Blog About Nothing

To the rest of the nba, Kobe and Tim Duncan are still better than you

2010-01-05T14:47:00.001-08:00

quote FTA:

The guy (Tim Duncan) rarely turns it over. His rebound percentages rival his 24-year old version. He's hitting his free throws, he's passing the ball, and he's scoring, scoring, scoring. Dwight Howard can slap the top of the backboard and leave his man to pile up those blocks, but Tim Duncan is the best big man working in this game today.

Ring Dings and Pepsi

2010-01-04T14:13:00.001-08:00

Elaine: Maybe we should stop off on the way and get a bottle of wine or something?
George: What for?
Elaine: These people invited us for dinner. We have to bring something.
George: Why?
Elaine: Because it's rude, otherwise.
George: You mean just going there because I'm invited, that's rude?
Elaine: Yeah.
George: So you're telling me instead of being happy to see me, they're going to be upset because I didn't bring anything? I don't even drink wine, I drink Pepsi.
Elaine: You can't bring Pepsi.
George: Why not?
Elaine: Because we're adults.
George: Are you telling me wine is better that Pepsi? No way is wine better than Pepsi.
Jerry: I'm telling you George, I don't think we want to walk in there and put a big, plastic jug of Pepsi on the table.
George: I just don't like the idea that every time there is a dinner invitation, there's this annoying little chore that goes along with it.
Jerry: You're getting to be an annoying little chore yourself.
The gang starts driving to the dinner party, when the debate continues:
Elaine: I was just thinking. The four of us can't show up with just one bottle of wine.
George: Oh, here we go. Why don't we get them a couch? Perhaps bring them a nice sectional?
Elaine: We'll get some cake. Can you stop off at the bakery?
George: Why don't you just pick up some Ring Dings at the liquor store?
Elaine: Ring Dings?
George: Hey, Ring Dings are better than anything you'll ever get at a bakery.
Elaine: George, we can't show up to someone's house with Ring Dings and Pepsi.

George: I've got news for you. I show up with Ring Dings and Pepsi, I become the biggest hit of the party. People will be coming up to me, "just between you and me, I'm really excited about the Ring Dings and Pepsi. Europeans with the Beaujolais and Chardonnay ..."

2010 Movie Previews:

2010-01-04T07:47:00.000-08:00

Toy Story 3:

Iron Man 2:

Robin Hood, from Director Ridley Scott, director of Gladiator:

First Miracle: Wedding Builders

2009-12-19T10:18:00.000-08:00

We asked the kids in our Sunday School class what they would like to learn during the upcoming semester. Not knowing what's stuck in their minds, or what they've felt has been skipped over, we tried to get some feedback into what's not fresh with them. One of the reoccurring themes was the miracles of Jesus.

Another kid brought up Revelations and I nearly swallowed my gum. I'm not about to get all seven headed beast with a bunch of 11 year old's. It's not that they aren't ready, we're not as teachers. I always feel that if I'm not careful reading that book I'll end up writing one of these.

Here's what we'll be covering tomorrow: Jesus turning the water into wine, the first miracle of his three year ministry. It's funny, as a kid I was always told that this wasn't wine but fruit juice. I don't think I can say that now. If so, why did the governor of the feast praise the groom for breaking out the good fruit juice?

Experts say that the wine back then was 1/3 the power of wine today, to 1/10th--so it would be better to say that it was really weakened wine, not stuff to get your drank on'. They drank wine because it was safer than the water most times. But I don't think it was fruit juice. And I don't even drink, and I'll encourage the kids to never drink, but all this talk may be taking away from the miracle itself: Jesus creating something out of nothing. It's not only a testament to who He is, but a picture of what he can do in our lives. The Creator. Awesome.

¹And the third day there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee; and the mother of Jesus was there:
²And both Jesus was called, and his disciples, to the marriage.
³And when they wanted wine, the mother of Jesus saith unto him, They have no wine.
⁴Jesus saith unto her, Woman, what have I to do with thee? mine hour is not yet come.
⁵His mother saith unto the servants, Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it.
⁶And there were set there six waterpots of stone, after the manner of the purifying of the Jews, containing two or three firkins apiece.
⁷Jesus saith unto them, Fill the waterpots with water. And they filled them up to the brim.
⁸And he saith unto them, Draw out now, and bear unto the governor of the feast. And they bare it.
⁹When the ruler of the feast had tasted the water that was made wine, and knew not whence it was: (but the servants which drew the water knew;) the governor of the feast called the bridegroom,
¹⁰And saith unto him, Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine; and when men have well drunk, then that which is worse: but thou hast kept the good wine until now.
¹¹This beginning of miracles did Jesus in Cana of Galilee, and manifested forth his glory; and his disciples believed on him. (John 2:1-11, King James Version)

This is how you can tell I'm bored at work:

2009-12-29T14:22:00.001-08:00

One of my desires of my youth was to speak Spanish fluently. I really tried at this, taking Spanish courses at Austin Community College, even though my gym credits from Hilltop Christian Academy somehow filled the degree requirement.

With two good profs in college, and two jobs that allowed me to use and learn a very basic level of Spanish, I learned much more than I would have thought. Most of the Mexican immigrants working at Home Depot were willing to teach and patient, mostly because they were getting back language proficiency as well. Learning went both ways, and I made some friends that I never would have been able to communicate with before.

