I know, I know, it's serious.
You had waited all summer, scouring reputable news sites like hoopshype.com and scanning summer league boxscores, dreaming of a year that would end with Gordon Hayward, hair ruffled by a soft summer breeze, personally thanking you for your support of the 2011 NBA Champion Utah Jazz. You decked yourself out on a Friday night trip to a bar in the official team colors of the team, though nobody really knows what the hell they are any more. You even argued that the new logo doesn't look like the end-of-the-year project of an overworked college sophomore majoring in Graphic Design, with a minor in Business.
Seriously, what is this?
And all of it--all of it!--was going to come together on Wednesday, October 27, 2010, when the loathsome Denver Nuggets would rue the day they ever let Francisco Elson get away.
But then Thursday dawned, and you were in Full Litter Indian mode.
"What the *beep*, AK? It's a simple *beep* entry pass!"
I will admit, last night was not pretty. In David Stern's America, games were never pleasant to watch in the first place, but last night was especially awful. At one point, referees for the Warriors/Rockets game whistled a sympathy foul against Earl Watson. And, as much as it's fun and psychologically fulfilling to blame the refs, the Jazz weren't any better.
Al Jefferson, New Black Jesus, looked tentative and unsure, the kind of player that would never lie to a blind man to get out of a low-paying contract and then sit out 5000 games with a calf injury. Deron, the indisputable bestest point guard in the world ever, showed the mobility of a mortally wounded manatee. AK looked terrible, but you can't complain too much about someone earning the league minimum for a veteran pla--wait, what?
But I say unto you, there is hope. All is not yet lost. In our all-consuming interest in all things Jazz, we focus too much on unimportant things, like players, and coaches, and plays. But we've lost focus where it should be, and I thank my long-time mentor The Pearl for helping me realize why the Jazz cannot fail this year.
Friends, I say unto you, greatness has returned to the Nu-Skin Utah Jazz Dance Team.
At the age of 31, Keri the Jazz Dancer has returned home.
It's difficult to put into words the depth of this accomplishment. The oldest dancer on the team besides Keri is 26. In areas of the country less billowingly white and Mormon, the average age of dance teams is even younger. John Stockton could return to the team and I would be less shocked.
You can watch her incredibly creepy Buffalo Bill-style interview here: https://www.nba.com/jazz/video/2010/07/15/keri201011MP4-1373726/index.html
Isn't she just adorable?
But seriously, after a five-year break, struggling with flu, she's staggered onto the floor with the young guns to show a new generation how it's done. Dance Teams, you now have your Willis Reed Moment.
So, while you watch your Utah Jazz struggle through another year with a new team and the same old system, know that I won't be watching with you. Instead, my gaze will be fixed on the sidelines, on a red-headed dancer from Highland.
...the police can't track me through Jazzfanz, can they?
You had waited all summer, scouring reputable news sites like hoopshype.com and scanning summer league boxscores, dreaming of a year that would end with Gordon Hayward, hair ruffled by a soft summer breeze, personally thanking you for your support of the 2011 NBA Champion Utah Jazz. You decked yourself out on a Friday night trip to a bar in the official team colors of the team, though nobody really knows what the hell they are any more. You even argued that the new logo doesn't look like the end-of-the-year project of an overworked college sophomore majoring in Graphic Design, with a minor in Business.
Seriously, what is this?
And all of it--all of it!--was going to come together on Wednesday, October 27, 2010, when the loathsome Denver Nuggets would rue the day they ever let Francisco Elson get away.
But then Thursday dawned, and you were in Full Litter Indian mode.
"What the *beep*, AK? It's a simple *beep* entry pass!"
I will admit, last night was not pretty. In David Stern's America, games were never pleasant to watch in the first place, but last night was especially awful. At one point, referees for the Warriors/Rockets game whistled a sympathy foul against Earl Watson. And, as much as it's fun and psychologically fulfilling to blame the refs, the Jazz weren't any better.
Al Jefferson, New Black Jesus, looked tentative and unsure, the kind of player that would never lie to a blind man to get out of a low-paying contract and then sit out 5000 games with a calf injury. Deron, the indisputable bestest point guard in the world ever, showed the mobility of a mortally wounded manatee. AK looked terrible, but you can't complain too much about someone earning the league minimum for a veteran pla--wait, what?
But I say unto you, there is hope. All is not yet lost. In our all-consuming interest in all things Jazz, we focus too much on unimportant things, like players, and coaches, and plays. But we've lost focus where it should be, and I thank my long-time mentor The Pearl for helping me realize why the Jazz cannot fail this year.
Friends, I say unto you, greatness has returned to the Nu-Skin Utah Jazz Dance Team.
At the age of 31, Keri the Jazz Dancer has returned home.
It's difficult to put into words the depth of this accomplishment. The oldest dancer on the team besides Keri is 26. In areas of the country less billowingly white and Mormon, the average age of dance teams is even younger. John Stockton could return to the team and I would be less shocked.
You can watch her incredibly creepy Buffalo Bill-style interview here: https://www.nba.com/jazz/video/2010/07/15/keri201011MP4-1373726/index.html
Isn't she just adorable?
But seriously, after a five-year break, struggling with flu, she's staggered onto the floor with the young guns to show a new generation how it's done. Dance Teams, you now have your Willis Reed Moment.
So, while you watch your Utah Jazz struggle through another year with a new team and the same old system, know that I won't be watching with you. Instead, my gaze will be fixed on the sidelines, on a red-headed dancer from Highland.
...the police can't track me through Jazzfanz, can they?
