Yes, yes y’all. You can catch me today over at the great (I’m not just saying that because they’re nice to me) Hoopspeak, waxing and waning for roughly 2,000 words about the Malice at the Palace, the much-rumored decline of the league, Harvey Araton’s “Crashing the Borders,” and the nostalgic curmudgeonliness therein. It starts something like this:
Has anybody else noticed how awesome the NBA playoffs are? […] watching these games, it’s a little funny to consider the fact that just six years ago many observers of the NBA were talking doom. Remember this apocalyptic scene? Remember the young, desperately unstable Ron Artest of 2004? This is not the smiley guy with the champagne who thanked his therapist on TV. I’m talking about the Ron Artest who, for a long moment, embodied one of the deepest, darkest terrors of the white, comfortably seated American sports spectator: the fear that angry, hypertrophicallly muscled young black manhood could burst through the fourth wall and have its vengeance.
…and pretty much goes from there. Check it out if you’ve got the notion and a touch of patience.