By Ronald N. Guy Jr. (via Duke Radbourn)
Words
rifle across the screen. I’m numb. Emotion was for year’s past and another, less
psychologically weathered version of myself.
Now, the decades of scar tissue have left me still. Cold.
Resigned. Washington, D.C.: This
town, this cursed town and its professional sports teams have broken me. The ‘Skins, Bullards, Capitals and Nationals
win enough to stir hope and sometimes enough to justify big, spectacular,
championship dreams. But in the end, all
are fool’s gold. Heartbreakers. Soul shakers.
In
the last 48 hours, the Caps soiled themselves (again), losing the first two
games at home, and effectively, another second-round the playoff series to the
Pittsburgh Penguins. Spare me the insult
of hanging another hollow Presidents’ Trophy banner. Sandwiched between the Caps’ losses, the
Nats’ season took a grotesque turn when Adam Eaton, the gritty catalyst that
the team emptied its farm system to acquire in the offseason, blew out his
ACL. Bye-bye 2017! The Nats’ scorching April was nothing more
than a cruel nibble of what could’ve been a divine course. Yes, the Bullards won a series against
Atlanta. But the inevitable reality is
they’ll done in by Boston or LeBron’s Cavaliers. Choose your death.
I’m
consumed by The Darkness. My passion
meter has flat-lined. So I’m punting
this week’s column over to Duke Radbourn, a wise old and some say mythical
friend and occasional contributor to this column. For my sake, for your sake, here’s what Duke
has to say about something.
Good grief, Junior.
I’m supposed to recover from that dreary introduction and whip this
crowd into a wide-eyed frenzy? There’s
barely a discernable pulse. Is this an
audience of people or corpses? Hard to
tell. Zombies perhaps? Ah well.
I’ll rip into something. Opinions
you need? Opinions I have. So here it goes. Relax and enjoy, but hold on tight…I tend to
be reckless.
Remember Diamond Stone? An emphatic “no” is understandable. The kid with the fancy, superhero/WWE-ready
name was a 2015 McDonald’s All-American.
He shunned his home-state Wisconsin Badgers and committed to Maryland
late in the recruiting process. It
earned our beloved turtles a preseason top-five ranking. Final Four dreams were dancing in our heads,
if ever so briefly.
After one under-whelming season in College Park (for
team and player), Stone, then just 19, chose to chase his NBA dream (and NBA
riches). Understandable. To that point, Stone had been on the
basketball fast-track, a path where success, accolades and praise were in
healthy supply. Cool stuff for a teenage
mind, eh? Intoxicating. Why wouldn’t he jump at any trace of NBA flirtations? Why indeed?
Stone probably figured he was a mid-first round pick
at worst, a status that would have scored a guaranteed three-year, ~$4.5M
contract – lucrative work for a teenager!
Reality: Stone was selected 40th overall and ultimately inked
a two-year deal in the $1.4M range.
That’s still good moolah, but Stone didn’t exactly live
his NBA fairytale. He played in just
seven games and scored 10 measly points with the Clippers this year. Frankly, Stone’s dubious professional
existence is defined by extended stints with two NBA Development League teams you’ve
never heard of: Salt Lake City Stars and Santa Clara Warriors. For this NBA-lite experience, Stone forfeited
a chance to star on a young, talented Maryland team, make a run in the NCAA
tournament and spend another glorious year as a big man on a big college
campus.
But Stone had it all figured out, as many youths
do. Speed, and a hint of entitlement, to
one’s destination carries the day. Process? Marination?
Grinding, paying dues and developing skills to ensure success at the
highest levels? Nonsense.
Stone can’t be begrudged for getting paid, but the joy
in the journey often matches that of the destination. Stone’s financially richer for his NBA
adventure, but poorer in some ways too. And
no matter how much money he makes in the grown-up world of professional
basketball, he’ll never reclaim his last best chance to be a kid.
Is that wisdom or foolish drivel? The reader can decide. But know this: The real world encroaches upon
us all, eventually.
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