From the Vault: 1992 NBA All-Star Game Play-by-Play

In honor of the NBA All-Star Weekend as well as the 20th Anniversary of Magic Johnson's landmark first playing appearance post-HIV announcement (as well as a cheap way to put up "new content") we are digging up Matt Domino's Play-by-Play of the 1992 All-Star Game from February 2010.

Short Week

I know that I've been laying on some heavy blog posts recently, but I suppose I've just had a lot on my mind for whatever reason.  I use this blog space as a means of articulating it.  And, if you don't like it, just remember that if Tolstoy were alive now that he would be using a blog to articulate his own rambling and misconceived ideas about the universe, time, love and friendship. Besides, its the basketball offseason anyway, there will be plenty of basketball posts in the upcoming months that will drive you crazy and bore you to death - especially after the LeBron's Choice Special airing on ESPN at 9:00 PM tomorrow night.

This is a short week and I am actually very busy these days.  I am going to give you a Nadal column tomorrow evening and I would like to get a podcast up on Friday, but I don't think that its going to happen.  We have a few good ones coming up that just need to get done, but I urge to all you listen to the Lauren Gidwitz podcast, which is just gold in my opinion.  As well as this podcast, which is one of the most underrated and one of my favorites.

Before I leave you to take on my other projects (podcasts, revising my second novel, submitting sketches to Saturday Night Live), I just want to wax poetic briefly on the Fourth of July.  This past weekend I had a bunch of friends come to my parents home on Long Island to watch my father and I roast a lamb on his birthday, July 3.  Now, they also were able to swim in the pool and avoid the heat of the city, which is crucial.  However, it was a very happy occurance for me to have so many people I cared about in the same place and enjoying each other's company and the lucky fortune that I have been able to stumble across in my life.  It was a day where a lot of people were  united and even reunited.  The next day, a few of those guests stayed and I was able to show them the beauty of Long Island in the summer and on the Fourth of July, as I took them to my friend's humble, amazing and cozy apartment on Thatch Meadow Farm in the town known as Head of the Harbor.  There, we raked for clams at low tide in Head of the Harbor, watched dogs swim and huff with their heads above the salt water, we sailed on a Hobi-Cat sailboat while tugging a canoe, we swam, we watched the sunset surreal colors of purple, pink and then eventually that graceful periwinkle grey of the evening. Finally, the fireworks went off all along the horizon on the harbor, some exploding far out over the sound, some just over our heads from the shadows of some secluded wealthy lawn.  As a fire burned and our clams cooked on a pot with beer, garlic and butter, I watched the reflections of the fireworks in the water.  I thought about how there is nothing that I am more thankful for than these privileged glimpses of nature and natural beauty that I was able to grow up with and now show my friends; the people that I love.  I thought about the sound of fireworks over a body of water on Long Island and how, no matter where you may be sitting, if you sit by a body of water on Long Island, in the summer, while the heat of the day slowly turns to night, that there is the sound of chatter and the slight shimmer of gold forever in the air.  I thought about how that lasting sensation and image is always riding somewhere deep in my gut, and is always searching to be given word in different representations, objects and perceptions. 

All this, while the smoke of a summer long gone, floats away, like the dying of our conversation in the adjacent room.

That last line is from some funny idea I have for a very eloquent and elegant novel called The Adjacent Room. Sounds pretentious, no?

Anyway my Puddlers, no matter how serious I may get, there is always a joke, there is always gold around the corner.  So stick with me.  I will not let you down.

The Night the Ball Let Me Down

This will be the most bloggy post I have ever put on this blog.  Tonight was a terrible night of basketball.  Game 6 of the 2010 NBA Eastern Conference Finals was terribly officiated, terribly played, and basically terrible to watch.  It barely edged out Game 5 of the very same series.  I usually don't believe in NBA conspiracy theories, but tonight actually made me consider that an NBA game might be rigged.  For anyone who watched the game, Kendrick Perkins' two technical fouls will be rescinded and he will play in Game 6 on Friday in Boston.  The Celtics will win that game and go to the 2010 NBA Finals.  If they don't it will be a terrible blow to anyone who has played competitive and passionate basketball.  This Orlando Magic team is a joke. Even if they do come back from 3-0, I will always be convinced that they are soft, that Dwight Howard is a dirty and unlikeable player, and that no one will ever win a title with Jameer Nelson as their point guard.  Game 6 is where Rajon Rondo makes his legacy and where this Celtics team makes their legacy - it is that simple.

That is the worst writing that you will ever read on this blog.

Unfortunately, there will be no podcast up tomorrow as a few recording sessions had to be postponed due to my new work schedule and the holiday weekend.  However, we will be back next week with hopefully two more podcasts. I can't let my Puddlers down.

Also, thanks to whoever clicked on an ad on this blog today - you helped to give me a profit of $0.28 in one day. Thank you very much.

Now, here is the next installment of  From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt. I apologize for this post - I just love basketball and using the dash as a form of punctuation.






A light wind blew across the grounds.  The priest remained by the casket and the crowd stood in the sun.  A woman removed a black hat, touched her hair with a cloth and placed the hat back on top of her head.  Jack Simmons could smell the warmth and moistness of the dirt.

“Looks like you were right,” Jack said. “She was a daughter. A sister.”

“I guess she’s still a sister, huh?” Ed pat Jack on the back.

Jack nodded. “Yeah, a sister.”

There were some  coughs amid the mourners. The priest looked out to the crowd, pleadingly, for someone to come before the casket and speak.  Jack noticed the man who had spoken nudging someone else.  It was a boy.  The kid looked to be about Jack’s age.  The boy paid little attention to the man, instead, pushing strands of his hair to the side.  The boy casually shifted his head and Jack caught his glance.  The face was thin and the cheekbones were high; there seemed to be shadows underneath his eyes.  The boy squinted and frowned in Jack’s direction holding his gaze.  He appeared to be regarding both Jack and Ed, their postures. Jack planted his shovel next to him and dug his hands into his pockets.  The boy’s glance passed.  Jack looked down at his boots and the pieces of grass that stuck to the toes. In some way or another he had witnessed the passing of the ages and the transfer of age to age.  The grass and the dirt had tasted the washes of blood that saw one life give to another. And he had thrown his spade into those layers of life and death.  He had taken sprouts and roots home with him, stuck in the cuffs of his pantlegs to dry and rest on the brown straw welcome mat of his basement apartment. The boy had looked at him with grey eyes marked with shadows.  However, Jack had seen something there.  There was no defiance or mockery – those storms, those eyes suggested something to him.  Something that rhymed with Gettysburg, something that smelled of dying roses, the taste of dried lipblood, the feel of grainy sand on a kneewound – the end and the beginning. Jack could feel a transferrence.  Jack tapped his boot against the base of his shovel’s spade.  The gravesdigger’s life.  There was a song to sing, the sun was shining in rays through the sycamores and on the blades of grass - slowly the spring of turf undertoe.

