Poetic Justice

Oh, Darius
How various are the rumors 'round you swirling
Precarious, nefarious is your future here unfurling
In Mo Cheek's face you brought disgrace
Oh, see the demons twirling
You lost your place - and fell from grace
Now, fans just feel like hurling

Oh, Darius
If Icarius had half your hops I'm certain
No need of wax or wings he'd have, to soar above Earth's curtain
But fleeting fame, like sun aflame
Can sometimes bring a hurtin'
And down you came, like him, in flames
(sigh)
With greatness you were flirtin'

Oh, Darius
Please bear with us, for now we love to hate
We're furious and curious, yet still, it's not too late
Can you turn it around? Can you shed those pounds...
And get your head on straight?
What now is lost can again be found
Rise up, young man. Be Great!

                         WHO AM I ?

The beginning was predictable: butt-kicked-able
Relegated to the basement, I languished in subocrity
And then...from Heaven...a divine dispersal!
In one solar circuit I took the elevator to her penthouse
Ligaments and tendons brought me back down
But not for long. The taste of rare wine...the lure of her satin sheets
Led me back...back to the upper levels
And not just once. I was insatiable!
Zimbabwe and Zaire's diamonds could not draw me away
Even twice I stood again in the doorway of her luxurious suite. . .
Rejection ultimately released her poison. I lie sick, near death
Soon I will recover. Next time...I take the stairs

                    hint:  If you need a clue...
                            It's right in front of you

There once was an Australlian named Luke,
who played at G T, not Duke-
His contract was 10 days,
but due to several maladies-
He showed he was the "Real Deal," not a fluke!

When is the deadline here? I'd like to submit, but I'll need some time to work on it. Something of an epic nature ...

For hope or for worry there are many reasons,
It seems uncertainties plague our off-season.
Who's our one, Sergio, Jack or our hometown boy.
Or is our point guard of the future Brandon Roy.
Can Travis improve and occassionally pass,
Or is his best talent catching large-mouth bass.
He might not be our enigma and not re-sign,
When the big cities take him out and wine and dine.
Ime's story was certainly an inspiration.
Is he too old to be a defender sensation.
I love Pryz, though he doesn't get buckets or calls,
But he wasn't the same since he got kneed in the b___.
We've all been there, we deffinately understood,
Hopefully next year is better when you heal your manhood.
Darius, where's the high flyin', head boppin', walkin' wita strut?
Replaced is a game playin' couch potato wita gut.
Trainers need to motivate, need to kick yo butt.
Goodness sakes man, put down the Krispy Kreme donut!
Some of you we won't see again, packing your bags.
We might say goodbye to Martell, Dan and Mags.
A while now we've had a leader, a mentor, a Gandolf,
However, is it time to part ways with Zach Randolph?
His offense can carry this team, can hold down the fort,
His biz should be at the Rose Garden not another court.
Our expectations are high but so is his pay stub,
His passions seems to lie with The Safari Show Club.
We love Roy Wonder whether a point or shooting guard,
He's the best talent we've had since we heard, "Both teams played hard"

'Twas the time of the Sabas
when last we contended;
Opportunity ended
when the La-las didst rob us.

What future would hold
at the centre, twas uncertain,
as Sabonis was hurtin'.
At power fo'ard, we were told

It was all about Wallace;
to make room for Sheed
we bid Grant "Godspeed!"
and hadst Zebo befall us

(A farewell to Jermaine).
D.A. was the shootie
and Bonzi looked cutie,
so no need to obtain

a shooting guard (so we thought).
We were set at the point
with a mouse smoaking a joint
whose weeds oft were caught.

Just then, as the whole construct began slippin',
We bade a most fond fare-well to Scottie Pippin:
A ring to the Rose Garden is what we were wishin'
The last time we were set at The Small Forward Position.
_

After Scottie was movin'
the Jail Blazer at the three?
A Stopper of Nan-nee:
Messr. Patterson, Ruben!

Else was needed (quite obvious),
by way of a trade
and a deal was made:
Alas! 'Twas the costliest

Error by which we are
currently bedraggl'd;
with Cleveland we haggl'd
and landed a Star:

Darius Miles! Miles! Darius!
Obtained for salvation, not to so bury us!
In the summer of oh four, accomplish'd seem'd the mission
Of being quite set at The Small Forward Position.
_

The tale you well know
of two horrible seasons,
possess'd not of reason,
but of Rip City's "Hell NO!"

To all that was offered,
off the court and on it:
A pig in a bonnet,
a-wallow'd in turd.

