jazz played the Golden State Warriors in the first round of the playoffs. It was Karl Malone’s second year in the NBA and people had no clue little John Stockton would be the greatest point guard to ever play the game. In 1987, players still reveled in their short shorts and cared more about playing than money. Being a smug punk was virtually nonexistent (Kobe Bryant, are you reading this?). The Jazz lost in five games and I watched Malone cry on the news. I cried, too. My dad laughed and said there would be other games. Indeed there would be other games, and I’ve noticed my plight has worsened as the years drag toward John and Karl’s eventual retirement.
For instance, in 1987, I simply shed tears and went on with my business, which, in that day, was popping zits and making sure noodles, gum or boogers weren’t stuck in my braces. Now, in 2001, I worry about testicular cancer, love handles and baldness, and when it comes to the Jazz, I get angry at the television, the radio and at other fans in the arena. I’d tell you about my scuffle with a Dallas Mavericks fan during last season’s first-round playoff series, but you’d get bored listening to me ramble about much pushing, a cluster of f-bombs and this overzealous Mavericks fan’s claims of being Mark Cuban’s cabaña boy. And while I mention Mark Cuban’s name, don’t you think if you had $1 billion, you could select a deodorant or a wardrobe that took the emphasis off the Great Lakes appearing in your underarms? Just wondering.
While Cuban’s sweaty-pit plight is intriguing, the real question is why do I give a hoot if the Jazz lose or win? Basketball really is an adolescent game with no meaningful outcome or effect. Moreover, a passive observer of the NBA could argue that its players are horrible influences on today’s youth. With the emergence of Allen Iverson, Rasheed Wallace and Kobe Bryant, to name of few, kids are more concerned with flexing their muscles after a lay-up instead of teamwork, sportsmanship and fair play, the heart and soul of sports.
And maybe that’s what makes me Jazz crazy. Their ability to consistently remain what is good and right about sports and basketball. Some call them dirty. I call them pure. And while ESPN goes cuckoo over Vinsanity or T-Mac and their arsenal of above-the-rim antics, I’ll take a bounce pass from cobweb-covered Stockton or a hook shot from Depends-ready Malone any day. Moreover, I’m sure they’ll keep sliding down the unfamiliar highway of defeat, but I’ll be there for the ride, with forthcoming tears, anger and joy.