    The boy stood up and adjusted the collar of his shirt beneath his black coat.  He moved forward to the casket and the priest.  The boy made the sign of the cross before the priest. There was a small purple flower on the lapel of his coat. Jack saw the boy and the purple flower.  The flower was the same color as the dress Emma had worn the first time he’d seen her. Flowers didn’t have names to him, they had shapes.  However, she had a name and he’d called her by it for so many years.  They grew together.  They saw the horses from the neighbors’ farm die and the foals and phillies grow and ride.  They’d seen the rain pour down from the pink sky in the summer and the waves of the sound, made of ice, pull slowly in the winter.  And the smell of honeysuckles was always familiar and strange to him when he rode in his car around corners, the edges of his truck brushing the roadweeds.  And she’d been there. And he saw them bury her with a scrap of that purple dress draped across her breasts. What he’d known naked and clothed, now covered in black satin – he’d touched it – with a stretch of purple.

    “Mom,” the boy started. Jack cupped his hand across the bridge of his nose to see. “Mom.” The boy stopped talking and frowned at the mourners.  He took a deep breath. “My mother was the one who gave birth to the world.  You all know what  I mean when I say that and she knows right now.  If this is the end, then surely she will come to know the beginning of something new. Matter is neither created nor destroyed.  Dad and Uncle Connor know that better than anyone else.”

    The boy stopped again.  He ran his hands through his har.  He puffed it up, but it kept a clean shape, much like the man who’d spoken before him. The man who was his brother.

    “Yes, my mother gave birth to the world. Amen.”

    The boy held his hands clasped in front of him and bowed his head.  Strands of his hair fell further down into space.  Then, the boy raised his head.  He seemed to look over the crowd.  His eyes widened and he lowered his head and moved away from the casket.  Jack kicked the spade of his shovel and pieces of still moist dirt fell to the grass.

    Ed Verlaine cleared his throat and spit.  He felt goosebumps from immediate guilt, but it had been necessary.  What a strange speech for that kid to make.  When Ed’s mother died, he knew that it would be a sunny day like this one, but not quite as hot.  He’d wear a classy black suit and he’d see his Uncle Frank standing in front of his family next to Ed’s sister and dad.  His Uncle would probably be crying, because even if he was perpetually tan and perpetually tough, he was really soft in the end.  Ed had seen him cry more than a few times and he knew that his uncle secretly loved that movie “Terms of Endearment.”  He would stand in front of his family in the sun in his suit, sweat collecting under his knees as it was now and he would say confidently, without his voice breaking or cracking, all of the things that he felt for his mother.  The things he had always felt for her.  What those things were he could not exactly say – the words did not show themselves in his mind or begin to take shape and sound on his silent tongue.  A slow excitement began to burn in Ed Verlaine’s stomach through the bloat that he felt from the chicken cutlet he had eaten for lunch and the 16 oz Budweiser he had dranken to wash it down.  He felt the excitement rise and he thought of the feeling of being a boy at the town pool.  The chlorine from the pool was strong and it stung his eyes. His mother wore a plain black bathing suit and would hold his baby sister and cover her with suntan lotion.  Sometimes, she would put her in the daycare center in the shade and if the day was especially hot, she would jump into the pool with him.  He remembered the sensation – the excitement – of watching his mother jump in the pool just like him.  The way she held her nose as she jumped in and she would pay attention only to him in the clear and unclear aqua blue of the pool. 

He would say all of this in slow prepared sentences in front of his mother’s casket. The words would come out – he was positive they would.  His Uncle would have tear streaks down the sides of his red nose.  But what did all of that mean?  What was that feeling? Ed Verlaine rubbed his stomach; he felt his intestines pushing out, his skin taut like a drum.  Was that what the feeling of love was?  Or was love that soft spot in the middle of a girl’s thigh? The curves of the hips and the small freckles?  He did not want to think about that.  He wanted to think about the water and the pool and his mother and the speech he would give at her funeral, the speech that would make his family cry and would make a stranger come up to him and shake his hand and say, “You’re a fine American.  That was a some damn speech.” 

“Hey, Jack” Ed said. “Is your family all still around.”

Jack nodded.

“Mother? Father?”

Jack nodded again.

“Grandpas? Grandmas?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh,” Ed said.  He looked down at his shovel. “What kind of speech was that? Imagine giving a speech like that at your mother’s funeral.  I wonder what that kid was thinking.”

Jack Simmons turned to Ed Verlaine.  “Maybe it was the best he could do.”

“Maybe.  But you have to do better than that.  I mean, at a funeral?”

Jack Simmons looked at Ed Verlaine. “What would you say?” He said in a calm voice.

Ed Verlaine took the loose cigarette out of his pocket and slid it behind his ear.  He rubbed his thumb along the rough edge of his lighter’s wheel.  He thought of the pool, the whiteness of the sun on the water, and the chlorine smell in his nose, the chlorine feel on his skin, his sister as a little baby stomping on puddles on the sedimentary concrete, crying when one of the rocks hit the center of her foot, and his father driving his purple car somewhere far away into New York City to try to sell toys to rich businessmen. 

“I would say,” Ed started.  The sensation of water dripping from an icicle ran along his shoulder.  There were girls walking along the paths that had been cleared of the snow.  He thought of their boots and their legs.  Worlds were moving away from him, wrapping and unwrapping themselves.  What was that feeling?

“I would say something damn good,” he said confidently.  “I don’t know what the words would be, but I know the feeling.  I know what I would try to say.”

Jack Simmons frowned.  He shifted his lips sideways to the left.  There was an older man walking up to the casket now.  He took long steps.  The man’s strides seemed serious, they were measured, but there was no awareness to them – he stood tall, his shoulders slightly back, looking forward.  The older man brushed hair behind his ears.

“Why?” Ed Verlaine asked? “What would you say?”

The older man was tall and he was lean.  There was a weight about him, even though he held himself high and natural.  The man brought one hand up to his mouth and wiped his mouth.  Jack thought that he could’ve been exactly like the wind.