I've forgotten some, but still hang on to basic vocab and structure. I am not fluent, but I could get around if needed. I can conjugate only the basic tenses, so this makes me sound like the guy in the Goonies movie when I try to have a real conversation. "I like to go to movies a day in the future!" --I think I've said this.

But I was thinking to myself today, what's a better way to learn more Spanish than here on BAN--a place for cultural refinement and video of hard NBA fouls. I could post vocab words, tense examples, videos found that really help teach, and do it all for free with little time put in on my part.

My goal would be to make it somewhat entertaining, like with puppets or something.

Tell me what you think if you like the idea, or even if you don't, let me know.

Thanks,

Here's some example vocab, to start off: Adjectives for a personality:

generous-- genoroso

genius -- genio

boorish -- grosero

honest -- honesto

horrible -- horrible

ignorant -- ignorante

impartial -- imparcial

unfaithful -- infiel

active (hyper) -- inquieto

wise -- juicioso

Corner Store, a short story

2010-01-02T14:19:00.000-08:00

There wasn’t any time to think, and that is why I did what I did. At my age your crystal intelligence is at an all time high, but your liquid intelligence has been poured slowly down the jon. That’s why there was a stand, and I guess if I had a chance to go back, wipe my memory of it-- I would react the same way 10 times out of 10.

I've owned this gas station at the corner of Cedar Crest Drive and Demascus Street for 37 years. I haven’t sold out to the big boys or the foreign cooperation because I have nothing better to do than to run this shop. I don’t sell beer. I guess that is another problem all together. When I first started the shop all those years ago, they told me that I’d better sell beer if I wanted to stay in business. They are either dead or dead broke, and I haven’t kept up with them enough to tell them “sorry it didn’t work out for ya’ old boy.” But that would be Un-Christian like to do, so maybe its better I just lost contact.

It would be an old manish thing to say that: “A lot has changed over the last 4 decades around this place.” But I'm going to say it anyway, sue me if you wanna. Kids used to come by here and steal candy. Sometimes I’d let em. If the kid didn’t come from a home where they couldn’t spare a dime to buy candy, I would most likely look the other way. At times I would have some fun such as breaking out my Smith and Wesson and giving it a good cleaning, but I never busted them or called the law. Didn't see a need for it.

But if a kid came through, and it was obvious that the family could have spared a dime or ten, and the kid insisted on stealing anyway, well I would give him a good scare, call their parents, talk about pressing charges and so on. I found that every kid is different. And I don’t mean snow flake different either, just different in that you can't apply the same theory on every child.

Now when this kid came in, before I shut the store down and retired, when he came in I had been a widower for 3 years. Darla had gone on and left me, God rest her. I never in my 87 years would imagine being without her. Statistics and my weekly red meat intake assured me that I should be the first to go. On this particular night, I'd been waiting 3 years to join her. 3 long years. So recently when I had visited the doc, and he told me that things were bleak, I nodded, went back to the corner store, opened up for the last time. That's when he came in.

He wasn't old enough to get cheap car insurance yet, but he was old enough to go to war. He wore a baggy sweat shirt to conceal his gun, and he walked with a limp, as if God had made one leg much more stiffer than the other. He wore a stalking on his head, the kind that is popular now for football players to wear under their helmets. When he turned his back on me to walk down the isle, I knew that this would be my last customer of my life. No matter what. If he bought a Twinkie, that would be it. I would go out selling a twinkie, and I was willing to accept that. There was no car outside that window, so I knew there would be no gas to sell. Outside, through the dirty glass that Darla used to always keep clean, was an empty parking lot with its old skin cracked and chipped. That was all that was left of it. Earlier that morning I had made up my mind to sell, due to the news from the doctor, but as I looked around after that kid entered, I realized that I should have sold it years ago. It was in a state of disrepair. The only thing new around there was the fuel and the fuel's price. Even eating that twinkie probably would have been like chewing on a kitchen sponge. But the kid didn't want a twinkie, he wanted the money in the register.

Well if I had ever a thought that my last customer would have been my first robbery, I probably would have went home and watched Jeopardy--let them just walk in and have it all. But I was there. When he pulled the stalking down over his young face, he quickly darted to the register stand, brandishing a sawed off shotgun. "Give it to me old man, all of it. And keep your hands on top of the register, don't go beneath the counter or I will end your life early. I promise you that it will end early and not how you planned it, old man." he said.

I had already popped the register open and planned on handing the cash over. But when he told me what he did, I closed it back and folded my arms. When it snapped shut it made that little bell sound that I had learned to hate over my years. "I can't do it. This is not how I planned it" I told him. "And it's not because of the money either. This 47 bucks in there ain't enough to get you a full tank of gas and we both know that--" He tried to cut me off by screaming obscenities, but I wouldn't have it. If he wanted to cut me down, so be it. "Now listen, I got to tell you something, and if you got any smarts you will take it. Store this in that part of your brain where you store undeniable truths, and walk on out of here." The kid went on to say that my mother would be telling me things, or him things and so on. I can't remember, please remember the drainage down the toilet.

