Musings on life and how I choose to interpret it…

The notion of a bunch of genetically gifted men dribbling a leather ball for forty eight minutes – all for the singular purpose of putting the said ball through a metallic hoop while others try to impede aforementioned purpose; all the while getting paid an exorbitant sum of money while grown men and little children alike gasp, cheer, applaud and boo through the course of the ball being dribbled through either lengths of the wooden court and being put through the metallic hoop – is a notion that is met with either revulsion or indifference.

On one camp, you have the people who stipulate the virtues of the free market system in dictating how much a player should be paid for basically doing what millions of others do for recreational purposes.

On the other, you have understandably bitter critics: those who bemoan the state of a society that values an entirely over-inflated set of significance upon an assortment of superficial identities, grandiose egos and masochistic emotions.

And then there’s me: a sad member of an ill-fated entourage who willingly, for a few hours at least, let his state of being led through a wild ride of a hopelessly optimistic and ultimately futile pursuit. Yes, dear readers, what I’m referencing to here is the predictably unfortunate conclusion of a brief story of a local team that somehow managed to draw the brim and vigour out of this hollow and gauzelike epidermis of yours truly.

Yes, in spite of the fact that I openly revile others who scream and gesticulate at the TV screen for outcomes that they think could’ve (should’ve) changed if someone had done something else instead, yours truly was there among the best (or worst) of them: bits of spit on the TV screen and standing up at certain periods just because it is humanly impossibly to contain this surge of emotions sitting down. It is understood by some – those who can relate will even still probably disagree – that there is a nigh visceral urge to connect with the people in the TV screen just so you can get your point across. To reprimand them. To support them. And finally, to curse at them.

And yet, even with all the fallout of empty beer bottles and wasted spittle, one cannot help but look back on the ride that was and admire the way it all transpired. It eventually leads to a reverie where one realizes that it was indeed a ride worth getting into. And so, as the train finally reaches its destination (for now), the moment of introspection gives way to a semblance of yet another inexplicable but almost understandable gut feeling: hope.

Thank you Toronto Raptors, you of the 2006-07 team. You have made me feel “proud” for reasons that I cannot be bothered to indulge. May the trials and tribulations of what has past make you a force to be reckoned with in the next season of this so-called national basketball association, that which was invented by Dr. Naismith and perfected predominantly by long-limbed people of African heritage.

Thank you.

And oh, before I forget…

Asshole.