“What would you say? That man is born astride the grave? Some short bullshit like that?”

Jack Verlaine shrugged.  His eyes remained on Ed Verlaine.  Jack raised his right eyebrow and pointed to the older man.  Ed Verlaine looked behind himself and then back to the crowd and the older man.

“What?”

Jack pointed again.

“I always admired, Rose.  I did.  At first it was because she was able to know my brother so well.  That she was able to walk so much beside Ben, that in a way she was part of Ben.” The older man took a deep breath. “I suppose that is what being married is, but, to me, it seemed especially different in their case.  Maybe it was because Rose always carried herself so gracefully and never gave any of herself away.  Maybe that was why she walked the  same way as Ben.”

“What about this guy?” Ed Verlaine said.

“Listen.”

“Seems like he can speak fine.  You know these people or something, Jack?” Ed pulled his loose cigarette out of his pocket and cradled it in a limp fist.

Jack Simmons shook his head.

“You’re pretty damn interested. I –”

Jack Simmons looked at Ed.

Ed shook his head.  He eased the hand with the palmed cigarette back into his pocket.

“My brother,” the older man continued. “first met Rose while he was in med school.  He drove taxis at night.  Maybe some of you know this story already.” The older man paused.  He wet his lips and pushed strands of his hair behind his right ear. “But I like remembering it so I am going to tell it.  Rose was also originally from the Island, but she had just moved into our town. She had gotten a job at the university library.  Ben drove her home from the Park Bench that first night and he wouldn’t stop talking about her.  We used to tease him about the ‘red headed passenger,’ which is what we called her.”

The older man smiled, apparently playing images of long past memories through his head. He reached both hands into his pockets and leaned back.  The hum of a passing plane in the distance droned overhead.

“But my brother was hooked.  It really was the best thing for him because we didn’t know if he would make it through school at the time, but he meets a new girl who works in the library and who is smart and he begins spending all of his time in the library.”

A low laugh came from the mourners.  Ed Verlaine saw a few women dabbing their eyes with black veils or handkerchiefs.  The older man did not smile or laugh.  He kept his eyes forward and pushed strands of his hair behind his left ear.  Ed Verlaine felt the heat of the sun underneath the zipper of his uniform.

“It really was the best thing for him – meeting her.  She was patient during the ‘Billy’ years.” The older man focused on one point in the crowd.  Jack Simmons couldn’t follow his gaze.

“And she gave him and helped him raise his four thoughtful and wonderful children.” The older man kept his gaze on his focal point.  He squinted. “And when we lost Lucy –” He stopped.  “Yes, she really was the best thing for him.  I know that I will miss her.  I don’t know what Ben will do without her.  That is just something he will have to get used to.”

The older man nodded.  He squinted and slowly left the casket;  his posture held up and back; his steps measured, even, paced – the spring of turf underfoot.  Jack Simmons watched him as he returned to the black and white mass of the crowd.  The older man exhaled.  Jack could feel his grace – the inside of a dress pant leg, the smell of skin and the soft curl of hair after leaving the ocean.  Jack bit on his chapped lower lip – he felt the raised skin with his teeth.  That older man, his grace was made up of all of those things and still even more: the light given off by one candle in the dark, the light slanting through his living room on a Sunday afternoon when he was a child, the way Emma’s hands moved when she passed the thread through fabric, her legs crossed, her back sloped forward, her forehead smooth and round with hair pulled back and bunned at the top of her head.  That was all grace and life and the purple sash of death slung between two shoulders.

Linksys2

Now, I am sure you are asking, "What's with the post name, Domino? And what does it have anything to do with Patrick Ewing and a young-looking, handsome David Stern?" Well, Little Puddler, I can explain everything to you and very simply.  The name of this post derives itself from the internet connection that we use here at the Puddles of Myself headquarters. When this internet connection is working smoothly, I can post as many times as I want to and right on the schedule I like to keep for the blog.  However, this week Linksys2 has been giving me some problems so that is why your Tuesday podcast was delayed and also why there was no post on Monday.

The name Linksys2 also works because this is the kind of post I like to do every so often when I round up some links and other random things to point you to so that you can read and etc.

Oh, and the Patrick Ewing picture I just think is funny and is also timely because last night the NBA Draft Lottery took place, which is always a great spectacle to watch.  In somewhat a shocking turn of events, the Washington Wizards will have the number one pick in the NBA Draft on June 24, 2010 where they will most likely pick John Wall who they hope can turn around their franchise after the unfortunate circumstances surrounding Gilbert Arenas and his gun-toting ways.  It is yet to be determined if the Wizards will find a way to release Gilbert Arenas from the team, but I know already that the pre-gun incident Arenas would not be humble enough to share the ball with a natural point guard like John Wall. We'll see how this plays out as the draft has really only two sure bets (John Wall and Evan Turner), two players with significant potential but serious questions (Derrick Favors and Demarcus Cousins), and a lot of marginal talent that won't necessarily add a ton to each team, but if picked by the right team can really help to bolster some lineups around the league and fill in the cracks.  This is more of a glue draft than a real substantive draft.  Now, to some links.

- Sticking with the NBA, Bill Simmons delivered two great columns last week. The first was a game diary of Game 5 between the Cavaliers and the Celtics, while the second was a breakdown of the future for LeBron after Cleveland lost the Eastern Conference Semifinals to the Celtics. I read this after my own post on LeBron and the lead up to his pending free agency. As always, Simmons does a terrific job.

- Also last Friday, Simmons did a podcast with Carlton Cuse who is one of the creators of Lost. If you have followed the show at all it is a very interesting listen.  I watched parts of last night's episode and am definitely going to watch the two and a half hour series finale next week.  I think I'm going to go to the Bell House and watch it. Maybe dress up like Sawyer or Sayid.

- Speaking of TV. I am definitely getting anxious for Season 4 of Mad Men to start. The season is scheduled to begin on July 25, 2010 and there is a little bit of info about some unclear items that may take place in the fourth season.

- While we are on the subject of Mad Men, check out this picture of a young Don Draper (Jon Hamm) playing Lorelai Gilmore's boyfriend on an old school episode. He was already developing some classic Draper faces.

- I forgot on the earlier post today to provide a link to the Darlings' material so that you can just it out when you are not listening to the podcast with Joe Tirabassi. You can also check out pictures and other items of the band here.

