Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Angels at Center Court

I appreciate the guest post, Marian Combs

I want you know two things about me before you continue to read. My childhood was grounded on two contstants. One is heroic pre-adolescent sports movies, like Little Giants, the Sandlot, and of course, Angels in the Outfield. The other is the New York Knicks.

When I was a nine, attending a game was my idea of heaven. I'm a New Yorker, so heaven involves a lot of jeering. In those days though, the criticisms were directed at the opponent. My father and I laughed and laughed when Spike Lee, our brother-in-arms, sent Reggie Miller of the Indiana Pacers a bouquet of dead flowers.

But for the past few years, watching the Knicks play has been like reliving Angels in The Outfield. It has seemed like we've needed a miracle. I developed a ritual in the last five seasons of abissmal New York basketball. As I would set my home security alarm, I bowed my head and hoped for angels floating around the rafters of Madison Square Garden.

The angels never showed up. I blame it on the New York fans. It's just to negative of an enviornment the appearence for any celestial presence. Luckily though, we got Amar'e Stoudemire. It's a mixed blessing. The Knicks are winning. That's good. But my childhood is over. Angels don't play basketball.

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