"You are the second person to tell me today that I'm going to die. And right now I don't see a dang bit of difference between you and the sickness that is eating up my colon. You all are both real, and something to be dealt with. But it doesn't matter to me which of you gets me first cause I'm ready--my soul is ready. But you should know this before you decide you want to be first or not. I'm not a man of regular bible thumping, but you're about to get some thumping right here. You're going to reap what you sow here today. I promise you it. This is a Y in your life. And you got to decide which way you want to go. I saw your face when you came in, and I know you're not a killer. So, you can kill today, for 47 dollars and a bucket of beef jerky, or you can walk outta here a free man, and we forget this thing ever happened." I said this with my arms still crossed, fully expecting to feel pellets ripping through my flesh at any moment. "So make your decision now son, cause Jeopardy is on in 35 minutes and I ain't got time for someone with a indecisive disposition. And that 47 dollars is mine"

He stepped back. Shocked me, really. When he did I shook my head. "I can't let you walk outta here with that canon in your sweater. I can't let you go knowing you may go down 3 blocks and kill that fat boy at the Tiger Mart, God knows they deserve it though. So put it down here. Just lay it on the counter real sweet like, and run like you ain't never coming back. This is the day of your salvation. This is a day of renewing your spirit and mind. Don't you ever forget that. You can be a cancer or you can be free."

He walked back. This time without the limp. He was still reluctant to lay it down. "I got my own back here, and if I wanted to shoot myself someone I would have shot my lawyer back in '76. So don't worry about that. Just lay the gun down."

When he finally did, and those seconds ticked by like cold honey, I moved. Before he ran, I grabbed the shotgun by the barrel and hit him across the shoulder with it, with all my might. I know, I lied. Sue me--my lawyer would. It didn't fatally wound him, so don't feel sorry for the kid. It did crack something or a couple things. He still didn't go down all the way though, and I had to use it on the back of his neck. Now remember, this is quite a feat for a 87 year old man. The second swing had to be across the corner in a downward arch, and it connected beautifully. I called the law. He was still down when they came--two broken collar bones, they said.

They asked me why I fought, and I told them that this was my last day, and that the 47 dollars meant ever so much to an old man. It didn't. I have enough in the bank to keep me comfortably retired. But the fact that this kid did actually mean something to me. He was not a kid that should have been there. He should have been going to school, or doing whatever normal kids do at that age. But he wasn't. And that road was a tough one. Now I know that this probably didn't make it all roses for him, going to jail and all. And I will be long dead before he is released. But if he can make a change, I just gave him the best chance to do so. I think I did. I hope I did.

In case of snow:

2010-01-02T20:04:00.001-08:00

More Spanish Belated

2009-12-29T14:36:00.001-08:00

Considering Christmas just passed us, there is an account of the Christmas story in Spanish you can read here. It may be really confusing. It was for me. But they say the best way to learn vocab is to read, and the post linked above has vocab words you can hover your clicker over and read the meaning of each in the bottom of your browser. Nifty Natavity stuff.

2010-01-01T13:14:00.001-08:00

He (Mike Leach) added: "There have been several things that have been brought to my attention on the ticker that's just false," Leach said, referring to ESPN's bottom line ticker. "He was never locked anywhere. At no point was he locked anywhere. At no point was there an electrical closet."

Quotes, First Post of 10'

2010-01-01T13:01:00.001-08:00

"Before, I was missing a part of life," (Dexter) Pittman said. "I would walk around with my head down and wouldn't talk to anyone. I was embarrassed. When I lost the weight, I became a different person. I used to hate being in public. Now I love it. I love talking to people. Would that have happened if I hadn't lost the weight? I don't think so. I think I would be shut out from the world, antisocial and unhealthy."

A note from Karl Malone

2009-12-31T09:42:00.001-08:00

Karl Malone not so sure about any of this heavy talk--but Karl Malone going to do what Karl Malone do. Deliever.

Best of the Decade, 500th Post

2009-12-21T19:01:00.000-08:00

I remember being about 22 years old, circa 2002, looking at my father and saying: "come on dad, it's the zeroes." He repeated this to himself and replied, "That just doesn't work." And looking back over the decade, I agree that it still just doesn't sound right. So what shall we call this era? I've recently heard some people using: twenty-oh-seven, to mark the years, which I like, but what do we call the decade? The Justins have a nice ring to it, I think.

Best Album: I'm not a fan of Springsteen, but I'm a fan of his music. One day I taped storytellers on VH1, and listened to the man talk for an hour. I'll never do that again--I'd rather watch paint chip in real-time. That being said, right after 9/11, The Rising was released by him and the E Street band. Every song on it is well-made, and it never got enough radio play, but the album as a whole is the best thing I've listened to since 00'. Here's some examples:

This song below we played at our wedding. Good memories abound when I hear it again:

And Empty Sky was another great one.

It was my first Boss album and wasn't my last. The Rising was the best album of the 2000's.

Best Song of the 2000's.

U2's All You Can't Leave Behind.

U2 is U2 and all that. They're prolific artists that people seem to either love or hate. In 2001 they released the album All That You Can't Leave Behind, and on that album the title song stood out to me the most over the years. Every time I hear it it stops me and makes me think of my brother-in-law, whom we lost not long ago.

Best Film of the Decade:

Ridley Scott's Gladiator.