- I also forgot to mention last week that my friend Janelle Sing, who has done her own podcast as well as the Gilmore Girls podcast, has a new blog up, Giovanni and Giotto, in addition to her website. The blog features more blog type of material and musings as well as pictures of some of the new items she is designing, which include shoes, handbags, and wallets.  Stay on top of her blog as it will be a good way for you to purchase some of these products at the ground level before she blows up big time.

- In other blog related news, I wanted to give a shout out to the blog of Ally Jane Grossan, which is called Kitchen Princess. Ally Jane and I used to work together at Salmagundi Magazine when I was a senior at Skidmore and she was a freshman. Since I left Skidmore, Ally Jane took over the reigns of a lot of the operational stuff going on at the magazine. I always thought that she had a strictly literary writing interest, however, it turns out she has been keeping a terrific food blog at Kitchen Princess that I recommend anyone should read and keep up with.

- My friend Luna Malachowski Bajak of the blog Postres de Abuela y Torres de Caramelo, has had another blog that she updates, which features her artwork.  Please check it out here.

- A final blog I need to mention is the blog of my friend Cyrus Lubin.  Mr. Lubin has created a dog blog, which has some great pictures, but in my opinion, features some fantastic captions.

- The upcoming podcasts that will be appearing on this blog will include the following guests: Chris Dannen (writer) on writing and other related topics; Cyrus Lubin (drummer, label head, promoter, organizer extraordinare) on his own band, promoting shows, and the Famous Class label; Lauren Gidwitz (artist) on her art, painting and other items that we come up with on the spot; and Paul Sicilian on the NBA Playoffs overall, the Tony Castles and the success of the Boston Celtics.  A lot of good stuff I promise you.

- Some future podcast ideas that I have coming up will be a podcast with David Stern devoted to the baseball movies, Major League, Major League 2, Little Big League, Rookie of the Year and Mr. Baseball; a podcast with Erik Gundel about the movie Teen Wolf; and Gilmore Girls Podcast Part 2 adding Ally Jane Grossan as a possible Gilmore Pundit.  I've been getting a lot of responses about that podcast and we may need a whole panel for that one.  May even need to change the title of this blog.

- Speaking of Teen Wolf, please look at this video. It is probably the funniest thing of all time.

- Finally, in a bit of personal news and news related to this blog, I will be starting a new job at W Magazine next week. I will continue to update the blog as I have been over the past two months but you can usually expect to find posts on the blog in the evening from now on.

Alright, my Puddlers, there are always good things coming on this blog. Just stick with me and I will take you there.

The 1992 NBA All-Star Game

 

You didn’t ask for it.  You didn’t want it.  But now you are going to get it.  That’s right, in all it’s glory it is my play by play of the 1992 NBA All Star Game.  The game took place on February 9, 1992 from Orlando Florida.  The back drop of the game was that earlier in the season, Magic Johnson had retired from basketball when it was discovered that he had contracted “the HIV virus.”  Magic had announced that he would play in the All-Star Game as part of a comeback training tour to get him prepared for the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona as part of the Dream Team.  So, the NBA added a spot to the Western Conference All-Stars and Magic joined the roster.  With all that set up, let’s get to the programme.

NBC’s coverage opens with a spectacular and inspiringly choppy montage of 80’s and 90’s NBA clips, which is backed by strange outer-space early 90’s murky funk music.  The montage takes a turn to Magic Johnson clips so you know the backdrop of the game before clips of the rest of the players in the game come in as well.

Then, glory, “Roundball Rock” by John Tesh, the legendary NBA on NBC music comes in.   Then Bird, Magic and Jordan do their classic smiling acting as they pass the ball to each other through magical openings in different surfaces and windows.  The music begins to fade and then we are passed off to Bob Costas who is in Orlando with a stiff Quinn Buckner a solid defensive player from the 70’s and early 80’s.

Bob asks Quinn about the players preparation for an All-Star game.  Quinn says the players will be a little nervous but will ultimately come out to “have fun” and “compete.”  Very good, Quinn. Very good. 

Then, ever the economic sports anchor, Costas runs down the Magic has HIV backstory. While he is doing this, you have to marvel at how good Costas’ hair looks and the fact that he has always looked like child man, which has made him soothing to listen to in some way.  Costas leads us into a Dick Enberg interview with Magic Johnson.  Now, if you don’t follow sports carefully, Dick Enberg is one of the worst play by play guys out there.  However, he is great for unintentionally funny lines that sound vaguely homoerotic or innane.  His pinnacle coming in either the 2009 Australian Open (“look at Federer and Nadal fling those balls at each other”) or at the 2008 U.S. Open when McEnroe commented on the amount of people that drink New York water and asked “I wonder who takes those surveys?” (a stupid question in itself) to which Enberg responded, “Thirsty guys.”  Enberg doesn’t disappoint on this 1992 day either.

In their interview, Dick and Magic discuss Magic’s battle with HIV. Almost twenty years later, its hard to feel the impact that this story had at the time.  Magic has been healthy and living with the virus for years and HIV and AIDS have become well known parts of life.  At the time, though, this was staggering that a charismatic, handsome, rich and notoriously heterosexual black man could have HIV.

During the interview, Magic brings up a good point of how Dr. J passed the NBA leadership torch to him and that he has now passed it to Michael Jordan, although perhaps too soon.  Magic notes that he feels bad he has to because Michael has no competition left to measure himself by. Magic says that both he and Michael know this to be true and that he wishes it wasn’t.  This is a poignant point because it somehow makes Michael’s sustained success that much more fascinating since he had no true rival to work him up (maybe the Knicks collectively) when he was on top.  He competed against himself and cast his own competitiveness onto innocent bystanders.  Just an interesting point by Magic.

 

We return to Bob and Quinn who say that magic has left the door open.  Well he left quite a few doors open in the first place.  (Too soon? Still?)  They say that Magic has given HIV sufferers hope to get better.  That’s true, but they don’t have millions have dollars that Magic has used to help him fight the disease. But I digress.

We skip to pre-tip where Magic and Isiah greet each other at midcourt and kiss on the cheek.  These two are now mortal enemies.  Sad.

