Doesn't It Seem Foolish?

I understand that toward the end of a season, certain players upon whom a team relies, having racked up lots of minutes, need time off. However, resting uninjured (vets or not) this early in the season is an insult to the fans, and considerable molly-coddling of said players. Aw, baby needs a nap; otherwise he'll be cranky? Meanwhile teams lose games up front that later in the season will possibly come back to bite them on their butts? Great, sure makes sense to me.

Last night I watched Carmelo Anthony of the New York Knicks sitting it out. Could Carmelo's presence on the court have helped his team defeat the Warriors? Probably not, but one never knows. The Warriors are still in "figure things out" mode, which allows for some unseen defeats (Undermanned Griz, recently, for example).

Frankly, I've never been a Carmelo fan and, in my humble opinion, the Knicks should trade him (probably have to eat some of that big contract) and build around a terrific core of young players that they have. Still, there the Star sat, healthy and ready to play, and in the stands sat fans who paid big bucks, to come to the game, some eager to see first hand the "great" Carmelo. See what I mean? It ain't fair to the people who provide the money to keep this league going, unless of course the NBA is so arrogant it figures TV money will support the league forever.

Right now I'm feeling about sports fans the way I'm feeling about America's middle class under a Trump presidency, like he give a crap. Two nights ago, the Sacramento Kings gave DeMarcus Cousins a rest. Are they kidding me? The young man (stress young) is not injured and was desperately needed. The Kings can't win without him. Of course, they can never win a championship with him, but that's entirely another blog.

To honor Craig Sager who died recently after battling cancer, I offer this poem I've used on my blog before but is worth using again. Sager was a real personality and a damn could interviewer.

Mr. Fancy Suit
      
     For Craig Sager in memoriam

Entire species have given their lives
for his shoes, ostrich and alligator
dyed to resemble what their skins
might look like were they fowl
or reptile from another planet,
red being neither blood nor cherry,
yellow neither corn nor sunflower.
The camera is recording the white
patent leathers with toes of fuchsia,
but of a generation of fuchsia
yet unknown to mankind.
He holds the pair with one hand,
with his other hand gently strokes
the leather, like childhood pets.
From his closet he draws forth
his sport coats: the Scottish plaid,
the royal blue, the black beaded
one with sequins, drawing gasps
of delight, followed by the pink
with while lapels, the purple silk
and orange shirt, no self-respecting
orange would endure. There are ties
I remember seeing as a boy looking
into a kaleidoscope and ties of red lips,
that do not kiss but look as if they could.
I think of clowns, the irony concealed
beneath their costumes and matadors,
their blessed suits of light, actors
and the roles they hide behind.