The end of Mo Cheeks,
Qyntel, Bonzi and Damon,
and we put what's-his-name in:
"Coach Pritchard" for seven weeks.

In comes Mister Sonic,
hello, Martell; play, Trout.
But the constant throughout
this turnover tonic

Was the presence of Zach at
The Four, and of Darius
(that monstre nefarious!)
at The Three--what black cat

hadst crossed the Blaz'd Trail?
Those two and their capers
were worse than the raper's
persistent Travail!

Whilst Darius attended various foul matters and
Zebo became The Franchise, Ruben Patterson
Saved us from some Miles for whom we wished and
Ruben started most games at The Small Forward Position.
_

Against forty-eight wins,
a hundred and sixteen
losses for this team:
God-awfully bad twins

of two seasons of Miles:
Mo-harranguing, and a deal
for his fine's secret repeal;
Poisonous piles

Of the Sulk and the Pout;
Injur'd with dawdlin' rehab
as his body turn'd to flab
(while the enigma of Trout

Yet plods to bear fruit);
Demands for more P.T.
AND to rehab his sweet knee;
At halftime he put on a suit!

By the summer of Oh-Six, he was artho'd and shelv-ed;
Darius now spends his time making sure he is well-fed.
Reliev'd, we return to the same old perdition:
What shall we do at The Small Forward Position?
_

The Outlaw, of course,
was the heir all along
once Darius proved wrong.
But what internal force

Possess'd the young body
and soul of dear Travis?
What precisely have us
in this not-at-all shoddy

Athletickal frame
and boundless potential?
The query, in a nutshell:
Hath he got game?

Tho' Season Six/Seven
bade well for the future,
we're still not too sure
if there be a heaven

In the enigmatick possible future of Outlaw.
Evident's what all the Association throughout saw
in what he could be--whither the realization?
He's not (YET) the answer at The Small Forward Position.
_

Sing now the ballad of Ime Udoka!
A joy, and a story divine!
A Portlander, raised in the land of the mocha
and the Pinot Noir ripe on the vine!

A Viking, befallen to senior-year surg'ries,
undrafted and sent to the wild
Of Leagues D and foreign, far from the fir trees
where the man once liv'd as a child.

Five years in the cruelest limbo of training-
Camp invites, rights signed and then waived.
But back in Portland where 'tis ever so raining,
His career is miraculously sav'd!

The man can defend! He can handle the ball!
He can bury the wide-open J!
He's a MAN among kids! It's time he gets the call!
And just as his father's pass'd away.

Ime Udoka, you've done your dad proud;
As long as you play, he's alive.
No finer Trail Blazer is there to be found
Than the one wearing Numeral Five.

His future is set as a Blazer, and yet,
Despite spending Seaon Six/Seven
Starting the three, what's his longevity?
As a bench role player, he'd be heaven.

So despite the quite wonderful Ballad of Ime,
the future remains a good question:
He'll stop men and pop shots, but somebody gimme
A better starter at The Small Forward Position.
_

Return now to the story
of Season Six/Seven:
Numbers Seven and Eleven.
Begin now the Glory

Of a team built by Kevin
and coached by McMillan.
And the seats that began fillin'
in Season Six-Seven

Belong once again
to the Red and the Black!
Paul Allen bought back
our Rose Garden Den!

A Longhorn, a Spaniard,
and a Husky: Joy!
Brandon Roy!
Spell out the word

Rook of the Year!
LaLovely LaMarcus!
And Espresso to spark us!
There's naught now to fear!

With JJ and Travis,
Martell, Ime and Przy
as mere parts compliment'ry,
what do we have us?

What's this? A lean Zach
has himself a big season!
Not trying to put threes in,
but going hard to the rack!

He recover'd from microfrac
(not a small task,
if of me you ask)
and is all the way back!

Two point guards, LaMarcus,
prime Zebo, young role players,
and the answer to our prayers:
We don't need a Star, 'cuz

We have Brandon Roy--
now how does that add up?
What's missing with these pups?
Do we need one more boy?

Alas, after Season Six/Seven, all is well,
Except for that same familiar corner of hell.
Reliev'd, we return to the same old perdition:
What shall we do at The Small Forward Position?
_

From north, in the sound
of the Puget, comes our food:
That Paul Allen dude,
and where Martell was found,

And where Nate rose to glory,
and Brandon became
a familiar name,
there comes a new story:

In troubled Seattle,
who may lose their Sonics
to Okie redneck hicks,
the pillars are a-rattle.