The starting lineups are announced:

East:
Phil Jackson – Coach

Reserves:
Michael Adams – Bullets
Brad Daugherty – Cavaliers
Joe Dumars – Pistons (Hall of Fame)
Reggie Lewis – Celtics
Mark Price – Cavaliers
Dennis Rodman – Pistons (potential Hall of Fame)
Kevin Willis (for Dominique Wilkens) – Hawks

Starters:
Charles Barkley – Sixers, but on his way to the Suns (Hall of Fame)
Patrick Ewing – Knicks (Hall of Fame)
Scottie Pippin – Bulls (Hall of Fame)
Isiah Thomas – Pistons (Hall of Fame)
Michael Jordan – Bulls (Hall of Fame)

West:

Don Nelson – Coach

Reserves:
Tim Hardaway – Warriors (originally starting but gave place for Magic)
Jeff Hornacek – Suns, but on his way to Sixers for Barkley
“Thunder” Dan Majerle – Suns
Dikembe Mutumbo – Nuggets
Hakeem Olajuwon – Rockets (Hall of Fame)
John Stockton – Jazz (Hall of Fame)
Otis Thorpe – Rockets
James Worthy – Lakers (Hall of Fame)

Starters:
Karl Malone – Jazz (Hall of Fame)
Chris Mullin – Warriors (Near Hall of Fame)
David Robinson – Spurs (Hall of Fame)
Clyde Drexler – Trailblazers (Hall of Fame) First All-Star start - hmmm…
Magic Johnson – Lakers (Hall of Fame)

Michael Bolton steps onto the court looking terrible and begins to belt out the National Anthem, wrenching every syllable that he can out of the song.  Thank god that’s over.

Players get ready for the tip and Dick Enberg tells us that the East won by two points in 1991.  The East leads the series 27-14.

First Quarter:

The East wins the tip and Jordan soars in for a layup, but Clyde blocks him at the rim.  Dick and “The Czar” Mike Fratello begin to discuss the Jordan vs. Drexler talk that dominated 1992 but was quickley discarded after Jordan owned Clyde in the 1992 Finals.

Malone hits Mullin quickly on the other end for an easy layup.  A sign of things to come.

Ewing back the other way nails his patented step back two from the baseline extended.

Magic makes a nice ball fake down at the other basket and Isiah fouls him as he goes up for a finger roll.  Magic makes both.

Barkley misses at the other end and Magic leads the break with a terrific outlet pass to Mullin who swishes a shot from the right corner. Then, Magic and Isiah exchange beautiful coast to coast layups.  Jordan gets in on the scoring with a smooth gliding reverse layup through traffic.  The action is fast and loose.  The first thing you notice is the ridiculous amount of body control and grace these guys all had.

Meanwhile, Mike Fratello tells Dick that Barkley is not a good defender but that he will make an excellent studio host on TNT someday.  No, he didn’t say the last part. Maybe if they had those Taco Bell boxes back then Sir Charles would have been a better defender?

Pippin glides in for the East and makes a monstrous dunk, which sets a theme for him for the rest of the game. Dick tells us that Scottie went to Central Arkansa on a managerial scholarship for football and was a walk-on for basketball.  Good fact.

Pippin and Jordan run an out of bounds play where Jordan fakes Clyde out in the paint and rises up for an alley-oop.  Masterful.

The West takes the ball down to the other end and Fratello points out how big the West looks compared to the East.  And damnit, he’s right.  Well, the West could trot out Hakeem, Dikembe, and Robinson.  Barkley was 6’4” for Christ sake.

On the court I notice the classic “NBA Stay in School” early 90’s campaign with the weird early 90’s off-neon colors and shapes.  Interesting how the rest of the 90’s in the NBA would be about leaving school to make millions of millions of dollars and have out of wedlock children.  Funny how life works.

M.J. and Magic exchange layups, though Jordan’s is of couse more breathtaking and gravity defying, but this was Magic’s came so we aren’t keeping track.

Magic takes a seat and the actual starter Tim Hardaway comes in.  Young Tim Hardaway was one of my favorite players of all time.  A cross over that any guard should study.

The West’s passing is absolutely textbook and its actually quite alarming how good it is.  Watching it just makes you want to jump up and start playing basketball.  Timmy drives into the lane and drops it off for David Robinson who slams it home.  How fast was Timmy? Damn.

At the other end, Pippin follows up an Isiah miss with a ridiculous dunk.  You forget how much of an athletic freak Scottie was and he was just coming up in 1992. Unbelieveable.

The subs start coming in.  Good to see Mark Price’s pale face out there. The West continues to put on a passing clinic and are slowly building a lead.

Jordan glides in and misses a layup after a magnificent drive.  Clyde comes back and makes a driving dunk and then hits a three.  After a steal from the East, Hardaway leads the break, fakes behind the back and dishes to Clyde who lays it in.  A very nice sequence for Drexler.

2:33 left in the first quarter and the West has a 12 point lead.

Price hits Pippin for a nast reverse alley-oop dunk and Pippin absolutely flushes it down. 

Staggering stat: Rodman averaged 18 rebounds in 1992!

Charles Barkley is interviewed by Ahmad Rashad (the man) at courtside.  Charles tells Ahmad, “I have one NBA All-Star MVP from last year.  I don’t need to kill myself to get another.”  And he wondered why Michael always beat him.

Hornacek and Price are on the court for the West and East respectively.  Great white guys with great heads of hair, which were outlawed by the NBA in 2000.



Second Quarter:

The second quarter opens and Rodman dunks right on Olajuwon.  Rodman would later go on to marry Carmen Electra and marry himself.

Magic comes down and does one of his classic “push the ball like a point guard, backdown my defender like a power forward and make a move to the paint like Kareem” and gets fouled.

The West is just flat outplaying the East as Hardaway nails a three to bring the lead to 14.  Dick says that Hardaway’s stats in his first three years match up with Magic’s.  More on this later.

Magic with a phenomental reverse one handed layup through the lane!  He started from the right side, shielded the ball with his body and his left hand and then finished away from the defender with his right hand.  Beautiful.

  

Magic backs down Rodman, plays a little two man game with Worthy and then nails a baby sky hook over Rodman.  Vintage Magic. Its funny, but Worthy, who was younger and much less HIV positive than Magic in 1992 looks and moves like he is 3-5 years older.

Reggie Lewis nails a smooth 18 footer for the East. He was 26 years old.  One year later he was dead.

Jordan re-enters the game and nails an 18 footer.  He has 8.

Sloppy sequence:  Michael Adams misses a 3 in the corner after a nice Jordan pass.  Hornacek takes the ball the other way, fakes drive and pulls up for about a 16 footer and bricks it.  However, even on these sloppy sequences and bricked shots, the mechanics and the moves are much crisper and more graceful than the current NBA.  Wait, how old am I?  Today’s NBA is just great!

The pace has slower considerably as we have 4:00 minutes left in the half.  The West has shot 64% as Stockton drills a three. Hornacek follows that three up with a long two from the corner.  Stockton. Hornacek.  1997-2000 Utah Jazz Teams.  Hated them.

