Andre Dawson Explains Kings of Leon To Your Dad

You got to understand, Paul, it ain’t like when we were kids. Nowadays, you just yell some mess about flaming sexes, the girls start losing they minds, and the boys’re gonna go wherever the girls are, am I right? I’m not sayin’ these Leon fellas can play a lick, but they give your boys somethin’ they can have together, separate from you and Lucille, and that’s gotta count for somethin’, right?

Now, look here, Paul: Way I see it, we got two choices. On the one hand, we can keep on hammerin’ away at the kids, talkin’ ’bout how what they need to do is deep-six these young Nashvile fellas and how what they should be doin’ is soul-kissin’ to Al Green. Or, we can have ourselves a nice sit in these beautiful pleather chairs you got here, and you can tell me what’s really on your mind.

How’s you and Lucille, Paul?

EDITOR’S NOTE: Andre Dawson is not a licensed psychologist or trained counselor; he’s just seen a lot, is all. If you have relationship-, parenting- or cutoff-man-related questions for the Hawk, please send them here.

And now, some solid advice from former Utah Jazz center Mark Eaton

Here’s a nugget that I think can help everyone out: Don’t let backhanded compliments get you down.

Listen, we’ve all had bosses who might have been a little lacking in the tact department.  They don’t realize just how much hearing a kind word every now and again — a simple, unambiguous “attaboy,” not something like, “Way to not repeatedly fuck up tonight, Swamp Thing; it was a welcome break from your customary abysmal and foul-smelling play” — can really motivate employees to give it their all.  They’re just so focused on the task at hand that they tend to drive the folks around them too darn hard (an approach that can translate into consistently above-average outcomes but, interestingly enough, doesn’t quite seem to lead to true ultimate success).

Sure, we’d love to see them try a little harder to show that they recognize our talents and appreciate our efforts.  And we’d REALLY prefer that they use phrases like “unique performer” to describe our contributions to the group, rather than calling us “abominable circus freak” or “horror movie failure.”  But you know what?  Some bosses just aren’t wired for “nice,” but they do want to help us do the best job we can do and really get the most out of ourselves.

So if your supervisor’s having a bad day and says something not-so-nice, just try to take it in stride, listen for the silver lining and take the compliment in the spirit it was (probably) intended.  That way, you’ll be able to keep on having a great day.  Plus, no crippling-sense-of-self-doubt-engendered-by-a-career-of-shameful-rejections-by-the-one-man-whose-love-you-always-craved-and-never-earned.

Thanks, Mark! For more straight talk from the 7-foot-4-inch fomer NBA player, check out Stand Tall, Play Big.

OFF-TOPIC: Vaya con dios, Silver

Sad news this morning via The Associated Press: Actor Ron Silver has died at the age of 62.  The wire obit’s got some potentially interesting information about his 9/11-related political conversion, which I didn’t know about, and an esteemed stage career, which I also didn’t know about.

The only things I’d ever seen Ron Silver do that stuck in my mind were his roles as political strategist Bruno Gianelli in The West Wing and the indestructible villain in Heat Vision and Jack, a never-picked-up absurdist comedy pilot about a sometimes-genius astronaut and his talking motorcycle that remains one of the greatest things I’ve ever seen.  If you never have, and have a half-hour to kill, it’s below.  I’d recommend it for a lot of reasons; the late Mr. Silver’s willingness to poke fun at himself and his “serious actor” profile is definitely one.  Sorry that the thing I remember him for is kind of goofy, but I suppose there are worse ways to remember someone.

File this under “Things That Will Never Happen”

From ESPN.com’s front page:

Yeah, there are a lot of things it seems like Eddy Curry might find, but normalcy wouldn’t be at the top of the list.

I know it’s well-worn territory, but the last two years of Curry’s life have been just a murderer’s row of horrendousness. He’s been the victim of a home invasion, he’s been reduced to a joke in his professional life, he’s been on the business end of a highly public and extremely embarrassing lawsuit that called his sexuality into question, and then his ex-girlfriend and 9-month-old daughter were murdered, an attack that his son mercifully survived, but was still present for. He’s also had to deal with all this before he even turns 27 (dude’s a little more than two months younger than me) — and, if he doesn’t come back from the knee injury that’s sidelined him for most of this season as a vastly superior player than he was last year, he could be on a path that takes him out of the NBA by age 30, sending him rocketing into the vast nothingness of NeverWas. Dark shadows abound.