Why settle for Trout?
It seems that Rashard
sees Sonic future as hard
and is going to opt out.

His numbers are white-hot;
his upside, temendous.
And he will recommend us
to make for him a spot

At the foot of McMillan,
where Shard had best prosper'd.
Just give him the good word:
Per season, fifteen million

Dollars! Wait a minute--
is he really worth that?
(Did I mention Darius' girth fat?)
The big game--can he win it?

It's certainly possible, but far from decided
That Rashard Lewis is the best option provided
For us to get over the best competition:
Rashard Lewis just might play The Small Forward Postion.
_

If not, it won't bother me;
don't do anything daft
because there's this DRAFT
(and next week's draft lottery)

Filled with wingmen galore!
Corey Brewer, Yi Jianlian!
Wrights Brandan and Julian!
And Jeff Green, and more!

Pingy-pongs might so bless
that we get Greg Oden!
And if TWO'S where we go, then
Durant is the noblest

possibility at the three--
oh, draft of great riches!
Bless us Blazerfan bitches
with a stud or three!

There's gold in them thar hills of the draft,
And what Pritchard did last year--oh, how we laughed
At the joy of his pickings! He has my permission
To draft the right man for the Small Forward Position.
__

It could be Rashard,
it could be a rookie,
Chris Paul is a Nookie.
These years have been hard

On fans of the Blazers.
We've put up with various
curses, like Darius;
The era of Jail Blazers;

Game seven, quarter four,
conference finals,
when the signs all
pointed to so much more;

L[xxx]r championships,
Sheed's piston ring,
every little thing
as Portland slips

into the horrid muck
of the past sev'ral years,
involving many beers
and words that rhyme with "Duck!"

After Season Six/Seven,
we're one piece away
from that glorius day
when our G.M. Kevin

And our Coach McMillan
and MVP Brandon
spray champagne with abandon,
drink up their fill, and

Descend 'ponst the City
of Roses which churns
as Blazermania returns
to the faithful and giddy.

Proudly and high
Hold the Trophy O'Brien!
Cease all yer cryin',
and make thine eyes dry.

Schonely greets the gazers
and shouts from the podium:
"Your World Champion
Portland Trail Blazers!"

After Season Six/Seven, there's but one missing piece
Whose discov'ry will finally bring the release
Of the Spirit of Seventy-Seven--listen!
We just need to fill The Small Forward Position.

Darius Rolls Up
"That $*#@ hot? Gimme a doz.
Cuz that's how I rolllllllllllllllllll....."

Bringing a touch of the low brow to the discussion, I remain,

This one is cheap and obvious.  With apologies to BOC:

With a purposeful grimace and a terrible sound
He pulls the penetrating shooting guard down

Helpless coaches on the Blazer bench
Put their head in their hands as he's whistled again

As the referees make yet another call
Nate has no choice but to point to Jamaal

Oh No!  On the bench now he must go, go, go
Przybilla!
Oh No!  It's another foul on Joel, oh no!
Przybilla!

(guitar riffs and muttering in Japanese)

Oh No!  He got whacked good down below, oh no
Przybilla!
Oh No!  Why don't they run a pick-and-roll for show
Przybilla!

History shows again and again how GMs like to overspend....
Przybilla!

(No pretensions to "poetry" - just call me Mother Goose.)

What about point guard, el Señor Rodriquez
Whose downside is defense, a fact to beleague us?
His upside is great,
But what is his fate?
This summer the debate is bound to intrigue us.

Dar-i-ess.
What a mess.

Another song parody; apologies if this one stretches the bounds of good taste.  Considering the source material (Fire Water Burn by the Bloodhound Gang), how could it otherwise?

Hello, my name is Z-bo, bro, and I'm a dumb fat guy
I'm not fast or new but real old school, down low 'cause I ain't spry
I don't pass or defend, on that you can depend, some nights I don't even try
But I can take the heat 'cause I stuff the stat sheet, just like that Moses guy

I hang like Bill Laimbeer, can barely jump o'er the free throw line
(But although I ain't got hops, I still know how to get high)
'Cause I'm kind of like Han Solo, always looking out to shoot it
When I let it fly you can close your eyes--two points! You can compute it!

The Zach, The Zach, The Zach is on fire
The Zach, The Zach, The Zach is on fire
The Zach, The Zach, The Zach is on fire
We don't need no defense, let the power forward score
Score, power forward, score

Yo yo

Coach says I don't hustle 'nuff, oh man what a spoilsport
You know I'm hustlin' every night, just not always on the court
And they say that I'm a black hole who Stephen Hawking wants to study
But I'm a boy among men, get my 23-10, what more do you want buddy?