Isiah nails a long two and the half ends with Magic having 16 points.  The West leads 79-55. This is getting out of hand.

Third Quarter:

Jordan grabs a loose ball and swishes a 15 footer at the top of the key.  He has 10.

Pippin comes back and slides through traffic and misses a layup.  Dick says, “Boy, he runs like a quarter-miler.”  Dick Enberg, making pointless asides since 1992 and earlier.

In the paint, Barkley pulls off some nice moves: behind the back fake and a dish to Jordan who slams it home with a classic leaning-forward one hander.

The West comes down and Drexler hammers is down to answer.  This is followed by Fratello mentioning how Magic said that if the Blazer allowed Clyde to take over in the clutch that they could seriously challenge the Bulls.  This storyline dominated 1992.  However, it is shortly followed by Clyde running on the break and finishing with a breathtaking layup off the glass.  He was damn good that year.

The East has another miss on their end.  Magic leads a break with superb passing, which all leads to a Robinson dunk.  Finally, on the other end Michael drives and makes another flying reverse layup off the glass.  He has 14.

For the West it is a rerun: great passing, Robinson dunk. Ho hum.

Jordan steals the ball and lays it off to Pippin who, “EXPLODES to the HOLE” according to Dick, and finishes with a nice two-handed jam.

The West is up 30 points with 6:56 left.  After a long Magic outlet pass, Drexler makes a touch pass to Mullin, who passes back to Drexler who finishes.

We come back from a commercial break and a replay of the 1972 All-Star game is shown. Jerry “The Logo” West is working on Clyde “The Glide” Frazer and then nails the game winner at the buzzer over him.  Great memories at the L.A. Forum.

On the East’s end, Michael drives in from the corner, gets his head as high as the rim, decides not to lay it up and leaves it for a Ewing dunk.

Isiah cuts the West lead to 100-76 after a jumper.

Drexler steals the ball and takes the ball on the run.  He glides and hammers home a one handed curling dunk.  Very nice.  Clyde has 20 points on 9 of 14 shooting.  Dick Enberg explains that he is a Clyde Drexler fan – a very touching moment.

The West is just destroying the East, they just can’t miss. You know that the talent in the game is good when you mumble, “Even Worthy has 7.”  He is one of the 50 Greatest Players of All Time.

Clyde again has the ball in transition.  He splits two defenders and hammers home a Jordanesque split leg dunk.  112-81, West.  After the dunk, Dick wonders who gave him the nickname Glide.  Where is Marv Albert for the love of God.

Olajuwon blocks two Pippin dunk attempts at the other end.  After that sequence, Tim Hardaway takes the ball down and nails another three.

Price catches a long pass on the East’s end and makes a simple reverse layup while Dick says he is “feisty enough to be a wide receiver.” Ummm…Jerry “Feisty” Rice?

Fourth Quarter:

The camera pans the crowd and we get a great MC Hammer and entourage shot.  Give me Jay-Z and Beyonce or even Lady GaGa any day.

A “1992 NBA Headlines” graphic comes up:

1.    Magic retires
2.    Bird and McHale Ail (the Celtics were already slipping)
3.    Bulls – 70 Win Season? (They fell off.  This was four years too soon, but may have been the best Bulls team)
4.    Riley’s Knicks Lead Atlantic (get fans hopes up only to choke repeatedly for years)
5.    Dominique Wilkens Out for Season (Poor ‘Nique)
6.    Heat Hot for Playoff Spot (Tsk. Tsk.)
7.    Pacific – 4 Games Separate Four Teams (Kind of like the West now)

The camera moves back to the crowd where there is a great shot of David Stern on a landline phone.  Where is it coming from?  As Stern is on the phone, Fratello reflects on his greatness. 

In the game, Lewis passes to Barkley. Barkley misses the pass.  This is the millionth missed pass by the East.

7:53 left in the game.  125-90.

Tim Hardaway in transition again. He dribbles between the legs, moves through the paint from right to left and finishes with a lefty layup.  This leads to the Hardaway vs. Magic graphic after three years:

Hardaway: 205 games, 19.7 points per game, 9.3 assists per game (Wow!)

Magic: 192 games, 18.9 points per game, 8.5 assists per game.

Very interesting comparison. I loved Timmy.  He had injuries that slowed him down, but he did have all the tools and the potential in the world.  1992 Tim Hardaway was to be admired. 2006 Tim Hardaway: “Gay people don’t belong on this planet or in this country.”  Oh, Timmy.

133-96 at the 5:30 mark.

Jordan with a smooth pass to Barkley for a dunk to get the East to 100.  Isiah then steals a Mutumbo pass, dishes it to Barkley who dunks right on Mutumbo.  He was only 6’4”.  What a freak.

Magic brings the ball down and drains a 24 foot three pointer. After an East miss, Magic takes the ball to almost the same exact spot and nails another three.  The crowd is on its feet for this.  The next West possession, Magic hits Majerle with a textbook backdoor pass and Majerle lays it in.  Every player on the West has scored.

Lasting images from the game: Isiah plays Magic one on one.  Isiah playfully dribble as Magic playfully defends (didn’t he always?) and then chucks up a three as the shot clock expires. 

Lasting images from the game:  45 seconds left and Jordan plays Magic one on one.  The crowd is on its feet.  MJ takes it easy on Magic, drives baseline and takes a difficult jumper that misses.  Magic brings the ball down and backs down Isiah.  The crowd is going crazy.  The shot clock winds down and Magic takes a step back and puts up a three.  He drains it with three seconds left on the shot clock!

The East lets the clock run out.  West wins big.  Magic is the MVP.

 

Well, it isn’t one of the legendarily competitive All-Star games, but it had all the talent;  it had the Magic storyline; it had the vintage NBA look of the late 80’s early 90’s; young Bob Costas; John Tesh “Roundball Rock”; Ahmad Rashad; and terrible Dick Enberg commentary.  A must watch for any NBA fan.

If this doesn’t excite you for live NBA All-Star action this weekend, then I don’t know what will.  I’ll enjoy it and I hope you tune in. Or maybe you can crack a beer with me and watch it all.
 

Keep On

No, I didn't take that picture.  Artsy right?  Tired of the snow pictures right?  Yeah, me too, but I wanted to get something up here tonight.  I just watched the North Carolina/Duke game on ESPN and it was probably one of the worst games in the long storied rivalry.  I should have been writing a long post about that rivalry, instead UNC is having a terrible year and Duke is mediocre at best.  Nevertheless I am frustrated.