All of which is to say: If this guy just wanted to staple himself to a barstool and drink for the next six summers, I’d have a tough time blaming him. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m rooting for you, Eddy. You’ll be in my thoughts as I start drinking. Slainte, boss.

In which your man fires up the ol’ computer to get the scoop on last night’s Knicks game

I didn’t see last night’s Knicks/Warriors tilt — not that I’ve seen any other Knicks tilts this season, what with my out-of-marketdom, my lack-of-League-Passery and my inability-to-procure-even-basic-cable-due-to-significant-broke-assness.  But on the way into work, I heard on the radio that despite NateRob’s best Short Round-esque attempts to warn Wilson Chandler to cover his heart (or at least the paint) as Corey Maggette lets loose a jumper, Dominant Team Pringles dropped a heartbreaker to the Golden State Dubs in Hammerworld.  Just a brutal stretch for the Knicks, as they continue to run up against excellent teams and play balls-out to the best of their abilities, only to come up just short.

Now, to take a spin around the news-gathering world to become more informed about just how well the Knicks acquitted themselves in defeat:

Hmm. That’s funny. Headline for the AP game story on ESPN.com says “Jackson’s 35 points lead Warriors’ 144-127 rout of Knicks.”  Must be a confused editorial intern or something.  Surely the Knicks didn’t give up 144 points to an 18-35 team that’s just beginning to integrate its best scorer back into the lineup while still giving starter’s minutes to this guy.  Surely the rest of the article will clarify that Mike D’Antoni’s squadron performed impeccably throughout:

OAKLAND, Calif. — Al Harrington basked in the boos, calling them down from the rafters with both outstretched arms after he hit a 3-pointer just 61 seconds into his return to Golden State.

The former Warriors forward should have saved whatever energy he possessed for playing a little defense. Harrington and his New York Knicks were just too pitiful to boo while Golden State rolled to the highest point total in the NBA this season. (emph. mine)

“Just too pitiful to boo”?  Oh, this doesn’t sound good.  But you know what?  Fuck the AP.  Bunch of greedy self-righteous dicks, if you ask me, always trying to undermine that which is relevant and hopeful.  Let’s turn to an outlet where the coverage isn’t ruthlessly biased and mean-spirited.   Somewhere like the New York Post, which I’m sure will give me an honest take on Al Harrington’s night:

Harrington was the most hated man in Oakland last night. The ex-Warrior who forced his exit to New York was booed whenever he touched the ball, cheered whenever he missed or had the ball stripped, which was three times. (emph. mine)

With 7:04 left, Harrington was stripped yet again, by ex-Knick Jamal Crawford, leading to a fast-break, Driving slam by Corey Maggette that sent the Warriors ahead 123-104. The Knicks outgunned the Warriors 138-125.

The Warriors spoiled Harrington’s revenge night with a dizzying display of running and gunning. Harrington had a big first half with 22 points before he disappeared, finishing with 24, with four turnovers, making 9 of 20 shots. (emph. mine)

Well, that doesn’t sound too good. But hey, that’s the typical mainstream media line of BULLSHIT, right?  You can’t trust anything you read in the fishwrap worth a damn anymore — the whole industry’s imploding, and attention to detail was on the first floor of the shitheap of a building.  God, look at that second paragraph — does that intermittently capitalized confusion-pile look like something a professional editor would’ve allowed to happen back in the heyday of hard-boiled scribes like Jimmy Breslin and Pete Hamill?  HELL NO.  And they were always drunk, all the time.

No, sir, any reader worth his salt knows that if you want the REAL story these days, you need to hook up with the blogosphere.  It’s where all the best, sharpest writing is happening, for honest.  I’m sure that Seth over at the excellent site Posting and Toasting will beat back these haters with clear-eyed analysis that is both calm and effusive in its praise of the Knickerbockers:

Holy shit.  It really WAS that bad?  The Knicks just got their asses beat up and down the floor, and you’re telling me there’s no excuse?

God, I feel so hopeless.  Not even “Go New York Go” is dispelling my blues; I’ve watched the ’94 version and the Q-Tip ’09 update six times each, and my sadger’s still on 100, thousand, trillion.  Me llamo Eeyore, y’all.

