Too Many Superlatives

Reading the San Francisco Chronicle this morning, I cringed at the numerous superlatives being handed out by our sports scribes. Not that the Warriors don't deserve the praise. Praise to the high heavens wouldn't be enough, considering their comeback against the OKC Thunder, and the solid defeat they inflicted on the Cavs in the first game of the NBA Finals. Here's my problem. I'm of the opinion you keep the accolades under control and for goodness sake, do not diss the opponent in any way, shape or form. Believe me when I say the Warriors do not want to rattle the Cavs' cage; there is a beast pawing at the bars. What I'm suggesting here is tone it down folks until the final game and the winner, the Warriors, emerge. Then lay the tribute on, pave the way with accolades all the way to City Hall, each Warrior riding n his own chariot.

It is difficult for me to hear Shaun Livingston, Andre Igudala, Leandro Barbosa, and Festus Ezeli  described as bench players or second unit or second string; there's no bench or second or string in the way they perform and have performed last season and this season. They are not the B team as opposed to the A team. As a retired school teacher, I don't like those choices.These players are not reserves either, the word reminding me too much of the National Guard, not known for its efficiency. I've been thinking maybe the Gold and Silver teams, like how the iconic 19th century Russian poets, Pushkin and Lermontov are referred to - Pushkin, Gold like the sun; Lermontov, silver like the moon. My wife asks, "Am I crazy?" "How about Warrior colors? Blue team, Gold team? She's not impressed. "How about deputies, as in Sheriffs and Deputies?" Still unimpressed, she suggests the Facilitators, which reminds her of terminators, which is what they did against the Cavs in the first game. "Just in the game, Andre Igudala, one of the Warriors Facilitators." A bit of a mouthful, but it has cachet.

Send me your ideas.

A quick note about Coach Steve Kerr:  When oh when will the press stop referring to the assassination of his father in Lebanon by terrorists? I can't imagine Coach Kerr enjoys having to think about that dreadful moment in his life every time he picks up an article written about him. So give it a rest.

It's getting harder and harder finding sports poems. Here's one I discovered recently in a lovely book of poems about sports, called, Motion edited by Noah Blaustein.

Hook   by Floyd Skloot

My father limps on the leg that healed short.
His twice-broken right wrist, too weak to hold
a bowling ball palm up, is why he spins
a hook he cannot control. The ball rolls
slowly, as if limping while it wanders
from one gutter to the other and back.

We stand dead last in the Father and Son
League, not helped by my rocketing straight shots
that knock down nothing as often as they
knock down everything. He watches, giving
no advice. At thirteen, knowing there is
nothing for me to say either, I wait

for the ball's return so I can heft it
again and aim down the gleaming alley.