Tomorrow, I will be putting up my play-by-play of the 1992 All-Star game for those of you who like basketball, jokes and gushing hyperbole.

Coming soon will be reviews of the movie "The Last Station," Thomas Wolfe as a writer, and the books "Family Album" by Penelope Lively and "A Fan's Notes" by  Frederick Exley.

Then of course will be my run down of All-Star weekend, which begins Friday.

Also, if you read this blog and would like me to write my thoughts on any albums or books, just e-mail me or post a comment and I will be happy to look into it.  I'm looking for a next album to review anyway.

Now, the next installment of Part II of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt.




Above a purple flower arrangement there was a brooding portrait of Mr. Abraham Bryant.  The background was Dutch Black and Doug’s father looked pale and forboding wearing a small smile.  Ben remembered Abraham.  He remembered how he and Connor used to use Doug for rides at school.  Abraham Bryant would drive them home in the family hearse.  Ben had always found it amusing – as he’d tell in stories when he was grown – when they’d pull into the driveway to shout, “Back from the dad, ma!”

    Ben felt the flask in the inside pocket of his black suit jacket.  It weighed down the breast slightly, but in the mirror it wasn’t noticable. The last time he’d come to a wake at Bryant and Sons, it was for Lucy. It had been good to see her made up and smiling, some color in her.  It was much better seeing her in peach than in the red he’d left her in after the surgery. I did that stone sober.  No, not this time.  But maybe then I wasn’t sober either.  There is nothing sober about guilt and anger.

Doug held out a meaty red hand towards the sliding handle of one of the home’s doors.

    “Wait,” Ben said. “I want the kids to bring me in.”

    “But,” Doug answered. “You have guests and well wishers waiting.  I don’t condone this in my home, Ben.  I’ve let it go on enough.”

    “God damnit, Doug.  Just give me this.”  Ben squeezed his sunglasses in his right hand.  He looked Doug directly in the face, every moment or so glancing at his developing jowels. “I’m sorry.”

    Doug looked down at the carpet.  He wiped his recently shined loafer in a windshield wiper semi-circle on the floor.  It left a whitish streak behind. “I’ll go in and tell them you’ll only be a moment.”  Doug went to open the door, but stopped and looked up at Ben. “I never liked a drunk.”

    “Neither did I,” Ben said.  He felt half-surprised at and half-prepared for the remark.

    Doug considered the exchange – felt nothing - and slid open the door a crack.  He managed to slide his husky frame in with an appearing ease.  Ben could make out Erin through the door’s opening before Doug closed it.  Maybe he’s here. The white of the door merged with the white of the wall making the room seem hidden.  Ben walked over to the purple flower arrangement and put the sunglasses back on his face.  He looked up at the darkly tinted face of Abraham Bryant.  He glanced quickly from side to side and took a long pull from his flask. Burn Sark! Burn upon my sea! If Crane wasn’t gay would he have jumped ship and drowned?

Abraham Bryant, right before he died, was the one who told Ben that he would’ve done the services for Tom had he died in the creek that day.  A family of bastards – the father and his sons.  I don’t remember George that well, though.  He’s probably around here shilling for more bodies.  Ben concealed the flask and stooped down to smell the flower arrangement. Despite the taste of scotch on his tongue, he smelt the perfume of the plants.  There were gladiolas, pansies, darker purple roses, which gave the whole arrangement its morbidity.  His wife, Rose, had never smelled like these flowers, the stale air in this building.  She’d smelt like moist skin, like mint toothpaste, like dish soap, broth, and, when they went out, like vanilla extract.  He wondered if they rubbed their smells on her body when she was dead and naked and lying before them.  Will her body smell the way the Bryants wanted it to smell when they lower her into the ground?

Ben rose from the flowers, he wouldn’t admit it, but he felt faint.  His feeling of faintness was not due to his drinking, but from the overwhelming sadness and loneliness that had suddenly overcome him.  It was as if the bittersweet – or even too sweet – smell of those grotesque purple flowers had given a scent or brief form to the life that waited for him without Rose.  The bright red carpet appeared to recede from him, but at the same time it was elongating and stretching out for an eternity.  What am I?  Will I have to live forever without her? Do I have a hundred more left in me?  Left for me?  He steadied himself on the wood table. No, I’ll just have to hang on for a few years and die warm in my bed.  Maybe I’ll put a glass of milk on the nightstand too, for the cookies as my last supper.  If its going to be a last supper then I’ll have to put the milk on her nightstand.  I’ll have to clear it off first.

“Dad,” Maggie said from behind.  She touched Ben’s side.

He turned slowly and put his hand on top of her hand. “Ah, thank God its you, Mags. I was afraid it might be a ghost.”  As he faced her he saw his other three children standing behind and beside her.  He saw Eve standing back, her hand low holding James’.  His oldest son James who seemed to have lost some of his confidence or poise in the few days since he’d come home.  Ben knew this observation could’ve only been all of the drinking, but he also knew that it could’ve been because of all the drinking.

“Oh, Dad,” Liza stepped up next to Maggie.

“Well,” James said. “Shouldn’t we go in?”

“Man’s eternal dilemma,” Ben answered.

Tom laughed without looking at his father.  He kept his eyes on the picture of Abraham Bryant.  What was up his ass?  That could’ve been man’s eternal question too.  At least that’s what it seems like everyone is always wondering about each other.  No, but we should go in, we should take the plunge.  Will I feel sanctity like in church, will there be a meaning in there?  Maybe she’ll come too. Now that’s a plunge.

“What are we waiting for?” James asked.

“Is Uncle Connor here?” Maggie asked.

“Ah,” Ben began.

“The other⎯”

Ben nodded.  He pointed toward the door. “Lead the way, kids.”

Thursday

Ah, remember those Thirsty Thursday college nights? Yeah, I don't really either - forget about 'em.  This is just a little link post to get us into the weekend.  The Super Bowl is coming up on Sunday and a snow storm (somewhat?) is supposed to hit tomorrow night.  I'll hopefully be doing some more sketch filming this weekend if the weather permits.  I will also be enlisting the help of any local Italian deli to provide me with a submarine sandwich for the Super Bowl.  I know just the place, Graham Avenue Meat & Deli, although the Lorimer Street Meat Market is just as good.  Anyway, after the super-serious Gene Clark post from yesterday, we will be moving back to basketball with my play-by-play of the 1992 NBA All-Star Game.  I know how I'll be spending my next day off from work.

