Etc #1
Thrilled to read that Steph Curry will be back on the court against the very dangerous New Orleans Pelicans, coached by ex Warrior assistant coach Alvan Gentry, perhaps as soon as the first game on Saturday. Without Curry, the Warriors are the Warriors. With Curry, the Warriors are the Dubs. This has to do with how far the Dubs can stretch the floor with Steph. Of its starters, three downtown shooters makes a huge difference these days as opposed to a team with two downtown shooters, no matter how good they are.
Etc #2
My wife and I are off to Europe for the month of May, which means we'll miss the Western Conference second and final rounds. We are sorry about missing these games, but we have a date with Italian and French cuisine. We'll be cheering for the Dubs from our sidewalk cafes. If Tony Parker wants to join us as our translator, he's welcome. I have informed the Warriors that we'll be back to watch them defeat the Cleveland Cavs for their third NBA Championship.
Etc #3
What a frosty last second winner LeBron shot to beat the Pacers! Form and rotation of the ball as it left his fingers, I could see it was going down.
Here's a poem I wrote a couple of weeks back honoring the death of a excellent high school and college point guard and later college coach, Bernie Simpson. Bernie played on the 1969 University of California Bears NCAA Championship team.
Bernie’s Funeral by Tom Meschery
He was the starting guard on the high school team
that beat my high school team three straight years
for our city’s championship, and the guard
on the college team that beat my college team
in the NCAA tournament and left me at the bar
drinking beers while his team went on to win it all,
and it was him standing on a ladder cutting down
a piece of the net that I felt belonged to me.
I’m staring at the huge crucifix behind the altar.
The Ave Maria is being sung, and I’m wondering
about the minutiae of memory when I should be
thinking about the big picture of Bernie’s life.
The Ave ends and the priest begins speaking
about resurrection, an idea I find impossible
to consider. So I picture Bernie’s jump shots.
instead. They were pretty damn accurate.
It occurs to me that thinking of Bernie’s body
rising into that jumper, not with a lot of height,
but enough that the ball floated over the hand
of our guy guarding him, is strange and perhaps
inappropriate now that he no longer has a body.
And that soon I too will no longer have a body,
which should make me more serious but doesn’t.
After the priest, the eulogies begin. The best
is a daughter remembering her father’s words:
Show up; have faith;
execute, that have given her
something to live by and pass on to her children.
After mass and the reception, on my drive home
I’m wondering if I've left any words behind
for my children to cherish after my death?
Nothing so eloquent as Bernie's I’m afraid.
More like keep your elbow directly
under
your shooting hand; don’t leave practice
without making your last shot. Or, since
I have
always found tranquility and joy
waiting for me in the
kitchen, make sure
that you season while
you’re cooking
and never be afraid to
try new recipes.