Whatever.  Guess I’ll just go to the Knicks’ official Web site to put a cap on this depressing morning:

Already shorthanded without Quentin Richardson, the Knicks lost three players, Chris Duhon, Tim Thomas and Jared Jeffries, to injury.

OF COURSE!  INJURIES!  How could you reasonably expect any team to compete against the likes of C.J. Watson, Kelenna Azubuike and this guy without talented, strategically integral pieces like Quentin Richardson, Tim Thomas and Jared Jeffries?  It’s unfathomable.

Injuries as an excuse for abysmal performances, FTW.  Can’t wait to use it again after the Knicks lose to this guy tonight.

Photo by Rocky Widner/NBAE via Getty Images, via Yahoo! Sports’ NBA Photo Gallery.

Punting on today, I’m afraid

Duty calls — been banging away at the keyboard since before 6 a.m., probably not going to finish up until after 10 p.m., and I don’t see much daylight available to be able to write something worth the time anyway.  My apologies to any who look here to waste five minutes of their miserable days, and we’ll try to get back after it tomorrow.  In the meantime, how’s about you join me in some guided meditation to the strains of Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros:

Stephon Marbury will now go nuclear on Moscow, Athens and the entire cast of “According to Jim”

When you inevitably make fun of my photo game, please be gentle — I know I have a long way to go. (Original Starbury courtesy of Salman Jafri/wcremix.com)

ESPN.com basketball writer Chris Sheridan is reporting that Greek basketball team Olympiakos (with a K, because Tas Melas a.k.a. The Grecian Formula told me so) is pursuing former New Orleans Hornets/current Dynamo Moscow guard Jannero Pargo, last seen by North American fans jacking up shots that should have been taken by Chris Paul in the waning minutes of a Game 7 Hornets loss to the San Antonio Spurs during the 2008 Western Conference Finals.

Add in the fact that there was no contact between Olympiakos and the Knicks about Marbury’s contract situation on Thursday, and the sum works out to: We ain’t want you anymore, Steph.  (I knew those theoretical basketball math classes would help.)

It just kind of sounds weird, doesn’t it?  Yes, Marbury is an all-time team murderer, but he’s also a significantly better talent than Jannero Pargo, isn’t he?

Actually, no.  Check their per-36 numbers, courtesy of Basketball-Reference (Steph’s are here, Pargo’s are here).  Over the past three years, their points and steals per-36 have been nearly the same; Steph’s averaged about one more assist/36, but Pargo’s had about one more rebound/36; they’ve turned the ball over at roughly the same rate over the last two years; Pargo’s been a better free-throw and 3-point shooter, while Steph’s had the edge from inside the arc.  Also, Pargo’s two years younger and Steph’s batshit crazy.

Forget all the head tattoos, truck parties and the heal-the-Earth stuff.  This might be the most damning thing I’ve ever learned about Stephon Marbury: For the past three years, he hasn’t been demonstrably better than Jannero Pargo.

Wow.

The saga of a grown-ass man called “Big Snacks” may have just ended

Jerome James ices down his knees, holds what I am almost certain is a plastic spoon and fork (or perhaps a spork). (AP photo/Mike Groll, via Daylife)

You might not have noticed it, but buried in the notes at the bottom of the Associated Press game story about the New York Knicks’ Martin Luther King Jr. Day victory over the Chicago Bulls was a sentence that could mark the end of the single most flagrant disgrace of the Isiah Thomas era.

That it ends with not with a bang or a blaze couldn’t be more appropriate; a whimper and a wheeze more than suffice for little-used, little-caring, little-consequence, huge-salary, huge-appetite, huge-mistake center Jerome James.

Not sure who had it first: the AP, Knicks beat writer Frank Isola of the New York Daily News (and its knattily knamed Knicks Knation blog) or someone else.  Either way, the reports came out Monday that James suffered a ruptured Achilles tendon during practice on Sunday — an injury that will reportedly require season-ending surgery, likely spells the end of his tenure with the Knicks and could mark the end of his pro basketball career.

So we can now close the books on James, at least for the 2008-2009 NBA season, for which he is to be paid $6.2 million, according to the handy HoopsHype salary database.  (After ’08-’09, he’s still got one year remaining at $6.6 million on the five-year, $29 million contract he signed in August 2005.)  Through 39 games this year, James — affectionately nicknamed “Big Snacks,” which would be funny if it wasn’t so damn sad — had logged 10 minutes of court time for Dominant Team Pringles; that’s less than half the number of DNP-CDs that James compiled in ’08-’09.