Two new links to point out.  The first is my old college roommates band, the Sanctuaries.  You can find a link to his music on the side - his name is David Stern.  However, now he has a band he is playing out with and you can find them listed as the Sanctuaries.  They played at Brouar Falls on Grand Street last Sunday and should be playing at Cake Shop on February 25.

The second is my friend Emily Schenkein and her excellently (read, perfectly) titled blog - Piles of Fruit and a Fully Stocked Bar.  There may be a reference there I am missing, but I love the name anyway.  Check her blog out because it is very good.  You like interesting people right? World's Coolest Dude 2007 wouldn't lead you wrong, right?

On a personal note, keep any eye out because I entered the manuscript of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt into the Amazon CreateSpace Breakthrough Novel Contest.  This is for a shot at a book deal with Penguin.  The first round of judging begins next  week so I may be able to post some feedback up here.  We will see.

Anyway, stay tuned for the new material that I am always bringing to the table.

Now, the next installment of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt.

Ben

Yes, I’m on the floor.  I feel the drool coming out of my mouth onto the floor.  It’s moist there already.

“You been kissin’ girls, Connor?  God knows Benny’s kissed a few.”

He was a strong and funny old man.  A little too hard on Connor, though.  He used to slap his back and you could hear that slap.  Thock. Hulpth.  A smack is supposed to be fleshy, but this was hollow. 
Here are the girls now.  My blondie on the left and Rose reincarnated on the right.  Is it too soon for reincarnation?  She couldn’t be reincarnated anyway, because she already was.  She is.  So then maybe I’ll look forward to a flower coming off of a tree, or an especially beautiful shepard dog, or perhaps a girl who is too young and sweet for me – like her - will pass me on the street one day from now.  That’ll be ten years or maybe even one hundred years from now and it’ll be her, hair riding behind her, a small wave and that slow creeping smile, like the fade-in of a piano on mono speakers.
“Dad, are you alright,” I hear Liza say.  She kneels down right above me.  I can feel her.  It’s funny how you can feel your own children, its like that organ inside of you is a radar, that glowing recognition of yourself out in the world – a full entity beyond you and inside of you forever. I smell a freshness, something like dirt.  It smells like a moist night by the harbor.  It’s Mags.

“Mags,” I hear myself mumble. “Dance Maquokeeta! Play piano man play!”

“What, dad?” I hear her. “Looks like the damage has been done old timer.”

“Shh, Maggie. I ain’t that old.”

“Not that old, did you say? Maybe not.  But I can think of maybe one of your organs that is.”

I hear the touch of fabric.  It was like a slap.

“Just grab his other arm-pit,” it’s Liza little sing-song.

When dad used to slap Connor on the back it was because he saw something womanish in him.  It was because he was so close to mom.  He must’ve had a few and walked in on Connor confessing his soul’s purpose to mom one of those nights they used to sit at the table after dinner picking at scraps of chicken, or dipping bread in the vinegar at the bottom of the salad bowl.  He was going to be a poet-doctor, like William Carlos Williams.  He was just sensitive and found himself around girls like mom, whether it was at school or at the altar with Erin.

“You looked like sunshine up there,” I said.

“That was weak for such a cunning wordsmith,” Erin said.

“And you,” I turned to him.  He looked handsome.  A little too thin for his tuxedo, but looking suave, pushed back and relaxed like he always did.

“Thank you, Ben.”

He put his hand on my shoulder.  The younger one got married first.  I feel pressure underneath my pits.  My wings are lifting. Praise be to⎯

“Just pull him up, Liza.”

“I am.  Maybe we’re not that strong?”

“What the hell is that clicking noise?”

“It’s the record player I think.”

“Oh yeah.”

I feel my arms hit the rug. 

“Oops.”

“I think I’ll get James.”

“Damnit.  We can do this without him.  The two of us.  Get his legs. I’ll get the armpits.”

I want to laugh but my mouth doesn’t want to.  I was always ticklish down at my ankle.  When Rose found out she was unmerciful! 

“Is that his tickly little ankle?” She talked to me like I was baby.

“No no no! What’s the ransom?”

“Tell me how much you love me.”

“I thought a girl like you didn’t need to be remindahahoo.”  I rolled back on the bed.  She leaned over me.  Her hair covered her face and she moved it.  Her breasts dangled.

“All girls need to.” She ran her fingers gentler.  Five feathers along my bones.

“OK OK.  But what if I have no words?”

She stopped and looked down at me. She kissed me.  She kissed me hard.  Then she pulled away.  Our lips and eyes only so far apart.  Silence, sheets, the smells of our bodies, her breath beginning to turn before bed but I loved it.  I loved it!

“I’ll invent something new.”

I feel myself lifted.

“We got it, Liza. We got it.”  Mags again.  Ah, its always about the girls.  Now its these two.  First my mother who feared God and I feared her and stuck to the shadows where you could curse and didn’t have to be controlled, didn’t have to keep your foot above the break.  Then it was the faces and tinkling music of girls at school, passing passing always passing skirts and jackets.  Then Rose.  She was nothing but – what?  She was everything.  I  saw her from all angles.  I saw her bleed, I saw these girls come out of her.  What was Rose but all colors and all girls and all lights and all clothings and every album and song that I ever loved?  She was that touch on a piano key that makes you think you could live forever.  Do I still have it?  Do I still have it in me to live forever?  Or is that gone with my stitching?  Is all my fabric bleeding out all over this house?  My blood, piss, and half-oxidized alcohol.

The girls at school:

    Connor and Benjamin O’Donnell,
    They were born with their heads in the bottle.

“Just down the hall.  We’ll take a break at the stairs.”

“I’m losing grip on his ankle.”

“Right here, c’mon.”

Now it’s these two.  My blondie and my – my Mags.  I can see Liza ahead of me a litle blurred holding two logs. My legs.  I lean my head back.  Mags’ blurred face, a little point in there on her chin.  Like Rose of course.  I lay my head on my chest and keep my eyes closed.  I’m riding out to sea.  I’ll let myself explode like a Cutty Sark.  I’ll try to live forever.

“Ok, here.”

Thud. Ow!  Right by the fucking ass!

“Oops.”

“What the hell was that?” I hear James.

“Well big – little brother.  Here’s your everloving father.  I think we may need your help hoisting him the rest of the way.”

All my children are here.  My wife is dead.  But where is Tom?  And what is tomorrow anyway?