I know what happened to the boys in elementary school who taunted me, a Russian immigrant, recently arrived to America after the Second World War, calling me Red, Commie, urging me to go back where I came from, ridiculing my broken English, they grew up and voted for donald trump. In him they found a kindred spirit, a man to place in the White House with a similar dark soul.
Four spaces to avoid talking about sports to closely to talking about evil.
What I like about the Warriors at this point in the season is their capacity to grow dramatically by the playoffs. Cleveland and San Antonio, aside from some fine tuning, are pretty much who they're going to be at the end of the regular season. The same can be said for the Clippers and Toronto with a little room for growth, but not enough to make a difference come playoff time. How well the rest of the teams in the NBA grow will not have an effect on the final four teams: San Antonio and the Warriors in the West; Cleveland and Toronto in the East. Sorry Celtics, sorry Hawks, ditto Clippers and Thunder. Next year, perhaps.
Lovely old poem about climbing, not exactly a sport, but there's a kind of cleanness in the poem right now I need to feel, instead of the darkness.
Climbing in Glencoe by Andrew Young
The sun became a small round moon
And the scared rocks grew pale and weak
As mist surged up the col, and soon
So thickly everywhere it tossed
That though I reached the peak
With height and depth both lost
It might as well have been a plain;
Yet when, groping my way again,
On to the scree I stept
It went with me, and as I swept
Down it's loose rumbling course
Balanced I rode it like a circus horse
No comments:
Post a Comment