The bald guy at the paper always says that I ain't no good
'Cause I hang out with my homeys, doing things he don't think I should
Like going to the 'Cropolis and other places not too classy
(But at least my piece is registered, unlike that dumb<expletive> Bassy)

The Zach, the Zach, The Zach is on fire
The Zach, the Zach, The Zach is on fire
The Zach, the Zach, The Zach is on fire
You don't need no passin', let the power forward score
Score, power forward, score

Everybody here I go
Ooh, ooh, come on Blazer people
Ooh, ooh, wave your hands in the air
Ooh, ooh, come on Blazer people
Ooh, ooh, 'cause you know I don't care
Ooh, ooh, come on Blazer people
Ooh, ooh, everybody say 'Bo
Ooh, ooh, come on Blazer people
Ooh, ooh, everybody here I go

I will be one of the many :) :

    One pound coconut grasped in his talons
    Like a swallow he floats above the ground
    Searching for the target to drop his cargo
    and bring to his house a joyous sound
    He moves not clumsy like a duck
    Though Ducks be his lineage
    But dances gracefully to empty court
    To nimbly maneuver his passage
    His shot, like a stone, flung from a catapult
    Heavy, difficult to direct
    When aware, however, of this tumult
    With others well does he connect
    A pittance he asks for his service
    Also to carry the banner black and red
    Allow not this gifted creature
    To roam far from the city of his childhood bed.
    JONES.

The purple and gold he wore of old
Was forgotten with what he now said
On historic draft night
That in hindsight was bright
He was thrilled to wear the black and the red.

The media voices decried our choices
Said we gave up more than need be
Off Ratliff, off Telfair!
And `ware the Timberwolf snare!
But Pritchard had performed magically.

We watched with intrigue the new summer league
To see what kind of player he'd be
As the numbers accrued
We were glued as we "ooh'd"
And he garnered a co-MVP.

Not long into the season we don't need a reason
To believe that this guy simply rocks
As we search for a name
To proclaim his new fame
The best we could give him was Socks?

With a savior's grace and a captain's calm face
We're enthralled as he drives down the lane
Up in the stands
The fans give him a hand
As the defense collapses in vain.

At shooting guard he starts and he has won our hearts
With his play and an image that's clean
Lessons we learned
We were burned but still yearned
For a return to the championship dream.

Injuries slowed him but still we bestowed him
With the title of Mr. Clutch
For game-winning shots
And lots of dishing so hot
We won games with his magical touch.

We take satisfaction in improvements by fractions
But you know it is still very nice
When He-who-shall-not-be-named
And the lame coach of fame
Lose games to us not once but twice!

We took a great pride in the stats he provided
Anointing him "ROY" on Dave's Blazer's Edge
"Bargnani!" some said
And mislead `till we read
The Raptor's down without driving a wedge.

His acronym name for the prize he would claim
For most this was never in doubt
One lone dissent
Without repent or relent
Turned history inside out.

But the future'll be bright on a championship night
As we parade again down Broadway with joy
And there will be
Unanimously Finals MVP
He's Rip City's own Brandon Roy!

 . . . and its subject (the starting small forward we DON'T have, but will by training camp)
was so ephemeral and ghostly, I'm submitting an excerpt from that longer work
as an alternate entry, one with a single, named player as its subject, a shorter work:
__

Sing now the ballad of Ime Udoka!
A joy, and a story divine!
A Portlander, raised in the land of the mocha
and the Pinot Noir ripe on the vine!

A Viking, befallen to senior-year surg'ries,
undrafted and sent to the wild
Of Leagues D and foreign, far from the fir trees
where the man once liv'd as a child.

Five years in the cruelest limbo of training-
camp invites, rights signed and then waiv'd.
But back in Portland where 'tis ever so raining,
His career is miraculously sav'd!

The man can defend! He can handle the ball!
He can bury the wide-open J!
He's a MAN among kids! It's time he gets the call!
And just as his father's pass'd away.

Ime Udoka, you've done your dad proud;
As long as you play, he's alive.
No finer Trail Blazer is there to be found
Than the one wearing Numeral Five.

Since there seems to be a semi-steady trickle I think we'll keep this open through the weekend and then the final judging will be on Monday.  I do believe we'll throw that open to the masses too.  I'm having a hard time choosing my favorite!

--Dave

Roy?
Joy!