SULLIVAN: With the Buffalo Sabres killing of our Rangers, hockey is now over—at least in New York. I could care less about NHL hockey without my Rangers in the hunt. I don’t know a Duck from a Senator and don’t care to.
Now, not to gloat, but I did tell you that the Nets would beat Toronto in the first round of the NBA playoffs. Vince Carter finally showed up and once again our Garden State boys move into the second round—so basketball still lives in New York. And praise the Lord for that, so I can ignore Roger “Roid Rage” Clemens’ return to the New York Yankees.
Jaysus—will that sad sage ever end? And if Barry Bonds is so vilified, why is Clemens not? I don’t usually go for the facile racial argument, but I believe Barry being black is a lot of why some fans hate him so. Roger is just as nasty and his head and body are just as big as Bonds’. Hate Bonds fine, but you better include St. Roger in that diatribe.
So the Nets are up against it with Cleveland. They are already in a big hole, and Cleveland holds the home court advantage—and on paper they are the better team. The Nets are too small and they just can’t shoot. But they do have heart, and I am still picking them as my team despite all the odds against me.
HOLLANDER: There happens to be a New York team left in the Stanley Cup hunt, Buffalo. And they are about as relevant to our New Yorkers as the New Jersey Nets. This makes you and your analysis of NHL/NBA about as useful as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. Or better yet, it makes you about as useless as a hatful of busted assholes. You ever heard that one? Me neither. It’s Australian. I guess that explains it.
What I find harder to explain is the continuing flood of hate mail toward you and me from Aussies and Brits and other assorted idiots who are still fuming over our rugby article back in November. Why can’t some people just accept that large chunks of their time and lives are devoted to a meaningless form of recreation? I mean, these guys are just a handgun away from becoming the Greenwich Village pizza killer. Tell them, C.J. You live in chronic, semi-disgruntled state—have done so for years. Tell them there are worse things than wasting your Saturday afternoons masochistically pounding your un-athletic unit against the flesh of another just to prove that you’re here, that you exist and that you are not alone in your pathetic, fearful, confused daily battle to comprehend all that happens around you. Other people—rugby players—are just like you. I say to you, my friends, get on with your lives. Smell a daisy. Eat an ice cream. Send a Mother’s Day card (provided you know who she is). Above all, get a life.
SULLIVAN: Did you see the study that 88 percent of people who play rugby are assholes on the field, in the bar and on their jobs? It is true. They are a bitter and angry lot who could not cut it in other sports so they went fringe so they could call themselves “athletes”.
Dave, these rugby freaks can grub kick themselves for all I care. Now, I do know some decent and honorable men and woman who engage in rugby. I am not referring to you. I may not like your sport, but I respect that you get out there and bust a gut playing it. I am referring to the Internet and telephone tough guys that have threatened and harassed me and Hollander over the last few months.
I live in New York City, boys. I am not hard to find. Kiss my Royal Irish Ass.
Let us forget rugby and talk about a real sport: basketball. Are the Detroit Pistons playing ghosts? The Bulls are folding like a bad poker player. The Bulls are the disgrace of Chicago. Detroit will win the East over the Cavs, and LeBron will sulk and have to wait some more before he gets a ring. The Pistons might even go all the way but let us see who from the West will oppose them.
In the West we have the great sight of Mark Cuban gnashing his teeth as Don Nelson and his wild-ass Warriors knocked the Mavericks out in the first round. Cuban is still crying, and Dirk is hiding in a corner still afraid of Stephen Jackson. Watching Golden State in the second round against Utah is more fun than the circus. These games are like the run, gun, chuck, run and gun some more games that used to be played in the South Bronx park called Saint James. Every other guy had the nickname “Chucker.” If the Warriors don’t win it all, they should enter the Millrose Games as a track team—they are that fast.
Now, the Phoenix Suns have to step up to beat the Spurs. The Solar boys have home court advantage but the Spurs take the Suns out of their game. Duncan and company are smart. Steve Nash has done everything in the NBA but win a ring. If he doesn’t, only he and Karl Malone will be the only two players to win MVP titles and not win a championship. Nash, at 33, has to do it this year, but the Spurs are in his way—and that is no small hill to climb.
My bet—just for the sheer joy of watching it—is that Golden State wins the West and beats the living hell out of the Pistons. Now that would be a fun NBA Final.
HOLLANDER: Each week you manage to reinvent yourself as a brand-new kind of idiot. The NBA playoffs are a wait-and-see proposition this year. Teams like Utah, who we rarely see all season, dominate the TNT/ESPN/ABC spring watch-a-thon. Jerry Sloan has cemented his coaching greatness by harnessing the power of young talent, largely neglected by other teams, and by creating a formidable Western Conference power in the post-Stockton-Malone era. Each of those Utah players should be awarded polygamy rights under Utah law.
All in all, the NBA playoffs are pretty cool. When basketball players with off-the-chart physical ability actually put out for the full 48 minutes, it is truly a joy to behold.
In the meantime, baseball has gone mad. Clemens, at 45 years old, signs for a zillion dollars but doesn’t have to be anywhere near the team when he’s not pitching? Then why not let Johnny Damon grow his hair back? The Mets have shaved their heads. Curt Schilling publicly insults Barry Bonds. And what the hell is going on in Milwaukee? As a public service, the Brewers are offering free prostate exams in the Miller Park parking lot at all home games. Plus, there’s an “organization” of Brewers fans who have pledged to piss their pants if the team makes the playoffs. (See: PeeyourpantsfortheBrewers.com for details.) This sounds like a scatological double-dip for you, C.J. With your renowned incontinence problem and your insistence on always receiving a spot-check anal probe at JFK security, Milwaukee could be your Hamptons this summer. Think it over.