I almost forgot about this one when trying to tally up the movies I really liked the last 10 years. It almost seems a product of the 90's, and that's where I stored it I think. Gladiator is the story of Maximus against Commodus. The violence is great, the plot is even better, and Russel Crowe turns in a lifetime performance. Joaquin Phoenix, before the rap, was one of the most memorable bad guys from the decade.

When I first saw the previews I assumed this would be Hollywood's way of screwing up an excellent opportunity at a great story--but I was totally wrong.

Best Television Series of the Decade:

I guess this isn't a surprise, but it has to be ABC's Lost. Somehow they figured out how to make a show with such a tangled, mysterious plot, and only divulge tidbits each week--keeping the audience glued for more. There last season will start in February.

Best Sports Team of the Decade, in all sports:

The San Antonio Spurs. Before you get to calling me homer, hold on, as you can see I am not alone. And here's how Forbes tallied that up.

I'll not argue my case for the Spurs being the team of the decade by using emotional pleas, because I'm obviously biased. I'll just use two examples of a squad making the right decision as a whole.

Around 2006, Tim Duncan took a pay cut. That's right, the best power forward in the history of the game could have asked for millions more, locking out either Manu Ginobili or Tony Parker, but instead Timmy D focused on winning another ring. This is rare in the league and in all of sports and speaks to his character and the character of the franchise.

In the 2009 off season, the recession was looming as was a player's strike rumor. The Spurs, the second to the smallest market in the NBA, didn't cut salaries like most other teams would, but instead decided to spend some cash--the most they've ever spent. Owner Peter Holt realized that there was only a small window left in Duncan's career, and the time is now. So far the results have been less than outstanding, but as a fan it's tough not to get excited about a team that's more concerned about winning than money.

The Decade in Micro:

This is the 500th post on BAN. We want to thank the three readers we had at the start: a canine who has learned to use the internet, a Turkish prison inmate, and my other personality. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year everyone. See you in 2010.

A question about hard fouls:

2009-12-19T18:36:00.000-08:00

First question: should any act in the history of man cause a game to stop this long.

Question two: going for the head is a technical foul, for sure, however I don't think this is a dirty play. Just a bad one. He didn't seem to be hammering the guy in the head, but just trying to give a short facial massage. What do you think?

All Things Texas: The Bookless Streets of Laredo

2009-12-17T15:42:00.001-08:00

Laredo, a town of 250,000 people, is about to lose its only bookstore. That's right, it only has one bookstore and it's about to shut down due to low demand. However the library seems to be doing well, so why haven't commercial stores faired better on the border town?

I don't know the answer, but I just thought I'd shoot out the question. If I knew the answer I'd be driving to Laredo now and opening a bookstore.

It's hard to imagine not having a bookstore in my area. I usually hit Barnes and Nobles once every other week or so, not buy anything, and then head to Half Priced books to see if I can find what I want on the cheap. I also use the library for things I don't want to actually own, or things I can't actually afford. If not for bookstores, I may resort to crack cocaine parties or life-Frogger.

In the Yahoo article that I'm getting this information from, they say that there's a high illiteracy rate in the city, and that most of the consumers come from across the border, where many don't have disposable income.

About Frogger, it just seems like there were too many arbitrary ways to die. Here's all the ways you can lose:

Running into road vehicles
Jumping into the river's water
Running into snakes, otters or into an crocodile's jaws in the river
Jumping into a home invaded by an crocodile
Staying on top of a diving turtle too long
Drifting off the screen by sitting on a log or turtle too long
Jumping into a home already occupied by a frog
Jumping into the side of a home or the bushes
Running out of time before getting a frog home
Not providing JT with a fork when he buys a Wendy's salad through the drive-through, leaving him only to find out that he is a forkless salad owner.

Most Valuable Player, a short story.

2009-12-13T22:37:00.001-08:00

When I started the private school, the middle of my freshman year, I was automatically heralded as a savior of the boys varsity basketball team. The students' logic was simple, height equals success on the hardwood. At first I was embarrassed and would get red in the face when someone told me they couldn't wait to see me suit up, but then my ego ate the other me, and I started to believe the hype myself.

The problems started the first day of practice. I saw the coach's whistle fall from his dropped jaw the first time I took the court. All the sudden it was realized by the team, school staff that I had the agility and grace of a wounded giraffe. There were other problems. I had no jump shot. My elbow came out at a disturbing angle when I jumped, and my release came sideways, almost as if I was trying to put some English on it. The coach couldn't even speak to me for days. It was as if I had squandered the man's retirement on a bad pyramid scheme.

I also couldn't dribble. I can't tell you why, but it was as if the ball and I were magnetically opposites. In drills, I spent most of my time chasing the ball into corners, under bleachers, and down the halls surrounding the gym. When people would see me running around like a 5 year old after a ball half the day, they would click their tongue and shake their heads. "Not what we thought was he?", "I guess that height will be best used stocking the top shelf at a shoe store", "Baby Huey--nothing more, nothing less".

The offers for dates and group activities dwindled. The hype wave was dry and I was finding sand in my shoes.

