This post originally appeared on Yaysports!.
(Jordi back. What happened to Cobra? Looks like he abandoned you as well.)
Something about Springfield, Massachusetts brings back memories of long-forgotten springs and winters of brisk, white Christmases. I remember walking along Lake Haychtoo-Oh during my years of solitude, pondering man's place in society and deliberating nature's true meaning. It was very Zen. Very beautiful.
Then they built that Hall of Fame building in my utopia. In came the people, the crowds, their bouncey-balls, and their squeaky-sneakers. I have never been back.
I will journey back to that once-prestine spot to watch my childhood idol join the ranks of the famous and the glorified. As a Knicks fan, I am proud to say I cheered him through the thick and the thin, through sick times and in health, 'till a dumb trade did we part.
Curse you, Scott Layden. A pox on your whole family.
Glen Rice? Bah.
Luc Longley? Bah.
Our warriors live in our memories in no uniform but our own.
A beleagued congratulations is also in order to The Dream. Another great warrior. One who outdueled us at our finest moment. A tip of the cap to you, sir.
Also to Dickie V., although you can't been seen with Hooters girls, you can be seen in the highest company of those involved in the game. A giant among men. I drink to you, sir.
But to that other coach, that rat who jumped ship at our time of glory, I say boo!
Your championship run should have lived. Until you coached another. Coach VG saved her and brought her to another championship, after you treated her like garbage. And that's what you are, the Coach of Refuse.
So honor him if you want, bow to him. Bow to the Coach of Slime, the Coach of Filth, the Coach of Putrescence. Boo. Boo. Rubbish. Filth. Slime. Muck. Boo. Boo. Boo.
That is all.