By REED NELSON
It’s not an annoyingly consistent thing, or something that happens when Kardashian sisters resolve tense internal conflict right before the Next Week On reveals a different internal conflict to work through, but it’s something that happens.
I cried sad tears when I was a kid during Simon Birch. I got so worked up as a small-ish-but-way-too-big-too-get-worked-up-like-that kid during TItanic1 that I puked in a smuggled Pop Secret bag with about an hour of runtime left. I cried drunk tears of joy when Utah won the Sugar Bowl in 2009. I cried inexplicable tears at the end of the cinematic adaptation of The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. I cried sober tears of joy when I got into grad school. I cried despondent tears of adolescent sadness when Luis Gonzalez fisted a loogie of a single over an outstretched Derek Jeter in 2001.
Like I said, it’s not consistent or predictable, but it happens. And it happened again today, during Stephen Curry’s MVP press conference when he was discussing his dad and his dad’s career and what it meant to follow in his dad’s footsteps and (ultimately) what it meant to grow into metaphorical shoes that create larger footsteps than the one’s he was trying to fill without actually saying that last part.
He could barely say what he wanted to say, and his tears were mirrored by his fathers and my own and, I can only assume, the vast majority of the viewing public not irrevocably linked to their Beard love.
I’m not a Warriors fan that’s suffered. I’m a Knicks fan that’s suffered. But I did move to the Bay Area recently, and let me tell you, is it a treat to have 82 televised Warriors games — that I don’t need to flip over to League Pass on a Playstation to access — right in the middle of my Comcast guide.
The Warriors with Steph are like the Knicks but if the Knicks were actually good and had likable players and could play at both ends of the floor and had players that hadn’t peaked with the Black Eyed Peas and had a coach that wasn’t a Cigar Store Indian and weren’t the Knicks.
Steph plays basketball so well it sometimes makes me believe in things that don’t make sense. Like, I’ve watched him knock down shots after such deviously difficult dribble set-ups that I involuntarily look out my window and start planning rooftop leaps or I start sketching blueprints for suspension bridges. He doesn’t make you believe in the impossible, he is the Impossible.
The Warriors are like the Diamondbacks in Game 7 of the 2001 World Series — the game where they ran out Randy Johnson and Curt Schilling back-to-back like an unholy tommy gun — except they’re like that all the time.
They play like the Suns in the incredible, terribly underrated D’Antoni years, but they also can slow it down and score with two seconds on the clock off beautiful pick-and-roll pocket pass to an open cutter in the lane. And then, they can also just give the ball to Steph and let him yo-yo for however long it takes him to get that .4 inches of space he needs to get his jumper off and watch in awe as it splashes down with such force that any other outcome seems unfathomable.
That’s what’s so wild about this Dubs team, and Steph in general. It’s like every player fills a hole in another’s game. Steph can’t play Chris Paul-like on-ball defense? No problem, let’s slide Klay Thompson and Shaun Livingston on the agitator. Point guard Livingston can’t shoot three’s? No worries, just play in the post, we got guys for that. Feeling sluggish? Dial up Draymond and get on whatever he’s on 24/7.
And then there’s Steph, who can take an entire teams’ deficient play over the course of a game and render it inconsequential in like six possessions by hitting impossible pull-up three’s and runners. Also, when he’s off, Klay has proven he’s the only human in history with the ability to score 37 points in a quarter. That’s science.
So, am I Warriors fan? No. Not really. But I’m definitely not complaining about the reign of Prince Steph Curry or the wonderfully entertaining royal court assembled around him.
When you’ve been cheering for the Titanic of basketball teams for what amounts to your entire life, cheering for a ship with the ability to float is a pretty wild and welcome experience.
- The scene when Jack is handcuffed to the railing and Rose may or may not find him and she’s searching and he’s screaming and she’s searching and he’s screaming and she’s searching and then she finds him before not being able to find a key (because emotional torture, duh) and then finds an axe and chops his handcuffs off. That one. It terrified me more than anaconda’s with a predilection for human flesh. It destroyed me. As mentioned earlier, I threw up in a popcorn bag. I mentioned this to no one for years. Jump