It’s safe to say that at 7’1″, with a weight very generously listed between 280 and 300 lbs. — were I a betting man, I’d bang the over with most of my paltry salary — and virtually no distinguishable offensive skill set, James wasn’t a great match for the Mike D’Antoni offense (although watching him spend more time on the floor could have driven the fine, talented gentlemen at Seven Seconds or Mess to agony and ecstasy in equal measure).

Obviously, no one wants to see a man undergo any injury, let alone one serious enough to potentially cost him his very lucrative livelihood, even if you could make a pretty compelling argument that he wasn’t exactly earning that livelihood to begin with.  It’s our hope here at this is the city line. that Snacks can rehabilitate fully and either catch on with a club somewhere (just not one that plays its home games at MSG) at what’s certain to be a damn sight better than a living wage, or, failing that, that he’ll find some enjoyable and productive way to spend the remainder of his days after his exit from the game.

But the pure math on this is just stunning.  In the final analysis, Jerome James — JEROME F’N JAMES — will have earned $620,000 per minute of PT this year, or about 182 times the league average calculated by the Salt Lake Tribune’s Ross Siler last month following a discussion with TrueHoop’s Henry Abbott.  Nice work if you can get it.

Smile wide, Jerome. $620,000 per minute of labor's a damn solid take, m'man. Buys a lot of trashbag outerwear.

But wait — there’s less.  In a post-mortem on James’ season published Monday, RealGM Executive Editor Chris Reina — who may want to crack the whip on the folks responsible for his site’s Clippers coverage — used some more “creative accounting” to break down just how James’ five-year deal played out on the floor, assuming he doesn’t come back to New York next year:

$2,507,204.61 per hour on the floor

$325,842.70 per game played

$130,044.84 per point scored

$177,914.11 per rebound

$743,589.74 per blocked shot

Wow.  More from Reina:

James had more combined turnovers (75) and personal fouls (179) than points [and] was just about as apathetic as any player I’ve seen. My most lasting vision of his tenure will be when I saw him counting multiple hundred dollar bills all by himself after another game in which he didn’t even dress …

To his credit, Reina bites the bullet and admits that he liked the signing at the time because “James had a very good season for an exciting and successful 04-05 Sonics team that culminated with an excellent playoff series against Sacramento in which he averaged 17.2 points and 9.4 rebounds,” and because in the days before Eddy Curry and after the Knicks dealt Nazr Mohammed and Kurt Thomas, New York needed a pivot (“The remaining bigs on the roster at that point were rookies Lee and Channing Frye, plus Malik Rose, Mike Sweetney, Jackie Butler and Maurice Taylor”).

Just for fun, here’s Isiah’s post-signing take:

“When I looked at Jerome, the first thing I looked at was his shot-blocking ability, his ability to clog up the middle. He gives you a defensive presence. It was what we lacked last year. We needed size, we needed girth, we needed a space-eater. We also needed some intimidation in the middle.”

And Jerome’s:

“At this point of my career, I wanted to move to the next level. I’m very comfortable playing the supporting role, but I not only wanted to hold myself accountable for what I feel I can bring but I also wanted an organization to demand more from me. The Knicks presented me that opportunity.”

Sure, all that is laughable now.  But of course, it was pretty laughable at the time, too.

Yeah, the Knicks’ front line stunk on ice, but James’ “very good” ’04-’05 season –which saw him put up merely decent per-36 numbers (10.7 pts. and 6.5 rebs., in addition to an admittedly eye-catching 3 blks) — was an obvious mirage.  He’d never notched a PER above 13.1, he’d never averaged more than 16.9 minutes per game in a season, and with a nickname like “Big Snacks,” it’s not like anyone expected dude to become a workout demon and prepare for starter minutes after getting a multi-year, multimillion-dollar deal.  It was an atrocious signing at the time, one that led Paul Merrill at Supersonicsoul to write the following:

Does he deserve $29 million over five years? No. Will he be out of the league, bankrupt, and selling sports drinks out of the back of a van in five years? Probably.

Confidence-inspiring, to be sure, and sadly prescient.  But that someone wrote that AS IT WAS HAPPENING — that this take on James’ abilities wasn’t just the preachings of a lone nut, but the FREAKING BOOK on him –  bolsters my contention:

More than the weird Maurice Taylor and Malik Rose deals, more than the Steve Francis and Jalen Rose trades, more than the Jared Jeffries signing and even more than importing Eddy Curry, the decision to sign Jerome James to a five-year deal and pay him $30 million was the single most asinine and completely indefensible move made under the Isiah regime. To borrow a line that standup comedian Patrice Oneal once used on Opie and Anthony, it was the kind of deal that made you go to the thesaurus to find synonyms for awful.

And now, by the looks of things, its putrid stench might vacate the premises of the World’s Most Famous Arena.

Just one more millstone shed from the necks of D’Antoni, Donnie Walsh and the New York faithful.  Just one more brick mortared to the wall we’re building between ourselves and the traumatic memories that Isiah Thomas once ran our favorite basketball team.  Just one more step toward a future that, while maybe not full of the King or 2.0 or CB4 or Black Jesus or Nash or whomever, is at least open to new possibilities.  Just one more reason to be happier than you ever in a million years thought you’d be to root for a 16-24 team.

Vaya con dios, Jerome.  Go haunt someone else.

P.S.: Perhaps the most staggering thing about Jerome James?  That I saw this on his ESPN.com player card:

See that 0.1% under the “% OWN” column?  That means that someone out there has Jerome James on his or her fantasy basketball team.  Noodle that one for a while.

A calm, reasoned explanation for this Eddy Curry business

Which sexual path would YOU (allegedly) take if you saw this sign on a road trip?

I’d start (allegedly) considering more masculine options, too.

Photo courtesy of Crummy Church Signs, a blog I added to my Google Reader as soon as I saw its name, via the fine folks at FFFFOUND!.

Also, fellow jump-the-gunners: Do yourselves a favor and read Shoals’ take over at The Sporting Blog, which gave me pause and stopped me from writing a lengthy post in which an embattled Curry shot a guest spot on Charles Oakley’s new online cooking show.

Adieu, 2008 New York Giants (or, Perspective: My Anti-Drug)

As a lifelong Giants fan, I’m not trying to say that this doesn’t suck; it certainly does.  (For a finely nuanced breakdown of how much it sucks, check out the estimable Big Blue 101′s take immediately following the game.)  But today, in the brisk air and all-restoring light of a January morning, I’m suggesting that my fellow Giants fans focus not on this:

Eli gets double-stuffed LIKE HIS RACING LEAGUE ROFLJEOMK (AP photo/Julie Jacobson)

Or on this:

REEEEEEACH (AP photo/Bill Kostroun)

Or even, douchetastic as it may have seemed, on this:

Actually funny, but I have to be mad by law. (AP photo/Bill Kostroun)

Instead, I’m suggesting that we spend today remembering this:

Tuck's pick-six against the Rams. (Getty Images photo)

And this:

Jacobs jumps toward the end zone in the Plax-week win against the Redskins in D.C. (AP photo/Nick Wass)

And this:

Boss snagging a TD against the Cardinals. (Reuters photo)

And, of course, most importantly, this:

This happened less than a year ago. Think back on that.

Call me an apologist, an optimist, a fool, whatever, but I refuse to call this year’s incarnation of the Giants a disappointment.  While I’m obviously displeased with yesterday’s result, I can’t help but view this season as a net positive.

Despite losing their longtime leader (Michael Strahan) to retirement, their best defensive player (Osi Umenyiora) to injury before the start of the regular season and their most talented offensive player (duh) to an inexcusably poor decision (sweatpants in a club? f’real? oh, and the gun), the Giants won 12 games and a division title.  Not only that, but they did it in enjoyable fashion, slamming the ball down opponents’ throats with a vicious running game keyed by two 1,000-yard rushers (Brandon Jacobs and Derrick Ward) and a mauling offensive line.  Furthermore, they did it by playing careful football, limiting turnovers (just 13, tied with Miami for fewest in the league) and featuring a defense that was not only aggressive (42 sacks, third in the NFC) but also more opportunistic (17 picks, fourth-best in the NFC, and a +9 turnover differential, tops in the conference) than the Meadowlands had seen in recent years.

We saw the birth of stars on both sides of the ball with the emergence of Jacobs and Justin Tuck.  Despite the bad taste he left in our mouths with his outing yesterday, we saw our much-maligned quarterback take another step forward, carrying his steady performance from last year’s playoffs into the season and playing (for most of the year, at least) the quarterback position as well as it’s been played here since Phil Simms left.  (Granted, that says more about the state of the Giants’ QB position over the past two decades than about Eli’s aptitude, but still.)

We watched the continued development of a potentially fantastic young secondary, with Corey Webster and Aaron Ross proving to be legitimate starters at cornerback and the often promising troika of Michael Johnson, James Butler and Kenny Phillips at safety.  We saw underrated defensive tackles Fred Robbins and Barry Cofield get richly deserved recognition for their contributions (particularly Robbins, who leaped out of the gate before being slowed by injuries, and whose absence was sorely felt during the Giants’ late-season troubles).

And it all came the year after they made one of the most improbable championship runs in modern NFL history.  As I reminded folks following my live-tweet of the game on Twitter yesterday: “Remember that our boys won the whole fucking thing last year, then take a deep breath.” To have asked for any more would have been greedy.

That said: While Giants fans have a lot to feel good about (whether or not they can feel it just yet), there are major questions going forward.  Namely:

• Whither Steve Spagnuolo? The Giants’ sterling defensive coordinator is again among the most sought-after options for teams looking to fill head coaching vacancies, and with New York out of the playoffs, GMs/presidents can now put on the full-court press to land him.  Defensive players rave about playing for him, and his pressure schemes have restored a swagger to the unit that has been largely responsible for the team’s resurgence over the past two seasons.  If he gets hit with the right offer, he’s gotta follow the John Fox path and skate; the question then becomes who gets the keys to the D, and can they keep it performing at the same high level that Spags did?

• How does GM Jerry Reese resolve the contract situation at running back? Both Jacobs and Ward are up for free agency, and third-stringer Ahmad Bradshaw strict-up admitted that he wouldn’t be unhappy if neither came back next year. (Yes, he did so during a jokey FOX “interview” with Strahan, but dude definitely looked to be kidding on the square.)

• What does the team do about Harris Smith, everyone’s favorite gunman on the fleecy knoll? He’s worn out his welcome like an acrid-farting mother-in-law, but the lack of respect that opposing defenses showed for the Giants’ suddenly pedestrian receiving corps in his absence hasn’t gone unnoticed.  Whether or not Reese and co. decide to bring him back, it’s apparent that the offense flourished when Manning had a big-play threat split wide that could beat tight coverage, made defenses pay for choosing to stack the box against the run and forced coordinators to commit additional resources to the passing game.  If Plax ain’t that anymore, then a reasonable facismile needs to be found in trade or free agency, because it’s not likely that the Giants are going to find that guy in the draft.

• Can you count on Osi? Despite racking up 42 sacks on the season, the squad was often unable to get QB pressure at critical junctures.  O-lines focused on limiting Tuck and dared the remaining linemen to hit the quarterback; on days like yesterday, they too often couldn’t, allowing QBs to keep plays alive and stretch the young secondary past its breaking point, or leading Spagnuolo to bring heat from the back seven, creating dangerous one-on-one matchups in the passing game.  On the one hand, plugging an All-Pro defensive end like Umenyiora back into the starting lineup seems like the cure for what ailed the D-line; on the other, dude’s coming off a torn lateral meniscus, so there’s no guarantee he’ll be as explosive or effective.

• Will they find a legit home run threat in the return game? With the exception of Bradshaw’s game-opening 65-yard burst yesterday, the Giants got virtually nothing out of their kick returners after the Plaxident bumped Domenik Hixon’s name up the WR depth chart and off of special teams.  The ability to change field position and put pressure on opposing coverage units can help non-explosive offensive teams step on the throats of opponents while taking some of the big-play onus off of the passing game, which might be just what the doctor ordered if Reese can’t find Plax’s replacement.

There are more issues to address — the need for an infusion of speed at linebacker, for one — but to continue would be to belabor a point that’s best made another day.  Last night was the Irish wake for the Giants’ 2008 season (I know I sure as shit drank); today’s the memorial service, where we mourn the passing of a good, solid and likable (for the fans, at least) team.  The destination definitely sucked, but I enjoyed the road trip to get there.  And today, that’s worth remembering.