Vainly Clutching at Phantom Sanity

Preamble

Ah, I remember the days - yes, yes I do. Kinder, gentler days of yore.. youthfully I would frolic through the fields, crashing through Auntie Jane's sheets drying on the line, happening upon a chance whiff of fresh-baked apple pie, stealing away with Ol' Shep my dog to catch pollywogs at the nearest fishin' hole. Yes, these were the days of my youth, of my innocence. Oh, sure, I would sometimes check Blazer's Edge - only occasionally, mind you. Cruise by for a quick game recap, perhaps, or see what that rapscallion Mortimer had up his sleeve in the comments section.

I thought I had it under control. Then the trades came. And hell followed with them.

The Foreshadowing

I remember reading, at some point, someone saying they'd had a dream about Oden getting injured the night before Andrew Bynum did. "What a loser," I thought, "he has dreams about basketball events that haven't even happened yet?" Oh, I was so proud then. Thought I was untouchable. So cool. And wrong. Little did I know that guy would be the freaking Fonz compared to me in short time. Karmically derived or not, a dream would visit my Trade Post-addled brain but a few nights later, the story of which I scarcely dare unfold before you now......

The Dream

Pt. I: Entrance to Hell, Entrance to Heaven

It all begins under one of the baskets at the Rose Garden. The Blazers are in the midst of a mid-season contest with the Golden State Warriors. I'm standing at the baseline, backward-baseball-capped cameramen sitting Indian-style below me. From the darkness emerges Kevin Pritchard, who walks direclty past me and out onto the court. Fortunately, the ball is dead so this doesn't seem to ruffle many feathers. All eyes focus on him and what he holds in his hands. You can hear the breaths of thousands.

Pt. II: The Magician

Majestically, he displays trades hand-written on two slips of paper torn out of a notepad. They're worn and somewhat wrinkled, but nothing if not authoritative. Don Nelson, seating on the opposing side of the court rises. He's dressed nattily in a white linen suit - one of those that look like they're made out of the fire-retardant material hotel curtains in the 70s were made of - and, hands tucked crisply in the creases of his pockets, bows his head. He accepts. During a game.

Pt. III: The Pied Piper

Everyone cheers. The arena erupts with emotion and fanfare. While the eruption doesn't literally detonate the stadium, we all find oursleves quite suddenly outside. It's sunny and green and feels a lot like springtime. Rasheed Wallace is there, dressed in Pistons warmups. He smiles the widest, 'Sheed-est smile he can. Everyone's happy he's here. He's the man of the hour, because he's the one who'll tell us what the trades are. He leads everyone, fists triumphantly pumping, down Multnomah Blvd. as hundreds of joyful believers behind him chant "Sheed! Sheed! Sheed!". Of course, I'm the only one to be right next to him. He loves it, high-stepping like the guy who holds a baton in the parade. I get the best seat in the whole city, no duct tape needed.

Pt. IV: Return to the Gates

After marching for a while, our destination's in sight, rising over the horizon as we climb over a hilly part of the street. We get to.. the Rose Garden? Weren't we just there - inside it, even? Who cares - the show must go on, and this is no situation for asking questions. Mike and Mike are manning a PA system, emceeing the event like the oldest, lamest, whitest block party the world has ever seen. We meet throngs upon throngs of other fans already there, being whipped into a dull frenzy by the duo. Fortunately, we're there at just the right time - the music stops and the announcers are on the verge of reading out the trades.

Pt. V: Showtime

Suddenly, we're on TV. Everything's basically like it was before, except there's a translucent bug in the lower left of everything I see and, intermittently, graphics bearing stats and logos fly across my line of sight. This is a bit of a kick for all of us - we're ready for primetime. Thunderous in its arrival, the first shoe drops:

"Carmelo Anthony in a salary dump for Steve Blake and DeAndre Jordan."

Little is made of the fact that DeAndre's on another team entirely - these details will be sorted out later. It's also tacitly implied that RLEC is included to make the salaries match, but never explicitly mentioned. The Rose Garden announcer - not one of the Mikes - gets on the house microphone and says, in his matter-of-fact in-game tone, the following regarding Steve Blake: "He'll never play another game as a Blazer." This is neither overly sentimental nor caustic in its delivery, though Mike Rice follows this with a woozy tirade on DeAndre Jordan, once even going so far as to proclaim him "too skinny".

Pt. VI: The Escape/Paradise Lost

Before we can process this blockbuster of a trade, the next one's read. It's Elton Brand, to play our backup Power Forward position. Who we're shipping out for him and what the commentators' analysis of the situation are, unfortunately, lost to the sands of time and subconsciousness. My dream must have shifted to something else entirely at that point, and the narrative structure probably came apart at the seams. I wish I could tell you more than that, but, alas, that's the hand we're dealt, here.

The Ascent of Inquiry