In the first game, we were killed by 40 points. I didn't see any playing time. I was firmly glued to the bench, getting others water, cheering. I became quite the cheerer: "Come on guys, we got this.", "4th quarter guys, 4th quarter", "Don't quit. Don't you ever quit." This was fine and all. But when you are down by 40 points and squawking this out like a bird on fire, it just gets you dirty looks. It also gets laughs from the opposing team. I was a joke. The gentle giant. I was the meandering mess of muscle and bones, wandering and waddling his way with his team, never contributing, but always there in spirit. It was like I was some sort of sick mascot, except I didn't seem to bring anything but trouble.

The second game we were only beat by 20, and somehow that seemed like a victory. Think about it, 20 points is 10 baskets, I would tell the guys. Just get 10 stops, make 10 baskets, and we were in this. The coach didn't even buy this math. After the lead would reach an insurmountable amount, he would throw his hands up, throw his jacket behind the bench, and he would sit. He would sit with a look of apathy as if he was a funeral of a person from another state, who had done nothing good in his life and for whom even the pastor wouldn't give a kind word. The coach's depression was contagious, and it crept through our hearts and spirits, until every last one of the team was dreading not only games but even practices. Except for me. I was believing in a miracle.

But this is what I had set up with my enrolling in the small private school: a large sense of hope shot to death by an AK-47 loaded with reality bullets. Games floated by. I nearly failed my classes, but just barely managed to stay eligible, but that didn't matter because the coach and teammates wouldn't care if I had gotten my PHD that semester. I was a ghost to them, a memory of basketball dreams, now dusty and unwilling to die. We lost more games.

After Christmas break, I realized the year was not going as I planned. The season was finally all but over. All we had left was the invitational tournament for teams with no shot for the post season. It was a consolation tournament, or like some of the other players called it: a constipation tournament.

The first team we played was almost as bad as we were. They had no true point guard, and turnovers were easier to come by than open shots. They practically gave us the ball most plays, setting us up for some fast breaks with little opposition. It was a beautiful thing, winning that is. I didn't even contribute, but it was good to see the other guys happy. And I shared in that happiness. I rolled myself up in it. That night the whole team went out to a Mexican restaurant in Cedar Run. We were all on a winning high. It was like cold water found in land of burning sulfuric rock. Our record was 1-22, and we were proud. The sizzling smell of fajitas waffled through the air as we sipped our Ice T and talked about winning the tournament. The coach even had a few words of encouragement. This constipation tournament was ours.

Game 2 did not follow suit. To be honest, we were outclassed. They threw a half court trap on us, and our point guards went into shock, coughing up the ball every chance they got. Despite the hemorrhaging on the offensive side of the court, we were still riding the momentum from the previous night on defense. We kept up, and we were only down 10 at the half.

The coach came in with his clipboard, at first studying it, trying to think what he needed to show us. Then his arms fell to his side and he looked down. His great massive head hung there for a second, allowing us to realize the state of mind forming inside. Then he took a wider stance, cocked the clip board back, and slammed it against one of the nearby lockers, sending splinters of wood shooting out throughout the room. One fell in my hair.

"I can't show you how to beat that trap anymore than I can show you how to take a breath. You know how to do it, now go and breathe." He walked out, holding the small piece of clipboard. He left us there. All was quiet. I would like to say that we began a slow dramatic clap, all of us in unison. And I would like to say that it built up to an amazing overflow of emotion, which allowed us to pour out of the locker room ready to take on the better team. But that didn't happen. What did happen was something that took all of the tension out of the room. It happened so abruptly and unexpectedly that we forgot about being outclassed, and we went out and took the second half, with no prisoners. Someone passed gas. It wasn't just a small shy rip. It was something to behold. It was a long and passionate rip that echoed off of the tin of the lockers. At first, no one laughed. Then, much parallel to a slow dramatic clap, the laughter started to build. It eventually became a loud roar, and most likely the team in the next locker room thought we were being slain in the spirit because they didn't look at us the same when they came back onto the floor. There was fear in their eyes. We took the game, beat the trap, and at the end of the game we were up by 15. All that was left was the championship game.

The mood didn't last throughout the night. The coach called an emergency meeting in one of the motel rooms. All 12 of us squeezed into the room and listened. After the second win, coach had gone to scout the team we would be playing in the championship game the following morning. There wasn't any good news. He tried several times to start, but he kept stuttering. He was finding it difficult to put the words in order. "They are amazing." Was the first recognizable thing that came out of his mouth. "I mean, we have a chance, but it isn't a good one. They defend well, they have two players that are going D1 next year..." Coach was cut off by one of the kids in the room who didn't know what he meant by D1. He further explained that there were a set of twins on the team. They were both unbelievable, and they had already signed with some medium range school out in Kentucky. These kids could play ball. We couldn't. The coach had no where else to go. He grabbed his dirty blazer, swung it over his shoulder, and left, dejected. Maybe he had planned on coming in and giving a Knute Rockne speech, but it was the opposite of that. At the time I thought to myself that it was maybe the worst pep talk ever given to anyone in the history of sport. Now, I realize there is no way to measure this.

