The world has become a cold, dark place today.
Al Horford was the thing. He was the one thing. A pit of darkness, despair and isolation basketball lives in the depths of the Phillips Arena, rearing its ugly head 82 nights, plus playoffs, every year. In the form of a Mike Bibby or a Willie Green, a 20 second Joe Johnson dribble-fest or a Josh Smith tease, it was always there, ready to suck the life out of us. On a Tuesday night against the Nets, or in the middle of May against the Bulls, it was and still is awful.
And Al Horford was here to protect us. They tried to stop him. They wouldn’t pass him the ball, and they’d let him defend bigger players, and yet he was there. Knocking down that baseline 20 footer. Hedging on that pick and roll.
He won’t be doing that anymore, this season. Enjoy Zaza Pachulia.
If you think this is harsh, don’t. I love Jeff Teague, I do. Josh Smith is one of the most fascinating basketball players to exist in my lifetime, a trainwreck wrapped in an angelic presence marinated in nutjob sauce sprinkled with world-class athleticism tied together by a headband. Joe Johnson is acceptable, I guess, and Ivan Johnson is the new “I CAN’T BELIEVE HE’S AN NBA PLAYER I LOVE HIM SO MUCH LET’S TYPE HIS NAME ALL THE TIME” dude. And we respect each and every one of them, what they do on basketball courts, what they give us as fans.
We also hate watching it. We didn’t hate watching Al Horford. We loved watching Al Horford.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Hardwood Paroxysm: Let's Get Irrationally Angry About Al Horford's Shoulder Injury
The one, the only, Noam Schiller: