I’m not normally a bandwagon rider. I’m really not. In fact, I usually shy away from things that become extremely popular to a fault. When everyone was raving about the Patriots I was stubbornly hoping that Bill Belichik’s sleeveless hoody would be banned turn up in a murder investigation. As skinny jeans have swept that nation in a wave of eye-bleeding man-package displays, I’ve had to fight my instincts to break back out the M.C. Hammer pants just out of spite.
When the Eastern Conference finals arrived 3 things have happened to cause a man who once spitefully refused to go see “The Hangover,” because it was talked about too much (*Author’s note: I claimed that it looked like a bigger budget “Dude, Where’s my car?” I was wrong.”), to leap with both feet onto a Chicago Bulls bandwagon that has been picking up steam, and riders, since mid-season.
1. The Lakers slept-walked their way through an embarrassing series, in which they lethargically wandered around looking like they’d made a team promise to smoke as much of Phil Jackson’s private ganja-stash as they possibly could. Normally the Lakers are my favorite NBA team but with them out of the playoffs, and faced with the prospect of having no dog in the fight — a most Mike Vickian problem to say the least — I needed a squad to throw my full and undying support behind.
2. The Bulls are our only hope of getting a Yoko Ono style break up of “The Heatles.” And I simply cannot stand LeBron James. While I realize that this hardly makes me unique, it does lend a certain sense of urgency to my rooting for the Chicago Bulls. After LeBron’s hit-and-run style manslaughter of an entire fan base last summer he seemed to be attempting to give Tiger Woods a run for his money in the “Fastest 180 Degree Turn to Douchedom of the New Millennium” category. I’ve covered my disdain for “The King” ad nauseum on Burnpoetry so I’ll leave it at this: if Benedict Arnold held a highly publicized news conference about selling out his country, then claimed he was going to win “Not 5. . .not 6. . .not 7, but 8 more wars for England,” you wouldn’t cheer him on either, would you?
3. I realized that the Bulls are just damn fun to watch. Despite the fact that I dislike Joakim Noah, in particular his pubic-looking facial hair and the fact that he’s so ugly he makes me angry at TNT for broadcasting in such high definition, I’ve grown to like the hustle and team-first approach of the Bulls.
Let’s face it, the NBA is better when the Bulls are good. They have rabid fans; always hungering for the next Jordan in a way that Husker fans always find ourselves hungering for the next Osborne/Frazier and they take pride in clinging to fandom even through the lean years.
Derrick Rose is unbelieveable. While I feel that the Rose love-fest that has blossomed in the second half of the season is a bit overblown by the media (*Author’s Note: For those of you keeping track, that’s the five billionth Rose/horticulture reference this year.) I also feel that when you’re watching him anything is possible. Kevin Garnett would agree.
So, Burnpoetry readers, come join me for a ride on the Chicago Bulls’ bandwagon. There’s plenty of room for everyone, and there’s beer and brats for everyone. If you’ve already been on the bandwagon, let me be the first to say “good for you, now move the hell over as all of America piles on.”
Even though Noah looks enough like a really ugly chick to prompt my fiancee to ask, “Wait, why are you watching women’s basketball?” when I was watching the team’s 1st round matchup. And even if every major news publication has been ready to canonize Derrick Rose you should still cheer for “Da Bulls.” What the hell else are ‘ya gonna do? Cheer for LeBenedict James? Watch baseball?
That’s what I thought. Welcome aboard.