We all stood staring at each other afterward. There were no bodily functions to lighten the mood this time. One kid finally chimed up, giving some perspective on what had been laid before us: "Guys....I have never won anything in my life." We all looked at him, studied him for a few moments, and finally accepted that statement as a hard truth. We all pondered some more. There was a fire started in that dirty smelly motel room, where the pictures were nailed to the walls, and the AC was the only thing that would give you your money's worth. That fire started to spread a little more. We realized that we may lose terribly the next morning, but that didn't mean we had to go out and take it sitting down. Again, there was no slow clap, but just a deep sense of intensity. We were the perpetual underdogs going up against future college players. We would be lucky to even make it on an inter-mural team if any of us even made it to an actual college. We knew it was stacked against us.

We were different kids that morning. At the championship game, we even warmed up different. We also kept focused, and there was no usual goofing around before the game. We were in tune and ready to play our swan song with our teeth bared. It actually didn't start out bad. We managed to keep up. I stood up from the bench screaming every chance I got. I felt as though I could transplant my intensity through them by my acting insane. It was great. Kids on the team were making shots that they would never make, making stops that made us look like an actual defensive minded team, and not air balling layups. This last one had been a sore spot for coach throughout the season.

But the coach wasn't excited yet. And this was probably for two reasons. The first being that we were playing decently enough to keep the game competitive, and if he switched his attitude at that moment, maybe we would lose the mojo we had all dug up from our inner hearts the night before. Second, the twins were still killing us. I had never seen a person dunk before. Sure, I saw MJ do it a thousand times on TV. I watched the dunk contest over and over each year om VHS. But I had never seen it in real life. Sheltered, I know. But the twins, those two 6 foot 8 behemoths, had already had several nasty dunks that had brought the gym up from their seats. Even our fans had to cheer. It was just too pretty. If they had been good sportsmen, they may not have bothered me so bad. After the dunks, they would take their great white bald domes over to the nearest defender, and give them a good: "oooooooooo, did you just feel that?" There was no need for remarks like this, not when you were as good as they were. But that didn't take away from the force that was them. Their shoulders seemed wider than a Volkswagen, and their shaved heads almost gave off an impression of some type of neo-nazi hate tribe, and you really didn't want to get in their way too much, for fear of them burning a cross onto your forehead. They were some bad dudes.

The statements continued, as did the dunks. They were like some carnival show, two giant white whales who flew through the air with grace. We kept up, although we had no answer for the twins. We were still in the game, only 7 points down in the third quarter, when a problem occurred. That problem has been the demise of many ball teams throughout the history of the game: foul trouble. About this time I started counting the amount of post players sitting between me and coach. Because of the dominance of the evil twins, coach had thrown everyone at them. He figured it was better to watch them make free throws than jamming it down our throats each trip down the court. With a dreadful gulp, I realized that pretty soon I would actually have to play. I tried looking down, wishing it to all go away. And as I did this, I heard a whistle blow.

Number 45 had fouled out. Coach looked down and called my name with more reluctance than I could have used at the moment. He grabbed me by the shoulders, twirled me towards him, and said: "No matter what you do, block out. If a shot goes up, put your butt on somebody and get the rebound." Sad to say, this actually gave me hope. This was something I could do, and if this was all that was going to be asked of me, I would be okay.

Well, that's what I did. I rebounded. When the ball would swing my direction, teammates would avoid passing to me as if I was a black hole. But that was okay, because on both sides of the court, I rebounded. I was contributing. But it wasn't enough. The twins seemed to be omnipresent. They were coming from all sides like rockets aimed for our heads. My fouls stacked up quickly, and I had just committed the fourth on one of the superstar zygote splitters.

We lined up for the foul shot. I had the box closest to the basket, and the other twin was on my left, looking to get in after the second shot would be missed. It was an 8 point game with 5:43 left to go in the 4th. Before the other twin took his last free throw shot, before the ball swiveled on its X axis end over end towards the hoop to clang off of the back of the rim, and before my thought process could keep me from doing anything else, I blocked out. I blocked out before the shot. Now, the refs, as they often don't I have later found out, weren't really paying attention to me but more to the shooter on the line. I had a good 2 second jump before the shot, and I put my butt on the thigh of the twin, trying to keep him from sneaking in and dunking on my head like he had done several times before. The problem was that the twin wasn't ready, and he had his leg locked in some kind of a runners stance. His leg's bone gave. And when I say gave, I mean it hyper extended, and he fell down to the floor. But it didn't stop there. My lack of grace kept me from retaining my balance, and I fell with the twin, like two red woods falling in a forest, and then there was a heart breaking sound. When I landed on the long part of the twins leg, which had already bent in a way that legs shouldn't bend, I heard a crack. It was the most terrible thing I have heard or ever will hear in my life.

The twin yelled out in pain, howled really. I got up, attempting to pull him up by the arm so he could play, but I wasn't thinking and only made things worse. He howled some more. Looking down, feeling guilty of breaking this man beast's leg, I noticed a force coming towards me. This force was a brother's wrath. And I caught it square on my jaw.

