In the waining hours of Easter Sunday, I decided to resurrect this buried relic of the early '09 season. The inspiration, my muse, for the Bobcats ramblings has left us -- but he still remains in our hearts. And as a true fan of the Charlotte Bobcats, I choose to leave his name as a memorial of sorts and push onward into a new era post-Raymond -- a more avant garde world dominated by a strange assortment of failed Stephen Jackson early jumper isolations and Gerald Henderson putbacks.
This new Bobcats' generation, especially without fallen hero Gerald Wallace, is that man at the rundown dive with the jew-fro who watches you silently from his tilted bar stool. He's wearing unfashionably white Reeboks. He's got wire frames and a half-grown mustache. You're unsure of him, but he seems harmless enough. He might be a hipster.
But in those sour, darting eyes, a cruel shape is springing forth. A man who wants more than to finish his now warm beer. He wants that top-shelf special only the regulars know about.
We're at that point in our fandom where sticking by him could be a one-night stand mistake or helping him shave that mustache off could be the difference maker in a successful relationship.
I'm willing to look past the frames.