Lucy the Blog

An Open Letter to Kevin Garnett

Dear Kevin Garnett:

Hold me back, Scal!

I may have a slight man crush on you.

I remember your first SI cover, in 1995, right before you were drafted out of Farragut High.  The headline said, “Ready or Not.”  I didn’t even have to Google that, its memory is so clear.  It hung for a while on my wall.

A decade later, I remember eating a heavenly Peacemaker Po-Boy at the Acme Oyster House in New Orleans in 2004, watching the bar’s TV as you imposed your freakish will in the Western Conference playoffs.

By the time you were traded to Boston, I’d lost all interest in the NBA.  But that transaction piqued my curiosity.  

Hmmmmmm, I thought.  With Paul Pierce and that Beast that I’ve heard so much about, the Celts are suddenly mad talented and funky as all fuck.  (And that was before I’d even become acquainted with Rajon Rondo, who’s funkier than my pits at a James Brown concert.)   

I nearly pulled a hammy hopping on the Green bandwagon, in large part because of you.  I became a basketball fan again, in large part because of you. 

I love when you talk to the basket support before the game.  I almost cried when you gave your post-championship interview while shedding tears and dropping F-bombs of joy.  I get the douche chills watching your Adidas Brotherhood commercial. 

A more recent SI pic of you sits in my desk drawer today, along with clippings of Bruce and Bob and Fats and a bunch of pix that I plan to hang in my cube if I ever get around to it.  You’re crouched on all fours on the parquet, poised to D-up like a rabid animal.  It’s awesome.

I missed watching you this season.  But if it’s any consolation, I’ve really been floored by your dope threads on the bench.  In another life, I hope to be an enormous, rich, bald black dude who can dunk.  Any kind of dunk would be fine.  Just once.  

In the event of such a reincarnation, I will surely buy diamonds the size of medicine balls and hang them from my ears, just like you.  That shit is just too fucking badass.  And those sweater vests?  Damn, KG.  Can I call you KG?  You’ve got class to spare.

Which is why I’ve been so troubled by your recent behavior.  I realize you’re losing your mind as you watch these games, with your gimpy knee keeping you sidelined.  Life is not always fair.

But you’ve been talking a lot of shit to those Bulls.  And unfortunately, you can’t do much right now to back it up.

Now hear me out.  My admiration for you is clear.  And I’m no fan of these Bulls.  If I see Joaquin Noah outside the Seaport Hotel, I’ll kick him right in the shins.  And that Salmons character?  He irritates me.  As does Vinnie Del Negro’s dad, who sources tell me does NOT support the troops.

I will eat your face, Old Man Del Negro

But with that being said, it seems beneath you to carry on like this.  I’m all for the unhinged expletives, the fist-pumping, the chest-bumping, the tailored suits, and the manic energy that you bring to the court, even when you’re not playing.

But couldn’t you do that without making those crazy looks toward the Bulls, like you’re going to beat their asses down.  Because sadly, circumstances prohibit you from beating their asses down. 

When you direct your rage toward their bench, it has the appearance of the drunk wannabe brawler, who screams “Lemme-at-him, lemme-at-him” knowing damn well that his friends won’t allow him anywhere near the lunkhead across the bar, who’s primed to tear him to pieces.

This is an imperfect analogy, of course.  If they did allow you on the floor tonight, you’d surely send Noah fleeing like a child – jockstrap dripping with filthy Joaquin Noah urine – to the teat of Daddy Yannick’s sloppy seconds.  It would not be pretty.

But that reality makes your present antics all the more perplexing.  To quote Mitt Romney, former Massachusetts governor and a proud Gooseface recipient, “it’s unbecoming.”

Throughout your career, you’ve not only proven yourself as an otherworldly athlete, but you’ve conducted yourself with grace and dignity.  So all that I’m saying is this shit seems beneath you.  You can keep the boys geared up through your playoff run – and perhaps join them in June in LA? – while keeping your cool, can’t you?

We are nothing if not classy here at Lucy the Blog, and that is why we’re such big fans of yours, Mr. Garnett.  We appreciate your understanding.

Sincerely,

Lucy the Dog

ED. NOTE: After the jump is that painting of Bea Arthur’s boobs that I promised on Tuesday!  You know you want it!

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