Now I have seen movies and even cartoons where the person who takes a hit goes flying into the air. But I had been told, by parents and other adults who are supposed to know more than I, that this is not an actual depiction of what happens when someone gets cold jacked in the jaw. But I am here to refute that, because all 220 pounds of me took flight after that hit. I landed in front of the first row of bleachers. But it didn't end there either. While the one twin howled and held his leg, the other one was coming back for more. Thank God for refs. The three refs converged on him, hanging off of the giant like small squirrels trying to climb a hickory tree. They finally subdued him and forced him to leave the gym. He was ejected. But it didn't stop there. These twins had a parent, and there was a reason that the twins were as temperamental as they were. Big Daddy, as I later found out is what they effectually called him, came down from the stands in fits of biblical rage. His wide arms swung from the shirt that barely contained them And, rightly so, I mean these kids were about to go and get their college paid for--you can't put a price on that.

Big Daddy looked as if you took the two brothers from ZZ Top, and squeezed them together to make on man out of both their parts. He didn't have the glasses, and his large brown eyes rolled in their sockets like a man possessed. If there hadn't been a police officer on duty part time for security I would have died. ZZ Big Daddy would have ripped off my extremities and beat me with them, I have no doubts about this. But the officer quickly stepped in, ushering the parent out of the gym to join the broken twin and the ejected one. The coach pulled me; told me to sit back down on the bench. The ref's didn't know where to go, didn't know what to call, and didn't even know whose ball it was.

They finally sorted it out. We won the game. It may have been the creepiest game ever played in America in the history of basketball. No one else cheered in the packed gym, but they watched as if watching a never before attempted operation performed by a one armed doctor. Our point guard was named MVP of the tournament. After the game, the coach pulled me aside. "Son," he said. "I would never condone what you did out there tonight. And I would be madder than a snake if I had any reason to believe you would do something like that on purpose. But you are such a loaf, I know that isn't true. So, accidentally you became the reason why we won. I don't want to thank you, but I just want to say that we will see you on the team next year." He walked away with the jacket slung over his shoulder and his head down. I stood there for a moment with a bag of ice on my jaw, not knowing where to go.

That year ended with uncertainty. There was the uncertainty of me coming back to the same school, the uncertainty that I would try out for the team, and uncertainty that there wouldn't be a bearded fat man waiting for me somewhere, wherever our next game would be played.

That year I learned that MVP is not just about numerical production and that it is also something that is not always a huge lift on your conscious. If I could go back and change it, I would. I would rather lose, being dunked on an uncountable amount of times than actually break that kid's leg. But if it had to happen, I was glad it was me. My playing days were over. Sure, I still play pick up every once in a while. But every time I go to block someone out, I get flash backs. I can still hear bone crack. A few years later I saw the twins, they had gotten on with a bigger school than originally thought, and again they were a force. I don't think I saw Big Daddy, but I thought I caught a glimpse of long gray beard when the camera passed over the large crowd. But I couldn't be for certain. Then again, my dreams have seen that same beard a few times, mostly on inanimate objects: mailboxes, Dodge Durangos among others. Probably should go get some therapy, but somehow I'll manage. Always do.

Longhorn's Poll Position

2009-12-10T15:04:00.000-08:00

Seems the media has been lumping all their holiday angst out on my Longhorns recently. Play two close games that you're supposed to win and suddenly you're the bald-headed step-child of the NCAA.

Fox Sports wonders if Texas shouldn't have been allowed the second that was obviously on the clock at the end of the play. No, you're right Fox News, because it would make better headlines, and because the Longhorns played a close game, they deserved to have the clock tick off arbitrarily. That's not how Nebraska would want to win that game, by the way.

Also, if it isn't some fantasy of bad clock management by officials in Dallas, it's the Alabama bandwagon. I've seen more pundits pick Alabama for the win than not, and even my family have turned against the Longhorns--E Tu Joe?.

And as a fan, that's not a bad place to be. When no one is expecting your team to compete, the only place the team can go is up. They've already lost in the nation's minds.

Quotes:

2009-12-08T18:53:00.000-08:00

"He's well deserving of coming up here, especially off the game he had against us," McCoy said. "He had a high motor the whole game. He wanted to win and it really showed. He's a tremendous football player. Funny story: I graduated on Saturday but I didn't get to walk. Somebody asked me if I graduated and I said 'yes.' And they said, 'But you played, you didn't get to walk.' And I said, 'You're right, I ran. I ran all over the place.'"

--Colt McCoy on Suh being a Heisman candidate.

"If you've never been to a waffle house, just imagine a gas station bathroom. That sells waffles."

--Jim Gaffigan.

A Truly Great Day:

2009-12-08T12:11:00.000-08:00

Hulu now has MST3K episodes online. You can watch them, for free. So far there are five up, but I bet there will be more in the not too distant future.

http://www.hulu.com/mystery-science-theater-3000

Remembering the 70's Monday: Where Short Shorts Happen

2009-12-07T00:07:00.000-08:00

Spurs play the Jazz tonight--have already lost twice to them this season. We'll see if the Jazz can pull the hat trick. Here's something I don't remember because I was not self-aware:

Video find from POUNDINGTHEROCK.COM

Pistol Pete still holds the scoring title for division I college basketball despite the three-point line not existing and not being allowed to play varsity college ball as a freshman.

Know Your Lostie

2009-12-05T07:10:00.000-08:00

We first learned of Lapidus when he was sitting at home watching television, and he sees news coverage of the crash of Oceanic Flight 815, and realizes that the pilot is not who they say it is. "Because I was supposed to be the pilot on that plane."

ABC's final season of Lost starts this February. The. Last. One. So, we're going to have some refreshers here on Ban, whenever we get the chance and the bug:

Know your Lapedis:

I've oft told my wife that Jeff Lahay, who plays Frank Lapidus, looks like a homeless Ray Liotta. She doesn't laugh, and then I try it out on the BAN, that's how these things go.

Frank is recruited by Whitmore's organization and gets grafted into the story. Most recently we found Lepidus flying another plane back over the same route, gathering up with the survivors and last seen at the missing toe statue. But that was before the island exploded or imploded, so far all we know Lepidus could be a mime stuck in time next season, a la a French Quantum Leap.

"I'll go ahead and be your homeless Ray Liotta."

A better: Where We Last Saw Him, From Wikipedia:

Upon his return, Frank finds that passenger Ilana (Zuleikha Robinson) has found guns on the island and claimed leadership of the group. After he is unable to answer her cryptic question "What lies in the shadow of the statue?" she attacks him and knocks him out. Frank later regains consciousness in an outrigger, being transported back to the main island by Ilana, Bram (Brad William Henke) and three other Flight 316 survivors. He overhears them discussing whether or not he may be a potential "candidate", though when he asks what he may be a candidate for, they refuse to elaborate. Frank accompanies the group through the jungle to meet up with the island's native inhabitants The Others, at the foot of the aforementioned statue.

Contact Information:

2009-12-04T06:52:00.000-08:00

Austinjt34@gmail.com

The New Texan: Mildred's Home

2009-12-03T23:30:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since I put up a post from The New Texan. In this next installment we meet another character, leaving behind Trevor and his training for just a bit. This is Mildred, the gunslinger:

Thump, thump, thump went Mildred's feet against the hard clay. She ran with everything she could offer, but didn't make it in time. The plumes of black smoke sat in the air like some giant's legs.

It was a struggle to breathe once the air hit her lungs

The house was burning--the flames threatening to take it entirely. The barn was also on fire, but less so. Its roof stood whole and unburned while its baseboards emitted black smoke into the evening sky.

Her dad was gone. Where, she didn't know but she knew by who. She ran to the barn, covering her mouth with her do-rag. There was no visibility, and Mildred questioned the sanity of such an act, but she needed the guns. The guns, her fathers, would be the only thing she would have left once the flames were satisfied. The piano, an outdated and unused musical piece which sat next to the stables, had not yet been scorched. She pried the heavy piano away from the wall and opened the back, all the while keeping the rag over her mouth and nose. Her eyes stung and tears flowed down her cheeks.

She took the box with the nickel-plated pistols from the guts of the piano and ran. For the next seven hours she watched her home burn to a skeletal charred being.

There were wagon tracks leading southwest. She had never seen their shape or girth before. There had been many horses, a small army to come and take her father--only one man.

The guns felt too large in the palm of her hands. She didn't have bullets. It felt foreign and shameful to have them without her father nearby, guiding her on the safety of such killing machines. But her father was gone now. Mildred slept out below a mule cart that night. There was no rain, but clouds threatened with distant thunder throughout the morning hours.

The next day she rode her mule, Garth, into Cotton County in a slow trot. She had no holster, so she placed the guns in a leather saddle bag next to the flour and some freshly dried jerky. The shots of the following day still rang out in her head. The screaming. She didn't know if her father still was alive, but she didn't want to live in a world where he wasn't. She aimed to find him, wherever he had been taken.

This is a Test

2009-12-03T07:51:00.001-08:00

This is only a test. If this were a real emergency, BAN would ask you to roll about the ground singing your favorite southern gospel hit, but this is only a test.

We got a new comment section that gives out a lot more options, and will hopefully make us a billion dollars.

Try it out below using your facebook id, I had to "create an app" for that.

Much love to you and yours,

JT

UPDATE: This is a pretty amazing comment system. I can control the comments through my email at work, since I don't have access to the blog during the day, and it allows for more people to post easier. Kudos to me and all the hard work I put into this non-paying project.

2009-12-02T19:10:00.000-08:00

Of All Pursuits:

2009-12-02T09:59:00.001-08:00

The Office is an institution. It has grown the last five years, losing cast characters and gaining new blood. I never would have thought, three years ago, that El Helms would be a welcomed addition. But not only has he become the irreplaceable Nard-Dog, now it's hard to even imagine a show without him.

"I'm always thinking three steps ahead…like a carpenter who builds stairs."

When I saw the trailer for this week's episode I couldn't stop laughing. It's rare to laugh at the premise of an episode. I don't remember any Saved by the Bell plots that made me laugh out loud, like when Jesse was going to have an addiction with sleep-aid drugs, or other such whacky/fun set-ups. Sure, we may laugh at a line, or a bit--where the actor says something in a preview, but I simply laughed at the idea of Michael telling an all African-American elementary school class that he was going to pay for their college education 10 years ago. The 10 years are passed, and it's time for Michael to pay up. I'm having a hard time not laughing about that right now. The Office: using awkwardness better than any other mainstream show in America.

From an old Episode: Fun Run:

"Guess what? I have flaws. What are they? Oh I donno, I sing in the shower? Sometimes I spend too much time volunteering. Occasionally I'll hit somebody with my car. So sue me-- no, don't sue me. That is opposite the point I'm trying to make."